by Daniel Knapp
The fat woman saw the tears and sighed. "It's gonna be all right." She put one corpulent arm around Esther and glanced down at her bag. "Now don't you worry."
"I'm sorry," Esther whimpered, wiping her eyes. "He… he… just upset me."
"Happens all the time, honey." She looked at the bag again and thought for a moment. "Why don't you just sit down here and relax awhile. I'll have one of the girls fix us some tea."
When the woman came back, she unexpectedly reached into the pocket of her housedress and handed Esther five silver dollars back. "Ten's plenty. That was the original bargain."
"Thank you," Esther said, surprised at the apparent fairness. But then she saw the fat woman eyeing the bag again.
"If you want, you can spend the night here in one of the tents. Three's empty, so there's plenty of room. Why don't you stay?"
"That is most kind of you," Esther said, her mind racing.
"It ain't nothin'. Now you just calm yourself. My name is Arabella. What's yours? Here, have some of your tea."
"Martha," Esther replied. "I'm most grateful to you." She took a sip of the tea before realizing it had a strange taste and a foreign aroma. She tried to hold the liquid in her mouth, but it was too hot and she had to swallow. It caused an unfamiliar tingling in her throat. Blowing on the tea, stalling, she tried to appraise the fat woman's motivations. Suddenly she knew, and an electric sensation ran up the base of her neck.
"Finish it up, finish it up," Arabella said, a little too insistently.
A murmur of voices in the large room beyond the office rose to the sound of a heated argument. "Damn those two!" Arabella said, scowling. "They're at each other like cats all the time. You wait right here." She got up and rushed out of the room.
While she was gone, Esther carefully poured the rest of the tea into a waste can and covered it with crumpled papers. She held the empty cup to her mouth and pretended she was finishing the tea when the fat woman came back.
"Feelin' better now, dearie?"
Esther nodded.
"Good cuppa tea'll wash away most of the world's tears. Come on. I'll show you where you can sleep."
When all the lamps but the one glowing in the fat woman's office were out, Esther got up from the foul-smelling cot and searched for the nail file Sutter had given her. Quietly she slit open a line of light stitching that held the back flaps of the tent together.
Ten minutes later, Arabella Ryan came into the tent with a tall, soft-spoken man who had been a steady customer since arriving in San Francisco a week before. When she saw Esther was gone, sweat broke out on her chin and forehead. Each time this man came in, he left her with an inexplicable aftertaste of fear. That part of his nature was what had prompted Arabella to send for him, but now it chilled her.
"She was here, Luther. I swear it. And I put enough in that tea to knock out a horse!"
Mosby stared at her for a moment, examined the loose tent flaps, then smiled. "Forget it, Arabella. I was losin' in that faro game anyway. Wake up Rebecca, and I'll take her back to the hotel with me."
There was no one behind the front desk when Esther reached the Alta Hotel. Taking a key off a hook, she went upstairs and let herself into a room at the back of the second floor. As soon as she closed and latched the door, she began shaking uncontrollably. Taking off her hat and gloves, she lay down on the bed and started to cry. Pulling the comforter over her legs and chest, she waited until the tears and the shivering subsided, then closed her eyes as the small amount of the drug she had swallowed with the tea took effect.
Thirty-one
In the morning, when the hotel clerk knocked, Esther told him her name was Josephine Caldwell and that she was sick with the grippe, and passed him payment in advance for five days through the still-latched door. She arranged for meals to be brought to her room, after giving him five extra silver dollars and promising five more if he saw to it that under no circumstances would she be disturbed.
She lay in bed the first day, reliving the months she had spent so happily with Alex Todd; she walked with him again, held his hand, kissed him tenderly, made love with him passionately; in the barn, in her bed, by the river, in the Conestoga wagon. The very happiness of her memories only served to make her more depressed with the reality of the present.
The second night, she sat by the window, out of view, staring at the moonlit fog over the waters of the bay and reexamining her decision to leave her life with Alex behind. It could never be the same with him now. Any attempt to be together again would be haunted, subverted by all that had happened, and, finally, doomed. She was certain he would never permit her to pursue Mosby; as certain as she was unswerving in her determination to track Mosby down at all costs. Still, the thought of Alex tormented her until she fell asleep, tears drying on her face as she began a night of fitful tossing and turning.
The following morning she lay staring at the ceiling, dwelling on the same subject, remembering the urgency, hope, frustration, and, finally, dejection in Alex's voice just two nights before. The short span of hours seemed like a lifetime. She fought the urge to search for him, find him, soothe him, and drain away his pain and grief. Her fantasies were interrupted by a thunderous crash in the next room. A tremor of fear ran through her as she heard a woman plead: "Please. Oh, God, please don't hit me!"
Luther Mosby stood glaring at Rebecca Coyle, the prostitute he had brought back to his room from Arabella Ryan's two nights in a row. The flat morning light made him squint. His long johns were open to the waist. She was fully dressed and ready to leave. Behind her, the shards of a water pitcher he had thrown at her lay at the base of a wall. Still drunk from the better part of a quart of whiskey they had consumed the previous night, Mosby lurched toward her. He grabbed the lapels of her jacket with one fist and jerked so hard her head snapped forward.
"You connivin' little bitch!" He slapped her hard across the face with an open hand. "You thought I was asleep, didn't you? Too drunk to know you was liftin' my wallet?" He slapped her again with the back of his hand, and she screamed.
"I wasn't stealing it!" she cried. "You took more'n you paid for. I was just going to…"
"You're fulla shit, you little slut." Mosby punched at her.
She clucked, and the blow glanced off her ear. "Oh, God," she shrieked. "Please! Please don't hurt me!"
Enraged, Mosby punched her on the point of the jaw, knocking her temporarily senseless. "Rotten little bitch! You're all the same. Every last one of you." Staggering, he threw her on the bed, face down. "I'll show you what you'll do for free." Groping under the bed for his socks, he tied both her wrists to the bedposts with them, ripped off her clothes, then pushed at her until she was sitting on her knees. Opening the bottom of his long johns, he positioned himself behind her, shoved her further forward and spread her thighs until her anus was exposed.
At the hotel desk downstairs, Alex Todd let out a disappointed sigh. "Damn. I've inquired at just about every place in San Francisco."
"I'm awful sorry I can't help you," the clerk intoned. "But as I said, there's only one unattached lady in the hotel, and she's a working girl. Come back with Mr. Mosby late last night. So you might say she's attached, too." He broke into a peal of laughter, pleased with the joke and proud of himself for resisting the urge to mention the other young woman, the one who was suffering from the grippe. Five dollars more to come, he thought.
"Is she one of the girls from that stable down near the waterfront?" Alex asked.
"Believe she is. 'Course, it's just a guess," the owner added quickly. "I don't pay much attention to that sort, you understand."
"Yes," Alex said, thinking, I'm sure you don't.
The barber from the shop next to the hotel walked up to the desk. "Littlejohn? A Mr. Littlejohn wants a shave in his room," he said to the clerk. He looked at Alex. "You wouldn't be he?"
Alex shook his head.
The barber turned back to the clerk. "What room is he in? I'll just go right on up."
Th
e clerk was about to answer, when all three of them heard the woman scream upstairs.
Esther held her hand to her mouth. The girl had stopped screaming, but she could hear the man shouting in rage. For a moment Esther thought it sounded like Mosby. She dismissed the idea as absurd. She listened at the wall as several minutes passed. Suddenly she heard the girl moan: "Oh, Lord, don't do that. Please. I'm too small there. Please get some…" Esther heard her scream in pain.
"I'll get nothin' to make it feel any better!" Esther heard the man shout. "You thievin' little whore! I hope it kills you!"
"Oh, God. You'll tear me… apart…" The girl screamed again. "Stop. No! Oh, Jesus, please stop!"
Esther got up from her bed and pulled on her dress. She heard a loud crack through the wall. It sounded like a slap. Biting at her knuckles, she wondered if the man was going to kill the girl. She moved toward the door, then hesitated. He might kill her too, if she interfered. She considered the prospect of being dead, never having the opportunity to take revenge. Mosby be damned! she said to herself. I cannot just stand here. I must do something to help the poor woman."
When the girl started screaming again, Alex glared at the clerk. "Well, what are you waiting for? Someone may be getting killed!"
"I'm not a… a… peace officer," the clerk said, unable to look Alex in the eye.
"Goddamnit!" Alex shouted. "Get out from behind that desk!"
The woman screamed again, and for a moment Alex had the urge to grab the clerk by the scruff of the neck and drag him upstairs. But the continued pleading from the woman demanded immediate action. "Give me a passkey!" he ordered. "And, damn you, follow me up there or I'll break your neck when this is through." He glanced at the barber, who seemed rooted where he stood. "You too!" The barber didn't move. Alex bared his teeth in anger. "Come on, I said!"
Esther quickly pulled on her shoes and ran to the door.
She heard the woman sob, "Oh, Jesus. Oh, oh… Oh! Jesus Christ. Please… I'm bleeding."
Turning the doorknob, Esther took a half-step into the hallway and saw Alex rushing up out of the stairwell. Involuntarily, she pulled back and closed the door again. Pressing her face against it, she heard Alex run by and pound on the door to the next room. He was not looking at me, she thought. He did not see me…
Alex punched the passkey into the door, threw it open, and rushed into the room. The sight of Mosby, still thrusting savagely into the now unconscious girl, stopped him in his tracks.
Mosby turned and glared at Alex. "What the fuck you think you're doin'?" He pulled out of the girl and got off the bed on the far side, eyeing the chair where his holster, belt, and pistol hung. It was too near Alex to make a move for it. "You don't want your skull cracked, mister, you'll butt your goddamn ass out of here."
Alex looked at the gun hanging on the chair. "Not until you get dressed and leave." He heard a footstep behind him, turned for a second, and saw the terrified barber peeking into the room from the far side of the hallway.
"Get the hell out of here!" Mosby shouted. "You hear what I said?"
"And I said I would after you're gone and this woman is safe." He walked over and picked up the holstered pistol. "You can get this down at the desk—later."
Mosby moved quickly, picking up a second chair and rushing Alex in one motion. Hefting the chair with his good arm, he swung it in a looping, over-the-shoulder arc. Alex moved to one side as the chair caught on an elaborate gas lamp hanging from the center of the ceiling. Mosby jerked at it and the fixture crashed to the floor at his feet. Acting instinctively, Alex ran at Mosby. Taller and heavier, he rammed into him with both forearms and drove him backward into the wall beyond the bed. Mosby's head snapped back and cracked against a thick oak beam just beneath the thin layer of plaster. His eyes glazing over, he slumped against Alex's chest.
Torn between relief and anger, Alex eased Mosby down onto the floor. He glanced around and saw that the girl was coming to. The barber was staring at him from out in the hall, mouth open and bug-eyed with terror. It suddenly came home to Alex that he might have been drawn into killing an absolute stranger because of his own overblown imagination. The girl he had seen, inquired about downstairs, resembled his wife, to be sure. But his wife was dead. And so was his son. He was shocked that after three years he had spent an entire day and two nights convincing himself she was still alive.
He stared at the trickle of blood running down behind Mosby's ear, staining his long johns. For a moment Alex wondered if he indeed had killed the stranger. He crouched and laid his hand over Mosby's heart. Still alive. Relieved, he beckoned the barber in and examined the scalp wound. It was superficial.
He turned to the timid, fearful man in the barber's apron. "I don't know this gentleman. Do you?"
The barber nodded, his eyes darting back and forth between Mosby, who had been in his shop earlier in the week, and Alex.
Alex stood up, towering over the barber. "He doesn't appear to be hurt bad. I want you to stay with him. No, get a hot towel and clean his head wound. Then wait with him until he revives. Here." Alex fished a silver dollar out of his pocket and handed it to the barber, who seemed ready to faint. "Can you steady yourself?"
The barber nodded again, went to his shop, and returned a few minutes later with a steaming towel.
"I want no more trouble with this man," Alex said. "So I'm going to leave—with the girl. He'll probably come to in ten minutes or so. Will you stay with him?"
The barber nodded once more and applied the towel to Mosby's scalp. Alex walked over to the bed. The girl was fully conscious now, but still groggy and so frightened she could hardly speak. Alex handed her a towel and her clothing When she had cleaned the blood off her legs and dressed, Alex took one last look at Mosby, who was beginning to stir, and ushered the girl out through the door.
At a restaurant several blocks away, Alex ordered tea for the girl and waited until she had regained a semblance of calm. Her left cheek was swollen and turning purple.
"Are you all right now? Would you like me to take you to a doctor?"
The girl sobbed. "No… I'm sore as hell, but I think I'll be all right." She squirmed, extremely uncomfortable. "Listen. I want to thank you. You took a hell of a chance, helping me like that." Her head clearing, she suddenly recognized Alex. "Say, ain't you the fella come into Arabella's the other night?"
"Yes." The urge to make one last effort to find his wife suddenly overpowered him. "Yes, I was there. And I'd like to ask you a question or two."
The girl frowned and let out a deep breath. "I got no time for questions, mister. I'm grateful to you, but time with me costs money. And that son of a bitch at the hotel's already set me back a bundle, not to mention what he done to my face." She touched gingerly under her eye. "Jesus Christ, no one's gonna want to…"
"What's your name?"
"Rebecca." She pouted. "Wasn't good enough for you the other night, huh?"
"It wasn't that. You're very… attractive. Listen, Rebecca, you're going to be out of… work for a few days anyway, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I suppose so."
"Well, if you have the right answers to my questions, it could be worth twenty dollars."
She thought about it for a moment. "All right. But make it quick. I got to go get cleaned up. Maybe with a little rouge, I will be able to work."
"Did a girl—someone who doesn't work for… for Arabella, come in and hide from me the other night?"
She weighed the pros and cons of telling him. Stalling, she said, "Arabella told you wasn't no one come in, didn't she?"
"Yes. But I thought perhaps she was lying for some reason."
"Why would she do that?"
"I don't know, but it would be worth even more to me if you told me she was, and knew the young lady's name."
"How would I know her…" She swallowed the rest of the sentence. She was suddenly afraid of what Arabella might do if she spoke out of turn.
"Then a young lady did come in."
; "I didn't say that, mister. I just mean how would I know her name even if she was there?"
"You're lying! I can tell by your voice."
"Listen, mister!" She stood up. "I don't have to listen to that kind of talk! I had enough grief?f today." She spun on her heel and stalked toward the door of the restaurant grimacing with pain. "Take your twenty dollars and shove it…"
When he finally left the restaurant, Alex thought briefly of going back to the bordello, but his common sense took over, and he decided the best thing was to depart for Monterey as quickly as possible. He had one more appointment—at Blue Star Shipping. After that there was no reason for him to stay in San Francisco. He swore to himself that he would make every effort within his power to put his dead wife out of his mind hereafter. The last thirty-six hours had been insane. It was time, he told himself, to begin a new life without the ghost of her haunting him every time he saw a woman of her approximate age and appearance.
Still trembling, but certain that Alex and the girl had left the hotel safely, Esther undressed and lay down on her bed, exhausted. She wondered how much effort Alex would put into searching for the girl he had seen. She heard the man next door swearing, heard another, more timid-sounding man placating him, but there was no more evidence of violence. She heard someone leave the room next door and walk down the hall, then picked up the sounds of a second person leaving. She lay back in the welcome silence, tension draining out of her, and drifted into sleep. She awoke midway through the afternoon, went to a mirror, and was startled by how disheveled she looked. She walked to the closet where she had left her bag and took out her comb and brush. When she was finished, she returned to get her dress so she could go down the hall to take a bath. On the high shelf in the closet she noticed a yellowing newspaper. Out of curiosity she reached for it and shook off the dust. It was the May 22, 1847, edition of the California Star. Realizing it was more than a year old, she started to put it back but then noticed the name "Patrick Breen" in subheadline type on the front page. The issue carried Breen's diary of his experiences at Truckee, or what they were now calling Donner Lake.
