The Ladies of Sutter's Fort

by Jane Toombs

  Selena turned to the girl. “Esperanza,” she said, “I’ll come to see you. If you need me, if you ever need me, you are to come here to the hotel.”

  For the first time the girl’s dark eyes looked up, sliding across Selena’s face and away.

  “I don’t think she understands English,” Sutton said.

  “She does. She understands. She’s been hurt, can’t you see that? Terribly hurt. Don’t ever do anything to harm her. Will you promise me that?”

  “I’d promise you anything in the world, Miss Selena,” Sutton said.

  “This is important. Don’t flirt with me. Answer me.”

  “I promise, Selena.”

  She nodded once, then ran to the porch, up the steps and through the open door into the hotel.

  Sutton swung into the saddle.

  “I’ll wager we’ll see more of you,” Rhynne said.

  “With your instincts, you’d make a passable gambler,” Sutton told him. He stood in the stirrups and, like a troop commander signaling an attack, waved his entourage forward.

  After Sutton was gone and Horobin had hitched his wagon and driven west toward Sacramento, Rhynne returned to his room. He studied the row of books on the shelf above his cot, finally taking down two copies of Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads. He leafed through one of the slim volumes, pausing time and again to read a well-remembered passage, now smiling to himself, now shaking his head in wonder.

  Then he took the books and ripped off the covers. Starting from the front, he peeled the pages free one by one until they lay in two piles on the desk.

  He opened the desk drawer and rummaged inside until he found a pair of scissors. With them he cut each page of one of the books across the middle. Using the pen on the desk he numbered each of these half-pages, once on the left-hand margin and again, with the same number, on the right, beginning with “1” and stopping only after he reached “100.”

  Again he took the scissors and cut the half-pages, this time down the center, keeping the two stacks separate. He repeated the process for the second book except he didn’t number the pages. He put each of the four stacks of several pages in its own envelope, numbering them 1, 2, 3, and 4, sealed the envelopes and placed them at the rear of his desk drawer.

  Rhynne descended the stairs, went outside, and into the store. Pamela was using her counter scales to weigh gold dust for two miners. When she saw Rhynne, she nodded to him, and after the miners left she hurried across the room to where he waited.

  “When, W.W.?” she asked. “When?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you know for sure? I can’t wait much longer.”

  “Come to my room tomorrow night at ten.”

  “To your room? You know I can’t do that. I won’t.”

  “Do you want the laudanum?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Tomorrow night, Pamela,” he said, turning on his heel.

  “Rhynne,” she called after him,

  He didn’t answer.

  The next morning Rhynne forced himself to get out of bed at six. After shaving and putting on his oldest trousers, he left the hotel through the back door and headed for the storage shed a hundred feet away.

  He closed the shed door behind him. The windowless building was dark and musty, forcing him to light a lamp. The four boards from Griswold’s leaned against the wall where Abe had put them. Rhynne laid one of the boards across two saw-horses, sawing it into foot-and-a-half lengths. By the time he had cut up all four boards, he had to pause to wipe his face with a handkerchief.

  He stood up, stretching, then began nailing the boards together. Before nailing the final two, he notched them. When he finished he examined his work: a box a foot-and-a-half to a side, completely enclosed and nailed shut. On one side of the box the two notches met to form a slot three inches long and a half-inch wide. Rhynne nodded to himself. His work was crude but he was satisfied.

  He built a second box, identical in every way to the first. Placing the two side by side on a workbench, he studied them. Again he nodded.

  With a shovel, he struck the side of one of the boxes, leaving an ugly indentation. With the same shovel he struck the other box in the same spot. Again he examined the result. Although the scars on the wood weren’t precisely the same, they were close enough.

  No one was about when he carried the first box into the saloon and placed it on the counter behind the bar. He returned for the second box and took it to his room where he shoved it far beneath his cot.

  Once he made his donation to the Reverend Colton’s church, Rhynne told himself, he could begin.

  Chapter Twelve

  “He was like someone out of the Bible,” Selena told her mother. “Like Moses leading the Israelites into the Promised Land.”

  “A Moses on horseback? Leading two slaves and a Mexican girl?”

  “It was the way he looked. The flowing hair touched with grey. His face was stern yet underneath he’s a kind and gentle man. I could tell. And he’s suffered a great loss in his life. A tragedy of some kind. How else would he get those lines in his face?”

  “I think aging might have something to do with it.”

  “He wasn’t that old. You didn’t see him, did you?”

  “No. I was working in the store at the time.”

  “I’m going to help you clerk all the rest of the day,” Selena said. The two women were walking beside the road leading from their cabin, where they had just eaten their noon meal, to the Empire.

  “You’re positive this girl with him was Esperanza? You couldn’t be mistaken?”

  “It was Esperanza de la Torre. Even though I only met her once, I’ll never forget her. She was so alive, so positive about what she would do when she grew up and married. She’s changed.” Selena put her hand to her breast. “There’s been some terrible tragedy in her life too, something so shocking it’s made her into a different person.”

  “Selena, you’re being melodramatic. The fact is that Mexican women age young.”

  “She’s only sixteen, mother.”

  “I wonder where her brother is.”

  “Diego’s probably in Sonora by now. You sound as though you’re afraid of him.”

  “I don’t trust him. And he does have reason to hate us. He thinks I misled him, you’ll remember. And he knows you rejected him.”

  “You don’t trust Diego. You don’t trust Rhynne. Whom do you trust?”

  “Robert Gowdy, for one.”

  “Though you don’t really like him. As a man. Is there any man you do like? Besides that brash Irish boy who brought you the flowers?”

  “You mean Danny O’Lee.”

  “Or whatever his name is.”

  “Selena, you were cruel to him. I was ashamed of you for the way you treated him.”

  “Oh, mother, I was ashamed of myself for singing that song. Afterward, not at the time, because I was getting even with him. Still I shouldn’t have done it that way. You don’t realize how I feel when I’m on that stage. When I’m singing, I feel I can do no wrong. That whatever whim I have is right merely because it’s mine.”

  Pamela sighed. “I don’t understand you any more, Selena.”

  “But later, after I made sport of Danny O’Lee, I felt sorry for him. I wanted to comfort him. Like a mother would, I suppose. Don’t you ever feel that way about Danny? He is the right age to be your son.”

  Pamela stopped and looked at Selena.

  “Did I say something wrong, mother?”

  “No, of course not. When you’re thirty-eight as I am, you won’t want to be reminded of your age either. As for Danny O’Lee, yes, I suspect I do feel like mothering him at times. He’s a likable lad. You should apologize to him, Selena.”

  “Perhaps I will. Someday.” They walked for a time in silence. “Are you feeling better, mother?” Selena asked. “At times I believe you are and then I wonder.”

  “I have a great deal on my mind. Money for one thing, paying back our loan
from Mr. Rhynne. Some other troubles with Mr. Rhynne for another. And my sickness.”

  “If anybody has something on their mind, it’s W.W. I’ve never seen him as distracted as he’s been this last week. I’m positive he’s plotting a coup of some kind.”

  “Mr. Rhynne is always planning a coup. Just like a man—he’s never satisfied. Give him a shilling, he’ll want a pound, give him a pound, he wants two.” She paused. “Did he burn Varner’s, Selena?”

  “I—I don’t know. I think he did. I’m not sure.”

  “From the way you acted after the fire, I was convinced you knew he did.”

  They saw a burly black-bearded man running toward the Empire from the opposite direction. He leaped up the steps, threw open the door and disappeared inside.

  “Could someone have struck it rich?” Selena asked.

  “Look, he’s coming out again. Who is he?”

  “Pike, he calls himself. He’s new in town. I’ve only seen him once or twice. He’s a braggart.”

  Four other men followed Pike from the gambling saloon. They hurried off up the street.

  “Let’s ask Abe what the commotion’s about,” Selena said. The two women went into the hotel lobby and Selena opened the door to the saloon. She was surprised to find Abe alone.

  “Ah, Miss Selena,” he said, coming to the door. “And Miss Pamela.”

  “What’s happening, Abe?” Selena asked him.

  “What is it always?” Abe ran his hand over his balding head as though pushing back imaginary hair. “A brawl of some sort. That fellow Pike says English Bob got a knife between the ribs.”

  “Oh,” Selena gasped. “Not English Bob. He’s always such a gentleman.”

  “Most men around here like Bob,” Abe said. “Still and all, I don’t know about the gentleman part. He did have a go-round with that young Danny O’Lee, you’ll remember. And there’s been other times when he’s been known to gouge and knee with the best of them, or so I’m told.”

  “You don’t think Danny O’Lee . . . ?” Pamela began. She put her hand to her mouth. “They’ve done some panning for gold together,” she said. “It wasn’t Danny O’Lee with the knife, was it?”

  Abe shrugged. “Pike didn’t say. Didn’t know, I gather. The way he told the story, he was on his way to his tent, Pike was, and English Bob comes staggering toward him all doubled over, his bloody hands to his stomach. When Pike tries to help him, English Bob falls to the ground saying, 'I’m a goner,’ or words like that.”

  “I haven’t seen Danny O’Lee these last few days,” Selena said. “He’s probably at the diggings. And I doubt he even has a knife.”

  “Where’s Mr. Rhynne?” Pamela asked Abe.

  “Said something about paying his respects to the Reverend Colton when he left here half an hour ago. If I was you, ma’am, and I know Mr. Rhynne would say the same, I’d stay far clear of trouble of this sort. You know how it is with no law in the territory. What can you expect in a country where a great man like John Charles Fremont is court-martialed out of the Army? The men here see themselves as judge, jury and hangman all rolled into one.”

  “Let us know the minute you hear what happened to English Bob,” Pamela told him.

  “That I will.” Abe started to shut the door, then hesitated. “Do either of you ladies know why Mr. Rhynne put this slotted box behind the bar? I asked him this morning and he just smiled.”

  “Box?” Pamela and Selena both asked at once. They went to the door and stared at the pine box, shaking their heads.

  “Just curious,” Abe said, going back behind the bar.

  “I’m sure Danny O’Lee wouldn’t do such a thing,” Pamela said as they walked to the store. “Though he’s got a temper I can’t imagine him with a knife.”

  “Do you want me to go to the church and look for W.W.?” Selena asked.

  Pamela considered. “I think not,” she said finally. “This will all turn out to have nothing to do with us.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Selena said, “what W.W. wants with Reverend Colton.”

  “And what, Mr. Rhynne, do you want with me?” Reverend Colton asked. They were seated in the minister’s small office at the rear of the church.

  “I want your help, Reverend.”

  Colton steepled his hands. “A strange request. Considering.” His speech had a Scottish burr.

  “The older I become, the more I realize what I’ve missed in life.”

  “It’s never too late to find God, Mr. Rhynne.”

  “It may be for me. For others, I hope it’s not.”

  Reverend Colton said nothing.

  “I squandered my youth,” Rhynne said, “in the pursuit of pleasure. If only I hadn’t been born into a life of poverty.”

  “A man can rise above his circumstances.”

  “A strong man like yourself can. I’m not strong, never have been, either in body or in spirit. Temptation finds me an easy prey today as it did when I was a lad living in a house of ill repute.”

  “You grew up in a a bordello?”

  “In New Orleans. My mother was the madam.”

  “You said you were raised in poverty. I’ve heard women of that sort described in many different ways, but never before have I heard them labeled as being poor.”

  “It was a spiritual poverty I referred to. My mother read to me from the English poets, never from the Bible. Only later did I realize that some of our greatest poetry is in the Good Book.”

  “For myself, I like to believe it also contains some of mankind’s greatest truths.”

  “My point exactly. When I was a child, these truths were denied me.”

  “And the child is father of the man.”

  “You know Wordsworth, Reverend Colton.”

  “A line or two.” He stood up and nodded toward a shelf on the wall behind him. “I think I have the largest library in Hangtown,” he said. “All thirty volumes. Forgive my boasting. Pride is one of my sins.”

  Rhynne looked over the Reverend’s shoulder. “And only a few of your books concern theology.”

  “Worldliness is another of my sins. And as a somewhat worldly man, I have to admit I suspect the purity of your motives in coming to see me today.”

  Rhynne reached into his pocket, took out a deerskin pouch, and dropped it on the minister’s desk.

  “My intentions are as pure as the gold in that poke,” he said.

  The Reverend Colton weighed the pouch in his hand.

  “About five hundred dollars’ worth of gold dust,” Rhynne told him.

  Colton placed the pouch on the desk between them.

  “It’s yours,” Rhynne said. “My gift to the church. Let’s say it’s a guilt offering.”

  “In both meanings of the word? Gilt and guilt?”

  Rhynne smiled. “In both meanings.”

  Colton dangled the pouch by its leather thongs. “No strings attached, Mr. Rhynne?”

  “None at all.”

  Colton opened a drawer of his desk and dropped the gold inside. “You’re most generous,” he said. “The only gift I’d prize more would be the return of the prodigal son, yourself in this case, to the ways of God. If that were to occur, I’d personally kill the fatted calf.”

  “That’s one of the parables I’ve never understood. All the attention is lavished on the prodigal while the dutiful son is ignored. Human nature, yes. But good theology?”

  “Mr. Rhynne, I’ve never completely understood that story myself. Perhaps something was lost in the translation from the Greek.”

  “I’ve enjoyed your frankness, Reverend.” Rhynne held out his hand. “I only regret we haven’t talked before this.” They shook hands.

  At the door, Rhynne turned, reaching into his vest pocket. “I quite forgot,” he said. He opened a volume on the Reverend Colton’s desk and inserted a slip of paper. “The Empire is conducting a lottery,” Rhynne said. “As a man of the world, I thought you might like to have the first ticket. There’s no obligation, of course.”
>
  Colton took the paper from the book and examined it. “You’ve given me number one,” he said. “This ticket appears to be cut from a volume of poetry.”

  “Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads. A great favorite of mine. Since we have no printing press in Hangtown, I had to sacrifice it.”

  “And the prize?”

  “I’ve not quite decided. I’m considering awarding the winner a week’s free lodging in the Empire’s best room furnished with a new bed I’ve ordered from Horobin. It’s all rather nebulous at this point.”

  “I could never accept such a prize. My parishioners would think I’d allied myself with the devil.”

  “I understand. If you should win, and the chances are ninety-nine to one you won’t, a gift of cash to your church would be forthcoming.”

  “I don’t see how I could refuse that.”

  Rhynne nodded. “Good day to you, sir. Between now and when we meet again, I suggest we both reread the parable of the prodigal son.”

  “I’ll pray for you, Mr. Rhynne,” Colton said.

  After Rhynne closed the door, Reverend Colton looked from the door to the slip of paper he still held in his hand. He shook his head in puzzlement, then reached for his Bible.

  * * *

  “I’ll go next door and find out if Abe has heard anything more about English Bob,” Selena said.

  “You may as well,” Pamela told her. “We certainly aren’t busy. Where is everyone today?”

  In the gambling saloon, Selena found Abe behind the bar polishing glasses.

  “No,” he said in answer to her question. “I haven’t heard a word. No one’s been in since you saw that bunch of them leave. No one at all.”

  Selena nodded and went outside to the porch. When, looking to her left, she saw a group of men approaching the hotel, she ran down the steps into the street. As the men went past, she saw that four of them were carrying English Bob on a canvas stretched between two poles. Although Bob’s eyes were closed, she thought she saw the rise and fall of his chest.

  “Here’s the doc now,” one of the men said.

  Dr. Braithewaite, followed by a miner, walked quickly toward them.