Abbie's Child. Linda Castle
get the train from Silverton to Red Mountain, Guston and Ironton before the first snow, but he was shocked to see the multitude clinging to the treacherous mountainside. He finally found a battered tent and stepped up to the opening.
“Hello, inside,” Will called.
“Vhat you vant?” a harsh voice snapped from inside the canvas.
“Hello, Otto.” Willem stood back and folded his hands across his chest while he waited for Otto to emerge.
“Vhat?” A small man poked his head out from under the flap and glared up at Willem. Recognition washed slowly across the wiry man’s sharp features. “So, is you. Vhen you git here?” He talked rapidly while he emerged from the tent.
“Yesterday. How are you, Otto?” Willem extended his hand and watched a smile begin in the man’s eyes and slowly descend until it finally reached Otto’s lips.
“I am goot. Now you are here you can move dat.” Otto pointed disgustedly at a rugged outcrop of rock in the direct path of an advancing ribbon of creosote-soaked ties and parallel iron.
“What’s the matter, Otto, pick and shovel not fast enough for you?”
Otto lapsed into a string of words in his native tongue. “You make joke,” he finally said with a frown. He jabbed Willem in the ribs and winked. “You still got the knack?”
“Explosives, you mean?” Willem shrugged. “I can move the rock for you.”
“Vhat kind of explosives you use for dat?” Otto stood back and squinted his eyes.
“Dynamite placed in the right spot should bring it down smooth.”
“Damn, Black Irish, you nefer change, by Sheminie! I guess you don’t vant no drink, either?”
Willem shook his head.
“Goot. I don’t haf nothing for you, anyvay. Vhy you got dat brush on your face?”
“Broke.”
“Got damn, Black Irish—you should be richer dan dat damn Midas. You don’t gamble or drink. Haf you got yourself a fancy voman? Is dat vhere your money goes?”
“No.” Willem shrugged.
“Den vhy are you alvays broke? Here—go to town, find a sheepshearer to take care of dat hair.” Otto dug deep into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bills.
“No, I’ll wait until payday.” Will held up his hand to refuse the money.
“The hell you vill. I don’t vant my men being blown up vhen the vind blows dat mane in your damn eyes.” Otto grabbed Willem’s hand and thrust the money into it.
“I see you’re as bossy as ever, Otto,” Willem said, and shoved the money into his faded trouser pocket.
“Yah. Don’t you be forgetting who the boss is. I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here in the morning.” Willem turned and walked away.
Otto watched Willem weave his way through the mules, burros and men wielding eighteen-pound jacks while he wondered about the mysterious Black Irish. He felt a bony hand jab him in his ribs.
“Vhat?” He felt about as patient as a surly badger this morning. “Oh, is you, Lars.”
The old man leaned over to spit a mouthful of tobacco juice on the hard rocks at his feet. “Who was that, Otto?”
“Vhat? You don’t know the Black Irish?” Otto was incredulous.
“Heard of him. Never met him,” Lars admitted.
“Vhy didn’t you say you vanted to meet the Black Irish?” Otto demanded. “I vould’ve introduced you. He’ll be back tomorrow. He’s going to blow dat damn mountain out of my vay, den ve git dis damn railroad built, by Sheminie.”
The barber wrapped a hot, steamy towel around Will’s face and patted it several times. Willem closed his eyes and allowed his ears to focus on the sounds of the bustling activity in the street outside the barber shop. He felt good after the bath, and it was a real treat to be getting his whiskers sheared. He had never tried to grow a beard in earnest, and this experience of having one had not changed his view about doing so. “How’s that feel?” The barber’s voice drifted to Will through layers of towel swathed over his face.
“Fine.” Willem thought his own reply sounded like a muffled grunt but the barber seemed to understand.
“Good. Just relax while those whiskers soften up a bit.”
Will’s chair suddenly spun around. The darkness and rotation brought a moment of panic. Willem felt his heart thud painfully in his chest while he grew more disoriented. He had the sensation of the floor buckling beneath his chair. He envisioned a great dark chasm opening up. Suddenly the hot towel was whipped from his face. The horrible falling sensation disappeared. Will sucked in a deep breath and gripped the arms of the barber chair while he waited for his pulse to return to normal.
“What do you want? Clean shave, mustache? Muttonchops are real popular with the local businessmen,” the barber suggested to Willem.
“Take it down to the hide,” Willem said when he could speak normally again.
“You’re the boss.” The barber grabbed a shaving cup and worked up a thick lather with a bristle brush. He swabbed Will’s face with all the finesse of a drunken house painter. When he gave the chair another spin, Willem saw a reflection of his froth-covered image go whirling by in the big tilted mirror on the wall. He looked like a rabid dog, all covered in foam. He nearly chuckled out loud at the ridiculous sight of himself.
When the straight edge whisked over his jaw, Willem held his breath and his humor faded away. He never had learned to act casual with a man brandishing a sharp razor at his throat. He sat stiff as a poker while the barber took swipe after swipe. Finally the man pinched Will’s nostrils together and took one quick stroke under his nose. He tow-eled Willem off and splashed a handful of what felt like horse liniment across his tingling cheeks.
“Holy Moses!” Willem sucked in his breath. “What the blue blazes is that?” He leapt from the barber chair.
“Bay rum, sir,” the barber replied cheerfully. He took a step back and regarded Willem with a smile.
“Makes me smell like a damned French whore.” Willem dug into his pocket and paid the man.
Will stepped out into the street and watched the marching band stomp toward him. The sound of their pitiful playing grated on his nerves. He decided to get as far away from the caterwauling as possible, and set off at a good clip in the opposite direction, not caring where it would lead him as long as it was quiet. Willem walked until he could no longer hear the skrill of horns or thump of the drum. He looked overhead and spotted a street sign.
“So this is Blaine Street.” Willem knew the Pinkertons had checked every brothel between Animas City and Denver looking for Moira. He also knew they’d never find her in a bawdy house. Moira had barely tolerated his attentions. No, she would not have sold her body to men. Still, he’d never given up hope that he might someday turn a corner and simply find her standing there. After so many rebuffs, he had stopped wanting her years ago, but he could not put aside feelings about the mother of his child or his convictions about the sanctity of marriage. It ate at him day and night. And finally, finding his child and bringing it up properly—in a home with both mother and father—had become his obsession.
The image of Matthew Cooprel’s face swam before his eyes. The boy was the kind of son any man would be proud to call his own. Willem stood there staring blankly at the sign while a new thought dawned. What if Moira had given the baby to someone else to raise? A cold chill raced up his back at the thought. She had been so young, and he had frightened her with his black temper. Maybe she had run away out of fear and fostered the baby out. The new and disturbing suspicion would have to be explored. If she had done that and left