The Chisholms by Evan Hunter Page A

sudden hush. Will heard someone whisper, “There they are,” and then Lamar gave the order to charge. Saw more damn blood that day. Fucked his way back to Virginia. Fucked every whore he ever met on the way back. Couldn’t forget Elizabeth and neither could he forget ten thousand men yelling, “Remember the Alamo!” Sabers slashing. Blood on the neck of his raindrop gelding. Fucked every whore.
    “Does your Pa want to continue on west?”
    “Oh, yes,” Gideon said.
    “Then here’s my proposition,” Hackett said. “I’ll guide you to St. Louis. How’s that sound?”
    “Sounds good,” Gideon said.
    “No charge,” Hackett said. “Free of charge. Just tuck me in the wagon someplace, and give me a little bit to eat every now and then. How’s that sound?”
    “Sounds very good,” Gideon said. “How’s that sound, Will?”
    “I’m sorry,” Will said. “I wasn’t listenin.”
    “Help you find a vessel to take you down the Ohio, and then guide you to St. Louis,” Hackett said. “I’ve got friends there’ll get me a job. Once I earn myself the price of a good horse, which I figure to be about a hundred fifty dollars including a bridle and saddle—”
    “That’s a bit high,” Gideon said. “High by twenty dollars, I’d say.”
    “No, that’s the price in St. Louis.”
    “Back in Virginia—”
    “Well, maybe a hundred forty.”
    “A hundred thirty, Lester.”
    It seemed to Will that time was their chiefest enemy. He did not want to go back to Virginia; there was nothing for him there but painful memories and tavern whores. But neither did he want to cross Indian territory alone. If the wagon trains had already left or were leaving, then the best they could hope for was to catch up somewhere along the trail beyond Independence. If Hackett could help them save time, then he’d be worth all the food he could eat between here and St. Louis.
    “About your proposition,” Will said.
    “What proposition is that, Will?”
    “The one you just put to us. About—”
    “Whatever it was, I’ve got a better one,” Hackett said. “Now you may have noticed that sweet young lady across the room, who happens to have a dozen or more sisters down the line. Why don’t we ask her to take us three little darlins home?”
    “Sounds good, Lester,” Gideon said, and clapped him on the back. “Let’s go get some women, Will.”
    “Let’s go get some coffee,” Will said.
    Last thing on earth she wanted was a fight with her son.
    She’d convinced Hadley, told him everything the storekeeper had told her, and of course he’d seen the sense of it, and had agreed to turn back. Now here was Will with a stranger who’d offered to guide them to St. Louis.
    Supper was cooking in the yard outside the stable, the rich aroma of frying pork blowing in to mingle with the stench of horses, mules, hay, and manure. It was cold in the stable, but they kept the doors cracked a bit anyway; the stink would have been intolerable otherwise. Lester Hackett was smoking a long cigar, his booted feet up on the watering trough, his hat tilted back on his head.
    “What I can get you is a broadhorn,” he said. “Now what she is, she’s similar to a flat-boat, but not quite so crude. She’s got a deck, and a cabin for the ladies to set in, but she’s only got two men handling the long oars — that’s where she gets her name — and the patroon at the rudder in back, and that’s it. The patroon I have in mind is a man named Jimmy Jackson, no relation to the former president. Patroons is what they call these riverboat captains. He owes me a favor; I think I can get him to take the wagon and the entire party for an even twenty dollars. That’s inexpensive, if you know riverboat prices.”
    “Would that be all the way to Evansville?” Will asked.
    “Yes,” Lester said. “I’ve not talked to him, yet, mind you, but I’m sure that’ll be the destination and the price.”
    “That’s very nice, Mr. Hackett,” Hadley