“You just wait right here.”
In a few minutes he was back with a paper sack and the two dollars. Val took the money and the sack. “You’d better go now,” the boy said. “Pa’s coming home and he’s dead set against tramps.”
“All right … and thanks.”
He started for the gate, then hesitated. “Look, if you ever get into west Texas, you hunt up the Bucklin outfit. They’re this side of the cap-rock—you ask at Fort Griffin. You tell them Val Darrant sent you.”
He walked out of the gate, and when well down the road he sat down under a tree. There was a big hunk of meat and cheese in the sack, and several slices of homemade bread, as well as an apple. Val took his time, eating a piece of the bread, most of the meat, and the apple. Then he walked on.
Two days later he was in St. Louis. He rode the last few miles on the seat of a wagon beside a farmer who was carrying a mixed lot of hides, vegetables, and fruit. “Work’s mighty scarce, boy,” the farmer told him, “and you will do yourself no good in St. Louis. Ever since the depression hit, there’s been three men for every job.”
Idle men stood about the streets of the city, and Val paused on a corner, considering. He had nothing to sell. Nor was he in any position to look up any of Will Reilly’s friends, for he lacked the one thing Will had always insisted he keep. He must have a “front,” he must have the clothing, the neatly trimmed hair, the polished boots, even if he did not have a cent in his pockets.
Standing on the corner watching the traffic, he tried to gauge his talents and abilities. He had great card skill, but he did not want to be a gambler. He had skill with guns, but he did not want to use it. He had received from Will an education in literary and historical matters. But to do anything with any of these abilities he needed money.
All day he walked the streets, and wherever men were working he asked for a job. In every place it was the same. “We don’t have enough work to keep our own men busy.”
When night came, he wandered back to the river front and sat down on the dock. For the first time he realized that Will Reilly, while showing him much of life, had also shielded him from much. To be with Will Reilly had given him a position, and as Will was treated with respect everywhere, Val had also received respect. Suddenly now it was gone, and he stood alone, and unknown.
There were friends of Will’s in St. Louis. They had stayed at the Southern Hotel, and Will had been accorded the best treatment that hostelry had to offer, but he could not walk into that lobby looking as he did now. He might write to the ranch for money, but the postal service was uncertain, and it might be weeks before anybody from the ranch went into town, or to Fort Griffin.
Before, even during periods of separation, Will had always been not too far away, and Val had always known there was somebody, somewhere, who cared. Now there was nobody.
That night he slept on a bale of cotton under the overhang of a warehouse. He put a newspaper under his coat for protection against the cold, huddled in a ball, and shivered the whole night through. Several times he awoke, turned over, and fought to get back to sleep again. Always there were places where the cold reached him.
At last he got up and walked down to the edge of the wharf. The river was running through the piles, sucking around them. Further up a river boat was tied, lights showing, but the lights were obscured by the falling rain.
It was still dark; he was hungry, and his eyes heavy with weariness. After a while he walked back to his cotton bale, tucked the newspaper more firmly into place, and went back to sleep.
He awoke in the cold gray of dawn. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low. The river rolled by, and he sat staring at it, wondering which way to turn.
An old man, puffing on a meerschaum pipe, was plodding along the dock, carrying a lunch box. He glanced at Val over his steel-rimmed spectacles. “Mornin’, son,” he said. “You’re up mighty early.”
Val grinned at him. Hungry, stiff, and cold, he still felt a streak of whimsy. “Mister,” he said seriously, “you have just walked into my bedroom unannounced. I did not wish to be disturbed.”
The old man chuckled. “Well, now that you’re disturbed you might’s well come along and have some coffee.”
Val dropped off the bale. “That’s the best invitation I’ve had for a whole day. In fact, it’s the best invitation I’ve had in several days.”
They walked along to an old steamer that lay alongside the dock, and the old man led the way over the gangplank, and along the deck to the cabin. He unlocked the padlock and they went inside.
“Sit down, boy. I’ll rustle around and make some coffee.” He set the lunch box on the table. “Ain’t seen you around before, have I?”
“No, sir. I’m hunting work.”
“What’s your line?”
“Well, I’ve never worked much. I’ve punched cows a little, and I’ve hunted buffalo. But I’m strong—I can do anything.”
“That’s like saying you can do nothing. Folks who do the hirin’ want carpenters and such-like. You got to have a trade, son. Ain’t there anything special you can do?”
“Nothing that I want to do.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I can deal cards, and shoot a gun.”
The old man eyed him over his glasses. “Hmm. You a gambler, son?”
“No, sir. My uncle was, and he taught me. He said it was self-defense, like boxing. Only he didn’t want me to be a gambler.”
“Smart man. What do you aim to do, son? I mean, a man ought to be going somewhere. You’re young, boy, but you’d best be thinking of where you’re going to be at my age. When I was a boy I drifted, too. Always aimed to settle down and make something of myself, but somehow that was always going to be next year—so here I am.”
He had bacon frying, and the coffee water was boiling. “I bring my lunch, most times. I can stand my own cooking just so long, then I have to go out and buy something somebody else has fixed.”
“You’re not married?”
“Was … one time. Fine woman. Had a son, too.”
“What happened to him?”
“Went west … never seen hide nor hair of him since. He was a good boy.” The old man paused. “Can’t complain. I done the same thing as a boy. Went west with a keel boat and spent my years trapping fur.”
He glanced at Val. “You ever see the Tetons, son? Or the Big Horns? Or the Wind River Mountains? That’s country, son! That’s real country!”
“I’ve seen them.”
The old man put slices of the bacon on a plate, and then poured coffee. Got some bread from a bread box, “It ain’t much, son, but you fall to.”
Val took off his coat and sat down at the table. “You don’t need a deck hand, do you? I’ll work cheap.”
The old man chuckled, with dry humor. “Son, I’m lucky to feed myself. Ain’t had a job of towing to do in five months now, and only a little work then. There was a mite of salvage I was countin’ on, but there wasn’t much in the cargo … only flour. And water-soaked flour won’t do anybody any good.”
Val put down his coffee cup. “Where was it sunk?”
“Bend of the river—maybe thirty mile downstream. She hit a snag and tore the bottom out. It ain’t in deep water. A body can land on the Texas.”
“You want to try for it? I could help. I’m a good swimmer and diver.”
“No use. That flour’s ruined.”
“Not necessarily. I saw some sacks of flour out west that had been in the water, and only the flour on the outside was ruined. It soaked up water and turned hard as plaster.”
“This flour was in barrels.”
“All the better. You want to try for it?”
“That water’s almighty cold this time of year.” The old man hesitated, but Val could see that he was turning it over in his mind.
“We’d better keep it under our hats,” he said finally. “That cargo is worth something, and there’s some might want to take it from us.”
“Do you have a gun?” Val asked.
“An old shotgun, that’s all.”
They talked it over, and Val went out on deck with the old man to examine the gear. It was in good shape, and the steam winch was usable. The steamer had operated on the Missouri River and on some of its branches. It had been used to push flatboats up the river and log rafts down the river, and to tow disabled steamers. It was a real workhorse of the river.