In La Paz, as in most frontier towns from the Rio Grande to the Canadian River, from the Mississippi to the Colorado, every night was a holiday—a holiday to be celebrated in saloons with whiskey and women. Both made the customers shudder and shake, forget and remember—the best hope this side of the grave; illusions by night to face the demands of the day. But with the morning in those frontier towns, including La Paz, the nightly holiday always ended and the daily dawn of reality began again.
But the previous night had been no holiday for Ben Brown, who with Sean Dolan and the miners at the livery, repaired wagons, wheels, harnesses and traces. Brown spoke to the men only when something needed to be said or done. Unlike Dolan and the miners, he never laughed or even smiled; but he worked and set the pace for the other workers to follow. And just before first light, Melena appeared with baskets containing fried chicken and other edibles.
Ike Silver had provided her with the raw materials and she had done the rest.
And so Ben Brown and the miners had worked by lanterns until there was no need for lanterns to work by—and until the work was done.
The wagons were hitched to animals and driven to the dock, where Ike Silver had hired laborers to help load the cargo of flour.
At the dock, a line of wagons was already strung out. On each wagon, a neatly lettered sign: R. LESSUR—FREIGHTING. R. Lessur’s wagons were empty and Gallagher and his men stood nearby watching the patched-up carriers being filled with barrels of flour.
“How the hell did them bastards get them wagons?” Rooster Priner asked his immediate superior, Jim Gallagher.
“How the hell do I know.” Gallagher was in no mood for conjecture or conversation. He knew that his superior, R. Lessur, would be in an even darker mood if the cargo of flour was not delivered as anticipated. R. Lessur was not in the habit of having his orders not carried out, and the few times that had happened the consequences were not pleasant.
Jim Gallagher pulled the makings out of his shirt pocket and began to build himself a cigarette.
“Boss, are we—”
“Rooster, just shut up and let me think! I’ll let you know when to talk.” Gallagher stuck the cigarette into his swollen mouth. “Gimme a match.”
“Sure, boss.”
Ben Brown drove up to the wharf in his wagon and stepped off, while his wife and son stayed aboard.
Ike, Jake, Jedediah and Obie stood and watched as the other wagons were being loaded.
“Yes, Mister Brown?”
“There’s room in my wagon for some of that cargo if you need it.”
“Thanks.” Ike pointed to the patched-up caravan. “Will those wagons make it to Prescott, Mister Brown?”
“They might.”
“They better.”
Sean Dolan approached, wiping the sweat from his face.
“Gettin’ close, Ike.”
“Good. Say, Sean, I meant to ask you, isn’t there enough gold for you to dig in California? What made you leave and come to Arizona?”
“Well, Ike, in California I’m just a miner. In Arizona I’m a partner. You’re lookin’ at the part-owner of the Rattlesnake Mine.”
“Very enterprising.”
“You bet your boots. I got to start thinkin’ about my old age—just in case I have an old age.”
He turned and walked back toward the dock.
Ike looked at Ben Brown.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you going to settle in Prescott?”
Brown shook his head no.
“Heading north?”
Brown looked away from Ike and toward his family on the wagon.
“South?” Ike asked.
Brown just kept looking in silence.
“Don’t talk much, do you?”
“Just when I’m talked to.”
There was another moment of silence.
“All right. Why don’t you ask your family to step down while your wagon gets loaded?”
“I’ll do that.”
Ben Brown walked toward his family.
“Ike, my dear brother, you know something?”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.” Jake shrugged. “You already know.”
Yes, Ike already knew, and he thought about it as he watched Ben Brown walk toward his wife and son in the wagon. And as he did, Ike saw a familiar figure coming toward them followed not far behind by another familiar figure.
The first figure carried a sawed-off shotgun. The second figure looked like he was carrying the effects of a monumental hangover.
“Morning, Marshal.”
“Good morning, Mister Silver.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Nope. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
Marshal Trapp nodded toward Gallagher and his men near Lessur’s wagon. “They give you any trouble?”
“Not so far.”
“They will.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Don’t think so—know so. Know them and their kind. It’s happened before when Lessur’s men didn’t get what Lessur wanted.”
“Who’s this Lessur?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. But I’m going to stick around here to make sure nothing unpleasant happens until you leave my territory. After that, Mister Silver, you and your companions are on your own.”
“That’s very good of you, Marshal.”
“It’s my job and I’m good at it.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Ike smiled.
“There are those who have . . . temporarily. Now I’m just going to meander over to that bale of cotton over there and smoke my morning cigar. You boys go about your business like nothing’s going to happen, because nothing will. Not ’til you leave La Paz anyhow.”
Marshal Trapp walked toward the bale of cotton and Basil Binkham took a step forward.
“Good morning, Mister Silver.”
“Good morning, Mister Binkham. Oh, this is my brother, Isaac, my two sons, Jed and Obie.”
“Grand meeting you all . . . and once again, I am beholden to you, kind sir, for your beau jeste last night. . . .”
“What’s he talking about, Ike?” Jake asked.
“It was nothing.”
“It was gallant and I repeat, I am beholden.”
“That why you came to see us off?”
“I’m not here to see you off.”
“What then?”
“Don’t you remember the marshal’s dictum?”
“What dictum is that?”
“That you take me with you, of course.”
“He wasn’t serious.”
“But I am. My carpet bag is all packed and ready for the road to Prescott.”
“Mister Binkham—”
“You might as well call me Binky, everybody else does.”
“All right then, Binky—”
“Good, I’m glad you say it’s all right.”
“That’s not what I meant. . . .”
“Please, sir, there’s nothing for me here in La Paz. I propose to make a new start in Prescott, and in the meanwhile you’ll find me of some service on the journey.”
“You a teamster, Binky?” Ike said, smiling.
“Hardly.”
“Then what service?”
“I play many parts. Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello, Richard, Falstaff—”
“This is not a road show. It’s serious and dangerous.”
“All the more reason for a court jester. Besides, you probably saved my life last night, and therefore you are responsible for my welfare . . . at least until Prescott. I beseech you . . .”
“Ike, let him come,” Jake said. “What’s the harm? And we could use a little diversion.”
“Bravo, brother Jacob!” Binky proclaimed.
“Okay! Okay! I know when I’m licked. But once we get to Prescott, we bid you adieu.”
“And parting will be such sweet sorrow . . . meanwhile, there is a nearby emporium where my credit might still be good. I shall return!”
Binky bowed and walked away.
“You think he will? Return, I mean.” Jake smiled.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How good his credit is.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, Jed.”
“Are those people going to Prescott with us?” Jedediah pointed to Ben Brown and his family near their wagon.
“Yes, they certainly are.”
“Can Obie and I go over and say hello to the little boy?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Jake said, “I’ll be over myself in just a minute.”
“Come on, Obie.”
Both boys walked toward the Brown’s wagon as it was being loaded with three barrels of flour, stacked along with the Brown family’s possessions.
Ben Brown and his wife were a few feet away from the wagon talking and on the near side their son played with a homemade yo-yo, making it “walk.”
“Hi,” the older brother said. “My name’s Jed and he’s Obie. What’s your name?”
The young boy stopped playing with the yo-yo, looked at them for a moment, then made a decision. He decided to put the yo-yo in his pocket.
“What’s your name?” Jed asked again.
“Name’s Benjie.”
“What’s that thing, Benjie?” Obie inquired.
“What thing?”
“That thing you just put in your pocket.”
“Oh, that.” Benjie started to walk away. “I got to go.”
“Wait a minute,” Obie said.
“It’s mine.” Benjie put his hand over his pocket.
“We knew that.” Jed shrugged. “But what is it?”
“Could we see it?” Obie asked.
“Do you want it?” Benjie’s hand was still protecting his pocket.
“Just to see it,” Obie answered.
“Yeah, that’s what they said.”
“Who?” Jed looked into Benjie’s wide-open eyes.
“Those boys who took it away from me.”
“But you still got it.”
“This is another one. My Pa made me another one. He can make anything. I got to go. . . .”
“Wait a minute,” Jed said. “We’ve never seen one before. What do you call it?”
“Call it a yo-yo.”
“What do you do with it?”
“Do a lot of things.”
“Show us.”
“I got to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“Huh?”
“I said where are you going? You’re coming to Prescott with us, aren’t you?”
“I guess. Got to go and talk to my Ma and Pa.”
Benjie walked away with his hand still over the pocket.
Jake Silver had been watching and listening to most of the exchange. He walked closer to his nephews.
“Uncle Jake,” Obie asked, “what’s the matter with him?”
“Boys, it would take a couple hundred years to explain.”
Ike Silver had just taken his pipe out of his pocket when he saw him coming.
As the poker player from last night approached, Ike put the pipe back into his pocket.
“You remember me?” There was a dire look in the poker player’s eyes and a blue swelling on the right side of his jaw.
“Mister Shultz, isn’t it?”
“You snuck-punched me last night, you remember that?”
“I remember you were out of line. . . .”
“You snuck-punched me you sonofabitch!”
“I’m nobody’s sonofabitch.”
“I say you are. You snuck-punched me in front of my friends.” Shultz put up both of his fists. “But I’m lookin’ right at you now, you sonofabitch, so what’re you gonna do about it?”
“I might walk away. And then again . . . I might not.”
Ike feinted a left and crossed with a cannonading right that landed on the exact same swollen blue spot, this time with an audible crunch, and it was all over. Shultz dropped like a shot buffalo. And lay still.
Marshal Jonas Trapp, still smoking his morning cigar, eased closer and peered at the inert form on the dock.
“Marshal, you saw him coming, didn’t you?” Ike said. “Knew what he had in mind. Could’ve stopped him.”
“I could’ve.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Don’t like him.”
Basil Binkham reappeared and Sister Mary Boniface stood next to him. Binky looked down at Shultz.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “isn’t this where I came in last night?”
Sister Mary Boniface took a step forward.
“Mister Silver, I saw you hit that man.”
“Yes, Sister. Just as hard as I could.”
Marshal Trapp’s boot prodded Shultz as he began to stir.
“Mister Silver, do you want to lodge a complaint against this . . . man?”
“No, Marshal, I don’t.”
“Shultz, can you hear me?”
“Uh . . . yeah, Marshal, I . . . I hear you.”
“Then get outta here before I sic him on you again. Go on, git.”
Shultz managed to wobble to his feet and make his way through the crowd and out of sight.
Marshal Trapp took a puff from his cigar and walked back toward the bale of cotton.
By now Ike was surrounded by Jake, Jed, Obie, Sean Dolan and the rest of Dolan’s miners, who were all enthusiastically commenting on Ike Silver’s one-punch knockout—all but Sister Mary Boniface.
“Dad, you sure socked him one!” Obie.
“A sweeter punch I never seen!” Dolan.
“A veritable ballet!” Binky.
“Ike, one of these days you’re gonna hurt your hand!” Jake.
“Mister Silver, I must speak to you now.” Sister Mary Boniface.
“All right, Sister Mary Boniface. What about?”
“In the first place, you can call me Sister Bonney, most everybody does—out of the order.”
“All right, Sister Bonney, what’s the second place?”
“Well, that’s the most important thing. I want to go to Prescott with you. . . .”
“Just a minute . . .”
“I can pay the regular stagecoach fare.”
Jake, Jedediah, Obadiah and Sean Dolan, who had been listening without too much interest—along with Binky—suddenly became more interested, especially Dolan.
“How do you do, Sister? My name is Dolan, Sean Dolan. Would you believe that I was once a choirboy?”
“Yes, I’m sure you were, and a very good one, too.” She turned back to Ike. “But now, Mister Silver, about going to Prescott.”
“Well, I . . . I’m sorry. But no.”
“Mister Silver, I have to get to Prescott!”
“Because the Mother Superior ordered me there.”
“And tell us, Sister,”—Sean Dolan smiled,—“what are you going to do in Prescott?”
“Start a school.”
“A school!” Dolan nodded and smiled wider. “Did you hear that, Big Ike?”
“No!”
Silence.
Sister Bonney looked at Dolan. Dolan looked at Ike.
“Awww now, Ike.” Dolan put on a long face. “You can’t say no.”
“No!”
“Ike!” Dolan all but pleaded.
“It’s no trip for a . . . woman.”
Sister Bonney looked toward the wagon, where Melena Brown stood beside her husband.
“It appears,” Sister Bonney said, “one woman is going.”
Ike Silver appeared embarrassed, just for an instant.
“Uh—that’s different.”
“How different, Mister Silver?”
“Well . . . she’s got her man with her.”
“So have I,” Sister Bonney said softly.
“Ah–ha!” Dolan exclaimed. “She’s got you there. And we could use His help, too.”
“If I may say a word . . .” Binky took a step forward.
“No, you may not,” Ike said.
Binky took a step backward.
Ike looked at Jake.
“What are you looking at me for? You want to start a religious war?”
Silence.
Ike looked back at Sister Bonney and shrugged.
“Right here.” She held up the traveling bag and started to reach inside. “And here’s my fare.”
“Never mind the fare. Just say a prayer.”
“I already did.” Sister Bonney smiled.
“I might’ve guessed it.” Ike nodded. “Oh, by the way, since you two will be traveling together, I suppose you ought to be officially introduced—Mister Basil Binkham, may I present Sister Mary Boniface.”
“Sister Boniface.” Binkey bowed his curtain call bow while removing his vintage bowler. “On behalf of our entire company, welcome to our vagabond troupe.”
“And on behalf of the Order of the Sisters of Charity, I thank you, Mister Binkham.”
“Ike,” Jake said, “since we’ve got more passengers than we expected—do you think the provisions we laid in will be enough, or should we—”
“Oh, please,” Sister Bonney interrupted, “don’t concern yourselves about me. I’ve enough jerky and salt pork—”
“Pork?” Jake said, surprised.
“Yes, pork, Mister Silver. I hope you don’t object.”
“Not at all, Sister. What about Fridays? Where you gonna get fish in the desert?”
“On Fridays I’ll fast.”
“And as for me,” Binky smiled, “my diet is mainly liquid.”
“We don’t carry that kind of liquid,” Ike said.
“More’s the pity.” Binky shrugged. “Howsomever, I’ll carry on. Sister . . .”
“Oh, just a minute, Mister Binkham.” Sister Bonney had been looking toward the empty wagons where Gallagher and his men were standing. “Mister Silver . . .”
“Please, Sister, call me Ike.”
“Yes, Ike, those signs on the wagons over there, they do say Lessur Freighting, don’t they? My distant vision is not—”
“Yes, Sister, that’s what they say.”
“Do you know who’s in charge?”
“I do, Sister,” Dolan pointed. “That big ugly ape. His name’s Gallagher.”
“I’ve got to talk to Mister Gallagher.”
“I wouldn’t go over there, Sister,” Ike counseled.
“Why not?”
“Well, Mister Gallagher is sometimes a little . . . excitable.”
“I see. Well, right now he looks quite harmless.”
“So does gunpowder,” Ike said.
“It’ll be quite all right, I just want to ask him something.”
“Okay,” Ike conceded, “but we’ll keep an eye on things.”
“I’ll be right back,” Sister Bonney said, and proceeded toward the empty wagons.
“What do you think all that’s about?” Jake asked nobody in particular.
“Don’t know,” Ike answered, “but I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t think she’s a spy.”
“Neither do I.” Dolan smiled. “She reminds me of my fourth grade teacher. That’s as far as I got—the fourth grade.”
“Excuse me, Mister Gallagher . . .”
“Yeah?” Gallagher turned around with a cigarette in his mouth and faced the young nun.
“I’m Sister Mary Boniface.”
“Yeah?”
“I understand that you’re employed by Lessur Freighting.”
“Yeah, I am.” Gallagher looked at the other men near him. “We all are, what about it?”
“Well, I wonder if you can give me some information?”
“What sort of information?” Gallagher cast a suspicious glimpse toward Ike Silver.
“And you do work in Prescott, don’t you?”
“Uh . . . most of the time. What sort of information?” he repeated.
“Well, some time ago something was sent from Saint Brendan’s in Santa Fe to be delivered by Lessur Freighting to their depot in Prescott.”
“What kind of something?”
“A crate containing books and a few personal items.”
“What about it?”
“I wonder if you know if it arrived safely? I—”
“How the hell should I know.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“I mean, well . . . I mean . . . a lot of stuff gets delivered. . . .”
“I’m only inquiring about this particular crate. It contained—”
“I heard you . . . books and a few personal items.”
“That’s right. Do you recall—”
“We deliver hundred of crates.”
“From Santa Fe?”
“From all over, and I can’t keep track of all the junk—”
“Junk? You consider books junk?”
“I consider it freight, and I don’t know if it got there. Is that where you’re going?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then let me ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you intend to go with them?” Gallagher pointed his cigarette at the patched-up wagons.
“I do.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Go with them.”
“Why not?”
“Well . . . I just wouldn’t . . . if I was you. . . . That’s my advice.”
“Thank you for your advice, Mister Gallagher, and I’ll see you in Prescott.”
When Sean Dolan saw Sister Bonney walk away from Gallagher, he went back to work with the miners and laborers loading the wagons.
Ike left Jake and the boys and moved toward the Brown wagon. Ben was helping the men load the last barrel as Melena and Benjie stood by.
“Morning, Mrs. Brown.”
“Morning.”
“How you doing, young fella?” Ike smiled at Benjie. “I see you met my two boys.”
Benjie barely nodded and looked at the ground.
“He’s a little shy,” Melena said.
“Mister Brown . . .”
Ben Brown made an adjustment on the strap of the last barrel and stepped closer to Ike.
“Yes, Mister Silver? Somethin’ I can do?”
“Yes, there is. You can slow down. You’ve been on your feet all night.”
“I’ll be sitting on that wagon most of the way to Prescott and—”
“Maybe so and maybe not, it depends. . . .”
“On what?”
“On what we come across along the way.”
“You mean Apaches?”
Ike nodded. “You have a rifle, Mister Brown?”
“Under the seat of that wagon.”
“Cartridges?”
“Some.”
“I’ll see that you have more before we leave.”
“Thanks.”
“Mister Silver . . .”
“Yes, Mrs. Brown?”
“I saw the men loading provisions this morning and I was wondering . . .”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Do you have a cook?”
“Well, some of the miners have done a little cooking . . . not too easy on the stomach, but . . .”
“I’ve done more than a little cooking, and if it’s all right I’d be pleased to do a little more ’til we get to Prescott.”
“Well, I’m sure the rest of us would be pleased, too, after the way you fixed things up last night, but only if you let us pay you for your effort.”
“Did I hear you say something about cooking?” Sister Bonney said as she approached.
“Oh, Sister Bonney, this is Mister and Mrs. Brown and their son, Benjie.”
“How do you do?” Sister Bonney smiled.
“Mrs. Brown has volunteered to take care of the kitchen duties even though we don’t have a kitchen.”
“And I’d like to volunteer to assist Mrs. Brown. We must all do our share, mustn’t we . . . Ike? That is, if Mrs. Brown has no objection. Do you, Mrs. Brown?”
“My name’s Melena, and I appreciate your help, Sister.”
“Very good. Well, when do we leave, Ike?”
“As soon as the wagons are loaded.”
“Good. I’m anxious to get started.”
“Yes.” Ike smiled. “So am I.” He turned and walked back toward Jake and the boys. Sister Bonney followed right behind him.
“Melena?”
“What, Ben?”
“You don’t have to do that anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Cook for those people.”
“I know. Maybe that’s why I want to.”
Gallagher and Rooster were still watching as all the wagons were nearly loaded.
“Are we gonna deadhead back to Prescott with them empty wagons?”
“No,” Gallagher said.
“Then what are we gonna do?”
“Leave ’em here and get some horses.”
“Horses?”
“Yeah, the kind you ride on.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’re gonna follow them wagons at a distance.” Gallagher tossed away the butt of his cigarette. “We just might get that cargo for Mister Lessur yet.”
An hour later the wagons were loaded and ready to roll.
Jake, the boys and Sister Bonney were aboard one of the wagons and Ike was astride a horse next to them.
Marshal Jonas Trapp, carrying his shotgun, approached, not fast, not slow.
“Well, Mister Silver, it appears that you’re ready to start.”
“That’s right, Marshal. And I want to thank you for your help.”
“It’s my job.”
“And you’re good at it.” Ike smiled.
“I try.”
“Not every lawman would’ve, well . . . we . . . all of us, appreciate the way that you handled this situation, so thanks again.”
“Sure. In a way I wish you were staying in La Paz. We could use more people like you around here. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
“I hope so, Marshal.”
Jonas Trapp nodded toward Jake, Sister Bonney and the boys in the wagon, then turned and walked away.
Sean Dolan was also astride a horse. He rode up next to Ike.
“Well, Big Ike, we’re ready as we’ll ever be.”
“Guess so.”
Dolan looked around the wharf. Besides the people who worked, or would normally be there, there were dozens of men and women and even children who would normally be someplace else, but had come to watch the caravan leave on what most of them thought was a fool’s parade.
Basil Binkham stood up on the wagon just behind Jake’s.
“I say there, Ike. Haven’t had as large an audience as this since coming to the colonies! Well . . . tallyho!”
Ike looked at his brother.
“All right, Jake, here we go again.”
“Just a minute, Ike.” Sean Dolan looked at Sister Bonney, who was holding a rosary in her hand. “Would you, Sister?”
Sister Bonney nodded.
“Saint Christopher . . .” she began. The rest of the words were brief and inaudible until she looked up and smiled. “Well, Ike Silver, it’s like the Old Testament.”
“What do you mean, Sister Bonney?”
“Moses leading his people to the Promised Land.”
“It took Moses forty years, Sister.”
“But,”—Sister Mary Boniface held up the rosary—“he didn’t have Saint Christopher with him.”