Summer of Pearls (17 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Summer of Pearls
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When I saw her coming, I fought an urge to turn and run. I could face Cecil Peavy in a fistfight every day of the week, but I was sure scared of girls.
“Hi, Ben,” she said in her cheerful, self-assured drawl.
I returned the greeting and looked away, nervously only risking glances at her. Our conversation consisted mainly of her asking me questions and me grunting affirmative or negative.
“Daddy said to tell you those hogs was good eatin'.”
I shrugged modestly. “A little tough. We should have fattened them longer.” I was wondering when she wanted her boat ride, but I wasn't about to just come out and ask her. That seemed so forward I was afraid she might slap me.
“When are you going to give me that ride in your boat?” she asked, as if reading my mind.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Why not right now?”
Now? In the dark? Alone on the lake with Cindy? I was dumb- . founded. It wasn't a bad idea, though. It was a very dark night. I wouldn't have to worry about looking stupid if she couldn't see me. Not a bad idea at all.
“Well?”
“All right,” I said. “Come on.”
That Cindy was a natural talker, which was lucky for me because my brain could hardly form a single word. She talked about everything from pearls to watermelons as we walked to my bateau on the lakeshore. She waded in ankle-deep and got in the bow, holding my arm to steady herself as she stepped in. I waded deeper and climbed over the gunnel to my seat in the stern.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked.
“Oh, I don't care. Just paddle around.”
I slid my bateau out onto the lake with a powerful stroke of the paddle. Cindy's voice flowed like running water—a strange and beautiful sound to a boy from the bayou. The lights from the party came at us like skipping stones, leaving long trails as they clipped the wave tops. The sounds of the people droned with the singing bullfrogs. Out on the water, a warm breeze blew just stiff enough to keep the mosquitoes off of us. I didn't know how much Cindy knew about boats, so I stayed in water shallow enough to wade in. I didn't want her falling out and drowning.
“Do you like me, Ben?” she asked suddenly, in the middle of a soliloquy on something unrelated.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Do you think I talk too much?”
“No.”
“My brother says I talk too much. Sometimes my daddy says I talk too much, too. I like you, too.”
I made a big circle in Goose Prairie Cove and let Cindy talk all she wanted. When I figured she had had enough of a ride, I took her back to the shore near Esau's place and helped her out.
“That was fun,” she said. “You can take me again some time, if you want to. Do you want to?”
“Sure,” I said, pushing the bateau onto the shore.
She held my hand as we waded to dry land and I felt a delirium I had never experienced. I wanted to grab her right there and put my hands all over her just to see what she was made of, but I remembered what Billy had said.
We stopped together a few steps from the water and turned toward each other. “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked, smooth as honey. I didn't get to answer, because the next thing I knew, her lips were on mine.
I never have put much stock in beginner's luck. That Cindy from Longview had done some kissing before. I know girls come by some seductions naturally, but she had practiced on somebody else before me.
I remember thinking how foolish I had been to misinterpret that peck Carol Anne had given me on the forehead weeks before. That was nothing compared to what Cindy was doing to me now. Even when I closed my eyes, I saw stars. But like everything else in the summer of pearls, it was too good to last long.
“Ciiindyyy!”
I heard her mother's long, siren call from the camp party. Cindy's lips broke from mine. She had both hands on my face, but my arms were paralyzed against my sides. I was afraid to move them, thinking that if I went to grabbing at her, I might not be able to stop.
“I have to go,” she said. “Mama's callin'.” She turned and ran like a sprite toward the camp lights. “See you tomorrow!”
It was all very overwhelming. She wanted to see me again. Tomorrow.
I hadn't done anything stupid. I hadn't scared her off or made her mad. Maybe Billy had something. Maybe I really could learn to be a gentleman after all.
I left a good portion of who and what I was right there on the lakeshore that night. I can still show you the spot where it happened, and I can almost recall the feeling that numbed me for days and nights afterward.
There are moments you anticipate in life. Many of them disappoint you when they finally come. Others exceed your most fanciful expectations. That first kiss of mine at Goose Prairie Cove changed me. It confused and enlightened me. It fulfilled me, yet left me desperately longing.
Life was going to get complicated again, but I knew one thing for certain after that night. Ben Crowell was going to become a gentleman. He wouldn't be fourteen forever.
HENRY COLTON GOT HIS FIRST LOOK AT THE GOOSE PRAIRIE PEARL CAMPS
from Port Caddo Road. It was midmorning and getting hot. He stopped in the shade of a pine and mopped his neck with a handkerchief as a few hopeful tourist pearl-hunters walked past. He thought Chicago had been hot when he left, but this place was suffocating. He suddenly understood more clearly the lure of a hunt that drew its participants into the water.
He sat at the base of the tall loblolly pine to observe the activities down at the lake. He knew virtually nothing about pearl-hunting. Dozens of wagons and scores of tents dotted the lakeshore for as many miles as he could see. Hundreds of campers milled about on the shore, and. hundreds more appeared as heads bobbing on the lake surface.
The coach from town rattled by him. It made a constant circuit of the pearl camps for those who didn't want to walk to or from Port Caddo. He shook his head in amazement. He had seen people get this excited over gold and silver, but never over pearls. He checked his pocket, as he had done a hundred times each day since leaving Chicago,
to make sure the little coin purse was still there. It was.
After watching for a while, he figured out that no one mode of pearl-hunting predominated. There were almost as many methods as pearl-hunters. That was a relief. It would be easy to fit in. This job was going to be a regular holiday.
Colton finally got up and sauntered down to the lake. He sat down on a drifted log and continued his observations. The men and boys who came out of the water had mud between their toes and under their toenails, so he knew the waders were feeling for the mussels with their feet. A pair of men about fifty yards out in the cove were throwing their mussels into a skiff. Another fellow, without a boat, opened his with a knife as he found them.
Colton caught some familiar motion in the corner of his eye. Looking to his right, he saw a dark-skinned man—the man whose movements had attracted his attention—loafing in the shade of a mulberry with a couple of companions. The man looked to be Indian, but had short hair. There was a shack there. Something familiar about it, too. No, he had never been to Caddo Lake before, but that shack represented something he knew well. What was it?
Turning back to the cove, he observed a man lying on his stomach in a skiff. To keep the sun from scorching, the skiff had a wagon sheet fixed to it on bows, like a prairie schooner. The man propelled himself through the shallow water with his hands. Occasionally he scooped a mussel shell from the mud and threw it over his shoulder into the covered skiff.
Colton shook his head. These pearl-hunters were a strange bunch of—
There was that distinct motion again! This time he glanced quick enough to see the old Indian reaching for the flask in his pocket. Ah, now he recognized the shack. Saloon. He had enjoyed better from Denver to San Francisco, but he had survived far worse in a hundred cow towns and mining camps.
A right handy saloon would make this vacation all the more endurable. Besides, he had to blend in. If the pearl-hunters were drinkers,
well, he had better take an occasional snort, too. His bosses had told him to curb his vices or find other employment, but they didn't understand how it was in the field.
He licked his lips. True, it was early. If he started now, he'd stay drunk all day. The old Indian reached for the pocket flask again, as if to goad him. Better watch that muscular fellow next to the Indian. Those beady little squint-eyes meant trouble. Seen that look before. Pure meanness.
A trio of boys beached a skiff and began lugging kegs up to the saloon. Whiskey? No, drinking water. The kegs were heavy, but the boys handled them well. It was routine to them. He remembered being adrift at their age—Illinois to California. It was a wonder he had survived those years.
He found himself surveying the saloon again. After all, there was no hurry. The pearl-buyer wasn't even around. He had a description of Brigginshaw. A man that size would be hard to miss. Get acquainted with the drinkers first. Might learn something. He got up and sauntered casually toward the shack.
By noon, Henry Colton was somewhat drunk and very hungry. “Where's a man eat around here?” he asked.
“We'll fry some fish directly,” Esau said. He heard Billy's buckboard rattling down Port Caddo Road. “Or you can buy some cold meats and stuff from the wagon.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder without looking.
“That sounds good,” Colton said. He checked the purse in his pocket as he rose. He noticed the beady-eyed man sneering at the approaching wagon.
The wagon drew a crowd when it pulled up. Colton thought he recognized the driver from the Treat Inn. Popular fellow. Everybody had a smile for him, and a kind word or two.
“Aren't you the cook at the Treat inn?” he asked as he paid Billy for his lunch.
“I am.”
Colton congratulated himself. Drink, he believed, actually sharpened his mind for observations, even if it did slow his reflexes a little,
and skew his judgments. Nothing to worry about on this job, though. Strictly routine. He retired to the shade of the mulberry with his food.
While eating his lunch, Colton saw a rowboat enter the cove from the main part of the lake. A black man pulled the oars, dwarfed by a huge bearded fellow who stood in the bow like George Washington crossing the Delaware. He had one hand on a pistol butt and the other wrapped around the handle of a satchel. That's where the money is, Colton thought. And the pearls.
The trace chains jerked on the supply wagon. Colton turned in time to see the driver wave. He followed the man's gaze out onto the lake. Brigginshaw removed the hand from his pistol grip and returned the salutation to the wagon driver. Friends. Interesting.
You're good, Colton. You don't miss anything.
“Pearl!” The cry came from the cove. “Over here, Captain!”
Brigginshaw's oarsman dipped the blades and wheeled the rowboat, propelling it easily toward the pearl-hunter in the water. As he chewed his cold ham and biscuits, Colton pulled his hat low over his eyes and watched the man in the white suit and panama. The oarsman held the boat beside the pearl-hunter, who handed Brigginshaw something over the gunnel. The buyer inspected the specimen and spoke to the hunter. Making an offer, Colton surmised. The hunter groused for a while, but finally nodded.
Colton narrowed his eyes against the glare and watched carefully. The Australian opened the satchel. He removed a small black case in which he placed the new pearl. Now the glint of a gold coin came from the satchel. Brigginshaw pressed it in the pearl-hunter's hand, inside the gunnels, so the hunter couldn't blame him if it fell into the water. Then the big man reached into the satchel again. He pulled out the notebook. Colton watched closely as the Australian made an entry with a pencil drawn from his jacket.
There it is, he thought. The entire procedure. This was going to be easy. Just figure out a way to separate Captain Brigginshaw from his satchel. Even for thirty seconds. How difficult could that be?
He finished his lunch and had Esau fill his jar with whiskey again. He watched as the buyer made two more purchases out in the cove.
Same routine. The pearl, the money, the entry in the ledger book. Finally the captain had his oarsman pull for the shore.
The muscular, beady-eyed man got up. “See you later, Esau,” he said.
“Where you goin', Kelso?” the old Indian replied, smirking a little.
“To take a shit and name it Brigginshaw.”,
The Indian smiled and winked at Colton.
It was the slowest wink Colton had ever seen. “What was that all about?” he asked when Kelso got far enough away.
“Fight a few weeks ago. Captain Brigginshaw hurt him pretty bad.”
Colton nodded and watched the big Australian consume the lakeshore in huge strides. He lifted his panama and smiled warmly as he approached the mulberry.
“Good day, my Choctaw friend. Gentlemen.”
“Hello, Captain,” Esau said.
“Mr. Kelso's not feeling sociable today?” The Australian's laughter shook the mulberry leaves.
Colton was thinking: Let's see how much this big man will stand for. “He said he was going to take a shit and name it after you.”
“Did he, now? And who are you, mate?”
“Henry Colton. Just drifted down from Indian Territory. Heard about the pearl rush.” He stood and offered Brigginshaw his hand. The Australian shook it and smiled. He was big and strong, with a heart to match. Good-natured, but be careful. As the Indian said, he hurt that Kelso fellow pretty bad. He hadn't loosed his hold on the satchel yet.
“Captain Trevor Price Brigginshaw. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Colton.”
“Oh, don't ‘mister' me. It's Henry to my friends.”
“Thinking of doing some pearl-hunting, Henry?”
“I don't know. What are my chances of finding a pearl here?”
“In the bottom of a whiskey jar? Not good, mate.” His laughter boomed into the pines. “Not good at all!”
Colton slapped his knee and laughed along. “Well, how much do you give for a pearl?”
“That depends on many things. Could be anywhere from twenty-five
dollars an ounce for dust pearls to eight hundred dollars for a single specimen. I bought a fine drop pearl for three hundred this morning on the North Shore. Isn't that right, Giff?”
Brigginshaw's black oarsman had come up beside him after tending to the boat. “Whatever you say, Captain.”
“How many have you bought in all?” Colton asked.
“Today?”
“No, I mean since the rush started.”
“Good God! Thousands!”
“My goodness. How do you keep track of them all?”
The captain patted his satchel. “I carry my office everywhere I go. Pearls, money, and records.” He hitched his coattail behind his pistol grip. “And security, as well.”
“Mind if I look at your record book? See what pearls are selling for? Might help me make up my mind whether or not I want to hunt for 'em.”
The Australian shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Colton,” he said firmly. “All sales must remain confidential.”
“Now, don't ‘mister' me, I told you. It's Henry to you, Captain.”
“And Trevor to you, Henry. You might as well try your luck for a few days. You'll earn drinking money even if you don't get rich.” He looked at his oarsman. “Take a rest, Giff. I'm going to walk through the camps.”
“Yes, sir,” Giff said, sitting on the ground against the trunk of the mulberry.
When Brigginshaw had walked beyond earshot, Colton looked at the black man and said, “Hey, boy. How about that fellow out there in the water? The one the captain bought the pearl from when you first rowed him into the cove. How much did he get?”
“Captain said that's nobody's business,” Giff replied. “He said keep my mouth shut. He don't tell nobody what them pearls sell for.”
“But you know.”
Giff shrugged. “Sometimes I hear. Other times he don't even say out loud. Just write it down on paper and show the pearl-hunters and they say deal or no deal.”
“But you can see the book when he writes in it.”
“Can't read noways,” Giff said.
Colton took a long draw from the whiskey jar and watched Brigginshaw deal for pearls at a camp a hundred yards away. “Does he really keep all those pearls in that leather case?”
“Safest place he knows,” Esau said.
Colton whistled. “Is he crazy? I heard in the Indian Territory that some outlaw gang was hiding out down here: Christmas so-and-so.”
“Christmas Nelson,” Esau said. “The captain ain't scared of them. He sleeps with them pearls in his bed, he says. I'd hate to try to steal 'em from him.”
“I'd hate it, too,” Colton said, grinning. “I'd hate the hell out of it!”
 
 
He wandered through the pearling camps that afternoon, asking pearl-hunters how much they had received for their finds. Their claims varied widely. He couldn't rely on them. The information would be of little use. He needed specifics. Checking the coin purse in his pocket, he drifted back to Esau's saloon to enjoy a few more drinks before returning to the Treat Inn for supper.
Near sundown, the mosquitoes began their forays, and Colton, now quite intoxicated, strode uncertainly back toward Port Caddo. As the afternoon wore on, he had thought more and more of the woman he had seen at the Treat Inn when he registered the night before. A real bayou belle. Maybe he would look her up tonight. He had thought it useless to approach her last night, sober. But now he had the cocksureness of a drunk. How could she resist him?
He arrived just as supper was being served, found an empty table in the corner, and sat down. Billy came out of the kitchen carrying four plates, which he delivered to another table. Colton caught his eye and waved.

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