Sweet Boundless (18 page)

Once it was lowered into the mine, the mule would never come out. It would spend several hours still tied up but not blindfolded to accustom it slowly to the new environment. Then it would live the rest of its days in the dark, claustrophobic, muted atmosphere underground. Each day would be a monotony of pulling one-ton ore carts along eighteen-inch rails, feeding and leaving its waste in the tunnels that now comprised its world. Alex didn’t envy the poor animal.

Strange, he’d always felt more sympathy for the beasts than the men—maybe because they had no voice in the matter. They were slaves to the human whims that drove them. At least every man down there had chosen the work for himself. And it was a worthy living, if a hard one.

Alex watched the last of the mules disappear and sighed. Everyone played his part, even the beasts, and maybe they minded it less than he imagined. They were certainly docile enough once they adjusted in those first hours. A man coughed beside him, and Alex turned to see what he wanted.

Finney McGough could be anywhere from thirty to sixty, wizened and hacking. He was rocked up, Alex knew, but he didn’t mention it. The miners’ consumption was a subject avoided on all fronts. Alex had his suspicions of its causes, but he kept them to himself. No sense alarming men over what couldn’t be helped. Part of the trade, was all. Part of the trade.

When the freighter returned with a full wagon, Carina was ecstatic. When she saw his bill, much of her ecstasy vanished. Quillan hadn’t exaggerated. The freighter’s markup was extortionary. She realized now how fair Quillan’s price had been even before she talked him down to the deficit amount they’d settled on for that first trip. But she couldn’t see any way past paying the bill if she needed to use freighters other than Quillan.

She would just have to get used to higher cost and smaller profit. She felt better about her plate cost. And with what this freighter had brought her she would implement her new plan. It was two days until Sunday, two days to pass the word and enlist Mae.

Èmie and Lucia she would leave out of it. They needed a day free, and she was determined they should have it. Besides, she couldn’t afford to pay them, not when she was charging only fifty cents a plate for any miner and his family. She hurried to Mae’s kitchen while the freighter unloaded her goods into the icehouse and larder.

Her pimento jar had been replaced by a crockery canister like Mae’s. She stretched up and took it down from the shelf. From it she counted out the money to pay the freighter and shoved it into the deep pocket she’d requested be sewn into the dress she wore.

“Mae,” she called into the parlor, but there was no answer. She crossed through to the entry and found Mae at her desk. “Mae, I have an idea.”

Mae licked her finger and counted a stack of bills, then entered them into her ledger. “Do I want to know?”

“Of course you do. Because you have to help me. I can’t do it alone.”

Mae glanced briefly, her violet eyes dark with doubt. She laid down her pencil and folded her fingers into a fleshy mat. “Let’s have it.”

“Sunday I’m feeding the miners.”

“So?”

“I don’t mean the mine managers or owners or engineers. I mean the miners. For fifty cents a plate. I wanted to serve them free, but I thought they might not like that. It would seem like charity.”

“It is charity. How much are you making on fifty cents a plate?”

“None. But enough the other nights to spare.”

Mae shook her head. “You feel guiltier about more things than anyone I know.”

“It isn’t about guilt. It’s about . . . kindness.”

Mae heaved herself out of her chair. “And just how do you propose doing this?”

“I’ll start serving at noon and serve through dinner. It won’t be fancy, but it’ll be different—special because it’s different. Do you see?”

“I see. Where do I come in?”

“Just tending the pasta and the sauce while I serve.”

“And you think the two of us will handle that?”

Carina bit her lower lip. “I admit it won’t be easy.”

“Impossible, more like. Didn’t you learn anything from your opening night? You hang an offer like that out and you’ll have a stampede.”

“I want to try.”

“Why? What’s this all about?”

Carina threw out her hands. “Quillan’s mine. Mr. Makepeace was telling me all about it. It sounds horrible what the men do, what they risk. I just want . . . I just want to thank them.”

Mae was shaking her head before Carina finished. “Guilt again.”

“Maybe so. Is it so bad? If it makes you want to help, to do something good? Lucia lost her father. Is it so much to bring a little cheer into their lives?”

“Not so much, I guess. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“It’ll take a full company.”

“It can’t. Èmie and Lucia must have the day off. How else will Dr. Simms ever get the courage to ask Èmie . . .” She realized she’d spoken out of turn.

“I’m not blind, Carina. I’ve seen the mooning between them two.”

Carina squeezed Mae. “I must pay the freighter. I think his name is Peter Marley. Then I’m off to tell Joe Turner my plan.”

“Landsakes.”

Carina squeezed her again.

“You are the huggingest thing.”

Carina kissed both Mae’s cheeks, and Mae laughed. “Get out, will you?”

Carina left her still laughing and rode to Joe Turner’s Carina DiGratia mine. Mr. Turner balked at her idea. “These men are too rough for your establishment.”

“Rough or not, you will tell them, won’t you?”

He shook his head. “Yes, I’ll pass the word. I only hope it doesn’t kill your other business.” He clearly enjoyed the elite aspect of her venture, but he did seem genuinely concerned for her as well.

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.” She left him still shaking his head. She knew it wouldn’t hurt business. God had given her the idea, and He would watch over it. She went next to the New Boundless, her own husband’s mine. She found Alex outside the mine with a map opened out before him. “That’s not a map like any I’ve seen.”

He looked up. “It’s topographical.”

“Oh.”

“That means it maps out the lay of the land. Each of these concentric circles stands for a certain distance upward.”

“Oh.”

“Never mind. Did you have a purpose here, Mrs. Shepard?” He said the words with a great deal of humor in his brown eyes.

“I did. I want you to tell the men I’m serving miners this Sunday, fifty cents a plate.”

“Mrs. Shepard!” He put a hand to his heart. “Fifty cents a plate when the rest of us pay four dollars?”

“It’s only fair, Mr. Makepeace, and you know it.”

He appraised her in that even way of his. “Well, I’ll tell them, but I don’t mind saying there are some of us who feel stung.”

“If you feel stung, it’s your own conscience. When you make three dollars a day, you can come on Sunday, too.”

He removed his hat and held it to his chest. “Forgive me for being a clod.”

She smiled. “Never a clod, Mr. Makepeace.”

“Does that mean you won’t have time for a ride on Sunday? I was hoping to see more of the countryside before the winter closes in for good.”

“Not this Sunday, Mr. Makepeace. Maybe the next.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” His eyes were warm coffee sweetened with honey. His smile continued the same warmth.

Carina’s skirts swished as she passed by him and headed for her mare. That was enough to start with. Word would pass from these two mines to the others. And she had two days to make and dry the pasta. Not to mention starting on her menu for the night. Yes, it was time for more help. She’d see whom else Èmie could find.

Quillan saw the gang of boys huddled too closely to be minding their manners. Something was inside their circle, but he couldn’t make out what. Maybe they were tormenting a stray dog, but it seemed to have more bulk than that. From his distance, he couldn’t make out exactly the nature of their activity, but he recognized the mean laughter and the taunting.

He gave Sam a curt command to stay, then strode purposefully closer. The figure inside their circle rose up, and he saw it was a boy, actually nearer a man, a full head taller than the others. The mud on his pants and bulky jacket testified to a roll on the street, and Quillan saw now that one of the others held a stick.

“Come on, dummy, do a trick. Roll over, dummy. Roll over.” The taunter struck the boy with his stick, and Quillan hoped for a moment the larger would take the stick and strike back. Then he recognized the expression behind the up-thrown arms. No understanding, just fear and bewilderment.

A surge of rage filled him. What meanness festered inside those kids to mistreat a simpleton as though he were an animal? Quillan reached the group and jerked the stick from the boy’s hand. He had no intention of hitting the kid, but the look on his face didn’t make that readily apparent.

“Hey.” The kid’s lip had a natural curl that matched his mean nature. “Give it back.”

The others cheered their leader, though Quillan noticed they’d stepped back a pace.

“You want it back?” Quillan balanced the stick in his hands as though testing its weight and measure. “Where do you want it?”

The kid was ready for a fight and not about to lose face. “In my hand, mister, where I had it. Go mind your own business.”

Now Quillan did consider striking him, but his own memories held him back. “You like tricks.” Quillan heaved the stick end over end into a far field between two cabins. “Go fetch.”

The kid’s lunge took him square in the belly with a bulky shoulder more developed than Quillan had expected. He tensed just in time and caught the boy in a grip that left his assailant flailing and swearing until he was red-faced with fury. Quillan gripped one dirty wrist and, with a quick twist, jerked the arm up the spine.

The boy bellowed. “You’re breakin’ my arm!”

“No, I’m not.” Quillan spoke with flat deliberation. “Stop your squirming and it won’t hurt so much.”

The kid aimed a kick for Quillan’s shin, but Quillan jerked him back and threw off the boy’s balance. “That the best you can do? I saw a girl in pigtails do better than that.”

“Let me go!” The boy tried to elbow him with his free arm.

Quillan noted the patched elbow that had torn free countless times and been reattached by someone. “You have a mother?”

That seemed to stump the ruffian. “So?”

“How would she like your behavior just now?”

The boy struggled, realized it only made the arm hurt, and stopped to catch his breath. “She don’t care.”

Quillan looked around the circle. “You boys feeling proud? Picking on someone like that?” He indicated the large boy still standing there instead of making his escape as any normal person would have.

Several of them shuffled. A few looked sullen, several downright rebellious.

“I’m not going to threaten you. Frankly, you’re not worth it.”

The boy in his grasp struggled, and Quillan jerked the arm a half inch higher.

“Aah!”

Quillan ignored him. “One day when you’re really men, you’ll look back on this day in shame. Not because I had the upper hand, but because you were so low to begin with.”

Now even the rebellious ones looked uncertain.

“If it were me, I’d follow someone who could prove his own wit, not harass someone lacking. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to say which of these fellows rates higher on the scale.”

A few of them laughed, and the boy he held struggled angrily, but Quillan could tell the fight in him was about spent. He eased his tension on the arm. “I could thrash you, but I’m going to believe you’ve learned from this encounter. If I see you at it again, I might forget myself.”

“You don’t scare me.” It was false bravado.

“Just so you understand me.” Quillan let him go, half expecting a cheap blow once the boy’s arm was free.

The kid stepped back, shaking down his jacket and scowling. He turned to his compatriots. “Let’s go.”

They started off, kicking the dirty snow clumps. Quillan wondered what, if anything, he’d accomplished. He glanced at the victim of their sport. He still stood where they’d left him. Did he even know to get out of the street? And why wasn’t someone watching him?