Cry of the Goshawk: A Casey Jones Columbia River Adventure Book I by Roy Bush - HTML preview

GOSHAWK

(gos´hawk)
A Casey Jones Adventure
Roy Bush
ELDERBERRY PRESS, INC.
Copyright © 2006 Roy Bush

All rights reserved. No part of this publication, except brief excerpts for purpose of review, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of the characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Illustrated by Raven OKeefe
Elderberry Press, Inc.
1393 Old Homestead Drive, Second Floor
Oakland, Oregon 97462–9506.
E MAIL: editor@elderberrypress.com
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www. elderberrypress.com

Available from your favorite bookstore, amazon.com, or from our 24- hour order line: 1. 800. 431. 1579

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006927329 Publisher’s Catalog—in—Publication Data Cry of the Goshawk / Roy Bush
ISBN 10: 1932762639
ISBN 13: 978-1-932762-63-1
1. Young Adult—Fiction.
2. Adventure—Fiction.
3. Dogs—Fiction.
4. Coming of Age—Fiction.
5. Boy’s Adventures—Fiction.
I. Title

This book was written, printed and bound in the United States of America.

My thanks to Ann Saling, for her encouragement through the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and to Inga Wiehl for her patient editorial assistance. To Dorothy, my wife and inspiration.

one
MY TRAIN WRECK

 

CASEY

 

I

I’ll always remember the summer of 1920. My dad died, and I still re-live the dark days when my mom and I struggled to get our lives back on track. I couldn’t help to support us. . . no job anywhere for a boy of sixteen that would pay enough. So now I’m on my way out west to live with my aunt. In a few hours, this train will roll into Seattle.

At first, thoughts of Mom and my friends back in Brooklyn crowded out everything else. But when I changed trains in Chicago, I sat next to this nice-looking guy. I watched him put his tan, tattered suitcase under the seat. I thought talking to him might get my mind off myself.

“Hi, I’m Casey Jones,” I began.
“Hello, I’m Benny from the Bronx.” He smiled and added, “Any relation to the famous railroader?”

Because I have the same name as an Illinois Central engineer who died trying to avoid a train wreck, I always get this question.

“No, Jones is a common name.”

Benny continued eagerly, “I’m goin’ to Seattle . . . gotta job on a fishing boat . . . might even make it up to Alaska.”
Benny, who settled in with a sigh, seemed to be in his early twenties; with his slim, lanky frame, he looked hungry.
“Fishing in Alaska . . . that sounds exciting.”
As the train clacked over the tracks, I sat back on the green, plush seat and wondered about sailing out to sea, fishing for a living. I longed for adventure; something that would give my life a lift, like standing on the deck, pole in hand, as a huge fish took the bait. My arm muscles tensed, as, in my mind, the line gave a mighty jerk. Braced on the ship’s rail, I struggled to reel in a huge, silvery salmon, then flipped it, flopping and flashing, into a waiting tub. The captain gave me a smiling thumbs-up just before the train gave a jerk, and I came back to reality. I wanted to stay aboard the boat . . . bait the hook, cast it in the frothy foam and challenge the sea for another catch. But my vivid vision evaporated. Instead of fresh, ocean air, I breathed cigar smoke mixed with fumes from our coalburning engine.
Well, so much for my dandy day-dream.
I turned to Benny. “I’d rather be catching fish aboard a boat than slicing them up in a Seattle sea-food shop.”
Benny’s dark eyes went wide with surprise. “You’re going to work in a fish market?”
“Yes, from what my aunt wrote, it looks that way.” I slipped Aunt Minnie’s letter from my shirt pocket. “Listen to this, Benny: ‘Casey can use our spare bedroom . . . and maybe he’ll find it interesting to help out in his Uncle Carl’s sea-food business this summer.’”
Benny’s whole face wrinkled into a big smile. “Well, looks like I’ll be catchin’ ’em and you’ll be cleanin’ ’em and sellin’ ’em.”
I had to laugh. “And the moms will be fryin’ ’em and everybody’ll be eatin’ ’em.”
Benny welcomed a little humor, guffawed and poked me on shoulder. “Haw! Between the two of us, we’ll have folks eatin’ so much fish, it’ll be a comin’ outa their ears!”
Laughing helped lighten up my dark mood. But still, I couldn’t forget the strong smell of the Fulton Fish Market in lower Manhattan.
I hoped for the best. On the job I’d probably get used to smelling fish, and maybe I’ll get to go to high school too.
As we talked, the home-sick lump in my stomach melted away. Benny‘d left New York to start a new life, too. Maybe we could get together in Seattle before he sailed for Alaska.
I told myself, “You’re dreaming again! Seattle’s a big place. When we get off the train we’ll go our separate ways and I’ll never see Benny again.”
I looked out at the passing countryside from my window seat. In a way, my whole life seemed to be rushing by.
What would my life with Aunt Minnie and Uncle Carl be like? Would school be a part of it? Already I missed my classes back in Brooklyn . . . especially the interesting new electronic stuff produced by the inventor, Edison, and a scientist named Tesla.
I thought of old Mr. Lambrusco who lived in our apartment house. What a wonderful neighbor. He taught me to juggle, to play his mandolin, and loaned me fascinating geography and history books that showed how the explorers opened up the new world. Well, if I can’t go to school, at least maybe there’ll be a library nearby.
These last two days Benny and I had rolled through the mostly flat land of Montana, then crossed the Rocky Mountains. Now, as we raced though eastern Washington I noticed a big change in the landscape . . . and it wasn’t what I expected.
Back in Brooklyn, the principal’s parting comment was, “You’d better pack an umbrella, Casey, Seattle gets as much rain as London.” Checking me out for a three-thousand-mile journey brought out the teacher in him. He added, “Wet, maritime climate there, you know.” From that, I expected to see lush greenery about now. Instead, my eyes traveled out to a treeless countryside. Rain? Maritime climate? Not out there! Dry, desolate desert rolled by. Even the sparse sagebrush, which extended out to the distant hills, looked dead. I’ll bet if a drop of rain hit that scrubby stuff, it would explode. London? Forget the umbrella! This country is more like the Sahara!
I refused to be depressed by the dreary desert. We didn’t own an umbrella anyhow. A thought made me smile: “This part of the west is not exactly as bright and colorful as those patchwork quilts Mom made to cover our beds back in Brooklyn.”
In New York City the sidewalks run up and down; one like another, but the buildings are different and the neighborhoods with their six-story apartment houses, little shops and parks, have a sameness about them. Then I thought of the view from the Staten Island ferry . . . the big bridges, Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, so different from this strange land out there.
An unpainted house came into view. Two black horses cantered about in a split-rail corral.
“Aha! I thought, “There is life out there.” I liked horses, and drank in the sight of them. In New York, motor cars were replacing them, but the big city still had horse-drawn carts. A strange idea began to push its way into my mind like grass sprouting between the cracks of a sidewalk. For days now, this train had rolled on through cluttered cities, thick forests, and vast prairies . . . on and on . . . I began to think we’d overshot the west coast and somehow wound up in another land entirely. As the corral passed by, my imagination began to gallop. Maybe we’ve run off the face of the earth to another planet. Except for the little farm, it was more like Mars out there than planet earth.
I bumped my head against the thick window a couple of times to get reality going again. Living out there would be like dying and finding yourself in the “hot place!” I couldn’t think of a landscape more unpleasant. At least in the Sahara, one could find a green oasis and palm trees. I leaned back and closed my eyes, overcome by thoughts of sun-scorched sands. Minutes later a sudden squeal of brakes snapped me back to reality.
Our single set of tracks had become two as our train entered a huge rail yard with hundreds of boxcars. Several small switch engines puffed smoke and pushed lines of cars. The train slowed, yet buildings rushed by; some were built of brick. We were stopping at a large town. I thought, “Maybe the train station will have a news-stand and candy counter.” My mouth watered at the thought of peanuts and chocolate as I eagerly pulled a nickel from my pocket.
When we lurched to a stop I jumped past Benny into the aisle, ahead of a woman and a little boy, ran to the vestibule between the cars, and clamored down behind the conductor to the brick platform.
On the platform the arrival of our passenger train had stirred things up. With the engine bell clanging, and pistons hissing steam, there was an air of excitement all about. Uniformed porters in red hats pulled their clattering green freight wagons, loaded with mail and baggage, to the freight cars ahead.
The air was pungent with smoke from our big locomotive that sat snorting a protest of pent-up power like a huge animal, eager to charge back onto the prairie. A thrill of excitement shot through me with a premonition that something big was about to happen.
The conductor checked his pocket watch. I knew I had only a few minutes, then the train would leave, with or without me. I sure didn’t want to be stranded in this strange place. And what would Aunt Minnie think if I didn’t arrive as expected?
I rubbed the buffalo on my nickel and squinted against the sun at the large, open area inside the depot. I could see no sign of a magazine counter . . no candy bar here. Disappointed, I turned back and became caught up in all the activity around me until the trainman called out, “All aboard!”
But just then, a large middle-aged man bore down on me like a steam engine. I panicked at his fierce expression, spun around and scrambled back, but the stranger caught my arm in an iron grip. We had suddenly come together, even though, like the other Casey Jones, I’d tried to avoid a collision.
My nickel flew away, bouncing under the train. No matter. My roiling stomach wasn’t wanting candy now; the big man had jerked me back with such force, I’d almost lost my lunch.
“Boy, is your name Casey?”
“Y-yes,” I gulped, with a voice pitched two octaves higher than normal.
With his red face close to mine, he barked, “I’m your Uncle Harry and you’re coming with me!”
The conductor, a few feet away, gave the signal for the train to move out. Uncle Harry barked again, this time at the startled trainman.
“Do you know where this boy was sitting?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Harry Kinsman, his uncle. I have authority to take him off the train. His mother says he has just one bag. Go find it and throw it off!”
When the conductor heard the name Harry Kinsman, he snapped to attention like an army private. He leaped on board to fetch my bag, and I heard, “TOOT, TOOT,” then the “CLANG” of a freight car door rumbling shut.
Uncle Harry wasn’t taking any chances. Now that he had me, he wasn’t about to let me get away. With an eye on the train, he tightened his grip.
How could I have imagined this wild train wreck of sorts? Here on a railroad platform miles from home, I’d collided with an uncle I’d never met.

two

 

HIT BY HATE UNCLE HARRY

 

T

he train began to leave the station. As it picked up speed, Uncle Harry released me. I stood there rubbing the circulation back in my arm, and thought of my bag of clothes and keepsakes that were fast escaping to Seattle. Oh, how I longed to be with them. I hadn’t even said goodbye to Benny.

I’d tried to look on the bright side of things, and talking to Benny had helped. But now, my thoughts returned to last month. I’d tried to be strong and help Mom when my dad had died after an appendicitis operation. I’d thought, “It’s just the two of us now in the big, uncaring city. I have to grow up fast.” But during the long, dark nights I couldn’t hold back the tears. I’d finally slip off to sleep whispering, “Why? Why did you do it, Dad?”

After the operation, he’d gone back to work shoveling coal at the foundry. It had been too soon. Too soon! Now, thousands of miles from home, I fought down sobs rising in my throat as I watched the train, Benny, and my bag move away, leaving me behind. What would my dad have said about all this? Dad, so handsome, with his wavy brown hair and thick mustache.

I used to love it when he would come home from work. When I was younger I’d run to him and he’d swing me around. He’d laugh a greeting. “How’s my Casey from Canarsie? You been good to your mother?” Now, in a strange western town, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

I had a flashback to when Dad’s foreman at the steel foundry sat in our little parlor and told Mom the awful details of how Dad had died. “I knew something was wrong,” he’d said, “when your husband, Dan, dropped his coal shovel and grabbed his side with both hands . . . trying to keep his guts in, he was.” Mom’s face became pale with grief. The foreman finally finished. “Sure sorry ma’am, Dan’d pulled his stitches loose – bled to death right there on the job. We just couldn’t help him.” On his way out, the foreman handed over a stained envelope. “We took up a collection for you and the boy.”

Mom found a job as a clerk, but it didn’t pay much. When Aunt Minnie and Uncle Carl offered to take me, I had to go.
Now, on the depot platform, I felt light-headed and my heart was pounding. As I raised my hand to the letter in my shirt pocket, I wondered if I’d ever get to meet Aunt Minnie or see Seattle.
The conductor appeared at the last second and smoothly slid my canvas suitcase from the moving train onto the platform. I bolted down the track to pick it up, happy to retrieve something familiar. I hugged my bag of belongings and turned back to . . . I knew not what.
I’d heard very little about my mother’s brother, Harry. I looked him in the eye as he stood waiting for me. His thick crop of black hair and heavy mustache showed hints of gray. His dark suit and tie gave him a professional look. As he returned my gaze, his stern expression slowly relaxed into a smile. I walked up to him and smiled back.
Showing some kindness, he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I sent your Aunt Minnie a telegram. She knows about this change of plans.”
We headed for a Model T Ford with its top down, and he continued. “Your mother knows too.” Uncle Harry’s attempt to reassure me helped to calm my riled-up stomach. “That’s my car there at the curb.”
Were we going to drive to some dry farm, out in the “dead” country? The thought gave me chills on a hot day.
I climbed in, still clutching my bag, as Uncle Harry stepped around in front and cranked the Model T to a start. The car bounced as he hopped in and began to drive smoothly through what seemed to be the main part of town. I was pleased to see the streets were paved and curbed too. There were neat shops with offices over them. I caught the name of the newspaper as we drove by, The Arborville Grapevine. I thought, “So now I know the name of this place . . . Arborville.”
Uncle Harry spoke up. “Right now, we’re heading to my place, Casey. You’ll meet your Aunt Louise.” In a gentle tone of voice he added almost under his breath, “and your cousins too, if they’re at home.”
Cousins! I dimly remembered that my mom’s brother, Harry, had three daughters, or was it four? My head began to swim again. Uncle Harry continued. “You will be living with us now. We have plenty of room and we’re better able to provide a true home for you than your Aunt Minnie in Seattle.”
I heaved a sigh. I’d been looking forward to living in Seattle. But now I wouldn’t be cleaning fish. For all I knew, that fish market might be the nearest one of its kind to Arborville.
There were few cars around, and some horse-drawn wagons gave the town a true western flavor. The sign above one quaint shop read: J. J. Magnusson’s Son—Harness Shop. I also noticed a larger building with two signs, one mounted vertically high on the corner and the other across the front. Both read: Hotel Bellmont. People on the street were dressed countrified; women and girls in blouses and long skirts; men and boys in overalls. Some of the men, however, probably shopkeepers or professional men, wore suits with vests and black string ties.
I’d just begun to relax and appreciate the ride with all the strange sights, when my attention was riveted on a young man standing on the sidewalk. As we passed, his menacing stare threw a scare into me. He stood with clenched fists and his eyes met mine in an unblinking glare of hate. When I glanced back over my shoulder, his whole face contorted into a fearful grimace. My heart began to pound again. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the round, menacing, face, under a tweed cap worn low to black eyebrows.
My mind raced for answers. Why had my uncle pulled me off the train? Had my mother and Aunt Minnie really agreed to my coming here to Arborville instead of going to Seattle? The biggest question I spoke out loud, “Who was that scowling young man, and why was he glaring at me?”
I wasn’t sure that Uncle Harry heard me ask that question over the staccato sound of the motor, but he’d seen the young man too. He leaned over and said in a loud voice, “That was just Vernon. He’s a ne’er-do-well. Take my advice, ignore him.”
This time Uncle Harry didn’t help my apprehensive mood much. Ignore him? Would I be able to do that? I truly hoped so.
Still light-headed, I wished that I’d eaten a candy bar to pep me up for whatever might come next. I’d had little to eat since the train had pulled out of Spokane, only a light lunch of a dry roll, the last piece of salami I’d brought along, and a cup of coffee I’d bought from the porter for 10 cents. I was relieved when we pulled up to the garage of a large, two-story brick home, with a sweeping front lawn and fine shade trees.
I wiped the sweat from my brow. Whew! Not the Sahara!
Uncle Harry switched off the motor and yelled, “Here we are, Casey!” He jumped down, leaving me to scramble out with my bag. I pulled my cap off and followed as Uncle Harry strode around to the front door of his impressive home.
There, to greet us, stood a tall, beautiful woman with blond braids wound neatly on top of her head.
Uncle Harry began, “Casey, this is your Aunt Louise.” Then he grabbed me to stand in front of him: “Louise, my dear, this fine young lad is my sister’s son, Casey Jones.”
She took my hand in both of hers. “Hello, Casey,” she said warmly, “I’m so very pleased to meet you. Welcome to our home. We call it Overton Manor. We have a meal ready for you. I expect you must be famished after the long train ride.”
Before I could respond, a cute girl ran right up to me and gave me a big hug. She seemed about my age, if not younger. She sparkled with cheerfulness. “Hello, Casey,” she laughed. “I’m your cousin Colette.”

three

 

AMBUSHED AUNT LOUISE

 

S

eated alone at the large dining room table, I met the maid, Sally, as she brought my meal, served on beautiful dishes. Middle-aged and medium-sized, she wore a blue and white striped apron and a kind expression.

As Sally put a plate of pot roast, small red potatoes and green beans in front me, I thought, “Hmm, the Kinsmans eat well.” I poured a generous amount of rich brown gravy over everything. Sally, who doubled as the cook, nodded her approval.

“You’ll be needing a glass of milk, I think.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Sally continued, “Apple pie for dessert?”
With a full mouth, I nodded emphatically.
Minutes later, I cleaned up the last bit of gravy with a bit

of bread and wiped my mouth on a huge linen napkin.

Like magic, a large slice of apple pie came sailing over my left shoulder, served by Sally who’d been hovering nearby.
Fork flying, I tied into the pie.
“Can you think of anything else, young man?”
I hesitated.
“Now, now,” Sally said encouragingly. “Your first meal here should lack nothing. What else? A few after-dinner mints, perhaps?”
Sally looked at me so kindly, I couldn’t resist blurting out, “Some black coffee maybe?”
“Coffee?” Sally raised her blond eyebrows in surprise. “Well, now. We have a fresh pot on the stove. You shall have your coffee!”
Though I was large for my age, Sally must have thought me a bit young for coffee. I decided that my cousins probably didn’t drink coffee.
I thought of Colette, who’d kind of bowled me over and then had left as quickly as she’d come. I was nervous about meeting others. What would they think of me?
When I’d finished my coffee, Sally led the way up a curved staircase and down a short hallway to a large room where my old suitcase had been placed on a rack by the double bed.
“Skidoo!” I said out loud. “What a terrific bedroom!” Impressed by a desk with a bookcase over it, I loved the pictures of blue-green ocean scenes on the walls.
The view from the window overlooked dozens of homes below, all surrounded by neat lawns and colorful flowers. Farther out, I expected to see more dry, desert country, but instead, several farms, many with grapevines, extended out to green hills.
“I’ve not landed in the hot place,” I thought. “This is more like heaven!”
Below the open window, I heard Mrs. Kinsman call out, “Sally, have you seen Annabell?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s out in the garden.”
As I began to unpack, I noticed my Brooklyn Dodgers shirt. Would I ever see another game at Ebbets field? With pitchers like Burleigh Grimes, who’d already won 20 games, and 300-hitters like Zack Wheat, they’d probably finish in first place. Sad to miss the rest of the season, I picked up another shirt to change into.
I found the upstairs bathroom and, after a refreshing shower and a change of clothes, I was eager to look around.
Overton Manor’s grassy grounds sloped gently to the main gate in front. I wandered around back to a large vegetable garden.
I loved the earthy smell of it; a welcome change from the horse smells of the city and the coal smoke of the train station. The garden gave off a marvelous mixed odor of growing things. As I wandered through rows of corn beginning to ear out, the broad leaves slithered across my shirtsleeves and seemed to whisper, “Welcome, Casey, welcome.” Just beyond were dozens of tomato plants. I’d seldom eaten tomatoes. Now I saw hundreds of them, as big as my fist and beginning to turn red . . . soon to be ready for the table.
Next to the tomatoes were dark green bushes. Some had been dug up. I knelt down and ran my fingers through the dirt. What a happy find! I uncovered a small red potato. Now I knew where the delicious buttered potatoes that had been on my dinner plate came from. A bit further on, I noticed two long rows of tiny plants with the imprint of someone’s knees in the soft earth next to the green sprouts. With closer look, I recognized tiny carrots, pulled out and left by the side.
At the far end of the row, I spotted something even more interesting than vegetables . . . a person facing the other way on hands and knees.
I thought, “How can I approach this gardener without startling him?”
I knelt and picked up a stick, snapped it in two, and scratched in the dirt, looking for another potato. The sharp sound did the trick. The person stopped and turned around. It was a girl of about 12 or 13. She got to her feet and swayed a bit.
“Hello, I’ll bet you’re Casey Jones.”
“Yes. Are you one of my cousins?”
“Yes, I’ve heard about you, and I think it’s funny you have the same name as that engineer who wrecked his train.”
I thought, “There we go, the engineer thing again.”
I said, “Funny? A train wreck?”
“I don’t mean funny ha-ha. I mean funny strange.”
I liked this girl right off. She wore denim pants and a loose, blue, sleeveless top. Her tanned face looked up at me with big brown eyes from under a floppy yellow hat, and her smile sparkled as she looked me over.
I got the urge to tease.
“Well, I’m sure your name isn’t funny or strange either.”
“Why?”
I took a step forward and gazed at her. “Well, a good-looking girl like you must have a pretty name, like Natalie, Sophia or maybe even Annabell.”
Annabell’s mouth opened in surprise.
“Sally told you!”
“In a way she did, I heard your mother asking Sally your whereabouts.” I smiled. “Annabell, under your smooth tan, I’ll bet you’re blushing.”
“So you came out here to tease me.”
“I apologize. I really didn’t come out to find you, and teasing was just an impulse.”
Annabell took off her hat and wiped her face with her arm.
I quickly added, “I’m sorry. I really should have said that you have a wonderful garden. I’m from the city, where we don’t have gardens. I’m impressed.”
Annabell’s smile returned, so I went on.
“Just now I happened on the potatoes and I realized that I’d had some of those tasty little reds as part of my first meal here. Ummm. Delicious.”
Annabell put her hat back on and gazed at me.
“I’m the one who should say I’m sorry. I should have given you a better welcome. Have you met Colette?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bet she gave you a really nice welcome.”
“Nice enough. But you needn’t be sorry for anything, and I like being here.” I hurried on.
“Please, cousin Annabell, tell me why you’re pulling up carrots?”
She squinted up at me. “You really are a city boy, aren’t you? Carrot seeds are small and fine. The only way to plant them is close together. When they sprout, they need to be thinned out so they’ll have room to grow.”
“Now that you’ve told me, it’s obvious. Guess I have a lot to learn.”
Annabell continued to stare at me, maybe to see if I was teasing again.
“Do you want some advice?”
“Please. I need it.”
“Well, before you go anywhere, you’d better get out of those pants.”
Now it was my turn to show surprise.
“Pants! What do you mean?”
Annabell turned back to her gardening. “I need to finish the carrots before I get cleaned up for supper. . .” As I walked off, I heard her say, “…and I go by Annie.”
Strolling back, I felt cheerful enough to hum a tune: “Oh Susanna! Don’t you cry for me.”
I stepped around a tool shed. “I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee. . .” suddenly a heavy blow to my shoulder spun me around to receive a heavy kick in the lower stomach. The pain was almost unbearable. Knees up, I fell, face forward.
A young man’s voice, in low tones only I would hear, growled, “You look so stupid in those sissy pants! Go ahead. Eat dirt!” I felt his shoe on the back of my head as he pushed my face into the soft earth. By the time I recovered enough to look up, I was alone.
“Vernon!” I thought. The homesickness I’d been warding off for days flooded over me like filthy run-off from the