EPILOGUE
Jacob Craig stood at a second-floor window of the hotel on Columbia Street and looked down at a drunken Indian weaving along the boardwalk. Near him, a grey mare tethered to a pole weakly flapped her tail at a cloud of flies, and two ravens pecked at a clump of dung. Craig counted carefully. Five seconds, six seconds, seven. Time enough.
He turned, slowly removing the toothpick from where it hung on his bottom lip, and took his chair again. He glared at the American doctor but immediately realized it was no use; he might just as well try to intimidate Owen sitting there across the table like some kind of statue filled with lava rather than stone.
“That’s a steep price for but a single cannery,” Craig said. He narrowed his eyes as the doctor blinked his heavy eyelids and smiled slightly. His lips were a red smear in his unkempt grizzle.
“That includes the pack. And you know how large that is.”
“Do I?” Craig reached for his glass and took a short swallow of whisky. “It seems to me that, with your friend gone and not likely coming back, there’d be some effect on production.”
The doctor hardly reacted. His face was loose-skinned above the beard, and his eyes had all the vitality of a whipped spaniel’s. He ought to medicate himself, Craig thought, then recollected the gossip that Smith, the agent, had passed on. The story was that this Yankee doctor had taken a keen interest in the Lansdowne girl, the one he’d carried through the typhoid. Smith said that with the mother nursing her sickly newborn and Thomas Lansdowne even more preoccupied with getting his cannery running again the doctor planned to take the daughter back east on the proceeds of the sale of Dare’s property and wait the appropriate four or five years until she was old enough to marry. Well, men had done stupider things, but Craig didn’t think this fellow, Baird, looked lovesick. In fact, he looked much the way a man does in a slump of the market when all his stocks prove worthless and he finds that he’s ruined. Then again, some men took love the same way, apparently. It’d be useful if Owen did, but Craig still hadn’t found a chink in that armour.
The doctor suddenly fell into a coughing spasm. His face reddened and he seemed to retch into the handkerchief he’d pulled from his vest. After several seconds, he stopped and, with a shaking hand, drank from his glass of water.
Owen spoke, his mouth hardly moving.
“How do we know he isn’t back already, Craig? He might never have left. Say what you will of his character, but Dare possesses a considerable talent for remaining unseen.”
Craig felt the smart to his intelligence. Owen never missed an opportunity to belittle him. It would have been so much easier if Dare’s body had been dumped in the slough. But you couldn’t trust an Irishman to finish anything, except a bottle. For all Craig knew, the mick was even lying about shooting Dare. Well, better to be safe, then, and play along.
“What of it?” he said, staring hard at the doctor and feeling himself competing with Owen for whatever information was writ on the man’s haggard face.
The American blinked so slowly that his lids seemed to draw the blood up into his eyes, which were red and wet around each small circle of brown. “No more doubt his absence than God’s presence,” he said dully.
Craig felt Owen’s grey eyes settle briefly on him, but he could not decipher the message. He knew that Owen had no more time for God-talk than he did. It was no asset in business, except for the connections a man could make in church, but they were as easily made in hotels and saloons. Easier, in fact, since worship happened but once a week. Craig almost allowed himself a grin at his witticism, but he wasn’t about to give Owen any more advantage than he already had.
From the direction of the bar came a volley of laughter followed by a clink of glasses. Craig waited. Just when it seemed that no one was going to speak again, the doctor stood, one hand flat, the other limp at his side.
“It matters little to me, gentlemen, if you believe what I say about Dare, except as it interferes with our business here. He’s no longer on the delta, or indeed in this country. And it’s not likely he’ll return. He’s not a fool, nor is he a spirit able to remain unseen permanently, despite your appreciation of his talent. And, that being so, I have a responsibility as an investor to seek what compensation I can. Clearly you recognize that?”
Owen nodded and the doctor continued.
“I don’t know how you’ve kept the other canners from this meeting, but that means nothing to me as long as you meet my price. If you don’t, I’ll consult the others directly.”
Craig relaxed. Now the conversation was comfortable again. He replaced the toothpick in his mouth, probed gingerly near his sore molar, then said, “The market in England is glutted. You have only to smell the air to know why. I’ll be fortunate to sell my own pack, let alone whatever slop Dare’s squaws and Chinamen have managed to stuff into tins.”
The doctor shrugged and pointed the limp hand at Owen, who looked at it as if seeing a fish whose flesh had turned too ripe to be canned.
“Consult whoever you wish,” Owen said. “There’ll be no takers.” His voice fell like a block of salted granite. If Craig hadn’t already known that Owen had pressured the other canners into keeping their hands off Dare’s holdings, the cold voice would have chilled him straight through. As it was, he shuddered a little as he studied the doctor’s reaction.
To Craig’s surprise, the man stiffened. Something of Owen’s hardness settled into his jaw and bloodshot eyes.
“So that’s how it is?” he said and turned to face Craig. “A blood bond, gentlemen, or just greed?”
Craig repressed the desire to tell the fool everything, that Owen had even paid off the steamships—Dare’s whole pack for this last big run would just sit and rust on the wharf.
Owen’s grey eyes iced over, but no flush came to his skin. It was always a disadvantage to show too much; his genius lay in knowing that even better than Craig himself did.
“What you call greed, sir,” Owen said, “is what we call business in this province.”
“Business?” The doctor convulsed into another coughing fit. He pulled a small bottle from his pocket, poured some pills into his hand, and swallowed them. Finally, he said, “You won’t get away with it. I’ll see to it that you don’t.” But his voice lacked conviction. After all, Craig knew there was little the man could do. He was only a visitor here, and a doctor, not a businessman with the necessary connections. And no doubt Dare’s disappearance had come as a shock, especially as it followed so quickly upon the revelation of his being a nigger. Of course, a sensible man ought to expect a nigger to run. Just as a sensible man knew that a nigger, once he’d run, wouldn’t turn and rejoin the fight. No. If Dare wasn’t, in fact, dead, he was as good as dead. It wasn’t even necessary to guard his pack. Even if the nigger did the unthinkable and returned, he’d have a hell of a time selling his fish with no buyers and no shipping companies willing to transport the cans.
Owen reached for his coat on the back of his chair. “When you have a reasonable price in mind,” he said, “I’ll join you for another drink.”
“I wouldn’t drink with the likes of you if I was dying of thirst,” the doctor said and turned his back.
It was a handsome and noble gesture, Craig had to admit, as useless as it was foolish, as such things generally were. But just perhaps it left an opening.
When Owen had gone, Craig cleared his throat and threw a low number at the doctor’s back. If the man was indeed lovesick and needing funds to get away, he’d be apt to accept anything that wasn’t an outright insult. Dare’s pack would be large. Nigger or not, he’d built the biggest packs on the river over the past three seasons.