into a small fortune I might invest in California. Lost all of it save thirty dollars. Would’ve lost the thirty, too, hadn’t had it tucked in a pocket I rarely use.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Gideon said.
“Lost my pocket watch besides, and a ring my daddy willed to me, not to mention a horse and saddle, a fine Kentucky rifle with brass and silver inlays, and a pair of Spanish pistols.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Gideon said again, as though he’d completely missed Hackett’s listing of all the other things he’d lost.
“I’ve got three dollars and fifty cents to my name,” Hackett said. “Do you know what I plan to do with it?”
“What?” Gideon asked.
“Drink it away in this fine saloon with you two Irish gents from Virginia.”
“
Scotch
-Irish,” Gideon said.
“Aye, after which I’ll wander down to the Falls and throw myself in the river.”
“No, you won’t,” Gideon said, and grinned.
“Yes, I will,” Hackett said, and grinned back at him.
Died when she was eighteen, Will thought, her and his newborn daughter both, the baby gasping out her final breath scarce before she’d taken her first, Elizabeth suddenly raising her head from the pillow to search the room for him, seeing him, reaching out her hand to him — and then falling back again on the pillow, dead. He’d gone to stand alone behind the cabin, shouted his rage to the universe, and then wept in the night till his father came up beside him and, weeping too, put his arm around him, and led him inside, and put him to bed.
“Here’s what I’ll do for you,” Hackett said. “Drink up,” Gideon said.
“Cheers,” Hackett said. “If you’re mad enough or courageous enough to want to continue west after all I’ve told you—”
“Ma wants to go home,” Gideon said.
“And right she is. But what does
Pa
say?
Is
there a father with you here in Louisville?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Hadley Chisholm himself.”
“Here’s to Hadley Chisholm then.”
“Here’s to him then,” Gideon said.
“What does he say?”
“About what?”
The question took Hackett aback. He stared at Gideon. Gideon stared back at him. “About
what?”
Hackett said.
“That’s right,” Gideon said, and drank.
In the middle of a chore, he’d remember something he wanted to ask Elizabeth. He’d start back for the cabin thinking to find her there, and remember suddenly that she was dead and gone, he could no more talk to her again than he could move mountains. And he’d start to crying. His hand on the plow or the ax, he’d cry. Annabel was but three years old then; she came up to him in the field one day, blond little thing in a pinafore had been her sister’s.
“Will,” she said, “you has got to stop.” Sobbing, he said, “I know, darlin.”
And she said, “Cause my heart is broke when I hear you weep.”
The whore cut loose with a laugh deep from her belly. Frizzy-haired brunette, he could smell her perfumed tits clear across the saloon. One of the men at the table had his hand on her leg, just below the garter, squeezing her white-powdered thigh. She laughed again, and Will thought suddenly of all the whores he’d fucked from Texas clear back to Virginia when he’d finished fighting with Lamar. Gone there to forget Elizabeth, something he never could have done in a million years anyway. Rode through the Gap and across Kentucky to right here in Louisville, this was in April of ’36 — he’d left home soon as news of the Alamo massacre reached Virginia. Down the Ohio to where it joined the Mississippi, and then on to New Orleans. Caught up with the Texas cavalry on the nineteenth, rode two days with them to the San Jacinto ferry, where Houston was waiting to ambush the Mexicans.
A Georgian was commanding the cavalry. Will almost laughed out loud when he heard the man’s name — Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar. In the grove of oak trees there was the low whinny of horses, the pawing of hoofs, and then a
“That’s a lot of money,” Gideon said.
“Lost my pocket watch besides, and a ring my daddy willed to me, not to mention a horse and saddle, a fine Kentucky rifle with brass and silver inlays, and a pair of Spanish pistols.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Gideon said again, as though he’d completely missed Hackett’s listing of all the other things he’d lost.
“I’ve got three dollars and fifty cents to my name,” Hackett said. “Do you know what I plan to do with it?”
“What?” Gideon asked.
“Drink it away in this fine saloon with you two Irish gents from Virginia.”
“
Scotch
-Irish,” Gideon said.
“Aye, after which I’ll wander down to the Falls and throw myself in the river.”
“No, you won’t,” Gideon said, and grinned.
“Yes, I will,” Hackett said, and grinned back at him.
Died when she was eighteen, Will thought, her and his newborn daughter both, the baby gasping out her final breath scarce before she’d taken her first, Elizabeth suddenly raising her head from the pillow to search the room for him, seeing him, reaching out her hand to him — and then falling back again on the pillow, dead. He’d gone to stand alone behind the cabin, shouted his rage to the universe, and then wept in the night till his father came up beside him and, weeping too, put his arm around him, and led him inside, and put him to bed.
“Here’s what I’ll do for you,” Hackett said. “Drink up,” Gideon said.
“Cheers,” Hackett said. “If you’re mad enough or courageous enough to want to continue west after all I’ve told you—”
“Ma wants to go home,” Gideon said.
“And right she is. But what does
Pa
say?
Is
there a father with you here in Louisville?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Hadley Chisholm himself.”
“Here’s to Hadley Chisholm then.”
“Here’s to him then,” Gideon said.
“What does he say?”
“About what?”
The question took Hackett aback. He stared at Gideon. Gideon stared back at him. “About
what?”
Hackett said.
“That’s right,” Gideon said, and drank.
In the middle of a chore, he’d remember something he wanted to ask Elizabeth. He’d start back for the cabin thinking to find her there, and remember suddenly that she was dead and gone, he could no more talk to her again than he could move mountains. And he’d start to crying. His hand on the plow or the ax, he’d cry. Annabel was but three years old then; she came up to him in the field one day, blond little thing in a pinafore had been her sister’s.
“Will,” she said, “you has got to stop.” Sobbing, he said, “I know, darlin.”
And she said, “Cause my heart is broke when I hear you weep.”
The whore cut loose with a laugh deep from her belly. Frizzy-haired brunette, he could smell her perfumed tits clear across the saloon. One of the men at the table had his hand on her leg, just below the garter, squeezing her white-powdered thigh. She laughed again, and Will thought suddenly of all the whores he’d fucked from Texas clear back to Virginia when he’d finished fighting with Lamar. Gone there to forget Elizabeth, something he never could have done in a million years anyway. Rode through the Gap and across Kentucky to right here in Louisville, this was in April of ’36 — he’d left home soon as news of the Alamo massacre reached Virginia. Down the Ohio to where it joined the Mississippi, and then on to New Orleans. Caught up with the Texas cavalry on the nineteenth, rode two days with them to the San Jacinto ferry, where Houston was waiting to ambush the Mexicans.
A Georgian was commanding the cavalry. Will almost laughed out loud when he heard the man’s name — Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar. In the grove of oak trees there was the low whinny of horses, the pawing of hoofs, and then a
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