Margaret Brownley (29 page)

Noel cooed as she changed him, and then nursed hungrily at her breasts.

After attending to his physical needs, she carried him out to join Macao, but the room was empty and there was no sign of him anywhere outside. She hated having to bother Logan again, but she had no choice. After wrapping Noel in a blanket, she donned her shawl and slipped out the door.

The sun was just beginning to spread its warmth across the valley. A bird warbled from a treetop, filling the clear morning air with its lovely sweet song. Compelled to act as normal as possible, she resisted the urge to quicken her steps.

Logan’s door opened before she knocked and she wondered if he had been watching for her. Or had he simply sensed her presence as she had so often sensed his? “He’s gone.”

Logan stepped outside to glance up and down the street before hustling her inside and firmly bolting the door shut.

“He was afraid his presence here would cause problems for Noel and me.”

“I’m afraid he’s right.”

“This is terrible! All this hatred.”

“I don’t suppose you have to worry about hatred in Boston.”

Libby placed Noel on the table and moved the blanket away from his face. “I wish that were true.” She felt a guilty start at the realization that she’d never given the matter much thought in the past. She’d heard talk in the elegant parlors and at the fancy dress balls, heard the hatred directed at the Italians who had recently flooded the city. Still, she’d not considered the implications or thought to take a stand. “I’m afraid Boston has its own prejudices.”

Logan folded his arms across his chest. “Why, Libby, I can’t believe my ears. You can’t mean it. Calico Corners has something in common with Boston?”

“Don’t make light of this, Logan. This is too serious. Would you watch Noel while I go to Chinatown? I’ve got to know if Macao’s all right.”

He grabbed her arm. “I can’t let you do that. It could be dangerous and you have Noel to think about.”

“Are you saying I would be a better mother to Noel if I stay here and do nothing to help a person in need?”

He released her and turned to stare at the fire, his hand on the mantel. “I’ll go.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

He turned his head to meet her gaze. “You didn’t.”
 

During the next week Logan made nightly trips to the wooden shanties that clung to the hills above Calico Corners in the area known as Chinatown.

After each visit Libby insisted he give her a full report on Macao’s condition. What he told her varied little from one night to the next. The wound was healing with no sign of infection. For the most part Macao seemed to have regained his strength.

At first Libby received his reports with relief and thanksgiving, but gradually she grew uneasy and suspected that Logan was holding something back. Logan denied it, and she decided it was only her imagination. But when he appeared on her doorstep late that Friday night, he looked troubled.

While Logan warmed himself by the fire she poured him a cup of coffee. She then sat down on the hearth next to his feet and braced herself for the bad news she was certain he’d come to tell her.

“Logan?’

He regarded her solemnly. Not even the light from the fire could chase away the shadow of worry at his brow.

“He has no feeling in his right arm.”

For a moment she stared at him in relieved silence.

Compared to the fate she’d imagined, this was encouraging news. Macao was still alive and that’s what counted, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Logan would never understand.

In the short time she’d known Logan, she’d come to realize that a trapper prizes physical strength and endurance above all else. She understood this, at least in part. An injured leg—or in Macao’s case, an injured arm—could make the difference between life and death in the wilds.

She also knew that, unlike Logan, Macao was a man of the soul. While Logan communed with nature, Macao tapped into the spiritual world. While Logan heeded the wind, Macao took counsel from his long departed ancestors. His physical being held little or no significance to him.

Still, Logan looked so depressed, she probed for more. “Is…is there anything else?’

“Isn’t that enough?” he asked bitterly, and she knew he was thinking of his own leg. Regretting her careless words, she laid her hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean that like is sounded. But knowing Macao…”

As if regretting his brusqueness, he covered her hand with his own and nodded. “He lacks spirit. He does nothing but sit and stare. He keeps saying that he’s going home horizontally.”

Libby frowned. “He thinks he’s going to die?”

“I’m afraid so. And you know for a Chinese man, to die on foreign soil is the worst possible fate.”

Libby closed her eyes and felt a strange kinship with Macao. She knew how it felt to be deprived of home and loved ones, to be so consumed by homesickness that it was almost impossible to perform the normal duties of everyday life.

“Do
you
think he’s going to die?”

“Maybe we should pray about it.”

Surprised, she studied him and nodded.  His hand covered hers and together they bowed their heads. Logan said the
Lord’s Prayer
like they did in church and Libby added her own words at the end. “Please, God, watch over Macao.  Help him find a way home.  Amen.”

Logan squeezed her hand tight. “Amen.”

Long after Logan left Libby sat in front of the fire reading the Bible. She found the answer she sought in 1 Peter 4:10. 
As every man has received the gift, even so administer the same one to another
. She closed the Good Book and stared at the slow burning log.
Every man, eh, God?
  

Maybe, just maybe, she had the answer to her prayer.

*****

The Golden Hind was packed to capacity that Saturday night. The men were growing restless and bored. The weather had turned cold again and temperatures had dipped below freezing. The ground was frozen up at the diggings and the mines had produced slim pickings.

Logan sat in a corner by himself. He wasn’t there to gamble or indulge in other vices. He craved the company, poor as it was. Anything was better than his lonely cabin. It wasn’t easy living a saintly life but if that’s what it took to be a proper godfather, then that’s what it took.

So no more gambling, no more whiskey, except for medicinal purposes. He would continue to attend church on Sundays as long as he was in town, and he would keep plowing through the Bible the preacher gave him, even though he didn’t understand everything he read.

His thoughts turned to Macao. The man grew more listless with each passing day. Logan had purposely avoided stopping at Libby’s house earlier that evening. He hadn’t wanted to tell her that her friend had stopped eating altogether, and that his already slender frame had been reduced to mere bones.

“You gonna sit there like a bump on the log?” Sharkey called. He baited Logan with a deck of cards. They were the thin Spanish cards that Logan preferred. The Golden Hind was the only place in town that used these particular cards

“No, thank you,” Logan said.

Beaker made a face. “You’re no fun, anymore.” He shuffled the cards.

Benjamin Jacobs walked up to the table.

“Mind dealing me in?’

The look on Beaker’s face told Logan he wasn’t alone in disliking the man

“Aren’t you on guard duty tonight?” Beaker asked.

Benjamin lifted a corner of his mouth as if he relished the thought. “From midnight till dawn.”

“How many chinks you gonna git tonight?” a man called from one of the other tables and laughed.

Benjamin yanked out a chair and sat down. “Many as I kin,” he replied.

Logan curled his hands into fists. Why the—

A buzz of excitement rose behind him.

Sharkey’s voice cut through the murmur. “Why, look who’s come to visit us.”

Big Sam turned from the rowdy group at the bar and shouted, “Why, if it’s not Miz Libby.”

Logan swung around in his chair to see for himself. “What in tarnation—”

Seemingly oblivious to the attention she was drawing, Libby whispered something in McGuire’s ear. Thornton stood by her side holding Noel straight out in front of him like he was holding a butter churn dasher.

Big Sam cursed and stormed across the room, waving his arms about his body like a broken windmill. “What did I tell you ‘bout holding a baby? Where’s the center of gravity?”

He reached for Noel and demonstrated, cupping the baby’s head in his powerful black hand as he pointed to the baby’s middle. He glared at Thornton. “The center, you jackass!”

Meanwhile, McGuire walked to the middle of the empty dance floor. “Gentlemen,” he said grandly, hooking his thumbs into his bright red suspenders. “The lady requests ya undivided attention.”

“The lady always has me undivided attention,” one of the miners yelled. This was followed by loud hoots and hollers.

Libby walked to the center of the dance floor. “Thank you.” She waited for the crowd to settle down before she continued in a clear voice. “The reason I’m here is because I’m taking up a collection for a very worthy cause. One of my friends, a gentlemen by the name of Macao, wants to go back to his homeland.”

Logan groaned. Fool woman! Didn’t she know the danger she was putting herself in? The miners pretty near worshiped Libby and her son. But whether the men’s affection for Libby outweighed their hatred for foreigners was anybody’s guess.

Logan leaned forward, ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.

Libby continued.“I would be most grateful for any donations to this very worthy cause.” She paused a moment and let her gaze travel from one man to the other, beseeching as many as was possible by way of a sweeping glance. “I know from experience how very generous all of you are. I come to you tonight as a friend.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he watched her. She couldn’t have looked more cheerfully unconcerned if she were asking for bids at a box-lunch social!

Logan glared at Thornton. Why hadn’t he stopped her? He had to know the danger she was putting herself in.

Following her appeal, a tense silence filled the room. The kind of silence that precedes trouble.

Across from Logan, Benjamin Jacobs, the man responsible for Macao’s injuries, flicked the extended handle of his mustache with a finger.

Logan decided to act before things got out of hand. He swung his stiff leg around and stood. Although he spoke to the crowd, his gaze was on Libby. “I think the lady has a splendid idea. I say that ten percent of any winnings should go to the cause.”

Jacobs looked meaner than a rattler as he turned to object. But before he could speak his mind, McGuire piped up. “Ah feel lucky tonight. What could ten percent hurt?”
Big Sam, satisfied that Noel’s center of gravity was being properly considered, gave an enthusiastic nod. “Winning always put me in a charitable mood.”

Sharkey let out a loud guffaw. “I guess that explains why Big Sam ain’t too char’table. He pretty near nev’r wins!”

This brought a round of laughter from the others. Logan relaxed as the tension left the air. He sat down and gave Benjamin a mocking look. “What about you, Jacobs? How’s your luck running tonight?”

While the cards were being dealt, Libby walked from table to table to personally thank each of the miners.

Shakespeare beamed when she planted a kiss on his forehead and wished him luck.

She thanked Logan with a dazzling smile and at that moment he felt like he was sitting on top of the world.

Her gaze turned to Benjamin and her smile faded. Obviously she knew he had put the bullet in Macao. Logan sat forward, hand on his gun, and a hush settled over the room. It was as if no one dare breathe.

Then Libby did something that stunned Logan, stunned everyone, even Benjamin. She offered him her hand. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Jacobs,” she said in a firm, clear voice.

Benjamin was so disconcerted by the unexpected gesture he pretty near swallowed his tobacco. He looked around the room before taking her offered hand.

By the time Libby and Thornton left the saloon, practically every miner in the place was ready to donate the very shirt off his back to the cause.

The men resumed their positions around the game tables. Each miner was convinced that Libby had brought him luck and the bids began to escalate as the competition grew.

Logan watched Benjamin sort his hand, surprised that the man responsible for shooting Macao continued to remain at the table.

“You understand, don’t you, that ten percent of your winnings will go to send the man you shot back home?”

Benjamin gave Logan a penetrating look. “Too bad I’m feeling unlucky tonight.”

“I think maybe we can change your luck,” Logan said. He picked up the deck of cards and gave them his best shuffle. He then dealt them out.