Janet Quin-Harkin

by Fools Gold

  The wagons moved away at a snail’s pace, to the accompaniment of much cracking of whips and shouts of encouragement or curses from the wagon drivers. As they passed other campsites men came out of their tents to watch the departure, clearly impressed by the size and equipment of the expedition. They greeted the passing wagons with whistles, catcalls, and the occasional gunshot. Libby shrank back inside the wagon, knowing what sort of remarks they’d make if they spotted her. Also, at the back of her mind, was the thought that she did not want to be seen by Mr. Gabriel Foster. Having told him that nothing on earth would make her ride with Sheldon Rival, she did not want him to have the satisfaction of gloating, which he surely would do. So she sat unmoving in the shadow of the awning, as the wagons passed the last campsites and joined the sandy trail westward.

  It was undulating country with bluffs and wooded valleys and the going was very pleasant. Libby walked beside her wagon, going to whisper something to the children when nobody was watching her. The pace was very slow and from time to time she climbed into the wagon and sat reading the cooking notes she had scribbled the night before, eyeing the big iron cookpots anxiously. What if he found her cooking so terrible that he sent her back?

  It would just have to be good enough, she told herself firmly.

  As the hour for camping came closer, Libby began to feel something close to panic. She went over the food supplies she had seen in the wagon and tried to come up with at least one good meal to impress Mr. Rival. She was fairly sure that Rival would not make too much fuss about the children if her cooking was good enough. If it was bad they might find themselves all walking back in the direction of Independence, with no prospect of getting a free ride with another company. She had just decided that even she could not go wrong with a steak and was wondering whether potatoes or rice would be less lethal beside it when a horseman drew level with her.

  “Don’t tell me it’s Mrs. Hugh Grenville!” said a familiar voice. Libby looked up to see Gabe Foster, seated on a very elegant white horse, looking more like a Boston gentleman out for an afternoon in the park than a man embarking on a trek across a wilderness. He still wore his dark jacket and striped trousers although he had traded the silk top hat for a wide-brimmed black felt. Libby was surprised and angry at the momentary surge of hope and joy that had shot through her and which she rationalized as the relief in finding a familiar face in a wagon train of strangers. The joy was very short-lived, however, because Gabe went on, in his calm, cultured voice, “Well no, of course, it can’t be, since Mrs. Hugh Grenville swore that she would rather die than ever attach herself to Mr. Sheldon Rival and his company, and you don’t look at all dead to me. In fact, you look very solid and in the flesh. So I can only assume that you are Mrs. Grenville’s twin sister.” He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow down to her. “Do I have the honor, madam, of addressing Mrs. Hugh Grenville’s twin sister?”

  Libby gave him a withering stare which made him try to stifle a grin. “Not you again!” she said.

  “Alas,” he said, “like the proverbial bad penny, I do seem to keep turning up.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Like yourself, heading to the promised land.”

  “You’re really going with us to California?” Again she found herself glad. Gabriel Foster might be infuriating, but at least she sensed that she could trust him.

  “Everyone else in the world seems to be going to see the elephant, so I thought I might join them,” he went on. “When I thought about how willing they all were to part with their meager money before they started, I decided that I could just as easily part them from their fortunes when they had made them.”

  Libby bit her tongue and did not answer.

  “Do you like my horse?” Gabe asked.

  “He’s very beautiful,” Libby answered civilly.

  “I won him in a card game last night,” Gabe said. “It seemed like Providence’s way of saying that I was to set out for the promised land.”

  “I’m sure Providence had nothing to do with it,” Libby said dryly. “Don’t they say the devil always helps his own?”

  “I’m sure Old Nick would have provided me with a black steed, don’t you think?”

  Libby had to laugh at this. “So you’ve really joined Sheldon Rival?”

  “It’s common sense,” Gabe said. “If you want to cross empty lands in safety, join the party with the most food and the most guns. This one has plenty of both. I anticipate a pleasant crossing and I put my horse at your disposal, whenever you are tired of walking.”

  “Thank you, but I can always ride on the back of the food wagon, since I am Mr. Rival’s cook,” Libby said.

  Gabe threw back his head and laughed loudly. “You, a cook? That’s a good one. When did you ever learn to cook?”

  “Every woman can cook,” Libby said frostily. “It’s in the blood.”

  “Fortunately I take my meals with the hired hands,” Gabe said.

  “What convinced Mr. Rival to take you along?” Libby asked. “I understood that everyone here is in his entourage.”

  “So I am,” Gabe said. “Resident gambler.” He looked at Libby, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t laugh, it’s true. One of the things he wants to do when he gets to California and makes his fortune selling shovels and flour to the poor provisionless miners, is to open a saloon and gambling den. He wants me to instruct him how it’s done, having made his money until now in trading pork bellies and other such unattractive ways.”

  He looked around. “I don’t see those two adorable young ladies whose acquaintance I hoped to further on this long, tedious trip. Are they resting?”

  Libby looked straight ahead, wanting to tell Gabe the truth, but not daring to. “It was Mr. Rival’s wish that I leave them behind,” she said formally. “Mr. Rival does not like children.”

  Gabe stared at her, forcing her to look away. “So you want me to believe that you abandoned them in Independence?”

  “That is what I was instructed to do.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “That Rival is a monster in monster’s clothing. However, I feel that even after our short acquaintanceship I know you well enough to be sure that you would not leave those two children, even if their guardian angels showed up in person to act as their attendants. Come on, where have you hidden them?”

  Libby kept staring straight ahead. “What I choose to do with my own children is my own business, Mr. Foster.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Libby,” Gabe said, dropping his voice. “Whether you know it or not, I’m really an ally.” He spurred his horse on and moved up the wagon train, leaving her staring at his back.

  They camped for the night in an attractive leafy grove. Sheldon Rival stood to one side, giving instructions to the men on the correct way to pitch his tent—an enormous palace of canvas which required the combined strength of all the hands to erect.

  “I wasn’t hired to play nursemaid and put up tents,” one of the hands muttered after Rival had sworn at him for letting a guy rope go loose.

  “If you don’t like it you can ride right back to Independence and find yourself another party,” Rival said easily. “Although I doubt there are many back there who will pay my kind of money if all these goods get through safely.”

  The man shot him a look of pure hatred and went back to the guy ropes. Rival disappeared into his tent with a bottle of brandy and Libby set about making her first supper. She had just started collecting wood for a fire when Jimmy the trail boss appeared with his arms full of large sticks.

  “Here,” he said. “Seeing as how you’re new at all this, I thought I’d get you started with wood tonight. Mr. Rival hates to be kept waiting.”

  “Thank you very much,” Libby said gratefully.

  “Make the most of it,” Jimmy said. “In a couple of days we leave all trees behind us and you’ll have to do without wood.”

  “I see we have a little spirit stove,” Libby said. “I suppo
se I have to use that.”

  Jimmy laughed. “You’re really an optimist if you think one barrel of alcohol is going to last us to California. The spirit’s for when the weather’s too bad to get a fire going. Once we’re on the plains you have to learn to cook with buffalo chips.”

  “Buffalo chips?” Libby asked. “How do you get chips off a buffalo?” She thought he was making fun of her.

  Jimmy stifled a smile. “It’s a polite word for dung, ma’am,” he said. “You collect dung patties and use them for the fire. They burn real well although they sure smell funny.”

  “I see,” Libby said, still not sure whether he was teasing her or not.

  The fire started easily and Libby decided on rice to go with the steak. She cut a generous slice from the hunk of beef in the sack and poured rice and water into the big, black saucepan. The steak sizzled and browned over the fire, making Libby feel proud of her cooking. When she looked at the rice, however, she found that it had already absorbed all the water and was starting to burn. Hastily she poured in more, then more and still the rice continued to grow. At last the steak was done and the rice was a huge sticky mess in the black pot. When she tried it, it tasted rather like schoolroom paste. In a flash of inspiration she shook salt, pepper, and then cayenne over it, in an attempt to give it some flavor, and hid it under the generous slice of meat.

  Far from being pleased, Sheldon Rival scowled. “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “It’s steak. All gentlemen like steak don’t they?” she asked.

  “If they are in their dining rooms at home,” he said. “Out here it’s a wasteful way to eat meat. How long do you think the beef is going to last if you serve it up at this rate?”

  “I’m sorry,” Libby said.

  “From now on cook me dishes that use a little meat with the rice,” he said. “Stews and fricassees.”

  “Yes sir,” she said, hoping that humility would appease him.

  He cut the steak and nodded. “Not bad flavor,” he said. Then he took a forkful of rice, swallowed, then gasped. “What the devil is in this rice? It fair burned my mouth off!” he spluttered, taking a large swig of brandy.

  “The rice?” Libby asked, fighting to stay calm. “Oh, I decided to cook it the spicy way. To ward off sickness on the trail. It’s an old Bostonian seafaring dish.”

  “Is it, indeed. Well, you keep your Bostonian dishes to yourself and serve me good old regular food, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir” she said.

  But next morning all the men in the camp woke feeling sick. They went about their duties clutching their stomachs, rushing to the bushes, and alternately blaming the camp cook and the water they had drunk. Even Gabe Foster could not managed a witticism for once. Sheldon Rival strode among them, giving orders, looking revoltingly healthy. He came over to Libby as she cooked bacon for his breakfast.

  “It seems your Bostonian way of cooking did the trick,” he said. “We’re the only two able-bodied members of the camp.”

  Libby smiled to herself as she went on cooking. She managed scrambled eggs, since Rival was carrying a whole barrelful, stored in brine, and even flapjacks from Ma Zettel’s recipe book.

  Rival actually complimented her on the breakfast. “Not bad at all,” he said, which she realized was high praise from him. She sneaked eggs and flapjacks in to Eden and Bliss while the men were striking camp and told herself that she had been worrying for nothing and that the whole journey would go smoothly. Any moment now she could bring them out in triumph to show Sheldon Rival that he could not get the better of her.

  But next day, as they were in the middle of setting up camp, there was a sudden downpour. Libby had just started on what she hoped would be an impressive stew and suddenly found three extra inches of water added to it. Hurriedly, she dragged the heavy stew pot into the wagon and set up the little spirit stove. The storm raged on outside, sending wind and rain buffeting under the canvas of the wagon.

  “Mama, I’m scared,” Bliss called softly to her mother between the packing cases.

  “Don’t worry, we’re quite safe in here,” Libby whispered back.

  “I’m here, Bliss,” Eden whispered to her sister. “I’ll take good care of you.”

  “But what if the wagon blows away?” Bliss whispered back.

  “It won’t,” Libby said. “Remember how you both promised to be brave until you can come out? Well, it’s very soon now.”

  She had barely finished talking when the wagon flap opened and Jimmy stood there. Libby spun around guiltily, wondering if he had heard her talking over the roar of the storm. He certainly looked angry enough. “Are you crazy?” he demanded, glaring at her.

  “What?” She tried not to look too guilty.

  “Cooking in the wagon, in this wind?” he went on. “Do you realize, lady, that you’ve got a barrel of alcohol right next to you? One big gust of wind and the whole thing goes up in flames.”

  “What am I to do then?” Libby demanded, relieved that it was only a fire in the wagon he was angry about. “Mr. Rival will want his dinner and I certainly can’t cook outside.”

  “Then tell him you’ll have to cook in his tent,” Jimmy said, as if it didn’t matter too much. “If he wants hot food tonight, his tent’s the only thing that’s big enough. I’m not risking a fire.”

  So Libby had to carry the stew-pot and the stove through to Sheldon Rival’s tent. She was amazed how well it was furnished with almost all the comforts of home. There was a rug on the floor, a camp cot covered in a quilt, and a folding chair and table on which a bottle and glass were placed. Libby half expected to see pictures on the walls. She set up her stove under Rival’s mocking gaze, feeling him watching her every move, painfully aware that her movements looked so unprofessional.

  “I must say it’s nice to have a woman about the place,” Rival said as he drained his glass. “Gives it that final, homey touch, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Are you married, Mr. Rival?” Libby asked, not having taken him for the type of man who would become lyrical about the comforts of home.

  “Me? Married? Why would I want to be married?” he asked, laughing. “I have a housekeeper and a flock of maids who do what I tell them and don’t ask for money to buy new hats all the time. As for the other comforts of home—they can always be bought. Money buys everything, as I expect you’ve found out.”

  “Not entirely everything,” Libby said. “The finer virtues can’t be bought.”

  Rival laughed again. “There are no finer virtues when you come down to it,” he said. “Put people in a position of survival and there are no finer virtues. Wait until you get to the gold fields, if you make it that far. You’ll see.”

  “I like to believe differently,” she said.

  “Then you’re either very naive, or a very good actress,” Rival commented.

  “What do you mean by that?” Libby asked.

  “I mean that I haven’t entirely got you figured out, Elizabeth Grenville,” he said, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Either you are a devoted little wife and mother, as you claim, or you are a very smooth-operating lady confidence trickster, gambler, bar girl . . . you tell me?”

  “I am exactly who I say I am,” Libby said, not bothering to look at him.

  “Yet you leave your children at the drop of a hat,” he said. “You know Gabe Foster.”

  “I only met Mr. Foster on the boat coming here,” Libby said hastily. “I certainly do not know him.”

  “I see,” Rival said with a low chuckle. “There’s not much that passes my attention, Mrs. Grenville. I’m inclined to suspect that you and Foster are working as a team.”

  “What an absurd idea,” Libby said shortly.

  Rival went on chuckling. “So you really want me to believe there’s a devoted little husband waiting for you, sweating in the California sunshine?”

  “You can believe what you like,” Libby said, stirring the stew savagely. “Where I come from, you can trust the word of a gentleman o
r a lady, but then I don’t suppose you’ve had much experience with either.”

  “Watch that soup, it’s bubbling over,” Rival snapped. “Get on with your job.”

  “Gladly, sir,” Libby said and went on stirring.

  It rained hard all night. Libby cuddled close to her little girls while the wind blew in through the joints in the canvas and rain dripped from spots which had not been properly waterproofed. In the morning the rain eased to a fine drizzle but as they set out, they found that the track before them had turned to a sea of mud. The ox teams strained, the drivers cracked whips and cursed, but one by one, the wagons slithered and got stuck.

  Jimmy rode up to Sheldon Rival. “Just like I told you, you’ve got them loaded too heavily,” he shouted. “You’ll have to lighten the load.”

  “I’m not lightening any load,” Rival yelled back. “Why do you think I’ve got all this stuff along? For my own pleasure? The only reason for going is to sell it in California.”

  “You won’t make it to the first ferry, let alone California, if you don’t leave some of it behind,” Jimmy said.

  “Then take out all your own personal stuff and make the people walk.”

  “They are all walking, except for Jackson and he’s down with a fever.”

  “Cholera? If you’re keeping cholera from me, I’ll have you horsewhipped.”

  “It’s not cholera, keep your hair on,” Jimmy said. “It’s a marsh fever. He’s got the shivers.”

  “Give him a mule and send him back to Independence,” Rival barked. “I’m taking no liabilities and no sick passengers along with me. I’m taking no risks, understand me, boy?”

  “But Mr. Rival . . .” Jimmy began.

  “Remember who’s paying you, boy,” Rival snapped. “Get rid of him and tell the men to carry their own stuff until we’re out of this mud.”

  “We won’t be out of this mud,” Jimmy said. “Every wagon that’s gone ahead of us will have churned up the track until it’s impassable. You’ve got to lighten now or we’ll never make it. Do you want to come with me now and tell me what you want left behind or do you want me to do it for you?”