Wilderness Double Edition 15, page 23
“Less than an hour” was Milhouse’s guess.
Presently they came to a junction, one of many lacking signs to identify which street was which. The trapper reined up and scratched his chin awhile. “If I recollect correctly, one of these will take us down to the bawdy house we’re huntin’ for.”
“We are?” Lou said. No one had mentioned to her anything about visiting a house of ill repute. “I thought you knew right where Festerman lives.”
“The general area,” Milhouse said. “In one of about sixty mansions. We could go door to door, if that’s what you want. Shouldn’t take more than a month of Sundays. Or we can ask at the fanciest den of iniquity he owns.”
“It’ll be open this late?”
Milhouse found the question amusing. “Nighttime is when folks do stuff they’re too afraid to do in broad daylight for fear of being caught. Bawdy houses do their best business after the sun goes down. They usually stay open until dawn.”
Lou had never been in one before, but she had been curious about the goings-on since she first heard about them when she was ten or twelve. Asking her parents had been out of the question. Her mother, bless her soul, held no truck with fallen doves. And her father thought it sinful to even mention the word “bawdy.” It had been her cousins on her father’s side, Uncle Thomas’s girls, Ethel and Gladys, who liked to speculate about things decent girls weren’t supposed to. Especially Ethel, the oldest, who always had a naughty streak and brought her ma and pa no end of misery from her shenanigans.
More and more pedestrians appeared. Men and women, many arm in arm. Carriages became common. So did streetlamps.
Zach hadn’t seen much of St. Louis after sunset on his previous visit. Being a small boy at the time had a lot to do with it; his ma had made him go to bed by eight. So when Milhouse turned into another street lit from end to end and crammed with a flowing stream of humanity, Zach was dazzled. So much activity at so late an hour. He wouldn’t admit as much, but the boundless energy of his father’s people never failed to amaze him. Whites were always on the go, always doing this or that. Most couldn’t stand to sit still for more than two minutes. They thrived on keeping busy. On chaos.
In comparison, Shoshones valued peace and tranquility above all else. Yes, the warriors liked to go on raids and count coup, but village life was by and large a quiet existence, where order and harmony were valued above all else.
Many a day Zach had wondered how it was the whites and Indians were so different. In many respects they were utter opposites. Was it because of the blood in their veins, or the manner in which they were brought up? He’d asked his pa once, but all his father would say was, “What people have in common is more important than what sets them apart.”
His father was like that. Always looking for the best in people. Always willing to lend a helping hand, to give others the benefit of the doubt. A number of times his pa’s trusting nature had nearly gotten them wiped out. Zach still vividly remembered when his father saved two New Yorkers from hostiles and brought them home to recover. They recovered, all right, and then tried to slaughter the family.
Zach had been alone with his baby sister when one of them tried to break into the cabin. It was the scariest night of his young life, but it taught him an important lesson. He should never, ever trust anyone until they showed they were worthy of it. Or, as the mountaineers liked to say, “Keep an open mind, but keep your gun handy.”
George Milhouse was slanting toward a hitch rail. “We’re walking from here on out?” Zach asked, uneasy at mingling with the throng.
“There’s the place we want,” the trapper said.
He referred to a three story building, painted yellow and garishly lit, like a land-bound steamboat. On balconies overlooking the street, attractive women in tight dresses paraded and called down to likely customers to entice them inside.
Zach dismounted and tied the dun. He was braced for unfriendly looks and insults, but no one gave him a second glance. Here he was, a half-breed adrift in a sea of whites, and it merited no interest. A closer scrutiny revealed why.
St. Louis was a boiling pot, a city where men from different countries and different cultures freely mixed. Spaniards, Frenchmen, Americans, Indians, they were all there, and not one was trying to kill the other.
It amazed Zach, for never in a million years would the Blackfeet, the Crows, the Sioux, and the Utes do the same. They had been at war too long to ever bury the lance. Once again, the whites were different. Not all that long ago America and France had been at war, and France and Spain had also been in conflict. Yet here they were, men of different nationalities, treating each other as friendly as you please.
Lou glued herself to her sweetheart’s elbow. She was surprised to find herself feeling frightened by the swirling press of countless people. Yet this was just what she had looked forward to on the long ride across the prairie. To being back in civilization. To the thrill of city life. She blamed her nervousness on her ordeal at the dress shop. What else could it be?
George Milhouse shouldered toward the yellow building. “I’d recommend the two of you stay outside. I’m an old hand at this. It shouldn’t take long.”
“We’d better stick together,” Zach said. He’d learned his lesson with Lou. Until he counted coup on Lon Festerman, he wasn’t letting the trapper out of his sight.
Milhouse had to raise his voice to be heard. “You’d both attract too much attention. Surely you don’t want them to notice your gal, do you?”
“They won’t lay a finger on her.”
“Is that so? Need I remind you that you’re only one person? Festerman has enough cutthroats on his payroll to start a small war.”
A short flight of steps brought them to a wide porch where more painted women paraded. Milhouse stopped and grasped Zach’s wrist. “Listen to me, son. Please. Wait here.”
Zach refused to give in. He was confident they could pull it off. Then the gaudy glass doors opened and a pair of hawk-faced men armed with a brace of pistols stepped out, broad shoulder to broad shoulder. They rooted themselves, the powerfully built one on the right extending his palm.
“Hold it right there, gramps. Where do you three misfits think you’re going?”
George Milhouse chortled and wagged his walking stick. “I’m treatin’ myself to a night on the town. At my age I don’t get the hankerin’ very often, so I’d be obliged if you’d step aside before the urge passes.”
Neither man moved. “What about them?” demanded the one on the right, indicating Zach and Louisa.
“What about ’em? They’re with me.”
“Think again, gramps. No Indians allowed.”
“Who says so?”
“Can’t you read?” The man pointed at a large sign on the wall.
Lou had already seen it. The establishment was known as The Gilded Lily. Patrons were required to behave like gentlemen. No chewing tobacco was allowed on the premises. No spitting on the floors, no striking the ladies, no rowdy behavior. And in bold letters at the bottom no blacks, Indians or dogs permitted inside.
Milhouse’s lips moved as he read. When he was done, he declared, “Tarnation, mister! My friend here isn’t an Indian. He’s half white.”
“If you say so,” the man responded. “But he looks like a redskin. So he doesn’t get to go in.”
Zach would have torn into both of them, but Lou placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“There’s a place down the street called Lowe’s. It caters to blacks and ’breeds,” the man said.
Milhouse thoughtfully plucked at his beard. “But I can still go in, can’t I?”
“Sure. You’re white enough. Have fun, old man. Ask for Happy Harriet. She likes to frolic under the sheets with wrinkled coots like you. Claims it’s less wear and tear.”
Laughing, the pair went back inside, taking up posts on either side of the entrance. Milhouse laughed, too, but as soon as the doors swung shut, he turned to Zach and Lou. “Damned upstarts! There was a time when I’d have bashed in both their noggins without breathin’ hard.” Curling a finger, he moved to one side. “We’re not licked. I’ll find out what we need to know. You two stick close.”
“How long will you be?” Zach asked.
The trapper smirked. “I can’t rightly say. It depends on Happy Harriet. I might need to poke around a bit.” Milhouse chucked. “Get it? Poke around a bit? I sure am a caution sometimes.”
“You mean ask questions?” Lou said.
Milhouse looked at her, then at Zach, and sighed. “Downright pitiful. Why, when I was your age, I—” Catching himself, he hobbled toward the glass doors. “Just do me a favor. Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone. Find a nice, quiet spot to wait.” One of the men opened a door for him, and he plastered a smile on his face. “Why, thank you, sir! Now, can you direct me to the dove you mentioned? She’s in for the treat of her life.”
“I don’t like this,” Zach said, watching as the trapper was led across a plush parlor toward a cluster of waiting lovelies. Any delays were unacceptable. They had to track down Festerman before Festerman tracked them down.
“Mr. Milhouse knows what’s best,” Lou said, clasping his hand. “Let’s stick close to the horses. We don’t want them stolen again.”
At the end of the bottom step nearest the hitch rail they sat to wait. Zach was in a funk and couldn’t stop fidgeting. Nothing had gone right since they arrived in St. Louis, just as he’d known would happen. They’d have been better off staying in the Rockies. The wilderness could be treacherous at times, but nowhere near as treacherous as so-called civilization. He stared glumly at the flow of passersby, regarding all of them as potential enemies.
Lou was having second thoughts about their plan. Slaying Lon Festerman might put them in more trouble than they already were. She was all for forgetting the whole thing and going to find her relatives, but there was a fly in the ointment. They couldn’t very well desert George Milhouse. The old man had put his life at risk on their account. They owed it to him to do what they could.
“I wish we’d never left home,” Zach commented.
“And what about my aunt and uncles?” Lou said. “After all the bother they’ve gone to, was I supposed to ignore their letter?”
“You have me and my family,” Zach said. “We’re your kin now. You don’t need anyone else.”
“A person can’t turn their back on their past. I bet you couldn’t leave your ma and pa for good.”
“Ma and Pa, no. But Evelyn ...” Zach’s younger sister had been a thorn in his side since he could remember. She delighted in taunting him, in making his life miserable. How someone who had been such a cute, cuddly baby could grow up to be such a holy terror was beyond him.
“You love her and you know it,” Lou said. “Brothers and sisters always squabble. I never had a sibling, but my cousins were always at each other’s throats when we were little. You should be thankful you have her.”
“I’m thankful I don’t have two sisters. One is bad enough. Any more, and I’d go live with the Shoshones.” Zach always aimed to do that one day anyway. His dream had been to become a prominent warrior, one whose word in council was highly respected. But then Louisa came along. Now his dream was to have a cabin of their own, and to raise a family. Just like his pa had done. He laughed lightly.
“It’s nice to see your mood is improving. What tickled your funny bone?”
“Remember that talk we had about how many children we wanted to have?”
“Sure. We agreed on five. Why?”
“If we have any girls, my sons will hate me.”
Lou playfully hugged him, forgetting where they were. She felt him stiffen and assumed he was embarrassed by her public display of affection. A low grunt in front of them proved her wrong.
“What’s this, then? A white gal fondling an Injun? Don’t hardly seem right to me, Abner.”
“Sure don’t, Will.”
Rivermen, it was widely believed, were the bane of St. Louis. The rowdies and toughs who worked the steamboats and barges were a lusty, violent breed who treated the city as if it were their own. When they weren’t working, they were drinking, and when they weren’t guzzling ale and grog, they’d fight at the drop of a hat, or the small caps they favored. A long-standing resentment existed between rivermen and frontiersmen, largely because both refused to back down to anyone who looked at them crosswise. And now here were two of the ruffians of the waterways, spoiling for trouble.
Zach was already close to the snapping point. He had tolerated more abuse in the past few hours than he had his entire life. It would take much to set him off. But he dampened his temper and said, “Don’t bother us.”
Abner, whose hands and beetling brows were exceptionally hairy, nudged his friend. “Did you hear the Injun, Will? Bossing us around like he’s the captain or something?”
Zach inhaled the strong stink of grog. The pair were unsteady on their feet, their eyes bloodshot. They would be comical if not for the daggers wedged under their belts and the glints in their eyes. They wanted to provoke him.
Will had a red nose and a mustache as thin as thread. “I’ve never much cottoned to Injuns. What should we do with him?”
“Beat him to death?” Abner said. Swaying like a reed in the wind, he stepped to the stairs. “You shouldn’t paw white women, Injun.”
Louisa was afraid. Not of the rivermen, but of what Stalking Coyote might do to them. Rising, she smiled. “He and I are to be married. So please leave us be.”
“Married?” Abner was shocked. “Hell, girl. You don’t look old enough to tie the knot. Wait another four or five years before you ruin your life. And find a white man to wed.”
“He’s part white—” Lou began to explain.
“No!” Zach pushed upright. “Don’t make excuses.” He was sick and tired of being pushed around. To the rivermen he said, “Go. Now. While you still can.”
Abner lowered a hand to the hilt of his dagger. “A heathen should know better than to sass his betters.” He reached for Lou’s wrist. “Come with us, girl. We know a nice young fellow who’d be just right for you.”
A snarl was torn from Zach, rising from deep in the tortured wellspring of his being and bursting out like the snarl of a riled panther. He was on his tormentor before the man could so much as blink, ramming the Hawken into the riverman’s midsection. As drunk as the pair were, he figured they would be easy to overpower. But rivermen deserved their reputation. They were as tough as alligators.
Abner gripped the barrel and uncoiled, driving the stock against Zach and propelling him against the stairs. Zach sought to wrest the Hawken free, but the other riverman pounced, pinning his arms.
“Stop it!” Lou cried. She tried to intervene, but Abner gave her a shove that sent her tottering into the pedestrians. Someone helped steady her amid shouts of, “Fight! Fight!” People were stopping to watch.
Zach lost his footing when his left leg snagged on the bottom step. He fell and Will released him. Landing on his back, he slammed a heel into Will’s shin while simultaneously hauling on the Hawken. Abner wouldn’t give it up, though, and delivered a vicious kick at Zach’s crotch. It narrowly missed.
“Someone stop them!” Lou shouted. She attempted to reach Zach, but others, eager to witness the outcome, roughly shouldered her aside. A crowd was swiftly gathering. “Please help us!” she begged.
Zach rolled to the left and began to rise, but both rivermen were on him in a twinkling, battering him, raining hard punches. Pummeled, he stumbled to the rear and bumped into the ring of spectators. Several seized him, laughing merrily at his plight. They stripped him of the Hawken, then pushed him toward the rivermen amid a chorus of yells.
“Come on, boys! Beat the tar out of this whelp!”
“Stomp the red devil into the dirt!”
“Five dollars says the Indian won’t last five minutes!”
Abner and Will were waiting. Abner had drawn his glittering dagger and was set to spring. His partner was circling to the left.
Zach sidestepped as the dagger sought his neck. In retaliation, his Bowie flicked out and Abner screeched like a wounded eagle.
“He cut me! The damn ’breed cut me!”
“I’ll settle his hash,” Will said. Unarmed, he advanced. Maybe he had no real desire to hurt Zach. Maybe he thought Zach wouldn’t harm him if he didn’t have a weapon. Or maybe he was so drunk, he plain forgot. Whichever, he, too, screeched when the Bowie opened his shoulder.
Some in the throng cackled. Others hollered encouragement to the rivermen. No one voiced support for Zach. Hoots of scorn were directed at him, along with a few choice comments concerning his parentage.
Abner and Will grew deadly serious. Will had his dagger out now, and with a nod at his friend, he triggered the next attempt to bring Zach down. They converged from opposite directions.
Zach spun back and forth, facing one and then the other. He was outnumbered, but the Bowie’s blade was twice the length of theirs. As long as he could keep them at arm’s length, they couldn’t do him any real harm. Abner tried to skip in close to thrust into his chest, but a sweep of the Bowie dissuaded him. Yet even as Zach pivoted toward Abner, Will attacked. Only Zach’s lightning reflexes spared him. He pivoted, his blade striking the riverman’s, deflecting it.
“What’s the matter with you two?” an onlooker wondered. “He’s just a boy! My mother could do better!”
Gruff mirth added to the insult. Abner and Will swapped glances, then renewed their assault, skipping in close at the selfsame moment, Abner slicing low, Will cutting high.
Zach couldn’t block both, so he didn’t try. He leaped into the air, tucking his knees to his chest to evade Abner. As he jumped, he countered Will’s slash with a sideways swipe. The rivermen skittered backward, upset their ploy had failed.
Those in the swelling crowd were enjoying themselves. Everyone had a comment to make. Their jeers incited the two rivermen into another gambit. Abner suddenly unbuckled his belt and slid it off. The ruffian wrapped one end around his free hand, the big buckle dangling at his knees.
