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  “I’m sorry about that,” he said.

  “Had a bit too much to drink last night, did you?” the man asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Art said. He felt the back of his head. There was a bump there that was very tender to the touch. “At least, I reckon I did.” He felt another wave of nausea, and once more he leaned over the edge of the wagon. Although he didn’t think he had anything left to throw up, he managed a little. Mostly, though, it was a painful retching.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “That’s all right; anytime you got to throw up, you just do it,” the man driving the wagon said. “My name is Younger. Lucas Younger. I own this here wagon. This is my wife, Bess. What’s your name?”

  “Art.”

  “Art what?”

  “Just Art. I ain’t got no last name.”

  “Why, Art, honey, that can’t be right,” Bess Younger complained. “Ever’one has to have a last name.”

  “I ain’t got one,” Art said resolutely.

  “Don’t bother the boy none, Bess,” Younger said. “If he don’t want to give us his last name, he don’t have ta’.”

  Art looked around outside the wagon. They were on a road of some sort, now passing through swampland. On either side of the road he could see stands of cypress trees, their knees sticking up from standing pools of water. “Where are we?” he asked. “What am I doing here?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions,” Younger replied.

  “Last thing I remember is orderin’ my supper. But I don’t remember eating it.”

  “From the way you looked when we found you, you didn’t eat your supper. You drank it,” Younger said.

  “Oh ...” Art groaned. He put his hand to his head. “I did. I drank beer. I drank a lot of beer.” He looked up again sharply. “What do you mean, when you found me?”

  “Just what I said, sonny. Me, the wife, and the girl there found you. You was lying out in the road leavin’ New Madrid. The wife thought you was dead, but soon as I got down and looked at you, I know’d you wasn’t dead.”

  “You say you found me on the road leaving New Madrid?”

  “Sure did.”

  “My money!” Art said. He stuck his hands in his pockets, but they came out empty.

  “Boy, if you had any money on you, somebody took it offen you a’fore we come along,” Younger said. “I hope you don’t think we took it.”

  “No,” Art said. “No, I don’t think you would take my money, then take care of me like this.”

  “Glad you know that.”

  “Where are we now?” Art asked.

  “Oh, we’re some north of New Madrid, headin’ on up to St. Louie. This here road we’re on is called the El Camino Real. That means The King’s Road.”

  “We saved back a biscuit for your breakfast if you’re hungry,” Bess said.

  At first thought, the idea of eating something made Art feel even more queasy. But he was hungry, and he reasoned that, maybe if he ate, he would feel better.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’d like that.”

  “Jennie, get him that biscuit.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jennie said. She fumbled around in some cloth, then unwrapped a biscuit and handed it to Art. He thanked her, then ate it, hoping it would stay down.

  It did stay down, and before long he was feeling considerably better.

  * * *

  “Right after you left, the boy went out the back door to the privy,” Bellefontaine replied to Harding’s question. “He never come back in. When you find him, tell him he owes me for the supper he ordered.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen cents ought to do it.”

  Harding put fifteen cents on the counter, then pointed toward the back door. “You say he went through there?”

  “Yep. Ain’t no use in lookin’ back there, though. I got to worryin’ some about him, seein’ as how he didn’t come back, so I went out there to have a look around myself. He wasn’t nowhere to be found.”

  Despite Bellefontaine’s assurance that there was nothing to be seen out back, Harding went outside to have a look around. Art was nowhere to be seen.

  After satisfying himself that Art wasn’t behind the Blue Star, Harding checked all the boarding houses in town. Art hadn’t stayed in any of them. Then he checked the other taverns, and even checked with all the whores on the possibility that Art might have decided to give one of them a try. Nobody had seen him. He decided it was time to talk to the sheriff.

  The sheriff was in his office, feet propped up on a table, hands laced behind his head. A visitor to the office was sitting on a stool near the cold stove, paring an apple. One long peel dangled from the apple, and from the careful way he was working it, it was obvious he was going to try and do it in one, continuous peel.

  “Sheriff Tate, I’m Pete Harding.”

  “Hell, Harding, I know who you are,” the sheriff answered. “After the show you put on last night, I reckon ever’one in town knows who you are.

  “Damn!” the apple peeler suddenly said. Looking toward him, Harding saw that the peel had broken.

  “Ha!” Sheriff Tate said. “That’s a nickel you owe me.”

  “I could’a done it if he hadn’t come in,” the apple peeler said. “Him walkin’ on the floor like he done jarred it so’s that it broke.”

  “You’re full of shit, Sanders,” the sheriff said. “It would’a broke whether Harding come in here or not. Pay your nickel.”

  Sanders took a nickel from his pocket and slapped it down on the sheriff’s desk. Then, looking at Harding with obvious disapproval, he left the office.

  “Now,” Sheriff Tate said, putting the nickel away. “What do you need, Harding? If it’s about last night, don’t worry about it. Enough folks have given statements about what happened that there ain’t even goin’ to be an inquiry.”

  “It’s not about last night,” Harding said. “Well, yes, I guess it is, in a way. I come in here with a boy named Art. He was working on the boat with me. The thing is, I’ve lost him.”

  “What do you mean, you lost him?”

  “I left him at the Blue Star for a while when I left to, uh, conduct some business.”

  Sheriff Tate laughed. “Conduct business? You mean going off with one of the whores, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Harding admitted. “And when I came back . . . this morning . . . the boy was gone.”

  “Well, hell, Harding, you didn’t expect him to sit there the whole night, did you?”

  “No. But I’ve checked with every place he could possibly be. I’ve checked all the boardinghouses, taverns, even the other whores. Nobody has seen him.”

  “You think something happened to him?”

  “I’m a little worried about him, yes. He drank quite a bit of beer last night. I’m pretty sure he had never had one before. Nobody’s reported anything to you, have they?”

  “You mean like a body?”

  “Yeah,” Harding said with a sigh. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Far as I know, we only got two bodies in this town right now,” Sheriff Tate. “Riley and Carter. And I reckon you know about them.”

  “What about the river? What if someone threw a body in the river?”

  “Unless they went to the trouble of weighing the body down, it’ll come back up within an hour,” Sheriff Tate said. “And what with the bend in the river, it pretty near always stays right here. You think maybe, him bein’ drunk and all, he might’a fallen in the river?”

  “I don’t know,” Harding replied. “I hope not.”

  “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open and if I see anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “That’s just it, I won’t be around after today. I’ve bought myself a horse and I’m ridin’ back up to Ohio to put together another load of goods. I just thought I’d see what I could find out before I left.”

  “You got ’ny reason to suspect foul play?”

  “No.”

  “Was he
plannin’ on goin’ back to Ohio with you?”

  “No,” Harding said again. “He said he would be going on from here.”

  “Well, there you go then. Most likely, that’s what happened to him. We had a couple of wagons pull out of here early this morning, bound for St. Louis. Could be he went out with one of them.”

  “That’s probably what happened,” Harding said. “Sorry to have been a bother to you.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m sure he’s all right, but like I said, I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “Thanks,” Harding said.

  * * *

  It was midafternoon by the time Harding rode out of town. He headed north, intending to cross the river just above the juncture of the Ohio and Mississippi. That way, he would only have to cross once.

  “Art, I don’t know where you got off to, but I’d feel better if I knew for sure that you were all right,” he said, speaking aloud to himself.

  * * *

  There were nearly three dozen other wagons parked where they made camp that night. Although few of the wagons were traveling together, and some in fact were even going in opposite directions, it was quite common for wagons traveling alone on the frontier to join with other travelers at night in a temporary wagon park. And not only wagons, but travelers on horseback as well, for at least a dozen single men had staked out their horses and thrown their bedrolls down within the confines of the wagon camp.

  Such an arrangement not only granted company and the opportunity for some trade, it also provided the safety of numbers against attack from hostile Indians or marauding highwaymen. Younger asked Art if he would mind doing a few chores.

  “I’ll be more than glad to. It’s little enough to pay you back for your kindness.”

  “I was just doin’ my Christian duty,” Lucas replied. “But if you’re up to workin’ for your keep, first thing I want you to do is help me get this tarp up.” Younger began untying the canvas on one side of the wagon, and indicated that Art should do the same thing on the other.

  Art untied his side, then he and Younger unrolled the canvas, stretching it across the wagon bows so that the wagon was covered. After that, Lucas did something that Art thought was rather strange. He tied a red streamer to the back of the wagon.

  “There, that’ll do just fine,” Tryeen said.

  “What’s the red flag for?” Art asked.

  “Never you mind about that,” Lucas replied. “You just take the team down to water. Then, when you come back, check with the Missus. I ’spect she’ll have some chores she’ll be a’wantin’ you to do for her.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be glad to do anything she wants,” Art said.

  Art took the team down to water. When he returned, Bess gave him a bucket and had him get some water for cooking. Then she had him gather wood for the fire.

  Looking around the camp, Art saw Younger going over to the area occupied by the men who were traveling alone, mostly those who had ridden in on horseback. He had no idea what he was saying to them, but some of them were visibly animated by the conversation, for they began moving around in a rather lively fashion, while looking back toward the Younger wagon. After visiting with them for a few minutes, Younger returned to the wagon. “Jennie,” he called. “You’ve got some business to take care of, girl. Get on up here.”

  It wasn’t until then that Art realized he hadn’t seen Jennie since they made camp.

  “Jennie, get up here now,” Younger called, a little more forcefully than before. “You know what you have to do.”

  Jennie crawled out from under the little tent that had been made by dropping canvas down around the edge of the wagon. Art gasped in surprise when he saw her. Jennie no longer looked like a little girl. She looked much more like a woman, and not just any woman, but like a painted woman, the way Lily had looked at the tavern back in New Madrid.

  Younger spoke directly to Art. “Boy, I’ll thank you to stay out of the wagon now until after Jennie is finished with her business.”

  “Finished with her business? What business?” Art asked.

  “Business that ain’t none of your business,” Lucas replied with a hoarse laugh. “Now, just you mind what I say. Stay out of the back of the wagon. The missus will keep you busy enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” Art replied.

  “Jennie, you ready in there?”

  “I’m ready,” Jennie’s muffled voice replied.

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Younger let out a yell.

  “Yee haw! Yee haw! Yee haw! Sporting gentlemen! ” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Now is your time! If you are after a little fun, you can get it here! Yee haw! Yee haw! Yee haw! ”

  Nearly a dozen men of all ages and sizes began moving toward the wagon, most from the area where the riders were encamped, but a few from some of the other wagons as well. Art watched them approach, wondering what this was all about.

  The men stood in a line behind the wagon. The first in line handed some money to Younger, then climbed up into the wagon. Because of the canvas sheet that was covering the wagon, Art couldn’t see what was going on inside.

  After a few minutes, the first man came out, adjusting his trousers. Some of the other men said something to him and he answered, then several of them laughed. Because Art was standing near the fire that had been built several feet in front the wagon, he was too far away to hear what was being said.

  “Mrs. Younger, what’s going on back there?” Art asked. “What’s Jennie doing in the wagon with all those men?”

  Bess Younger looked uneasy. “I got no part with that business,” she said in a clearly agitated voice. “And neither do you.”

  “But Jennie’s in there,” Art said.

  “I told you, you got no business worryin’ about that. So you just don’t pay it no never mind,” Bess said.

  “I know I ain’t got no business. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be curious,” Bess said. “Sometimes, what you don’t know don’t hurt you. You’ll be wantin’ to sleep with us tonight?”

  “I aim to, yes. That is, if you and Mr. Younger don’t mind.”

  “We don’t mind. We figured you’d be goin’ on to St. Louis with us. I just thought you ought to know that we ain’t got no extra blankets for you to make your bedroll. But I reckon if you want to, you can sleep up on the wagon seat. There’s a buffalo robe up there that you can wrap up in if it gets too cool.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” Art said.

  Art ran errands for Bess Younger until long after dark, gathering wood for the breakfast fire the next morning, and even rolling out dough for tomorrow’s bread. All the while men from all over the camp continued to make their way to stand in line at the back of the wagon. When Art finally finished all his chores and climbed up onto the seat to go to sleep, there were still men waiting in line at the back of the wagon. But because a tarpaulin drop separated the wagon seat from the bed of the wagon, he was still unable to see what was going on.

  He was asleep when he heard Jennie and Lucas Younger talking. By the position of the stars and moon, he figured it to be after midnight.

  “We done pretty good tonight,” Lucas was saying. “Near ’bout ten dollars we took in.”

  “Please,” Jennie said. “Please don’t make me do this no more. I don’t like it.”

  “We all got to do things we don’t like,” Younger said. “Besides, you got nothin’ to complain about, girl. You could be workin’ in the fields, pickin’ cotton with the niggers. Would you rather be doing that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d rather be doing that.”

  “That’s just ’cause you’re crazy,” he said gruffly. “Now crawl into your little nest under the wagon and get to bed. I don’t want to hear no more ’bout this.”

  The little canvas-enclosed area where Jennie had pitched her bedroll was beneath the forward part of the wagon, just under Art. As a result, she was no more than two feet from him, separated only by the bottom of the
wagon. Art could hear her rustling about as she got ready for bed. He started to call out to her, but something held him back. Instead, he just lay as quietly as he could.

  Then, later, when all the rustling around had stopped and everything was still, he heard Jennie crying. She was being quiet about it, stifling her sobs as best she could, but there was no mistaking what he heard. Jennie was crying.

  Why was she crying? Art wondered. What was it Younger was making her do in the back of that wagon?

  “Ten dollars, Bess,” Art had heard Younger telling his wife just before they went to sleep. “We made us ten dollars here tonight.”

  “I can’t help but think that it is Satan’s money,” Bess replied in a troubled voice.

  “The hell it is,” Younger said. “It’s my money.” He laughed at his own joke.

  5

  They had been on the trail for the better part of four hours the next morning. Jennie was sitting in the back of the wagon, dozing sometimes, other times just looking off into the woods alongside the road. Bess was driving the team; Younger and Art were walking alongside the wagon to make it easier on the mules.

  A couple of times Art tried to do something to cheer Jennie up, popping up suddenly beside her, or throwing little dirt clods at her. The only time he managed to get through to her was when he turned upside down and walked on his hands for a few yards. When he was upright again, he thought he saw her smile.

  But the smile, as hard-won as it was, was short-lived. It was no time at all before Jennie was morose again. Art didn’t think he had ever seen anyone looking as sad as Jennie did, and he wished he could do something to make her feel better.

  That opportunity presented itself about mid-afternoon. Looking over into a little clump of grass, Art happened to see a tiny bunny. Reaching down, he picked it up and held it. The rabbit was so small that it barely filled the palm of his hand. It was furry and soft, and he could feel it trembling in fear as he held it.

  Jennie! he thought. This was bound to cheer her up.

  He trotted back to the wagon, holding the rabbit in such a way that it was obvious to Jennie, even as he approached, that he had something.