Jubilee Trail (67 page)

She did feel better. But she was holding even harder than before to the resolution she had made in the garden.

She was going to get rid of her dream of John. If so brief an interview with him could leave her hurt and shaken like this, all to no purpose, she wanted him out of her heart. She was going to root him up, and she was going to take her baby and go home.

T
HEY REACHED LOS
ANGELES
the last week in March. The first piece of news they heard was that Charles Hale was married.

Texas told them about it the day after their arrival. He sat at the kitchen table with them, while Stephen played on the floor under the care of Isabel, and the Brute sat by the fireplace consuming beef, and Mickey padded about pouring tea for them all.

After being away for six months Garnet and Florinda expected to hear of some changes, but they gasped when Texas told them Charles was married. Garnet was glad of it. Now Charles would probably have children of his own and he would be less interested in trying to get Stephen.

They asked eagerly about the new Mrs. Hale. Was she young? Pretty? Rich? Was she a Yankee or a Californian? When had the wedding taken place, and where were she and Charles now?

As though he understood what Garnet was thinking, Texas glanced at Stephen and gave her arm a fatherly pat. Texas looked dreadful. His eyes were red, his beard was as wild as when he was crossing the desert, and his hands were unsteady. But his manner was as sweet and gentle as it had been when he took care of her the night Stephen was born. Garnet smiled at him, and Florinda said, “I’ll get you some fresh tea, Texas. Go on about Charles, I’m listening.”

Well, Texas told them, Charles had married a widow from his own city of Boston. The lady’s name had been Mrs. Lydia Radney. She had come out with her husband on a Pacific trading voyage, and he had died on the high seas between Honolulu and San Francisco.

The late Mr. Radney had been half owner of a merchant brig, named the Lydia Belle in honor of the wives of her two owners. The brig had sailed from Boston. Mr. Radney had come along to keep an eye on the supercargo, the man in charge of selling the goods the brig had brought out and loading her with more goods to be sold in Boston. Usually the owner of a ship would hire a supercargo and trust him, but it seemed that Mr. Radney was the sort of man who didn’t trust anybody.

Silky put in a word here. Silky had come into the kitchen for a brief rest from the bar, and now stood leaning against the wall, drinking a cup of tea. “I thought,” said Silky, “it was Mrs. Radney who didn’t trust anybody. Remember what that fellow Morrison told us, Texas?”

Florinda came back to the table with a cup of tea for Texas. In her other hand she carried a bottle of aguardiente. Without comment, she laced the tea with aguardiente as she set down the cup. “Who’s Morrison?” she asked, taking her place on the wall-bench again.

“Morrison is the ship’s steward,” said Texas. He picked up his cup and began to brighten as he drank the hot tea laced with brandy. “The steward is the man in charge of the table,” he continued. “But he’s also the captain’s personal servant, so he knows a lot about what goes on. What he said was, Mr. Radney had had lung fever back in Boston, and he never should have taken this voyage, but his wife made him.”

“This is a very interesting story,” the Brute said as he contemplated the joint of beef in his hand. “Tell us some more.”

Prompting each other, Silky and Texas continued. Morrison the steward had dropped in here one rainy night and got drunk. He said that on this voyage the brig Lydia Belle had brought two ladies, the captain’s wife and Mrs. Radney. From the first, the captain’s wife had disliked Mrs. Radney. Morrison had heard the captain’s wife say that Mr. Radney had not wanted to leave home in his poor state of health. But Lydia Radney had insisted on it, because she did not trust anybody else to drive the best bargains. When Mr. Radney died aboard ship, Morrison had heard the captain’s wife say that Lydia had really caused her husband’s death, since she had persuaded him to make this voyage. Why hadn’t she urged him to stay at home so she could nurse him as a proper wife should? Some people, said the captain’s wife, would do
anything
for money.

“Lydia sounds like a perfect match for Charles,” Garnet said dryly. “Go on, Texas.”

Mr. Radney had died some time last fall, Texas said. Then in January Charles went to San Francisco to get acquainted with the American officers there. When Charles reached San Francisco the brig was in port, with the bereaved Mrs. Radney on board. Charles went to the afflicted widow and offered his aid in straightening out her business affairs. No doubt they had quickly recognized each other as kindred souls, for about two months later they were married by the town alcalde.

The brig had brought them south and then had returned to San Francisco. It was on the trip south that the steward had come by Silky’s Place and brought the story to the interested ears of Silky and Texas.

Silky set down his empty cup and started back to the bar. “Coming, Texas?” he asked.

Texas stood up. Well, yes, he said, he guessed he’d better be getting out to the bar too. Pausing by Garnet he put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back, Miss Garnet,” he said, “you and the little fellow.” He grinned at Stephen. “I’ve been making him a present.”

“Why, that’s good of you. What sort of present?”

“A bed for him to sleep in. With sides, you know, so he can’t fall out of it. I like to whittle a bit to pass the time.”

“I do appreciate that, Texas,” she said warmly. “I’ve been wondering about a safe bed for him, now that he can move around by himself.”

“I’ll bring it over soon as it’s done,” said Texas. He turned away, giving Stephen the sweet, wistful smile that always brought a pain to Garnet’s throat. He limped to the door, his bad leg dragging heavily.

Florinda went to show Isabel some clothes that needed mending. Garnet still sat by the table, watching Stephen. She was thinking, not about Charles or Texas now, but about herself. Tomorrow she was going back to work in the saloon, and she had no right to speak a word of complaint because it was her own fault. She had left herself nothing else to do.

Well, that was all right, she reflected grimly. In payment for her work she would get her board and keep, and ten per cent of the profit on the liquor. She was going to spend as little as possible, so she could save enough to pay some sea-captain to take her and Stephen around the Horn to New York. For a moment she wondered if she could go home on the ship that had brought out Mrs. Radney, now Mrs. Charles Hale. But she abandoned the idea at once. She had no money yet to pay for the journey, and she was not going to ask favors, certainly not of those people. She did not need to. Being a barmaid was not a lofty occupation, but it did mean she was independent.

All of a sudden Garnet realized that John had never made any objection to her working at the bar. Florinda, glad as she was to have help, had at least voiced a protest. Texas had said not once but often, “I hate to see you in here.” Charles had objected loudly. But John had never said a word about it. Even when he was asking her to marry him John had not mentioned the saloon.

He didn’t love me, she thought, but at least he didn’t affront me by hinting that if I married him I’d have an easier life than this. She smiled as she thought of it. That was a tribute to her integrity which until now she had not recognized. Thank you, John, she said in her mind, and caught herself sharply. Stop it, Garnet! If you don’t, you’ll want him so much that you’ll fall right into his arms the next time you see him, and he’ll treat you with that self-contained indifference of his, and break your heart into little pieces and step on them.

It was hard to stop thinking about John. On the way down from Kerridge’s the valleys in their bright spring greening had reminded her every day of how much John loved all this, how much more than he loved her.

Well, he had gone back to Torosa and she was going to forget him. Tomorrow morning she would strap on her gun-belt and get back to work. Silky had given her a .34-caliber Colt revolving pistol, like Florinda’s. He did not say how he had got it and Garnet thought it wise not to ask. Silky had told both the girls to wear their Colts all the time. Not that he expected any trouble. But seeing that the girls were armed had a wholesome effect on the customers.

Garnet glanced across the room, to where Florinda was telling Isabel about sewing some new buttons down the front of a dress. This dress had once been decorated with the silver buttons Mr. Bartlett had given her, but Florinda had cut them off and given them to Doña Manuela. For to Florinda’s amazement, Doña Manuela had said she would rather have the silver buttons than the aquamarine ring. She had a lot of rings, but she did not have any buttons like these. Florinda was at first incredulous, for the giant aquamarine was worth so much more money than the buttons. She found it hard to understand that Doña Manuela, who had passed her whole life amid unlimited abundance, rarely thought of the money value of anything.

Florinda was telling Isabel to put the dress away until she had a chance to buy some new buttons at Mr. Abbott’s, and meanwhile there was a basket of clothes on the back porch to be laundered. Isabel went out to look them over. On the floor Stephen began to whimper, so Garnet took him upstairs for a nap. From the saloon, Silky called Mickey to come and wash off the bar.

Florinda and the Handsome Brute were left alone in the kitchen. The Handsome Brute had eaten all the meat off the joint he was holding. He put the bone into the fire and spoke to Florinda, who sat on the wall-bench arranging the articles in her workbasket.

“Please, may I have some wine?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” she said tolerantly. “Don’t you ever get enough of anything?”

“It takes a lot to keep up my strength,” said the Brute. Bringing a bottle from the shelf, he sat down on the floor in front of her, his legs bent and one arm across his knees while he held the neck of the bottle in his other hand. He took a drink. “This is very good. I suppose you have not tried it.”

Florinda was sticking the needles into the flannel leaves of her needle-case, in tidy rows according to size. “No,” she said, “I haven’t tried it.”

“Why don’t you ever take wine?” asked the Brute.

“Because it makes me act like a lunatic. And by the way, my little squashblossom, I don’t like people who ask smart questions.”

“Oh, but you like me,” said the Brute.

“Really? You think so?”

“Why yes. In fact, you like me very much.”

“Dear me,” said Florinda, “it’s nice to be satisfied.” She folded her needle-case, tied the ribbon that kept it closed, and began sorting the spools of thread in her basket.

There was a flicker of mischief in the Brute’s eyes. “Shall I tell you why you like me?” he asked.

“If you want to. I’m not what you might call dying of curiosity.”

“You like me,” the Brute said coolly, “because I have never told you how beautiful you were or asked you to spend a night with me.”

For an instant Florinda was startled into silence. She stared at him, and the Brute took another drink.

“That’s a fact, you know,” he said. “Only I don’t believe you ever thought of it yourself, did you?”

Florinda sighed as she might have sighed at an exasperating child. She was not angry; she rarely lost her temper, and anyway, it was almost impossible to be angry with anybody who looked so beguiling and so innocent.

“The only men you have any respect for,” the Brute continued, “are the men who do not make love to you. You are beautiful, of course,” he went on smiling, “your eyes and your hair and your skin and the shape of you, and you can be fascinating when you want to be, which you usually do, and men adore you. You like that. But you do not like
them
.”

Florinda gazed at him with wonder at his audacity. “Well, I’ll be shot for a jackrabbit,” she murmured.

The Brute smiled wisely. “Most of those men, you do not even remember their names. There are so many of them and they are so easy. But the men you like—I do not know who they were in New York, but in California they are John and Silky and me and Texas and Mr. Kerridge. Now that is true, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, you big ape. I never thought about it, and I never saw anybody in my life who had such an absolute lack of manners. But go on. Tell me some more.”

“You are interested?”

“Certainly. So few men ever tell me things I haven’t heard before.”

“But that is what I am explaining to you,” said the Brute. “The men who tell you the same things you have heard so often, you have no respect for them. The men you respect are the men who have noticed that you are a particular person who is you. When you prefer such men as I am, it is like saying to us, thank you for noticing me. Not just my eyes and hair and figure, but me.” He was looking up at her with an adorable candor. “Now that is true, isn’t it?”

Florinda was laughing, half abashed and half amused. “I don’t know, Brute, really I don’t. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course it is true,” said the Brute.

There was a pause. Florinda looked him up and down. After a while she shook her head with a musing disapproval. “I don’t believe I’m quite comfortable around untutored savages,” she said. “Nobody ever taught them anything so they have to go seeing for themselves, and they see too much.”

The Brute chuckled softly.

“How big is your rancho?” asked Florinda.

“Nine leagues.”

“Stop talking Mexican. How big in acres?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know anything, do you?”

“Not much,” the Brute said meekly.

“Well, anyway, the rancho is big enough to hold you. It was very kind of you to bring us to Los Angeles, but we won’t try to keep you from your work. Go on home.”

“I am going in a few days. First I want to find out what ships have been in port at San Diego. I keep up with the ships, you know, so when a Russian fur-ship touches at this coast I can get on it and go back to St. Petersburg.”