Jubilee Trail (28 page)

She was back where she belonged. She was a great entertainer and she knew it, and in a dozen seconds they knew it too. They shouted and applauded; even the few Mexicans in the room, who had not understood a word of what had been said, grinned and drew nearer.

For a moment she stayed like that, letting them look at her. Then she raised her hands and swept out the racket. Her voice went out to them, not loud, but so perfectly placed that every man in the Fonda could hear what she said.

“Well, boys, this is the first time in three months I’ve had a chance to act natural. And oh, what a pleasure it is!”

Pulling a handkerchief out of her bosom, Florinda waved to them as if she were greeting her friends after a journey.

“Tell me—have any of you besides Silky Van Dorn ever been to the Jewel Box? Then you don’t know what you’ve been missing and it’s time you found out. Mr. Penrose, have you got that guitar? Give us some music. Take your seats, gents, take your seats. We’re going to put on a
SHOW
!”

O
LIVER INSISTED THAT GARNET
go home now. It was some time before she heard what happened after she left.

Florinda gave them a show that lasted till past midnight. By this time most of the traders were drunk, and several were blissfully unconscious. They noisily agreed that it was the greatest evening they had ever spent in Santa Fe. And Bartlett was not only a fool, he was also a brute, and what was more, he was ridiculous.

Silky was having a bad attack of conscience. He had started all this, he said over and over as he stared into his drink. It was his fault that Bartlett had tried to beat her up. That so beautiful and so defenseless lady, and it was all his fault.

When at last Florinda said this was all for tonight, the men were still not satisfied. Florinda answered their protests by saying she was hoarse now, but would sing for them again whenever they wanted her to. She slipped down from the table and started across the room. Silky caught her wrist as she passed him.

“Charline,” he mumbled—“Florinda—which do I call you?”

“Call me Florinda. I’m so used to it now.”

“Are you ever going to forgive me, Florinda?”

“Why of course. It’s perfectly all right. I’ve been having a grand time amusing the gentlemen.”

He sighed guiltily, shaking his head at a splash of liquor on the table. Silky’s eyes were like pieces of glass. His mustache was limp and drooping. He was about to burst into tears.

“But what can you do now?” he exclaimed. “You haven’t got any place to spend the night.”

Florinda smiled, without answering. Her eyes were glassy too. She had not been drinking, but her performance had been hard work and she was tired.

“You can have my room,” Silky offered in a burst of stricken generosity. “I don’t mean what you think. I’ll go bunk with Penrose.”

“Why Silky, that’s mighty nice of you. But I wouldn’t think of putting you to such inconvenience. I’ll be all right.”

Silky smiled with the gratitude of one who has made a worthy gesture and does not have to live up to it. Florinda walked over to where John was sitting quietly by himself. John had returned to the Fonda after delivering Bartlett to his lodgings at the house of Señor Mora. He had been here ever since, drinking very little, and watching her with ironic admiration.

“You are very good,” John said as she paused in front of him.

“Thanks,” said Florinda.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Don’t worry, John. I wouldn’t let anything like this happen unless I was ready for it.” Florinda reached into the pocket of her dress. She held out her hand, and showed him a key on the palm of her blue silk glove. “I got a room yesterday while Mr. Bartlett was sleeping off some firewater. One of the Missouri gents helped me, since my Spanish is so rocky. I told him Mr. Bartlett and I were tired of living at the Moras’ and wanted to move.”

“I see. But what do you want me to do about it?”

Florinda glanced eloquently around them. The Fonda was hot and airless and full of drunken chatter. From the plaza outside they could hear the voices of other traders as they emerged from the gambling houses.

“I don’t quite like the idea,” said Florinda, “of going out by myself right now. Since you’re the only sober man in sight, I thought maybe you’d go with me. It’s not far.”

“All right,” said John. He stood up.

“Is Mr. Bartlett still unconscious?” she asked.

“I’m sure he is.”

“Then if you don’t mind, I’d like to get my things. I’m all packed, and it’s only six steps to the Moras’.”

John enlisted the aid of a fairly sober Mexican boy. They went down the dark little street that led from the Fonda to Bartlett’s lodgings. Bartlett was still lost in a drunken slumber. Florinda showed them two stout boxes. John shouldered one and the boy the other, while she picked up the carpetbags she had brought from New Orleans. They went back across the plaza, past the gambling houses, to a small residence where Florinda had managed to get a room. John and the boy set down the boxes. Florinda had brought a candle with her, and lit it at a lantern hanging at the door of a saloon as they passed. Now she used it to light the pottery lamp on the table in her room. John turned to the boy, his hand in his pocket, but Florinda stopped him.

“Here, John.” She held out a piece of silver. “Give him this. When people are nice to me, it doesn’t cost them anything.”

With a faint smile, John took her money and paid the boy. As the boy went out, Florinda sat down on the edge of the bed. John stood by the door.

“Is there anything else?” he asked her.

“No. Thanks for coming with me. Oh yes, one thing more. Tell me, are those men as drunk and silly on the trail as they are in Santa Fe?”

“No, they’re very different on the trail. This is a reaction from three months of strain.”

“Is it a terribly hard journey to California?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Yes. Very hard.” John had put his hand on the latch, but he turned around. “Why do you ask? Are you planning to come with us?”

“I was thinking of it.”

“It’s none of my business,” John said gravely, “but you won’t like that trail.”

“Why not? Do you think I’m a city softie?”

“No, I think you have a great deal of courage. But it takes more than courage to get across the Mojave Desert.”

“I guess it is pretty tough. But other people stand it. What makes you think I couldn’t?”

“The heat,” said John. “You’re too pale for it.”

Florinda glanced at herself in the mirror on the wall. The lamplight danced over her fair cheeks and her hair. She smiled.

“Ever been in New York in summer?” she asked.

“Yes, and New York is frigid compared to that desert. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for getting you across it.”

Florinda turned her eyes from the mirror and looked directly at him. “I’ll be responsible, Johnny.”

“All right,” he answered quietly.

Florinda yawned. “Well, I can’t think about it now. I’m so tired I hurt all over. That’s the first time I ever held the stage all evening without a break. Good night, John.”

“Good night, Mrs. Grove.”

“Look, Johnny, you can stop that courteous flubdub now. ‘Mrs.’ is a handle that doesn’t fit me very well.”

Again he smiled faintly. “As you prefer. Good night, Florinda.” He went out. Florinda bolted the door after him. She got out a nightgown and began to undress. As she took off her clothes she sang a snatch of song.

My grandma used to say, boys,

That I must be modest and nice,

But where would I be today, boys,

If I’d taken my grandma’s advice?

For several days, Garnet hardly saw Florinda. She caught sight of her on the street, with Penrose and Silky and other California traders, but Florinda only waved and did not pause. Garnet did not see Mr. Bartlett at all. The men who came to call on Oliver said Bartlett hardly put his nose out of doors. They prophesied that this was his last journey to Santa Fe; after this he would prefer to stay in St. Louis where everybody looked up to him.

They laughed at Bartlett and laughed at him. Because, they said, Florinda couldn’t have fooled
them,
not a bit of it. In fact, every man who spoke of Florinda dropped a hint that he had suspected the truth all along. He hadn’t wanted to say anything, of course, but the first time he saw her he had guessed that she wasn’t an artless young lady who had been lured into an escapade. Why, anybody could have seen that, except a chump like Bartlett.

Hearing them, Garnet went off into the bedroom and smothered her face in a towel and laughed till she nearly choked. Until now, she had never realized that when men had lived a long time without women enough to go around, they could be just as catty as girls in the manless confines of a boarding school.

John came to see Oliver often, but John did not talk about Florinda. John seldom talked about anything but business.

Ten days after Florinda’s show at the Fonda, Oliver came in one afternoon to get the list of supplies he had stocked for the trail. “I hear Florinda’s going to California,” he said to Garnet.

Garnet was not surprised, but she asked, “How is she getting there?”

“They say she’s going with Penrose.”

“Penrose? But why on earth did she choose him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know why she wants to go at all.” Oliver picked up a ledger and started out. “Maybe she’ll tell you. I’ll be back for supper.”

Oliver went to the store again, and Garnet sat down by the table. She had to finish the letter she was writing to her parents. Mr. Reynolds was going to take it back for her, and drop it into a post office when he got to Missouri.

But it was hard to concentrate on the letter. Garnet cut a fresh quill, and looked down at the paper. Her parents were the most lovable people on earth, but there was so much she couldn’t write to them. She had described the scenery, and the buffalo hunts, and the quaint adobe houses of Santa Fe; but she was sure they wouldn’t understand about Florinda, or about the sort of men she was meeting here. She had begun to have a troublesome feeling that it was going to be harder than ever for her to behave like a perfect lady when she got home next year.

She was glad to hear a knock at the door, and sprang up in welcome when she saw Florinda come in. Florinda said she would like to have the silver buttons Mr. Bartlett had given her.

Garnet was not interested in silver buttons. She demanded,

“Florinda, is it true you’re going to California?”

“Why yes, dearie, I am.” Florinda sat down on the wall-bench. “Are you glad?”

“Of course I’m glad! Tell me about it. Did Mr. Penrose ask you to go with him?”

Florinda smiled serenely. “He thinks he did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, dear, he’s been gazing at me starry-eyed ever since the first time he saw me, right here in this room. So when I got rid of Mr. Bartlett, I started to gaze starry-eyed back at him. That’s all.”

“Do—do you like him?” Garnet ventured.

“Why yes, I like him well enough. He’s such a muttonhead that he’s very easy to get along with, and he thinks I’m wonderful. He’s never been off the farm, except out here, and he’s so excited to have a New York actress for his girlfriend that he can hardly keep count of his mules.”

Her eyes, very wise and naughty, met Garnet’s as she added,

“Silky Van Dorn is so relieved, dear.”

“Relieved? About what?”

“Well, you see, he thinks he gave away the whole show by talking too much. So he was afraid I was going to come rushing up to him and say, ‘You got me into this, now you’ve got to take care of me.’ Silky likes me fine, but he doesn’t want to take care of anybody but himself. But oh, he felt so guilty. He came over to see me the next day, all bleary from last night’s liquor, and told me if I didn’t have any way to get back to Missouri he’d see that I got safely to California. I said everything was all right, I was managing myself just beautifully. He was so joyful he started admiring me right away for my stalwart character. It’s much better that way. He’s smart, and when they’re smart I’d rather have them admire me for my character than adore me for my big blue eyes.”

Garnet had no idea how to answer such remarks, so she did not try. She was thinking of the future. “What are you going to do in California?” she asked.

“I’ve no idea. If I don’t like it, I guess I can manage to come back to the States next year. But I hope I can get along there.” She picked up the quill Garnet had been writing with, and stroked her own cheek with the feather end. “I don’t want to go back to the States, Garnet,” she added seriously.

“Are you still scared of Mr. Reese?” Garnet asked.

“Not exactly. That witch-hunt can’t last forever.” Florinda was looking down as she played with the pen. “But—I guess I can say it to you. When I left the States, I meant to go back. It didn’t occur to me there was any chance of my going on to California. But the more I thought of going back, the less I liked it.”

She spoke slowly, in a low voice. Garnet did not interrupt her. Florinda went on.

“You remember, in New Orleans I told you something had happened that I didn’t want to think about. I wanted to get a long way from it. New Orleans was better than New York. But it wasn’t far enough. It was still American. Away out in California, everything will be different. There’ll be nothing to remind me of anything that happened before I got there. I can start over.” She smiled intimately. “Understand, darling?”

“Yes,” said Garnet, “I think I do.”

She remembered Oliver’s telling her that most of the Americans in California had gone there because there was something in their own country that they wanted to get away from. She thought of John, who was so silent about his past life; even Oliver, who had known him for five years, did not know why John had left Virginia. She thought of Texas, who had never even told his friends what his name was, and who periodically went off by himself to get drunk. And now Florinda was joining their company, hiding her scars under her fancy gloves, and hiding her secret wound under her frivolous laughter.