Rivals (33 page)

“It's the sport of it that's drawn me here, I guess. The high-stakes gamble of it. It's a race of sorts—with the prize going to the fleetest, the cleverest, and the luckiest. And, it's going to take all three—a fast horse, smart riding, and Lady Luck on our shoulder—to claim the choice sites, especially the town lots.” He carefully avoided mentioning that nearly every would-be settler had brought his life savings with him—and that the sack in his saddlebags contained nearly two thousand dollars he'd managed to glean from them in the past two days during friendly games of chance.

“Is that what you want? A town lot?”

“Yes.”

“What will you do with it?”

“More than likely sell it to someone who arrived too late to claim one for himself—at a profit, of course.”

“Then you won't build on it?”

“No.”

“Exactly what is it that you do, Mr. Stuart?” She tilted her head to one side, regarding him curiously. “Back there, some man referred to you as ‘Blackjack' Stuart.”

“I'm a gambler by profession, Mrs. Morgan, and vingt-et-un, better known as blackjack, is my game…hence the name.”

“I see,” she murmured.

“I doubt that you do, Mrs. Morgan. A gambler's life is a lonely one. It isn't without compensations, however, for I have traveled the length and breadth of this country. St. Louis, San Francisco, New Orleans, New York…I've been to them all at one time or another—stayed at the finest hotels, dined at the best establishments, smoked imported cigars, and supped the best wines. Diamond stickpins, suits from a St. Louis tailor—I even own the fastest horse in the territory.” He nodded his head in the direction of the black stallion tied behind the buggy, impatiently pawing at the ground. “But all of life's luxuries are meaningless if you have to enjoy them alone.”

“I…I have heard that said before.” She tried not to let him see how much his words echoed her feelings.

“It's been my fate to be extraordinarily lucky at cards, but a woman's love has always eluded me.”

“I find that very difficult to believe, Mr. Stuart. Forgive my boldness, but you are a handsome man. I'm quite sure you could have your choice of women.”

“But it's been my misfortune that when I have found a woman I could love, she already belongs to someone else.”

…And he was looking directly into my eyes when he said that. It flustered me so, that I must admit I could think of no suitable reply. Although he didn't actually say that woman was I, his meaning was unmistakable. Under the circumstances, I had no choice but to take my leave of him. To stay might have led him to think I would welcome his advances. Which I do not. I am, after all, a married woman. Yet I did feel pleasure that another man—a stranger—could be attracted to me. I expect that is terribly vain of me to say, but it's true all the same
.

September 16, 1893

The most exciting thing has happened. Kell has secured seats for us on one of the passenger coaches. I shall get to see the start of the great Run after all. There has been so much confusion and rumor of late, saying first the trains will run, then they won't, then they will but only settlers with certificates can board—that I began to doubt I would witness the launching of these hordes of settlers. What a bitter disappointment that would have been, too, after spending this entire week here in Guthrie, caught up in the contagion—the madness—of the pending land rush, then not to see this moment in history
.

Now I shall. Unfortunately, Kell wasn't able to arrange for us to have a private car. They aren't allowed for some reason. I expect the authorities fear the owners of the private cars would profit from them by selling space to settlers and, thus, deprive the railroad company of revenue. Nevertheless we are going. I wonder if I shall see Jackson Stuart
.

Cordoned from the crush of fellow sightseers by a human wall of a half-dozen cowboys from the ranch, Ann sat on the very edge of her seat, facing the train's open window. She was certain that nothing in the annals of history could compare with the sight before her. Covered wagons, light buggies, two-wheeled carts, sulkies, horses and riders, heavy wagons drawn by oxen, and a few foolhardy souls on foot stretched in a ragged column as far as the eye could see—and each one positioned so close to the other that there wasn't space to walk between them.

On the train itself—three locomotives strong with forty-two cars in tow—there was barely room to breathe, let alone move. Settlers bound for the Strip literally packed the cattle cars, with more hanging off the slatted sides and piled on top of the cars. Not two windows from her seat, a man clung to the windowsill, his feet on a crossbar.

Just recalling the insane scramble that had ensued when the settlers had been allowed to board the train drew a shudder. It had been a veritable stampede, with everyone pushing and shoving, grabbing at anything and tearing clothes, knocking people down, then trampling on them, in ruthless disregard of age or sex. And there had been naught the poor trainmen and officials could do but stand back or be bowled over.

Now they all waited as the sun steadily climbed higher in the sky. Stationed in front of the endless long line, troopers of the U.S. Cavalry sat on their horses, standing guard until the appointed hour. Although, according to Kell, their presence hadn't been particularly effective the night before when hundreds of so-called sooners had eluded the cavalry patrols and illegally slipped across the line under the cover of darkness to lay claim on the choicest parcels “sooner” than anyone else.

“It's almost time, isn't it, Kell?” She gripped the fingers of his hand a little tighter, unable to take her eyes from the scene. So many people, yet all of them so still, so quiet, so tense, bodies and hearts straining—she could feel it. Unconsciously, she held her breath.

“Almost,” he confirmed.

At precisely high noon, the eight million acres known variously as the Cherokee Strip or the Cherokee Outlet would be thrown open to settlement. The morning newspaper claimed that over one hundred thousand settlers would enter the Strip from various gathering points along the northern and southern boundaries.

In the unearthly silence of the moment, the pounding of her heart sounded louder than the puffing chug of the idling train. Here and there an impatient steed pawed the ground or champed restlessly on the bit in its mouth. Noises that once would have been lost in the din of the thousands gathered here now sounded unnaturally loud, jangling nerves already thin with stress. Again, Ann scanned that long ragged line, certain that Jackson Stuart was among them somewhere—but where?

A hundred yards distant, a horse reared and lunged ahead of the column, the bright sunlight glinting on its shiny black neck, wet with sweat. The man upon its back effortlessly wheeled the anxious animal back into line—a man wearing a black hat and a gun strapped to his side, like so many of the other riders. Although she had only a brief glimpse of him before he was swallowed up by the line, Ann felt certain it was Jackson Stuart. She leaned closer to the window, trying to locate him again.

As the trumpeter blew the first sweet, swelling notes on his bugle, the staccato crack of rifle fire broke all the way up and down the line. Instantly the jagged line erupted, bursting forward in a seething rush of humanity. The thunder of thousands of pounding hooves, the rumble of rolling wheels, the rattle of moving wagons, the shriek of the locomotive's whistles, the neighs of panicked horses, and the yells, shouts, curses, and screams of the settlers all melded together into one terrific roar—a roar of agony and madness suddenly unleashed on the world, frightening in its fierceness and stunning in its volume. Red dust rose in a mighty cloud, momentarily enveloping the stampeding horde that left in its wake overturned wagons, fallen horses, and downed riders.

Paralyzed by the sight and sound of it, Ann stared. For an instant she was certain that all had been swept away by the billowing red sand. Then a scattered line of horsemen broke from the devilish cloud and raced with the wind ahead of it. And one of them—yes, one of them was Jackson Stuart. The fear that had knotted her nerves dissolved in a rush of relief. He was safe. More than that, he was in front, streaking across the prairie on his swift black stallion.

More and more wagons and riders emerged from the settling dust cloud and fanned across the empty plains, the horrendous din from their numbers fading to a rumble dominated by the fierce chugging of the train. Talk broke behind her in a flurry of awed comments.

“So many dreams racing across that prairie,” Chris murmured.

“But more than dreams will die before this day is over,” Kell replied in a hard, dry voice.

Jackson Stuart wouldn't be one of them. He was there in front, leading the way. He would succeed. Others might fail, but not he. Swept by a feeling of elation, Ann swung from the window to face her husband.

“It was glorious, Kell. Simply glorious. A sight never to be forgotten. An experience I wouldn't have missed for the world.” So much danger and excitement—observed from a safe distance, it was true, yet she'd been part of the moment, feeling the heat and the wind, the heart-pounding tension and strain, the thunderous roar of the masses and panicked need for speed.

“Then I'm glad I brought you with me.” His mouth curved slightly in one of his rare smiles. “Tomorrow we'll head home—back to Morgan's Walk—and enjoy a little peace and quiet for a change.”

He looked at me with so much love in his eyes that I felt ashamed of myself for wishing, even briefly, that we didn't have to return. What is wrong with me? I long to see my son again and hold him in my arms, yet I loathe the thought of spending day after day in that house again
.

22

A
blotch
of ink stained the remaining third of the page, giving Flame the impression that Ann Morgan had cast the pen down in agitation and frustration. She felt the same tormented mix of emotions, the same sense of dread. She had no desire to read more, certain she could guess the rest of it.

As she started to close the diary, she was pulled sharply back to the present by Ben Canon's remark: “Interesting reading, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she responded automatically, suddenly aware of the cheery crackle of the fire blazing brightly in the fireplace and the pungent aroma of pipe smoke drifting through the air.

Windowpanes, darkened by the shadows of evening beyond them, reflected the light from the lamps that had been turned on. From some other part of the house came the muted
bong
of a clock, slowly tolling the hour. Flame wondered if Ann Morgan had listened to that same bell mark hour after hour in this house.

“Would you like another cup of coffee, Flame?” The attorney stood next to the massive marble fireplace, a brier pipe loosely cupped in his hand. He used the chewed stem to point to the silver coffee service. “I made a fresh pot, so I can guarantee it won't be as strong as the last.”

A smile rounded his shiny cheeks, but the bright twinkle in his eyes had a sly look to it. Each time she looked at him, Flame expected to see pointy ears poking through the fringe of hair that ringed his bald crown. It was a bit of a surprise when she didn't.

“If you're gettin' hungry,” Charlie Rainwater volunteered, comfortably ensconced in the twin to her chair, positioned close to the hearth, “they'll be bringin' sandwiches over from the cook shack in another hour or so.”

“No, I don't care for anything.” She glanced down at the partially closed diary on her lap, the pages held apart by the finger she'd wedged between them. “And I don't think it's necessary to read any more of this journal. Obviously she abandoned her husband and ran off with this Jackson Stuart.”

“Nothing is obvious,” Ben Canon asserted with a certain knowing quality. “I suggest you read a little further. If you've passed the part about the land rush, then skip ahead to the month of—November, I believe it was, somewhere around the tenth.”

Irritation rippled through her. “Wouldn't it be quicker and simpler if you just told me what happened back then, Mr. Canon?”

“Yes,” he agreed quite readily. “But, under the circumstances,
Mrs. Stuart
, it would be better if you learned about it from a source other than myself. I wouldn't want to be accused of bias or prejudice.”

Flame responded to his smile with a glare, then directed her attention back to the diary. Fighting this strange sense of foreboding she had, she opened the book again and flipped ahead to pages bearing a November date.

November 9, 1893

Two absolutely wonderful things happened today! This morning at breakfast, Kell announced that we will go home to Kansas City for the holidays! I have longed for this, hoped for this, prayed for such a trip almost from the day I arrived here. That first year, we couldn't go because I was anticipating the arrival of my precious Johnny. And the second and third year, he was much too small to take on such a trip—and I couldn't leave him. And I don't think Papa would have welcomed me if I had come without his grandson. But this year, Johnny is a sturdy three-year-old, and we are going, all three of us. Kell has already made arrangements for us to have a private car for the journey. We will leave on the third of December and spend at least a month there
.

The holiday season in Kansas City…I can hardly wait. There will be so many parties and gatherings, so many festivities to attend, such a gay and glorious time we'll have
.

But what to take and what to wear? Living out here, I fear my dresses have become hopelessly outdated. I will have no choice but to peruse at length my most current issue of “Harper's” and see if I can rectify the problem. There is time to do nothing else, and I refuse to go back and have all my friends regard me as a country bumpkin
.