Death Train to Boston (26 page)

"Don't shoot, Ramsey, don't shoot!" Michael yelled as he leapt from their hiding place and raced across the empty space, quickly reaching the other side, where he frantically kicked and elbowed all obstacles out of the way. He was using his bad shoulder, probably reinjuring the broken collarbone, but he felt no pain and wouldn't have cared if he had.

Meiling was out cold, half-hidden under the crate that had apparently felled her. Quickly Michael shifted it up and out of the way. She clutched a prize in her hand: a Colt revolver, old Army issue, a handsome gun. A hero's gun. Stolen, Michael would have bet. This bastard who was following him was no hero. But he was clever enough, and tenacious . . . and gone.

"Shit!" Michael said, a word he seldom used, but he was angry and frustrated and sick at heart. After quickly ascertaining that no bones were broken, he picked the unconscious Meiling up in his arms. Her hair was down and trailed over Michael's shoulder as he carried her back the way he'd come. He surmised she'd used one of her long steel hairpins on that bastard, whoever he was.

"I should've gone after him," Michael muttered. But there was no point, really. He wasn't going to catch the big man now. Maybe, if Meiling had managed to skewer him with her hairpin, there might be a trail of blood he could follow. Maybe, with the help of the local police
and
a blood trail, they might actually catch this guy. But all that would take time.

And every precious minute he spent that way would feel to Michael like a minute he could have spent finding Fremont. The big man—that whole side of his life, which he was pretty sure now was connected to the railroad explosion and other incidents—was going to have to take a back seat, at least for the moment.

Hilliard Ramsey had disappeared too, Michael saw when he reached their makeshift blind. He was not surprised.

WHEN TWO DAYS had gone by without my father's replying to my telegram, I sent a similarly worded one to him at his bank. To this one I received an almost immediate answer:

TO CAROLINE FREMONT JONES

HIRAM HOTEL

HIRAM UTAH

MY DEAR MISS JONES STOP YOUR FATHER NOW RETIRED

STOP HAS BEEN ILL STOP DID YOU SEND TO HIM AT

HOME STOP AM CONCERNED STOP GLAD YOU ARE WELL

STOP PLEASE ADVISE STOP

GLADYS HORNSBEY FORMER SEC TO LF JONES

I remembered Miss Hornsbey, a sturdy, dependable, plainly dressed, and plainspoken woman who had been my father's secretary approximately forever. I had always liked her. I wondered what she thought of Augusta, to whom I still could not refer as Father's wife without getting a bad taste in my mouth.

Well, one thing was clear: Augusta must have intercepted my telegram to Father, or else he would have replied. Only his absence, perhaps on a business trip, I had thought, could have accounted for the lack of a response—assuming, that is, he had received my communication, which apparently he had not. Because
she
hadn't let him.

Immediately I was consumed by an immense rush of anger. Really, how dare the woman keep from my father something so important as the information that I was not dead!

Of course she would doubtless have preferred that I
were
dead. My moving all the way across the country hadn't been enough for her, oh no, she wanted me out of his life entirely. Wanted my poor father all to herself. Selfish, stifling, horrid woman! What had he ever seen in her?

I did know the answer to that: Augusta Simmons, when my father married her, was a voluptuous widow who'd acted as if she worshipped the ground Leonard Pembroke Jones walked on. And perhaps she had. But I doubted it. Unhappily for him, if one could make an accurate inference from his appearance and some things he'd said on his visit to San Francisco the spring just past, Augusta had begun to show her true colors once they were well and safely married. Poor man.

During their courtship Father had been too besotted with Augusta to notice that the woman was a social climber. I must admit, as these social things do not interest me in the least and I would far rather ignore them, people who clamber after social status leave me particularly cold.

Knowing that, I'd tried to make allowances for my extreme reaction to her. And knowing Father, who had always been a soft touch for lost causes and underdogs,
the fact that Augusta had come from a less socially prominent family than either the Pembrokes or the Newport Joneses (Father's branch), or even the Fremonts (from Charleston, my mother's maiden name), had probably seemed to him a point in her favor.

At any rate, after knowing her for only six months, he'd married her, and I'd used their honeymoon as the occasion for my flight from Boston to California; from a proper young womanhood punctuated by the inevitable marriage, to the unconventional role of working woman, owner of her own business, and (some would say) living with her partner in sin.

So who was I to criticize Augusta?

I was my father's daughter, that's who. Quick to anger and equally quick to forgive, that was I—and indeed I would have forgiven Augusta most anything if she had been making Father happy. But she was not. The Leonard Pembroke Jones who'd come to see me in the spring had been almost a stranger—a sick shadow of the man he'd been.

Oh, God,
I thought. And then I went a step further, I prayed:
God, please let me get to Boston in time to see my father again. Don't let him die before I can arrive!

One thing became quickly clear once I began to think in those terms: Miss Hornsbey could help. So I replied to her telegram:

TO MISS GLADYS HORNSBEY

GREAT CENTENNIAL BANK

BOSTON MASSACHUSETTS

DEAR MISS HORNSBEY STOP HAVE SENT WIRE TO BEACON

STREET STOP NO REPLY FROM FATHER STOP WISH TO LET

HIM KNOW I AM WELL STOP BELIEVE SOME

INTERFERENCE FROM AUGUSTA STOP CAN YOU REACH FATHER

BY
TELEPHONE STOP REPLY TO ME HERE STOP WILL

REIMBURSE YR EXPENSES STOP

MANY THANKS STOP

CAROLINE FREMONT JONES

Off I went to the telegraph office again. Wayne and I were becoming fast friends.

When I returned to the hotel Sandra Hunter was in the lobby, leaning on the desk and talking to a woman I'd never seen before. This woman was dark-skinned and black-haired, rather heavy, with a pleasant square-shaped face.

"Hey, Fremont," Sandra said, circling her lanky arm in the air, "come on over and meet Bright Feather. She's Mrs. Tom—takes turns with him here. Feather's a whole lot nicer than her husband, if you ask me."

I suppose this might sound preposterous to anyone thinking of the United States west of the Mississippi as the "Wild West," but Bright Feather was not only the first Indian I had ever met, she was the first I'd ever seen up close. We Americans have done such a thorough job of eradicating most of them, and containing the rest, that as long as one keeps to the urban centers of the West, one might go a whole lifetime without meeting even one example of those who once ruled the North American continent.

"How do you do, Bright Feather," I said. "What a lovely name!"

"Hey," she said informally. "Tom told me what happened to you, how you were in that train wreck, and said you'd lost your memory for a while and all. So now you're here till your friends come for you, that right?"

She didn't sound at all like one thinks an Indian would sound. She didn't say "how" or speak in broken sentences or any of that; her manner of speaking was the same as anyone else's.

I replied, "I think so. I haven't been able to get in touch with them yet. It's really rather ironic—they're out looking for me, that's why I haven't been able to reach them."

"Haw!" Sandra hooted, slapping the desk with the flat of her hand. "I bet what they need's an Indian guide, Feather. Think you could rustle 'em up one?"

"Oh sure, let me just make a note of that," Bright Feather said with a perfectly straight face. Suiting her actions to her words, she really did make a note of it. Then she looked me straight in the eye and said, "I never can remember anything if I don't write it down. And I get lost without a map."

Sandra doubled over laughing, and I joined in because laughter is infectious. Even if I wasn't exactly certain what we were laughing about. I suppose Bright Feather was making fun of herself, in a subtle way—but one must be careful with such suppositions.

Eventually Sandra straightened up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "That Feather," she said, shaking her head, "she's a real card."

Bright Feather winked at me. I winked back, smiling still. It felt good—I hadn't been doing nearly enough smiling lately.

Sandra either had not yet dressed for work or was taking a day off. She was one of those women who appear to be plain until they put on a little makeup—or in Sandra's more usual case, a lot of makeup—because their looks are all in their bone structure. Her lips were thin and her eyes were pale, but these features are easily enhanced. With good clothes and a decent hairdresser, she'd have been a striking woman. Her hair was a vague shade of blond, and unfortunately thin. I wondered if she'd had some kind of illness, a fever perhaps, that had caused it to fall out; or perhaps it was her obvious habit of back-combing it, which I was sure she did in order to make it appear fuller. But this back-
combing was not having the desired effect; instead, if my eyes did not deceive me, the fine hair was breaking under the strain and thus compounding the problem even further.

"I have never met an Indian before," I confessed.

"Feather ain't typical," Sandra said.

"I am not surprised to hear that."

"She's been to college and all."

"Really?" I inquired. "How interesting. I went to college too, in the East. Where did you go?"

"Convent school, run by nuns in Chicago. Before that, they taught us heathen savages at a mission school on the Reservation. I was gonna be a Sister but I changed my mind." Feather shrugged. "They felt cheated. Here they'd invested all this money in an Indian's education—and a woman too, to make it even worse—and then I up and left."

"Good for you, for following your own mind," I said.

"Haw!" said Sandra.

Bright Feather kept a serious expression. "I decided I wanted to study the old ways, which was how I took back my Indian name. My Christian name was Barbara Marie."

"That's a pretty enough name, but I prefer Bright Feather," I said honestly. "But now, ladies, if you'll excuse me, my arms are tired and I think I'd better get off these crutches."

"Why's your arms tired," Sandra asked, "when it's your legs that's broke?"

To my surprise, Bright Feather replied for me, and she did so accurately: "It's because she's not supposed to put her weight down all the way on her feet. So she leans hard on the crutches. I can maybe help you some, Fremont. I'm good at healing. That's the main thing that brought me back to my people. I want to be a healer. Medicine Woman."

"How fascinating!" I exclaimed sincerely, though I did wonder how she could be with her people and also married to old Tom, who wasn't an Indian but a white man. A story, I supposed, for another day. "Of course I'd appreciate your help. I'll try most anything to get these legs to mend faster."

"She'll do it too," Sandra called after me. "She's a good 'un, damn straight. Oh, and Fremont—"

I turned back to hear Sandra's parting remark, my hand on the doorknob.

"—thanks for trading rooms. I like it upstairs for a change. See how the rich people live. Haw!" Sandra slapped the desk again.

I smiled, ignoring that embarrassing word "rich," and then I remembered something. "Oh, Sandra, about your little cat—"

"Cat? I don't have no cat."

"That black kitten with the green eyes isn't yours? Whose is he, then?"

Bright Feather looked over her shoulder at me. Her brown eyes twinkled. "Is it pure black?"

"Yes. Sleek as slate, black as coal. Not a speck of white on him anywhere."

"It's good luck when any cat, but especially a pure black one, chooses you for its human companion," Bright Feather said. "So if I was you, I'd hang on to it. That's the mystical answer, the Indian answer: Cat's chosen you, makes him yours.

"But white people's answer is: That cat's a stray. Been hanging around here for the past week or so. Doesn't belong to anybody."

"Oh yes he does," I said, opening the door to my room, "I prefer the Indian explanation. The little cat belongs now to Fremont Jones."

Or perhaps,
I thought as I went in and closed the door behind me,
I
belong to that little cat.
The cunning creature was curled up asleep precisely in the center of
the bed, and it was quite amazing how my heart was gladdened by such a simple thing.

Leaving the train at Salt Lake City put Michael and Meiling into Provo a day and a half later than they'd expected to arrive. Wish Stephenson's telegram was waiting for Michael when he signed the register at the Mountain View Hotel, where, thanks be to the gods, they'd kept open the reservation he had made before leaving Utah for San Francisco over a month ago.

"Who sends the telegram?" Meiling asked.

She had recovered from the effects of being knocked unconscious by a falling crate, but she was still angry with herself for having captured only the gun, not the whole man along with it. Anger made her surly, imparting a dark cast to her features. Strangely, she seemed less inscrutable this way, more . . . approachable.

And so, though he was wary and careful around her, Michael found an angry Meiling rather attractive. She was definitely a more exciting companion than the quiet, reserved person he had usually known by the name of Meiling Li.

"Wish Stephenson," Michael said in answer to her question. "I expect it's just J&K business, nothing important. Let's go on to our rooms. If the telegram says anything that pertains to us both, I'll let you know. Otherwise, shall we simply meet for dinner in"—he consulted his pocket watch—"two hours?"

"That is agreeable," Meiling said.

They parted, and then only minutes later Michael was pounding on the door of Meiling's room, which was next to his.