CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hans barely set foot out of his room for the next week, except to go down to the dining room for dinner each evening where he picked half-heartedly at his food and tried to avoid his father's questions as to why he wasn't out working, or looking for work. He was fortunate in that as usual Jorgen had business on his mind and didn't pay a great deal of attention to him.
Billy's words continued to haunt him and he couldn't get the image of Lillian's face right after she died out of his head. He knew it was his fault; everything had been his fault and he hated himself, even more than he assumed everyone else did. Other than Nana he had never really cared about anyone except Lillian and now she was gone and he felt as if a huge weight had landed on top of him and was crushing him.
He didn't know how he would ever forget what had happened. If only he could leave Denver as Billy had suggested, but even that was out of reach now, at least for the moment, with every penny he'd won over the past months left behind in the saloon. He was back to square one, only now he couldn't set foot in the saloon again and if word got around that he was a cheat, he would be unable to continue his career in poker.
"Hans!"
His father's voice jerked him out of his unhappy thoughts and he looked up slowly. It was Thursday evening and Jorgen had just returned from some business meeting or other.
"I've been hearing some extremely worrying things about what you have been doing recently."
Hans said nothing, but simply waited for his father to continue. He doubted things could get any worse for him.
"Playing poker? Visiting the saloon? I didn't raise you to have such a complete lack of morals that you would gamble and mix with those types. I thought I told you to stay away from that Jenkins trollop!"
Apparently Jorgen hadn't heard the worst of the news, but his condescending tone and reiteration of his constant disapproval of Hans over the years cut through the pain he was suffering and he shoved himself out of the chair he was sitting in and faced his father. He had never forgotten his discovery of how Jorgen knew Lillian.
"Lack of morals?" Hans spat. "Look who's talkin'. A high and mighty hypocrite, judgin' me when yer no better."
"I beg your pardon?" Jorgen clenched his teeth and his jaw twitched at the impudence of the young man in front of him. "How dare you speak to me like that!"
"Did ya think I wouldn't find out how ya knew Lillian?" Hans demanded. "Like father like son, only ya don't wanna admit it."
Jorgen's face reddened a touch and after a moment's hesitation he began to bluster. "I might have known that creature would gossip. I told you to stay away from her and her bastard son, although you obviously ignored me."
"Good thing I did, she taught me plenty," said Hans.
"I can only imagine…" Jorgen's voice trailed off in disgust.
"To read and write, for instance," Hans sneered.
"What?" Jorgen looked genuinely surprised.
"Ya heard me."
"I'm amazed that her sort has any skills in literacy," Jorgen said.
"Yeah, ya would be," said Hans. Despite everything, there was still some tiny part of him that was hurt by the fact that his admission to not being illiterate after all made no impression on his father. He should have expected it; Jorgen had never been proud of him for anything and never would be.
"So what do you intend to do with yourself now?" asked Jorgen. "Spend your life gambling and consorting with Lillian Jenkins, who is old enough to be your mother in case you'd forgotten?"
"Lillian's dead," Hans said. "So ya won't have to worry about that."
Jorgen's eyes narrowed, but he didn't ask Hans to elaborate. "You've always been a disappointment to me," he sighed, his temper subsiding.
"Yeah, I know. Ya'd still have a wife if I hadn't been born," Hans said bitterly.
"I've never said that," Jorgen protested, a little uncomfortable as he remembered saying exactly that when Hans was a baby.
"Maybe not, but ya thought it. Lars and Leif did too."
"You've always been so damned difficult," Jorgen said, his voice tinged with regret.
"Probably 'cause I felt ya didn't want me." Hans pulled his head up and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Ya never will."
"That's not the case, Hans, but I can't have you repeatedly bringing this family's name into disrepute," said Jorgen stiffly. "You seem to think you're an adult so it's about time you took some responsibility for yourself. I would suggest you find yourself a decent occupation and a more suitable place to live."
"Fine, I'll go," Hans said through his teeth. He turned away from his father without another word and pulled open the drawing room door.
"Wait a minute," Jorgen said, without a great deal of enthusiasm.
"Save yer breath," grunted Hans. "Ain't nothin' more to say."
He spent the rest of the evening packing everything he wanted into a single large case and scouring his room in the hopes he would find at least a small amount of money somewhere. There was still ten dollars in the box beneath the bed and he shoved it into his pocket.
No one disturbed him during the last hour he spent in his room and when he headed down the stairs with the case in one hand, he saw neither his father nor the housekeeper or cook. He left the house, closing the door quietly behind him and walked away without looking back.
Hans used three dollars to pay for a single night in the boarding house on the north side of town – about as far from the saloon and the Jenkins house as he could get. He lay awake on top of the bed covers all night, wishing he had a bottle of whiskey to blot out his misery and self-loathing, but unwilling to part with a penny of his last seven dollars unless he was forced to. He longed to leave Denver, but was well aware that he was stuck there until he earned or won the means to do so.
The next morning he forced himself to eat the breakfast provided by the boarding house and then went out, promising the proprietor to return by lunchtime to either remove the case from his room, or pay for another night. By ten-thirty he found himself doing the only thing he was any good at – playing poker in the park with a couple of similar-aged youths, neither of whom were any richer than he was himself. He took every penny from both of them and returned to the boarding house with twenty dollars in his pocket, with which he paid for two more nights, bought dinner from a nearby café and kept the rest to gamble with the next day.
The second night he slept fitfully, dozing off with exhaustion, but waking every so often when he was disturbed by unhappy dreams. He rose the next morning feeling as worthless as his father had repeatedly told him he was over the years, but with renewed determination that he wasn't going to remain that way. He'd make enough money to get out of Denver and have a business of some kind, if it took him years to do it. The only thing he would regret leaving behind was Nana, but that was probably for the best. At least if he lived far enough away she would never have to see what he was really doing and never have to be ashamed of him as he was of himself.
Hans remained at the boarding house for six months. The proprietor, Mrs Brady, began to see him as a permanent guest and even took to making him dinner when he wanted it. She was able to rely on his money every week and he never caused any trouble like some of her more unruly guests. He came and went and when he was in his room, he was silent. Once or twice he helped evict unpleasant customers who had failed to pay their bills or gotten drunk in the house and caused some kind of a ruckus. She didn't know what he did for a living, but didn't particularly care so long as he behaved himself and paid in a timely manner. He was polite and well-dressed and she only wished the rest of her guests were like him.
Most days, Hans found someone or other to play poker with. There was a small bar close to the boarding house and no one there knew anything about him. One or two of the men frequenting the establishment had gossiped about the whore and the businessman who had been shot in Red Burrows' place across town, but they didn't appear to know how it had happened or who else had been involved. Hans drank and smoked with them and took their money on a regular basis. Occasionally he lost, but he didn't complain and he never tried to cheat.
He spent his eighteenth birthday alone in his room except for a brief trip down to the kitchen to eat the plateful of meat pie Mrs Brady had made for him. Then he returned upstairs and counted the money he had hidden between the base of his bed and the mattress. He had had a run of bad luck recently, but there was still almost two hundred dollars there. He decided to go looking for a horse to buy and also a gun. Maybe at last he could set off to find a new life for himself.
The next day Hans went to the small store at the end of the street which sold guns. The proprietor was old and wizened and peered at him through thick spectacles. He showed Hans a variety of weapons, from handguns which resided in a holster one strapped around one's hips, to shotguns similar to the one Red had used to blow away Mr Stevens.
Hans picked up a handgun from the counter and studied it, testing the weight of it and how it felt in his hand. He pulled the trigger and heard the distinctive click of the empty chamber.
"How much?" he asked.
"Twenty dollars. Plus five for the holster and three for a box of ammunition."
"I'll take them," Hans said, pulling some bills from his pocket and counting out twenty-eight dollars. He left the store minutes later with the gun strapped to his hip, feeling as if he had suddenly grown in both height and strength. Nobody could hurt him now.
He stayed on at the boarding house a few more weeks, reasoning that buying a horse and riding off into the middle of nowhere with a gun he probably couldn't shoot straight was foolhardy. He went out of town every day and practised shooting trees and then empty bottles balanced on rocks, eventually moving further and further away from his targets until he could hit a scurrying rabbit from thirty yards. Only then did he decide he was ready to venture south looking for his future.
Hans left the boarding house the next morning and went to enquire at the blacksmiths about buying a horse. He was out of luck and the man had sold his last animal only the previous day.
"I'll be getting some more from the market on Friday – come by around two and you can take your pick," the blacksmith said.
"Sure, thanks," Hans said. He could wait two more days.
He headed for the bar, strolling slowly along the street and gazing about him, thinking about leaving everything he saw behind. There was nothing to keep him there. He turned the corner into the next street where the bar was situated and stopped dead as he almost collided with a young lady.
"Excuse me," he said.
"It's my fault, I wasn't lookin' where I'm goin'," she said, smiling up at him. He looked down into her eyes and noticed they were an unusual shade of light brown; actually he would have said they were almost gold. Her blonde hair was held away from her face with combs and cascaded down her back in a mass of waves and curls. She was wearing a striped dress in several shades of green and her lips were enhanced with a touch of deep pink colour. She giggled now as Hans stared at her, speechless.
"Cat got your tongue?" she teased.
Hans grinned. "Guess I ain't used to seein' such beauty in Denver."
"Well, thank you." Her cheeks dimpled. "Just arrived this mornin'. I'm lookin' for a place to stay; do ya know of anywhere?"
"Sure, there's a boardin' house back that way," Hans said, pointing. "I'm stayin' there myself as a matter of fact."
"Well, perhaps you'd show me the way," she said, tucking her hand through his arm.
"Come with me." He turned and began to lead her back up the street away from the bar.
"What's your name?" she asked.
Hans opened his mouth to reply and then paused to draw his companion out of the way of two riders trotting down the middle of the street.
"Wait up, Hank, this nag's thrown a shoe," the second rider called out.
"Busy town," the lady commented to Hans.
"Yeah." At least he wasn't planning on staying much longer. He was about to start a whole new life.
"So what's your name?" she reminded him.
"Hank," he said. New life, new name. "Lausenst…..Lawson. Hank Lawson."
"Nice to meet ya, Hank Lawson." She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. "I'm Clarice."