“Kingbolts, too,” Gideon said.
“You’d think a town this size...”
“I just hope Pa had better luck finding a cover.”
“We could maybe still get the chain and rope we need.”
“We’d do better in Evansville, I’m thinkin.”
“Or maybe Independence.”
“We ever make it that far.”
The man standing at Gideon’s elbow suddenly turned to them and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but if you plan to stock a wagon, it’s Independence will be better.”
He looked to be about Gideon’s age, maybe a year or two older, handsome enough fellow with black hair partly hidden by the blue felt wide-brimmed hat he wore tilted over his forehead. His eyes were a brown the color of wild ginger, and he was smiling now and showing teeth that had never once been yellow.
“Cause Independence is the jumping-off place,” he said. “That is, if you was planning on going west.”
“We was,” Gideon said.
“My name’s Lester Hackett,” the man said, and extended his hand.
“Gideon Chisholm,” Gideon said, and shook hands briefly and cautiously. “My brother Will here.”
Will nodded.
“You’re startin a bit late, though,” Hackett said. He was leaning casually against the bar, one elbow on the polished mahogany top. The saloon was a drab and dreary place; he twinkled in it like a blue jay flashing through the tree-tops. Dressed in blue from tip to toe: the blue felt hat, and then a blue jacket with velvet collar and cuffs, blue string tie hanging over the front of his ruffled shirt — only thing wasn’t blue on him, that and the brown boots. “Trains start making up late April, early May.”
“That’s what this is,” Gideon said. “Early May.”
“May the third, you want to know,” Will said. He resented Hackett’s intrusion. Back in Virginia, strangers didn’t come breaking in on tavern talk unless they were politely wanting directions to Bristol or Fincastle or westward to the Gap.
“The third it is, right enough,” Hackett said, and nodded. “But in Evansville downriver, it’s already the sixth. And in Independence, which is clear the other side of Missouri, it’s now the middle of June.”
“I don’t follow you,” Will said.
“I’m telling you, sir, that with any luck you’ll reach St. Louis by the end of the month, and you’ve got to figure at least another two weeks on top of that for the trip to Independence. That’ll put you the second week in June. All the trains’ll have left a month or more before you get there.”
“There’s bound to be some late travelers,” Gideon said.
“Not likely,” Hackett said.
“We’ll find some.”
“There’ll be none left, Mr. Chisholm. You did say Chisholm?”
“I said Chisholm.”
“Gideon, was it?”
“Gideon.”
“Gideon, I’m telling you they’ll have gone long since. You’ll not find anyone foolish enough to risk snow in the Rockies. They’ve got to be well beyond them before the fall. You get snow sometimes early as the middle of September. You got any idea how many miles you’re talking about? Where do you plan on heading? Is it California or Oregon?”
“We ain’t decided yet,” Will said.
“Well, sir, when do you hope to make your decision, would you tell me? When the Indians have scalped all in your party and are dancing on your graves?”
“I don’t see as that’s any business of yours, sir.”
“Pardon me then,” Hackett said, and turned away.
“Besides, sir, how do you know so much about the journey west?”
“Let it pass,” Hackett said, his back still to them. “It’s no business of mine, you’re right, sir.”
“You’re the one as opened the discussion,” Gideon said.
“And I’m the one as now is closing it,” Hackett said, but turned to face them again. “Thank you, gentlemen, for passing the time of day with one who’s only been guiding parties west since the year 1837, and who’s familiar not only with Independence as a jumping-off place, but also with Westport and Fort Leavenworth, and St. Joe fifty-five miles to the northwest.”
“If you’re a guide,” Will said, “you’d best be hurrying, Mr. Hackett. It’s already the middle of June in Independence.”
“Well put, sir,” Hackett said, and began laughing. “Well put. I’ve already missed the wagons this year for sure. Believe me, were it not for business I’ve had here in Louisville, I’d have been somewhere on the Missouri border this very minute. This is when the trains are leaving, friends. You’ll be late by a month when you get there. Take the advice of a well-meaning stranger. Go back to where you’ve come from.” He lifted his whiskey glass, drank, smacked his lips, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Where might that be? I’d guess someplace upriver if it wasn’t for the sound of your voices. That’s neither Ohio nor Pennsylvania I’m hearing.”
“It’s Virginia,” Gideon said.
“Then you’re less than two weeks from the Gap. Turn around. Go back.”
“We’ve come this far—”
“This far?” Hackett said. “Why, when you get to Independence, you’ll still have two thousand miles to travel before you reach the west coast, whether it’s Oregon or California you choose. Turn around now and save yourselves a lot of grief.”
“I think not,” Will said, and shook his head. “Then let me buy you both a drink,” Hackett said. “For you’re either heroes or madmen, and I’ve never before met either.”
It was late afternoon and the lamplighter was making his rounds. Behind the glass panels on top of each post, the lamps sputtered into light, flickered, and then began to glow more boldly, casting warm circles onto the sidewalk. The city seemed less frightening now. The crowds had thinned, there was less traffic and less noise.
The wooden sign outside the hotel creaked in a brisk breeze blowing in off the river. The grocer had warned Minerva that the hotels in Louisville were bug-infested, but she didn’t plan to sleep here, and besides, the sign told her that a woman was the proprietor. Laden with groceries, she marched her daughters through the lobby to the front desk. A clerk there was writing something into a leather-bound book. She waited till he was finished.
“I’m lookin for Alice Pierson,” she said.
“Yes?” the clerk said.
“Yes. Is there an Alice Pierson here?”
A woman in her sixties, sitting and reading a newspaper in a chair near the desk, looked up sharply and said, “I’m Mrs. Pierson. What is it?”
“Are you the one whose name is on the sign outside?”
“That’s me,” the woman said. She had not risen from the chair. Her hair was white, and she wore a long black dress, four strands of pearls draped over her bosom. She looked up at Minerva and the girls along the length of a nose too long for her face.
“Is it you that’s proprietress of this place?” Minerva asked.
“It is,” Mrs. Pierson said.
“Then my daughters and I are wantin baths.”
“Put your parcels down,” Mrs. Pierson said, getting out of the chair. “We’ll find you some tubs and hot water.”
“How much will it be for each of us?”
“Fifteen cents for a bath and clean rinse.”
“Does soap come with it?”
“How else would you get the grime of travel off you?”
“Ah, is it that plain then?” Minerva said.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Virginia. And headin back in the morning.”
“Take your bath first,” Mrs. Pierson said.
In three wooden tubs, they soaked luxuriantly, washing their hair with scented soap, pouring buckets of hot water over their slippery bodies, watching the suds cascade away as frothily as had the Falls of Ohio. To think of even attempting those Falls! No, she was armed with knowledge now; the storekeeper had given her priceless information. Hadley might be stubborn sometimes, but he was never foolhardy or wasteful. It would be senseless to continue on to Independence with no hope of finding a wagon train when they got there. What was the point of risking the Falls and then trekking clear across the state of Illinois, only to reach a town on the edge of nowhere, with nowhere to go from it? Be like getting to a party a day late. Hadley would see the foolishness of it, she was certain of that.