This is a transitional chapter so I hope it's enjoyable as well as informative. Waiting to see if I am notified of its addition.

4

Joe drove me to Carson City to meet the 6:00 train and I enjoyed being the passenger, propping my boots on the front panel and pulling down the brim of my Stetson against the glare of the sun. I wouldn't arrive in Sacramento until around 3:00 in the morning, having to change trainlines in Folsom for the final leg. Seemed sleep was going to be elusive for a while longer. On the ride, Joe caught me up on the mines, the assay on the removed ore and the honeycomb shoring. I asked about the pumps used to remove water when he brought up the fact that in mine #3, we couldn't go deeper due to flooding.

"The pumps're doing their work but, oh, I almost forgot…" Joe held the reins in his left hand and dug into his jacket pocket pulling out a stone still attached to base rock. "Know what this is? We've been finding quite a bit of it."

I took it from him and turned it in the remaining sunlight. "I think it's garnet. Not expensive but used in women's jewelry. Cut properly and shined up, it's pretty. Can't tell the grade but seems saturated." I tossed it back to him and he easily caught it, dropping it back into his pocket.

"Thought maybe they were rubies but I'll take samples to the assayer. Think I should let the men keep what they find?"

"Well, why not? We're not jewel miners unless we hit copper and find turquoise but don't see that happening."

Joe changed the subject to the latest antics of his boys; the oldest was a little hellion in the making, the younger quickly following in his footsteps, but I told him they sounded no worse than he had been as a child and that it was a type of divine justice, sowing what you reap.

Joe laughed but then was silent for a few heartbeats. I waited. Then he started on the subject he had been trying to avoid. "Hop Sing says that Pa's been wanting to shave himself but Hop Sing won't let him, says his hands are too shaky and he might cut his throat." Joe looked over at me. "Pa's been giving him a really hard time and you know how upset Hop Sing gets and Pa can be a mule. What do you think?"

"I think we should wait until he's in a better state of mind before we put a razor in his hand."

Joe nodded. "I was thinking the same thing. Pa doesn't like to lean on others and this past week, well, I've been worried about him and then there's Astrid and her being pregnant and all…. Adam, you'll only be gone a week, right? I mean you're not staying in Sacramento longer than that, right?"

He glanced over at me and looked the same as he had as a child, his eyes large and fearful. "What's going on, Joe?" I sat up then.

"I just…Adam, Hoss and I can't see to make any of the decisions about Pa's health, his recovery, what he should do or about anything. I remember when you fell off that ladder and had to do those exercises and all, but Pa's worse off than you were. We've been massaging his legs and feet but now that Nurse Holland is here, well, should we still be doing it or is she going to? I wouldn't mind handing everything over to her until you get back and Hoss wouldn't either because, Adam, I know it sounds foolish with me being a grown man, married and with children and all, but I swear, I feel like a little kid about all this; I'm so scared Pa'll die. What if he does while you're gone?"

I pondered Joe's question; I didn't want to lightly dismiss his fears. As I child. I lived day and night with the daunting fear of losing my only parent and I wouldn't wish that on my brothers. "You'll do what comes next. I'll let you know where I'm staying and you'll wire me if anything happens. Then you or Hoss go for the doctor and bring back Sheriff Coffee."

"Roy? Why?" Joe was obviously puzzled.

"To make sure there's no foul play."

Joe went pale. "You think Nurse Holland might…"

I desperately wanted to lighten Joe's worries. "Nurse Holland seems to like Pa despite her attitude, might even have a hankering for him. If they fuck in his condition, she'd have to be on top, take charge, and she's one big woman. Those thighs of her alone could crack a man's ribs." Joe stared at me, open-mouthed and then he broke into laughter. Even I had to chuckle at the image. And then I remembered something: "Damn!"

"What? What's wrong?"

"I forgot to tell Paul Mrs. Holland was here. Make sure you let him know."

"I will. Astrid and I are going to church this week. It's our turn while Mother Nora watches the boys and Paul'll probably be at service."

"Good, then everything's set." And in the distance was the outskirts of Carson City.

~ 0 ~

I found I couldn't sleep on the train; my thoughts kept me awake until early morning and arrival in Sacramento. Carrying my own luggage, I walked through the deserted streets lit by gas streetlights. As in most cities, hotels are located close to the train or stage depots so I quickly found one that appeared relatively new; that meant the chances were greater it had gas lights and indoor plumbing and since there was no one pissing against a wall or asleep in the alley hugging a whiskey bottle like a lover, I went inside.

The desk clerk was sleeping, his chair pushed close to the wall, his chin resting on his chest. I hit the bell and he startled. Seeing me, he rose. I told him I wanted a room for about a week and he turned the register for me to sign. He apologized for not having a bellboy ready at that time but he'd be glad to help me with my bags, and handed me a key to room 203. I declined his offer and carried them myself. The room was nice, clean with a wide bed, desk, two wingback chairs and a gas fireplace. The adjoining bath had a large tub, a commode, sink and gas heater. A large round mirror hung over the sink. There were adequate towels, a wrapped bar of soap and a plush rug on the floor. I hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the outside door knob and satisfied, I quickly stripped and climbed into the bed and immediately fell into a heavy sleep.

I woke up and according to the clock, it was past 1:00 in the afternoon. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and felt like an old man and I wasn't even 40. I stretched to unkink my back and shoulders and then ran a hot bath and with a towel folded under my head and neck, leaned back, closed my eyes and soaked hoping the heat would loosen me up. Yet I was uneasy, almost sad, and couldn't pinpoint the reason. It wasn't overly worried about my father or that in my absence, Lorriane would fall on her back for another man. Then I realized what was gripping me—I was alone but not in the way of enjoying privacy. Joe and Hoss both had wives they loved and I was alone; no one was traveling through life beside me, no wife, not even a companion to experience a sunset or a good dinner or a soft bed and I felt an engulfing sadness. I hadn't a friend or a lover with whom I could discuss ideas or politics or much of anything else. And who would be at my death bed, clutching my hand and weeping as I traveled to that "undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns?" Even my father had a nursing companion who was at his side evenings and nights and saw that he was comfortable or even amused and engaged. One day Hop Sing complained that Mrs. Holland talked too much; "Her jabber like jackdaw! Talk, talk, talk!" But knowing my father, he probably enjoyed her company, her conversation and even her bossiness. But the only noise in my hotel room was the ticking of the mantel clock in the bedroom and the echo of my own thoughts. In Moby Dick, Ishmael takes to the sea "whenever it is a drizzly, damp November" in his soul and calling it a "substitute for pistol and ball." Well, signing on as a sailor was not an option for me anymore so instead, I scrubbed, shaved and dressed and went downstairs to the restaurant for a late lunch. I had to get out of my room and out of my head and that seemed the easiest way.

~ 0 ~

After a meal of baked trout, new roasted potatoes and green beans, I went to the front desk and wrote out a wire for Joe, letting him know my whereabouts. The day clerk snapped his fingers and a young man quickly came and took my message including the recipient information. I gave him four bits and told him to keep any change. He smiled, thanked me and headed out for the telegraph office.

"Sir," the desk clerk said, "you don't have to tip him; it's part of his job to be at guests' beck and call."

"If I had to tip him, I wouldn't," I replied. He was affronted as I intended, and I left to explore the city.

Wearing my usual ranching clothes, I didn't stand out but didn't quite fit in. The people on the street, in the main, were well-dressed but then it was Sunday and Capital Park, part of the grounds of the under-construction Capital building, had a few couples who still sat on their picnic blankets talking or coyly flirting. Children played under their parents' watch and a few people took their constitutionals. I looked about and could envision how pleasant the park would eventually look. Trees and shrubbery had been planted and the pedestal of some statue or memorial had been constructed, just waiting for what was to be on top. I sat on a bench, observing, and as the day turned into evening, people began to leave until the place was almost empty. I wondered if young couples took to the park at night and canoodled in the shadows. I thought back to my youth, both at home and at college and how I would finagle to get a pretty girl alone in the hopes of stealing a kiss or resting my hand on a soft breast. I pulled myself up short; I had been thinking far too much and decided to look for a saloon that was open Sunday nights for some mindless drinking. I was successful.

On returning to the hotel, I left a message to be delivered first thing in the morning to Harland Bolling at the Central Pacific Railroad main office and then went up to bed hoping for a dreamless sleep.

~ 0 ~

While eating breakfast, I saw a boy come into the dining room and look about. He must have been told by the desk clerk to look for a "cowboy" because he barely hesitated before coming over and handing me an envelope. It was a note from Bolling inviting me as his guest for a business lunch at a riverside restaurant called "The Fountain." He would expect me at noon. When the waiter came to my table with a coffee pot, I asked him about The Fountain

"It's a nice restaurant from what I hear; I just know I can't afford to take a lady there. The only drawback is that it's in what we call Old Sacramento. That area was…I guess the word undesirable fits, for a long time but now, with the railroad joining the counties and the rebuilding of the bridge, well, things over there are starting to change. Being so close to the water, the last flood was as bad as Noah's, buildings underwater, the river touching the belly of the bridge. But the area is being rebuilt and from what I read in the Sacramento Bee, that's not going to be the bad part of town anymore and they've hired engineers to find how to solve problems with the river rising other than raising the city as they tried. But still, if you're going there, take a cab and hide your money. You don't want to walk there."

Once I changed to look more like a respectable businessman and less like a shit-stomping cowboy, I took the waiter's advice. Dressed in a day coat and cravat but bypassing the nugget-topped stick pin for a mere silver pin, I grabbed my portfolio and went downstairs. There was a cab parked outside the hotel, hoping for a fare. He quickly took me to the riverfront area and The Fountain. The hotel waiter had been right about the area; although there was rebuilding and renovations, the sound of hammers and the mixing of plaster and cement for the bricklayers, there were still haggard drunks weaving in the uneven streets and a few whores leaning out windows, pulling open their stained robes to show their sagging dugs to any passersby. The driver looked straight ahead and beggars with their hands out cursed me for ignoring them.

A tiered marble fountain topped by a dolphin spouting water stood in front of the restaurant. The grounds were well kept and once inside, I was led to a corner table and a smiling well-dressed man, a few years older than myself. He rose from his chair and welcomed me, introducing himself as Harland Bolling and adding, "Harland is fine. May I call you Adam?" He recommended I start with the clam chowder, something the waiter readily seconded and for the entrée, I had prime rib which wasn't sliced as generously as a dinner entrée would be. When asked about wine, Mr. Bolling declined. "But, Adam," he said, "please have some. If I wasn't heading home shortly, I'd have a glass, maybe even a whiskey or two, but my wife frowns on drinking during the day, especially since my mother-in-law is coming for dinner and I think my wife's afraid wine might loosen my tongue. It's bad enough to face one woman with alcohol on your breath but two? It's easier to pass up the wine."

So, while we ate and I sipped a nice French burgundy, Harland Bolland sipped water and ate slices of sourdough bread sopped in the creamy wine gravy of his beef tips. With the envious and desirous way he looked at me as I held my glass, I might as well have been fucking a beautiful woman on the table top while he salivated, hoping for a turn. Nevertheless, once we'd finished eating and started talking about why he had contacted me, I found that time was his enemy and he had to procure railroad ties quickly. He opened his case and pulled out a map and pushing the dishes aside, he spread it out. A busboy hurried over to clear the table while Harland Bolling marked the route. "We're going to run our rails all the way to the Pacific Ocean and from Sacramento, all the way east to the Atlantic. The first transcontinental railroad.

"But we need to start. Usually, bids from various suppliers are submitted-that's business as usual, but I'm out of time so reliability is more important than the lowest bid. The project kept being put off, restarted and then stopped again; we need a foundry and crews and…it's been quite the mess. So, I find myself in need of enough railroad ties here in one month to ensure we can start the bridge. Then, on schedule, Cartwright and Sons will deliver the rest of the ties until we're finished a mile into Yolo County. It's not yet determined who will finish unless we've completed our takeover by then. Only time will tell. So, unless you want a slice of the restaurant's famous citron pie, we'll go look at the standing bridge and I'll explain what's going to be done—hopefully."

Bolling allowed me to take the map and we walked down the riverfront, his pointing out how the railroad was going to transform this area which had been the original city. The old bridge wasn't far from The Fountain. It was a swing bridge and pedestrians and wagons could easily cross. We discussed how it would be rebuilt to have the railroad track run adjacent but separate to avoid accidents with wagons, stock and people; bad publicity and lawsuits. I told him I'd bring the proposal over tomorrow afternoon. He agreed it would be perfect. He seemed relieved to be starting the project at last and asked if I would like to share a cab with him. I agreed and we arrived at his office before my hotel but before he stepped down, he pulled a fancy envelope from an inside pocket and said, "You seem to be a man of discerning tastes in fine wine. Have you an eye for art as well?"

It was an odd question since it seemingly stemmed from our brief discussion of various wines; I had told him about the Ponderosa's wine cellar. "Well, I fancy some art, visited a few museums back east. I appreciate the Old Masters and particularly admire the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Why do you ask?"

He chuckled and seemed slightly nervous. "Well. There's a showing of some Japanese art of a certain, um, subject matter, at a private gallery; it's by invitation only and I was going to go, just to look since it isn't what I would buy for the drawing room. But now that my mother-in-law has chosen tonight to visit, it wouldn't be prudent for me to go. And since you're a single man, here alone, would you like my invitation? It's the only way to get in." He held it loosely. "Someone should use it."

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll enjoy it." I took the invitation.

"I'm sure you will too. Tomorrow, you'll have to tell me what you think about the paintings and figurines. Mr. Lestrange's various gallery showings are always interesting." He debarked and the driver asked me where? I gave him the hotel and opened the envelope pulling out the card to be presented at the door. The showing was on Shunga Art, Japanese wood block prints and painted scrolls along with a collection of netsukes, prices on request. There were Japanese symbols running down one side of the card and I had no idea what they said, that is, if they said anything. I slipped it back into the envelope and then into my pocket. It might be a far more interesting evening than spending it calculating the price of lumber but that was yet to be seen.