Chapter 4
Chapter 4: Sins of the Father: A Legacy of Vendetta
In the morning Sim awoke to the smell frying ham. It made him remember breakfasts years ago, when his family first went west, and his mother made such good things to eat. As he sat up from his ground cloth, Alvin handed him a tin cup slopping to the rim with steaming coffee. “I've got some honey if you want it in your coffee.”
“Never heard of THAT!”
“Sure, it's good- you ought'ta try it.”
“Lawman, you gots some strange habits.”
Alvin just smiled, he loved teasing with boys this age.
“You buy mules that you don't know how to drive,” Sim teased, “... an' follow young boys around... pick fights- then hide behind children, put bee spit in your coffee...” Sim grinned with all of his perverse observations.
“All true, Cricket. But that teamster was going to feed you to the catfish. I think, if you can charm grown women, and challenge Indian bootleggers, you can sure learn to tolerate my habits.”
“I am fairly fast on my feet, ain't I?” Sim laughed with abandon, eventually spilling his coffee.
“An' that's a good thing my young friend, cause I'm headed out as soon as I get Annie and Fannie hooked up. An' you're going to have to fend for yourself.”
“Where you goin'?”
“Like I told you, Kansas City.”
“Well, it's not far now, maybe I'll ride with you the rest of the way.”
“Oh, you will?”
“You asked me to drive your mules back in Plattsburg...”
“No, I think you told me that.”
“Well, you know what I mean. What? You gonna leave a poor little kid out here by himself, far from home, with no means of support, nobody....”
“All right. Fine. But here are my terms. You go when I say, you stop when I say, and most importantly, you shut your mouth when I say.”
“That's not fair.”
“Then walk to Kansas City, it don't make me any difference.”
“It's a deal.” Sim capitulated quickly; grown ups always had to show-up little kids. It was a matter of principle.
“Right. An' no dancin' with my woman either.” Alvin teased.
“I doubt you even have one.”
“I have one, an' you'll be the first to try to steal her. That's my terms.”
“I'll let you know after I've seen her.” He smiled an impish smile.
Alvin chuckled, and Sim laughed even louder. He probably loved to laugh more than he loved to dance.
Sim was so busy entertaining them both he did not notice a man trotting up to their campsite. But Alvin did and he also recognized the rider. It was Sylvester Head, and he carried a severe expression. “Mista Payne! Shuriff sent me... tole me ta catchya if I could, an' I been ridin' aaaaahll night!” Closing his eyes in an instant prayer, Sylvester took off his sweat-soaked hat and wiped his glistening forehead with his shirt sleeve.
Alvin wore a frozen smile, glad to see Sylvester, but knowing that his chasing after him was not for good news. “What is it Syl?”
“Who dat boy? Not sho if'n I should say in front ob'im...” Alvin walked out a ways so Sylvester could whisper his message. It was a confused mix of the Sheriff's message and Sylvester's own impressions. Syl had overheard Col. Head, whom he also worked for, as his family had once belonged to Col. Head's family, and what he heard alarmed him. He told the Sheriff what he had heard, and the Sheriff sent him on to find Alvin before he got across the river. “Mista Payne, I don' mean ta meddle- but dat man is powerful mean and sly like a fox. Heard 'im say he was tired o' dat depity always snoopin' and playin' detecteh- Gonna shut 'im up like dey done anotha fella...”
“I already figured that much Syl, that's why I'm about to cross that river and stay a spell. But thanks for coming to tell me anyway. At least now I know who I'm up against. But ol' Col. Head! I'll be damned. Can I make you some bacon and bread?”
“That sho sounds fine. But Mista Payne, dat aint all.”
“Well you tell me all about it Syl while I fry up some more bacon...” Alvin sliced a few thick slabs off of his slab of bacon and threw them in the pan.
“Maybe dis heah de paht you don' know, Mista Alvin. Col. Head say he got a man hired to fine ya- a Seminoe tracka. Dis man does people's killin' fo 'em. He suppose to be in Plattsbur' today- get his pay, and durections. Den he's a comin' afta ya. he's sump'm like a bounty huntah.”
“The hell you say.” Alvin stared at Sylvester with intensity now. “You'd never believe it Syl, but I think we already met.”
“Whatchu say!”
“Last night at a little frolic here- I guess he's headed east while I'm headed west!”
“Praise be ta Gawd, Mista Payne, but you needs ta know... dey knows you gonna be takin' pitchas. He be lookin' fo a tin tie man in Kansas. Sho will.”
“Well, Kansas is a pretty big place, Syl, I reckon I'll be kind'a hard ta find.”
“Maybe- maybe not. But if I wuz you? I'd take myself ta N'brask! Eben Dakota way- Masta Head ain't playin', he's terrible sometimes. An' he sho mad at you!”
“I wonder what about?” Alvin thought out loud. “I never crossed that man. Saw him just the other day at the saloon, he didn' say two words.”
The wagon ride to Kansas City was almost pleasant, as the two ignored the bumpy ride as they jabbed at each other, and told lies, and acted like they had known one another for years. Kansas City was a thriving river town with all of the amenities; Stores, churches, proper schools, a bath house, several restaurants, fifteen saloons, a dozen warehouses, and a few brothels. The dust of expansive cattle pens stained the sky, as riverboats meandered on the river, belching smoke and steam and blowing hoarse whistles as they came and went.
“Where can I drop you? Alvin asked politely.
“I don't know, no place in particular.”
“Where is your family, aren't they supposed to be here?”
“Well... kind of. We once lived in Hays City, but I was supposed to meet them here.”
The policeman in Alvin began to smell the sweet obfuscation of a wily runaway. “When? Where?”
“I don't care if you know.” Sim finally leaked. “Last April. We were supposed to meet up last April, here in Kansas City- but my uncle lost my train fare in a poker game and so I waited until I could get here, some other way. My Pa an' brother are water-witchers. They find water for people looking to dig a well. They travel everywhere. Anyway, my uncle got arrested cheatin' people at faro and so I was on my own. The last I heard, they were somewhere 'round here.”
“Last April. So how will you ever find them?”
“They have a circuit- they come back here to get supplies and go shoppin'. It's just my dad and my brother now. My mom an' my li'list brother are dead.”
“So- they might be here, then again, they might not be here for a month or so.”
Sim said nothing, everything had already been said, and he suddenly felt naked, once Alvin knew his dilemma. He knew he was a prime candidate to be sent to the orphan's home. They sat in the wagon for ten or fifteen minutes, with Alvin looking down. No good turn goes unpunished. Finally he formed his proposal.
“Well, you're going to hate my suggestion.”
Sim looked up, open to anything. Well, almost anything.
“We need to go by the City Marshal and tell him the situation.”
“NOOO, not the law!”
“Here's where I tell you to shut up, and you shut up- and listen.”
Sim looked as far away as he could, and imagined himself flying there. But he buttoned up.
“We'll see the marshal, maybe your father has left instructions with him, since he was looking for you. SINCE APRIL. If he hasn't we can leave information with the marshal for whenever your father comes back through here- whenever that might be. Fair enough?”
“Then what?”
“Then... I don't know. We'll cross that bridge later. You can ride with me while I'm in town. Maybe they will show up before I leave.”
It was a good plan, for two young fellows with no home and no solid plans and everything that mattered in their lives waiting in the future. The marshal had never heard of a Ben Sparks, water-witcher, but he would pass the word if they showed up. Alvin got directions to the McAllen farm out on the river at Westport, a small suburb of Kansas City, where the river settlements had all started. The McAllens were some of the first to see the economic potential of the crossroads of the Missouri River with east-west travel. They had built their plantation right upon the site of an old stone trading post, established by French fur traders. Pauline and her sister had grown up playing around the "old French fort," and she often spoke of the stories which emanated out of the place. He could not wait to see it, and walk with her there, and to propose marriage to her. Now the McAllens were well situated, geographically and financially, with a large farm and investments in various businesses in Kansas City. If all went as he planned, the farm might well be his future home. Alvin tried to explain it all, and how he knew them.
“So they are rich.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
“And you like their daughter. I'll bet you would- even if she was horse-face ugly!”
“Cricket, you need to learn some manners, but I haven't got time to teach you before we get there. So here is what we are going to do. If you open your mouth, other than to eat or blow your nose, I will...” Alvin made the mistake of looking into Sim's eyes as he threatened him, and his look of joy stopped him cold.
“What are you smiling about?”
“I'm not smiling..”
“Damn you, I mean it. I'll whip you until your grandchildren cry. Do you understand?”
“What did I do?” Sim cried indignantly, as if he had been falsely accused.
“It's what you might do, and if you want to live to see your father, you better keep that mouth of yours in check. That's all I've got to say.”
Sim began to look at the horizon again, wishing he was anywhere else. “Do you hear me? This visit is real important to me. I'm willing to look after you, but you gotta try to act like a gentleman. Did your father ever explain that to you? Do you know what that is? So here is another rule: Children are to be seen and not heard.”
Now the conversation was over... and the boys sulked as if they had just boxed ten rounds. Only the wagon creaked as Annie and Fannie made their way to lazy, hazy Westport. About an hour out of Kansas City, a small village popped above trees, lining the riverbank. Pauline was near... Alvin had not had time to think, but he knew it would take all of his strength to restrain himself from grabbing and hugging her. That would not be considered appropriate treatment of a young widow. Just seeing her, talking to her would have to be enough.
Pauline, as it turned out, was gone when Alvin and Sim pulled up to Oak Glen, the McAllen's perfectly manicured plantation on the river. In fact, there was no friendly face there to greet them when they arrived. A young Black man was training a horse in the horse pen, and several workers were loading hay into a wagon, and an old White gentleman with a huge straw sombrero seemed to be directing all of them. This, Alvin assumed, was Pauline's father, so he directed Annie and Fannie in his direction.
“Zat Him? Sim asked, before he remembered that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut. Oh well, they weren't actually THERE yet.
Alvin ignored him, it was too late for any adjustments at this point. The gentleman noticed them but kept pointing and talking. As they pulled closer, he broke off from his focus to hold his hand up, as if protesting their arrival.
“I'm sorry gentlemen, we no longer need any more workers- as you can see we are well underway.”
Alvin chuckled and showed instant relief, in a comical way. “Wonderful! Because we aren't lookin' for work.” He smiled but the old fellow did not smile back.
“Then what do you want?”
“Are you Mr. McAllen?” Alvin asked with his most friendly assumption, as he started to climb down off of the wagon.
“Hold it right there! No. I'm not, and you need to turn your wagon right around and get off of this property.”
Alvin froze, standing with one leg in the wagon, one on the wheel, trying to process what he was hearing. This man's accent was not from Missouri, but more like Ohio. “This ain't Oak Glen, the McAllen's place?”
“Not anymore. Now git. I don't need help, and I don't need any friends of the McAllens.”
“Yes Sir, but can you at least tell me where they went to?”
“Got no idea- and I would not tell you if I knew.” The inhospitable gentleman just raised his arm and pointed towards Kansas City.
Alvin turned the girls around and as he did, he felt a numbing inside, which quickly filled his whole body. Sim could have knocked him out of the wagon with one finger. The boy was quick to give his indiscreet appraisal: “Damn, he was unfriendly! I thought I was the only one people treated shitty like THAT.” Sim tried to console the inconsolable. “Let's get out of this place, it has always given me the heebie-jeebies...”
Alvin suddenly snapped back into the moment... “WHAT do you mean? You've been here before?”
“Passed through with my dad- I think he witched a well here somewheres. This is evil ground...”
“Why do you say that?”
“Here's where it all started, the whole James-Younger feud with the Union. Maybe a lot of folks would still be alive today- lots of banks maybe not robbed, if the Jayhawkers hadn't done what they did.”
“JAYHAWKERS! What are you talkin' about?”
“You don't know? Thought you was a lawman. It was about ten years ago, I don't remember it, but I heard them discussin' it; a crime never solved.”
“What, what crime?”
“Somebody killed a prominent man from Jackson County. Assassinated him right here, people said he was murdered, and the murderers didn' even rob him. Had $1500 dollars on him! They said it was Jayhawkers- Union guerrillas. Killed ol' man Younger- and he was supposedly a Union man too!”
“Somethin' fishy there Sim- did you say Younger?”
“Yeah, he was Cole Younger's papa. And when they killed his papa, he went to war against the Union, meaner than hell. Then his three brothers- then the Jameses an' their kin. You ought'ta know all the trouble that caused, bein' a policeman an' all.”
“And that happened right here?”
“Well, we've left the place now. But it was near where we were- there in Westport. Yep, right there was the beginning of a lot o' mis-Oh-rie... My paw said that was why they call it Miss-our-ie. Get it?”
Alvin shook his head. Old Col. Henry Washington Younger had been murdered within a rock's throw from where Pauline had grown up, and she had never mentioned it. Was there anywhere around here that young children did not sing of treachery and revenge? Evil ground! Sim had it right, he thought to himself. More often than not, young Sim seemed to know of that which he was speakin'. Alvin spanked the girls as if it was all their fault, and the mules sped up about an extra mile an hour, and it was back to Kansas City.
And now, the total unknown. And totally unplanned, without a friend within many miles.
Where was Pauline, and her family? What had happened that they would lose their farm, and more importantly, why hadn't Pauline told him about it? It seemed that the war was still doling out revenge, and finding victims, a decade after it had supposedly ended.
“So what now, lawman?” Sim said, as if they were in a search together.
Alvin was silent. He had no idea. But as he attacked the problem, it became a tedious process. The only way he knew for sure was to write to Pauline and depend on the mail to let her know that he was in the area. Hopefully, she was too, and it would only be a matter of days. Write her a letter- get a room- maybe start taking photographs while he waited to hear from her.
“We're goin' back to town. Looks like we might be here a little while. I'll send Pauline a post when we get there. Shouldn't take long.” Finally, he had an answer for Sim, but it was pretty lame, and Sim was not that impressed.
“SO... you can cipher?”
“Had to, to be a policeman.”
“It's good to know you know how to do sompthin'.”
Alvin tried every way to get the Postmaster to just give him the McAllen's forwarding address, but the man was a loyal employee of the United States Post Office Department. He apologized for Alvin's inconvenience, but it was flat against the rules. So Alvin sent a short letter with the confidence at least that there was a forwarding address, and called once again upon his tattered patience. He found a cheap room at a boarding house, which turned out to be more of a brothel than anything. As he waited to hear from Pauline, he found a ready flow of customers in the boarding house, where the prostitutes and their clients were glad to pose for portraits, group shots, some scantily clad, and some he would not photograph, even for double the money.
At first Alvin was concerned about Sim, but soon learned that Sim played the women like sweet violins, as usual. They fawned over him, bought him a new shirt, and shoes, and called him “Simmie.” One older gal claimed she was going to keep him until he grew up and make a husband out of him. Alvin kept his distance, but he made a good amount of cash with his substandard tintypes. He realized that he had found a perfect place to re-learn his new trade. The customers were fairly forgiving, and the women even enjoyed the attention when he had to do a remake. He had learned from Sim to always notice their clothes and hair and compliment them, whether they deserved it or not. Prostitutes had feelings too.
Sim was having the time of his life. It was no doubt that it was because he was so cute, that Big Mellie the madam gave them both meals in trade for odd jobs Sim could do around the house. And this evolved into Sim hanging around the kitchen and enjoying generous treats from the kitchen help, all during the day. Mellie was actually quite generous, wealthy some said, and she thought Alvin's presence gave her place status. And perhaps out of boredom, Sim was beginning to learn some of Alvin's trade. He could cut the tin plates, even though his hands were sometimes not strong enough, and the tin would turn ever so slightly, occasionally slicing a portrait almost in half. Sim would then just trim the thing into a locket-sized portrait, what was called a “Gem,” and sell it on the side for pocket money. Alvin just shook his head.
Soon all of Mellie's girls wanted them, and Alvin had to change formats in the camera; They all wanted a Gem of Mellie, and multiples of themselves for souvenirs to trade with each other, and sometimes they would arrange for a portrait of a special male interest. It was not very profitable, but it kept them busy.
Weeks passed, and after Alvin had decided that something terrible must have happened to Pauline and her family, her answer came. She addressed him with a nickname. One he had never heard her actually say: “Dearest Alvi...”
She called him Alvi. That was a good sign. She was in Chicago, her father had passed away with a heart attack, trying to save his finances, and died in considerable debt. The Court moved in swiftly, and liquidated their holdings, and still came up short. They were forced to sell everything, and immediately moved in with her aunt and uncle in Illinois. Her mother's condition was even worse now than before. Pauline had sent a letter, but it would have been after he had embarked, and waited to write again because she wanted to be able to say exactly what her plans were. But things just got worse and worse. Every week she was losing ground in a landslide of personal loss. And she had no idea that Alvin was headed to Oak Glen in the first place. Pauline thanked him for coming there anyway, but her future was more fuzzy now than ever.
"You have shown with your letters and actions what you feel inside, and although I am very appreciative, I cannot reciprocate at this time. You are a good man and deserve an honest answer. If it means anything, when I can see clear to do it, I will come to you wherever you are. I will be your wife if you will have me. And if you cannot wait till that day, I will understand."
Loving Regards,
Pauli"
Alvin held the letter in his hand, as he sat on the steps of the boarding house and stared down the street. Dust at the very end, several blocks away obliterating every detail, was the only thing he could relate to at the time. Anybody who might have looked upon him would have recognized a man in heartbreak and frustration. He wasn't crying, at least not on the exterior, but he was tensed up and stared blankly, unaffected by the commotion around him. Sim watched for awhile, and understood what the letter meant to Alvin, and how it could affect him. He sat down beside him even though Mellie always scolded the girls for sitting in the way of roomers or clients coming and going.
“What did she say?” He pried tenderly. The girls inside had put him up to it. Sim had a way of opening things up... a dance, a conversation, a confession, a fight.
“She's not comin'.”
“Zat all?”
“No, but that's the most important part. Her whole life has fallen apart- Father's dead, mama's dyin', they're all broke, livin' off relatives in Chicago.”
“So y'all ain't gettin' hitched?”
“Did'n say that. No, in fact she said we would- some day.”
“So you are free man! That's nuth'n' to mope 'bout!” Sim slapped Alvin on the back with boyish congratulations.
“Cricket, will you git outta my hair?” Sim stood up, slowly, he knew what Alvin could be like when he was irritated. He tip-toed back in the house, as several female faces pressing against the leaded glass in the door backed away. As he reported his findings, they went into an immediate huddle. Not a few had their own self-serving solution.
“I will come to you wherever you are. I will be your wife if you will have me.” Alvin played those words again and again in his mind. He had never read any more precious words in his whole life. They were words to put in his deepest pocket, and never lose track of, and if he could, to honor with all of his strength. He needed to write her immediately, as soon as he knew where he was going to be, as he waited for her, however long that took.
That evening as the servants brought in big bowls of hash and cornbread, and began to serve those eating, the wandering conversation soon went directly to Alvin's letter. One of the younger, prettier girls teased “Alvin got a letter tadaaaaay...” Alvin looked over at Sim, who was probably the source of that poorly held secret. He said nothing hoping the subject would be dropped, if for no other reason than out of respect for his privacy. But he was after all, in a veritable whorehouse. These were people who had no secrets. These were people who had a very different outlook on romance. These were experienced women who survived and profited as substitutions for true loving relationships.
“Is she pretty Alvin?” One asked.
“I'll bet she is.” assured Big Mellie. “I'll bet she's a honey.”
“What's he supposed to say if she ain't?” Sim cracked.
“Who is she?” Another asked innocently.
“She's a local gal...” Sim spit out, not seeing the problem with throwing the interested parties a bone.
“REALLY! Who?” Mellie demanded. She knew most people worth knowing in Kansas City.
Alvin pushed back his chair and stood up, and just scanned the room without making eye contact. “I appreciate everybody's concern...” he said and he esaped to his lonely room with his precious Pauline unscathed. But Sim told them what he knew; that she was one of the McAllen girls from Westport, and her family had to relocate when her old man died.
Mellie knew the family, and some of the story. Mr. McAllen had been tied to the Younger murder near his home, but nobody ever knew how. Some people said that he was the one in league with the Jayhawkers who were believed to have killed him. It was believed that the elder Younger had actually been a “copperhead,” and had been spying on him, and had to be killed to protect a Union spy network, of which he was a part. It was generally believed that McAllen's property on the river was a critical landing spot for Union spies. Thus there was no mercy shown to McAllen when his fortunes reversed and he needed patience and forbearance from Southern sympathizers who held the note on his properties. Mellie said that he died owing many people in the city. She explained in detail:
“He struggled for several years, 'borrowing from Peter to pay Paul,' and then finally ran his credit into the ground, and the stress of it all put him down and ruined his heart, and when bill collectors kept coming around, demanding satisfaction, the word around town was that he had gone insane and chased them off with his shotgun.”
“BUT” she said, “They were a leading family around here for decades before the war...” Mellie assured Sim that the McAllen daughters were just like their mother, considered to be beautiful and very smart, and the kind of girls men wanted to bring home to their parents. And that even though there was several years difference in their ages, people often confused them and thought they might be twins. “Bein' in the trade like I am, I could tell 'em apart.” She bragged, “the older one had a certain... swagger. With grace and agility- that men see as especially attractive. Sorta' bitchy in an innocent way, and it came natural to her. I have to train it in my girls- but she had it.”
“What a waste!” Sissie, a pretty but somewhat clumsy harlot cracked, as everyone laughed at her honesty.
Mellie smiled real big, she knew the type, and was not intimidated, and instead acted as if they were old acquaintances. “Hello stranger! You certainly look important! May I ask your name Sir?"
"Please sit down, I will get him for you.” As she scurried off he looked around the parlor, taking in all of the outlandish figurines and naughty pictures on the walls. He looked down at the coffee table, and realized through the oval glass top he could see a woman carved in walnut, spread across a couch, in her underwear, smoking a cigarette. He wondered what kind of photographer the woman might fetch from the inner sanctums of a place like this.
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