Ghostwriting Historical Fiction Short Story (Sample)

Chapter 1

I arrived in Golden late in ‘61, having been traveling quite slowly overland since our brief stopover in Lancaster County to take on salted meats and fresh water. I had also recommended the wagon master, Mr. Huxley, purchase some measure of pure salts during our brief stayover in that land which he refused, adamant that he could find not only a better price but a much higher quality further on. Despite my argument to the contrary, he continued to refuse, again insisting there was a better trade to be had further on. This had been the norm of argument since departing Independence and it certainly did not seem to be quick to improve at any rate since then. I myself had made the trek some innumerable number of times to the Kansas Territory and subsequently the lower Rocky Mountains to trade at Bent’s Fort with the company men during my days as a free trapper. As such I had it on good knowledge that we would likely not find a better price on salts this trek less we should end up on our luck in Denver by some miracle.

The larger issue, in all honesty, had been that Mr. Huxley failed to attend to the important duties of the wagon master. Often I would find myself hunting buffalo or scouting the trail ahead completely unaided by Huxley or for that matter the freedman negro boy he hired to come along. When I returned to the wagons what would I see but the two of them drinking, eating, and laughing themselves silly in the warmth of the fire while the wife of some client would be stirring up morning oats and pouring their mugs full of deep ale. Had I known these were the caliber of men I would be working under, I doubt I would have taken the contract even in light of Mr. Loveland’s generous offer of $1.50 per day. 

As best I could gather, the pay was so high because we were transporting some rather valuable cargo aside from the usual settlers, religious fanatics, and miners: a lawyer and his wife from Boston. The lawyer’s name was Aldous Thompson. He was a rather frail-looking and ugly man with two massive glass lenses which he always seemed to be pushing up on his nose. They assisted him in some way though as he never actually seemed to remove them from his face. I know this because I watched him one late evening when, after partaking in Huxley’s nightly “plan and command” effort, he went straight to his pad and went to sleep, never even so much as placing them in his coat or vest. His wife was equally frail in appearance and rather young though she was much more handsome than he. Her name was Molly and if ever there was a regret I held it was that I allowed poor Molly to waste her beauty and intelligence on nightly conversation over supper with Huxley and the hired boy. 

I should not be so quick to criticize the boy as I do Huxley, he also contributed a great deal to our trek and even assisted me several times in the skinning of some buffalo. He even harvested one himself near the end of the trek with my old Hawkens plains rifle. I remember quite vividly how he jumped and shouted for joy when the old lumbering beast fell with a thud. That night we did sup well as I recall. The boy’s name was Henry and though he retained no formal surname I simply referred to him as Freedman. I grew to appreciate his company by the end of our collaboration and I much suspect that I shall be seeing him again soon should all things fall into order. 

Upon our late arrival in Golden, I was in dire need of fresh food and drink, as I had now been without any real sustenance for some days. Having arrived on a Sunday, I thought it best to wait until the following day to call on Mr. Loveland and so I retired the crew and myself to a small hotel I was told of by a local prospector just off of the main street. I, having never been one for civilization anyway, found the small structure more than comfortable but Huxley quickly found every small item he could to complain about. Secretly I wished at this point that my client had simply chosen to pay me Huxley’s half and been done with it. Nonetheless eventually he, as with most of the other members of our trek, found themselves settled in for the night. I remained up in the lobby at a small table near the bar much later than the others as I wanted to listen to the latest gossip and perhaps catch some news of the war.

It was while I was finishing a small glass of rye that I caught out of the corner of my eye the sight of a lanky fellow approaching my resting place. I turned my head to see that it was none other than Mr. Thompson who approached my table. I nodded slightly at him as I can not say I knew him well and although we had spent the previous weeks in one another’s company I can say in all honesty I have never been one much for conversation with the more civilized folk from the East coast, having grown up quite far from there myself. Nevertheless, he approached me with a somewhat anxious look and aura about him, I could tell from the look in his bulging eyes behind those thick spectacles of his that he was about to begin a conversation with me that I was likely to find absurd or at the very least a waste of my time.

“Good evening Mr. Browner,” he began in that formal way easterners have. “May I sit with you a moment? The evening heat in my room is getting to my head and the Baginski family next door to me is having quite a fit of it as well.”

The Baginskis were a Polak immigrant family who signed on last minute to the trek and had been quite loud and disruptive throughout the journey. I felt somewhat bad for Thompson and his wife having already been forced to sleep next to their tent on the trek as was, and now even joined by a wall they could find little respite. I know not whether it was my newfound empathy for the man or perhaps the drink I had been consuming, but something of a warmth washed over me in that moment and I felt the urge to welcome him warmly to my company for the evening.

“Please,” I said with a smile and wiping a small drizzle of liquor from my beard, “it would be my pleasure. Have a seat.”

Thompson sat down clumsily, just as he did most things, and pulled his overcoat around his waist a bit. His eyes danced about the room, eyeing the few groups who were still left, not that there were that great many to begin with. Soon his look loosened and he smiled at me again.

“So, Mr. Browner, we did not get an opportunity to speak much on the topic of anything of interest while on the trail. I may even go so far as to say I never even truly had the opportunity to speak with you at all aside from a few words in passing. I must ask, what did you make of this particular crossing? Was it well and good?”

I grinned a bit as I thought of the many scandalous and vulturous words I could have used at that moment to tear Huxley apart, him being none the wiser to it. Ultimately my better nature prevailed and I thought it best to give the man the answer he was likely searching for anyway, “Oh yes all’s well and good. I actually think it was a rather quality trek, don’t you?”

“To be entirely honest with you Mr. Browner, I am not entirely sure, being myself entirely green to the concept of western travel as a whole,” Thompson seemed to blush slightly as he gazed off over my shoulder further into the smoke-filled lobby. “I don’t suppose you types think much about folks such as myself, do you? What with our polished shoes and smooth hands.”

“All due respect to ye sir, my job is to transport folk like you from one side of the hole to another, and frankly it don’t much matter to me whether your hands are soft as a dove or grizzled as a bear, both types seem to pay out all the same.”

“Good then that is of some relief to me. I had begun to worry about halfway through that Molly - that is my wife - and I had begun to be more of a burden on you all than perhaps it was worth. Truth is I’ve never been one much for manual labor, and I do not suppose that is to change soon, if ever should I say,” he left off with a slight chuckle.

“Well, Mr. Thompson, I assure you well that you and the missus were and remain to be no problem nor sweat off the back of my neck personally,” I was trying to be reassuring to the man but in truth this conversation had begun to rub me. Rarely do I enjoy conversing with clients in such capacities and even more rarely do I enjoy conversation between men whereby one feels an obligation to apologize to the other for a lack of performance, especially when that man is the client of the other. I produced my pipe from my pocket and began to stuff it, hoping perhaps by some divine miracle this would signal to Thomspson I was tiring of this line of conversation and yet he continued.

“Say, I know when you were brought into our illustrious company for this journey some of your chief qualifications Mr. Huxley mentioned to me were of your origins as a mountaineer and guide. Whereabouts did you ply your trade might I ask?”

“Me? During my time with the company I spent my time up north a ways nearer the Pilot Knobs before buying out and heading south. Spent some good years in and around the old Spanish territories before coming back up and running my trade out of the Ute country,” I took a slow drag on my pipe before stamping it and relighting. Thompson seemed to be sitting back further in his chair listening and watching intently. It was a nice break in the conversation for me, though I found his demeanor quite queer. I looked back at his inquisitively.

“Well then,” he said suddenly and quietly, almost as though he was trying to yell and whisper all at once, “I don’t suppose you would be familiar with a fellow by the name of Samuel Ives, would you?”

“Samuel Ives? Of course I know him. Or rather I knew him. Ain’t heard a word from nor seen nothing about him for what must be close on a decade now. You know Ives somehow?” I was somewhat surprised by this question and my interest was piqued. I had met Samuel Ives briefly sometime in the early 40’s up in the high country near the Twin Lakes. He had been overwintering there, with the intention of moving south to Comancheria in the spring. I staked a small camp near him for several weeks before venturing on myself before the snows became too heavy up high. From what I could recall about him he was rather queer and his personality never did sit quite right with me.

“I certainly and decidedly do not know Mr. Ives. As a matter of fact, I suspect there are very few men alive today still who do know Ives, as he’s been missing in quite a bad fashion for going on some twenty years now.” Thompson sat deep into his chair now and I could tell his eyes had settled to his lap, almost as if saddened or ashamed. “Truth be though I have some personal business about him that I need settled. Also in truth, my business with Mr. Loveland is not the only reason I have decided to come out here to this place. In all honesty, Mr. Browner, I requested you specifically escort me out here when the opportunity arose because I wanted to get a gauge of your mettle, and to see whether you could be trusted with the tale and information which I am about to tell you.”

I wasn’t sure whether I should have been offended or not. Few times in my life had a man questioned my dependability and trustworthiness, fewer times had they been easterners, and never before had they been so quick to follow the offense up with an offer of information and a tale. I was stunned in a way I had never been before, not knowing how to respond and merely slouching in my chair, resting against the rickety table with my jaw parted. I must have looked quite a fool at that moment ashamed as I am to say it because the following beat Mr. Thompson leaned forward with a raised brow seemingly in a state of mild confusion. From his jacket he produced a small book, acutely weathered and bound in hide.

“This right here is the tale I speak of,” he spat as he patted the old leather-bound journal with his palm. “I would much like to share its contents with you, should you agree to sit and listen to it.” He then placed the journal on the table and slid it slightly in my direction.