Noon the following day finds me and Jefferson sitting on the wagon bench in front of our hotel, keeping an eye on the Custom House across the plaza. Jeff’s arm is settled across my shoulders, and I lean into him, loving how easy it is now that we’re affianced. When I want to hold his hand, all I have to do is reach for it. When he wants to press his lips to the top of my head, he doesn’t hesitate.
Hampton has gone off in search of his supper. Wisps of fog still dally with the hilltops, and the air is thick with chilled wetness. I wear a floppy straw hat, in part against the cold, in part to cover my face.
The clerk who helped Becky and me yesterday entered the office right when it opened this morning, and he hasn’t yet emerged. For Becky’s plan to work, he needs to take a break. Then, we’ll approach one of the other clerks, who won’t remember our failed attempt to acquire the house once already.
Becky strides toward us from across the square, accompanied by a tall gentleman in a fine suit. For a split second, I wonder where Henry is, even though he was supposed to accompany her, preparing for today’s adventure.
Of course, the finely dressed gentleman is Henry, and I let out an appreciative whistle. “Hello, Mr. Joyner.”
He preens, but Becky scowls, and Henry slips into a dour expression that reminds me so much of the late Andrew Joyner that’s it’s almost a punch in the gut.
“What do you think?” Becky asks.
The resemblance is uncanny. “How?”
“We visited a variety of shops,” Henry says in a perfect Southern drawl, turning so I can see him from every angle. “Until I found the perfect suit. You’d be surprised at the items that have made their way out here. Why, I could dress myself like anyone—from a Japanese samurai to a French countess.”
He extends his arms so we can admire the flashy cufflinks on his shirt. They’re exactly the sort of thing Mr. Joyner would have bought.
“You even sound like him!”
“He used to imitate my husband,” Becky says. “To amuse the other bachelors when he thought no one else was listening.” She scowls up at him. “But I was listening.”
“The lesson is that someone’s always listening,” Henry says without breaking character, though he does manage a small amount of shame. Mr. Joyner was an uppity ne’er-do-well and few cared for him at all. But he was Becky’s husband, and I hope Henry’s imitations haven’t pained her.
Jefferson says, “I swear you’ve aged a decade since yesterday.”
“Sleeping on the hard floor of a garret, with six people in a room meant for two, will do that to a soul,” Henry says.
“Stop bellyaching,” Becky tells him. “We all slept in much worse conditions while crossing the continent.”
“But if you recall, I always slept on a feather mattress!” Henry says, fully into his character.
It’s the worst thing he could say. Mr. Joyner packed a whole household’s worth of fine furniture for their journey west, including a full-sized bed that filled most of their wagon. It was the furniture that killed him, in an accident high in the Rocky Mountains. He sacrificed his life trying to save a huge oak dresser, and I can still picture him smashed and bloody in the dust, broken pieces of wood scattered all around him.
Henry sees the expression on my face and says, “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s good,” Becky says, and maybe I’ve overestimated her heartache. “That’s exactly the kind of thoughtless thing he’d say. You stay in character until we have my house.”
Henry gives her a small bow. “Your wish is my dearest desire.” He turns to Jefferson. “We stopped at a ladies’ store to sample some of the maquillage. It makes a lady look younger, but a gentleman much older.”
“It’s astonishing,” I tell him, because it is.
Becky nods toward the shaded veranda of the Custom House. “Has our helpful friend from yesterday taken a break from his duties yet?”
“Not yet,” I say.
“And we’re sure no one is using the back door?” she asks.
Jefferson shrugs. “I circled the whole building. Nothing back there but trash.”
“A flaw in our plan, perhaps,” Henry says.
“I’m optimistic he’ll leave through the front, just like the others,” Becky says firmly.
As I settle back into the crook of Jefferson’s arm, our friend Jim appears around the corner and heads for the front of the hotel. He carries a large rolled blanket. I shout hello to him, and he changes course, waving to us.
Jefferson tips his hat. “Free Jim,” he acknowledges.
“Just Jim now,” Jim and I say in unison.
“Well, all right then,” Jefferson says, with a hint of a smile. “Jim it is.”
“Glad I caught you,” Jim says to me. “Was afraid you’d be out and about, and I’d miss seeing the look on your face when you opened this.”
He hands the long package up to me, and I lay it across my lap. It’s a heavy weight. A familiar weight. I know what it is; I’m sure of it. My hands shake as I peel the blanket away, because now I’ve gotten my hopes up, and what if I’m wrong?
Polished wood and steel glint up at me.
“Lee?” Jefferson says. “That’s a dead ringer for your daddy’s Hawken rifle.”
“It is my daddy’s Hawken.” I examine the stock and find familiar scratches, plus a few more. I hold it up and sight along the barrel. “Jim—where . . . ? How . . . ?”
He smiles like the cat that ate the canary. “Remember when we saw each other last? In Independence? It was on a rack in that general store, and I recognized it right away. I figure somebody carried it west, and then traded it for a pan and shovel. That, or you were so desperate for money you had to pawn it yourself. I snapped it up right before I left, but then I couldn’t find you again.”
A laugh bursts out of my chest, a pure clean feeling of delight. I jump down from the bench and throw my arms around him and give him the tightest hug, and I don’t care what anybody thinks.
Jefferson climbs down and shakes his hand. “We appreciate this a great deal, Jim,” he says as I take a step back and admire the rifle all over again.
“Reuben Westfall bought that gun in my store when you were barely toddling around,” Jim says.
I can’t stop staring at the rifle. Three brothers robbed me of it last year, when I was barely out of Georgia. I never thought I’d see it again. “This is the last thing I have to remember Daddy by,” I tell Jim.
“Aren’t those his boots you’re wearing?”
I look down at the boots and scuff them in the dirt. They aren’t the same, no matter how much they look like Daddy’s boots, but I’m grateful to have them. “Nah. The Major made these for me. They fit me a lot better. I’d have had fewer blisters had I hiked west in these.” I hold up the rifle again, just to admire it. “But Jim! This gift—it’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Too much?” suggests Jefferson.
“A surprise?” asks Jim, suppressing his grin.
It’s the best thing to happen to me since Jefferson agreed to marry me. “You have to let me pay you for—”
“There he is!” shouts Becky. She’s pointing at the Custom House. “There he goes!”
Sure enough, yesterday’s clerk is strolling along the veranda with one of his fellows. I grab the blanket, rewrap the rifle, and stuff it under the bench. “Let’s go,” I say.
While Jefferson catches Jim up on what’s going on, Becky, Henry, and I set off across the plaza at a brisk pace. “So, you’ll stand watch?” Becky asks me.
She must be nervous, because we’ve been over it a thousand times. “If I see the clerk coming back, I’ll come inside and signal so you can slip out,” I assure her.
Henry jumps in with, “Then I’ll take the letter and continue to wait in line by myself. If you still have concerns, I can go in alone.”
“No, no,” Becky says. “I’ll feel better if I see it through myself. And though we’ve done our best to anticipate questions, the situation might still require a woman’s touch.”
Because that worked so well for us yesterday. But I refrain from saying as much.
Becky and her false husband step into line. Across the plaza, Hampton has returned to the wagon, and my stomach rumbles when he offers something to Jefferson and Jim.
Everyone is in place now, so I lean against the wall between the Custom House and the law offices, like I’m waiting impatiently for someone inside, which will be my excuse should anyone bother me. I pull the brim of my hat down over my face so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. I pull my sweater down over my hands because I’m cold. I cross my arms with what I hope is a strong signal to leave me alone.
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a woman approaching, and for a split second, I think it’s Helena Russell, the woman who was keeping company with Hardwick. I’m like a deer about to bolt, until a closer look reveals the truth: it’s the pickpocket from the previous morning.
“Hello, Sonia,” I say without warmth. She must frequent Portsmouth Square often. A lot of miners here with gold to spend. After they’ve had a few drinks, it’s probably easy to part them from their fortunes.
“Oh. Miss Lee,” she says, eyes widening, feet faltering. She turns and dashes away.
I’m almost sad to see her go, because two generously whiskered fellows come along and lean against the wall beside me. They pretend like they’re talking to each other—about the empty lot one just purchased, and the lucky card streak the other is on—but I’d bet my boots they’re bragging to get my attention. I pretend they don’t exist. It’s a damp, chilly day, and my attitude is even chillier. Eventually they move on.
Becky and Henry make it inside. The line isn’t long compared to yesterday. After about twenty minutes, I notice that everything has gone peculiarly silent, and people are leaving the Custom House—folks who made it inside after Becky and Henry. They all seem anxious and hurried.
I start to worry a little.
Then our helpful clerk from yesterday saunters back with one of his fellows, and I start to worry a lot.
I peel off from the wall and stick my head in the door, about to wave the signal for Becky to cover her face and slip away.
I freeze.
Frank Dilley stands just inside, Colt revolver trained on Becky and Henry. They are seated in chairs, guarded by two impeccably groomed men in suits. One of the guards is very large, and the other is larger. Frank grins when he sees me. He motions with the gun for me to stand beside the chairs.
Henry is hunched over on himself, looking defeated. Becky is like a stray cat cornered in the barn—I can’t tell if she’s about to bolt or attack with her claws.
“This won’t take but a minute,” Frank says. The burn on his face is smeared with glycerin, giving it a red shine. The scar pulls the corner of his mouth back into a joyless smile. It looks painful. I hope it’s painful.
“Just play by the rules and nobody will get hurt,” Frank says. “I know that goes against your nature, but do it this once, for the sake of your friends. Then we’ll all be on our way.”
I walk slowly to Becky’s side, hands up, eyes on that gun. The clerk comes through the door and skids to a stop. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, my.”
The other clerks peer at us from across the counter, like this is a show they’ve been waiting to see.
“Mr. Brumble,” Frank says.
Yesterday’s clerk bobs his head. “Yes, sir. Present, sir.”
“Are these two . . . well, I don’t know what to call the two of them together, but for the sake of argument, we’ll say ladies. Are these two ladies the ones who came in yesterday and tried to collect property belonging to one Mr. Andrew Joyner?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, they are.”
“And this gentleman here presented himself today as Mr. Andrew Joyner. You can confirm this, correct?” Frank waves his hand in the direction of another man in a starched white shirt, who immediately provides assent.
“This time last year,” Frank says, drawing the words out with obvious pleasure, “I was wagon master on the train that brought this sorry group of deceivers and reprobates west to California. Mr. Andrew Joyner was a member of our party, but he got himself killed crossing the Rocky Mountains. That boy there with the fancy suit is Henry Meeks, fresh out of college and completely ignorant of honest work. He is not Andrew Joyner. Do all of you recognize their faces now?”
The line of clerks nods, solemn as a jury.
“If any of these troublemakers makes another attempt to claim property belonging to the late Mr. Joyner—or anyone else, for that matter—you are authorized to seize them for fraud, and hold them until they can be arrested by the sheriff or his deputies.”
“Does that come from the sheriff?” asks a small, balding clerk. It’s not much defiance, but it’s some defiance, and I appreciate him for it.
But Frank says, “That comes from Mr. Hardwick,” and the clerks nod, even the balding one. We have no champions here.
Frank twirls his gun and slips it into his holster—a fancy trick I’ll have to teach myself if I get the chance. He pulls out a pocket watch and checks the time, then nods to the large gentleman guards. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Hardwick. Hold these folks for a couple minutes and then send them packing. Catch up to us later.”
He slips out the door, and the clerks try their best to look busy. The two guards continue to hold guns on us. Maybe we should just walk out. Would they really shoot us if we did? The fact that Dilley wants us to stay put for a spell is interesting. It means he’s a little afraid of us, of what we might do, and he wants to get away clean.
Becky is furious, but she makes no motion as if to leave. Henry is pale under his maquillage.
“You didn’t see Dilley come in this morning?” Becky asks me.
“No,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”
“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” says Large.
“We were all here before sunup, since we weren’t sure when you’d show,” adds Larger.
“Was about ready to give up, myself,” says Large.
“Frank was too, but the boss told him to wait.”
“So we waited.”
A hard knot settles in my gut. “You knew we were coming,” I say as Becky and Henry exchange an alarmed glance. “How?”
The only people who knew of our plan were in that room last night. I’ll go out on a limb and assume that neither the Major, nor any of Becky’s three children gave us away. And either Becky and Henry are the finest actors in the whole wide west, or they’re just as shocked as I am. Jefferson would never do it. That leaves only Hampton and Tom, and I can’t imagine either of them would be betray us either. Maybe the drunk in the other room eavesdropped through the walls, but we kept our voices low after his outburst.
“I never know how the boss knows what he knows,” says Large.
“He’s Mr. Hardwick,” says Larger with a shrug. “You just assume he knows everybody and everything.”
Large holsters his gun and waves toward the door. “Shoo. Get out of here. Don’t misbehave.”
Larger follows suit. “Go, and sin no more.”
Becky rises slowly and primly. Henry bolts out the door before I can say boo. We catch up to him outside beneath the veranda, where he paces in a tight circle with his hands deep in his pockets.
“Frank wasn’t going to hurt us,” Becky assures him. “He just wanted to scare us.”
“Well, he sure did that like an expert,” Henry says.
“He’s an expert bully,” I tell him. “He has loads of practice. He knows that house belongs to Becky morally, if not legally. Sometimes people are inclined to do the moral thing regardless, and a different clerk might have let us sign those papers.” I’m pretty sure the small balding fellow would have helped us if we’d been lucky enough to get him yesterday instead. “This was meant to scare all the clerks too.”
That changes Henry’s perspective a bit, and he stops circling like an anxious dog on a short leash. “So what do we do next?”
“We can still go buy the house,” I say.
Becky shakes her head. “Now that they know how much I want it, they’ll charge five times the price.”
“Or ten,” I say. “But it might be worth it just to be done with all this.”
“No,” she says firmly. “We’ll wait until the auction and take our chances then. New houses go up so fast here, there’s no reason for someone to overpay for one tiny, disassembled cottage shipped from Tennessee.”
Which is an excellent point. “But I can afford it. Even at ten times the price.”
My words ring hollow, even to myself. Spending that much money at a public auction will attract attention we don’t want. Besides, it feels like giving in. Hardwick has already hinted at shaking us down for more money. The last thing we need is to let him get started at it.
Becky looks offended that I would even suggest such a thing. Her mouth is shaping a reply, but a commotion reaches us from across the plaza—shouts, the sound of a hammer smacking wood, the whinny of a frightened horse. San Francisco is a boisterous place, and I’ve already grown accustomed to ignoring its daily clamor, but Henry says, “That’s Jefferson and Hampton. Looks like they’re in trouble.”