by Mari Collier
He used mindspeak.
'Let it go, Rita. Let the man up. We need to leave this room now.'
The mindspeak brought Margareatha's gaze around to Red's. Her face was blank, emotionless.
“Yes, yes, you are right. Please walk me to my room.” Her voice was the meekest Red had ever heard it.
He guided her out of the parlor and past the man scrambling to his feet. The man was looking at them with puzzlement on his face. He put out his arm to block Red's progress.
“Take your arm away, or I'll knock you down again and this time you won't rise so rapidly.”
The man stepped back mumbling, “Beggin' your pardon, suh.”
They walked the length of the hall and Margareatha produced her key. Neither had spoken a word. Once they were inside, Red inclined his head towards the far side of the room and they walked over to the closed porthole before speaking in low tones.
“You know what you did, don't you?”
“But how, how was I able to do that? I even made him crawl with my mind. Are you able to do things like that? And I heard you in my mind speaking. Is that something I can do too?”
Red shrugged. “I never really tried to control a person that long, but I have made people step back or out of my way. As for you being able to mindspeak, we need to find out. Let me try something.”
He used mindspeak. 'You have gained the ability to do what our father was able to do.'
Rita swallowed. “But how, Red?”
“No, think it. Don't say it aloud.”
This time Rita licked at her lips and tried to direct her thoughts to him. 'But how, Red? I didn't do anything to learn to do those things.'
A huge smile snaked across Red's face. “You don't need to learn them, Rita. It seems this comes with a certain maturity. There's a man on board that I've been talking with about this.”
“What?”
“He's on a wheat buying expedition, and for other things. It seems he would prefer a new agent. He wasn't going to speak at first, but I realized how agitated he was when he saw me. The conversations with him have been most enlightening. There's a whole new enterprise opening up for us. Do you think you can do books?”
“Books, you mean read?”
“No, I mean accounting, ciphering, putting figures down on paper and keeping track of things.”
“Isn't that what bankers and clerks do? I've never done anything like that, but I can cipher with no problem.”
“Good, I'm meeting this man in the morning. Did you want to be there?”
“How early in the morning?”
“Oh, no later than six-thirty or seven. We'll have a corner off to ourselves and may need to go outside. I think he'd like to avoid us, but he can't. There is no way off this boat until we dock.”
“But why would he avoid you if you are making some sort of a business deal with him?”
“Because, my dear, he gets headaches when we are together. I've gleaned enough that the possibilities are enormous, and someway, somehow, this man is not of this country, possibly not this world and neither was our father. I'd like you to pay close attention to his clothes, how he looks, how he speaks, but don't go into his mind.”
Chapter 45: The Man From Nowhere
Margareatha appeared as the two men were being served and she swayed to the table, her long green taffeta gown swishing as she moved. She waited for Red to pull out a chair. She knew how beautiful she had become since filling out. Men stared at her full bosom and tiny waist and looked with awe at her height. She could see the hunger in their eyes and the slackness of their mouths. Few dared to say “Good morning,” or any other word. Others hurriedly looked away or ducked their heads as though caught in some felonious act.
The man sitting with Red wore an expensive, brown, perfectly-tailored suit. At first Margareatha thought it was light wool, but on closer inspection she couldn't really identify the material. He looked to be as tall as Red, his build was slender, his eyes brown, and his hair a deep auburn. His pale complexion showed no sign of tanning. His hands looked as though they had never performed physical work and it was difficult to determine his age. Like the other men his eyes opened wider when he looked directly at her.
“Mr. Alana, my sister, Margareatha O'Neal. Margareatha, Mr. Alana.”
Red smiled at Margareatha. “It seems Mr. Alana is acquainted with our father. He has assured me, the man has no intentions of ever returning here.”
The waiter brought three coffees and her oatmeal. The men had ham, potatoes, red-eye gravy, and biscuits. Conversation ceased until the waiter withdrew.
“I can't promise that will remain a fact. He isn't cognizant of your existence, yours or your sister's.”
“Then don't tell him,” advised Red.
“That may not be a choice.”
“Avoid him at all costs then, or barring that alert us when he is planning to return.”
“Once again, that may not be possible.”
Red shrugged and swallowed some of his coffee. “I'd rather talk about shipping the wheat and other products. Who do you use as a buyer and shipper now?”
“We're using an agent from one of the warehouses, and I feel the man is in collusion with the men or companies shipping in the grain and food products. The quality is often substandard. This is dangerous for, ah, the people at the end of my destination.”
“I see. Who owns the shipping company or ships?”
“Our money paid for the ships, but they act like it is theirs.”
“May I ask why one of your people does not take over the business arrangements?”
“That would entail living here.”
“And I suppose you would give the same reason for not being the Captain onboard ship.”
“Yes, of course. It is not possible.”
Margareatha found herself staring at the man. His words were creating a larger puzzle. There didn't seem to be an accent, yet each word was enunciated slowly and carefully as though English was not a natural speech process.
“Where is the grain shipped from New Orleans?” Red leaned back slightly in his chair.
“To a port in South America which creates other risks, but portage takes it to our warehouse, which is well hidden.”
“Suppose we accompany you when you purchase the grain? Perhaps Miss O'Neal could go over your portion of the account entries and devise certain questions. It is possible that we could come up with a solution.”
Alana's face took on a set look. “Then, of course, you would expect your share. Our funds are not inexhaustible.”
“You have mistaken my intent. I was hoping to save you some money and show you that I would work much better as a broker, and, later perhaps a shipping outlet for you. If we do save you a considerable amount, would you and your, uh, company consider that arrangement?”
“Pardon me for asking, but is money the only thing you want?”
“Not quite, Mr. Alana. We'd like to know more about our sire and where he is from.”
“I would have to discuss that with my associates.”
Red smiled. “Of course, we understand. Is it a deal?”
Mr. Alana let out a breath of air. “For now, yes.”
“Fine, we'll shake on it and when we dock in Saint Louis tomorrow, we'll meet you at the gangplank.”
Chapter 46: Changed Plans
“There it is, Rita. War has been declared between the Union and Secessionists.” Red tossed the paper over the entries she had been making.
Margareatha stared at the words marching across the front page of the St. Louis Dispatch and looked up at Red. “How will that affect us?”
“For one thing, the armies are going to want the grain. They'll fight over it. The Union isn't about to let a kernel of it go south. We need to change our base of operations.”
“But where will you find that amount of grain?”
“In California or up in Oregon. I'm relocating to Carson City, Nevada and spreading out from there. They've found gold and si
lver in Nevada. The Union will not let that go to the South either, but their control will be weak. Anywhere there is gold there is money to be made—lots of it.”
“Somehow, I can't see you involved in extracting metal from the earth.”
“I won't be. The money is elsewhere. In selling something or providing a haven for men to relax. I have to leave here anyway. Missouri can go either way. I've absolutely no intention of having people shoot at me over slaves, cotton, states rights, or for whatever reason they are fighting. Bullets don't give a damn about your political or moral stance.”
“Of which you have none.”
“Don't become moralistic with me. If you don't like Carson City, there's always San Francisco. We'll have to ship from there. New Orleans is the South and they'll confiscate anything if they suspect it belongs to the Yankees. Damn good thing I hadn't moved everything to Galveston. Once the war is over, we can go there.”
He grinned at her. “Y'all'd like to go back to Texas, now wouldn't y'all?”
Margareatha had her shoulders hunched. “I don't like the idea of Carson City. It's too new. There wouldn't be any decent houses there. Why don't we just go back to Texas? Maybe I can find out what happened to Mama.”
“Why? You know what happened to her, Rita. She's either dead or a bona fide Comanche by now. If you wanted family, you could have gone back to your grandfather's place at anytime. I wouldn't have stopped you.”
“And how would I explain how I have been living or how my clothes can be so expensive? Grandma Johanna didn't want us there before and she wouldn't be any different now. I don't wish to live in a house where I am not wanted and be a drudge.”
“Then it's settled. We'll go west. Alana will be here within the week. Once we've sent the last shipment, I'll head out with it, ostensibly for Texas. I'll tell people I'm going home to enlist with my relatives, but I'll be sailing to South America instead. I want to see what is going on down there. You can take the Butterfield Stage to San Francisco and start looking for places to set up a warehouse and maybe an office for you.”
“If you go to South America, you'll be gone for a year or more. What will Alana do for wheat, corn, flour, sugar, or whatever else you've been shipping?” She suspected that something about the poundage and the amount of money was wrong. Whenever she pressed Red for information, he ignored the question and brought out the book that Alana had given them.
She had read it in its entirety. To her, it was bizarre. Beings identified as Justine came from a planet named Justine and possessed two hearts, mind abilities, the same copper-colored eyes with a golden circle around the pupil, red hair, and lived for five thousand years. The physical description fit them and their father. There was also a planet called Thalia with huge warlike people. They had dark hair, dark eyes, lived about two to three hundred years, and possessed huge sexual appetites. Thalians would fight anyone, man or woman and perform the sex act with anyone, man or woman. There was another planet peopled by a more primitive group called Krepyons. Ayana had been a planet, but the Justines destroyed it and drove them away. The Ayanas were red-haired and brown-eyed and they possessed slaves. All slaves were blonde with blue eyes. Rita wondered what happened if babies were born with the wrong color of hair, but the book was silent on that and so was Alana.
“Damn, that's right, Rita. Right now I can't afford to be gone that long. There is too much to do. Alana may have to do without part of his cargo next time.”
“Which part, Red? What else have you been shipping? The tonnage isn't adding up for the volume and the amount of gold. The gold is accounted for in two sections. The lowest tonnage brings the highest return.”
“It's something they need to survive. Forget it, Rita. You haven't dirtied your hands on anything.”
“And why would they be dirty?”
“The Justines chased the Ayanas out of their part of the universe. They're hiding here. They tried living on Earth, but the native populace wasn't suitable as slaves, plus the natives had the audacity to kill some of the Ayanian people. They fled elsewhere and began to import everything they needed in the way of, uh raw materials.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I went into his mind when he wouldn't answer aloud. That's why it took an extra day last time to finalize everything.”
“And you didn't tell me.”
“What difference does that make? You never asked.”
“And what constitutes 'everything?' ”
Red gave a tight smile. “Nothing that you need to be concerned about as the, uh, shipments don't show on your books.”
Margareatha stood and crossed her arms. “I shouldn't be concerned? I never believed that book like you did. The book said there could not be any cross (as they called it) species children. If that book is true, how can we exist?”
“Obviously, we do. I don't bother with niceties like that.”
“Or any others, right, Red? Most of the 'native people' aren't blonde and blue-eyed, are they? We've been shipping human beings as slaves. They're people, like us!”
“Not like you and me, Rita. We're unique. I've just been shipping a few over-the-hill whores and some completely soused boozers that fit their needs. Those kind of people aren't even missed.”
“No one would miss us, Red. I have to think about this.”
“While you're thinking, you'd better start packing for San Francisco. You'll only be allowed one trunk on the Butterfield stage.”
Chapter 47: A New Beginning
“It's the finest available!” The man's voice was filled with enthusiasm.
Margareatha eyed the dirty walls, the dirt floor, and the iron stove. The stove was an iron monster with a huge oven and a double rack. She could bake four pies at a time or two pies with one or two pans of yeast rolls.
“I'll take it if one of the other rooms is suitable for a bedroom and one for storage. Is the outhouse decent?”
“Yes, it is. You won't regret this, Miss Lawrence. You'll be making a profit within the week! Tucson needs a fine bakery.” Mr. Alton Beasley was all salesman.
Mama had taught her to bake. The convent put her to work in the kitchen. The nuns might have considered her a heretic, but her rolls and pies they regarded as heavenly. Red had rented a house during the months they weren't on the steamboats gambling and she continued her baking. It was a source of relaxation for her. Sewing she hated. That was hired out.
She had been on her way to San Francisco when the Butterfield Stage pulled into Tucson for a noon meal and change of horses. The man sitting beside her on the stage had been extolling Tucson as the gateway to Mexico and all points north, east, or west. “We've got one of the two operating Post Offices in this part of the Territory.” That mail delivery was spotty he ignored for he had lots and buildings to sell or rent. The man had kept up a running commentary to convince one and all to make Tucson their last stop.
No one had planned to take him up on it, but before they could reboard the stage, the driver announced, “Sorry folks, but we ain't going anywhere until tomorrow. The Apache have to be chased out of the area or move on of their own accord. They've been raiding anything that moves. The driver from Fort Yuma didn't make it. Right now we need another driver in his place and two extra men to ride shotgun. Lodgings can be found in some of the hotels or you all can spend the night here in the chairs. Won't be as comfortable, but it's free.”
“Why ain't the soldiers put 'em to rout?”
“There's one problem with that solution, sir. There aren't any soldiers here. The Territory is still Union since we lost the Battle of Pacacho Pass. Right now we're relying on Arizona Rangers, but they've been busy trying to fight the Union instead of Apaches. The South says they own this territory, but they don't have any troops for here. That's it folks, lessen you all want to go fight the Apaches. Me, I'm going to go have a drink.” The passengers had been left staring at his back.
“People are still coming in here and they need something fresh to gnaw on.” Be
asley continued to encourage the sale. “Y'all can set up a fine bakery and be real successful.”
“It's hard to believe a woman could succeed.” Margareatha was torn. She was not happy with Red's schemes. The fact that he was selling people as slaves she found repulsive. It went against everything she had learned from her mother, uncle, and der Pastor. Red had no morals. The only people he seemed to care about were his mother, little sister, and her. She wasn't entirely sure how much he cared about her. She held the secret hope that Mama was still alive and they would be together again. Mama would be bitterly disappointed with her if she did not change. The money she had saved was strapped around her hips beneath the voluminous skirts. It should be more than sufficient.
“You could be successful, ma'am, because men who would be your competitors are fighting for the glorious South. If not the South, they are fighting for the damn Yankees, beggin' your pardon, ma'am—either way they ain't here.
“Fact is that's why I'm offering you this. You mentioned that baking fresh apple pies would be one of the things you'd miss in San Francisco. Well, maybe, they wouldn't be fresh, but I'm told dried apples work well. This was a bakery until the man took off and his sister married and quit. It's lots of work and I don't think she was up to it, but you, ma'am, beggin' your pardon, look just a tad stronger than somebody shorter than most women. You have all this time until tomorrow anyway. If you like it, you can spend the night here and we could finalize everything in less than a week. Tucson's a growing place, ma'am, even with this fight for our Rights going on.”
That Beasley assumed she must be Southern puzzled Margareatha, but then she hadn't bothered to argue with any of them on the stagecoach. It would have been futile for men paid no heed to a woman's opinion and she felt them too dense to understand her reasoning.
Beasley had brought her to the east section of Tucson's main thoroughfare. The town was a strange aggregation of adobe and wooden buildings. The adobe buildings tended to be thick and coated with various colors of paint or whitewash. There were few of the familiar two or three story wood or brick buildings that she could see.
