Jubilee Trail (59 page)

He led the way to the end of the table away from the end where Silky was. Garnet sat down on the bench, facing him. Florinda came over and asked,

“Can we give you some supper, Mr. Hale?”

“No,” said Charles, “but you might bring me a cup.”

She went to get it, and Charles gave a long look around the room. The shutters were closed, and there was no light but the fire and two candles on the table.

“So this,” he said to Garnet, “is what you have chosen. And these are the friends you prefer.”

“Charles,” she demanded, “what do you want with me?” Charles glanced contemptuously at Florinda, who was setting a cup before him. Florinda asked,

“Shall I leave you now, Garnet?”

Garnet thought she might as well get it over with. Charles was not drunk yet, but he was going to be if he kept on with that straight whiskey, and she wanted him to say what he had to say, and go. “Yes,” she said to Florinda, “get your beans while they’re hot.”

Florinda went to the other end of the long table and sat by Silky.

Garnet heard them talking to each other, and the soft padding of Mickey’s shoes as he served them. Charles poured a drink. When he spoke to her, his manner seemed less stiff, as though he were trying to win her consent rather than command her obedience.

“Garnet,” he said, “I came to get you out of this place.”

“Thank you, Charles,” she returned. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Charles shook his head. “I can’t believe you want to stay here,” he urged. “You—forgive the trite old word, but there’s no other—you are a lady. Won’t you come back to the rancho and live like one?”

She thought, It’s no use explaining why I won’t come back. He wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand even if he hadn’t touched that liquor. Aloud she said, “I don’t want to come back, Charles.”

“Garnet, you can’t go on working at that bar. Don’t you hate it?”

She took a deep breath and made herself speak calmly. “I don’t like it, Charles. But you must know why I’m working there.” He said nothing, and she went on, “Oliver left thirty-eight dollars on deposit with Mr. Abbott.”

Charles looked her over. In the flickering light she could see that his eyes were getting vague, the eyes of a man who had already drunk too much. But his voice was steady. “I am holding Oliver’s property,” he said, “in trust for Oliver’s son. When the boy comes of age, I shall be glad to take him into partnership with me at the rancho.”

“And in the meantime?” asked Garnet.

“In the meantime,” he replied, “I shall administer the Hale property as I see fit.”

“Do you think I’m too stupid to take care of his share of it?” she asked. She wondered why she had asked it. Charles had poured another drink, and he tossed it down before he answered.

“Do you think,” he said, “that I’d trust you with Oliver’s property after the evidence you have given of your tastes? And leave you free to bring up Oliver’s child among rascals and prostitutes? I have better plans for that boy, if you haven’t.”

Garnet clenched her jaw. She was both tired and hungry, but at the moment she was not aware of being either. She was simply thinking that Charles was even more repellent drunk than sober. He did not stop drinking, but he did catch hold of his temper and make another effort to persuade her.

“Come back to the rancho, Garnet. You can live there in cleanliness, in comfort, in dignity. The boy will have his own dogs and horses, his own servants. His friends will be boys of the leading families, native and American.”

Charles’ tongue was getting thick. He was speaking slowly, separating his syllables with care. There’s no use answering him, Garnet thought. But he’s not going to get my child.

Charles continued, “There is going to be trouble in Los Angeles. The people are on the verge of revolt.”

Garnet knew this. If she had had anywhere to take refuge except Charles’ rancho, she would have gone gladly. But not there. If Charles ever got hold of Stephen he would never let him go.

Charles was watching her over the rim of his cup. His eyes wobbled as he tried to fix them on her face. What strange things liquor did to people’s eyes. When he spoke again his words were thick.

“You, of course, can do as you please,” he said. “But I want Oliver’s child on the rancho. He has a right to a decent life.”

“A decent life!” Garnet repeated scornfully. “Is that what you think you gave Oliver?” She did not know why she had said that. But she was so tired of his hate and contempt, and his passion for domineering. She was so tired of everything.

“You,” said Charles, “can damn well shut up about Oliver.”

His hand shook as he lifted the cup. Garnet heard Silky say something about checking the supplies for tomorrow. He went into the front room. Florinda got up too, and went to the door leading to the stairs. “Call me if you want me, Garnet,” she said over her shoulder.

Charles paid no attention to her. He glared at Garnet, trying to focus his blurry eyes.

“Oliver was my brother. He was my brother, till you came.” His voice was like the growl of an animal. “You! Telling him to go back to the States, telling him never to see me again. Getting in the way, keeping him from making a good marriage in California, driving him to his death.” He pushed himself back from the table, and tried to stand up, holding to the table with both hands. As he glowered at her his lips pulled back from his teeth. Garnet drew away from him, startled and frightened by his look of malevolence. Charles laughed, bitterly and evilly. “You thought you had left me nothing at all of him, didn’t you? But there is something left of Oliver. He had a child. I looked at his son just now. His son is strong and healthy, like Oliver. And you are trying to tell me you can keep that child away from me and make him grow up like a savage. You say—you—”

The whiskey had been gaining on him. Now it struck him like a club. Crumpling down on the bench he dropped his head on his arm.

Garnet sprang up. If she had thought before that Charles was no fit guardian for a child, now she knew he was not. How he hated her, she thought as she looked down at him, as crooked ugly creatures nearly always hated those who were straight and well. And if she let him, he would destroy Stephen’s moral power as he had destroyed Oliver’s, so that Stephen, like Oliver, would pay for his strength by being forever dependent on Charles’ weakness. Cold with loathing, Garnet moved along the bench, away from Charles, to where Stephen lay asleep in his basket. She took up the baby and held him in her arms.

Charles had sunk into an ugly unconsciousness. She thought she would have killed him with the meat-knife before she would have let him take Stephen, and wreak vengeance again for his shriveled little body and his scorched little soul.

G
ARNET HAD TAKEN
STEPHEN
upstairs to be out of sight in case Charles woke suddenly, and now she sat at the table finishing her supper. At first she had said she could not eat anything, but Florinda cut off a chunk of beef the size of her fist and put it on a plate with big spoonfuls of beans and cornmeal mush, saying, “There. A dish of wholesome food never hurt anybody.” After the first few bites Garnet agreed with her. Food was a great restorer.

Hands on her hips, Florinda stood looking down at the sodden lump of Charles. With his arms sprawled over the table and his head down between them, Charles was snoring. His mouth was half open, showing the edges of his teeth; his face was wet, and a sourish smell of liquor hovered around him. Florinda gave him a poke, and when he made no response she shrugged.

“Temporarily dead,” she commented. Puckering her lips, she glanced over at Garnet. “Now what,” she inquired, “are we going to do with him?”

“Where is Mickey?” Garnet asked.

“Fast asleep on a blanket in the gambling room.”

“And Silky?”

“Silky’s gone a-courting.”

Garnet nodded. She should have known that. Florinda’s partnership with Silky remained strictly business, but there were several pretty native girls in Los Angeles who liked him and who were not troubled by the present strain on international relations. Now that the saloon had to close at sunset, Silky rarely spent an evening at home. Florinda continued,

“So you and I, all by our little selves, have got to dispose of this scrambled egg.”

Garnet rested her chin on her fists, scowling. She was afraid of Charles, and she did not want him waking up under the same roof with Stephen. She and Florinda could have dragged him outside and thrown him down among the wild oats to sleep it off, but they did not dare to. Charles was no common drunk. He was a man of influence, and if he was not treated with respect he would be likely to tell Captain Gillespie that Silky’s Place was disorderly and ought to be closed for good.

“We’ll have to take some blankets to the gambling room and put him in there,” Garnet said at length. “And we’d better leave a note for Silky, so he’ll know.”

“I guess that’s the best we can do,” Florinda agreed reluctantly, glancing at Charles again. “He doesn’t seem to be in any mad rush to leave. Well, you write the note to Silky and I’ll wash these dishes.”

She picked up the pot of hot water from the hearth-stove. Garnet tore a blank page from one of the ledgers, and took the pen and ink from the shelf. As she dipped the pen into the ink she heard footsteps on the side porch and the sound of men’s voices beyond the door. She started and looked around.

“Sh!” whispered Florinda. “Be quiet and they’ll think we’re all asleep, and maybe they’ll go away.”

Her hands in the dishpan, she held the dishes lest they clink against each other. There was a knock on the door. “Garnet! Florinda!” called a voice outside. Charles squirmed uneasily but did not wake up. The men on the porch called again.

“Hell’s blazes,” said Florinda. “Garnet, my hands are all soapy—go speak to them through the crack of the door. Say we’re not going to let them in and they may as well go on. If they’re after the usual, send ’em to Estelle’s.”

Garnet had not yet developed enough nonchalance to direct customers to Estelle’s house. But she went to the door, which was still rattling as the callers knocked on it. Her lips to the crack above the bolt, she said,

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but this place is closed until noon tomorrow. Captain Gillespie’s orders.”

“Is that Garnet?” said one of the voices outside. “Let us in! This is John Ives.”

“Oh good heavens!” Garnet exclaimed, laughing as another voice beyond the door went on,

“It is also me. Nikolai Grigorievitch Karakozof the Handsome Brute. It is also Pablo and Vicente and the horses and we are hungry. Let us in.”

Her hands awkward with eagerness, Garnet pushed back the bolt. As the door opened John said, “Good evening,” and the Handsome Brute picked her up and swung her around and hugged her in his enormous comforting arms. “Oh Brute,” she said, “oh John, I’m so glad to see you!” The Brute laughed with great lovable warmth, and kissed her on both cheeks before he set her down. Florinda, with the speed she had learned in years of quick-changes backstage, had already dried her hands and put on her mitts. Rushing to John and the Brute she flung an arm impartially about each of them and kissed them both. “Oh, you darlings!” she sighed. “You sweaty dusty revolting unshaven darlings, I do love you so!”

Garnet put the pot of beans on the hearth-stove to warm while Florinda got out the wine. A bottle in his fist, the Brute sat down on the floor. John went outside with drinks for the boys, and told them the beans would be dished up by the time they had unloaded the horses and put them into Silky’s corral. Standing in the doorway so he could direct them if necessary, John beckoned to Garnet. As she came over to him he slipped off his leather gloves and took her hands in both of his, looking down at her intently. His face was coppery with sunburn, and three days’ stubble was black on his jaw. In his dark face, his eyes looked green as absinthe.

“How are you, Garnet?” he asked her. “Please don’t smile politely and say ‘Very well, thank you.’ I have a reason for wanting to know.”

His hands were so hard and muscular that she felt as if they could have snapped her fingers like toothpicks. The gentleness of their touch was astonishing.

“I’m perfectly well, John,” she answered. “I mean it,” she insisted, for he was watching her anxiously. With a smile she added, “And I have the most beautiful little boy.”

“Born—let me see—a month ago?”

“Six weeks tomorrow.”

“That’s better. You’ve had more time to get your strength back.”

“John, what do you mean? Is something wrong?”

“There’s plenty wrong, and you probably know it. I wanted to be sure you were strong enough to stand a journey. We’ve come to get you and Florinda out of Los Angeles before the town explodes.”

“Oh John! Thank you!” Garnet exclaimed. Until he spoke, she had not let herself realize how uneasy she had been. John let go her hands and picked up the bottle Florinda had set on the wall-bench beside him, regarding it with disfavor when he saw it held only the ordinary red wine of California.

“Haven’t you got any whiskey, Florinda?” he asked.

Florinda stood by the fireplace cutting meat from the joint. “Yes, brave laddie, but I can’t afford to give it away.”

“Florinda!” Garnet exclaimed in reproach. “Do you know what he’s here for?”

But John, quietly amused, had already drawn a leather purse from his pocket and was taking out a paper. “It’s all right, Garnet. Florinda and I understand each other perfectly. Here’s a credit paper from Mr. Abbott’s, Florinda. Give me a pen and I’ll put a couple of hides on deposit with you.” Florinda had laid down the meat-knife when they heard a snore from the shadow over by the far wall. “Who’s that?” John asked in surprise.

Florinda glanced around. “If you mean the wet subject, that’s Mr. Charles Hale.”

“Oh,” said John, nodding slowly. “But what’s he doing here?”

“He came in and raised hell with Garnet. I haven’t had time to hear the details, so you’ll have to ask her. Meanwhile, you’ll do us a great favor if you’ll get him out of here.”

“We’ll get him out,” John said crisply. “Give me a hand, Nikolai.”