Noble Savage

by Judith B. Glad

  Knowing he shouldn't, Luke said, "What stock?"

  "Two fine jennies and a mean ol' Missouri mule." Smith reached inside his coat and extracted a scuffed leather notebook. With the stub of a pencil, he scribbled a moment, then tore out a slip of paper. "Here." He tossed it on the trunk.

  Luke picked it up. A bill of sale for Lafayette, a mule, and two jennets, Salome and Sheba by name. He turned the book over and read the title aloud. "The Mule: A Treatise on the Breeding, Training, and Uses to which He May Be Put." Looking at Smith across the table, he said, "I reckon there's at least five hundred dollars in the pot."

  Still Luke hesitated. He was tempted. He wanted that pot so bad he could taste it with a mouth dry as dust. He'd never wanted anything so bad in his whole life. But if he lost, he'd have nothing.

  "I wouldn't take a man's stake," the old man said, "nor his last dollar. Let's say we set aside fifty dollars for the loser. Walkin' around money." He waited.

  "Why?" Luke tried to read the old man's face. "You could sell your stock for enough to keep yourself right comfortable all winter. Why don't you?"

  Another coughing spasm shook Smith. He leaned back in his seat, gasping for breath. "Maybe I just like the looks of you, boy," he said, at last, his voice weak and whispery. "Your boots are wore like you've been ridin' hard and long. And you went out of your way to help me, no matter you never saw me before." His eyes closed and he sat still for a long time. "I'd rather give my stock away than to sell 'em to somebody I couldn't trust to be good to 'em."

  Sitting up straight, he said, "Well, boy? You playin' or not?" All trace of illness had disappeared, and Luke saw the shadow of the strong man he'd been.

  "I'll do it," Luke said, before common sense could get the better of him. He'd had nothing before, more than once. This time he had a job. "Cut for deal."

  Smith won the cut. Five times he shuffled the cards, then pushed them across.

  Luke tapped the top card. "I've been watching. You play fair."

  He swallowed as Smith picked up the cards. He swallowed again as the older man skillfully dealt them out. One. Two.

  As the last card dropped onto the four in front of him, Luke found his hands were shaking. He reached for them. For a moment, he found he didn't want to know what he'd been dealt.

  Smith's face revealed nothing as he looked at his hand. Luke forced himself to fan the cards he held.

  Three deuces. A king. A seven. That was all. His stomach felt hollow.

  "Pair of kings," Smith said, laying them down.

  Luke laid his singletons on the trunk. "Seven. King."

  Smith's mouth tightened. "Pair of fives." He laid them down. "And ace high."

  Not allowing himself to feel anything, Luke laid down his last cards. "Three deuces."

  "Well, then," Smith said, "that's took care of." He leaned back. "Looks like you got yourself some livestock, boy. You take care of 'em, y'hear." He handed Luke a baggage claim. "They're in the stock car. Gimme that bill of sale and I'll sign it."

  Without counting, Luke separated the pile of coins and bills, shoving the larger portion across the trunk. "Take it," he said. "A good mule is worth at least that. And it should keep you in New Orleans all winter, if you're careful."

  Smith looked at him a long time. "What's your name?"

  "Savage," Luke said. "Lucas Savage."

  "Well, Lucas Savage, you're a good man. I wish you luck." He scooped up the money and rose. With deliberate steps, he walked the length of the car and disappeared though the door at its opposite end.

  * * * *

  The train arrived at Council Bluffs in mid-afternoon. It pulled past the town and went on to the depot, set at the edge of the bluff, surrounded by uncountable double lines of iron rails. Katie counted a dozen locomotives puffing steam, waiting for a hand on the throttle. Empty freight cars awaited their cargoes, while glassy-eyed passenger coaches with colorful, gold-embellished trim queued up for the return trip to Chicago. Towering water tanks and a forest of telegraph poles cluttered the yards. All the rails came to this same destination, for it was the end of the Eastern routes. Across the Missouri River began the Union Pacific Railroad.

  Everyone was eager to disembark, tired of the long overnight journey from Chicago. But Katie hung back, unwilling to crowd forward with the rest. It wasn't as if she had another train to catch before tomorrow.

  The day coaches up ahead disgorged their hundreds. Eager emigrants scattered over the platform. Even inside the Pullman car Katie could hear the calls of conductors and porters, directing the land-hungry travelers to the wagons that would carry them to the ferries. She wondered how long it would be before a bridge carried the trains across the Missouri River. Years, she supposed.

  What would her mother think of these modern pioneers, riding a train to their frontier destination in a matter of days--instead of months of walking.

  The coach was all but empty when she picked up her carpetbag and followed the other passengers to the vestibule. Before descending to the platform she paused, her gaze skimming across the dwindling crowd. Charles had arranged for her transportation down to the ferry docks. All she had to do was find it.

  "Miz Lachlan?"

  Katie looked into the bright sunlight, her eyes dazzled. At first she could only see the man as a dark silhouette, and hesitated.

  Ordinarily she wouldn't be so cautious, but since they'd left Chicago, she'd had the feeling someone was watching her. Quickly she looked about, but, except for the waiting porter, no one else was nearby.

  "Your driver's a'waitin', ma'am. Right over there." The porter's gesture directed Katie's gaze to a ramshackle cabriolet hitched to a horse that should have been put out to pasture long since. "Soon's I get these folks took care of, I'll help you."

  "I hope it's not too far to the landing," she said, wondering how much Charles had paid for this unpretentious equipage. Don't be so uppity, Katie Lachlan. You'd better just hope the horse doesn't drop dead going down the hill.

  As she waited for the porter, she watched the approach of a black, closed hansom drawn by a pair of equally black horses. It stopped just opposite her.

  A tall man stepped from it. He was fair, with a sallow complexion and an equine shape to his head. His clothes were elegant, fine wool and linen, his gloves were pale tan leather. In one hand he carried an ebony cane and in the other a bouquet of pink roses. He strode across the platform, straight toward her.

  "Miss Lachlan."

  She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at the tall man, a handy trick she'd learned at Seminary. He smiled, showing big, square teeth.

  "I don't believe I know you, sir," she said, using the frosty tone that had discouraged many a hopeful swain in Boston. She took a firmer hold of her carpetbag, half turned to speak to the porter behind her.

  "Come," the man said, his voice that of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "I have a carriage waiting."

  Katie looked for an instant into his eyes--ice blue and reflective as the finest mirror--and saw nothing. The hair on her nape twitched. Never in a hundred years would she go two yards with him.

  Her satchel sat with several others on the platform. "Will you bring my bag, please?" she said, indicating which it was to the porter.

  "Wait."

  The porter hesitated, and Katie became aware of just how much the stranger towered over her.

  "Miss Lachlan will be going with me." Katie saw gold drop from an elegantly gloved hand into the porter's.

  The man's eyes grew round at the coin's denomination. He gave a small nod. "Yassuh."

  "Wait a minute! I'm not going anywhere with this...this person." She took hold of the porter's sleeve and tugged. "Follow me!"

  A big hand encircled her wrist and tightened. The bones grated together painfully.

  "Let me go!" Her voice was drowned by the screech of brakes as a long line of freight cars was pushed onto the adjacent track by a chuffing switch-engine. She twisted and pulled, attempting to get away, but she mi
ght have well have been chained.

  The porter picked up her satchel.

  Katie forced herself to relax, to walk in the direction the stranger was pushing her. "Why are you doing this to me?" Her tone was as mild as she could make it, given that she was mad enough to spit nails.

  She wasn't scared yet, but she was getting there.

  "Your maidenly reserve does you credit, but you must let me be the judge of what is best. It is time for you to meet my mother. In Boston."

  Katie set her heels and looked up at him. "You're...you must be--"

  With his free hand, the man tipped his hat. "Hamilton Steens Whitney the Third at your service, Miss Lachlan. And now, perhaps you will accompany me without further ado?"

  His smile sent cold shivers up her spine. She swung the carpetbag sideways and hit him just above the knee.

  "Why you--"

  Katie bit down on another scream, this one of pain, as her arm was twisted up behind her back. "Let me go, you putrid polecat," she gasped.

  "The carriage will take us to the hotel," he said mildly, as if they were old friends. "You will be glad to freshen up. Our dinner reservations are for eight."

  "Not on your life," she snapped, trying again to free her wrist.

  "Need I remind you that a true lady never creates a scene?" His grip grew even tighter.

  Katie's fingers went numb. She'd had enough! "I'll show you scene, you...you..."

  Again she set her feet, forcing him to drag her along the uneven wooden platform. "That's about enough, mister! Let me go!" She might have well have been tugging against a locomotive.

  "Help me!" she demanded of the porter, who still followed with her satchel. "Please!"

  He refused to look at her.

  Katie began to believe she was in real danger, right out here in broad daylight. They were clear at the end of the platform, past the caboose. None of the people who'd gotten off the train before her were anywhere in sight. No railroad men, other than her useless porter, were close enough to do her any good. Even the crowds of emigrants clustered about the big wagons were too far away.

  Her pa had told her once, "Don't scream unless you've got something to scream about--but if you do, shake the rafters." Right now she had plenty to scream about, but no one close enough to hear.

  She screamed anyhow.

  "Silence!" Pulling her close to him, the stranger twisted her arm even higher against her shoulder blade.

  "Mister, you'd better have a real good reason for holdin' onto that lady," a deep voice said from behind her.

  The grasp on her arm was relaxed, but didn't release. "My good man, this is none of your concern," Whitney said, his tone urbane. "My fiancée--"

  Katie gasped. "I'm not his fiancée!" She twisted around to see the red-haired man who'd caught her attention on the Chicago platform. "I don't even know this man." Once more she tried to free herself.

  The young man shifted his grip on the bedroll he carried. "Now mister, I'd purely hate to shoot a hole in my blanket, but I reckon I'd do it anyhow if you were to keep ahold of this lady."

  "You don't even have a gun," Whitney scoffed, stepping back and pulling Katie along with him.

  Before she realized what he was doing, the young man shoved the bedroll hard against Whitney's chest. "Would you like to chance your life that I don't?" he said softly.

  Suddenly Katie was free. She stepped back, just as Whitney called, "Muldoon! I need you!"

  "Run!" the young man told her.

  "My satchel--"

  "Goddammit, woman! Git!"

  Beyond him Katie saw an enormous, derby-hatted man climbing from the driver's seat of Whitney's carriage.

  She got.

  Chapter Three

  Katie hadn't lost a footrace since she was twelve years old, even when her brothers' legs had grown longer than hers. This time the prize was more than a day off from her chores. It was her freedom.

  She ran up the platform toward the crowds of emigrants. The carpetbag banged against her leg. Steam from an incoming freight swirled around her and cinders crunched under her feet. She had to get far, far away from Hamilton Whitney. Behind her, the sound of heavy footsteps grew fainter. She ran even faster, hating the skirts that slowed her.

  Ahead baggage carts queued in long lines beside the train, waiting for the roustabouts to fill them with crates and bundles. She dodged between two carts and up a ramp into a baggage car.

  No, not a baggage car. Wooden railings divided the interior into stalls. The floor was strewn with hay and the smell of horse was strong.

  Katie followed the narrow aisle between stalls to the end of the railcar where she slipped into the last stall, speaking reassuring nonsense words to its occupant. She'd rather trust herself to a strange horse than to Mr. Have-it-his-own-way Whitney.

  He'd acted as if anything he wanted he could reach out and take.

  A gentle tug on her sleeve made her aware of her stall-mate. "Well, hello there," she said softly. "I'll bet you're wondering what I'm doing here." She scratched under the chin of the small donkey. "Don't worry. I'll be gone before you know it." She set her carpetbag on the floor and leaned back into a corner. If only she hadn't had to abandon her satchel. Her red coat and hat were far too distinctive. And now she hadn't anything to change into.

  Slowly she counted to a thousand. At last, satisfied that she hadn't been seen entering the stock car, she eased out of the stall and cautiously made her way to the door. She peered out, scanning the area beside the train. The redheaded man was approaching, but there was no sign of the fancy carriage or its fancy-britches passenger. She ducked back into the shadowy interior. As soon as he passed, she'd scoot out and see if she could find a ride to the ferry.

  And if all else failed, she'd walk.

  The redheaded man stepped onto the stock car's ramp. Quickly Katie returned to the donkey's stall. "You won't give me away, will you, sweetheart?" she whispered in the animal's ear. "Just pretend I'm not even here, please."

  The donkey responded with a soft snort.

  "Miss Lachlan? I know you're in here."

  She made herself as small as possible.

  His footsteps told her he'd gone to the other end of the car, but soon they came back in her direction. Katie picked up a handful of straw and spread it across her shoulders and atop her hat. How does he know my name?

  A mule brayed as the footsteps came closer.

  Katie held her breath.

  A long silence, then, "The other door's open about a foot. You should be able to slip out." He swung the stall door open. "That fancy swell's got a couple bullyboys lookin' through the railcars for you, but if you go toward the engine, they shouldn't see you."

  He had already given her one chance to escape Whitney. Katie stood. "Thanks," she said. "I'm obliged."

  "The wagons are still loading folks for the ferry. If you hurry, you should be able to catch one. Hold on a minute, and I'll see if I can stir things up a mite." He went to the mule's stall, then paused. "Leave the hat. It shows up like a red dress on a parson."

  Not caring what it did to her hair, Katie pulled the hat off and tossed it into the donkey's stall. Now if she could only get rid of the coat too.

  He led the mule from its stall.

  Katie followed at a safe interval, wondering how he would stir things up.

  At the top of the ramp, he yelled and swatted the mule across the rump with his hat. With a loud bray, it leaped down the ramp, bucking and kicking, right into the midst of cattle being unloaded from the next car forward.

  All hell broke loose.

  Katie pushed through the opposite door and jumped down.

  As fast as she could, Katie trotted up the length of the train. Her feet slipped and crunched in the loose cinders between tracks. She was glad she'd worn her good boots, instead of proper lady's shoes.

  If she were in Boston, she'd find a policeman, but she wasn't sure there were any such things out here in Council Bluffs. So staying out of trouble was u
p to her, just as Pa had warned her it was likely to be.

  Even in a city, there's times a body has to take care of herself. You've been taught how to do that. See that you remember.

  "I forgot, Pa," she whispered. "I never figured there'd be any danger this side of the Missouri. Not on a train full of folks." She crossed the tracks beyond the engine and looked back along the length of the train.

  A big, stake-bed wagon was loading the last of the emigrants for transport to the ferries. She wormed her way into the crowd and climbed aboard.

  There was room for her on one rude plank bench along the side. She took it. A moment later a buxom young woman fell into Katie's lap as the wagon jerked into motion. "Beggin' your pardon, miss," the young woman said, squeezing into the narrow space beside her.

  "Oh, don't give it a thought," Katie said. "I imagine if they could they'd stack us like cordwood."

  "That they would. My ma had to hold my baby brother all the way from Chicago, it was that crowded in the car we was in." She peered at Katie through the dusty air. "Was you in our car? I don't remember seein' you."

  "No. I...ah, I was in another car." Katie couldn't remember how many of the plain, unadorned railcars there had been for the emigrants, but there had to have been more than one. She smiled. "I'm Katie. What's your name?"

  The girl's smile was friendly and open. "Lizzie Deaton. We're going to Minden, in Nebraska. My Pa's brother has a farm there and he says there's land a'plenty."

  Katie risked a quick peek between the boards behind her. There was no sign of Whitney or his lackeys. Just the busy rail yards and the train she'd arrived on. No black carriage. No tall man with empty ice-blue eyes.

  She was safe now, she told herself. For the moment. "Your father's a farmer?"

  "Well, no, not really, but he'd like to be. He's been workin' in the mills back in Ohio. His brother come out here two years ago and he writ to Pa that there was free land for just about anybody. So we saved up enough to pay for the train. And here we are." Her eyes shone with a spirit of adventure.

  Perhaps Lizzie's dreams would not be buried under the harsh facts of reality. Katie had often heard Pa say that farming was just about the hardest work there was. She herself could not remember a time when she hadn't had chores. And they hadn't been make-work either, but very real contributions to the family's welfare.