Vagabonds & Kings

By Merle McCann

In 1896, teenager, Tony LaMontagne sets out to follow his dreams of a ranch, a beautiful wife and family. With few coins in in his pocket and no prospects, he hops a boxcar in Quebec and lands in Chicago. Immediately embroiled in a fistfight, he saves the life of rich, impulsive and blind Frank Mueller and becomes Frank's bodyguard, driver and companion. Tony lives in Old World splendor, mingles with titans of industry, and gorgeous prostitutes. From Chicago's elegant mansions to the sporting houses in the tenderloin, Tony discovers a life unimaginable in rural French Canada. Still, Tony's dreams haunt him, urging him to go west. Six years pass while Tony works as a cowboy, ranch cook, and hauls freight. Finally, in 1902, he heads for the Yukon goldfields determined to find his destiny. Fast paced, unpredictable, and heart-stopping, Vagabonds and Kings spans the years from the end of the century to WWI. McCann's amazing and enthralling novel proves a determined young man can find his dream, no matter how obscure, if he never stops searching.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twisted Vine
• Release date: Sep 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393155898

Book preview

Vagabonds

& Kings

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The Legend of Tony LaMontagne

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Merle McCann

TV

Twisted Vine

Copyright © 2017 by Merle McCann

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All rights exclusively reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or translated into any language or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage retrieval system without permission in writing from the copyright holder except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover Design: Debora Lewis and The Murder Girls

Cover Photo: Merle McCann

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All chapter-opening quotations by: Robert Service

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Twisted Vine

Table of Contents

Dear Reader

Chicago Days & City Ways

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Montana Days & Cowboy Ways

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Yukon Days & Dawson Ways

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

More titles by Merle McCann

This book is lovingly dedicated to the memory of Ruth Baker Field, excellent writer, gracious mentor, generous friend, and confidence builder.

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To Don for always believing in this story

DEAR READER,

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Vagabonds and Kings is a work of fiction, loosely based on facts from my grandfather’s early years. He arrived in Dawson, Yukon Territory in 1902, several years after the fabled gold rush, but little is known of how a poor, illiterate farm boy managed to travel so far from French Québec. Those who knew him said he did it on brains, willing brawn and both senses of adventure and humor.

Although I was born in Dawson, twelve miles from Granddad’s ranch, my personal memory of him wasn’t created until 1952, when he came out and settled in Vancouver, B.C.

I first heard about this remarkable man at the dinner table in my parents’ Seattle bungalow. I was very young at the time. Friends and relatives from the North would visit and Mother always offered to put them up, and prepared excellent meals for them. Few ever refused her invitation. I happily gave up my bed for the sofa, sometimes the floor. I never minded because I loved the story telling that took place in our kitchen when guests from the magical north came to visit.

I acquired a sense of my grandfather through those stories. He became my bigger than life idol on a par with Roy Rogers, Cisco Kid and Sargent Preston. He was a person who gambled on life and always believed the best in people. When I finally met him I was in awe. He didn’t look like a hero, and he didn’t speak like a hero. But his few soft words always seemed important.

He would stay at our place for as long as his visa allowed then return to Canada. While with us, he taught me to make bread pudding and pork and beans from scratch in a bean pot he bought at our local five and dime. The pot always overflowed. We’d lower the oven door and smoke from charred beans on the oven’s floor would fill the kitchen. He found it hard to go from his Yukon wood stove to our electric range. I still have that old ceramic pot.

He also taught me to play Pinochle, Cribbage and Canasta in the afternoons when I arrived home from school. We’d bet with poker chips. We talked about many things, but never his early years. At bedtime, he’d reach into his pocket and give me all of his coppers, and point to the piggy bank he bought me.

Years after he died, I decided to write his story, never dreaming of its enormity. I filled nine hundred pages and realized I must focus only on his early years. Most of my information came from research of that time period and personal interviews with the few people I found who knew him. I put a lot of miles on the car.

A pattern developed in those interviews. The interviewee spoke freely, telling me wonderful little stories with colorful details, until they discovered I was the granddaughter. At that point, candor evaporated. They reacted as if they might be telling tales out of school, and perhaps I might think less of the man, the man they and I had been blessed to know.

Based on dates, locations, acquaintances and historical fact, I have pulled this story together in hopes of simply entertaining you. I hope I succeed.

Merle McCann

CHICAGO DAYS

&

CITY WAYS

ONE

One of the Down an Out—that’s me. Stare at me well, ay, stare!

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October, 1896

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Tony LaMontagne buttoned his tattered coat to the collar and strode from Chicago’s sooty Union Station into the morning gloom. In one hand he carried a small cordovan valise and in the other a broken tree limb thicker than his wrist and longer than his arm. Jaws clamped, he glanced eastward toward Lake Michigan and scowled as if that would stop the icy wind that tore at his coattails and burned his squinting eyes. Above him a pile of dark clouds threatened to spill their rain. He hoped that before the sky broke he would find something to eat and a warm place to stay.

The enormity of the city overwhelmed him, causing his anxious heart to pound as he searched for anything familiar. His hometown of St. Lazare was a wart on an elephant’s ass compared to the size of Chicago. At the corner he stopped and pondered which way to go then glanced at the street sign overhead. He wished he could read it. Even if he could, the sign would be meaningless to him, a stranger.

He turned his face away from a swirling gust and hurried southward. He longed to ask any of the few pedestrians afoot this Sunday morning for directions. But they never looked at his face as they passed, their curious eyes settled instead on his crude club.

Another blast of wind rumpled his black-brown hair and stung his reddened ears as he glimpsed the grease-smudged hem of his coat, his battered suitcase, and dirty hands. His mother back in Québec would be ashamed if she saw him on the street looking like a ruffian and carrying a weapon. A trash barrel stood near the corner and he thought of tossing the limb into it, but he wasn’t ready to disarm.

One-eyed Bill and The Dane, the two hobos who shared his boxcar coming from New Hampshire, had warned him that times were tough all over the country because of the depression, but especially in Chicago. They regaled him with violent stories of a murderer who killed many women with impunity during the World’s Fair three years ago, adding they hadn’t heard if he’d been caught. They convinced Tony he needed to protect himself from thugs roaming the big city. In his mind, he could still see the grimy, intimidating tramps and hear The Dane’s voice: You take me word for it, boy. A lad of fourteen, straight from the farm, won’t stand a chance in hell in a place like Chicago.

One-eyed Bill had pressed his tree limb into Tony’s hands saying, Take it. You’re gonna need an equalizer. God’s word.

Leaving the macadam-covered streets behind, Tony crossed a wheel-rutted dirt road and his stomach growled. A tall clock tower halfway down the block read nine-thirty and he realized it had been thirty-six hours since he’d eaten. Just beyond the intersection, he picked up the scent of fried onions and slowed his pace studying the windows of the buildings he passed. When he saw the tall, wooden restaurant booths behind red-checkered curtains, he turned in.

The place looked clean and smelled of fried bacon and coffee ... like his mother’s kitchen in the morning. Tables and chairs filled the center of the large room, and a row of booths sat along the window wall. A bottle fly buzzed around the room, finally settling on a window.

A couple of well-dressed young men occupied the booth nearest the lunch counter where two men sat on stools hunched over their meals. Hoping for fast service, Tony chose the stool at the end of the counter near the last booth and wedged his grip and tree limb into the space beneath his feet.

A hawk-nosed waiter with angry eyes handed him a menu. The brutish-looking fellow wore black sleeve covers and a greasy bib-apron that barely spanned his chest and made his meaty shoulders look as broad as a singletree. Tony handed him back the unopened folder. How much, Monsieur, for the eggs and bacon? he asked, his heavy French accent causing the to sound like zee.

Using his hand, the man flicked a fly from the counter and looked down his nose at Tony. Four bits.

Four bits? The place was expensive, but Tony felt ravenous. Self-conscious about his appearance, he smiled nervously. How much more for pancakes and coffee, too?

Six bits, total. He squinted at Tony. "You got that much, Frenchy?"

Yes, sir. Tony smiled again, but the waiter had already turned away. He headed for the opposite end of the counter, paused in front of the two men seated six stools down and mumbled something. They both turned and glared at Tony.

TWO

Alas! The road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster;

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Tony’s heated cheeks cooled as the waiter walked into the kitchen and the men turned back to their breakfasts. The two young gentlemen seated in the nearby booth appeared to be waiting for someone or something. The younger fellow looked to be about fifteen, his friend maybe twenty. Beneath dull, light brown hair, the younger boy’s narrow, icy blue eyes squinted with concern. He spoke in a voice too soft for Tony to hear, while his large Adam’s apple bobbed below his pimply, pointed chin. He exposed a boney wrist from beneath a sparkling white, starched cuff as he pushed a sugar bowl across the table until it clinked against the older fellow’s coffee cup.

His companion sat angled toward the window making it difficult for Tony to take his measure. Beneath their table a silver-tipped walking stick rested between the fellow’s dove gray spats. Black curls fell over his white, celluloid collar, and several scars marked the corner of his drooping, right eye. In spite of the scarring, his skin appeared healthy, his face shadowed with the blue of his beard that could not be shaved any closer. His handsome dark gray suit made of the finest wool and trimmed with hand stitching was a far cry from Tony’s threadbare and dirty work clothes.

On the street, a black quarter landau pulled by a pair of high-stepping chestnut horses drew to a stop. Tony stared through the window at the magnificent creatures. Steam rose from their backs in the cold fall air as they relaxed under patent leather harnesses. He’d never seen such fine equipage.

Hey, you silver-spooners, the waiter barked. Your carriage awaits. He scowled at the young men and nodded toward the windows as he hustled from the kitchen with Tony’s breakfast. He slammed the plate onto the counter and raised his fist so fast Tony thought he would strike him. Tony’s left arm flew up in self-defense. But, the man seemed unaware as he pointed to the door. Getchur rich asses outta here.

Tony’s pulse beat faster. He tasted his eggs as the dark-haired fellow methodically turned toward the waiter, repositioned his cane outside the booth, and raised his frowning face. A web of scars covered his closed eyes.

He pointed his cane at the waiter. Button your lip, Charlie, he quietly snarled. We wouldn’t have come to this dump if we could have avoided it. He gripped his walking stick and slid from the booth. Tony pinched a piece of bacon, took a bite. His eyes followed their every move.

The younger boy stood. His eyes flicked from the two men at the counter to his companion. He gripped his friend’s upper arm. Come on Frank, let’s go. Let’s not get into it with him again.

Oh, we’ll get into it all right if Charlie can’t shut his trap. Frank lifted his chin defiantly. His problems are nobody’s fault but his own. They come out of that bottle he nips at all day long.

Apprehension tightened Tony’s stomach. He crammed the rest of the bacon into his mouth and chewed rapidly. Images of his brothers’ fights back home in St. Lazare flashed through his mind. He longed to eat his breakfast but couldn’t. He swallowed hard, clenched his teeth and waited for what he knew would happen.

Charlie shouted as he came from behind the counter. "My fault? It’s your money-grabbin’ ol’ man’s fault. Alderman? Shit. He got elected ’cause he promised to fix things ’round here. He ain’t fixed nothin’. Nobody in this district can make a sou! Him and his highfalutin’ exposition. Pay more taxes, boys, Charlie mocked. The Exposition will double your business, boys. Hell, the Exposition was nothin’ but a gawdamned place for the swells to strut their duds. When it burned to the ground we cheered. Charlie waved his fists. It’s been three years. All we got out of it was whorehouses now servin’ food while the rest of us go broke. He pointed to the window and his hand shook. But, I see your sonofabitchin’ pa has the latest in carriages with a fancy matched pair no less."

The younger boy tugged on Frank’s arm. Frank wrenched away. Stop it, Klaus!

Klaus spoke quietly. Come on, Frank. We shouldn’t have come here, not after the last time. His mouth was close to Frank’s ear. I don’t want another fight. You know what your father said. Let’s go.

That’s right, Charlie yelled. Save big-mouth blindey’s ass! He signaled the men at the counter. Let’s send these two packin’ once and for all. They peeled off their stools and darted into position to back up Charlie who lunged at Frank. Klaus tried to help Frank, but the other two men pummeled Klaus’s head and shoulders and held him back so Charlie had a free shot at Frank. Frank wore a look of angry determination, his scars blood-red. He raised his stick like a baseball bat, but Charlie grabbed it and sent it clattering across the room. Shouting curses, he grabbed Frank by the throat.

Tony slapped what he owed for breakfast onto the counter and flew across the room. Nooo! he roared, leaping onto Charlie’s wide back. His arms wrapped Charlie’s huge head. With a mighty twist, Tony yanked him loose from Frank. Stop! Tony cried. He’s blind. You’ll kill him.

Charlie shook Tony off his back and spun around. His leathery, creased face burned with anger and his fists looked as big as Uncle Rene’s hams. Mind your own business, he shouted as he slammed a blazing fist against Tony’s head, driving him sideways. He fell onto a table, tipped it over and crashed to the floor inches from Frank’s cane. Tony grabbed the stick and turned in time to dodge Charlie’s murderous kick.

Tony came up fast, slashing the cane from side to side. Charlie lunged. Tony swung hard and struck Charlie’s ear. The man screamed. His hand flew to the bleeding wound. Tony saw his chance and raced for the door. Frank had managed to extricate Klaus from the two men and they were on their way out, too.

Charlie bolted after the boys shouting, Get the fuckers! The two counter-men plunged onto the street into the arms of three policemen. Charlie must have seen the uniforms in time to pull up short. From inside, he yelled at the boys, "You’d better never try to rob me again. Damn thieves."

THREE

Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story;

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Thieves! Tony panicked. What if the police believed it? Would they haul him off to jail? The thought made him sick. He wanted to run, but his energy was gone.

A middle-aged gentleman dressed in a navy greatcoat and matching derby clutched Frank’s shoulder tightly and spoke to one of the policemen. Good work, Officer. Certainly glad you came along. You probably saved my son’s life. While they shook hands, the gentleman slipped a folded bill into the officer’s jacket pocket.

Then he faced Frank. Why did you come back here, Son? Your mother told me you and Klaus were attending church. You’ll have to explain yourself.

Frank rubbed his chin and smiled sheepishly. A girl. I loaned her some money. I hoped to collect it. She once worked here on Sundays, but Charlie sacked her.

Frank’s dad shook his head. I should’ve known it would involve a woman.

Dad, we didn’t start the fight, Charlie did. All three of them rushed Klaus and me. If it hadn’t been for ... Klaus, what became of the man who helped us? He’s the one who saved my life, Dad. The guy attacked Charlie on my behalf. He broke Charlie’s grip on my throat. Tell him, Klaus.

That’s right, Uncle Adolph. He leaped on Charlie’s back as if he were breaking a wild horse. Klaus’s eyes glittered. You should’ve seen the look on Charlie’s face.

Tony swelled with pride. Frank had called him a man, and Klaus was making him into a hero.

Frank’s father smiled at Tony and offered his hand. He’s right here, Frank. What’s your name, son?

Under the scrutiny of these well-dressed gentlemen, Tony felt the heat rise in his face. The sleeve of his coat, filthy from the boxcar, was torn away at the shoulder and hung at an angle. He looked worse than a no-good bum. Concentrating on his English, he stammered, Antoine LaMontagne, sir... Tony.

Frank turned to him immediately and shot out his hand. I’m Franz Mueller, but call me Frank. This is my ol’ man, Adolph Mueller.

Mr. Mueller said pleasantly, You have an accent. French, isn’t it? Thank the good Lord you came along when you did.

Tony nodded. "Oui. I come from Québec. There, we speak the French. He blushed. Excusez-moi. You know that. Tony cleared his throat. I’m walking from the depot and stopped for the breakfast."

Klaus interrupted. You certainly didn’t get to eat it. By the size of your order, you were plenty hungry.

Tony fumbled with his sleeve. "Sorry I am about the fight, but everything turned out okay, Oui?"

At that moment, one of the policemen walked toward them carrying Tony’s suitcase and Frank’s walking stick. Are these yours? he asked.

Tony nodded. Thank you. As he took his valise and Frank’s cane, he wondered what had become of the tree limb, but didn’t ask. I’m glad we never have to go back in that place.

Tony, Frank said, I must buy you a proper breakfast. Want to come, Dad?

Can’t, son. Your mother invited the Staggs to the house for lunch.

Would you have time to drop the three of us off at Weldon House on the Lake?

"Of course. But, Frank, this afternoon we are going to talk about this incident. You’re simply fighting too much."

Sir, Tony interrupted. Frank does not need to buy me the breakfast. I’m not clean. He gestured to his sleeve. Respectable I do not look. There is something I...

Nonsense. He owes you that much. Once you’ve eaten, he’ll take you to wherever you need to be. He raised an eyebrow at his son. Right, Frank?

You betcha.

That’s settled then. Mr. Mueller said. Let’s go. I’m keeping Gunvar waiting. If Alonzo and Mrs. Stagg arrive and I’m not there to talk football with the coach, your mother will pin my ears. The boys piled into the landau while Mueller spoke to his driver then stepped into the carriage and closed the door.

FOUR

The Spirit of the Unborn Babe peered through the window-pane,

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The tufted, burgundy leather seats inside Mueller’s coach smelled new, and the dark walnut burl that trimmed the windows shone like glass, as did the armrest. Tony ran a finger along the rich wood, appreciating its satin finish.

Within the closed carriage, Tony smelled the stench of his clothes. His face flamed. He hoped the men wouldn’t notice. Even though he’d washed in the men’s room at Union Station, he knew he stank and looked like a hobo who arrived in a boxcar.

While Mr. Mueller lectured Klaus and Frank on the stupidity of fisticuffs, Tony stared down at his scarred boots, too ashamed to make eye contact with any of them. He regretted joining them, but given Frank’s determination and his own empty stomach, he’d found it impossible to say no. Now he wished he could disappear although he’d regret that, too. He’d taken a liking to Frank and Klaus. If only he could prove he wasn’t a bum, maybe they’d be his friends.

The ride seemed to take forever. When the carriage finally slowed, a rambling brick building nestled in the trees next to Lake Michigan came into view.

A tuxedoed Maître d’ met them at the restaurant’s door. He gave Tony a glance of disgust and said to Frank, Really, Mr. Mueller, Weldon House has its rules. As the man spoke, Frank slipped a folded bill into his hand. The fellow raised his chin. Well, perhaps a table near the kitchen.

Frank nodded, took Klaus’s arm, and they all fell in behind the stiff-backed gent who led them through the dining room.

Tony whispered to Frank, I’m too dirty for this place.

Frank chuckled and pulled to a stop. No you’re not, Tony, he said, raising his voice. "You look fine to me. Both young men laughed at the corny joke. Tony felt humiliated as patrons stared. Frank reached back for Tony’s arm and gave it a gentle tug. Come, my friend. This is just the first of many meals we’ll share."

Confused by Frank’s remark, Tony didn’t respond.

At their table, Klaus, seated beside Frank, opened his menu. Both Tony and Frank laid theirs aside. When Frank asked Tony what he’d like to eat, Tony answered, "What you are having. You know what is good here, oui?"

Frank nodded. Of course. Tell me, how’d you get to Chicago?

By train. Tony smiled sheepishly. It’s dirty riding in a boxcar.

You rode a boxcar all the way from Québec? Frank’s mouth gaped.

No, no. My horse I ride from my father’s farm in St. Lazare to Uncle Rene’s hog farm in New Hampshire. For one week, I help him so I can earn the money I need. Then I sell him my horse. Tony smiled nervously, thinking of his favorite horse. Uncle Rene will take good care of my horse.

Klaus rubbed his jaw as if doubting Tony’s story. You had money. Why didn’t you buy a train ticket?

Tony pursed his lips and thought about his answer. The money was for food. Riding in a fancy chair wasn’t important.

Frank laughed. Good choice, ol’ man. Tell me, how did you know you were on the right train?

To his friend who knew the routes Uncle Rene talked. He tells me when the train is leaving for Chicago. When the two hobos jump on, they know, too.

Hobos? Frank and Klaus asked in unison.

Tony chuckled. "Oui. At first I did not like them. But they treat me okay. They were très hungry. He gave Klaus a nervous smile. I think they will rob me. So, to them I give the last of my food."

Klaus shook his head in confusion. Why’d you do that?

Tony shrugged. They see I have only a little food, but I give to them. They look me over, think I am broke. So, they leave me alone, and we become friends. Tony smiled as visions of The Dane and One-eyed Bill flashed across his mind. When they leave, Bill, he give me his tree limb. He say I need an ‘equalizer’ to protect me from murderers, bad hobos, and Chicago thugs. You know the word, ‘equalizer?’

Frank smiled and eased back into his chair. Oh, yes, I understand the word. Too bad you didn’t use your equalizer over Charlie’s head this morning.

Tony chuckled. "I forgot I had it. That is a good joke, oui? The hobos tell me of one bad man. Did the police catch the murderer from your big fair?"

Frank nodded. The infamous Dr. Holmes? Caught him in Philadelphia. He was arrested for insurance fraud. Frank gave a disgusted shake of his head. He murdered all those women, and they got him on a fraud charge. Frank sipped his water. It was a frightening time. My mother wouldn’t let my sister go anywhere alone during those terrible days.

Klaus twisted in his chair and changed the subject. Why did you choose Chicago, Tony? It’s a long way from Québec.

Tony grimaced. He doubted it would make sense to them, but his dad taught him to be a straight shooter. The train I ride went no farther. I want to go to Oregon where my brother waits for me. We plan a future together. Maybe we’ll ranch the cattle there. Or, maybe we’ll take a boat to the Klondike River in the Yukon. In August, a man discovered a lot of gold there. But if we go, my brother and I will ranch the cattle.

Frank leaned closer. You have big dreams. Have you no future in Québec? What do your people do?

Tony thought of his big family, how painful it was to leave them. His brothers who were still at home insisted he was making a mistake, but his mother understood.

They work the family farm. I have three brothers who will take it over one day. There isn’t enough land for me, too. I make my own life now.

With a finger, Frank carefully rubbed his left eye. Permanently closed, it seeped slightly. How long do you plan to stay in Chicago?

Tony leaned his forearms on the white linen cloth. "Until I save enough for the train ticket and meal money. I came in a boxcar, but travel that way again I won’t do.

Frank rested an elbow on his chair arm. I don’t blame you. He took a deep breath. You’ll need a job and a place to stay.

Tony nodded, forgetting Frank couldn’t see him.

We have an extra room now that my older sister’s married. So that’s easy. Finding you a job will be harder. How old are you? What kind of work do you want?

Tony’s pulse quickened. He could hardly believe Frank had invited him to stay in his house. What if Frank thinks I am too young for a real job? Maybe this once, a small lie wouldn’t hurt, especially if it meant a job and a place to stay. Tony dropped his eyes. Sixteen. Then he looked Frank straight in his blind eyes. With the horses, I’m good and I keep a clean barn. My horses never get sick.

Frank rubbed his jaw. I could use my own driver. He smiled at Tony. My dad has Chapman. He’s English, you know. To people like Dad, having an English driver is important. To me, it’s highfalutin’ nonsense. How much driving experience have you had, Tony?

A team of four I can handle. I’ve driven six, but I need more practice. At home, our farm wagons are bigger than the landau. A fancy carriage I’ve never driven. I don’t think there’s a difference. Tony’s heart soared when Frank nodded in agreement.

If I had my own driver, I wouldn’t have to use Chapman. He’s never liked me, hates me even more since my accident. Frank fumbled with his napkin. Anyway, if my dad won’t agree to it, we can always check with some of the other households in the neighborhood. Good drivers are scarce. They might even prefer a Frenchman.

What about the Pullman Company? Klaus asked. I’ve heard they’re hiring again. Tony can handle a four-horse team. He could be a teamster on a freight wagon over at the yards.

Not on your life, Frank answered. He’d be shot the first week either by one of Eugene Debs’ followers or a scab seeking revenge. Besides, nobody should have to work for the likes of George Pullman. Frank turned as if to look at Tony. He rules his workers like a feudal baron. You wouldn’t treat a dog the way he treats his people—it’s Pullman Hell.

Tony’s mind reeled. He’d never heard such talk. What is this scab?

A guy who crosses the picket line, Frank explained, to go back to work.

Tony shook his head. I don’t understand.

Well, Frank said, Debs convinced the workmen to strike for better pay, so Pullman locked them out of their company-owned homes. They were homeless, and their families starving. Some men had no choice, but to go back to work. To cross.

With hunger churning in Tony’s belly, he understood why the men wanted to work. Why was that bad?

Many of the starving strikers were still loyal to Debs and his cause. They felt betrayed by their fellow workers, the scabs. So they resorted to violence. Then, when Pullman fought back, scabs were found dead in the alleys, the woods, but mostly in the train yards. Frank slowly shook his head. It’s not over yet.

It sounded awful. Tony wanted no part of it. If it hadn’t been for what he’d already learned from One-eyed-Bill and The Dane, he might not have believed Frank.

But, Frank, Klaus said, that was way back last year.

True, but Debs still agitates from his jail cell. We can take better care of Tony ourselves. Frank turned to Tony. If nothing else, Dad would put in a word to Philip Armour. Coming from a farm, you’d likely do well in one of his slaughter houses."

No, Tony vowed silently, he’d never work in a slaughterhouse. It was the one job on the farm he hated most. But he’d never say so. Frank might think him lazy or too choosy. Your driver is what I’d like to be. Is there a chance? He imagined himself up on the seat of the landau.

Klaus laughed. Are you kidding? He smacked Frank’s shoulder. This silk-tongued devil can talk his way into anything he wants. Especially fights, eh Frank?

Frank batted at Klaus’s hand. Watch it, cousin. I can still whip you. He turned again to Tony. It’s better than a chance because Mother will agree.

Klaus laughed and nodded. Aunt Gunvar does love her precious Frank.

Frank smiled, ignoring Klaus. I take special classes Monday through Friday and one driver isn’t enough. When Klaus’s in school and Chapman can’t drive me, one of the servants must guide me on and off the trolley. Mother doesn’t like sharing her staff.

After steak and eggs, apple pie and hot coffee, Frank offered Tony one of his small cigars. Frank grinned at Klaus who wore a look of envy. When Klaus turns sixteen, he can smoke, too. For now Tony, it’ll be just you and me. But, I do let him pack around the lighter, however. He smirked. Makes him feel important.

Lotta good it would do for you to carry it, Klaus chided. You’d burn your fingers and nose before you found the end of the cigar. Both cousins laughed.

Tony felt obliged to take the cigar to maintain his lie, but he couldn’t look at Klaus. Smoking wasn’t new to Tony, he’d actually come to enjoy it, but he’d never smoked in front of anyone before, except his brothers. Klaus produced a golden lighter and offered the flame to Tony then assisted Frank. Frank puffed several times.

How long have you been smoking, Frank? Tony asked.

I told Klaus, it’s been six years—started when I was sixteen. When I know you better, I’ll tell you the truth.

Klaus sighed. I already know the truth, Frank, you started when you were twelve, out behind the greenhouse with one of the maids.

It wasn’t the only thing she taught me on that glorious day. Frank chuckled as if enjoying the memory. He took a deep breath. Tell me, Tony, what is it you want out of life?

Tony studied