Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (2 page)

Katy looked down the rutted, deserted street of Trinity, Montana Territory. Weeds had sprung up in the road since the heavy spring rain. The town looked peaceful, a contrast with the boisterous days of eight months ago when they had first arrived. Then, Trinity had been a mining town filled to capacity with men seeking to fulfill their dreams of making the big strike. The tall, false-fronted saloons with rooms upstairs, the store, the boardinghouse for single miners, the washhouse, and the eateries, all had done a thriving business.

Across the street and farther down was a square log building known as “the girlie house.” It, too, had enjoyed five years of prosperity. When the hopes of Trinity’s becoming another booming gold-mining town faded, and the miners left to pursue their dreams elsewhere, the good-time girls had followed.

“It’s scary knowing he’s here and having him ignore us. Oh, there he is. He’s carrying a big hammer. The dog follows every move he makes.”

“I should go over there and ask him to help us get out of here.”

“Oh, no! If he were a decent sort of man, he’d have come and paid his respects.” Mary sat down in the rocker. Theresa climbed up into her lap. “He might think we have men working downstream.”

“Fiddle!” Katy snorted. “He knows the men deserted this town like rats fleeing a sinking ship once the mine started petering out. And as far as his being
decent
—we’re more likely to find a cow in a tree than a decent man out here.”

“Roy will be back, Katy. I know you don’t think he’s much of a man, but he’d be back here like a shot if he knew everyone had left.”

“Wherever Roy is, he must have gotten word that the mine played-out here.” What Katy wanted to say was that Roy would be off like a shot to anyplace he had heard of that had a gold strike, no matter how small. His wife, daughter, and sister-in-law were his least concern.

Katy glanced up at the rifle that hung on the wall out of the reach of Theresa. She had placed it there when they had moved down from the shack on the hill into this building— the most solidly built in town except for the small stone jail. The man who had built this structure had been a carpenter and funeral director. The big, black-lettered sign in front said: GROG’S FUNERARY. Here, Grog had put together tables, chairs, wardrobes, beds, burial boxes, and laid out the dead when they were brought to him. He had left a box behind when he moved on. It was now Theresa’s bed.

“Deliver me from a man with gold fever,” Katy said crossly. “We can’t wait here much longer. If not for the supplies we bought from the store man before he left, and for our scavenging the deserted houses, we’d starve. Thank goodness we’ve got ammunition for the rifle.”

“How can we leave? We don’t have a horse.”

Until recently, Mary had always looked younger than her twenty-five years. Now, the years of following her husband from mining camp to mining camp, and the loss of two children who had not come to full term had taken their toll. Faint lines of strain had appeared between her brows and at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her face often had a pensive look, and shadows of worry ringed her eyes.

“We have the cow the Flannerys left behind when they rushed off to the next gold strike,” Katy said. When she saw big tears flooding her sister’s eyes, she attempted to lighten her mood by adding, “We’ll hitch Mable to the wagon.”

“Oh, poo!” Mary hugged her daughter to her. “Your Aunt Katy can say the silliest things.”

“Mable ain’t a horse.” Theresa looked at her aunt with a puzzled expression.

“Isn’t a horse, honey,” Mary corrected absently.

“We may have to walk. That would mean leaving everything behind except what we can carry. If we go due south, we
may
reach a stage station. If we go northwest, we
may
reach Bannack.”

“We
may
run into Indians,” Mary said softly, her hand over her daughter’s ear.

“Sister, we’re in a hell of a mess.”

“Oh, Katy! Let’s not allow ourselves to be
crude.
”

“Crude, my foot! I’m twenty-one years old. I’ve the right to be crude if I want to.”

Katy’s wide mouth, its lower lip fuller and softer than the upper one, turned down at the corners as her blue-gray eyes, deep set and slightly tilted at the outer corners, roved over her sister and niece. It hurt that her gentle sister, with her love for reading, writing, and music, should come to this. Here they sat in a deserted town waiting for Roy Stanton to remember where he had left them.

“We’ll have to bring up more water tonight. We can’t allow the cow to go dry.”

“We can lead her down to the stream and let her drink her fill.”

“We could, if not for bushy-face.”

“Do you think he’s waiting his chance to . . . have his way with us?”

“If he is, he’s in for a surprise.” Katy patted her pocket. She had used the little pistol more than once to discourage amorous, woman-hungry miners.

Katy looked around the funeral parlor they had made into a home. It was as comfortable as the rooms they had in Laramie, thanks to all the discards left by the gold-seeking crowd. They had two beds, a sheet-iron cookstove, table, chairs, a rocker, a round potbellied stove for heat. They had a good assortment of nice, heavy china and a variety of cooking pots. At first they had been hesitant about taking anything from the deserted buildings. But after they had been alone for a month, seeing what they could find became a game. They had even found a sack of potatoes that Mary eyed and planted in a little patch. Gathering firewood and bringing water up from the stream was an everyday chore, because the rope and pulley were gone from the well.

Katy held her hand out to Theresa, and the child jumped from her mother’s lap. “Come on, ladybug. Let’s go out and pull some grass for Mable. She’s been feeding us; we’ve got to do our best for her.”

“Do you think you should go out with
him
out there, Katy?”

“He’s been here all this time and hasn’t bothered us.”

“Maybe he hasn’t been here all this time. Maybe he goes someplace and comes back.”

“Where would he go? There isn’t a town within fifty miles of here. Don’t worry. I tied Mable near the side door. The front door is barred and the rifle is loaded in case you should need it. You can watch out the window, and if you see him coming, you can yell.”

“Leave the door open.”

“I don’t think he’ll bother us. He’s probably some old prospector scavenging for what he can find.”

“He didn’t look like a prospector when he rode in. He had a good horse.”

“He also had two pack mules.”

“Why are we scared of the man, Mamma?” Theresa’s small hands cupped her mother’s face and turned it toward her to get her attention.

“We don’t know him, honey.”

“Maybe he’s seen Papa. Can I ask him?”

“No. If he had a message from Papa, he’d have come and told us. Papa will come for us soon.” Mary looked at her daughter with a sympathetic smile. “Maybe he’ll bring you a pretty.”

“I want a music box.”

“You’ve got your sights set high.”

“Cow in the tree again,” Katy muttered and turned her face away, knowing the dislike she felt for Roy Stanton was mirrored there. “why don’t you write in your journal while we’re gone?”

“I don’t know why I keep writing in it. There hasn’t been anything good to write about for a long time.”

“Someday you can write a book about two beautiful sisters and a golden-haired child who were left in a deserted mining town.” Katy threw her arms wide in a dramatic gesture, bowed to her audience, and began to speak. “Friends, let me introduce myself. My name is Katherine Louise Burns, and I’m here to tell you a tale written by Mrs. Mary Theresa Burns Stanton.”

Mary and Theresa clapped their hands as they always did when Katy was play acting.

“Alas!” Katy continued. “The ladies were the only residents of the town of Trinity in Montana Territory.” Katy clasped her hands to her breast with an expression of deep sorrow on her face. “One day they heard the sound of a bugle, and lo”—she shaded her eyes with her hand and turned from side to side—“a knight with a purple plume on his helmet came riding into town on a white steed. Behind him came a coach drawn by . . . six pink cows.”

“Cows aren’t pink,” Theresa shouted. “You’re silly, Aunt Katy.”

“Who said that cows can’t be pink, ladybug?” Katy stood with her hands on her hips and glared at her niece. “I can have pink cows if I want to. Just for that I’ll not let you ride in my coach. So there!”

“I will too ride in your coach.”

“You will not. You can ride on one of the cows. Come on, we’ll practice on Mable.”

“Be careful,” Mary called as they went out the side door.

Mary went to the window again. Her soft brown eyes searched up and down the rutted street where already the weeds were growing. At first she failed to see the dog who lay as still as a rock in the shade next to the stone building that had served as a jail. She saw him when he snapped at a pesky fly and knew the man was nearby. If he was in the jail, she reasoned, he would not see Katy and Theresa pulling grass for the cow.

Mary was still wondering about the bearded man when she lifted the lid of her humpbacked trunk and took out the journal. The book was an inch thick, and more than half the pages were filled with small, neat script. It was one of Mary’s most precious possessions. The first entry had been made eight years ago when she and Roy Stanton were married in Montgomery, Alabama. She had recorded the first few happy months of their marriage. Later in the journal she had mentioned her husband’s inability to adjust to the New South. Another entry told of the Stanton Plantation going on the auction block and falling into the hands of a Northerner. That was the final blow to Roy’s pride. His dream of making enough money to go back and reclaim the house and land had brought them to the gold fields. All of this was neatly recorded in the journal.

Pulling the chair close to the window, Mary sat down with the book in her lap.

“Oh, Mamma, you wanted me to marry into a fine Southern family, and look what it got me into.” She did not realize that she had spoken aloud until she heard her own voice. Roy was not prepared to take responsibility for a wife and a child. He’d always had everything he wanted without lifting a finger. He had even paid for someone to fight in his place during the War. Now he was off chasing a dream of finding riches, and she and Theresa would be here alone if not for Katy.

Mary seldom let herself think about how disappointed she was in the man she had married, or how different her life might have been had she married another man or remained a spinster. She had chosen Roy, for better or for worse, and her marriage vows were sacred to her. She could thank him for Theresa. Her child was worth all the heartache she had suffered. Mary turned from those dark thoughts, opened the journal and began to read an entry she had made almost five years ago.

Cripple Creek, Colorado Territory, June 14, 1868.

Today I received the news that Mamma is gone. Oh, but I wish I could have been with her at the last. Katy said she didn’t suffer as Papa had. I’m grateful for that. Katy and I are all that is left of the family. My dear brothers, Roger and Clifford, died at Gettysburg, a place I never heard of before, and Papa died of apoplexy brought on by a broken heart. Katy wants to come out here to be near me. I’m so ashamed to have her see this hovel we live in. But, oh, I want her to come. I’m so lonesome that at times I could die.

Black Hawk, Colorado Territory, May 5, 1869.

Katy has arrived at last. It is so good to see her that I keep looking at her and touching her to make sure she is really here. She is so fresh-looking and beautiful. Some of the men here in the camp have shaved and even put on clean shirts hoping that she will notice them, but she pays them no mind. I know she is shocked by the living conditions here, but, bless her, she hasn’t let on. Roy was angry when he found out my bleeding had stopped. I hope he will stay here at least until the baby comes.

Mary continued to thumb through the journal, reading entries she had made in places called Breckenridge, Bonanza, Myrtle Gulch, Laramie, Virginia City, and finally Trinity.

Trinity, Montana Territory, September 5, 1873.

This is the wildest place we have ever been. There are two saloons and a girlie house. The women parade themselves out front all hours of the day and night. As many people are on the street at midnight as at noon. I don’t understand why Roy brought us here. We should have stayed in Laramie. Katy had a teaching job at the orphanage. Mrs. Gallagher said I could stay and help with the children. Roy was embarrassed that his wife would work for wages. He insisted that Theresa and I come with him. I think it was because he didn’t want to go back and face the Gallaghers after Pack told him the mining camps were no place to take a family. Katy came with us, although I know she is seething with resentment. Roy found a place for us in a crude log-hut up above the town.

Trinity, December 25, 1873.

I’m lying abed. I lost another babe. Oh, the poor little thing. It is so cold here that I don’t know if it would have lived anyway. Theresa has to stay in bed with me to keep warm. Roy gave me a blue-ribboned bonnet and Theresa a pair of slippers for Christmas. When will I ever wear a ribboned bonnet? Theresa will outgrow the slippers before spring. Roy is so impractical. He and Katy had cross words again this morning. She is angry at him for spending so much time and money down at the saloon. We’re almost out of firewood. It isn’t fair that Katy must do so much. Oh, I wonder where we will be when another Christmas comes around again.

April 5, 1874.

Roy used the last of our money to buy supplies to go into the hills and look for gold. He’s sure that he’ll find it this time. I’m so ashamed. I know now why he wanted us to come with him. He knew Katy would come. She has a little money, and he knows that she’ll not let me and Theresa go hungry. He says the mine here is playing out and that he wants to get the jump on the others. He has promised to be gone only a few weeks. He is like a small boy looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He wants riches without working for them.