by Debra Samms
Though he was silent, he seemed to be listening to her very carefully. "How long have you lived in Sawyerville, George?"
Slowly, he raised one hand and spread out his fingers. "Five?" Clara said. "Five years?"
Another nod.
"That's a long time to do such hard work . . . and to live alone while you do it." She thought she saw a slight shrug. "And I suppose it must be very strange for all of you to suddenly have more than forty women living in your town."
A very slight smile this time.
"Well – I should be going. It was nice talking with you, George."
She turned to go back to the others, though not without hearing a single word behind her.
"Bye," said George, in his rough whisper. Clara smiled to herself, and kept walking.
CHAPTER THREE
Just a couple of days later, Clara walked into Sheriff William Strong's office down on the main street right beside the post office. At a desk near the back of the small office sat the sheriff's wife, Molly Strong, who had set in motion the plans to bring brides to Sawyerville in the first place.
"Clara!" Molly said, rising and hurrying over to the door. Clara knew that she prided herself on knowing the names of all of the women who'd come here. "It's so good to see you. What can I do for you?"
"Well, Mrs. Strong," Clara said, "I wonder if you can give me some information about one of the men in the camp. I've spoken with him a couple of times, and – "
"Call me 'Molly,' please," Molly said, with a warm smile. "And follow me. I've got just what you need."
Clara followed her back over to the desk and sat down across from her. "I've made a real project of writing a page on each of the men in this camp," Molly said, "so that I can help with the matchmaking process. I don't have them all yet, but I'll see if I have the one you want."
Molly looked up. "You're here about George, right? The one the others call 'George the Giant Ox.'"
Clara smiled. "Yes. That's the one. I did meet him a couple of times – once at the tea and once at the picnic – and even though it didn't go well then, he did ask me to waltz at the street party."
"I do remember seeing that," said Molly, with a big smile. "You both did very well. I hope you had a nice time dancing with him."
"I did. And I've seen him once again, just two days ago. It was a nice meeting. I'd like to know more about him, if I may."
"You certainly may." Molly pulled open a large desk drawer and lifted out a folder containing a couple of handwritten sheets of paper. "This is the one for George. George Conyers. The very one you danced with and spoke to."
Clara just smiled, and gave her a little nod.
"He's been working here in Sawyerville for almost five years," Molly began, skimming over the sheets of paper. "One of the biggest, broadest, and strongest men in the camp. Everybody says there's no better choker setter than George the Giant Ox."
Clara nodded. "Yes. I know what that is. Something about placing steel cables around the logs so they can be hauled out of the forest to the river. It sounds like a hard job."
"Almost everything about logging is very hard work," Molly agreed, "and I'm sure that is, too." She looked at the papers again. "Hmm. Some of the men said that he's in the habit of disappearing sometimes."
"Disappearing?"
"Yes. Apparently he just goes off alone into the forest every so often. He might be gone for hours, or even days. Nobody knows where. Or why. But he always comes back eventually, in time to get back to work."
Clara shook her head slightly. "That is strange. I've never heard of anyone doing such a thing before."
"No one knows if he just likes to be alone from time to time, or what it is. And it would be difficult to ask him because he's never been heard to say an actual word. He just grunts and gestures."
"Yes. I've seen that. Yet he did ask me to dance, and I heard him tell me goodbye. I know for certain that he can speak. But for some reason, he almost never does."
"I suppose he has his reasons." Molly looked down again. "But, Clara, there's nothing bad in here about him. He shares a tent with 'Beast' Bradley Fisher, the man who danced with Delilah Michaels at that same street dance less than a fortnight ago. She seems willing to see Bradley, so maybe George has good associates. You can tell a lot about a person by the company he keeps."
"Yes. I believe you can." Clara stood up. "He is a very strong man, and he's handsome enough for me. And he has been willing to carry on a conversation with me, after a fashion."
"I'm so glad. That's far more than he's done for anyone else, with the possible exception of Bradley Fisher. And Clara, you are a woman who is patient but determined all at once. I think that if anyone could draw him out, it would be you."
***
The very next day, Molly arrived for her morning visit at the Sawyerville Ladies' House with notes and letters for some of the girls. Clara and all the rest of the girls crowded around her on the long front porch of the house, and then Clara heard her own name called out.
She reached across the crowd and took the note, walking down to the far end of the porch to read it. Susannah quickly followed her.
"Oh! Who's it from? One of the men here in the camp? Maybe – "
"I don't know," murmured Clara, unfolding the plain heavy paper of the note. It was written in large letters with what looked like charcoal.
Miss Kingston
Would you meet me at the Sliding Belle saloon tomorrow evening before dark. For tea. Not drinks.
George Conyers
Clara lowered the note and looked at Susannah, who grabbed it out of her hands and studied it closely. "He wants to meet you at the saloon, Clara? What is he thinking?"
"He says it's for tea, not drinks."
"Tea! Do they really serve tea in that place?"
"I don't know," she said, snatching the note back from Susannah. "But I'm going to find out."
Clara walked over to Molly and showed her the message. "What do you think?" Clara asked, feeling unusually anxious. "Should I go? Would it be respectable? It is a saloon, after all . . ."
Molly read the crudely lettered words on the note, and then smiled up at Clara. "Yes. You should go. I can tell you that Matt Mahoney, who owns the Sliding Belle, has indeed begun serving tea and oatmeal cookies in the afternoons because he's hoping to persuade the ladies to come in. He's willing to provide a comfortable place for them to meet the loggers for simple conversation and a chance to get acquainted in polite surroundings."
Clara nodded slowly. "So – if a few of the other women happened to go with me – and sit at a nearby table – that would be all right?"
"That would most certainly be all right," said Molly.
"In that case," Clara said, looking around at her friends on the porch, "I'll ask Susannah, Delilah, Jessamine, and Ruby – and most of all, Maeve. If Maeve is there, I think we'll be safer than with the United States Army Cavalry."
Molly laughed. "I think you're right about that! So, go, Clara, and enjoy yourself. I hope it will only be the first of many social calls at the Sliding Belle for the ladies here at the House."
CHAPTER FOUR
The Sliding Belle Saloon sat at the far eastern end of the main street, looking down on the hillside at the loggers' camp and the river beyond. Just beside the Belle, to the west, were three other establishments: the River Rat, the High Climber, and the Skidder. The Belle was by far the largest, and – at least from the outside – was nice enough by the standards of a logging camp.
The shadows were already lengthening the next afternoon as Clara and her five friends approached the Sliding Belle. She had no idea of what they might find, and was very glad to see George waiting for her on the wooden walkway in front of the establishment. He seemed to be a little surprised to see the other five women, but he nodded to Clara and she nodded back.
She walked inside with George. He seemed to be trying his best not to notice the other five women following just a pace or two behind Clara, and to her reli
ef they all sat down at a round table as close to the entrance as possible.
George stood beside another round table not far from Clara's friends, and waited while she took her seat. She smiled at him, but he only gazed her very solemnly and looked around for Matt Mahoney, the proprietor of the Belle, to come over and serve them.
Which he did. Mahoney was as talkative as George was reticent, and he seemed quite happy to be serving afternoon tea in his saloon. Before long the six women and the one very large man were all drinking black tea out of an assortment of unmatched china cups and saucers. Clara noted that only a few of the cups were cracked or chipped. There was a stack of linen napkins, a bowl of sugar with one spoon, and a plate of crunchy oatmeal cookies on each table.
George sat facing Clara. All of the other women were behind him where he could not see them, which was a good thing because they kept up an unceasing course of whispered conversation and silent giggling.
She did her best to ignore them all. There would be plenty of time to talk to them later. Clara poured some tea into George's cup, added a large spoonful of sugar, and placed two of the largest cookies on his saucer.
He sipped the tea, though he did not seem to have ever tasted it before, and then willingly took another sip. Clara smiled just a little, glad that she'd added plenty of sugar to it.
Then, after sipping her own tea, she tried to engage him in conversation. She knew it might be difficult and so she tried to hold on to her patience, keeping her remarks light and simple.
"I will admit, I was not sure what to expect here," Clara said, with a little laugh. "I've never been inside a saloon before! But it's not much different from any dining establishment back east . . . not that I went to many, but I have seen them."
George glanced around the place, with its wooden tables and chairs and long wooden bar across one side of the large room, and simply nodded.
Clara took a bite of an oatmeal cookie. It was not the best she'd ever had, but it would do. She noticed that the other girls were certainly making their own plate of cookies disappear, and even George had already eaten one of the two that she'd served him.
He remained silent, but he seemed to be relaxed enough and content to simply be in her company, so she smiled at him and went on. "You're a choker setter," she said. "That's the man who places loops of cable around the fallen logs, and slides the metal bell up tight on the loop to hold it in place. You're supposed to be the best choker setter in the camp because you're so strong and so fast."
The pride was evident on his face as he glanced up at her, and she was rewarded by seeing a very small smile behind the heavy black beard.
Then Clara sat up straight, and looked right at him. "Why – that's where the name of this place comes from, isn't it?"
He cocked his head and looked at her.
"The Sliding Belle! From the metal bell on the cables that slide up to hold them tight," said Clara, with a laugh. "I couldn't imagine where that name might have come from. Now I see!"
George gave her a little smile again, and a small nod.
Things were going well. They were indeed having a conversation of sorts, even if it was rather one-sided. But she was glad to see him relaxing even a little, and seeming to enjoy her company, so she grew a little bolder.
"George – I want to ask you about something."
He immediately looked suspicious, and set down his cookie on the saucer.
"I asked you about it at the picnic a while back," Clara said, leaning towards him across the table and speaking gently. "I know that you disappear sometimes. For hours. Or days. Nobody knows where. Won't you tell me why?"
He began to look very serious. For a moment Clara thought he would speak to her – but then he stopped, and looked down again with an exasperated sigh.
George clenched his fists together on the table. He looked up at her again as though he wanted to speak, but simply could not. Clara could see that he was becoming more and more frustrated over his inability to make himself understood.
She glanced over at the other table, where all the women sat staring at them and trying their best to hear every word she said. But George could not see them and she did not think it was their presence that was annoying him.
Something else was happening here.
"George," she said softly, "won't you tell me – "
But he abruptly pushed himself back from the table, got up, and stalked out of the saloon, leaving Clara and all the other women sitting at their tables alone.
CHAPTER FIVE
After a moment of shock, Clara hastily got up from the table and ran out into the street after George. She could see him walking down the road with long fast strides away from the town.
But just as quickly, the five other women who'd gone with her to the Sliding Belle Saloon also got up and hurried into the street right behind her. "No! No!" Clara told them, in a fierce whisper. "Stay back! Just go away. Leave this to me."
To her relief, the women all paused in the street and stood still, just looking at each other. Clara quickly forgot all about them as she ran after George and called out his name.
At first she didn't think he'd turn around – but finally he did, and stood glowering at her in the empty road that led out of Sawyerville.
Out here, beyond the town, one side of the road had only trees going up the ridge while the other side was an open slope leading down to the tents and the river beyond them. The encampment was now dotted with lights from the many lanterns and candles. In the twilight, there was little chance of anyone disturbing them here.
And George was standing in the road, feet apart and arms folded, watching her.
Clara drew a deep breath, and then walked near enough to him to talk. "George. First, I want to thank you for inviting me to tea today. I enjoyed it. Truly. It was very nice.
"And second . . . I am sorry if you cannot speak. Or if you can speak, but it's just very difficult for you."
She watched to see what his reaction would be. He briefly looked away from her, but remained standing where he was in the road.
"Back in New Hampshire," Clara continued, "I had a young cousin. Speaking was difficult for him, too. He could hear sounds just fine. But for reasons I never really understood, he could not speak.
"But he was smart, and a hard worker, like you are. I was able to teach him to read and write, though I know you can already do that! In addition, though, a teacher showed him a few hand signs that he could make – signs that his friends and family could easily learn as well. And we did. Life became much simpler for him after that, just for learning a few signs."
Slowly she walked a little closer to him. "If you think you'd like me to, George, I could teach you the same signs that my cousin learned from his teacher. All you'd have to do is let me know."
George raised his head a little, and she could see that he was thinking about what she had said. "Thank you again for a nice afternoon," Clara said. "I must be going now, but I'm very happy that I saw you today."
With that, she dropped him a little curtsey and then turned around and started back up the road into Sawyerville and the Ladies' House. She was very much looking forward to telling the rest of her friends about her pleasant social call with Mr. George Conyers.
***
One morning, about a fortnight later, Clara received another note up at the Ladies' House. The "paper" was really just a torn piece of rough cardboard and it was again written in charcoal . . . but the words were very precise and polite and spelled correctly, as though written by an educated man:
Miss Clara Kingston,
Would you please meet me at the river before supper, to gather watercress. Perhaps you could show me some signs. Thank you.
George Conyers
She was quite pleased to hear from him, for she'd wondered if he would reach out to her again . . . and after some two weeks, she'd mostly given up. But it appeared that George had not.
There was still a few hours before she would meet him, so Cla
ra decided she'd make him something and perhaps they could have a little picnic on the riverbank. And yes, she would be sure to bring an extra cloth bag for the watercress that she did intend to collect.
CHAPTER SIX
Finally, late in the afternoon, Clara walked along the road to the west out of Sawyerville, and then turned and walked down towards the wide and rushing Umpqua River. She went past the spot where she had waded into the shallows while on the outing with the other women just a few weeks before, and continued around a large stand of trees and then farther along the shore.
And there, stepping from behind another stand of trees, was George. He looked a little neater and cleaner than she remembered him, and even appeared to have combed his black hair. And he seemed to be carrying something rolled up beneath his arm.
He stopped when he saw her, and nodded in greeting. "Hello, George," she said with a smile, and meant it. "Good to see you."
George gave her another brief nod and then beckoned to her to follow him. Clara walked after him near the river's edge, where he pointed out a few spots where the watercress grew particularly well.
"You were right! That looks very good." Clara sat down in the grass and pulled off her boots, and then waded into the cold clear water to gather up handfuls of the dark-green plant.
When she'd filled up her little cloth bag with the watercress, she walked back to George – and saw that he had spread out a large burlap feed sack for them to sit on. He had even placed her boots neatly at the edge of the sack.
"Oh, thank you. That was very kind of you," Clara said, and sat down on the burlap to put her boots back on and lace them up, after rubbing her feet to warm them a little. "I always forget just how cold that water really is!"
He sat comfortably, with a small smile. "Now, I've brought something for us," Clara said, and reached for the basket. She took out two china plates with linen napkins between them, two forks, and a knife – and then lifted out a rhubarb pie, still wrapped in a linen dishtowel to keep it warm.
