West of Here

  The two on the ground stopped scuffling, and looked up, beaming stupidly. One of them spit out a tooth and laughed.

  Stone Face put his hands in the air, affecting his surrender. The two on the ground rolled over each other, laughing, whereupon Stone Face kneeled and pretended to pray. This brought more laughter.

  In Salish, Adam said to the men, “You shame your fathers,” and continued on his way. He heard the Indians laughing as he went.

  So thick was the Belvedere with tobacco smoke that Adam’s eyes began watering almost instantaneously. Even the Indians, he observed, in their crude structures, had enough sense to leave a hole in the ceiling. There were twenty or more men about the barroom and Adam estimated a dozen more on the mezzanine. He didn’t venture a guess at how many more might be debasing themselves in the flea-infested rooms up the stairs.

  Nobody stopped talking upon Adam’s entrance, or paid him any mind at all, except for Tobin himself, who was behind the bar with his arms crossed. He sported a rather showy mustache, which struck Adam as too youthful for him.

  “Well, well,” said Tobin. “Skokomish not keeping you busy, eh?”

  Adam did not take a seat at the bar. He stood at arm’s length, frisking Tobin with his steady gaze. “I’m here to file a report.”

  “Drink?”

  “I’m working.”

  “Didn’t stop your father, you know? And he did a hell of a lot of good work up and down this peninsula. Your father was a —”

  “I’m not him,” said Adam.

  Tobin uncrossed his arms and reached for a bottle. “That’s for certain,” he said. He poured out two glasses and pushed one toward the edge of the bar in front of Adam.

  “John, I need to ask you some questions.”

  Tobin emptied his glass in one pull, and wiped his mustache. “You just missed the good reverend. I believe he went straight to the top with his report.”

  “Don’t try my patience, John. This is very serious. I want to know who’s selling these natives liquor. And I want straight answers.”

  “Certainly not me. I don’t want their business. And I don’t want their filth around here.”

  “There’s no room for more filth around here,” observed Adam, surveying the interior. For all its rough-hewn qualities, its rugged beams, its softwood floor, scuffed and splintered and buckling toward the center of the room, its burled walls and crude framing and dirty windows, it was always the frivolous touches around the edges of the Belvedere that struck Adam, the gilded mirror behind the bar, the velvet coat-of-arms tacked on the wall, and oddest of all, the yellow and green floral painted glass goblet atop the piano. The overall effect was that of a bear in lipstick.

  “Fair enough,” said Tobin. “You and the reverend are welcome to agree on that count. But then, not all men are made of the same stuff.”

  “You’ve got no holes in the floor I should know about back there, have you, John? No special buckets of clams?”

  “Have a look,” said Tobin, reaching for the second glass of whiskey.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” said Adam. “But remember, you’re not above the law, and they’re not below it. I intend to find out who’s selling them the liquor.”

  Tobin set the empty glass down in front of Adam. “And how would I know that?”

  “Because if it’s not you, it’s your competition, and I know how you feel about competition.”

  “You know damn well it could be any Chink from here to Port Townsend. It could be a transient. It could just as easily be any one of these cranks from the colony. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ve had it up to here with Indians. They’re a blight to themselves and everything around them. They should have left with the others.”

  “You’re right about that, John. But they didn’t. They’re still here, and they’re bent on staying, and until the law says otherwise, I’m here to protect them. Whether or not that makes me popular.” Adam turned to leave. “If you think of something,” he said, over his shoulder, “I’m at the Olympic.”

  “Sorry about your father,” Tobin said.

  Adam turned back around and shrugged. “Had him for forty years. Some people get considerably less fathering than that.” Adam doffed his hat, and strode out the door. “Good day to you, John.”

  galloping gertie

  DECEMBER 1889

  Gertie McGrew gathered the folds of her generous skirt as she glanced down on the hazy barroom from the balcony. Governing her red tresses, she watched Adam take leave of Tobin, walking a little too tall under the weight of his burden. Among men, none were more complex than the ones she’d never slept with, and Adam was still among that dwindling number. Gertie could not be sure why she trusted Adam, but it had something to do with forsaking his father, who had exhibited an appetite for brutality that only the quiet ones seemed to possess. Tobin was also a quiet one. Descending the staircase, Gertie could feel his critical eyes on her and avoided his gaze.

  “What are you looking at?” Tobin said.

  “My feet.”

  “The hell. I see how you’ve been lookin’ at me for weeks. The next time I catch you, I’ll skin you. Now, mind your business. That little waif from Dakota wouldn’t be on the nod, would she? Fell asleep under a stable hand yesterday afternoon.”

  “Maybe the lumber camps have worn her out. She’s popular, if you haven’t noticed.”

  Tobin spit on the floor and frisked Gertie with his eyes, head to toe. “If I find out you’re lying, I’ll have my pound of flesh.”

  “You’ll have that anyway,” she said, the hem of her skirt dragging across the dirty floor.

  Gertie crossed the threshold into the afternoon air and turned her coat collar up against the chill. Though it was reckless to test Tobin’s limits, and she knew it, somehow Gertie had convinced herself that she was at an advantage. It was true she ran a brisk trade, that she kept her girls clean, attentive, and clear of the opium. It was true that her sarcasm and her ability to absorb a punch inspired a sort of frightened respect in Tobin, and even truer that Tobin had a weakness for her carnal expertise, whereas he never partook of the other girls. Lately, she was beginning to fear him, though. Lately, she was beginning to think about making a run for it. Not that she had a plan, like most whores who ever managed to get themselves free had, not that she’d set by a little money every week like a sensible whore would have. No, mostly she indulged San Francisco like a daydream in her idle moments. She liked to picture herself as a lady instead of a whore, walking cobbled streets instead of muddy sloughs. She knew it was silly, and she kept it to herself. Sometimes she liked to picture herself filling her days with whatever it was ladies filled their days with — she imagined museums, coronations, high tea. But her imagination could never go too far with this picture before she ran out of the ever important details to populate it. Usually, she fell back on images smaller and grayer: herself working in a laundry on Polk Street, living alone with a Siamese cat and a parakeet who knew her name. Gertie imagined herself cooking, growing herbs on her window sill, buying shoes with her paycheck, and eating in restaurants with checkered tablecloths. Maybe she’d allow some dark Italian to take her to shows on Friday night and steal a few kisses on her doorstep.

  Raising her wide freckled face along with her tattered skirt hem, Gertie traipsed south down the boardwalk with her chin held high, past the realty office and the livery to the dry goods store, where dusting off a crude bench, she seated herself, crossed her legs a little less than demurely, and looked out over Front Street, wishing she had a bottle of whiskey. Across the street at the Olympic, a filthy old Indian was reeling in the mouth of the alleyway as though he’d been struck by lightning. His head lolled about dazedly as he took one step forward, then one back, then one to the side, and repeated the sequence again and again without making any progress. Within moments, a trio of loggers spilled out of the Olympic and clomped north down the boardwalk, pausing at the mouth of the alley to watch the old man flounder. They made cr
ude sport of the Indian for a minute or so, mocking and taunting him, calling him Chief Firewater and the like, until finally the stooping man with the burned face gave the old fool a push, forcing him backward into the mud, where he struggled miserably to regain his feet. The trio erupted in laughter. Gertie was glad Tobin wasn’t there to see it. Surely, he would’ve been amused.

  A team of six horses strained north down Front Street, heads down, shoulders slick with sweat, their nostrils huffing white plumes of protest against the cold air as they inched their way forward past the druggist’s. A huge length of fresh timber carved a furrow of mud and manure in their wake. Two doors down, the postmaster flipped his shingle and locked his door for the lunch hour. Gertie knew his lunch would include a visit to the Belvedere, specifically a visit to Peaches, the new girl who had taken to whoring like she was born to it.

  Out of the dry goods doorway strode a strange haughty creature, a practically dressed women, very pregnant, who seemed to be in a hurry, trailing cornmeal from a ruptured sack.

  “Looks as though you’re leakin’, ma’am,” said Gertie.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Looks like your sack went and sprung a leak. There, near the bottom.”

  When the woman still failed to react to this information, Gertie wrested the bag from a startled Eva, turning it over on end, and handed it back with the breach on top, at which point Eva finally grasped the situation.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Which way you headed?” said Gertie.

  “I’m quite all right,” insisted Eva.

  “I can see that. I only asked which way you’re headed.”

  “Toward the commonwealth.”

  “Mind if I join you halfway?”

  “I suppose not,” said Eva. In fact, Eva was pleased to be distracted from the knowledge that she’d secretly come to town not for cornmeal but with hopes of seeing James Mather before the expedition set out.

  “So,” said Gertie. “You folks really a bunch of crackpots over there?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t think either way. But that’s what I hear. Whole town says as much.”

  “Tell me, Miss … ?”

  “Gertie McGrew.”

  “Tell me then, Miss McGrew. Am I a crackpot to believe in my own dignity?”

  “Some might say. In my trade, anyway.”

  “Am I mad to believe that every American ought to have the opportunity of liberty and the pursuit of happiness? That the wealth of this young country should be dispersed somewhat evenly without regard to birth or entitlement or sex? Am I mad to believe that a woman can do anything a man can do?”

  “I’d say you’re mad on that count, most definitely.”

  “Hmph,” said Eva. “Spoken like a woman who makes a living debasing herself.”

  “Well now, I may be debased, but don’t get the idea for one minute that I’m doing it to myself, your highness. And as for a woman being able to do anything a man can do, I’ll just say I haven’t met a woman yet who could live three weeks without bathin’ herself. And I haven’t found one yet that delights in killin’ small things like a man does.”

  “I suppose there’s some truth to that.” Eva stopped and offered a handshake. “I’m Eva Lambert. Pleased to meet you, Gertie.”

  “Likewise, Miss Lambert.”

  “Do call me Eva. Won’t you join me for a tour of the colony?”

  “I’m afraid Hogback is as far as I go, Miss Lambert. I’m due to be debased again any minute now.”

  “You treat it as though it were your calling.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m good at it.” It occurred to Gertie that Eva would probably make a hell of a whore, too, if she’d ever let her hair down and put all that willfulness to some use. “Well, then, I best be getting along.”

  “If you should ever change your mind and find yourself in the commonwealth,” said Eva. “Mine is the door with the wreath.”

  “I’ll certainly keep it in mind, Miss Lambert.”

  “Eva.”

  Gertie turned, lifted the hem of her dress, and took three steps toward the Belvedere before Eva beckoned her once more.

  “There’s always room at the commonwealth, Gertie.”

  Gertie thought about telling her that there was always room at the whorehouse but checked herself. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Lambert.”

  labor

  JANUARY 1890

  Long before Old Anderson came huffing and puffing around the spit into Port Bonita, Jacob Lambert had surrendered his steak and egg breakfast to the straits. His stomach was still mutinous, along with his general outlook, as he set foot on Morse Dock, and gazed upon the ragged settlement laid out in front of him. Unlike so many hopeful young men preceding him, Lambert saw no potential in any of it. A beach littered with savages huddling around fires. A muddy hill bristling with stumps. A cluster of oversized tool sheds, some of them on stilts, emblazoned with crude signs, masquerading as commerce. Not a brick building or a gas lamp among them. And all of it hemmed in by an impenetrable wilderness. He could scarcely wait to leave.

  Front Street did little to elevate his opinion of Port Bonita. He did not venture to lay a gloved hand on the rail, as he crossed the board-walk. He raised his pressed pant legs and walked gingerly over the muddy hogback, not once losing his footing. But for a little mud on the toes of his shoes, he arrived on the far side none the worse for wear. He knew exactly where to go. Everything was oriented precisely as Eva had described it in her letters. And yet all of it was so much less than she described. Nobody was more susceptible to delusion than the ideologue. Who, but a Utopian, could turn mud into mana?

  For the second time in a week, Eva found herself unpleasantly surprised by a caller as she opened the door to reveal her older brother, Jacob, brow deeply furrowed beneath the brim of his bowler. He stepped past her into the cramped foyer before she could say a word, and took a cursory look around. “Pack your trunks,” he said. “I’m taking you home.”

  “You’re doing no such thing.”

  He grabbed her about the soft part of her arm.

  She gave a cry and yanked her arm free and began immediately to rub the smarting area.

  “Pack your trunks,” he said. “I won’t argue, and neither will you. I’ll warn you not to defy me, Eva. I’m in a foul mood. I fully intend to be home within the month, so you haven’t time to mount a resistance. Father has gone to great expense to —”

  “And what are you? Father’s new man?”

  “I’m your brother. Now, get a move on. There’s nothing to discuss, here, Eva. You’ve had your little Utopian vacation, and I’m taking you home. Don’t be a fool.” When he noticed that Eva was on the verge of tears, his manner softened. “Oh, Eva, be reasonable. This is no place for a child, and you know it. Let go of all this Haymarket Square nonsense, and come back to Chicago. You can’t very well spend your life painting seascapes and wallowing in the mud. Look around you. You need proper medical facilities. Now, I’ve been three weeks coming to get you; I’ve had much unpleasantness along my way, including fisticuffs with your young suitor Thornburgh in Seattle, and frankly, I’m just about out of —”

  “I won’t go, Jacob,” she proclaimed, wiping her eyes. “I don’t care what anybody else wants. This is what I want.”

  “And what exactly is this, Eva? No proper road, no electricity, no bank, no school, no —”

  “There’s a school,” she said. “And there’s a newspaper, Jacob! How can you fail to see the significance in that?”

  “A month ago you said your commonworth was a failure.”

  “Commonwealth.”

  “You said they’d oversold the idea, that the people in town were unfriendly, that they deplored the colonists, that the weather was insufferable, and suddenly —”

  “Well, I changed my mind, Jacob! I’m entitled to that!”

  “You’re entitled to a lot more than that! And damn it, it’s time you start takin
g advantage of it instead of squandering every opportunity presented to you.”

  “I’ll make my own opportunities, thank you very much. I’m perfectly capable of —”

  “Of what? Look at the fine mess you’ve made of things! Pregnant, no husband, no father, living in a —”

  “There is a father.”

  “Oh, dear God, Eva, stop this nonsense, right now. That scoundrel is no more worthy of you than this place is wor —”

  Suddenly, Eva cried out, her eyes as big as saucers.

  “What is it?”

  Eva clutched her belly and cried out again.

  “Good Lord,” said Jacob, searching madly about the foyer for he knew not what.

  * * *

  WEARY OF VENISON, Ethan was squatting by the fire at dusk in the shadow of his roofless cabin, frying a sockeye in a skillet, when he was startled by a voice.

  “Hello again.”

  Ethan spun around to discover Indian George standing three feet behind him on the bluff. The old Indian looked clownish in his ill-fitting white man clothes. He wore a high-buttoned waist coat, ten years out of fashion, and a shapeless felt hat atop his head. There was a dirty yellow bandanna tied loosely about his neck.

  “Sorry,” said George.

  “Lordy,” sighed Ethan. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.”

  “I tried to whistle,” said George, who attempted once more without success. “The air won’t sing for me.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “A white man is not so hard to track.”

  Ethan finessed the skillet with his good hand. “Well, you’re just in time for dinner.”

  George could not bring himself to look at the salmon; the thought of it made him queasy. “I ate already, thank you.” He squatted by the fire, but when he was confronted by the pungent odor of the fish rising from the skillet, he sidled back a few feet. “Your thumb is no good,” he observed.