Dodge City, Kansas
Fall 1875
Merlin took his pay and skedaddled. Dodge was no place to be with a pocket full of fresh money and no head for whiskey. He'd already gotten a bill of sale for his horse from Old Man Farnsworth, and he'd said his goodbyes to the men he'd lived and worked with for the last three years.
He made a stop at the telegraph office and sent a hundred dollars to his bank in Boise City. When he was well out of town, he separated the rest of the cash money into two bundles. One he slid into the hidden pocket in the lining of his saddle and the other went into his money belt. The silver stayed in his pocket.
His feet were itching again. Seemed like he wasn't made to stick to one thing.
He'd had a look at a calendar when he was in the telegraph office. The date surprised him. Six years since he'd ridden away from home, from his family. Although he'd been lonely now and then, he still wasn't ready to go back. The restlessness that had sent him out into the world still seethed within him.
What a time he'd had in those years. As he rode out of town, he thought back to the wide-eyed boy he'd been, bent on adventure.
"Still am, right, Gawain?" he said to his horse. The dun twitched an ear. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, not like Bul had been.
"I wonder what became of Cal." He still couldn't think of her by any other name. It was a question he'd asked himself more than once since he'd left her behind in Virginia City. He hadn't liked the looks of her pa, but it hadn't been his place to say so. She was still a child six years ago, and needed a home and family, even if the only family she had was a sleazy saloon keeper and whoremaster.
Great God, I hope he was good to her.
Knowing Cal, if she hadn't been treated kindly, she would have found away to escape.
Riding along, he fell into a reverie. There was much to think on, for he'd led a varied life since leaving home. His spell as a blacksmith's helper in Ogden had done him good, even though he'd only stayed through the winter. He'd discovered he liked working iron, and had learned some useful tricks for mounting wagon tires. But Ogden hadn't offered the excitement he craved. Soon as the cottonwood buds had started to grow fat, he'd bought himself a ticket for Chicago, that being as far East as he wanted to go.
What nobody had told him was that spring didn't always stay around in Nebraska and Iowa. Not in Illinois, either. His train had been caught in a blizzard east of Sidney and had sat, stuck, for a day and a half, until the snowplows could dig it loose. When he arrived in Chicago, the wind had been blowing sleet horizontal. He couldn't ever remember being so cold, not even when he'd lived in Cherry Vale, high in the mountains.
Figuring it would be warmer down south, he took a train to New Orleans. What a place that had been. He'd surely lost his innocence there, and didn't regret a minute of it. The ladies who'd led him down the primrose path had been good teachers. When he finally left town, they threw him a going away party that lasted nearly a week.
In New Orleans he'd found himself work with a blacksmith who made the fancy ironwork decorating balconies and window embrasures and courtyard gates. While most of what he did was bend iron bars, he watched close and saw how Samuel Black fitted them together in artful curlicues and graceful swirls. His regret was that he didn't see the designs in his head the way Samuel claimed to. But still, no new skill was wasted.
He also learned to play poker--the hard way. By the time he finally figured out when to hold and when to fold, he was down to his last ten dollars and wondering if he'd have to take on a second job, just to pay his rent. By spring, he was flush again, thanks to a couple of rich young fellows who saw him as a hick and were out to fleece him. After that he only played poker for penny ante stakes. A man could get in big trouble believing he could get rich at the tables.
He'd gone to New Orleans a boy, with a boy's slender body and lack of height. He left full-grown and filled out. According to Felice, there was nothing like good Cajun cooking to make a boy into a man.
Merlin reckoned there was more to it than that.
Traveling up the Mississippi on a steamboat showed him he wasn't a sailor. Who'd have believed a man could get seasick on a riverboat? When he went ashore at St. Louis, he came close to kissing the solid ground.
The summer of 1872, he again worked as a blacksmith's helper. By fall he had a couple of offers to ride herd on drives from Texas north. All he had to do was get himself to Galveston in January.
He spent Christmas of that year back in New Orleans, but before the new year rolled in, he was in Galveston. Even in winter, the Gulf was warm enough to wade. Well, maybe not for someone who hadn't been raised to swim in a river swollen with snowmelt. The first time he found himself alone on a sandy beach, with waves breaking at his feet, he stripped down to his altogether and swam out until he couldn't see the shore. Floating there, he laughed out loud. Maybe this wasn't an ocean, but it was the next best thing. Eventually he'd get to the Pacific, but until then, he was satisfied. The water had been salty, the waves had buoyed him up and down, and there'd been funny-looking seagulls diving straight down and spearing fish with their sharp bills.
Looking back, he could no longer see Dodge. Ahead of him was new ground, places he hadn't been, people he hadn't met. Adventures he hadn't had.
"I'd still like to see me a real gold rush." He nudged Gawain with his heel. "What d'you think, boy?"
The dun twitched the other ear, but that was all. His was a phlegmatic nature, Merlin had long since decided. No sense of adventure at all.
He'd recently heard talk about gold in a place called the Black Hills. When he'd come through Cheyenne, back in '70, he'd seen a map with that label on it, off to the northeast in Indian country.
"No sense going up there in winter. If the rumors are true, maybe we'll head into the Black Hills before we go to California. "
Gawain snorted. As long as Merlin fed him his oats at suppertime, he was easy to get along with.
* * * *
Virginia City, Montana Territory
November, 1875
Callie was setting out the day's fresh bread when the front door opened with such force that it slammed back against the wall. "Git your truck together, girl. We're moving on."
"Pa!" she hadn't seen him for half a year and more. The last she'd heard, he'd gone up to Bannack. In a way it had been a relief, for it meant she'd been able to hold onto some of her small wage. She hadn't missed him much. The father she'd idolized when she was a tyke was long gone, leaving in his stead a mean, hard man.
"You hear me, girl? Hop to it. Stage leaves in an hour and we'll be on it, with or without your truck."
"But I--"
"What's this, then?" Mrs. Flynn stood in the doorway between the shop and the kitchen. She had her rolling pin in one hand. "We thought we were rid of you."
"I came to get my girl. You'll want to pay me what you owe her."
"Her 'prenticeship ain't up. That means you owe me. I reckon we're even."
Pa raised his arm, like he was going to hit Mrs. Flynn, but then he slowly lowered it. Callie didn't blame him. She'd seen what Mrs. Flynn could do when she was riled. He jerked his head at her. "Go."
She wanted to tell him she wouldn't go with him. Pleadingly she looked at Mrs. Flynn, hoping she'd show some sign of standing behind her.
But the baker shook her head. "He's your pa," she said, sounding like she hated having to say it. "You ain't of age yet."
Slowly Callie took off her apron. Holding back the tears that threatened to choke her, she slipped past Mrs. Flynn and went up the narrow, steep stairs to the loft. She gathered her good dress, her Sunday shoes, the one book she owned, and her nightgown and wrapper, bundled it all into the blanket Merlin had bought her in Eagle Rock, and rolled it like he'd showed her. All she had to tie it with was a leather thong, but it was long enough to serve. The only warm wrap she had was a shabby man's greatcoat, but she did have a decent bonnet, thanks to Mrs. Flynn.
Before she opened her hidey hole, she stepped to the top of the stairs and listened. No one was in the kitchen, leastways not making any noise. The loose brick in the chimney slid with a small grating sound, and she froze, hoping no one had heard it. After six heartbeats, she pulled it the rest of the way out. Inside the dark little hole was every cent she'd been able to save in almost five years, a small handful of coins, two little gold nuggets, and three bills. Somewhere around thirteen dollars, all told. She put it in the center of a piece of muslin, knotted the corners tightly, and started to wrap another scrap of fabric around it.
Pa will expect me to have saved something. She untied the bundle and took out most of the coins. This way when he demanded any money she might have, he wouldn't get it all. The tightly rolled packet went into a small bag she'd made to hang from her waist. At knee level, it wasn't likely to make a lump under her skirt. She put the coins into her pocket, knowing they wouldn't stay there long.
Hot anger flooded her. He's supposed to take care of me, not the other way around. If only... No, he's my pa, and I owe him obedience.
Before she went back down the steps, she looked around the bare little room she'd lived in for nearly six years. It was snug, with the kitchen chimney rising on one end, and more comfortable than any place she'd ever lived. A raggedy but soft chair sat by the chimney, with a good lamp on small barrel beside it. I don't want to go. I like it here. I've been happy. Mostly.
She swallowed and it hurt her throat. Why didn't I write to Merlin's folks? He said they'd take me in.
She knew why. They weren't family, and her pa was. Family was more important than anything else. Even Mrs. Flynn said so, and she thought Pa was worthless.
Mrs. Flynn was at the bottom of the steps. "Take this," she whispered, holding out a small packet. "Don't let your pa know you've got it. You owe him duty, but you don't owe him support. Everybody needs get-away money."
Callie couldn't answer, Not without blubbering. She dropped her blanket roll and threw her arms around Mrs. Flynn. "Thank you," she whispered. "You've taught me so much. I--"
"You're a good girl. Mind you recall what you've learned here. You can always make yourself a good living." Batting Callie's hands aside, she unbuttoned her dress halfway to her waist and tucked the packet into her corset. "There now. Give me a hug and get yourself out to your pa. He's not a patient man."
"About time," Pa said when she came out the door. "Let's go." He strode away, leaving her to keep up as best she could. At the stage station, he told her to wait while he oversaw the loading of a wooden crate, about two feet on a side. "Books and keepsakes," he told the driver. "Nothing breakable."
Callie wondered what keepsakes were in it. She didn't recall seeing anything worth keeping in his cabin, when she'd stayed there.
The stage was crowded. Callie was crammed between her pa and a miner who smelled like he'd slept in a cess pit. But at least she was warm. All but her feet.
After the first night and day, she'd decided she'd rather travel with a string of freight wagons. At least then she'd had a comfortable bed and decent food. The road was better than it had been the last time she'd traveled this route, though. They reached Ogden in six days instead of the month her journey had taken.
Her pa wasn't good company. The only times he spoke to her was to hurry her back onto the stage when she'd only half eaten her meals and to warn her to behave herself and not speak to strange men. Twice he hit her for asking questions. The second time she was sure he'd blacked her eye. After that she only spoke when he said something to her.
Since in her opinion, none of the men on the stage or at the stops were anyone she wanted to talk to, she didn't have any trouble keeping silent.
They got to Ogden late in the afternoon. Her father muttered about needless expense, but he got them rooms in a hotel close to the depot. It wasn't much of a hotel, far as she could see. There were mouse biscuits in the corners, and the sheets smelled musty. She slept on top of the bedding, with the quilt wrapped around her. Come morning, Pa took her to a dingy little café and ordered mush for her. The milk was watery and there was no sugar on the table. He had coffee and toast, but she'd learned better than to say anything.
After breakfast he walked her rapidly to the train station. Her blanket roll had gotten all squashed and misshapen in the stage boot, and it was hard to hold onto. What with trying to keep everything from falling out and trotting to keep up with his long strides, she was breathless by the time they got there.
He went right to the ticket window, but she stopped and set the blanket roll down on a bench so she could tighten the leather thongs.
"Where are we going, Pa?" she said when he came to join her.
"Cheyenne. You set here and wait for me. I've got business to take care of."
They'd passed a little café on the way here. Hungry from too many half-finished meals, she'd hoped they would have time to sit down and have a filling meal. "When does our train leave?"
"Eight this evening. I'll be back before then." And without another word, he walked away.
Mouth agape, she watched him disappear through the swinging doors. This evening? What is it now? Nine in the morning? A burning anger filled her, that he would care so little about her he'd leave her alone here, with no money, no food, and no one to protect her from those strange men she'd been warned against.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she strode toward the sign that said LADIES. The necessary was outside, but just before the door leading to it, there was a small lounge, with chairs and a vanity. The room was empty, so she had privacy to pull out the packet Mrs. Flynn had given her. When she opened it, she found six silver dollars and a five dollar gold piece. She extracted two of the silver dollars and rewrapped the rest. While it wasn't real comfortable tucked into her corset, it was probably as safe there as anywhere.
She checked the tie around her waist that held up her other purse. It was secure. I'm not rich, but I bet I've got enough to buy a ticket to Boise City on the stage.
"And what would Merlin's folks think, you showing up there out of the blue?" she muttered. "Likely they'd slam the door in your face."
She returned to the station lobby and sat down. There was a big clock over the doors and she watched the hands as hour after hour passed. In between she looked around. There was a telegraph office next to the ticket window. Finally at five minutes to five, she took her courage in hand and walked to the telegraph office. "I'd like to send a telegram," she said, when the man inside looked up.
He slid a pad of paper and a pencil across the counter. "Write it there. You get the first ten words and after that you pay by the word. Address don't count."
She stared at the blank sheet so long that he came back and said, "Hurry up. I'm about to close."
"Oh! Yes, I will..." Unable to think of a better way to say it, she wrote: PA TAKING ME CHEYENNE STOP PROBABLY UP TO SOMETHING BAD STOP SCARED. She addressed it to Merlin Lackland in Boise City and signed it CAL SMITH.
The telegraph man's eyebrows rose when he read it, but he didn't say anything. He took her money and gave her change, then sat down and laid his finger on the key. "Miss? How's he to find you?" He sounded concerned.
Those were the first kind words she'd heard in near a week. Callie almost wept. "I-I don't know. But he will." Her voice broke. "He will."
She had to believe Merlin would come to her rescue.
* * * *
On a clear day, he could see the mountains rising in the distance.
He took his time. If something caught his eye off to one side or the other, Merlin went to see it. He reckoned this would be the only time he'd pass through this part of the country, so he might as well see what drew so many folks here.
Western Kansas was getting settled, little by little. At the rate railroads were building across the state, it wouldn't be long before they spilled over in to Colorado Territory, if they hadn't already. He stayed well off the road to Santa Fe, for after seven months of sharing every waking moment with a dozen other cowhands, the silence and solitude were to his liking. After a while the country all looked about the same, short grass prairie, dry and windswept, and chewed some, a result he reckoned, of the locust plague he'd heard about. He wasn't sure when he passed across into Colorado Territory.
He was somewhere short of Las Aminas when got his chance to try out the binoculars he'd bought second hand. The night was clear and cold, with hardly a whisper of breeze. When the fat old moon came up over the horizon, he felt a shiver of anticipation. Once he'd fed himself and Gawain, he put out the small cook fire and crawled into his bedroll. He'd refrained from using the binoculars until now because he'd wanted to be high up, where the air was clear and the sky dark, for his first good look at the moon's surface.
He stared at the moon until his eye ached and his fingers were numb. It was high overhead when he carefully tucked the binoculars into their case and lay back, arms behind his head. "Great God, who'd have known the moon could look so close, and be so rough? Why I'll bet some of it's just like the big lava flow I passed on the way to Eagle Rock."
The moon shone whitely in the sky, and the dark areas some called The Man in the Moon looked no different from before. Yet now he'd seen them for what they were. "I wonder if there are maps," he said, as he scooted down under the covers. "I'd like to see if there are names for those big flat places. And that hole, with the white rays stretching out from it. Wonder what it's called."
He fell asleep, wondering if Jules Verne had ever seen the moon up close before he wrote his story about it.