hey had never traveled this late before. Normally by this S time, John William had scouted ahead for a suitable camp space. But this evening, though their shadows stretched up the rolling hills that bordered their path, John William said nothing about setting up camp for the night. He walked just ahead of the wagon, one hand resting lightly on the neck of one of the horses.
“When are we stopping?” Gloria asked. She leaned forward on her bouncing seat and repeated the question when he didn't immediately respond, but he seemed lost in thought. In fact, for the past week, besides the obligatory bits of conversation and the daily Bible reading, there had been nothing but silence between them. He had even been more subdued with the children, opting to hold them close rather than spin them, squealing with delight, high above his head.
Now, the team plodded forward, and John William's eyes remained focused just ahead of his boots.
“MacGregan, answer me! Do you plan to walk all night?”
“Do you see that?” he said, pointing to a small pointed rooftop at the edge of the horizon. “That's Fort Hall. We should get there before full dark.”
Gloria pushed her bonnet off her head and stood, straining to make out the details of their destination.
“Sit down,” John William said, still not turning around, “else you'll fall.”
She wondered how he'd known she was standing, then noticed her elongated shadow. She stretched out her hand to give a little wave before complying with his request.
“That seems pretty far,” she said.
He said nothing.
“I can't imagine we'll make it before dark.” “We'll be fine.”
“But what about—”
“I said we'll be fine.” John William turned to look back at her, and his expression left no room for rebuttal.
Fort Hall was not the bastion of civilization that John William was expecting it to be. He had been told of an impressive structure, a bustling environment of fur trade frequented by trappers, manned by soldiers. This should have been a place to get supplies for the final push into Oregon. What he saw instead in the final moments of daylight was an adobe wall still standing to mark the perimeter of the fort, but in disrepair.
On the surrounding land, a dozen wagons stood in makeshift campsites, their contents spilled out around them. Clothing hung on lines strung from the top of their bowed frames to the intermittent boards bracing the walls of the fort. Children scampered about, climbing on the beds of abandoned freight wagons and daring each other to stand on the marked gravesites when the full moon was up.
He searched in the waning light for someone who might have some authority, but the closest he found was a boy of about thirteen who paused in his taunting of a terrified little sister long enough to point toward the heavy wooden gate in the middle of the wall.
“You can leave your rig out here,” the boy said. “An’ for a nickel I'll unhitch your team and take ‘em to water.”
He smiled at the boy and fished into the little money pouch he kept stored under the wagon seat. Seeing how closely the boy eyed his actions, he made a great show of returning the pouch to his pocket before helping Gloria down. They each carried a child in a sling carrier and made their way to the gate.
John William was surprised to be greeted by a sentry in uni- form, even though both the soldier and the uniform bore the same evidence of disrepair.
“Your business here?” the soldier said, seemingly unaware of the trickle of tobacco juice drizzling through his beard.
“Hopin’ to get some supplies,” John William said. “Make camp for a few days.”
“No tradin’ till the morning. Inside's full up, but you can make camp out there with the other'n.”
John William nodded and turned to go back to the wagon.
“You and the woman might want to step inside for a spell, though. Huntin’ party come back today and there's a feast hap-penin’ in the old mess hall.”
“I don't think—” he started, before Gloria's hand clutched his sleeve and yanked him toward the gate.
“Looks like somebody wants some supper,” the soldier said, pushing the gate wide open.
When John William and Gloria walked into the old mess hall, Gloria had a sense of familiarity she had not felt since leaving Virginia City. The room was large and dark. Rough-hewn tables and benches lined the walls; square tables and chairs dotted the center of the floor. A dim cloud of cigar smoke padded the air, and the stench of whiskey—poured, spilled, and belched— was just as thick. The clink and clatter of glasses and bottles punctuated the constant rumble of male voices. Occasional raucous laughter bounced off the corners, and Gloria craned her neck in an effort to hear the joke.
John William merely scowled.
“Let's go," he said, taking her elbow and speaking close to her ear. “1 don't like this place.”
“What's not to like?” Gloria shrugged herself from his grip.
“It's no place for the children,” John William said, raising his voice.
“They don't even know where they are.”
“I know where they are, and they're not stayin'.” He grabbed Gloria's arm. “Let's go.”
Gloria spun on her heel and looked him straight in the eye. “I'm hungry. I'm tired. And I'm not too good to be in here.”
“That's not what I—”
“So take Kate and go, but Danny and I are going to sit here for a while.”
John William laughed.
“What's so funny?”
“You're holding Kate.”
“So take her.” She stood with her hands on her hips, the full weight of the baby falling on the back of her neck.
“I will." He stepped close and scooped his daughter out of the sling. As she did with every contact with her father, Kate gave a little squealing kick of delight as she was lifted to his strong shoulder.
“Give me Danny,” Gloria said, holding out her arms.
“No. He's leavin’ with me.”
The heated exchange had not escaped the attention of the crowd, and soon they were standing in the center of halted conversation. John William shot one more glare, and she countered with her own. Without another word, he left.
Gloria casually reached around the back of her neck, untied the sling's knot, and lifted the cloth to rest, shawl-like, across her shoulders. She spied an unoccupied table in the corner and made her way to it.
Once seated, she allowed herself only furtive glances around the room. She saw a few tables hosting exhausted men and women with equally bedraggled children, but mostly there were men. Like the sentry at the gate, they wore some vestige of a military uniform seemingly more out of habit than duty There were also several wild-looking men dressed in buckskin and fur. What she didn't see, though, was any proof of the glorious feast promised by both the gatekeeper and the lingering aroma of roasted meat. It must have been finished off by the crowd, and the only reason she had for staying was to prove to John William that this is where she belonged.
“You up for some supper?”
Gloria looked over her shoulder and saw a tall, thin man wearing an apron splattered with equal parts grease and blood.
“Is there any left?”
“Not sure, but what there is will cost you seventy-five cents.”
“I don't have any money”
“Well, don't you worry about what you don't have,” he said, punctuated by a salacious wink. On his way out of the room, he stopped and spoke with several of the men, gesturing vaguely toward her. As he left each encounter, the man he'd been speaking to turned to give Gloria a full, curious stare.
Let them stare, Gloria thought. I've been stared at before.
Slowly, imperceptibly, Gloria uncurled from her huddled, protective posture and sat higher, straighter. Her hands still clutched the corners of her shawl, but now they stretched behind her, draping the shawl over the back of the chair. She brought one hand to rest lightly on the table. Her other hand found a stray family of curls, estranged from the loose gathering at the nape of her neck, and worked slowly methodically, twisting the hair around and off, around and off her finger.
She kept her gaze fixed somewhere above the crowd. Not on the ceiling, exactly, but far above any other set of eyes. That's why she didn't see him coming before he was actually standing there, both palms planted on her table.
“Well, Glory-be, it's Glory-A.” This followed by stinking, wheezy laughter.
No. No. No. No.
“By gum, it's you! What in h—”
“Do I know you?”
“I don't know if you know me, but I sure know you.” He'd grabbed Gloria's hand, stopping it midtwirl. He was filthy. Small. A full beard obscured his face. A stained hat sat low over his eyes. He smelled of beer and sweat and stable.
“Virginia City” His voice had taken on a dreamlike quality. “Best five dollars I ever spent.”
“Get away from me.”
“Yep. You came highly recommended. Sent you a few of my buddies, too.”
“I said—”
“That was what…two, three years ago?”
“Don't touch me.” Not demanding, really, but not pleading.
He let go of her hand only to slide another chair over, sitting in it, trapping her.
“Saw you walk in with that baby. Thought I recognized you. Then it hits me—Gloria.” He scooted his chair a little closer, leaned in, as if he were telling a secret. “That my kid?”
The rancid laughter returned. Gloria's mind and stomach reeled at the possibility. She frantically searched her memory, desperate to connect the face to a house, to a time, a year, a month.
His laughter took on a self-conscious air before dissolving completely in Gloria's icy silence. He fidgeted a little, mustering all the dignity available to a pile of rags and whiskey Gloria felt something close to amusement, to victory.
“So you was really rakin’ it in back then,” he said, trying to assume an air of casual conversation. “Now you don't have six bits for supper.”
“-“
“And I figure, what kind of man would I be to let an old jnend go hungry?”
“I'm not a friend and I'm not hungry”
“Then, if it ain't too much trouble,” he was touching her arm now, squeezing and unsqueezing a little path from her wrist to her elbow, then sliding back down. “I got me a little setup on the back wall. Got a little money,” he leaned close, his beard touching her face. “Got all the money you want.”
Gloria went perfectly still. Now this was familiar. This was her life. The friendships forged at Jewell's house, the birth of her son, the months with John William and Kate—all of it disappeared in one breath. This stranger was every man she'd ever known. This embrace was every touch she'd ever felt. She recog- nized the din of this crowd; she'd grown up with the stench of this room. This proprietary grip on her arm was far more familiar and fitting than a small, warm head nuzzled in her neck or a strong hand helping her to stand.
He'd scooted a little closer. His breath engulfed her. His beard skittered on her skin. There was a time when this man would have given her a sense of power. She would dangle her charms, elusive, enticing, just outside the grasp of such desperate starvation. She would have laughed at his need for her, squeezed him for every drop of his money and pride. In her view, she emerged from every encounter victorious. Now, though, she merely sat, motionless, indefensible to his invasion. His voice droned on, a putrid flow of promises and threats, recalling and predicting details that made her body fester with shame. She felt herself disappear a little with each vile caress, dissolving under the stream of his words. The joy of her son, the comfort of John William, the delight of Kate—all faded behind the sour speech of this stranger.
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone.
“I said, get away from her.” The familiar voice of a growling bear.
Gloria glanced over, saw the chair next to her now empty. She turned around and saw the man against the wall behind her, eye level with John William. When she looked down and saw his feet dangling six inches above the floor, she wanted to smile.
A crowd immediately migrated to this end of the room, men eager to witness a fight. Witness any spectacle, really And it seemed that they would be rewarded. John William's face glowed with rage. He held it, nose to nose with the filthy little man, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. Gloria had never seen him like this. When the pathetic little man attempted to wiggle free, John William slammed his forearm against the man's chest, bringing forth a wheezing gasp.
Gloria stood and laid a tentative hand on John William's sleeve.
“MacGregan,” she said.
The little man tore his terrified eyes away from those of the giant who pinned him and looked at her. “What'd you call him?” he asked, his voice devoid of air.
“John William, put him down, now. He didn't do no harm.”
The only sound in the tavern was that of John William's rhythmic breath. Somewhere behind the crowd a mother ushered her children outside, admonished her husband who wanted to “stay and see this.”
“My moneys on MacGregan,” shouted a voice in the back. There was a spatter of nervous laughter, a few isolated words of agreement, and a change in John William. At once, he loosened his grip, allowed his prey to drop to the ground, and stepped away
“I'm sorry” he said, holding his hands up in surrender to his victim. “I'm sorry.”
The man held up his own hand even as he fought for breath. “You kiddin? How many men can say they made it through a fight with John William MacGregan?”
“I know a few who can't,” said another voice in the crowd, which responded with raucous laughter.
John William stood in the middle of them, staring at the floor. His breath was deep and even; his shoulders quivered with each exhalation. Gloria took a step closer and looked into his eyes.
He was disappearing, too.
The rotten little man reveled in the attention. He danced little circles around them, throwing air punches. He reached up to give a slight push on John William's shoulder, saying, “C'mon, now. Not so ready to fight now, eh?”
Laughter and taunts from the crowd became a call to violence. In the midst of the rancor, Gloria marveled that so many of the men were able to call John William by name.
Gloria reached up, took John William's face in her hands, and forced him to look at her.
“MacGregan,” she said, “where's Kate and Danny?”
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“The children—Kate and Danny Where are they?” She spoke louder to overcome the cries of the crowd.
“They're all right. They're fine. There's an Indian woman looking after them.”
“Let's go,” she said, softly “Let's go to the children.”
Gloria grasped both of John William's hands in her own and turned toward the door, leading him like a yoked beast.
The crowd jeered their loss in a common voice, but one comment rang out above the din.
“Go on and take'er, MacGregan,” crowed the unmistakable voice of the seedy little man. “Just try and save some for the rest of—”
His last words were lost in a shatter of jaw and teeth. He hit the wall he had previously been pinned to and sank to the floor.
Gloria looked at the man, then at John William, then back at the man again. She brought a hand to her mouth, but soon found it lost in John William's giant, bloodied grip as he tugged her through the newly silenced crowd toward the door.
She kept her gaze fixed firmly on John William's wide back, seeing it slapped by hands from the crowd and the occasional shout of “Nice going there, MacGregan,” and “Never thought I'd live to see the day…”
She feared some would follow them, but no one did. Just a few steps into the crisp night air and the scene inside became a murmur.
“I did some tradin',” John William said.
“I though he said we couldn't until morning.”
“Indians.”
“Oh. Good,” Gloria said.
“Got some supplies. Should last us for a couple of weeks.”
“Fine.”
He was still holding her hand, the little man's blood sticky on her fingers. They rounded a corner. Against a crumbling adobe wall, an Indian woman sat—a heap of softness and skirts—holding Danny. Baby Kate lay in the folds of her lap.
“I asked her to watch them,” John William said. “I had to find you.”
“Your son," the woman said. Her soft, leathered voice slipped from a brown folded face sporting a four-toothed smile. She held Danny out to Gloria.
“And, your daughter,” she said as she handed Kate to John William. “Beautiful children.”
That's when Gloria realized that, rather than the bright brown eyes of every Indian she'd ever met, this woman stared through watery gray clouds.
“Thank you,” Gloria said, “for watching them.”
“Beautiful children. Not born together, these ones. But made to be brother. To be sister.”
“Yes,” Gloria said.
“Away," the woman said, gesturing vaguely toward the fort's gate.
“We are,” John William said. “At first light.”