Humbug Mountain

by Sid Fleischman

  Of course, Ma put a stop to this brand of table talk, but I must admit I began to favor Glorietta’s side of the argument. In Quickshot Billy’s stories buffaloes blackened the hills for miles on end. I was disappointed to learn there was nothing left but bones lying about in the sun.

  Finally Ma and Glorietta retired to our cabin and Pa lit a thin cigar. The table was cleared and Captain Cully lost no time in slapping a greasy pack of cards on the table.

  “What’s your game, Colonel?”

  “Poker, as a rule, Captain,” Pa said. “But it wouldn’t be fair. You were honest enough to confess that you are not adept with the pasteboards.”

  “Pasteboards?”

  “Cards. The devil’s fifty-two. Perhaps we had best engage in a harmless sport. Dominoes, perhaps?”

  “That’s mighty considerate of you, Colonel. But no, poker will do. I’m anxious for anything you can learn me.”

  I could hardly take my eyes off Captain Cully. He was acting infernally innocent, but clearly gloating to himself. He’d skin Pa with his cheating tricks.

  “Well, if it’s a lesson in cards you want,” Pa said, with the cigar lightly clamped between his teeth, “I’m glad to be of service. We’ll play with pennies.”

  Captain Cully scratched his bald head. “Pennies? Why, gracious me, Colonel, cartwheels and gold pieces will suit me. I don’t mind paying proper for my education.”

  “As you wish,” Pa said. They both dug cash money out of their pockets and made little stacks on the table.

  Captain Cully shuffled the mangy deck, handed it to Pa for the cut, and began dealing. But he had hardly started when Pa stopped him. “Captain, you’ve already made your first mistake.”

  Captain Cully looked up as if he’d been caught with his hand in someone’s pocket. “Me, sir?”

  “You, sir. Decidedly.”

  “I declare. Shall I start over?”

  Pa shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. He was smiling ever so slightly. “I’m referring to your present opponent, Captain. Your obedient servant. Me, sir. You didn’t look at my hands.”

  “Your hands?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that rogues and scoundrels abound at the gaming table. Take my advice, Captain. Always look at a man’s hands. He might be wearing a shiner. A mirror ring.”

  The silence was so sudden and Captain Cully sat so still you’d think he was posing for a photographer and trying not to blink. For the first time I saw that Pa was wearing a ring. A brand-new silver one.

  “A shiner?” Captain Cully said. His voice was so weak he couldn’t have blown out a match if he’d swallowed it.

  Pa turned up his left palm and there was the mirror, small and round and bright as a diamond. “Of course, only a crude oaf would resort to such a simpleminded cheat,” Pa said. He picked up the pack and began to deal off cards. “But such devices are for sale in St. Louis to would-be cardsharps lacking finer skills. I was sure it would amuse and instruct you, Captain. Notice that I am able to read the reflection of each card as I deal it off to my unwary opponent. That’s a shiner, sir—and I believe it’s quite legal to shoot a man foolish enough to wear one at the gaming table.”

  By this time Captain Cully had swallowed his Adam’s apple two or three times. You could see the color draining out of his face. His freckled hands were out of sight, under the table, and I believe he was having trouble getting the mirror ring off his own finger.

  “Now then,” Pa said pleasantly. He tossed me the St. Louis shiner he had bought for the occasion. “Now then, Captain, there are cartwheels and gold pieces waiting on the table to change ownership. I’m looking forward to an enjoyable voyage. Cut the cards.”

  I never saw such a sudden change come over a man. Captain Cully scooped his money into his hat and jumped up. “Some other time,” he scowled. “Feel that blasted river current! We’ll be lucky if we don’t tear the mooring trees out by the roots. I’ve boat work to attend to.”

  He loped away in a burnt hurry. After a moment Pa threw back his head and laughed. “I think we cured him of card-sharping on this trip, Wiley. River current! He went for a hacksaw to get that cheap gambler’s ring off.”

  “Reckon he did,” I smiled. I looked longingly at the St. Louis shiner in my hand. I polished the mirror on my sleeve and handed it back.

  Pa lit a fresh match to his cigar. “I’ve no further use for it, Wiley. If you want it, it’s yours.”

  5

  SMILE, YOU’RE IN SUNRISE

  Pa was right. The shiner ring disappeared from Captain Cully’s finger, and he always seemed to have boat work to do when Pa proposed a game of cards.

  I couldn’t wait to show my St. Louis shiner to Glorietta.

  “Just like Quickshot Billy’s,” I said.

  “What’s it for? To look at yourself? I’ll bet Quickshot Billy was always looking at himself.”

  “Oh, you’re considerable smart,” I said. I breathed on the mirror and polished it. “How do you suppose he could shoot back over his shoulder? That’s what a shiner’s for.”

  I didn’t tell her it was a gambler’s ring. I was certain a famous lawman like Quickshot Billy would never cheat at cards.

  Of course, the ring was miles too big for me, but I got some of Ma’s embroidery thread and wrapped it around and around the band for a good snug fit. All the way up the Missouri I practiced seeing behind me. I saw lots of ducks and geese and even some white pelicans that way.

  We were almost a week reaching Kansas City. Captain Cully didn’t stop there even to take on cordwood. He steamed on by the woodyards and kept going as if the law were waiting for him. And I reckon it should have been. He never once bought wood for the furnace. He just helped himself to anything unguarded along the banks that would burn. There were deserted homesteaders’ cabins and half-sunk old riverboats that had run afoul of snags and whatnot. He’d send out his wrecking crew and before long everything but the windows went up through the Prairie Buzzard’s black smokestack.

  He went zigzagging up the Missouri, dodging floating logs and things I couldn’t see at all—shoals, I guess. He’d laugh when we passed another boat hung up on a fresh sandbar, as if it would be a wood feast for his wreckers on the return trip. He steered his own boat cleverly, following the shifting channel like a dog following a scent. I’ll have to give him his due. He seemed able to outthink that river.

  Every night the boiler had to be cleaned out, for it kept filling with Missouri mud. We charged past Nebraska City and Council Bluffs and kept going. After that the river towns seemed to get smaller and farther apart, as if we were running out of civilization.

  In the evenings, before darkness fell, Pa usually read Shakespeare to us, or Homer. It wasn’t always clear to me what was going on in those stories. But Pa had a real actor’s voice, and it was fun to listen to him.

  Glorietta and I spent a good deal of time poring over the colored lithograph of Sunrise, with all its street names, a green park—and Humbug Mountain, with a dazzling cap of snow.

  “That’s the funniest name for a mountain,” Glorietta said.

  It was peculiar-sounding, but I said, “If you had a mountain to name what would you call it—‘Morning Glory’ or ‘Buttercup’ or something sickening like that?”

  Ma glanced up from the book she was reading. It was one of Pa’s books of poems. She read them over and over the way I did my nickel novels. “Children, there may be inaccuracies on that lithograph. Town promoters are inclined to brag.”

  “But Grandpa wouldn’t lie,” Glorietta said.

  “No,” Ma answered. “But the artist may have fancied things up a bit. I’ll be surprised to find Sunrise quite so grand. Let’s wait and see.”

  We had to do an infernal amount of waiting. Day after day we went winding up the river, thumping and splashing around snags and bobbing tree roots. Sioux City came and went and finally I asked Captain Cully, “Sir, is it much farther to Sunrise?”

  He looked down his long, thi
n nose at me and grinned in an overly friendly way. “Why, we ain’t even to the Vermillion River yet.”

  And after the mouth of the Vermillion slipped behind us he gave me that same grin. “Sunrise? Why, we ain’t even in Yankton yet.”

  But Sunrise didn’t turn up after Yankton. Captain Cully seemed to do an awful lot of grinning now. He had some trick up his sleeve, I thought.

  The countryside had flattened out all around us. I couldn’t spy a hill, let alone a mountain. Captain Cully stayed up in the pilothouse mostly, spitting tobacco juice out the windows, and you had to be careful how you approached.

  “Sir,” I said at last. “Are you certain we didn’t pass Sunrise far back?”

  His grin gave way to a chuckle. “Son,” he answered, “this river must be twenty-five hundred miles long—and I know every foot of it. Sunrise? There’s a big ol’ mulberry tree I’ve tied up to many a time. I’ll be putting you ashore in no time.”

  A heavy mist lay over the river the next morning. The Prairie Buzzard crept along slower’n a snail. At the bow one of the deckhands kept poking a stick in the water and we felt our way around the bends like a blind man tapping a cane.

  Finally there came a jingle of bells and the dark, ghostly shape of a great tree rose up on the left bank. Lines were quickly wrapped around the trunk, and then Captain Cully spit out the window.

  “Sunrise, folks!” he called.

  “Possibly,” Pa answered. In that river fog Captain Cully might be pleased to let us off in the middle of nowhere.

  “Take a lantern and see for yourself, Colonel.”

  I followed Pa ashore and there, nailed to the mulberry tree, hung a sign.

  As soon as our belongings were set ashore the mooring lines were loosened and the Prairie Buzzard crawled away through the mist. But not before Captain Cully tipped his cap and shouted, “Four dollars a ton for buffalo bones—be glad to do business with you!”

  Once the riverboat disappeared we made a discovery. There was no regular landing—just the sturdy old mulberry for boats to tie up to. And wherever Sunrise was, it wasn’t on the riverbank the way the picture showed.

  As we began to explore around for the town, Glorietta slipped off her brass-rimmed spectacles. She wasn’t going to meet Grandpa with window-eyes. The fog spread only a short distance beyond the riverbank and we walked smack into fresh morning sunlight.

  Pa took a slow look around. We all looked around. The only thing to be seen across the flat prairie was a string of cottonwoods to the south a mile or so off. Maybe that’s where we’d find Sunrise.

  But when we approached all we found were old wooden surveyor’s stakes in the ground marking off the grassy city lots. There was no opera house. There were no fine homes. There were no streets.

  There was no town. Sunrise was just a scrap of paper.

  “There’s not even a mountain,” I said, and Glorietta slipped her glasses back on to look for herself.

  Pa shoved back his hat and laughed. “I expect that’s why they named it Humbug Mountain!”

  We’d startled a few jackrabbits and a couple of bobtailed deer. We could hear the soft, sad call of mourning doves hidden in the spring grass. And that’s all there was in Sunrise. Except us. Grandpa may have had the lots staked out, but he was gone now.

  You’d think Ma would have busted into tears, but she didn’t. I know for certain she’d been dreaming of this day for all of three years. And now it had arrived.

  She glanced at the weed-grown lots and lifted her chin. “Well, as long as we’re in Sunrise—we might as well smile,” she said.

  6

  FATE OF THE PHOENIX

  The next thing I knew, Ma had turned her head and was crying softly. Pa took a clutch on her shoulder and they walked off a little way. Glorietta looked at me and I looked at Glorietta. We had never seen her cry before. Not even those times when Pa disappeared.

  I turned my back, stuck my fists in my pockets, and took off for the cottonwoods. It was a moment before I realized that Glorietta was following along behind me. We were both clean-scrubbed and fussed up in our Sunday clothes, and that seemed to make everything worse.

  “Go ahead and bawl if you want to,” I said.

  “Didn’t know I had to get your permission,” she answered. “Where you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “I’ll go too.”

  I tossed the hair out of my eyes. Where there was a meander of trees there must be a creek, I thought, and I’d skip a few stones.

  I set a good pace, but Glorietta kept up on her spindly legs. “What do you reckon we’ll do now?” she murmured.

  “Can’t stay here, can we?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t ask dumb questions.”

  She fell silent. For about three seconds. “It might be a pesky long wait for another riverboat.”

  “Might be.”

  We went crackling through a tangle of willows and cottonwoods, and came to the high bank of the creek. I stopped short and so did Glorietta. The creek was vastly broad and vastly disappointing.

  “It’s dried up,” she said.

  “I can see that for myself.”

  The bottom mud had shrunk and cracked and was curled like dead, brown leaves. But we sat on the bluff and chunked a few stones anyway.

  Suddenly a voice shot through the still air.

  “Shagnasty!”

  I jumped up like a cat out of a woodbox and so did Glorietta. Then the voice came again, but from a fresh quarter.

  “Fool Killer! Hang’m! Bash’m!”

  It was a croaking, graveyard kind of voice—daft and scaresome. My eyes flicked from tree to tree, but I couldn’t catch sight of anyone. Then it came again.

  “Shagnasty! Fool Killer!”

  We scrambled down the bank and peered back. I didn’t believe in haunts, but there was something mighty peculiar roving about in those trees.

  Glorietta gave me a look and a whisper. “Oughten we to run for it, Wiley?”

  “Unless it’s Grandpa,” I said.

  “Grandpa?”

  “Talking to himself. Out of his wits or something.”

  Then there came a sudden rustle of leaves. Glorietta lit out across the creek bed and I might have been right beside her—but I saw it.

  A crow. Nothing but a big ol’ crow.

  It rose through the treetops into the sunlight. A he-crow, I thought—it must have had a wingspread of about three feet. Then four or five other crows came flapping after it.

  “Hang’m!”

  “Bash’m!”

  “Caw-caw-caw!”

  I stood up and spit angrily. I didn’t enjoy being scared out of my wits by a flock of common crows, but it was surprising to meet up with birds that spoke the English language.

  “Hey, Glorietta!” I yelled. “Come on back! It’s nothing! Only a bunch of infernal crow birds!”

  She was almost out of sight around a bend in the creek. But she stopped without looking back at me. Something farther along had caught her eye. She stood fixed where she stood.

  “Wiley!” she yelled. “Look! Look what I found!”

  The morning sun flashed off her glasses, and then she disappeared around the bend.

  So I ran along the creek bed too. And the birds followed along, caw-cawing.

  It wasn’t a moment before I cut around the bend and hauled up short.

  Before me, not fifty yards off, stood a riverboat.

  It stood sunk and dry on the creek bottom. Mooring lines swung like strands of a great spiderweb from the trees along the bank. Weeds and creepers had grown up through the huge side wheels. I looked at the empty pilot-house windows, streaked with dirt. I’d never seen such a lonely and forlorn boat. You could tell it had once been pluckish and grand; it was fancied up with lacy-cut woodwork. But now the white paint hung in peels and tatters like a snake shedding its skin.

  Glorietta was out of breath when we joined up and stepped closer. The crows fluttered down, taking perch
es like vultures on the crown of the smokestack.

  I gave a shout. “Hello, the boat!”

  Silence. We moved nearer and I called again.

  “No one there,” Glorietta said.

  “Must be. Someone taught those crows to speak.” I tried again, cupping my hands. “Anybody here?”

  “Fool Killer!” The big he-crow was at it again.

  We made tracks along the flat hull and looked up at the wooden nameplate hanging on the side of the pilot-house. The weathered gold letters gave me a start, and Glorietta too.

  It was the Phoenix.

  Grandpa’s boat.

  7

  THE FOOL KILLER

  Glorietta ran back to fetch Pa and Ma. A splintery old gangplank stretched between the creek bluff and the middle deck, and I walked aboard.

  “Grandpa?” I called out. “Grandpa, it’s me—Wiley.”

  The deck was gritty under my feet. Windblown dirt covered everything and was piled up like sand dunes against the cabins. I saw footprints. Lots of them, going and coming and scuffled about in the dust. They struck me as almighty fresh.

  “Grandpa!”

  I had no more than got the word out of my mouth when a hand snatched me by the collar, jerked me off my feet, and held me aloft like a kicking rabbit.

  “Cuss’d little varmint!” came a dry whisper at my ear. “What for you sneaking around here?”

  He twisted me around to take a closer look. I gazed back at a pair of mean, deep-sunk little eyes and a mouthful of yellow teeth. He was tall and dreadfully skinny—as if he had the dry wilts. Stringy red hair shot down from under the brim of his floppy hat. He had a long horse-face and long bare feet. He was dressed in rags.

  My heart was banging so loud he must have been able to hear it. I swallowed hard and managed to say, “This is my grandpa’s boat.”

  “Ain’t no grandpas around here.”

  “Then reckon I better be going. If you’ll kindly put me down.”

  Those deep eyes of his didn’t blink any more’n a lizard’s.

  “Who are you?” I muttered.

  It was an eternity before he answered. Finally, in that whispery voice of his, he said, “The Fool Killer.”