Big Ike unlocked, then opened the door and stepped into a cabin barely illuminated by a hanging oil lamp. As he walked in, something flew across the cabin and plopped with a fluffy impact against the wall inches from Ike’s head. He grabbed the pillow just before it fell to the floor.
There were more missiles that soon followed, including another pillow, socks and shoes, used as weapons of warfare in the riverboat arena.
“Fellows!”
The combatants froze, but just for a beat.
“Dad,”—Jedediah pointed from the bunk to his younger brother on the floor—“he started it!”
“Did not! Did not! He did!”
“I didn’t ask who started it.”
“I was putting on my nightshirt and Obie whopped me with a pillow—”
“Yeah, but before that he—”
“Never mind before that . . . the war’s over. Peace is declared.”
With that declaration Ike hit Jed on the shoulder with the pillow, then tossed it on the upper bunk.
“Now both of you help me clear up this battlefield.”
Jedediah jumped off the bunk and Obadiah got off the deck and both began to gather up pillows, socks, shoes and other assorted items as their father stood smiling at the familiar procedure that had taken place many other times in many other places.
“Dad,” Obie said, looking up, “what’s it like in Azirona?”
“Arizona,” Jed corrected.
“What’s it like, Dad?”
“I’ve never been there, Obie.”
“Has Uncle Jake?”
“Nope.”
“Then why are we going?”
“For the same reason why your Uncle Jake and I left Europe and went to England, then left there and came to California.”
“What reason is that?”
“To find something better.”
“Like what?”
“Well, in this case, it’s a store that we’re buying.”
“A store?”
“That’s right, a store that provides supplies that people need to make a better life for everybody.”
“I like the life we have since you come back from the war.”
“Came back,” Jed corrected.
“Are there Indians there?” Obie’s eyes widened.
“Yes.”
“And soldiers?”
“Yes.”
“You were a soldier, weren’t you, Dad?”
“Yes, I was, Obie.”
“Are there—”
“Obie,” Jedediah said, “don’t ask so many questions.”
“Why not? Do you want to go to bed?”
“You’ll both be going soon enough, but what was it you were going to ask, Obie?”
“Are you going to fight the Indians?”
“No, I’m not a soldier anymore, and anyhow, peace has been declared in the Territory. There’s a treaty.”
“What’s a treaty?”
“It’s an agreement not to fight each other anymore. That’s the kind of agreement you two ought to make.”
“Are there kids to play with in Azirona?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What kind of kids?”
“Well, Obie, kids are pretty much the same all over the world.”
“Then why are older people so different?”
“They’re not, really. Obie, you’ve got your nightshirt on backwards.”
“I like it better this way.”
“Sure you do. All right now, say your prayers, boys, and you’ll wake up in La Paz.”
“Is that where the store is?”
“Obie,” Jed sighed, “the store is in Prescott.”
“Then why are we going to La Paz?”
“We’re going there to catch the stagecoach, right, Dad?”
“Right. Now say your prayers.”
Jedediah and Obadiah knelt at the side of the lower bunk. Ike stood by and listened as both boys spoke together:
“I thank Thee, O God
For the blessings of this day.
Thou art my Shepherd: I shall not want.
I fear no evil, for Thou art with me.
In peace, I lay me down to sleep.
Bless my home and all who are dear to me.
Sh’ma Yis-ro-el,
Hear, O Israel,
A-do-noy Elo-ne-nu.
The Lord is our God.
A-do-noy E-chod.
The Lord is One.
And please, God, bless Mommy who is with you.
Good night, Dad.”
Jedediah and Obadiah climbed into their bunks as Big Ike turned the oil lamp even lower.
“Good night, my boys.”
Later, just past midnight, Ike Silver stood at the rail of the Colorado Queen, smoking what was left of the tobacco he had loaded into one of the pipes he had brought from England years ago. Rachel had loved the aroma of pipe tobacco and would watch from her chair as he smoked and read one of Dostoyevsky’s novels. When she became pregnant the first time, Ike told her he would give up smoking until the baby was born. But Rachel wouldn’t hear of it.
“It doesn’t bother me one bit, Isaac, and besides, I want our son to grow up and smoke a pipe just like his father.”
“What if he turns out to be our daughter?”
“We’ll have a son first. Three sons and then a daughter.”
It was one of the few times that Rachel was wrong about anything.
Ike tapped the bowl of his pipe against the palm of his hand and let the ash scatter into the night and drift down toward the river.
He let the bowl cool off for more than a minute, put the pipe into the pocket of his jacket and walked toward the stern of the ship.
As he turned the corner, in the distance he saw Jake standing alone looking toward the shore. Ike was about to call out when from the shadows a figure appeared holding something in his right hand. The hand swung hard, hit Jake behind his left ear, and as Jake collapsed, the figure bent and reached down.
Ike sprang across the deck, grabbed the figure, pulled him up and smashed his fist into Slade’s face. Ike slammed him against the wall and hit him again. The sap dropped from Slade’s hand.
“No! Please!!” Slade screamed.
“If he’s hurt bad I’ll kill you!!”
“Ike! Don’t!” Jake managed to get to one knee and hold out his hand.
Ike turned toward his brother while still holding on to Slade.
“I’m all right, Ike. . . . Don’t kill him.”
“Slade, you don’t know how lucky you are.” Ike shoved the bleeding man away. “Get out of here!”
“I-I’m sorry.” Slade slobbered and staggered along the deck.
Ike helped his brother to his feet.
Jake patted the bulge in his jacket to make sure the contents were still there.
“I told you . . . he was a bad loser . . . six hundred . . .”
“What?”
“I counted it.” Jake smiled and rubbed the back of his head. “Six hundred dollars. That’s how much we won.”
“Never mind that. How’s your head?”
“I won’t have any trouble falling asleep tonight, but I’m all right.” He smiled. “Thanks to your fists and my hard head. Speaking of hard heads, Ike . . .”
“What?”
“What do you really know about Prescott?”
“I know we own a store there . . . or soon will. I know there’s opportunity there . . . and I hope it’s a place for the boys to settle and live. . . .”
“For how many centuries have we all been looking for a place to settle . . . and live?”
“That’s one reason,”—Ike nodded—“they call us Wandering Jews.”
“My brother,” Jake said, smiling, “they call us worse than that.”
“Maybe not in Prescott.”