The Passionate and the Proud (9 page)

“And there’s this scout who signed on…”

“Garn Landar? Myrtle, never! You have no idea what he’s like!”

“Do you?”

“I certainly do. Do
you
?”

“Well, not hardly. I don’t claim to. But what I’m tryin’ to tell you is that it don’t hurt to give these things a look-see. Don’t be so fast to say no, even if the horse looks like it can’t go the mile, get my drift? Things look a damn sight different at my age than at yours. Keep it in mind. Bein’ alone in this world is no picnic.”

“I guess I’ve had to learn to be.”

“Sure. I understand that. But keep your options open. You know, when I was about your age, this was in Indiana, I had me a choice. There was Sven, this really fine man, honest as the day is long, owned his own farm, and everybody liked him. And there was William, worked as a clerk in the county courthouse and read law on the side. Girl, he was a man with words, sharp as a whip, he could talk your petticoats off. They was both of them madly in love with me.”

“What did you do?”

“I anguished and I agonized; I agonized and I prayed. Sven or William, William or Sven.”

“Which one did you finally choose?”

“Neither. Sven got tired of waitin’ an’ got hitched to Sally Bundrem from South Bend. Got him a huge farm and seventeen grandkids now. William, he went on to be elected governor and married a rich girl from Memphis. Later on I married a real charming charlatan who gambled most of his money away, and what he didn’t gamble he drank away. Died two years ago. That’s why I’m here, to start over. Oh, he was a sweetheart in some ways, but I lost a better life because I didn’t make a choice.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” said Emmalee.

They were catching up to Torquist’s wagon now, and Emmalee could see him leaning forward in the wagon seat, his very posture suggesting a vast, implacable impatience.

“There you are, Emmalee,” he called. “Climb up here next to me for a minute, would you?”

Myrtle swung the mule in close to the wagonmaster’s Conestoga. Emmalee grabbed hold of the seat and pulled herself onto the moving vehicle. Torquist lent her a hand.

“Thanks, Myrtle,” Emmalee called, as the old woman turned the mule and rode away.

“Well, Emmalee,” said Torquist. “You’re a little bit dusty but otherwise no worse for the wear.”

Even Torquist had to face the dust raised by his own horses. But being first in the column had distinct advantages. Across the Great Plains, Emmalee could see the swirling dust of the Pennington train. And far out ahead of the Torquist company she saw the scouts riding. Garn would be among them. He breathed less dust than Torquist. Emmalee indulged herself in a moment of resentment. Scouts also got extra rations. Garn! A man like that always found a quick, cheap easy way to get a better deal than anybody else!

“You’ll recall our conversation in the tent, Emmalee?” Horace Torquist was asking. “I inquired if you’d had any experience that might prove useful to us and you said you’d taken care of sick people?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The reason I bring it up is because, riding in the wagon just behind us, there’s an old acquaintance of mine from Galena, Ohio, days, Ebenezer Creel. He and his wife joined the train late, and for tragic reasons, I’m afraid. She’s very ill, and they hope that the clean, pure air of Olympia will help her to get better. At any rate, Ebenezer is too old to take care of her all the time, and I want you to do it.”

Torquist was not asking her; he was telling her. Emmalee wondered what malady afflicted Mrs. Creel. She hoped it wasn’t anything contagious.

“Do you want me to start taking care of her today?”

“Thank you, Emmalee. I knew you’d be cooperative.”

“Well, I am working for you now,” she said.

“Oh, no,” disagreed the wagonmaster. “Your term of indenture begins once we reach Olympia. That’s clearly stated in the contract we both signed…”

Emmalee recalled, with sharp rue, her hasty signing of the contract. She’d been too distracted by the prospect of two year’s worth of bondage to scan the details.

“I see,” said Emmalee coldly. There was nothing she could do. “I’ll go and make myself known to the Creels now,” she began, getting ready to jump down from the wagon and recalling Myrtle’s hint that there might be some reward in this new job. She wondered now just what Myrtle had meant.

“Hold on just a second!” cried Torquist, interrupting her and grabbing her shoulder before she had a chance to leave the wagon. “Can you make out what’s going on up there?”

Emmalee followed his eyes. Up ahead on the green, rolling Kansas prairie, the mounted band of scouts was galloping back toward the wagon train.

“Looks like the scouts are heading back this way,” Emmalee replied. She felt faintly excited. For a moment, she thought that her reaction was due to the prospect of something interesting or unusual about to happen. Then she realized that she was anticipating a glimpse of Garn Landar.
You’ve grown dull-witted marching along with this train,
she scolded herself.
Don’t be a silly goose.

The scouts came riding hard and reined their prancing mounts to a walk alongside their boss’s wagon. The glossy flanks of the beasts rippled and quivered. Emmalee studied the scouts with interest: four hard, lean men whose eyes held few illusions. Their job was to keep wagon trains safe, and to do so they’d have to survive innumerable crossings of the Great Plains. Those treks had taken their toll: The scouts were flinty and cold-blooded.

Randy Clay, who sometimes rode with them, was not present. Neither was Garn Landar.

“What is it, men?” asked Torquist, betraying a touch of anxiety. This was unusual for him. In order to keep his followers calm, he invariably projected an air of paternal confidence.

One of the scouts spat out a greasy brown streak of tobacco juice and pointed toward the horizon.

“Burt Pennington and his train’ve swung north off the trail, boss. We can’t figure out why he’d want to do a thing like that. It’s gonna delay him, no doubt about it. It’s rougher country up there.”

Horace Torquist, Emmalee, and the scouts all studied that moving cloud of dust in the distance. It was indeed drifting to the north. Since the wind hadn’t shifted direction, the obvious conclusion was that the ranchers were on an inexplicable course that would slow them considerably.

“Got any surmises on that, Cassidy?” Torquist asked.

“Mebbe Pennington run into some trouble we don’t know about. He could be striking north toward Belleville. It’s the only town hereabouts. Still, it don’t make sense.”

“Where’s Landar?” the wagonmaster asked.

“He wanted to ride on ahead and see what was up,” said a second scout, somewhat sarcastically. “Could be he wants to fix himself up a deal with Pennington.”

The scouts laughed mirthlessly, a hoarse, guttural snicker. Emmalee realized that they did not care for Garn.

“I’m sure he’ll be back when he finds out…” said Emmalee, without thinking. All eyes turned toward her, toward this inexperienced young girl who was, without apparent reason, defending Garn. She was surprised at herself too. “…when he finds out what he wants to know,” she finished weakly.

“Yuh!” Cassidy grunted, and spat some more tobacco juice.

Torquist shot Emmalee a quick, odd glance. Then his characteristically somber expression gave way to a look of cautious optimism.

“Well, we’ll hear from Landar in due time, I suppose,” he said. “But this may be the break we’ve been waiting for. Pennington is going to fall behind, mark my words. I want you to ride down the line and tell all the drivers to pick up the pace. We’re pushing on. We’ll discuss our situation tonight at the campfire.”

Ebenezer Creel was a crotchety, bony seventy-year-old whose first words to Emmalee when she climbed into his Conestoga were: “So you’re the one who sold her soul to Horace Torquist!”

“I beg your pardon?” said Emmalee, startled not only by the old man’s query but also by the interior of the wagon itself. Arranged as if it were a small house or cabin, with binlike shelves built into the sides of the wagonbox, this traveling home also had two hammocks, a bureau with a real mirror attached to it, and a bust of Jefferson Davis bolted to the top of the bureau. Likenesses of the former Confederate President had been pretty hard to find since the Civil War ended in April of 1865.

Ebenezer caught her staring at the bust. “So I picked the losing side.” He cackled. “So what?”

“Oh, don’t go feeling sorry for yourself, Ebenezer. We got other problems now. Is that the girl who’s come to take care of me? Bring her over here so’s I can have a look.”

The voice was coming from a dark bundle in the nearer of the two hammocks. Emmalee felt Ebenezer’s dry, talonlike fingers close on her arm as he guided her back into the wagon, which, even at midday, was dimly lighted. But Emmalee’s eyes adjusted and she saw Mrs. Creel, piled with blankets, looking up at her.

Emmalee could not stifle a gasp. The woman’s face had most likely once been full, but now folds of gray skin hung from the stark structure of facial bones and her pallor was unearthly. She was wasting away.

“What’s the matter with you, girl?” Ebenezer cackled. “This here’s my wife, Bernice. She’s a bit under the weather, but she’ll be fine once we get to that good air over the mountains.”

Didn’t the old man realize—or didn’t he want to admit—the seriousness of his wife’s condition?

“I’m Emmalee Alden, Mrs. Creel. How do you feel?”

“Pretty tired all the time. But as long as I get my medicine, there isn’t too much pain.”

“Medicine?” asked Emmalee.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Ebenezer said quickly. “Let’s step to the back of the wagon.”

“You’re keeping things from me again,” whined the woman.

“Now, you know that ain’t true, Bernice. Not a’tall.” He took Emmalee’s arm again with his bony hand, leading her away. Throwing open the Conestoga’s canvas flaps, he let down the tailgate, which provided a wide, wooden platform.

“Have a seat, Emmalee,” he said, easing stiff-jointedly down. Emmalee joined him, her legs swinging free over the edge of the platform. Following Creel’s Conestoga was Lambert Strep’s water wagon, its great weight dragged along by six yoked oxen. Emmalee blinked in the sudden sunlight, noting that Ebenezer appeared quite spry for a man of his years. He wore a white shirt, old but well-tailored trousers, and a wide leather belt of peculiar thickness.

“I like you, girl,” he said, putting a claw on her shoulder. “I like you right well. Now, let’s talk turkey. Obviously, Bernice is real sick. She’s got her a cancer”—he swatted his concave abdomen with his sticklike hand—“down here, an’ there ain’t much hope. But I don’t want her to know that, see?”

“I understand.”

“You do a real good job and”—here he fumbled with his belt, which Emmalee now saw to be notched with narrow, pocketlike openings—“an’ this’ll be yours.” He withdrew a piece of folded paper from one of the slots in his belt and waved it under Emmalee’s nose. It was a one-hundred-dollar bill. This must be what Myrtle Higgins had been hinting about!

“I’ll do the very best I can,” promised Emmalee, wondering how many notches were in the belt, and how many more bills.

“All you got to do,” he went on, putting the bill away, “is talk to Bernice when she wants, read her the Bible—she likes the Psalms especially—and give her the medicine when she starts complainin’ about the pain. It’s opium. Got it from an apothecary in Kansas City. It ain’t goin’ to cure her, but it holds the pain down. It’s in a bag in the wagon. I’ll show you. Just mix a spoonful into a glass of water and make her drink it.”

“I will.”

“So far, the opium does the trick. But if we ever get a time when it don’t, or when Bernice gets too sick to swallow the stuff, then we’re in big trouble.”

Emmalee was touched by this hard old man’s devotion to his wife. She imagined the Creels as they might have been when they were young, and thought of all the years they’d been together, caring for each other. Perhaps Myrtle Higgins had had a point. Being alone was no picnic, and it got worse as one grew older.

“There’s one more thing you have to do,” Creel was saying, “and it’s for me.”

“Just ask.”

“You know how Horace is by now, I suspect? He’s pretty much a man of the straight and narrow.”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I’m gettin’ on in years, and I’ve gotten used to a little nip now an’ then. Strong waters is what I’m referrin’ to. I promised Horace that I wouldn’t touch a drop—that was one of his conditions for takin’ me an’ Bernice along—but I got a barrel of it stowed on board. Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna get bent out of shape and scream and carry on. But I am gonna drink it. You got to promise not to tell nobody.”

“I won’t. You have my word.”

“Good. Ain’t nobody on this train drinks liquor anyway, not that I know of. ’Cept one of the scouts. He’s damn good company for an old codger like me.”

“Mr. Cassidy?”

“Hell, no. I’m talkin’ about that smart young feller, sharp as a whip.”

“I don’t think I know who you mean,” lied Emmalee.

“Landar’s his name. He’ll be around from time to time. But he won’t pay you no never-mind. You ain’t his type at all.”

“I’m not?” asked Emmalee, startled. The elderly sometimes took the liberty of making gratuitous judgments, but Ebenezer’s casual dictum caught her off guard.

“Naw.” Ebenezer cackled. “Landar’s pa was an outlaw an’ his ma was a hoor. So I heard. He’s bright and tough, an’ he’s goin’ on to be a big man in this country one of these years, like Jefferson Davis.”

“Oh, Davis was
splendid
,” said Emmalee. “He was fortunate not to have been hanged!”

“Just had bad luck, that’s all. He was a great man. I’m talkin’ ’bout great men. An’ you’re the sweet, innocent kind of female who ought to marry one of these farmers on the train, settle down, and have a passel of kids.”

Emmalee was a little offended; Ebenezer Creel was reading her wrong. He didn’t even
know
her. Who was he to think about marrying her off?

“Now I’ll show you where Bernice’s medicine is stashed and then you can read her a little something from the Bible.”