The Claim (8 page)

“And Mr. Swan helped us with our claim,” Mrs. Hosmer said.

“Monsieur Swan helped secure a cask of fine wine for communion,” Father Joseph added.

Mr. Swan reddened under the praise. “I was happy to be of assistance.”

“Have you any experience in governing?” Mr. Biddle asked.

“Not exactly,” Mr. Swan stuttered. “But I have served as judge in this part of the territory in an … ahem … unofficial capacity.”

Mr. Biddle looked unimpressed. “Speaking of letters, did you say your name was Swan?”

Mr. Swan drew himself up proudly. “James G. Swan, at your service, sir.”

“Humph,” Mr. Biddle said, and fished in the pocket of his dinner jacket, extracting a thin letter. “The captain of a passing ship from Boston gave this to me to give to you.” He held out the letter.

The letter was addressed to “James G. Swan, at Shoalwater Bay” in a feminine hand, the script cursive and flowing. Mr. Swan looked at the letter for a long moment and then reluctantly took it, his hand shaking slightly.

“Thank you,” Mr. Swan said formally, and secreted the letter into his coat pocket.

“Who do you suppose shall run for constable?” Father Joseph asked.

Mr. Frink, who was normally quiet, chuckled. “Wouldn’t be a speck of disorder if Jane was in charge of things round these parts!”

Mrs. Biddle looked appalled. “You are most certainly joking, sir.”

“Our Jane here’s a fine shot with a rifle,” he said. “Apprehended a thief not too long ago.”

Mrs. Hosmer turned to me, a nervous look on her face. “You’re not serious, are you, Miss Peck? About becoming the constable? That sounds terribly dangerous.”

I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I assure you I have no ambition to be constable. But Mr. Frink is right. I am a good shot.”

“Perhaps M’Carty could be constable?” Mr. Swan suggested. “After Mr. Russell, he knows the territory best and has been here the longest.”

“He’s married to that old chief’s daughter,” William commented, his voice thick with disapproval.

“Cocumb is a lovely lady,” I said.

“She may be a lovely woman, but she is hardly a lady,” William said. “She’s a savage.”

“I’ll thank you not to insult my friend like that,” I said between gritted teeth.

“Perhaps she is the exception that proves the rule, but I shouldn’t like anyone who is our constable to be married to a savage,” he said.

All talk at the table had ceased, and nine pairs of curious eyes regarded William and me.

Mr. Swan said hastily, “Ahem, so tell me, William, what brings you back to the bay? And is there money in it?” He laughed, a little too loudly.

William took a long sip of water, his blond hair glowing in the light of the candles. “I am surveying land,” he said in a cool voice. “Apparently a number of fraudulent claims have been filed.”

His eyes met mine across the table for a long moment, and I suddenly remembered the blond figure walking across my claim the day Sally had arrived.

William gave a cold little smile, and a shiver of unease ran through me.

  I excused myself to check on progress in the kitchen. Millie was already loading her tray with bowls of mashed potatoes and platters of fried oysters.

“I tell you one thing,” Millie said, all business now, snatching up a tray of chicken, “I am going to torture young Willard if he doesn’t turn up in time to scrub the dishes.”

“Why don’t you take that out and I’ll check his regular haunts,” I said.

I opened the back door of the kitchen and looked around.

“Willard!” I called.

There was a rush of movement and a loud clatter, the sound of barrels being knocked over. Someone cursed. The voice was too deep to be Willard’s.

I peered into the darkness.

Two figures hovered over barrels containing various supplies that had been delivered by a late-arriving schooner that afternoon. I had neglected to have Mr. Frink move them into the storage room.

“Excuse me,” I called. “May I help you?”

The men stumbled forward. I could smell the whiskey on their breath from where I stood.

One wore a red cap and was so tall and skinny that he resembled a scarecrow. The other fellow had a shiny gold front tooth and a bald head. I didn’t recognize either one of them. They were, no doubt, recent arrivals, and of very poor character as well.

They stared at me with their beady, red-rimmed eyes for a long moment and then stumbled off into the darkness.

“How peculiar,” I said to myself.

  When I returned to my table, the topic of conversation had changed.

“So, William,” Mr. Biddle was saying, “I liked the plot of land you showed me yesterday, but what about the other land you wrote me of? There were several locations that sounded promising.”

So my instincts had been correct, after all! William
had
written to Mr. Biddle.

“Of course,” William said. “I thought we would survey that tomorrow.”

“What piece of land did you show Mr. Biddle?” I asked.

William’s eyes slid to mine. “Near the Chinook village. It is very well situated as a portage for timber.”

“Near savages?” Mrs. Biddle gasped. “There are tepee villages
nearby?” Her voice rose an octave. “I thought you said this area was perfectly safe!”

“Now, my dear,” Mr. Biddle began.

“Savages!” Mrs. Biddle said again, and then whipped out her fan, waving frantically, patting her chest. “They’ll kill us. And eat us. I’ve read the news reports! I know what horrible animals they are!”

“Mrs. Biddle,” I said with a light laugh. “They’re nothing of the sort—”

William interrupted me as if I hadn’t even spoken. “I assure you, Mr. and Mrs. Biddle, that it is only a temporary concern. It is the stated intention of Governor Stevens to move these Indians to a reservation.”

Always in the past, William had been one to foment poor relations with the Chinooks. And always in the past, he had failed to persuade anyone in our small community of his wisdom in this matter. I felt confident any new attempt would fail as well. That is, until Mr. Biddle turned to William and said, “That seems a very sensible idea, William.”

“It isn’t a sensible idea at all, Mr. Biddle,” I said.

Mr. Biddle looked at me sharply.

Father Joseph echoed my sentiment. “This is their home.”

To my surprise, it was Mr. Hosmer who said, “But, Father, how can you hope to civilize these poor souls if they are permitted to continue in their wild ways?”

Before Father Joseph could answer, I leaped in. “Please believe me when I say that the Chinooks who live here are the finest neighbors one could hope for.”

“You give your opinions very freely,
young lady.
” Mr. Biddle made a decidedly disapproving sort of noise. “You forget yourself.”

I blinked as if slapped.

Now, it is true that back east it was considered very poor manners for young ladies, or any ladies for that matter, to discuss politics with men. But I had learned that many of the habits that ladies kept back east were of little use here on the frontier.

There was a long moment of silence at the table.

William wore a smug, superior look. Sally looked as if she rather wanted to burst into laughter, and the Hosmers seemed genuinely embarrassed by my behavior. But it was the expression on Mrs. Frink’s face that gave me courage. Mrs. Frink was most certainly a lady who spoke her mind. She gave me a small, encouraging smile and I took a deep breath.

“Well, Mr. Biddle,” I began in a civil tone. “We have lived quite agreeably with the Chinook for several years. Why, Mr. Swan is a longtime resident of Shoalwater Bay, and I’m quite sure he can,
as a gentleman
, second my opinion.”

Mr. Swan looked momentarily flustered and then said in a loud voice, “Miss Peck is quite right. We enjoy a good relationship with the Chinook. In truth, we owe much of our prosperity to their continued friendship.”

“All this talk of savages is making me rather faint,” Mrs. Biddle said in a soft, protesting voice to her husband.

Mr. Biddle shot me a look, as if I were at fault for his wife’s weak constitution. I wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t faint if she ate something!

I stood up abruptly, clearing the plates for dessert.

Back in the kitchen, Millie said, “That was some conversation you were having over there.”

“
You give your opinions very freely,
” I mimicked as I angrily sliced the molasses pies onto plates.

Millie’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe your pie will sweeten their tempers.” She started to pile the plates on her tray. “I’ll take care of the rest of the room if you get the head table.”

I doubted very much that anything as simple as a pie would sweeten Mrs. Biddle’s temperament, or that of her husband. But Millie was correct about my pies. The dark, rich inside did look delicious.

I sliced the last remaining two pies, added a generous spoonful of fresh cream to each plate, and returned with my tray to the dining room.

Mrs. Frink stood up and announced to the room, “You are all in for a treat. Jane has baked us her famous pies!”

The room burst into applause and the men hooted.

“Why else do ya think we come here?” one man shouted back playfully.

I blushed and sat down.

“Your pie looks lovely, as usual, my dear,” Mr. Swan said, and then took a hearty bite.

Around the room the guests were digging into their slices, and I tucked into my own piece. But no sooner had the pie hit my tongue than I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Mrs. Frink’s eyes met mine helplessly, and she brought her napkin up to her mouth.

Mr. Swan was valiantly trying to swallow his bite, and William had started to cough. Sally looked absolutely pained, and Mr. Biddle hastily drained his glass of water.

But it was Mrs. Biddle, ever the lady, who unceremoniously spat out her mouthful onto her handkerchief. “It tastes like—like—” she sputtered, her lips pasted with crumbs.

I spit out my own mouthful and studied the rich, brown filling. Was that a piece of a worm?

“Like—like—”

“Mud,” I finished.

“Mud!” Mrs. Biddle shrieked.

And then toppled to the floor in a dead faint.

We discovered the culprit
the next morning.

Willard was curled up in a tangle of sheets, moaning in agony from a terrible stomachache. He had eaten the rich molasses filling out of two of the pies and then cleverly replaced the molasses with mud, thinking no one would be the wiser. Brandywine had apparently participated in the crime and lay nestled next to Willard in the linen closet, where they had spent the night hiding. Millie had discovered them when she went to fetch fresh sheets.

“Will you look at the thieving bandits,” Millie declared.

“Willard Woodley!” I said sternly.

“I’m sorry, Miss Jane,” Willard said, clutching his stomach.

Brandywine whimpered piteously.

“Willard, you are more trouble than you are worth!”

He shook his head mournfully and blinked up at me, his face pale. He looked very much as if he were about to be sick all over the clean linen. “My belly hurts bad, Miss Jane!”

“Well, of course it does! You ate two pies’ worth of molasses!” I said.

“You’re lucky you haven’t been sick all night,” Millie added.

“But I have,” he admitted glumly, pointing to a bundle of soiled sheets in the corner.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. As if we don’t have enough work around here already.” I extended a hand. “Come on now, let’s get you cleaned up, and then I’m taking you home to your mother.”

Millie and I gave the boy a bath, which he was very unhappy about, and also some weak tea to settle his stomach. When he was feeling a little better, I took him by the hand and led him from the hotel.

As we made our way along Front Street, I noticed sly glances from several men we passed and heard soft snickering. As usual a group of men was loitering on the whiskey barrels in front of the bowling alley. They started guffawing in earnest when they saw me coming.

“Well, lookee. It’s Jane Peck! Got any of that pie lying around, Jane?” one of them cackled.

I blushed so hard, I swear my cheeks were redder than my hair!

“Heard you made a real good pie last night, Miss Peck,” another one laughed.

“Here’s mud in your eye!” Red Charley shouted, taking a swig of whiskey.

“Willard,” I scolded, utterly humiliated. “Look what you did!”

“The pie
was
good,” Willard said in a mutinous voice.

I glared at him, and he managed to look sheepish.

“I ain’t never gonna do that again, Miss Jane,” Willard promised in a solemn voice.

“That is most certainly true, because you are fired,” I informed him.

Willard looked stricken. “You can’t fire me, Miss Jane! I don’t wanna go back to working for that Mrs. Dodd. She’s real mean, and I hate doing laundry. Honest, I’m real sorry,” he whispered, hanging his head like Brandywine did sometimes. “You’re not gonna tell my ma, are ya? She’ll whip me for sure.”

“Of course I’m going to tell your mother. She’s probably been worried sick about you,” I said firmly.

The door to Willard’s house opened on the first knock.

“Oh, Miss Peck!” Mrs. Woodley exclaimed in surprise, and then her eyes shifted to her green-looking son. “Where have you been, Willard? Your pa was out looking for you half the night. You’re gonna be feeling the end of his belt when he gets home.”

One of his four little sisters squirmed through the open door and said in a smug voice, “You’re gonna get a whipping, Willard!”

Willard looked up at me beseechingly, and I relented.

“Willard was helping me with a large supper party, and it finished quite late, so I suggested he sleep at the hotel. I assumed it would be fine, but I should have, of course, asked your permission.”

Mrs. Woodley’s round face softened. “Oh, well, that’s a different story then. We were just so worried, with the thief and all.”

“Thief?”

She gave me a puzzled look. “Surely you’ve heard, Miss Peck. The whole town’s talking about it.”