Read Online Wilda's Outlaw by Velda Brotherton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Velda Brotherton
Ads: Link
principle. Not today. Not here. Certainly not now. Instead, he took the slip of paper, thanked the man behind the table and left, tightening a cinch on his temper.
As he rode slowly up the street he studied the new storefronts until he spotted a plate glass window. Black letters proclaimed VICTORIA CITY BANK. Probably the first place they built, so they could stow away all their money. Only rich folks could buy up this much railroad land and build a town out of nothing, then hire others to run things. He intended to see they shared their riches with some of those less fortunate souls still suffering from that damned war. Even if he had to burn this town to the ground. The foreigners had no notion what settlers here had gone through just to keep a small piece of land and feed their families. They’d soon find out that it wasn’t as easy to take over a place as they might think.
The tall, bald blacksmith introduced himself as Lucas Smith, eagerly showed Calder where to put his horse and store his meager belongings, then put him to work.
Soon covered in sweat, Calder removed Jim Johnson’s shirt and hung it on a post. He carried coal to the forge and hauled in great chunks of iron from a pile outside the shop. With a pair of long handled tongs he stored Smith’s finished scrollwork still hot from the fire, and generally made himself useful to the man until darkness stopped them for the day. He hadn’t been allowed to forge so much as a piece of iron, and it might have been a good thing. He had never seen such twists and turns of design as Smith put in the decorative pieces. The man was an artist, good as Calder's Pa.
“These Englishmen are a picky lot,” Smith explained. “They want curlicues on their gates and decorations at their doors. I’ve hammered enough iron into knockers and hitching rails and pokers and fireplace adornment and gates and fences to fill a railroad car, and still the orders come. And that’s to say nothing of repairing broken wagon wheels and other such fittings. And I ain’t got time to teach you. Watch and learn. I need a young man such as you for the heavy toting. You can’t do that, you’re useless to me.”
“Hey, fine with me. I’ll do what you got for me to do.”
Calder retired to the small room on the back corner of the shop where he would be allowed to sleep in a bed of straw and find a bit of privacy. His belly growled, and he washed up at a rain barrel out back, put on his shirt and headed for the only eating place he’d seen in town—a restaurant in the hotel near the train depot. A fancy place called The Manor.
The meal, something called boiled pork and pease pudding, tasted foreign to him, nothing like fatback or salted ham, but he was too hungry to care. These Englishmen had an odd way about them, and they ate funny stuff too. A sweet pudding was offered, but he declined, afraid it would be as bad as that pease pudding served with the main course. Why didn’t they have plain old apple pie or peach cobbler? Maybe he could get Smith to allow him to cook his own meals on the forge after they’d finished up at night. He’d sure admire a hunk of beef, a bowl of beans and a good cup of Arbuckle Coffee to wash away the taste of that gruel the English called food and the pale colored tea they drank.
Despite the hard work, bad food and straw bed, he slept deeply that night and awoke rested and eager to fit in so no one would be suspicious of him. When he stumbled from his room Smith was loading up a wagon. Didn’t look like he’d have any spare time to check out the bank that day.
“Get a move on, son. We’ve got some work to do out at Fairhaven. One of them doo-dah English Lord’s places. Fetch that tool bag fer me.”
Fairhaven, huh? He’d heard of that place. At the moment he couldn’t recall where. Calder hefted the canvas sling and put it in the back of the wagon. After they loaded the portable forge and anvil, he climbed up on the seat beside
As he rode slowly up the street he studied the new storefronts until he spotted a plate glass window. Black letters proclaimed VICTORIA CITY BANK. Probably the first place they built, so they could stow away all their money. Only rich folks could buy up this much railroad land and build a town out of nothing, then hire others to run things. He intended to see they shared their riches with some of those less fortunate souls still suffering from that damned war. Even if he had to burn this town to the ground. The foreigners had no notion what settlers here had gone through just to keep a small piece of land and feed their families. They’d soon find out that it wasn’t as easy to take over a place as they might think.
The tall, bald blacksmith introduced himself as Lucas Smith, eagerly showed Calder where to put his horse and store his meager belongings, then put him to work.
Soon covered in sweat, Calder removed Jim Johnson’s shirt and hung it on a post. He carried coal to the forge and hauled in great chunks of iron from a pile outside the shop. With a pair of long handled tongs he stored Smith’s finished scrollwork still hot from the fire, and generally made himself useful to the man until darkness stopped them for the day. He hadn’t been allowed to forge so much as a piece of iron, and it might have been a good thing. He had never seen such twists and turns of design as Smith put in the decorative pieces. The man was an artist, good as Calder's Pa.
“These Englishmen are a picky lot,” Smith explained. “They want curlicues on their gates and decorations at their doors. I’ve hammered enough iron into knockers and hitching rails and pokers and fireplace adornment and gates and fences to fill a railroad car, and still the orders come. And that’s to say nothing of repairing broken wagon wheels and other such fittings. And I ain’t got time to teach you. Watch and learn. I need a young man such as you for the heavy toting. You can’t do that, you’re useless to me.”
“Hey, fine with me. I’ll do what you got for me to do.”
Calder retired to the small room on the back corner of the shop where he would be allowed to sleep in a bed of straw and find a bit of privacy. His belly growled, and he washed up at a rain barrel out back, put on his shirt and headed for the only eating place he’d seen in town—a restaurant in the hotel near the train depot. A fancy place called The Manor.
The meal, something called boiled pork and pease pudding, tasted foreign to him, nothing like fatback or salted ham, but he was too hungry to care. These Englishmen had an odd way about them, and they ate funny stuff too. A sweet pudding was offered, but he declined, afraid it would be as bad as that pease pudding served with the main course. Why didn’t they have plain old apple pie or peach cobbler? Maybe he could get Smith to allow him to cook his own meals on the forge after they’d finished up at night. He’d sure admire a hunk of beef, a bowl of beans and a good cup of Arbuckle Coffee to wash away the taste of that gruel the English called food and the pale colored tea they drank.
Despite the hard work, bad food and straw bed, he slept deeply that night and awoke rested and eager to fit in so no one would be suspicious of him. When he stumbled from his room Smith was loading up a wagon. Didn’t look like he’d have any spare time to check out the bank that day.
“Get a move on, son. We’ve got some work to do out at Fairhaven. One of them doo-dah English Lord’s places. Fetch that tool bag fer me.”
Fairhaven, huh? He’d heard of that place. At the moment he couldn’t recall where. Calder hefted the canvas sling and put it in the back of the wagon. After they loaded the portable forge and anvil, he climbed up on the seat beside
Similar Books
