The Wagoner by C.A. Simonsen

Author:C.A. Simonsen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: canadian refuge for lakota people chased from their land, chief sitting bull journey to canada, chief sitting bull leads his lakota people north, lakota sioux to northwest territories, spring of 1877 indigenous people, western adventure for homesteader
Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.

* * *

Morning birdsong filled the air across the sprawling land. Finches and redpolls. Nuisance sparrows and bright-breasted robins. Blackbirds, waxwings and wrens awoke to forage and hunt, to fortify their nests and to prepare for the arrival of newborns. The mourning doves cooed to one another, telling of their wants and needs and sorrows.

Lundy was good to his word. He instructed Jeb to walk the mule to the farrier’s, where the animal would have its hooves seen to. Jeb reported that the decrepit animal had since improved in health. It was standing when he’d arrived to fetch it.

Miss Clara was itemizing the day’s take at the end of the long bar. It had been another lucrative night. Lundy listened quietly as each column in the ledger was explained to him. It was a common understanding between the two that saloon and chamber revenues belonged exclusively to Mr. Lundy. The building, after all, had been his germination. From these profits, Miss Clara was given a stipend for her accounting efforts. She dotted every i and crossed every t in the money ledgers of The Western Belle, and she never skimmed a penny. But the accounting work was a mere sideline for Miss Clara. Her real occupation was the management and solicitation of her girls. The two entrepreneurs had agreed early on about the mutually beneficial arrangement: Lundy’s food and drink would bring in studs for Clara’s girls, and Clara’s girls would attract thirsty customers for the saloon.

“Emmett says he’s shy on flour. He won’t refuse a mess o’ jackfish, neither. I think we could do with a few plump ducks, bein’ as they’s flappin’ over our heads ev’ry day. Quail makes a good broth if they’s any to be got.”

Lundy nodded as she recited her list. He refilled his coffee mug and stirred in a spoonful of molasses.

“If’n that piano man is puss-faced agin tonight, I’m a-goin’ to squeeze his balls till they burst.” This was Miss Clara’s way of adjourning the meeting. She retreated to the kitchen, scratching her armpit.

Up in Maisie’s chamber, the wagonless wagoner smelled of alcohol and vomit. His head was throbbing and he did not recognize his surroundings. Ladies’ undergarments. Pantaloons. A dirty mob cap, lace gloves, mismatched sleevelets. Ott groaned in the throes of dehydration and head pain. Like a wounded walrus, the little man wriggled off the mattress.

The sight of Susanna sprawled and sleeping brought back scraps of memory. Ott recalled the hefty gorilla man and Susanna’s exposed breast. Maisie. Dancing. Gin. Congealed puke made the room rank. Droplets of dried blood formed an arc from the bed to the door. Ott followed the trail, was pleased to find the corridor empty, and made for his own room where he might rinse clean his fetid mouth. Later, perhaps, he could locate the minister with whom he struck a passable friendship.

It was the Sabbath. The preacher of Ott’s thoughts was then hanging up his soutane inside of the chancel. After that, he removed the hymn page numbers from the slots of the signboard.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.