by Tim Marquitz
“I get mine on the heel,” Buck said, and lifted the back of one callused foot. “What I would not give right now for a fresh Palouse.”
Nina nodded. “I’d prefer a wagon like the one we lost in Truckee. We had a pretty sturdy band wagon and a couple…a couple right smart Belgians…” She suddenly missed Apple and Oatmeal, and that supply wagon where she’d slept and felt safe and secure from the elements many a moon.
“Yup,” Buck said. “Sure could use a bully ol’ chuckwagon. What happened in Truckee with ya’ll? You’re peddlers, right?”
“Of a kind.”
“Right. Ain’t we all of a kind.” It was more remark than question, so Nina just nodded as Pa walked over.
“How’s about we open a couple of them cans?” he asked.
“Sure.” Nina handed up her bag, but Pa didn’t take it from her.
She peered up to see he was busy squinting elsewhere. Nina followed his gaze and saw movement in the tall grasses. Her thumb touched her holster, but then it formed a familiar sight as Red Thunder stepped into view. Nina realized every time she saw the Indian anew he was a welcome vision.
Red strode up and informed them there was no sign of deaduns or anything out of the ordinary, just a couple abandoned cabins in the woods and that was it. The decision was unanimous to push on straightaway, everyone agreeing there didn’t seem much sense in braving another night outdoors if they didn’t have to.
They quickened their pace over rangeland covered with bluebonnets and prairie-fire, dry shrubs and rough grasses, sometimes too thick or thorny, forcing them to skirt around. The land gave way to thick-limbed Joshua trees with their spiny leaves, white firs, copses of tough-looking pines, and other stunted desert flora. Red Thunder led them into a fertile valley, which wound around the base of the hills. Despite his scouting foray, they took extra care to keep quiet as they traversed the woods, rarely speaking.
Dogs barked, echoing hollow through the valley. They weren’t coyotes but domesticated hounds, a sure sign that some type of habitation was not far ahead. The first steading they came to presented several buildings: a two-story barn, a fenced barnyard, a slant-roofed workhouse, a pitch-roofed millhouse on stilts with odd stacks of cut lumber and felled timber hither and yon, and a big two-story homestead.
Nina heard a consistent chopping noise, and they rounded the barn to see a peculiar man splitting logs. Well, Nina thought it was a man at first, due to those heavy ax strokes inflicted on the wood, splitting them expertly each time, but the feller wore a calf-length twill skirt over boots and an ivory-colored bonnet. Then the ‘man’ noticed them, looked up, and presented a white woman’s pale face, which turned sour upon seeing them.
Father Mathias waved, telling Pa, “You have the most likable disposition of us all, Lincoln. Mayhap you could talk to the lady?”
Pa nodded and straightened his shirt, took off his hat, and ran his hands over his hair. The wound on his scalp was nothing but a puckered line, like a scab that dried and healed up a week past rather than a wound taken just a day and a half ago.
The tall woman laid her ax on her shoulder as Pa took a step forward. Her ice-colored eyes regarded him with instant mistrust, and Nina noticed her thick-muscled sweaty forearms tightening on the ax handle. Atop her skirts she wore a dirty flannel work-shirt befitting any wood cutter. And, no mistake, she was a big girl. As tall as James and thicker—built like a goldurned tree trunk. She wasn't a looker, but weren’t all that unattractive either, in a rugged-like way.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” she asked, her voice surprisingly high-pitched for her appearance, and also wary but unafraid. Her measured stare hesitated on Buck and Strobridge before moving on to the rest of them.
Nina peered behind them, then whispered to Manning. “Red’s gone.”
He gave a quick glance around. “No telling the attitude of folk around here.”
“Ma'am,” Pa nodded. “My name's Lincoln Weaver, and this here’s my daughter, Nina.”
Nina tipped her hat as Pa introduced the rest.
“I hope you don’t expect me to remember all those names.”
Pa smiled. “No, ma’am.
“Like I asked, what do you want?” Nina took note of the ax still gripped tight in the woman’s hand.
“We’ve been hard pressed and we was wonderin' if this here’s Galena and if you might know a place to stay? Or if we could talk to your pa about boarding with y'all for the evening? Maybe bothering you for a meal? We just come down from...north.” Pa seemed to think carefully on what he was about to say next. He wanted to be honest, Nina knew, but also didn't want to spook the woman. “Our train derailed, and after trekking yonder wilderness we sure could use a good night's rest. We can pay for the inconvenience.” Pa cast a quick glance at Strobridge, earning a grudging nod.
The woman gave them another thorough once-over, apparently unconcerned if she seemed rude. Strands of white-blond hair had escaped her bonnet, framing her cheeks and nose, but she didn't seem to mind. She was too busy passing judgment.
“Stay here. I'll fetch my pa.” She turned and lumbered off, glancing over her shoulder once as she walked away, likely making sure no one was sneaking up on her.
“Why you out here choppin' wood when you got a sawmill right there?” George piped up. “Seems kinda boneheaded, choppin' wood when you got that there mill.”
She stopped and turned, that hand squeezing around the ax handle. “I like splitting things in half, Mister...Daggett, was it? Ain't nothing I can't cleave with this old right-maker.”
George laughed, genuine at first, then his joviality sunk like a stone under the woman's stare. She waited for him to say something else, but Mason, Buck, and even Strobridge told him to keep his trap shut, and the woman started off again.
Manning whispered to Nina, “She’s a strapper. And handy with an ax. That’s nice skill to own these days, you think?”
“If she likes cleaving things in half, she might get her chance sooner than later.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEY DIDN'T HAVE LONG TO WAIT. Several folks came around the corner of the homestead with the big blonde woman in tow. Two men had slaverin’ dogs straining at the ends of their chains, tugging their handlers along behind ‘em. A man in a flat-brimmed hat led them, of medium height but well-stocky, decked in black trousers with suspenders pulled up over his white shirt. He walked with a cane to support what looked like a game right leg. Still, he outpaced the rest of ‘em and Nina wondered if he really needed that walking stick at all.
Nina counted five of ‘em in total, including the two fellers with the dogs. They all looked a hodgepodge of ill-intent. Among them came an immense, barrel-chested black man with a shotgun, a long-haired Mexican-lookin’ feller with one of those growling hounds, and a lanky white man with a long beard handling the other beast. The dogs started barking and flinging strands of drool upon seeing them, and Nina and crew took a step back, wondering if they were about to get let loose upon. The man with the cane hissed over his shoulder, just once, and both hounds shut their slobbery yaps.
Pa smiled, acting unperturbed by the ominous bearing of the newcomers. “Fair amount of firepower you got there, mister. Understandable. We must have looked a fright to your daughter there, but unnecessary, I assure you.”
The man stopped about ten feet from Pa, placed the tip of his cane in the ground before him, and leaned on it with both hands. Angling forward, he seemed to regard them through the top of his head, eyes darting around to absorb his surroundings. He harrumphed, then fixed Pa with a colorless stare. “That true what Greta said about a train?”
Pa nodded. “We had brake line troubles, hit a turn coming down the mountains too fast and derailed ourselves.”
“Why didn’t you go straight on to Reno then? What are you doing this far south?”
Damn, Nina thought. Pa trying to be honest only succeeded in him getting himself cornered.
Strobridge spoke up before her pa could reply. �
�To be honest, folks, it was bandits got us derailed. We were attempting to outrun them, and we feared walking the tracks into Reno with the culprits at our heels.”
“We figured a change in direction might shake them loose…” her pa said.
“Besides, our business is in Carson City,” Strobridge continued, obviously seeing his opportunity to wrest control by bringing himself to the forefront. Nina did her best to keep the curl from her lip, noticing the big blonde called Greta was eyeballing her something fierce. “So we thought the safest route was to come on south here through Galena. Not an easy walk to be sure, but we thought it best for our own safety.”
The leader had narrowed his eyes as Strobridge spoke up, his probing gaze switching to the rail man. “And who might you be?”
“James Harvey Strobridge of the Central Pacific line at your service.” Strobridge bowed. “We were on my private train coming out from Truckee when a clan of heinous bandits took hot to our trail. Men in ambush, on horses—”
Suddenly George piped up, “They even had another engine bearing down on us.”
Strobridge cut back in before George screwed things up. “We're fortunate none of us were killed, although they did get all our precious cargo.”
“That's unfortunate, Mister Strobridge. Sounds like you made the right decision to get yourselves away before more harm could come to you or the ladies. One's life ain't worth any amount of cargo.”
The man gave pause, burying himself in his thoughts. He didn't seem to mind how uncomfortable the silence got. He would make up his mind in his own time, Nina realized. He suddenly lifted his voice, tilted his head up a fraction. “Folks, my name’s Jonathan Ramdohr and this here’s my sawmill. You’re welcome to stay here for the night.”
His men relaxed their grips on their shotguns, and Greta unwound those thick shoulders of hers, though her ax stayed put.
“Greatly appreciated, Mister Ramdohr,” her pa said, talking over Strobridge.
The sawmill owner showed no sign of acknowledging Pa's thanks. “Now as you can see, I welcome all kinds: whites, Mexicans, Negros, even Injuns. I got no use for prejudice. And no need for money, neither. You pay your board by getting up with us tomorrow and helping with chores. We got fences need mending, stalls need cleaning, and if you know anything about debarking, planing, or edging wood, so much the better. If not, I can always use the muscle in the saw pit. Mister Strobridge, I extend the hospitality of my home to you in the sincere hope that it will be remembered as the rail system expands to fortify the infrastructure of this great country of ours. I would like to discuss with you why you should consider a line to Virginia City and why we should be considered a part of that growth and expansion, if you please.”
Strobridge bowed, his normally shitty grin seemed less shitty, and Nina figured it was his business smile and not its kin, the I'm-going-to-fuck-you-one-way-or-another smile. “Your hospitality is noted, Mister Ramdohr. The Central Pacific Railroad Company thanks you.” No doubt, Strobridge’s copper-laden pockets thanked him, as well.
“I'll have the men put the hounds away ‘til you're settled in for the night. They will attack strangers, so do keep that in mind.”
“Much obliged, Mister Ramdohr,” Strobridge returned.
Nina watched Pa and Mathias look at one another and shrug.
GRETA RAMDOHR LED THE GROUP PAST stacks of timber to a low building of workers’ quarters attached to the back of the large, weather-worn barn. A pair of oxen watched disinterestedly as they passed by. She led them through a fence and to the stone workhouse with six doors facing into the work yard, which contained sawbucks and woodpiles, and a long table situated off to the side. Benches bracketed a well pump, and mounds of sawdust and wood shavings and a few buckets and barrels of tools were dispersed throughout. Pa was complimentary of the setup, and Greta nodded her thanks.
She gathered them near the table and gestured to the workhouse. “The three quarters to the left are yours. Divide them up however you want. Cato, Miguel, and Christopher been with us a long time. They got the other three. Wouldn't try to put 'em out if you know what's good for you.” She indicated the pump. “You can wash up there. Dinner's in an hour. Mister Strobridge, if you'll follow me. You'll be rooming with us in the house.”
“Ain't that some shit?” George Daggett shook his head.
The railroad boss patted George hard on the shoulder and chuckled. “Would look bad if I quartered with y'all lower types.” He said it like he was joking, but Nina knew he full-on meant it.
After Greta and Strobridge departed, Pa took charge of the divvying. “I say give the ladies the outside room, Mason and George the inside. The rest of us will take the middle room.” Pa looked at Buck, Mathias, and Manning. “Unless one of you cares to join the Daggetts?”
Manning and Buck looked at one another and both shook their heads.
George sneered. “Well, fuck ya’ll, too.”
“That's fine, Georgie,” Mason said. “More room for us.”
Nina, Jasmine, and Rachel took refuge, finding their room to be accommodating and clean, complete with two comfortable beds, some cups for water, and even a window looking out at a yard full of pines.
Jasmine shut the door and Nina melted onto one of the cots, unexpectedly relieved to be away from the men, and even more grateful Pa had chosen to put himself and Manning between them and the Daggetts. She sighed, slouched, and allowed the tension to roll off her shoulders.
“I hear you. All them men wear a girl out. You don't have to tell me. I been around 'em near twenty-four hours a day ever since I took up...” She glanced at Rachel.
The girl wrapped her arms around Jasmine and laughed. “Jaz, I don't give a fig you were some Calico Queen. You don't have to be sensitive with me. I'm big now, and my ma's gone, so I have to be tending to myself.” The girl released her and sat down on the other cot, started to take off her boots.
Jasmine watched with an undecided smile.
“Sakes alive! Feels good to free these piggies.” Rachel wiggled her toes, then cocked her head. “Jaz, what was it like?”
They'd been holding on to Rachel's innocence despite that it had been crushed out of the girl over the past few days. Jasmine looked at Nina.
Nina reckoned it was for the best Rachel Buell knew the truth of the world. No more lies. No more sugar coating. Didn’t matter no more she was thirteen years old. They were in this together. She gave Jasmine a nod, not that she felt like the woman needed her blessing or anything like that.
Jasmine nodded back at her, though, then said, “Well, like I was sayin', men, they will wear you out, whether they're humpin' you or talkin' your ear off. I learned to prefer the first. At least they're honest when they’re having a go, plus at least you get something out of it—sometimes. But, Lord, everything out of their mouths afterward is just bluster, all lies and dreams that ain't never gonna come true.” Jasmine sat down next to Rachel and looked at the floor. “Kinda sad really. And then, after they done talkin', they usually fall on back to their drinkin’, yellin’, hittin’…”
“So fucking is the safest bet?” Rachel asked.
“Girl, you shouldn’t talk like that!”
“You just did.”
“That’s different. And I said ‘humpin’. You ought not talk thataway.”
“Why?”
“Well, because…”
“Because what? Because I’m white? I don’t care what’s proper anymore. Like I said, my folks are dead and gone. I can talk the way I please and to who I damn please. And right now I want to hear more about what your life has been like.”
Jasmine shook her head and gave Rachel a hug. Then they started chatting about Jasmine’s days of whoring—things Nina would have been shocked to hear a few days ago—while she removed her gun belt and pulled off her boots. She lay down on the straw mattress and Jasmine’s and Rachel’s voices became a low hum. The mattress weren't the most comfortable thing she'd ever laid on, but Nina was out before she could co
unt to ten.
THE WEIGHT OF SLEEP WAS SO heavy she couldn't recall where she was or whose company she kept as she was shaken awake. Her hand shot went to where she always kept her knife, but it wasn’t there.
“It’s me,” Rachel said. “Nina.”
Nina blinked at her.
“Hi,” Rachel smiled. “Come get some food.”
The girl stepped out of the room, telling her come get it while it was hot and before the men ate it all. Nina shook her head to scatter the cobwebs. It was unsafe to sleep so deep these days. She'd have to figure out a way to be more alert.
Nina sat up, put her head in her hands, and took several heavy breaths to clear her mind, each one sounding like a forge bellows. The fog lifted as the moments passed, and she pulled on her boots. She threw a glance out the window. A casting of orange flickered in the dark outside, what Nina could only surmise was torchlight.
She got up, grabbed her gun belt and knife from the floor, and went out to the yard. Soon as she entered, the delicious smells of home-cooked chow nearly bowled her over. These kind of vittles she hadn't had in months and months. Her mouth went wet straightaway as she gave a quick look around. Manning, Pa, Mathias, and Buck sat at the table on a long bench, each with a heaping plate in front of them. George and Mason sat on the other bench.
“Nina, over here.”
She looked in the other direction, to a long table laden with all the things she'd been smelling; bowls filled with potatoes and vegetables, a platter of beef, chicken legs poking up from a pan of gravy, and various side dishes the likes of which Nina had never seen. Behind the table, Greta and some youngsters kept vigil, whisking away empty dishes and bringing new ones out.
The big woman nodded at Nina, and she nodded back. Greta looked more feminine without the ax attached to her clenched fist. Jasmine, who had on some clean clothes—a cream-colored blouse and a plain black skirt—was loading up a spoonful of what looked like hot slaw, and Rachel, decked in a clean tan and rose-colored floral print dress with her hair pulled back in a bun, was packing a plate with a bit of everything.
