After a few days without food and with the cold weather setting in, Trenton was sure God wasn’t listening. He thought about selling his remaining gear. He still had his pistol, saddle, and horse. But a man needed all of those things to survive. How could he possibly make his way to Montana Territory without them?
“
If
I go,” he muttered.
For weeks now he’d figured to make his way north. At least he could check up on his family and know whether they’d arrived safely. He’d had no word from them, but then again, he hadn’t bothered to check in with the post office in New Madrid before leaving. Dianne probably had written, but now Trenton would never know.
Leaving his horse tied at the end of the street, Trenton made his way down the boardwalk. He caught his reflection in the window of a greengrocer.
No wonder folks won’t hire me. I look like an outlaw
. With a growth of whisker stubble and dust clinging to his clothes, Trenton made a rather ominous picture.
Maybe I can wash up in the river
, he thought as he continued down the street. But even as the thought came to mind, Trenton’s stomach rumbled loudly. He couldn’t wait that long. He was starving, and now his Sunday school upbringing passed by the wayside altogether as he contemplated how to steal some food.
He stepped inside a general mercantile, glancing around to see what was to be had. He wanted jerked meat and maybe crackers or bread, but those things would be hard to slip off with. The store was crowded, so that helped his cause. Spying a bowl of apples atop the counter, he took two when no one was looking and quickly stuck them in his pocket.
Guilt washed over him as he thought of his mother. She would be horrified to know how low he’d sunk. Blowing up the Union supply house, doing nothing to stop a bank robbery, keeping company with killers, and now thieving.
He moved out of the mercantile and headed down the street to another store. Here he accidentally ran into a woman who was moving toward the door, scattering her goods on the floor. Trenton hadn’t meant for the accident to happen, but it seemed like providence as he helped her collect her goods, managing to slip a wrapped parcel into his pocket. Surely it was either meat or cheese.
“Where are my buttons?” she questioned, looking around the floor. “I had a package of buttons.
Trenton handed her a spool of thread. “I’m not sure. I think something might have gone over there,” he said, pointing behind her.
He pretended to crawl around looking for the missing buttons while another customer engaged the woman in conversation. They were deep in details about some woman named Mrs. Hancock when Trenton managed to slip out the door.
He made his way back to his horse, figuring there was no sense in pushing his luck. He’d go back to the woods by the river and see if he could shoot himself a squirrel or rabbit. Then he’d have a good supper.
As he rode, he unwrapped the package in his pocket and found it to be a wedge of cheese. Without waiting, he bit off a huge chunk. Nothing had ever tasted so good. He reached in his other pocket and pulled out one of the apples. Alternating between the two, Trenton finally started to feel satisfied. He couldn’t help thinking, however, of days gone by and his mother’s home-cooked meals. He thought, too, of his warm bed and the security he’d always known in his parents’ care.
At nineteen, Trenton wanted very much to prove himself as a man, but so many times he felt helpless—childish. Like now … he would give just about anything for someone to take care of him.
As he neared the river, the air grew heavier with dampness. The cold permeated Trenton’s thin coat, leaving him to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to head south rather than north. He had no funds to buy anything warmer, and it wasn’t going to be long before snow and chilled breezes were the routine of the day rather than precursors to the coming change of season.
Maybe I could head to Texas,
he thought. He’d heard all sorts of stories about that area. There always seemed to be one ranch or another that would hire men to help with the livestock—not that Trenton had any experience. His hands were a bit callused and worn from his last few weeks at the reins but certainly nothing like those of a cowboy.
He found his camp and dismounted. Hobbling the horse’s feet, Trenton pulled his pistol to check the ammunition and considered his choices. If he headed off to the west, the forest afforded better coverage and more possibilities for squirrels. If he went east, the land opened up a bit and would be prime ground for rabbits.
Figuring rabbits would be easier, Trenton headed toward the meadow. He walked for about thirty minutes without seeing so much as a single sign of life. The oaks and elms along the river rustled as the wind picked up. Trenton pulled his coat shut and secured the bottom buttons—the only two remaining.
He was about to give up and head toward the trees when a flash of white caught his eye. He followed the movement and saw a rabbit meandering through the tall grass. It stopped in a small clearing. Taking a bead on the animal, Trenton squeezed the trigger just as the rabbit raised its head to sniff the air.
The bullet shot clean through the neck. The rabbit gave out a death squeal and fell over. Trenton ran to where the animal lay, feeling quite delighted with his accomplishment. He could almost taste the meat.
Trenton immediately set to cleaning the animal, not wishing to have the mess at his camp to draw other beasts. Once he’d completed his task, Trenton went back to camp and immediately set to cooking his find.
In spite of his earlier meal of apple and cheese, Trenton was already hungry again. He’d just turned the rabbit over the fire when a rustling in the brush caught his attention.
“Hello the camp!” came the voice of a man.
Trenton reached for his pistol, still convinced that Jerry Wilson would run him down. “Who’s there?”
An old man, looking even more tired and haggard than Trenton felt, emerged from the trees. He wore a knee-length coat that looked outdated by about twenty years. Atop his head was a well-worn, dirtsmudged top hat of what must have one time been fine beaver. “The name is Henry DuPont. I smelled your cooking. Ain’t had nothing to eat in a month of Sundays.”
Trenton relaxed a bit. “You’re welcome to join me. I don’t have much, just this rabbit.”
“Sounds mighty fine.” The man reached into his torn coat and pulled out a small cloth bag. “I’ll provide the salt. Never travel anywhere without salt. I find a man can eat most anything if he has a bit of salt to go with it.”
Trenton smiled. “I’m rather partial to salt myself. Come on and warm up.” The old man limped into camp, favoring his right leg. Trenton didn’t want to be rude and ask about it, so he said nothing.
“You headin’ anywhere in particular?”
Trenton shook his head. “No, not really. I have a sister up in Montana Territory, but it seems the wrong time of year to head up there. How about you?”
“Nah, I’m just going wherever the wind takes me.”
Trenton nodded and turned the rabbit again. It was browning nicely and the juices were dripping into the fire below—sizzling and releasing the most incredible aroma.
“Were you in the war?” Henry asked.
Trenton looked at the old man for a moment and then shook his head. “My pa didn’t want me to join up.” He shrugged. “I can’t say I had any real desire to go off to war.”
“Well, at least you’re not a deserter. I can’t abide a man who gives his word then runs off. Known too many of that type. If a man doesn’t have his honor, he ain’t got nothing at all.”
Trenton nodded, feeling guilty afresh as he thought of his thieving that morning. “Hard times make a man desperate,” he muttered.
Henry laughed. “Don’t I know it. I wasn’t raised to this life. I had a good wife and two fine daughters. Lost the wife to childbirth when she tried to give me a son. My own dear mother came to live with us after that. She raised the girls as if they were her own. I haven’t seen any of them in years.”
Trenton heard the loneliness in Henry’s voice. “What happened to put you on the road?”
Henry shook his head. “I can’t tell you. One day I just up and walked away and kept walking.”
“You just left your home and family?”
Henry shrugged. “Like I said, I can’t honestly tell you why. It just seemed the thing to do. I’ve been wandering around for the last twenty years.”
“Seems a long time to be missing from the lives of your loved ones. I haven’t been away from mine even a year, and I already miss them more than I like to admit. I miss the comforts of home too.”
Henry stretched out his hands to the fire. The light was fading overhead as the sky thickened with dark clouds. “I know what you mean. Nothing beats a feather mattress and a warm quilt.”
Trenton smiled at the thought. He took out his knife and tested a piece of the rabbit. “I think this is done.”
They ate in relative silence, stripping the bones clean of meat. Trenton remembered his second apple and offered it to Henry. It made him feel as though he were doing some small penance for having stolen the thing to begin with.
“No thanks. Can’t chew it well enough to enjoy it. My teeth are pert near rotten.”
Trenton put the apple back in his pocket just as the first few raindrops began to fall. Henry glanced overhead. “I know a cave not but about a quarter mile upriver. It’ll keep us dry if we hurry.”
Trenton gathered his things and tied them onto his horse. Henry led them through the trees, sometimes having to wait while Trenton found a way to come through with his mount. Finally they reached the cave, grateful that the rain had still not begun to fall in earnest.
Trenton tied off the horse and took his things inside the cave. Henry was already gathering wood for their fire, and Trenton hurried to join him.
“Cave will be a mite warmer, especially with a good fire going.”
“I’ve been cautious about fires,” Trenton admitted. “I hadn’t really built one until I needed it for the rabbit. I was afraid it might draw some of the border ruffians.”
“Could at that. Them ol’ boys know this area like the back of their hand. They could find us, that’s for sure. But it ain’t like we got much that they’d want. ’Ceptin’ your horse.”
Trenton nodded. “Is the cave big enough for him as well?”
“I’m sure we can squeeze him in,” Henry said. “He might not like it, though. We can put him in first and then make our fire at the mouth of the cave. That shouldn’t spook him too much.”
They shared a companionable evening, talking of the weather and the winter to come. Henry pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and held them up. “Do you play?”
Trenton shook his head. “Ma thought cards were tools of the devil.”
Henry began to shuffle the deck. “Lotta folks think that way, but I can’t say why. A man never sits down to play but what he knows the odds are against him. Ain’t like anyone’s tricked him.”
Henry dealt the cards. “We’re not playin’ for money, that’s for sure, so why not go a few hands with me? It’s a good way to pass the time.”
“What will we play?”
Henry smiled. “Poker. What else?”
They played for several hours, stopping only long enough to add more wood to the fire. Outside the weather worsened and grew colder, the rain falling so hard at one point it was impossible to see beyond the opening of the cave.
Trenton seemed to have a natural affinity for poker. Once he understood the rules, he won hand after hand, surprising even Henry.
“You’re good at this, boy. Maybe too good. You could probably make a decent living if you learned to read men good enough.”
“What do you mean?” Trenton asked. He was enjoying the game. The strategy kept his mind occupied and helped him to forget about his worries.
“There are two kinds of men who play poker. Them that come expectin’ to win and them that come hopin’ to win. The hopers never get far. They don’t understand the mind that drives those who expect to win.
“Now, there are a lot of professional gamblers out there. Used to be one for a time myself. You have your regular games where you might call it a good night if you make ten dollars. Then you have your high stakes games where thousands pass over the table.”
Trenton perked up at the thought of all that money. “How can that be?”
Henry shrugged. “Guess there are a lot of rich men who don’t know what else to do with their money.” He snickered. “I could sure help them spend it.”
Trenton laughed. “Me too.”
Henry sobered and dealt another hand. “I know where you could get into a decent game. You might make thirty, even fifty dollars before the night was over. If you played this good.”
“I couldn’t do that. My ma would hightail it all the way back from Montana Territory to box my ears if I dared to gamble.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, it ain’t the sin she makes it out to be. How can it be robbin’ or cheatin’ a man if he comes willingly to the table—knowing the odds are against him?”
Trenton let that information sink in for a moment. The man made sense, and the game
was
pleasurable. How was it any different from passing the evening playing some other socially acceptable game?
“Even if I wanted to give it a go,” Trenton finally said, “I don’t have any money.”
“You got a pistol,” Henry pointed out. “You even have a horse and saddle. You could sell one or all and then buy them back after you won yourself a fair pot of money.”
Trenton shook his head and picked up the cards Henry had dealt. “I couldn’t risk it. I might not win. After all, there are no doubt a lot of men out there who know a heap more about the game than I do.”
“Well, sure. That’s where I come in. I can teach you everything you need to know. How to read a man. How to keep track of the cards— this is especially good if you’re playin’ twenty-one.”
Trenton began to see that the old man had something specific in mind. “And what would you want in return?”
Henry rubbed his scrawny white beard and raised a bushy brow. “Well, now, I think maybe twenty-five percent of the game would be fair. We could travel together and see what happened. If it didn’t work out, there’d be no hard feelings.”