So, this story is going to be around fifteen chapters. Probably longer. It depends how much crap Santa Fe decides to throw at our intrepid heroes. But, yeah, I've got about a third of the story written out already, so updates will be regular and I'm not going to leave this story unfinished; I'm too attached to some of my OCs. And Crutchie. I'm pretty attached to him, too. Anyway...
Green, clean, and pretty. Jack had repeated those three words over and over again, so Crutchie expected those to show up in Santa Fe at least somehow. Brown, dirty, and ugly. That's how Crutchie would describe the infamous city. Crutchie hadn't been expecting a thriving metropolis, that was for sure, but he had hoped for a quaint little town with gleaming green yards and white picket fences and smiling neighbors. The only words that had come out of Crutchie's mouth, when they had stepped off of that train with its black smog billowing out of the funnel, were, "Well, it certainly is dusty."
That had been an understatement. The entire town seemed to have been coated in a muted red dust. It clung to everything, from windows in small shops, to the skirts of the ladies that walked past them. Crutchie could taste it in the air and couldn't help fearing that this ever-present, ever-choking dust would worsen his leg, not heal it.
"It's beautiful," Jack breathed and Crutchie had to wonder if they were looking at the same town.
The train depot was just off of what Crutchie assumed was the Main Street, for rows and rows of buildings lined the road. People milled in between the shops, moving from place to place like some well-choreographed dance that Crutchie worried he'd never learn the steps to. The majority of people did not spare the two boys a second glance, but the ones that did glance in their direction, their eyes lingered on Crutchie's crutch for a few moments too long, just as he knew they would. Some would then move on to Crutchie's eyes, regarding him with such intense pity that he could almost feel it in the arid air. The rest simply turned away, pretending that they hadn't even noticed the handicap, or unsure of how to react.
Crutchie turned to Jack to see if he had noticed the stares, but, of course, the older boy was still entranced by the town that he had envisioned for numberless years. Crutchie honestly didn't know why he had expected anything else. "So, what's the plan now?" Crutchie asked, pulling Jack out of his daydreams.
"Don't have one."
"What?" Crutchie blinked in Jack's direction, hoping that he had misheard Jack or that the older boy was playing some cruel joke. Maybe Jack didn't like New York, but at least they had a bed each night and food and friends and a true home. Why was Jack ever willing to give that up for the unknown?
Jack shrugged. "I'm sure we'll find something. We'se gotta go find jobs, first."
And what did Jack expect them to do, Crutchie couldn't help wondering. He didn't think there would be newsies out here in Santa Fe. For one thing, there weren't enough street corners or customers to make a newsie necessary. And it wasn't as if Crutchie could find some job riding around on a horse. He didn't know how to ride, didn't even think Jack knew how to. Who knew how long they'd be living homeless, on the streets, until they could find some odd job in order to keep even the barest bit of food in their stomachs? This was a mistake. But, Crutchie didn't say that, wouldn't ever dream of voicing those thoughts. Instead, he shot Jack one of his patented Crutchie grins—the one that sold the most papes—and asked, "Well, where're we gonna start?"
"I thought we could check and see if they had a newspaper."
Oh, no. He really expects us to be newsies. Can he not see how impossible that will be? Crutchie turned his grin up a couple notches. "Sounds great."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, I brought a couple of my political cartoons, so I can show a couple of examples of my work and maybe they'll hire me. Maybe you could do some odd jobs around there." Jack glanced around the small town, before adding, "Doesn't look like they'd need many newsies, eh, Crutchie?"
Crutchie allowed himself a sigh of relief. Jack knew what he was doing. Crutchie could trust him. They'd figure this out. "Not many," he agreed.
"Maybe they'd change their mind when we tell them about our many years of experience," Jack joked.
"We started a strike against the newspaper company we worked for. I don't think that's what they're looking for."
"Huh. Good point. Newsies are definitely out of the question."
Crutchie followed Jack through the town as the older boy scanned the buildings, looking for something that looked even remotely like where a newspaper would be housed. Crutchie carefully memorized what each building held, noting the location of the General Store, with its wide windows and brightly painted lettering; the Bank, which was ornamented by large pillars that Crutchie expected the combined length of his and Jack's arms would not fully encircle the grooved cylinders; the Tavern, a small building squished between the Jailhouse and the Sheriff's Office that emitted a joyful sound of drunken singing and cheers and calls for "one round more!"; a small Post Office that looked as if it was more for decoration, than actual use. Outside of each building were horses, tethered and waiting. They watched Crutchie and Jack make their way past them, snorting and tossing their heads. In greeting, Crutchie thought, smiling at the animals.
Jack noticed the grin and glanced at the horses. "Give me a couple months and we'll have our own horses, riding 'round in style."
"Imagine that," Crutchie breathed, feeling the pit of fear in his stomach slowly unwind itself. "Just the two of us and a pair of palominos." He wanted to laugh at the fear that had consumed him earlier. Now that he was here, walking around, joking with Jack, it seemed completely possible. They'd find their way; how could they not? This was Santa Fe, the land where dreams come true. There was still a slight worm of worry that Crutchie figured would probably be there until they had found jobs and housing, but everything was looking up. It felt as if the sun had finally come up and Crutchie could see the opportunity that shone brightly around him.
The picture, the dream, seemed so tangible just now, with the strong scent of horses and dust in the air and the breeze stirring Crutchie's hair and the sun gleaming down upon them, warming him from toe to grin, and the muted conversations and laughter around them. Crutchie could picture him and Jack riding through the town, everyone they passed smiling or waving at them because they were family now. Crutchie could almost feel the horse between his legs, could imagine the reins in his hands and the cowboy hat resting on his head. He could nearly hear the teasing conversation between him and Jack as they rode, side by side. Crutchie reveled in this future, nearly started when he recognized what he had forgotten. His crutch. It wasn't in the picture and Crutchie wondered if his subconscious was giving him cruel hope or revealing a future where he would be healed.
"This is it." Jack's words tore Crutchie out of his day dream and he realized that they had continued walking down the street and had somehow, without Crutchie's notice, stopped in front of a small building. Through the window, Crutchie could see a small printing press with a boy about their age working with it.
"It's sorta small," Crutchie observed.
"This ain't New York City," Jack pointed out, humor lacing his words.
Crutchie rolled his eyes. "I'm just sayin'," he grumbled.
Jack gently nudged Crutchie with his shoulder, the practiced pressure being almost enough to throw the boy off balance, but not enough to truly do so. Crutchie grinned, entering the small building as Jack held the door open for him. The first thing he noticed was the permeating smell of ink that seemed to seep from every corner of the room. Crutchie's nose wrinkled, unsure if the smell was overpowering in a bad way or overpowering in a good sort of way. He simply settled on describing it as overpowering.
The boy at the press looked up at their entrance. "How can I help you?" he asked, standing stiffly, his back straight. He looked like a child trying extra hard to please his elders. Which, Crutchie found ironic since the boy looked to be about his age.
"We're looking for a job," Jack said, eyeing the boy. "The pair of us has some experiences with newspapers and such and thought we might try and find some form of employment here."
Crutchie stifled a grin at the way Jack had lowered his voice and enunciated his words clearly in order to seem more educated and prepared for "some form of employment" as Jack had coined it. The boy glanced between Jack and Crutchie, before shrugging his shoulders. "Well, I'll ask Mr. Maverick. I'm Billy, by the way."
"Jack."
"Crutchie."
At Crutchie's introduction, Billy glanced at the crutch. "I can see that," he said. Crutchie wasn't certain, but he thought Billy's eyes glinted maliciously, a mean humor darkening the pupils. "Anyway, I'll just go ask him now. I'll be back in a second."
After Billy had left into some small back room, Crutchie muttered, "Maybe I should just start goin' by my real name."
"Why's that?"
"I don't know, just the way Billy was looking at me. I feel as if I'm callin' attention to my gimp leg."
Jack shrugged. "Well, ya are, but that's beside the point. You'se more of a Crutchie than a Christopher, if I ever saw one. You… you just look like a Crutchie, y'know?"
"Cuz of the crutch?"
"No, that ain't it. Christopher's such a…stiff name. You ain't stiff." Jack shook his head, grinning. "Don't know what your parents were thinking, naming you something as awful as Christopher."
"Whatever you say, Francis," Crutchie jabbed back.
"Hey—" But whatever retort Jack had been about to sling at Crutchie was lost as Billy returned with a tall, skinny man following him. The man had white hair that was slicked back with, what looked to be, immense amounts of spit. Or hair styling gel. But most likely spit, Crutchie thought, a grin playing at his lips. Mr. Maverick, for that's who Crutchie assumed it was, had a thick white moustache and a goatee, both carefully combed and styled. His eyes were gray and thoughtful: neither cold nor soft, just neutral.
"Good day, boys," Mr. Maverick said, shaking hands with Jack, then Crutchie. "Bill, here, said you were looking for jobs. That you had experience?"
"We worked for the World back in New York City," Jack explained.
"What position?"
Crutchie spoke up. "We wa—were newsies." Crutchie quickly corrected his verb usage, trying to impress the man before them. "You know, hawking papers."
Mr. Maverick stared at Crutchie, but Crutchie thought he could see Mr. Maverick's eyes smile. "I am familiar with the position. However, I must confess that I just don't have a need for the pair of you to work here."
Jack fished out some of his political cartoons. "I can draw; I used to make these for the World over in New York. If you need someone for something like that I can—"
"I'm afraid we don't need that in our humble newspaper here. You'll learn, I'm sure, that Santa Fe is quite different than New York City. I would employ you if I had the funds or positions to do so, but unfortunately Bill has everything covered."
"I understand," Jack said softly.
Crutchie glanced at Jack, recognizing the look of defeat Jack was, unsuccessfully, trying to hide. That pit of worry and fear immediately reared up, enlarging into a black hole of endless what-ifs and squandered dreams. If they couldn't get a job, they would have no money. And if they had no money, they'd starve. And if they starved, well, they'd die. As much as those thoughts terrified Crutchie, he knew that Jack expected him to simply grin and make some joke about it. So, as Jack and Crutchie were led out, Crutchie smiled widely, suggesting, "I bet Mr. Maverick heard about the strike. I bet he didn't want us and Billy rising up against him. Three versus one just ain't fair odds."
Jack grinned. "Exactly. And it's not like there aren't any other jobs here. Not for two fellas like us. Just another day, I promise."
Crutchie feared that weeks would go past with Jack repeating, "Just another day, I promise," until the words were as hollow and meaningless to Jack as Crutchie recognized them to be. Not that Crutchie would tell Jack his fears. Instead, he turned his grin up one notch higher. "Yeah, Jack, tomorrow."
Without even really thinking, Crutchie stepped into the road. Only Jack's quick reflexes saved Crutchie from being trampled by a horse and its tall rider. The horse reared backwards and the rider struggled to keep the animal under control. Crutchie's heart hammered as he pushed himself off the ground. Jack had grabbed him by the arm, yanking him out of the road and to the ground out of the way of the horse's hooves.
"What were you thinking?" the rider shouted.
"I don't think I really was," Crutchie admitted, fear and adrenalin prompting complete honesty.
The rider glanced down at the boys, the answer seeming to catch him off guard. "Huh." As he examined the pair, Crutchie studied his features. He had a sharp, hawk-like nose that was belied by soft green eyes. His hair was a dark brown that had been curled by the combined efforts of sweat and wind. "Where are your parents?" Crutchie shrugged and the man caught on to the implication. "So, what are you doing here?"
"Looking for a job."
"Huh." The man stared at them and Crutchie fancied that he could literally see the wheels of his brain turn. Eventually, the man broke the silence that Crutchie and Jack were loath to interrupt. "You got a place to stay?"
Crutchie shook his head. "No, sir. We just got off the train from New York."
"New York, you say? What did you expect to find in a town such as this?" the man asked.
"Freedom," Jack said proudly. "Space. Somewhere to live our own lives."
"Don't know if such a place truly exists, but I suppose everyone needs somewhere to start over," the man mused softly, before smoothly dismounting his horse. The motion was so fluid, Crutchie hadn't realized what was happening until the man was standing before him, one hand extended. "The name's Claude Holloway."
"Crutchie," Crutchie said, shaking Mr. Holloway's hand. He could feel the heavy callouses that shaped the hand. The skin wasn't overly rough, but Crutchie could tell that this was a man who was unafraid of hard work out in the sun. Something about the hand shake comforted Crutchie, a feeling of peace washing that dark fear back into submission, and he didn't want to let go. Which was stupid. Jack still needed to shake hands with him.
"I'm Jack."
Mr. Holloway nodded. "Jack and Crutchie." Crutchie was pleased to note that this man didn't seem to care that his name was unconventional, in the traditional sense. "You two brothers?"
"Yes," Crutchie said, just as Jack began, "Well—"
The pair glanced at each other and Jack quickly corrected himself, "Yes," as Crutchie shook his head, "Not really."
Jack spoke up when Crutchie, embarrassed, fell silent. "We ain't brothers by blood, but we are, if ya catch my drift."
Mr. Holloway's mouth twitched with understanding. "No one can take on this world alone. It's a good thing you have each other." He glanced between the two boys before suggesting, "Now, if you don't have anywhere to be tonight, you are welcome to join me and my family for dinner. While we do not have any extra beds, we have an abundance of extra blankets and pillows and you are more than welcome to spend the night on the floor of my living room. You'd be surprised how cold it gets at night when there is no shelter from the wind."
"We couldn't possibly—" Crutchie began, but Mr. Holloway cut him off.
"My advice to you, Crutchie, is that you learn to accept help from those who are willing to offer it. This is not an offer out of pity; the both of you seem to be excellent young men and maybe I'll be able to provide those jobs you're looking for. But," Mr. Holloway added with a wink in Crutchie's direction, "how will you know if you don't accept my invitation?"
Crutchie quickly explained, "What I was going to say, sir, was that we couldn't possibly eat dinner without washing our hands first. Would there be somewhere in your house that we'd be able to wash up in?"
Jack snorted, trying to keep a straight face and Mr. Holloway's eyes twinkled. "I'm sure that we could find something that would meet your needs."
"Thank you," Crutchie said. He hadn't expected Mr. Holloway to believe him, but he had wanted to change the subject. Those words, though, still echoed in his head. Learn to accept help. Not that they really meant anything. Mr. Holloway didn't even know him. He was just saying that as a nice old—well, not old, but older—man. So, Crutchie didn't have to really take that advice. Because he didn't need help. Crutchie could handle himself just fine, thank you very much.
"Well, if you'd like to start earning your keep, you can help me pick up some things from the General Store," Mr. Holloway said, grinning. "And, since you both are so much younger than I am, you get to do the honor of carrying all the groceries!"
"Fantastic," Jack muttered sarcastically, but he followed the older man towards the store after he had tied his horse up. Crutchie followed a few feet behind. This was the start of something new; he could feel it. Crutchie hesitantly allowed himself to smile. He couldn't foresee anything bad happening: Mr. Holloway seemed a perfectly trustworthy man. Maybe Jack was correct. Maybe Santa Fe was the place where everything worked out and dreams came true.
I'm going to try and put up Chapter 3 by the end of this week because I absolutely love it and just want to throw it out there. So, keep an eye out for that. Also, please review! Tell me what you think. Do they seem in character? Do you like the OCs? (There will be a good amount of them since this is so far from New York.) Is the story plausible? Any and all advice is more than welcome!