Jubilee Trail

by Gwen Bristow

  “Did he? From Charles?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t leave it with me.” She told him how John had addressed her in Spanish, and then had denied having a letter.

  Oliver laughed as he heard her. “That sounds like John. He doesn’t trust anybody. It’s probably a letter from Charles, telling me what’s been going on at the rancho this past year. Of course I know you wouldn’t read it. But John would figure you couldn’t resist the temptation to find out whether or not it came from a girl.” He ruffled her hair and kissed her. “I’ll go on back to the store now. Home before dark.”

  Garnet walked with him down the passage that led to the street. He went off, and she stood watching the people go by. The street was always interesting. Everything went on under a faint haze of tobacco smoke. The natives of Santa Fe, men and women and sometimes even children, smoked all the time. They carried bags of tobacco and packets of thin brown paper, from which they rolled little tubes they called cigaritos. Ladies of the upper classes held the cigaritos with little gold pincers, so the smoke would not stain their fingers. The smoke curled about their heads as they stood in the street talking, and made fragrant blue patterns over their bright clothes.

  Garnet saw Florinda, coming down the street with Bartlett, Silky, Penrose, and several others. They were all laughing and talking, in great spirits. As the men bowed to Garnet, Florinda paused.

  “Oh Mr. Bartlett, do you mind if I run in and show Garnet these beautiful silver buttons you gave me? Wait here, I won’t be a minute.”

  “Sure, sure, my sweet, go right in.”

  Mr. Bartlett, scented with liquor as usual, smiled upon Garnet happily. He was proud that Mrs. Hale had recognized Florinda’s noble qualities, in spite of the fact that her morals had need of repair. Florinda slipped into the passage, and chattered as she drew Garnet back inside the house.

  “Look, Garnet, real silver! Mr. Bartlett said if I was going to use metal buttons I might as well have good ones. He’s so generous all the time.”

  “Shall I keep them for you?” Garnet asked. “You might lose them on the street.”

  “Why yes, you take them. I’ll get them later.” She closed the door, and lowered her voice. “Why don’t you drop around to the Fonda tonight, Garnet? It might be fun.”

  “Florinda, what have you got in your head now? You haven’t spoken to me for a week!”

  “I’ve been busy, dear, helping to give Santa Fe its reputation. Well, I’d better run along. The gents want to play monte.” She opened the door and started out. “Thanks for taking care of the buttons. Well, let’s go, Mr. Bartlett.”

  Garnet had walked back into the passage with her. Florinda went off with her friends. Garnet heard them say, “Hi there, John,” and a moment later she saw John Ives on his way to meet Oliver at the store. Garnet had an uncomfortable feeling that John and Oliver were going to talk about her.

  She went back into the house, and told herself that she was simply being foolish. Oliver wasn’t uneasy, and certainly Oliver knew more about John than she did. Out here on the trail, she was meeting with so many new experiences that it was no wonder she was getting jittery. She resolutely got out the collar she was making for Florinda, and set to work.

  When she saw Oliver that evening, he did not seem to be troubled. He told her John had brought a fine lot of mules and other goods to be sold to the Missouri men. With the blankets Oliver had bought in Taos, and the others they would get from the Indian weavers around Santa Fe, they would make a profitable trip to Los Angeles. They had a lot of work ahead of them, but everything looked fine so far, and now he was as hungry as a coyote.

  “Did he bring you a letter?” asked Garnet.

  “Why no,” said Oliver, “he didn’t.” Oliver was pouring water into the wash-basin.

  “I wonder what he said to me, then?” she asked.

  Oliver began to scrub his face. “I asked him, but he doesn’t remember exactly the words he used—‘I came to see Oliver,’ or something like that. Stop making me talk, Garnet, now I’ve got soap in my mouth.”

  Garnet felt better. It was a relief to find that she had really misunderstood what John said.

  While Señora Silva served their supper, Oliver told Garnet about the mountain of supplies he would have to get for the journey to California. “You won’t be seeing much of me from now on, I’m afraid,” he said, “but I hope you’ll understand.”

  “Oh yes. That’s all right.”

  Oliver smiled at her affectionately. As Señora Silva understood no English, they talked as freely at meals as if she had not been there. “Garnet,” he said, “are you as fond of me as I am of you?”

  She nodded. “I love you enormously.”

  Señora Silva took away their plates and brought the goat’s milk cheese that usually ended their meals. Oliver said nothing for a moment, then as he picked up his cheese he added thoughtfully, “You know I’m not good enough for you, don’t you, Garnet? Because I’m not.”

  “No, I don’t know anything of the sort. I’ve had more fun since I’ve been married to you than I ever had in my life before. That reminds me, can we go to the Fonda this evening?”

  She briefly told him that Mr. Bartlett had asked Florinda to marry him. She did not know what was going to happen at the Fonda, but she wanted to be there. Oliver was amused, but he said,

  “She’d better be careful about telling him the truth. Bartlett won’t think it’s funny.”

  Garnet had no time to repeat what she had said to Florinda about Mr. Bartlett’s being a wicked deceiver at heart. They had finished supper, so she put on her bonnet and shawl and they went out.

  The Fonda was full of noise and people and tobacco smoke. Florinda was there, surrounded by Mr. Bartlett and a dozen other Americans. She was merrily entertaining them, as though she had nothing on her mind but her present occupation of pouring drinks. As Garnet and Oliver came in she waved to them gaily. The men gave Garnet exaggerated bows. Oliver found a place to sit, and the waiter brought them a bottle of wine.

  Florinda’s group was not far away. Mr. Penrose sat on the table, strumming a guitar and singing snatches of song. He played very well, though he was slightly drunk and kept having to ask for help. Florinda was chattering.

  “No, really, Mr. Van Dorn, you drink that yourself; I don’t like it. Go on playing, Mr. Penrose, I like to hear you. Why yes, of course I remember that song. I heard it in my cradle.”

  She lifted herself to sit on the table by him, and sang to guide him.

  “Oh maybe you think

  That my cheeks are so pink

  Because I’ve been dreaming of you—

  That’s how it goes. Everybody knows it, it’s a thousand years old. But go on playing it. Right now I’ve got to see how Mr. Bartlett’s getting along. He needs a drink. Yes, Mr. Bartlett, here it is. Brand-new bottle, all for you.”

  Mr. Bartlett was staggering and happy. She filled his cup and laughed appreciatively at something he said to her.

  Garnet looked around. She saw Texas, apart from the others, sitting with a cup and bottle in front of him. He was drinking quietly, as though it were a matter of business. John Ives approached through the crowd. He had a cup, but he was carrying it sideways, his finger through the handle. The cup was empty, and John appeared quite sober. He paused on the other side of the table and greeted her. Garnet returned his greeting, and John continued,

  “May I interrupt you?” he took a paper from his pocket and offered it to Oliver. “Here’s a list of the prices we’re offered for the mules.”

  “Good work,” Oliver said as he glanced over it. “Sit down.”

  He moved nearer to Garnet, and John sat down on his other side. In a moment they were deep in conversation. Oliver was here only to humor Garnet; he thought Florinda was an entertaining minx, but he was not much interested in her ultimate destiny. He was asking John about the growth of mesquite on the desert. The height of the mesquite had something to do with indicating the water sup
ply, but Garnet did not understand it, so she looked back to where Florinda was busy with her admirers. Penrose was trying to find his way through another tune. Florinda prompted him, but she added laughing,

  “Say, Mr. Penrose, you sound like you came over with Columbus, singing all those old songs. You’ve been away too long. I’ll sing you some new ones. But first get me a drink of water. My throat’s as dry as a bone.”

  “Florinda knows all the songs,” Mr. Bartlett boasted unsteadily. “She remembers all the words, too. Fine woman, Florinda.”

  “Come over here, Mr. Bartlett, and let me straighten your collar. You look like a bum. I can’t have the whole town talking about how badly I keep you.”

  Mr. Bartlett approached and let her straighten his collar. He loved it. Silky Van Dorn came nearer, gazing up at Florinda with foggy-eyed curiosity.

  “Now where did I see you? Such a ravishing woman, how did I ever forget?”

  Florinda swept her blue eyes over him, teasingly.

  “You still don’t remember?” she asked.

  “Not yet. But I will. So fair a face, such golden hair!”

  “It’s not golden. It’s flaxen. It’s nearly white.”

  “But so beautiful I’ll remember, I know I will.”

  She gave him a tantalizing smile. “Some day I’ll tell you.”

  “You know where it was?” he exclaimed.

  “Why certainly. Only you’ve hurt my feelings by not remembering, so I’m going to let you worry about it a while. No, don’t take that bottle, Mr. Van Dorn, that one belongs to Mr. Penrose. I’m keeping it for him while he finds me a drink of water. This one’s yours.”

  Oliver turned from John, and spoke to Garnet. “Florinda’s not going to give herself away, is she?”

  “I don’t know. A lot happened that I haven’t had time to tell you about. Mr. Van Dorn thinks he remembers her from New York.”

  “She’d better be careful,” Oliver remarked again.

  Garnet looked at Florinda uneasily. Florinda was listening with a show of fascinated attention to something Mr. Bartlett was mumbling to her. Just then Texas, in his corner of the room, half raised himself from his bench and shouted, “I’ve never been to New York. I came from Texas. Republic of Texas.” He sat down again, and rested his chin morosely on his hand.

  Oliver laughed and shook his head, and John glanced across him to say to Garnet, “Don’t be afraid of Texas, Mrs. Hale. He’s quite harmless.”

  Mr. Penrose was passing their table. He had stuck his guitar under his arm, and he was carrying a pitcher of water with both hands. He paused by Garnet.

  “Now Mrs. Hale, please don’t you mind Texas,” he urged. “Texas is all right.”

  “Why yes,” said Garnet, somewhat puzzled. “I’m sure he’s all right.”

  Mr. Penrose’s square flat face was very earnest.

  “You see, ma’am, Texas can’t take a drink like other folks. He don’t touch a drop for weeks and weeks, but when he does it’s like he’d been struck by lightning. But he don’t bother nobody while he’s drinking. He just wants to sit by himself and get it over with.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Garnet, though she did not see at all. She had thought that when men got drunk they did it for fun. She had never heard of anybody who wanted to sit by himself and get it over with.

  Mr. Penrose went on past her and delivered the pitcher. Florinda thanked him with an enchanting smile, and accepting the pitcher she took a long drink. Mr. Penrose sat by her on the table again and went back to strumming his guitar.

  Florinda leaned nearer him. “Now stop playing those old tunes. I’ll teach you some new songs, straight from New York. Listen.” She began to hum a tune, without words. Mr. Penrose gazed up in adoration, delighted by all the attention from this beautiful lady straight from New York. But though he tried, he couldn’t get the tune right.

  “That’s a hard one, Miss Florinda!”

  “Yes, I know it is. It’s hard to play, and hard to sing too. There aren’t many people who can sing it.”

  “I bet you can sing it,” said Mr. Penrose.

  “Why of course I can. I can sing it without music. Want to hear how it goes?”

  “Yes ma’am! You sing it. I bet it’s beautiful when you sing it.”

  “It sure is. Come over here, Mr. Van Dorn. I don’t believe you’ve ever heard me sing.”

  “Florinda sings fine,” boasted Mr. Bartlett. “When she sings, it’s beautiful.”

  Silky Van Dorn poured himself another drink. “She’s beautiful doing anything.”

  “Now then, Mr. Van Dorn, that’s the way I like to hear a gent talk. It sure is nice to have friends who say such things. Now you try to follow me on the guitar, Mr. Penrose.”

  Florinda flashed her eyes over the assembly. She looked very lovely through the swirls of tobacco smoke, with the light of the lamps flaring on her hair. The men began to draw nearer to her. Looking straight at Silky, Florinda started to sing. Her voice was very gay and clear, and her tongue rippled over the syllables with a brilliant speed.

  This unspeakable commotion on the border of the ocean

  Is all caused by my devotion to a sailor from the sea,

  Oh my sailor man’s the skipper of a great big Salem clipper,

  She is called the Flying Shipper and she’s flying him to me!

  He’s bringing me some silver shoes, he’s bringing me a shawl,

  He’s bringing me a necklace and an Oriental fan,

  You never would believe me if I tried to tell you all

  The presents I am getting from my loving sailor man—

  The noise in the room had begun to quiet down as the men stopped talking and listened. Silky Van Dorn took a step closer. Florinda went on singing. She sang faster and faster, but with every syllable still clear, and her voice went skipping up and down the music with never a false note. It was a hard song to sing, a trick song; no amateur could have managed it. But Florinda, though she had no great voice, was expert at using the voice she had. She babbled on with delicious enjoyment of her own skill.

  Garnet heard Oliver say, “Why that little fool—she’s telling him!” There were other exclamations all around her, but Florinda did not pause.

  Oh, sailor men go sailing and they do forget you fast,

  But sailor men are mighty good providers while they last—

  “My God!” shouted Silky Van Dorn. He gave a thump to the table with his fist. The wine splashed out of his cup. Florinda broke off in the middle of a note, and pulled her dress aside. The other men were demanding to know what he was so excited about. Silky was shouting in tipsy delight.

  “Bartlett, you fool, why didn’t you tell me? How did you do it? And me forgetting—how did I ever do that? Me forgetting the greatest singer that ever knocked ’em over in New York! And you—” he pointed his finger at Florinda—“oh you beautiful deceiving woman, what made you keep teasing me? Teasing me and making fun of me—”

  The other men were making so much noise that Garnet lost the rest of what he said. She heard Oliver ask,

  “Does she know what she’s started?”

  “Yes, she knows,” said Garnet. She could not take her eyes off Florinda, who was laughing at the excitement she had provoked. “Let her alone. She’s making trouble and she wants to make it.”

  Florinda was not trying to say anything. But everybody else was. The men wanted to know what Silky was talking about, and he was trying to tell them. Forgetting his lordly poses of speech, he was prattling with all his might. Mr. Bartlett was trying to understand, turning his head unsteadily from Silky to Florinda and back again. Florinda still sat on the edge of the table, her ankles crossed gracefully, laughing to herself.

  “Look here,” Silky was demanding, “is this a joke on me? Did everybody but me know who she was? Am I the only damn fool in Santa Fe who didn’t know? Say, sweetheart, what made you change your name?”

  In the hubbub Mr. Bartlett protested, “Changed her name when she got marr
ied. Widow lady. Lost her husband last winter—”

  “Trouble with you, Bartlett, is that you’ve been drinking. Her a widow lady? Don’t make me laugh any more than I’m laughing.”

  “You’re drunk!” announced Mr. Bartlett.

  “Me drunk? No, no. Just had enough to make me sharp. Why didn’t you tell me, you fellows?”

  Florinda reached out and put her hand on his elbow. When Florinda had something to say, she could say it so it could be heard. “Nobody knew, Silky. It was a secret.”

  “What? You mean—Bartlett, you mean you’ve been keeping it to yourself all this time? Believe me, if I’d had Charline of the Jewel Box—but you brought her all the way out here and told nobody? You’re a selfish pig, Bartlett, that’s what you are.” Silky looked him up and down, and laughed uproariously. “But you’re better than I thought you were! How’d you do it? Her with every masher from the Battery to Washington Square at the stage door, and you—” Silky swallowed his drink at a gulp. “You!”

  The other men stared at Bartlett with new respect. Bartlett blinked. The men were crowding around Silky and Florinda, begging to know more. Oliver and John had both stood up. John was asking, “What on earth is this about?” Even Texas was sitting up straight, saying something incoherent to the air. Oliver took Garnet’s arm.

  “You’d better let me get you out of here, Garnet.”

  “No, no! We’re not going yet! She might need some help.”

  Silky was talking. Bartlett, still bewildered, was making some drunken protests. Florinda took Silky’s arm again, and he looked up at her. Florinda laughed, and in a clear voice that could have been heard in the back of a theater balcony, she said to him,

  “He didn’t know either, Silky. He was such a country bumpkin, I thought it would be fun to see how long I could keep him fooled.”

  Silky burst out into mocking laughter. The other men began to laugh too. They looked at Florinda, and they looked at Bartlett, and as the idea dawned on more and more of them, their merriment got louder. Florinda said,

  “Go on, Silky. Tell them.”

  Silky needed no permission. He was already telling them.