AUTHOR'S NOTE: The streetcar accident and Andrew Smith Hallidie really existed. I just added Brisco, "Young Indiana Jones"-style. I used a precise mathematical formula for determining Brisco's age in 1869---I guessed.
"Look at the cobblestones, Nell," Brisco told the mare, pointing to the street. "My dad says that the stones they used to pave the street came to San Franciso as ballast on sailing ships. These stones might have been in China once, or Italy, or Ireland. My ma's from Ire-"
"Brisco!" The boy straightened in surprise and turned to his mother. Mary Beth County stood on the sidewalk, hands on hips. "We've had this discussion before, young man. You mustn't talk to horses as if they were human. It's not natural."
Brisco hung his head. "Yes, ma'am," he said guiltily. His mother almost laughed aloud. Brisco looked so much like her father when he did that. Jack Sullivan used to hang his head like that when he came home after drinking a week's wages away. Thank God that's the only thing he inherited from my father, she thought.
"Can you move some of the boxes up in the cart?" she asked, warming her tone of voice. "Make room for more supplies?"
"Yes, ma'am." At eleven years of age, Brisco was tall---almost as tall as his mother. He climbed up in the cart bed, tossed back the tarp, and shoved the crates towards the seat. The store clerk who'd followed Mary Beth lifted several boxes from his two-wheeled cart and handed them up to Brisco.
"I'm going down there to the milliner," Mary Beth said, pointing to a shop further along the street. "I've got to get some fabric to make you some shirts. 'Tis hard to keep you clothed, seeing as how fast you're growing." She smiled at the boy, who realized that he'd been forgiven for talking to Nell. She looked to the sky. "I do wish this drizzle would let up," she said, pulling her shawl closer. "It's miserably cold." She turned and walked up the street.
Brisco worried silently about his mother. His parents had lived in San Franciso when they'd first married, but the often-damp climate had bothered his mother's poor health. Not long after Brisco was born, his father, on the advice of a doctor, had moved the family to a small town over the hills. There, the drier air seemed to help Mary Beth breathe easier. They only came into the city two or three times a year for supplies now. Brisco fervently hoped the wet weather wouldn't make his mother start coughing again. It tore his soul to hear those hoarse, racking coughs.
A horse's scream from the cross street ahead jerked him from his reverie. A streetcar had passed earlier, its five-horse team struggling to pull the car up the steep slope of Jackson Street. Brisco couldn't see what was happening, but pedestrians moving along the sidewalks began running to the larger street to see what the commotion was about. Nell began shaking her head and stepping from foot to foot nervously. Brisco hopped down from the cart and moved quickly to soothe the frightened mare.
"Easy, girl," he said, stroking her nose. This was the first time they'd taken the mare into the city, and the noise and smells were already making her jittery.
"The wheel's down!" He heard someone yell from the street ahead. Brisco was torn between running to see what was going on, or staying with the cart to prevent Nell from bolting. He looked ahead to see the streetcar sliding back down the hill. One of the wheel horses was down, screaming and thrashing at the traces. The other horses were straining against the pull of the overloaded car; the driver was screaming and lashing at them to move forward.
Brisco took the mare's reins and snubbed her nose to the hitching post. "Just be calm, Nell," he said. "I gotta go help." As he ran toward Jackson Street, the mare's shrill cry stopped him. Nell was twisting and kicking at the cart. Brisco hurried back to her, shucking his coat as he went. He pulled the coat over Nell's face and the mare calmed down, comforted by the smell of the boy. "Good girl," the boy said.
Brisco ran back to the larger street, skidding to a halt at the sight of the downed horse kicking the legs out from under the horse in front of it. The three horses that remained standing scrambled for purchase on the wet cobblestones, the packed streetcar pulling them backwards. People on the sidewalks were screaming at the passengers to jump off, but everyone on board seemed frozen, unable to move. The other wheel horse dropped, and was killed instantly by a panicked kick from the horse in front of it. The car was gaining momentum, undaunted by the mass of writhing horseflesh it dragged with it.
Brisco looked wildly about him, searching for anything that would stop the car. He spied a wagon full of split wood and sprinted for it. He grabbed two triangular pieces and pelted down the slippery hill. The last two horses toppled as Brisco ran by; one almost cut his legs out from under him with its churning hooves. He dropped the wood on the street, then grabbed one piece to shove under the back wheel.
"Toss it here, kid." A man appeared across the car from him. He'd quickly understood what the boy was trying to do. Brisco tossed him the log and jammed the other piece under the wheel. The streetcar jerked to a halt, the wheels straining against the wood.
Brisco walked back to where the team lay. The two wheel horses were dead; their glassy eyes glaring accusations. Blood from their skinned hides slithered between the cobblestones. Brisco knew by looking at the twisted limbs of the remaining horses that they would have to be put down. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to drown out their moans, but his arms seemed leaden. A cowboy appeared beside him, unholstering his gun.
"Mind their legs, boy," he said. "Don't let 'em knock you down." He fired a bullet into each horse. The boy flinched at each shot. Brisco turned to leave when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"That was quick thinking, son," a well-dressed man smiled kindly on him. His voice marked him as a Scot. "A bad situation, these steep cobblestoned hills."
Pedestrians, suddenly brought to life by the gunshots, moved to help the passengers step down from the streetcar. The driver sobbed in his seat, moaning, "My horses, my horses!"
The Scot was worried about the boy, who seemed to be in shock. He guided the lad over to the sidewalk, asking questions that the boy didn't seem to hear. A horse's shrill whinny brought Brisco's head up. "Nell," he gasped, breaking free from the man's gentle grip and running back to the cross street.
There, Mary Beth County was standing near the mare, looking all around for her son. "Oh, dear God, Brisco! What happened to you? You've got blood all over you!"
Brisco skidded to a stop and looked down at his shirt. He must have been splattered when the cowboy shot the horses. "I, uh, um, I was helping with a streetcar. The horses slipped on the cobblestones and fell." His eyes were wide and almost black.
"But the blood! Was anyone hurt?"
"No," the boy looked stricken. "But they had to put the horses down."
"Oh, son," Mary Beth said, knowing what the death of those horses meant to Brisco. She opened her arms, and the boy ran to her. She held him until he stopped sobbing, then straightened. "Come along," she said, wiping away his tears. "It's time we go to the hotel. You're father should be there by now."
Brisco nodded, then left to secure the tarp over the cart. By the time he climbed up beside his mother, he'd regained his composure.
"Here's your coat," Mary Beth said. "Put in on before you catch your death." Brisco pulled on the coat and realized that the right sleeve was partially torn where it was attached to the rest of the coat. "Whyever did you throw your coat over Nell's head?" his mother asked.
"She was spooking 'cause of the streetcar horses, so I threw it over her head to calm her." He clucked to Nell, and drove the cart out into the street.
Mary Beth nodded her approval, but fingered the tear. "I do hope I remembered to bring a needle with me," she said. "You did the right thing, Brisco," she added gently, putting her hand on his arm. "Trying to help."
The boy sighed. "I know, Ma. But it didn't seem to make a difference."
"Maybe it did and you didn't realize it."
Brisco drove the cart to a livery stable two blocks away from the hotel they always stayed at when in the city. As they approached, a short bow-legged man with a thatch of bright red hair emerged from the door and caught Nell's bridle.
"Mrs. County! And young Brisco! Welcome back to our fair city!" he exclaimed in a County Cork accent.
"Good day to you, Mick," Mary Beth laughed. "And how are you faring these days?"
"Oh, can't complain, can't complain. The missus is due any day now."
"That's wonderful! Are you hoping for a girl or a boy?"
Mick's blue eyes twinkled. "Doesn't matter, as long as they're healthy. And you, young master Brisco. You've grown a foot since I last saw you!"
Brisco looked down at his feet. "No, sir," he grinned, sharing an old joke between them. "I've still got two."
"The marshal rode by here not five minutes ago, so's I expect he's up at the hotel." Mick helped Mary Beth from the cart while Brisco pulled a carpetbag from beneath the tarp.
"Let me carry this up to the hotel for Ma," Brisco said to Mick. "And then I'll be back to help with Nell."
"Take your time, lad." The Irishman beamed. "I'll get her fed and watered."
Partway up the hill to the hotel, Brisco's mother began to cough. "Why don't you rest here, Ma," the boy said, trying to fight the panic rising in his chest. "And I'll go get Dad."
"No," Mary Beth put her hand on her chest and willed herself to stop coughing. "I'll be alright." After pausing a moment, she motioned the boy to continue. Brisco's father emerged from the hotel as they neared its steps.
"Mary Beth," he said, kissing her on the cheek. He looked at Brisco. "Hello, son."
"Hi, Dad." Young Brisco seemed unusually quiet and distracted, but before Brisco Sr. could ask him what was wrong, Mary Beth began to cough again.
"Give me that," Brisco Sr. suggested, holding out his hand for the carpetbag. Her coughing's what's makin' him quiet, he thought. "Can you take Bart down to the livery?"
"Yes sir," Brisco said, handing over the bag.
"Thanks." His father said, guiding his wife to the door. "Brisco? We're in room 23 on the second floor."
"Yes sir."
Brisco loved his father's big black gelding. Bart was very smart and fun to talk to. Brisco's dad had almost come unglued two years ago when he found the boy trying to pick up one of Bart's enormous hooves. "But Dad!" Brisco had protested. "Bart's got a stone in his shoe!" Brisco Sr. had walked over to the horse, bent over, and picked up the hoof. "I'll be damned," he had murmured, seeing the stone. "How'd you know that?" he'd demanded gruffly. " Bart told me," Brisco had blurted out. "Now son," his father had said. "You're too old to lie about horses talking to you." Brisco had caught himself before he'd argued, knowing he'd get punished for talking back to his father. So now he only talked to Bart when they were alone. Brisco usually rode the gelding whenever possible, but after today's misadventure on the slippery cobbles, he walked Bart back to the livery.
"There's Bart," Mick said happily, seeing the boy and the horse. "There's brushes in that box over there." He pointed to the grooming rack. Brisco tied Bart to the post and began to brush the horse.
Mick rubbed Nell down and checked her feet. He watched the boy for a few moments, wondering why Brisco was so quiet. The lad usually talked his head off, asking one question after another. "Long day, huh?" he asked, trying to start a conversation. The boy just nodded, his dark eyes solemn. Mick decided to use the direct approach. "Are you okay, young Brisco?"
Brisco stopped as if struck, then blurted out the entire story of the streetcar accident he'd witnessed. Mick shook his head at the waste of good horseflesh.
"'Twas a horrible thing to 'ave seen, young Brisco," Mick commiserated. "I reckoned there'd be trouble when they paved those steep hills. Why they didn't try to level the streets off first, I'll never know."
"Isn't there something they can do?" the boy asked.
"I don't know, lad," Mick answered. "But I hope for the horses' sakes they come up with somethin' quick."
"So how'd your day go?" Brisco Sr. asked his wife. He was seated in the dressing room of their hotel room, watching her tie her auburn hair up with a kerchief in preparation for a bath.
"We got our supplies," Mary Beth replied. "But this weather is dreadful! I shall be glad to get back home, where it's drier." They both heard the room door close, signaling their son was back from the livery.
"How's Brisco doin' in school?"
"His teacher says he's very bright, but he needs to apply himself more to his studies."
"Is he doin' his homework?"
"Of course he is, he just seems, well, bored."
"Bored!" Brisco Sr. almost shouted. "Why would he be bored?"
Mary Beth stood, hands on her hips. "Keep your voice down, Brisco!" she hissed angrily. "He's bored because he's smart. He picks up ideas like a sponge. Out there in a small town, there's not much to challenge him, so he's often in trouble with his teacher for daydreaming. He gets his lessons down perfectly, it's just that he's too restless to wait 'til the slower children catch up." Mary Beth began to cough again, and her husband rose to encircle her in his arms. Brisco rubbed her back until the spasms subsided.
"I'm sorry, Mary Beth," he murmured, instantly contrite. "We don't have to go out tonight if you're not up to it."
"I'll be fine," she replied, trying to act normally. "And I do so love to dress up."
Brisco Jr. slept fitfully that night, partly from the strange bed and partly from his mother's coughing spells. He finally got up and dressed. His father, used to getting up at sunrise, was already dressed and sitting in a chair by his mother.
"C'mon, son," Brisco Sr. said softly, putting down the newspaper he was reading. "Let's let your ma sleep."
As he followed his son down the stairs, he noticed the tear in the boy's coat. "How'd you tear your coat?" he asked.
His son got that "Jack Sullivan" look. "Nell was afraid of the noise and stuff yesterday when we got into town, and I tore my sleeve trying to calm her down." Brisco was determined not to tell his father about the accident.
"Maybe we ought to get a calmer cart horse."
"Oh no, sir," Brisco Jr. disagreed. "She calmed down after a bit. She was just jumpy at first."
Mick let them borrow a saddle, so Brisco could ride Nell. The weather was warmer and drier than the previous day, so the boy was less worried about slippery streets. Father and son rode to a diner a few streets away for breakfast.
Brisco Sr. was always glad to see his son, but spent so little time with him that he had no idea what to talk to him about. School was usually a safe subject. Seemed like any other topic had them butting heads. Mary Beth always said it was because they were so much alike.
"Are you doin' your schoolwork?" he asked as they ate breakfast.
"Yes, sir."
"You ma says that your teacher complained you've been daydreaming in school."
"Well, I-"
"Son, you've got to apply yourself to your studies if you want to get ahead in life. Your ma and I want you to have a better life than just chasin' bad guys."
"Yes, sir. Oh," Brisco suddenly remembered. He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Sheriff Bob wanted me to give you this."
Brisco Sr. took the paper and read it. It was a wanted poster for Able Conner. He tossed the paper on the table with a sigh.
"Son," he said. "You'll find there's people in this world that are just plain evil. This here's one of them. I already caught him once. Now, he's escaped from Leavenworth and I gotta catch him again."
The boy looked at the criminal rendered on the poster. "Wanted for murder," he read aloud. "You'll be careful, won't you, Dad?"
"I'll try my best." Brisco Sr. answered. But I'm going to change my plans and accompany you and your ma home so I'm certain you're safe. "Finish up there, son," he said, pointing at Brisco's plate with his pipestem. "We're gonna visit Li Pow."
"Brisco!" Li Pow exclaimed. "Welcome, old friend. And young Brisco!"
"Ni hao," Brisco Jr. said, bowing.
"You remembered!" Li Pow was pleased. He'd taught the boy a few words last year when Brisco visited with his father. "And you are now a celebrity! You were on the front page of the paper this morning."
Brisco Sr. looked at his son in surprise. The boy looked just as startled. Li Pow picked up the newspaper he'd left on the table and showed them the front page. An artist had rendered the streetcar accident; both Countys recognized the boy in the picture.
"Sit, sit." Li Pow motioned them to chairs.
"I have a favor to ask you," Brisco Sr. said, gently turning his son to show Li Pow the torn coat sleeve. "Do you know anyone who could fix this?"
"Yes indeed," his friend said, helping the boy remove his coat. "There is a seamstress just a few doors down. She is a cousin of mine. Does excellent work."
"That'd be fine," Brisco Sr. said. "Thank you."
Li Pow left. Brisco Sr. picked up the newspaper and looked at the rendering. He'd read the very same paper earlier this morning, and hadn't recognized his own son. I've gotta get home more often, he thought. "Were you at that accident yesterday?" he asked the boy.
"Yes, sir." The boy looked like he wished he were somewhere else.
"What happened?"
Brisco Jr. related the previous day's adventure. "I wish you would've been there," he added quietly.
The statement was so unexpected. Brisco Sr. pulled his pipe out of his mouth. "Why d'you say that?"
"Well, sir," the boy stammered, wishing he could take back what he'd just said. "People on the sidewalks were yelling at the passengers to jump off the streetcar, but they were too afraid. If you'd have been there, they'd have listened to you."
The older County was stunned speechless. He hadn't realized young Brisco felt that way about him. The uncomfortable silence between them was mercifully interrupted by the return of Li Pow.
"The repair will be finished in half an hour," the Chinaman said, rubbing his hands. "Now, shall I make some tea?"
While Brisco Sr. and Li Pow talked about problems in the mines, Brisco Jr. looked around the tiny shop. Li Pow carved ivory---intricate pieces were displayed throughout the store. An entire elephant's trunk rested on a lacquered stand on one shelf. Figures carved on it depicted an emperor's entire court. Brisco marveled at the intricate details.
Brisco Sr. pulled the wanted poster from his coat pocket and handed it to his friend. "Able Connor broke out of prison," he said. "You'd best make yourself scarce for a while."
Li Pow shrugged. "We Chinese all look alike. He will never find me here."
"Li Pow," County said, frowning. "Connor is crazy enough to kill the first Chinese man he sees in Chinatown and keep killing until he finds you."
Li Pow set his teacup down. "Point well taken, old friend." He leaned back with a sigh. "I do have relatives in Vancouver that I could visit."
Brisco nodded. "That ought to be far enough for safety. Wire Bob when you get there and I'll send you news when I get Connor back in jail."
"You must think about your own family, Brisco," Li Pow said. "They are at risk, too."
"I know. I'm gonna ride back home with them. Bob'll keep an eye on them for me."
His friend opened the newspaper to the want ads. "There is a packet ship leaving for Vancouver this evening. I shall try to obtain passage on it."
Brisco Sr. leaned forward to look at the ad. "Do you need money for a ticket?" he asked.
"Oh, no," Li Pow answered. "I have money. Although I probably would attract attention by purchasing a ticket. Maybe I could convince the captain to let me work my passage. Less conspicuous that way."
"Just watch your back, will you?" Brisco Sr. said. He rose and held out his hand. "Be safe, old friend."
Li Pow shook his hand. "And you also. Do not allow the snake to bite you."
The older County grinned. "You sound like one of those damned cookies."
"Why not?" his friend laughed. "I invented them, didn't I?"
Father and son were making their way back to the hotel when they passed a drover urging his team to pull a heavily loaded wagon. The drover screamed at the horses, cracking the whip over their ears. After they were past, Brisco heard his father mutter, "Damn fool," under his breath.
Yes, sir, the boy agreed silently. Both Countys knew that if the marshal had stopped and rebuked the drover for forcing his team to pull an overloaded wagon, the man would take his anger out on the horses first chance he got.
Brisco rode quietly beside his father when a man hailed him from the sidewalk outside a factory. Brisco Jr. thought the well-dressed man looked vaguely familiar, but couldn't remember where they'd met.
The boy stopped the mare as the man approached. "Dear boy," he said. "I should have guessed by your heroic deed yesterday that you were the son of the famous Brisco County."
Brisco Sr. pulled up beside his son. "Have we met, sir?" he asked, puzzled.
"Indeed we have, Mr. County, though not in these surroundings. You offered to help me and my crew when we were building a bridge across Deer Creek."
"Mr. Hallidie." The lawman relaxed, recognizing the Scot. "I was just over in Nevada City not two weeks ago, and your flag still flies atop it."
"Ah, well, we've not had any trouble since the war," Hallidie replied. "It was just during the war when the Confederate sympathizers thought I shouldn't fly the Stars and Stripes from the bridge."
"If I remember correctly, you were worried that they would tear the flag down. Did they ever try?"
"Indeed they did, Mr. County." Hallidie grinned. "But they were no match for my crew. Why, some of my men have done construction work all their lives, and have the muscle to prove it. We backed them down without a fight."
"Son," Brisco Sr. said. "This is Andrew Smith Hallidie. He builds suspension bridges. You crossed that one over the American River when you came in yesterday." The boy held out his hand and Hallidie shook it. Hallidie looked to be in his mid-30's, with sandy hair and a neatly trimmed beard. "This is my son, also named Brisco."
"Well met, lad," Hallidie beamed.
"And you too, sir." Brisco Jr. had admired the bridge yesterday, and had about a thousand questions about it.
"Are you working on another bridge?" Brisco Sr. asked.
"I have crews that build bridges and mine lifts," Hallidie said. "But I've started a factory here to manufacture wire rope. If you have the time, I'd be honored to show you around."
Young Brisco held his breath. It was too good to be true.
"That's very kind of you sir," his father said. "If it's not too much trouble."
"Oh, no trouble at all!" Hallidie said. The Countys dismounted, tied their horses to a hitching post, and followed the Scot inside the factory. "Four years ago, I decided that my skills were best served running this company and designing projects involving wire rope." Hallidie explained, "Building bridges involves long exposure to the elements, and I'm not getting any younger. I still have crews building bridges, but the majority of our business is building rope ways for mine cars in the Comstock."
"Seeing that streetcar accident yesterday gave me an idea. I've designed rope ways for the mines with ore cars that can be quickly added or removed. I don't see why the same process wouldn't work for streetcars on steep inclines."
"But wouldn't the rope impede the progress of wagons and horses crossing the street?" Brisco Sr. asked.
"That is a problem," Hallidie conceded. "The rope could run either high above the street, so traffic could clear it, or beneath the street."
"Under the street?" Young Brisco asked.
"Yes," Hallidie said. "A narrow slot would have to be cut into the street, wide enough for the wire rope, but narrow so as to prevent hooves and wheels from getting caught."
"How would you attach the cars to the rope?" Brisco Sr. puffed thoughtfully on his pipe.
"For the mine cars, we use a kind of massive pair of pliers called a grip." Hallidie held the finger of one hand level with his chest and clamped it with two fingers of the other hand. "We can control the speed of the car by how much pressure the grip applies to the wire rope."
"What's wire rope?" Brisco Jr. asked.
"Come this way," Hallidie put his hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him down the hall to an office. The left-hand side of the hallway had windows looking out over the factory floor. Machines were twisting small metal strands into larger rope. The Scot picked up a short piece of cable from the top of his desk. "This is wire rope. It's a steel cable of six strands; each made of nineteen smaller strands of wire. It has a tensile strength of 160,000 pounds per square inch."
"Impressive," Brisco Sr. said.
"And its best feature," Hallidie added, handing the sample to Brisco Jr. and picking up a three foot long piece of cable from the desk. "Is its flexibility. This cable can be bent over and over and it doesn't lose its integrity." He demonstrated by bending the wire rope several times in the same spot. The flexed cable did not split or kink. "I designed a tramway for a mine using this," Hallidie said. "They'd been using ordinary rope, which lasted about seventy-five days before it would break. I'm happy to say that since we replaced it with wire rope, the tram has lasted for two years without a break."
"Will the wire rope help the horses pull the streetcars?" Young Brisco asked.
"My dear boy, the wire rope would replace the need for horses! Up in the mines, the weight of the loaded ore cars pulls the empties up by force of gravity. My first thought was to use two parallel streets in tandem: a car loaded with passengers on one street pulls up the empty car on the next street. But now I think that each street would be better served by its own loop of wire rope. Motors could drive the system, geared to assist with the travel speed."
"Thank you for the tour," Brisco Sr. said, extending his hand. "We appreciate the opportunity to see your factory."
"The pleasure is mine," Hallidie beamed, shaking the marshal's hand. "And again I must thank you, young man." He shook the boy's hand. "If I hadn't been a witness to that accident yesterday, I would not have thought to put my wire rope to good use in that facility. Keep that," he said, pointing to the small piece of cable Brisco held in his hand. Hallidie smiled at the boy, whose answering smile lit up his whole face.
Brisco and his father entered the hotel room to find Mary Beth sitting by the window, reading. Both were relieved to find her feeling better. The boy ran to his mother, showing her the piece of cable and chattering about the factory and the possible use of wire rope to pull the streetcars. Mary Beth looked up and caught Brisco Sr. smiling at her. She smiled back.
THIRTEEN YEARS LATER
Brisco County Jr. stepped down from the train in San Franciso. He'd just returned from Boston, law degree in hand. He walked the streets, suitcase bumping against his leg, drinking in familiar sights and sounds. As he crossed Jackson Street, Brisco noticed a narrow slot running down the center of the street. He bent to get a closer look at the wire rope moving in the slot. A warning bell brought Brisco to his senses; he stepped back in time to allow a streetcar to pass. He grinned as the horseless car glided by. Brisco continued to walk, stopping at Washington Street to watch the trolley climb the hill. He could see another streetcar appear and disappear between the buildings on California Street, several blocks ahead.
"Wherever you are, Mr. Hallidie," Brisco said under his breath. "Thank you."
