The Fiddler's Secret (9 page)

“Then you better run scared because I'm going to tell your owner where you are!”

Jordan's fists tightened. “You sayin' I should run scared?” As his gaze locked on to the man's eyes, Jordan leaned forward, hovering over the shorter man.

Suddenly the man stepped back. He wasted no time leaving, but Jordan's words followed him.

“Tell my owner where I is. And tell him I am
not
afraid. Tell him I be Micah Parker's son, and I is not livin' scared!”

As the short, thin man disappeared, Libby smiled. In that moment Jordan had forgotten all the fine English he had
worked so hard to learn. But he hadn't forgotten who he was.

Then Libby remembered Pa's warning, and her good feelings faded. Jordan had passed the first test, but Libby couldn't help but wonder if there were more ahead.

After a while she walked up the wide stairway to the area on the boiler deck where first-class passengers took their exercise. In a shaded, out-of-the-way place, Libby sat down.

Soon her gaze rested on a man who stood alone. Though he leaned over the railing, peering down at the water, Libby could see most of his brown hair and the right side of his face. With quick lines she started to sketch.

When she finished the drawing, Libby realized it was good—very good. She had tried to be honest in showing the hard lines around the man's mouth. His face rang a warning bell in Libby's mind.
Is there something wrong in his life?

Just then the man glanced her way and saw her pencils and paper. His eyes darkened with anger.

In the next instant Libby pulled other pages over the sketch, but it was too late. The man knew she had drawn his picture. For some reason that upset him.

Libby gathered up her pencils, got to her feet, and walked away. At a wall that would hide her from sight, she glanced back. Whoever the man was, he still watched her.

In spite of the warm day, Libby felt cold all over.
Who is he?
she wondered again.
Is he a crook and afraid he'll be recognized?
The expression in his hard face frightened her.

Mr. Trouble, that's what I'll call him
.

CHAPTER 7

L
ibby went straight to the
Christina
's office. “I'd like to put one of my drawings in the safe,” she told the young clerk who worked there. As he opened the safe, he looked curious but made no comment.

He doesn't dare ask why
, Libby thought, wanting to giggle.
He knows I'm the captain's daughter
.

By the time she finished eating the evening meal, the sun had dropped low in the western sky. Libby went to her room in the texas, the boxlike structure at the top of the boat where many crew members had their rooms. Long shadows fell across her bed, but Libby could still see her way around.

The first thing she noticed was that her drawings were out of order. Then she knew someone had opened her large trunk. Next she found a drop of wax on the floor. Here on the texas, far away from water and help, Pa did not allow her to use a candle. Yet there was no mistaking the wax.

Someone was here while I was gone. Someone entered my room, my private place. Whoever that person is, he looked through my things, searched everything I own. It has to be the man I saw on deck!

At first Libby felt angry. She wanted to scream, to cry out,
to sob.
That man wanted the sketch I drew. Why? Who is he? What is he trying to hide?

Then Libby knew something even worse.
Whoever he is, he knows I can recognize him. That I can show the drawing to others
.

Without wasting another moment, Libby went looking for her father. She found him and Annika sitting on the hurricane deck, talking together. Libby stopped, not wanting to break in.

Annika saw her and asked, “What's wrong, Libby?”

When she finished telling them, Pa had another question. “Do you know the man's name?”

Libby shook her head. “He looked like Mr. Trouble to me.”

“Give me his description again.”

“Tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Cruel lines around his mouth.” Libby told about the drawing in the safe.

“I'll get my best men working on it,” Pa said. “We haven't much time before we reach St. Paul. But if they see the drawing, they can begin to search.”

Pa started off, then came back. “I love you, Libby,” he said. “Remember that, okay? Bring your blankets to my cabin tonight. You can make a bed on the floor.”

Partway across the deck, Pa turned back a second time. “That man has it in for you, Libby. Wherever you go, take Samson along.”

“I wonder what's going on,” Libby said to Annika after Pa left. Spreading her hand wide, she counted on her fingers. “First, the tall man in the shadows of the main cabin. Black hat and long, black coat.”

“Second—” Libby ticked off another finger. “The short, thin man on the main deck. Hair slicked down, collar so high
that it looked as if he has no neck. He's the one who threatened Jordan, saying, ‘I know you're Micah Parker's son.'”

Libby drew a long breath. “Third, the man I drew on the deck for first-class passengers. Tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Cruel lines around his mouth. And no doubt, the man who searched my room.” Just thinking about it, Libby's stomach knotted again.

“Maybe it's like children in a classroom,” Annika said. “If they're troublemakers, they always manage to find each other.”

“You mean they've found each other on the
Christina
? And we can expect more trouble?”

“Maybe,” Annika said. “Your pa would know better than I.”

Half an hour later, Libby and Peter watched from the hurricane deck as the
Christina
rounded the bend a mile below St. Paul. As the steamboat whistled its long, deep blast, Libby saw the city against the last rose color of the sunset.

Near the riverfront stood large warehouses. On higher ground homes and businesses spread across the bluff. Rising above all the other buildings, church steeples pointed upward.

Then a high, squealing noise shattered the peace. As the bloodcurdling sound cut through to her bones, Libby trembled.
Is this what it means to come to Minnesota Territory?

When she turned to Peter, his happy look had not changed. But Wellington yipped and squirmed, rubbing his paws against his ears.

The high-pitched squeal kept on and on. Unlike anything Libby had ever heard, the sound terrified her. Leaping up, she ran to her father's cabin.

“It's the Red River oxcarts,” he said, meeting her at the door. “Don't be afraid.”

“Oxcarts?” Libby whirled around. Ahead, she could see nothing but an island and the buildings on the bluffs.

“Two-wheeled carts filled with furs,” Pa explained. “They come from Pembina, way up at the edge of Minnesota Territory, near the Canadian border. The drivers don't use grease on the axles. It's wood turning on wood. People say they hear the squeal for miles.”

Libby believed it. Though she couldn't see the carts, the noise was so loud that Pa had to talk above it.

Going to the railing, he stared upstream. “Usually the drivers reach St. Paul in July. I wonder why they're here this late in the season?”

Pa turned to leave. “There might be a hundred carts or more. I need to talk to the passengers. They'll be frightened too.”

Libby went back to Peter. By now the
Christina
was close enough for them to see the steamboat landing. Peter still tried to hold Wellington in his arms, but the dog wiggled and squirmed, yipping continually.

“What's wrong with him?” Peter asked.

Libby pointed to the dog's ears, made a face showing pain, then covered her own ears with her hands.

“Do you have an earache?” Peter asked. “Does Wellington have an earache?”

Libby took Peter's slate. “Oxcarts,” she wrote. “High squeal. Hurts Wellington's ears. Mine too.”

Libby motioned toward the streets of St. Paul. “Watch,” she signed. “Maybe we'll see them.”

Four other steamboats had already tied up at the Lower Landing. Mr. Fletcher, the pilot, guided the
Christina
to the flat area of land that was the levee.

Beyond the waterfront a dirt street led up the steep bluff. There Libby saw the oxcarts pass by. Their wheels were huge—five feet high or so. The drivers walked beside their oxen.

As the
Christina
's deckhands threw out the lines, Libby hurried down to the main deck to watch. She found Caleb standing near where the gangplank would go down. Seeing him there told Libby that he, too, was eager to visit St. Paul.

The line of first-class passengers waiting to go on shore were backed up the stairway. Near the steps on the side away from the gangplank, Oliver White stood along the wall. On the deck next to him was his large trunk.

I wonder how he got back there
, Libby thought, surprised that he hadn't pushed his way to the head of the line. Then Libby saw that Mr. White was talking with Annika.

Uh-oh!
Libby thought.
I hope they aren't becoming friends
. She disliked even the thought.

The squeal of oxcarts went on and on. Then, to Libby's relief, it finally stopped. Through the opening between warehouses, she saw men start to unload their carts.

The moment the
Christina
's gangplank went out, the first-class passengers streamed across. Waiting their turn, deckers stood with baggage ready and children in hand. The tired, worn look Libby had often seen on the immigrants' faces was gone. Instead, their eyes were full of hope, their voices eager. The sound of several languages filled the air.

In the long twilight after sunset, a man carried a young boy across the gangplank. Once clear of the crowd, the man set the boy on his feet and pointed down.

“Minnesota Territory,” he said. “Sure and if we aren't in the land of opportunity.” Dropping to his knees, the man kissed
the ground. His son dropped down beside him.

Libby couldn't imagine herself kneeling in the dirt, touching her lips to the trampled soil of the landing. Yet as she looked around, a woman did the same thing. When she rose to her feet again, excitement lit her face.

I've never really understood
, Libby thought.
With both Pa and Auntie, I've always had a home, a safe place
.

Forgetting everything else, Libby watched the people leave the
Christina
. Young and old. Single and married. Couples with no children. Parents with few or many children. Some with little baggage, others with much. All with one look. They were eager to begin a new life.

The fiddler stood among them. Waiting in line, Franz held a carpetbag in one hand and his violin case in the other. Ahead of him a woman with two children balanced a large cloth bag on her shoulder. In spite of the warm evening, she wore a heavy black coat.

As she started onto the gangplank, the woman reached down, took the hand of the youngest child, and motioned for the other girl to follow. Halfway across the gangplank, the older girl looked down at the dark water and froze.