"You really don't look fit at all," the stout man said.
Gabe essayed a shrug. He still didn't look around.
Then he felt the touch of the pudgy hand on his arm. "I think I understand," the stout man said, soothingly. "A touch of mal de mer, is it?"
"Ung?"
"Yes, that's definitely it. You're susceptible to the malaise of the sea, I judge."
"Ung?"
"You get seasick, don't you?"
Gabe lifted his shoulders as though to dismiss this thrust.
"Well I shouldn't worry if I were you," the stout man said, briskly. "It's only a river, you know. No waves, no pitching or rolling. It's quite a smooth journey, I assure you. No rougher than this train."
"Urp."
"No really, I promise you. Surely you don't get seasick on rivers!"
Gabe finally looked at him. He didn't have to say anything.
The stout man scrutinized Gabe's face and turned both fat palms up. "On rivers?"
"On rainy days!"
"My," the stout man murmured. "That is a shame." He shook his head in sympathy.
He turned his back again and stared at the motionless panorama of Sacramento until he heard the stout man begin to stir and rustle. A lot of stirring and rustling-gathering up all the bundles probably. Finally his voice, from slightly up above, rolled against the back of Gabe's head:
"Well I do hope you don't have too bad a time of it."
Gabe nodded without turning. He saw people leaving the train and accosting porters. Most of them headed across the platform toward the riverboat wharf.
At last he turned and looked through the coach. The stout man was gone and so was everybody else.
Reluctantly Gabe got to his feet and dragged them down the aisle to the vestibule.
A porter waited at the foot of the steps but Gabe shook his head, dropped to the platform, and caught a tail-of-the-eye glimpse of the porter's disapproving look. Gabe had no luggage. He had nothing at all, in fact, but the clothes on his back: a cheap pinstripe suit and a cloth cap with a stubby visor. His pockets were stuffed with oddments that made them bulge here and there; he could have brought a knapsack but he had never owned one. Never had reason to. He had been born in Hell's Kitchen twenty-eight years ago and until he'd boarded this train he'd never been west of Twelfth Avenue. Which had been far enough for him. Because if you wanted to get off Manhattan Island, you had to cross water. Obviously that was impossible. Fortunately they'd built the railroad bridge last year, so he hadn't had to start this journey on the ferryboat.
It wasn't just his aversion to water. He'd liked it in Hell's Kitchen. He practically owned Hell's Kitchen. Well, Twill practically owned it, but Gabe had been Twill's right-hand man because Twill was shanty-Irish and Hell's Kitchen was a tough French slum. If you wanted things smooth you had to have a French right hand. Gabe-Gabriel Beauchamps-came from an impeccable lineage, a dynasty of Marseille thugs. Even the Corsicans in Hell's Kitchen respected the name Beauchamps as long as you pronounced it right. None of this silly Beechum business. It was Bo-champs, and Gabe had skinned a few knuckles teaching that to a few ignorant toughs.
It had been a good life. But into every life a little brick must fall. Now in the summer of 1874 Gabe found himself at the wrong end of five days on the transcontinental railroad. Five days and three thousand miles and he still hadn't seen anything he'd call a city. A lot of these burgs didn't even have gaslights.
He'd be back. He'd be back to take the Big Apple away from Twill and send Twill on a nice sea journey. But to do that he needed cash, plenty of cash. Enough to buy off Twill's protectors.
Cash. If San Francisco turned out to be another of those clapboard-and-mud Chump Junctions like the ones the train had been rolling through these last five days, Gabe just didn't know what he was going to do…
A little blackboard hung beside the ticket window on the wharf. Steamer New World-Next Sailing 11:00 a.m. Gabe pulled out the engraved gold watch. Ten forty-five.
He sidled up to the window. "Look, uh…"
"What you want?" The clerk was bored, hung over, or both.
"Look, there's got to be some other way to get to San Francisco."
The bloodshot eyes flicked at him. "Maybe is. But you don't look like Jesus Christ to me."
"Huh?"
"You'd have to walk across San Francisco Bay. Of course you could go around. There's freight wagons go around the Bay. Sometimes they take passengers."
"How long does that take?"
"Eight days, maybe ten. Depends on the weather. You might find one over the other side of the railroad yards. How much money you got?"
"Why?"
"Those muleskinners charge high for passengers. They don't like being crowded on the high seat. You got to pay if you want a ride."
"How much?"
"I ain't sure what it's at this week. Last week they were getting two hundred bucks. In gold, not paper."
"Two hundred bucks?"
"Yeah. Of course you could always walk. Only take you a month or so."
Gabe looked down at his shoes. The soles needed repairing right now. One day's hiking, let alone a month's…
"I've got to think on this." He swung away.
The clerk's voice followed him cheerily. "Think quick, friend. New World sets off in ten minutes, and she's always on time, she is. Next boat ain't till tomorrow this time and you don't…"
Whatever it was the clerk had to say, Gabe didn't catch the rest. He was suddenly very busy avoiding being trampled.
It was a small wagon. Small but drawn by ten teams of mules. Each mule seemed to have forty hoofs. Clots of mud ricocheted off the ticket office and off Gabe's suit. There was a great swell and rush of movement, and the wagon went caroming by him as if it had a boat to catch.
It was all noise and wheeling confusion but as Gabe leaped back his eyes whipped across the words YANKEE BAR MINE painted on the side of the wagon. He tumbled back against the ticket window and gathered breath to yell something unfriendly, but the remark died on his lips.
What curbed his tongue was the size of the ten horsemen escorting the little wagon.
They were armed to the teeth and they looked like boulders hewn out of granite mountains. They all had expressions like closed doors. Rifles and shotguns in their fists, great spurs on their boots, revolver handles sprouting from their waists like weed crops.
The horsemen went thundering by like agents of the Apocalypse. While Gabe got his balance and started to dust himself off-mud myself off?-the whole army came to a swirling halt around the wagon at the end of the wharf, at the foot of the wide freight gangplank.
The big guys on horseback made a tight circle around the wagon, facing outward with rifles and shotguns propped against their thighs. They all kept looking around in all directions as though they'd just received word that something fun to shoot was about to appear.
Anything guarded that zealously deserved Gabe's attention. He moved that way, easing past various wagons, stevedores and spectators. Beyond the wharf the river cut through town and disappeared into a valley of trees and mud. Little boats churned up and downstream. It was all busy and noisy under the August sun.
Half the horsemen were dismounting now. The rest appeared to grow larger to fill the gaps. The guys on foot slung their rifles over their shoulders and began to unload small wooden boxes from the wagon. The boxes were no bigger than shoes but the big guys were lifting only one apiece. It was clear from all the grunting and heaving that they were not filled with gossamer and lace. Gabe drifted closer for a better look. Immediately two of the mounted guards fixed their glares on him with obvious and belligerent expectation of trouble.