Page 7 of Blowing Off Steam

Wakeman’s nostrils flared. “Why don’t you just get your own boat the honest way?”

“Like you did?” Field became contemplative and sighed. “I’m at the end of my rope, Captain Wakeman. I need a large sum of money very fast, and I don’t aim to wait three, five years to convince someone from back East to build a railroad across the continent. I’ve always wanted to travel on rivers. I’d like to learn the river from you.”

At this, Captain Wakeman smiled a little. “I know that river four ways. Up, down, night, and day. This is the great commercial empire of the Pacific.”

Field smiled in return, even though he was blackmailing his newfound partner.

Wakeman said, “Let’s start walking. Loitering under Brannan’s roof is giving me the creeps.”

They started down Washington Street side by side, Wakeman buttoning his shirt up and tying the cravat about his throat. “Then I presume you’re stealing this engine, too, from someone? Someone who did not intend on it being used on a paddlewheel.”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Field. “I intend on it being used on a paddlewheel.”

CHAPTER THREE

Whiskey flowed like the Hudson River.

All the sirens in the ocean crawling onto land would not have created more excitement than this imperial “floating palace.” When Rushy Wakeman demonstrated the navigability of the San Francisco to Sacramento run in the record time of five hours, fifty minutes, the entire town of Sacramento exploded in celebration. Every merchant wanted to claim the El Dorado as his flagship. Out of the twenty-eight steamers that plied the river, the El Dorado was the sleekest and steamiest, and already Rushy knew he’d have more than a full passenger list on the return trip. If they recovered from the celebration in time.

“The destiny of Sacramento depends upon your presence!” exhorted a merchant at full blast into Rushy’s ear. The din of the exhorting and singing in the Fremont House was only equaled by the uproar of the horses racing down Front Street outside. Men pressed cups of whiskey upon the two partners in the hopes they would endorse their establishments, bring passengers there, and sign contracts to float their goods downriver.

Rushy had made a very smart deal indeed when he had submitted to the blackmailing charm of “Captain” Trueworthy, that educated and slick engineer from Troy, New York.

As the weeks passed while Field rebuilt the El Dorado’s engine in San Francisco, no more had been said about Rushy’s indiscretion with Sam Brannan’s wife. Nor was it mentioned that Rushy was probably not the original owner of the paddlewheel floating palace. In fact, right now Field was so full of his achievement he was hugging up Rushy something fierce. The thrill of having the aristocratic, taut, and lean body plastered up to his was enough to send Rushy to gulping yet another cup of the acrid liquid.

They were the big dogs of the tanyard.

Field bellowed at the top of his lungs, “This fellow here just named his racehorse after you, Rushy!”

Rushy lifted his cup to the merchant who alarmingly resembled San Brannan. Brannan had a large store two doors down Front Street.

Rushy had been enjoying viewing Captain Trueworthy working on the steamer engine. In this sweltering Indian summer that was hot enough to keep the wolves awake, Field worked manfully in the engine room with the iron pieces the welder brought aboard. Field would patiently explain every detail of every cylinder, boiler, and pump he was installing, but the fact of the business was, Field was wearing Rushy to a frazzle with his shirtless behavior. Glossy hair covered pectorals slick with sweaty oil. Rushy pretended to be interested in the ingenious engineering. Rushy put on a few airs about the leather piston rings, when really his mouth watered every time Field reached overhead, exposing the fluffy tufts nestled in his shimmering underarms.

Rushy had to stroke his own meat into oblivion while lying in his bunk at night in the texas, one thin bulkhead separating his cabin from Field’s. How pathetic he was, spewing streams of hot jism onto his own chest while dreaming of licking the athletic captain’s delicious prick. He primped up and displayed his own shirtless state to Field at every possible chance, but there was well-nigh a penguin’s chance in hell that Captain Trueworthy would respond favorably to an advance. Field was a blue-blooded Scottish engineer who was no doubt searching for a pristine virginal bride of impeccable manners. Not some cracker from the Talladega hill country of Alabama.

Not some man.

A whaling big crowd pressed them together now. Field was well-nigh cheek to cheek with Rushy as men jostled them from all sides.

“Now you’re glad we partnered up?” Field asked him cheerily.

“Nothing can beat it,” Rushy agreed.

“Captain Wakeman!” cried the fellow who resembled the shrewd, energetic Sam Brannan.

Rushy shook Field by the shoulders. “This here’s the captain. I’m only the pilot.”

“Whatever! I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance. I’m Samuel Brannan.”

Rushy numbly shook the proffered hand as he shared petrified glances with his partner. Did Brannan own the Fremont House?

Brannan continued, “I’d like to introduce you to the best girl, Catalina. As a bonus for your monumentally speedy journey from San Francisco.” Brannan, taller than most men in the room, searched around eagle-like for the best girl. “She’s a voluptuous and enticing gal with an ample duff that’ll ably fill your hands!” Brannan shaped his paws as though holding two melons.

Isn’t he supposed to be a Mormon? Didn’t Mormons abstain from, well, pretty much everything, including grabbing hookers in the bum?

Apparently Brannan was a new breed of Mormon, for it was a caution the way he got worked up looking for this Catalina piece of goods. “Catalina!” he bellowed to the four walls of the room that were choked with sweaty horse-racing enthusiasts. “Where’s my luscious blonde wildcat?”

Field elbowed Rushy in the ribs. “Wildcat.” He leered at the invisible woman. In his enthusiasm to screw a woman, Field even put his arm around Rushy’s shoulders, squeezing him so tight Rushy’s erect cock was pressed against Field’s hip.