Joseph stopped, interpreting the man’s words and demeanor. “I’ll risk it,” he said and began walking past the owner.
The thin man shrugged. “Would keep him here, with safety,” he added, this time with more gentleness to his words, a smile and dark eyes which Joseph had missed with the man’s face turned to the concentration of his fingernails.
“Louie Davenport,” he said flipping the knife into a leather holster thonged to his thigh. “But my friends, they all call me French Louie,” he said pronouncing it “Lou-ee” and extended his hand which Joseph shook.
“At la maison, um, Umatilla House. Is best place to eat and sleep.” Louie said. “Or Globe Hotel on Washington and Second. Neither will welcome, um, le petit cherie. Very strange, your little dog, like skinny-tailed fox, n’est pas?”
“Not to me,” Joseph said. “I’ll hang on to him. Shoe leather seems a premium here and I’ll not want any putting on the dog with mine.”
Louie laughed, a hearty laugh ending with a gasping snort. “Oui! You are right.” He wiped his eyes and held his foot out. “Hear this one bark?” He bent closer to Joseph and whispered: “Best leather around, oui?” He laughed again, more loudly. “He is your friend. Go. Take the little one. If you have trouble, um, bring him back and I will keep him in my own bed for half the price. And no shoes.” Joseph left pacified, Louie having won him over.
Not far from the livery, Joseph passed a barber shop and baths, locating the lavishly furnished Umatilla House, just four years old. He planned to check in, bathe, eat, and find a barber. Instead, he located the gaming tables in the saloon even before he checked into his room.
“Pooch’s gotta go, friend,” the barkeep said as Joseph leaned against the polished mahogany bar surveying the players. The kelpie stood guard at his feet beside a brass spittoon. Lush ferns in pots brought elegance even into the bar of the hotel and flashed green in the mirror that covered the entire wall behind the barkeep. In a far corner of the wainscoted room were several tables set for dining. Most of the area was taken up with poker tables or men simply sharing a brew. Fragrant scents drifted from the kitchen.
Without speaking Joseph placed two ten-dollar gold pieces on the shiny surface of the bar.
Surprised, the barkeep said, “Used to dust,” as he turned the coins around in his fingers before dropping them into his pocket. He squinted at the kelpie. “Keep him quiet, don’t want no trouble from him.” Then changing the subject he said, “Not from Canyon City, then?”
“California. Is Canyon City where the gold’s coming from these days?” Joseph asked.
The barkeep nodded assent, his curly dark hair a mat around his face. “First strike in ’59,” he said. “More coming out each day, when they can get it out. Not many folks want to make the trip or too busy thinking they’ll make more money mining or moving on to Oregon City. No matter. Coming or going, they spend their money here. What can I get you? Or don’t the dog let you drink?”
Joseph spent the next several hours winning at poker. He always said it was an art. He liked reading the faces of his opponents, charming them with his stories while he learned about their quirks and grimaces before they made their bets. He challenged himself by remembering what their hands held so he could relate that information to his own next bet. He liked the rush of remembering which cards had been played, who could possibly hold what remained in the deck. He always lost some at first, spending time watching and learning. And he found his opponents were more at ease with his losses and didn’t seem to mind so much later when he upped his risk and energy into winning.
The kelpie slept quietly at his feet beneath the round table occasionally sniffing at the peanut shells dropped by the handfuls of the patrons. Once the kelpie stood, a square block of defiance, and snapped his jaws at some jingling spurs that walked by on a cowboy moving to the next table, but he never bit and he never left Joseph’s side. He was there when Joseph scooped up his winnings as the saloon closed up for the night.
In the morning, before setting out to find Fish Man, Joseph had his bath and haircut. At both places, he heard more of the talk and energy coming out of Canyon City. He was surprised he had not seen more activity himself when he had encountered Archibald Turner near there, thin and defeated. The trail had not been crowded with either hopeful or discouraged miners. And Archibald’s luck in panning for gold offered no incentive.
At the mercantile, he listened to stories about the rapidly growing city. “I look for grass train, corn train, bacon train, anything!” the mercantile owner said to several men who laughed as they stood near the egg baskets at the end of the long counter. The floor was worn smooth at that spot by the shuffling of leather as men stood and talked with Benson Hahn, proprietor. “No one wants to make the trip. All head west. Crazy! I have orders. Orders!” He pulled at imaginary lengths of hair straight up from his bald head. “And cannot get them in!” He tugged at his mutton chops, grimaced. “Could at last become wealthy man and will not for want of an ox or a mule or even a pig!”
The men laughed, familiar with Hahn’s lament these past months.
“I tell the truth!” he whined and they laughed again.
“What’s the attraction,” Joseph asked, pointing to a bin of hard pan biscuits behind the owner. He put a coin on the counter.
Hahn handed him the biscuits and leaning over the counter, scowled as Joseph bent to give one to the kelpie. “The attraction,” he said straightening, “is the fastest growing city this side of the mountains: Canyon City. I have contracts for half my goods and all I can get out is one small pack. Left yesterday. They swim the Deschutes this morning and be weeks getting back. Hope to make second trip before the snow flies.” He threw up his hands. “Finding good pack strings not easy here. Just when I need them most.”
“Take one in yourself, Hahn,” one of the men suggested to the laughter of his colleagues.
“Uch, no!” Hahn said, his speech thickly accented with German. “The mules, they are like porcupines. Must spar carefully with them every day, never rest a minute. No, want good man to work with, but don’t want to take them on myself. Uch! I have enough to keep me busy. No need to borrow more trouble.” He turned to tend to another customer and the men drifted away leaving Joseph alone.
Joseph spent the next several hours in the company of an east wind looking for Fish Man, speaking with merchants, bathhouse owners, shipyard workers. In the late afternoon, he returned to the livery where he and French Louie spoke again. Several Spanish-speaking people stopped at the livery along with some Chinese, Germans, and French, and Louie spoke to each in their own tongue. So when Louie gave Joseph suggestions of where he might get word to Fish Man, if he were still in the area, Joseph was quite sure of Louie’s resourcefulness and asked him to see if he could find him.
Joseph finished the afternoon with a ride up into the grassy hills overlooking the town. The sunset burned vibrant against the brown hills, turned the snowcapped mountains in the distance to a blinding gloss. He noticed some young fruit trees nestled in a series of ravines and thought about the mild climate needed to nurture them. A breeze danced through his beard, dried his eyes. He liked being able to see for miles high above the river uninterrupted by timber or trees. He heard more geese calling, watched them circle, drop below the rimrocks and set their wings like open arms to the water. The snowcapped mountains looked so close he could almost pluck them like a white blossom. “Hood, St. Helens, Adams,” he said, identifying the mountains for the kelpie.
Most of all, Joseph found himself drawn to the huge rimrocks that shot up from the Columbia like sentinels of stone. Their red color, rope-like twists, and lichen-licked lava attracted him. The rocks were unlike anything he had ever seen—except at the edge of the fog-shrouded crossing of Peter LaHomesh’s river, just before he’d met that “sassy girl.”
The thought of me and something about this grass-filled country with its dimples of ravines appealed to my Joseph, made him want to stay. This was young coun
try, sassy itself, with the unknown visiting around every twist and turn. He inhaled the sweet smell of rabbit brush and sage and sat, the kelpie panting across his legs.
A decision made, he began moving into action when he returned to the livery and left his horse with Louie. This time, he kept his whip and the kelpie with him.
In the dining room of the Umatilla House, Joseph met A. H. Brayman who would pull it all together.
Joseph noticed that the portly man raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise either at the kelpie dog trotting behind him or the looped mule skinner’s whip he wore on his hip. Joseph watched him give a look to the barkeep who touched his vest pocket ever so slightly with his fingers. He took it as a signal of his payment that permitted him this lapse in usual protocol, but he wondered who the barkeep signaled.
A. H. Brayman stood up, his shoulders wide, like a bear’s, pushing out his wool suit. He had the appearance of a man who had not missed many meals and who ordered only the best when he ate.
“I hear you have an interest in an Indian I know,” Brayman said pointing his soft hand out in greeting to Joseph. His grip clamped like the kelpie’s jaw. “He’s been working in back. Owes some money he says and is paying it off at my shipyard. Owe you money, too?” he asked, motioning Joseph to be seated at his table. Brayman hesitated a moment with a glance at the dog then dismissed it, prioritizing what mattered quickly as he usually did.
“More likely I owe him,” Joseph said, sitting. “He works for me in California, then comes north to fish at the Deschutes. Thought I’d catch him there, but too late.”
“Problem?” Brayman asked, talking with food in his mouth like a man in a hurry. He signaled the barkeep for another stein, holding up two fingers when Joseph nodded he’d like one too, motioned for a second platter of beefsteak and fresh greens. A pungent vinegar dressing wafted above the smoke of the saloon.
Joseph shook his head. “Just want a friend to ride back with.”
“Like to talk about your riding back,” Brayman said, not wasting time. “Talk is, you know mules. Packed some in California?”
Joseph nodded.
“Like you to consider that again. This is growing country. Big country. Trains’ll be coming this way for years.” The glow of an early gas light reflected in Brayman’s round spectacles. “That land farther west will turn some off, all that rain.” He chewed his beefsteak and Joseph could see parts of it wallowing around in Brayman’s huge mouth, a little juice appearing at the corners. Some dribbled down his beardless chin. “Real growth is southeast. In the interior. ’Tween here and the Strawberries. Good land, less rain to bog a man down, little timber to clear, grass that won’t stop ’til Doomsday. And now, gold to bring ’em in.
“I’m a businessman,” Brayman said, wiping his mouth and hands on the linen napkin he pulled from beneath his starched collar. “Not sure I introduced myself. A. H. Brayman. Friends call me ‘A. H.’ I know who you are so here’s the deal.” He leaned into the table and spoke conspiratorially with Joseph, his hazel eyes clear and full of excitement. “I’ll finance your string this year, wages too. No interest. You can buy me out if you want or we’ll work out an interest deal. I’m not all that interested in the string.” He sat up, brushed some crumbs from the linen cloth and flecked them onto the floor. “What I am interested in is the supplies. You load from my docks, not Hahn’s nor anyone who’s likely to find their way here in the next few years. Prices’ll be fair and going rate. I take interest on the supplies at 10 percent, again, this first year. I supply all the goods. You can sell at what you can get.” He threaded his pudgy fingers into each other alternately squeezing and releasing as he talked. “You take my supplies in and bring the gold out for deposit. In my bank. After two years, we renegotiate. By then, I’ll have buildings in Canyon City, store more, and beat the competition.
“You, my friend,” he said clamping Joseph on the back in closure, “will be a wealthy man. How’s that sound?”
“Intriguing,” Joseph said. He was silent for a full minute, cut several pieces of his beefsteak delivered by the barkeep and chewed fully, not in any hurry. A. H. did not interrupt, sat picking at his teeth with an ivory pick taken from his vest. Finally Joseph said, “I’d want a commission on the deposits, make it worth my while to convince the miners to bank with you. And I’d want my own string after the first year. I can get my crew,” he said. He sat thoughtfully again and Brayman knew enough not to tread on a decisive man’s thinking. “And I’d sure enough buy my own mules,” Joseph said. “I saw five good ones just south of here a few days back.”
“Herbert’s,” Brayman said, blasting out his first word in several minutes as if he’d held his breath while his future partner thought. “Good stock and a pistol of a girl who looks after them,” A. H. continued. “George’ll make us a fair price, though. We have a deal then?”
Joseph sat quietly, longer. He could feel a familiar energy stirring in his stomach, noticed his face was flushing from the excitement that such a venture would surely bring. He wasn’t even thinking of cards now, but of mules and enthusiasm and organizing and making things happen. Benito was right. The mules did bring him energy, and maybe more.
“Deal,” Joseph said offering his hand. Then as if to himself he added: “Herbert’s mules, huh? Could be like dancing with a porcupine to negotiate this deal.” He reached beneath the table to pat the kelpie and let Brayman ponder that as he marveled to himself about the paths and plans of men.
SECOND CHANCES
Joseph remembers well. He could feel the juices flowing in his blood again with that first call of the rooster the next morning. Such interest had not awakened him for months, years almost, he told me. It’s surprising what we allow ourselves to feel as “living” and only later notice our suppression when we finally open up and tell ourselves the truth.
Joseph located Fish Man at Brayman’s dock and discussed his plan. Beneath swooping and crying sea gulls, the Hupa smiled, his face filling up like a puffy cloud on a clear day. He set out for California immediately with both Brayman’s and Joseph’s blessing and a message for Benito.
Joseph did his explorations of the markets, talked to competitors of Hahn and Brayman, too. Then two days later, he arrived at our home, the Herberts, at Fifteen Mile Crossing.
Mama usually paid little attention to Papa’s negotiations. She had her own business to tend to daily what with looking after folks, caring for them, doing her church work, and for a time, looking after a big family. So it was a bit unusual for her to take such an interest in the tall stranger who stopped by to discuss mules that early October day in 1861. It was just before my thirteenth birthday.
He rode in with his pack mule and that funny-looking dog trotting beside him. Hound yelped and Mama motioned me to pen him as she walked to the gate of the fence surrounding our house to greet our guest. Mama immediately picked up on the dog, asking all nature of questions about its lineage. She commented on his unusual coloring. “Red as a hanging deer’s rib cage,” she noted. “Odd how his muzzle and paws and such are lighter.” Even Baby George riding on Mama’s hip, giggled, seemed to notice that the dog smiled, pulled its lips back, and let its pink tongue droop while it stood, panting, its skinny belly and long tail less than a foot from the hard ground.
“Unusual,” Mama said. “What’d you say it was again?”
“Kelpie,” the man said. “They have a temper, but usually only related to their fiercely independent and protective natures. Like some people I know.” He looked at me, then smiled. I walked beside Mama, stood on the other side of the gate. I looked down, my moccasined feet digging at the dusty earth. Mama didn’t seem to notice my slight flush nor the second level of our exchange.
“I’ve never seen the likes of it,” Mama said, enchanted by the little dog, I think. Then she turned all business. “Water’s at the well there,” she said, pointing. “Don’t forget to rinse the dipper.”
“Appreciate it,” Joseph said. He paused to drink and rin
se before replacing the cup. “Interested in your mules,” Joseph said wiping his beard with his wide hand. “A. H. Brayman says you’ve some for sale.”
Mama snorted. “He does, does he. What big plan does A. H. have up his sleeve now?”
Joseph seemed taken aback.
“Is he not right?” he asked.
“Oh, he is definitely ‘not right,’ ” Mama said tapping the curls on the side of her head. She shook her head in disgust. “Yes, well. No matter. We do have some mules.” She also had to tell him that Papa wasn’t here and wouldn’t be back for a day or so as he’d gone to Oregon City on business. “Political business,” she added, sending a blast of air through her nose, letting everyone within earshot know what she thought of politics.
“Can you show me the animals at least?” Joseph asked, again looking past Mama at me.
“Why, I’d be pleased to,” Mama said, shifting Baby George on her hip. “Just let me find my walking slippers and shawl against this chill.” A cool breeze brushed through the trees and she rubbed her arms to warm them, then turned to go into the house.
“I can do it, Mama,” I said as if on cue, and stepped forward. “I’ve got my feet on already. And I don’t need my shawl.” My offer seemed to startle Mama, almost as though she’d forgotten I’d been standing there.
“Oh. Yes. Well, that would be acceptable I suppose. I’ll put some tea on for when you’re finished, Mister … what did you say your name was?”
“Joseph Sherar,” he said, taking off his hat, speaking with his deep voice the name that would change my being.
“I’ll see you shortly then, Mr. Sherar,” Mama said and turned away as Joseph and I walked toward the stock barns, the kelpie at our heels.