by Kit Morgan
Chase looked resigned. They both valued their friendship, both knew it was okay for them to disagree, but they also knew when to stay out of each other’s way. “So be it,” he finally said. At least they were working toward the same goal.
Mayor Hardt nodded and left the saloon, followed by the men who’d rather dig to save Noelle than marry. The remaining men, about thirty of them, gathered around the pulpit. “What we gonna do, Reverend?” Woody asked.
“We’re going to see who wants to get married to save the town.” He looked over the remaining men. “Well, can I get a show of hands?”
One by one, the hands slowly came up. Chase nodded to himself. “Then I guess it’s time for me to write a letter to Denver.”
“Who is in Denver?” Nacho asked.
Chase smiled. “One Genevieve Walters, gentlemen. She can provide us with mail-order brides.”
“Did ye hear that, gents?” Seamus called out. “Yer getting married!”
“Yahoo!” Silas Powell shouted, louder than the rest. “Does that mean drinks are on the house?”
Seamus’ smile vanished. “Uh, no.”
The men’s reverie died.
Seamus scratched his head. “But,” he drawled. “I suppose they will be when ye get yerselves married!”
The saloon erupted into cheers again.
Chase smiled and sighed as he watched the men congratulate each other on their future nuptials. They were an unlikely mix – from a British assayer to a man who got along better with mules and hens than people. “I’d better go write that letter.” He sighed again. “And I’d better make it a good one.”
* * *
Dear Mrs. Walters,
One of my fellow clergy told me of Denver’s Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs. I believe your organization is just what our town needs to become a community of virtuous men and women. To do that, our men need to be united in holy matrimony, start families and thus build a town of pure-hearted, respectable citizens …
Chase smiled at what he’d written so far, then promptly ducked as a half-filled glass of beer flew past his head. It hit the wall behind him hard, spraying shards and beer everywhere. Annoyed, he brushed several droplets from his shoulder and continued his letter as the usual Sunday afternoon brawl at the Golden Nugget went on as well.
… Noelle is a peaceful town surrounded by the purple majesty of the Rockies, pristine forests and flower-dotted meadows. Clear mountain streams and bubbling brooks cut through this serene paradise …
A miner reeled from a punch to the face, hit the reverend’s table, righted himself, then jumped back into the fray. Chase had barely managed to snatch his letter out of the way in time. He smoothed out the paper on the table and went back to writing.
… Noelle boasts a fine dry goods store and grocery, a livery stable and blacksmith’s shop, land office, post office, a doctor’s office, a newspaper and …
He tapped the end of the pen against his chin in thought as he glanced up at the half-dozen men duking it out in the middle of the floor. Most of the chairs had been placed against the walls with the tables in anticipation of the men’s post-church ritual. After all, they had to blow off steam sometime. He smiled and put pen to paper again.
… various entertainments. Currently we’re building a new church and look forward to a new schoolhouse …
Chase sighed. “Just as soon as we have some children to put in it.” He looked at the middle of the saloon again as the last two miners standing staggered about, then fell in a heap near the others.
… We have more than two dozen fine, upstanding men in need of virtuous wives. I pray you can help us and look forward to your reply.
Respectfully yours,
Rev. Chase Hammond
“Do ya think she’ll write back?”
Chase looked up at Woody Burnside. His blonde hair was mussed, his blue eyes hopeful. He hadn’t been involved in the men’s afternoon festivities, but stayed after church until Chase finished his letter. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Woody. She’ll write back.”
“How do ya know?”
Chase smiled. “She has women in need of husbands, and we have men in need of brides. That’s what you call a match made in heaven.” He folded the letter, placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket and went to find an envelope.
Chapter Two
The Golden Nugget Saloon, September 1876
To the most respectable Rev. Hammond:
I am in receipt of your request to secure candidates for the purpose of matrimony from the ladies here at Denver’s Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs. We are founded on the Church, and our ladies represent the epitome of wholesomeness and health, capable of aiding in the establishment of home, church and education in your town.
Be assured that the women under my care are the finest specimens, skilled in the ways of hearth and home, with the determination and perseverance needed to meet the challenges presented in establishing a civil community in this new frontier.
I am encouraged by your letter, which illustrated the foundational aspects needed to create the ideal community which my ladies seek and so richly deserve. With the highest standards in honesty and decency, they are sure to make for long and satisfying marriages, which is our sole purpose.
Therefore, it saddens me to inform you that I have only 12 candidates able to make the journey to your fair town of Noelle. It has taken me some weeks to achieve that number, but hope to have more in the months to come. In the meantime, I await further details on the prospective bachelors, expertly selected through you by God’s holy hand and His grace. Together we will press forward to serving Him in this most humble and important endeavor.
Respectfully,
Mrs. Genevieve M. Walters
Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs
Chase lowered the letter after reading it aloud and scanned the town meeting he’d called. Half stood in stunned silence, while the other half slowly came to life.
“Twelve! Ya mean there ain’t gonna be enough?” Silas Powell yelled, then spat on the floor.
“Does that mean we gotta share?” another miner asked.
Chase pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it does not mean that you have to share,” he said emphatically. He lowered his hand and looked at the men. “What it means is that to make things fair, we’ll draw straws.”
“Draw straws – how is that fair?” another miner yelled.
Jack Peregrine looked at the angry miner next to him. “It’s as fair as it’s gonna be.” He glanced around the saloon. “Seamus, do you have a broom?”
Seamus nodded and ducked into the back, emerging a moment later with the broom and handing it to Jack.
“We’ll need twenty-four,” Chase told Jack after counting the men.
Jack nodded, leaned against the bar and started plucking bristles from Seamus’ broom. He’d lost his left leg during the War Between the States. He now had a carpentry shop at the back of the post/freight office where he made various things, including wooden legs that he shipped to other war amputees. Having a wooden leg was the only reason Jack didn’t use a crutch.
He was also one of the men who’d benefit most by not having to pack everything up and leave Noelle. Besides the missing limb, he had a grandfather missing half his mind. Jack, his younger brother Max and Grandpa Gus managed to get along fine, but that didn’t mean the other men weren’t going to feel put out if Jack drew a bride.
Never mind that he was six feet tall and strong as an ox from a life of never ending work. Lifting freight was only one of his many tasks. He also chopped down trees then meticulously sawed and sanded them into useful objects. But in some folks’ eyes he was just a cripple, inferior, and no facts would change that.
Horatio Smythe the newspaper editor watched Jack with interest and twirled his finely waxed mustache. In his eyes, everyone was inferior. Everyone knew Horatio was more interested in his appearance than anything else, and would fight to get a bride if only to make himself look good. Right
now the only thing that did – at least according to Horatio – was his prim mustache and fancy wardrobe. Oh, and that he smelled nice.
He turned to Doc Deane. Both men had a wiry build, but the doctor’s hair was long and almost black, whereas Horatio’s was a lighter brown and short. “Do you think there’ll be a fight?”
“Depends,” Doc Deane rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. “Are you gonna start one?”
“Me? Don’t be absurd,” Horatio watched Jack limp forward and hand the reverend a handful of broom bristles.
Chase took them and proceeded to count out twelve. He snapped the ends off those he’d selected, mixed them in with the rest and tapped the bundle on the bar to make them uniform. “All right, who’s going to draw first?”
“You should,” Percy declared loud enough to get everyone’s attention. Once he had it, he gave his jacket a tug and straightened. Everyone cringed at the action. It usually meant an appalling speech was on its way.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. “It’s my duty …” he began in his high-pitched nasal whine. Several men near him covered their ears. “… as a duly appointed representative of the railroad, to see to it that …”
“Just make it short, Percy,” Chase interrupted. Most of the men already knew Percy’s uncle was J.P. Penworthy, a big wheel with the railroad.
Percy adjusted his pince-nez. “… to see to it that they get results.”
“Results?” Chase said as his eyes darted over the motley assembly. “What kind of results?”
“That these men be married in a timely manner after their mail-order brides arrive. You’ve set out to make this town respectable, Reverend – now you’d best see it done. The railroad demands all men be married by the appointed deadline.”
“Deadline?” Chase said in surprise. “I wasn’t told about any deadline!”
“I’m telling you now,” Percy said proudly. “No deadline, no railroad.”
Everyone, even the fastidious Horatio, stared at him in shock. “What’s the deadline?” Ezra asked.
“January 6, the year of our Lord 1877.”
“But … this is September!” Chase protested. “That’s barely more than three months away! The men haven’t even written to their brides yet – they don’t even know who their brides are!”
“Then they’d best hurry and start their correspondence, hadn’t they?” Percy said. “That is the deal, Reverend. Take it or leave it.” He glanced around the room. “Unless, of course, Mayor Hardt has managed to find more gold.”
The men grumbled and looked at the floor, at the walls, at anything but Percy.
“Just as I thought,” Percy said with a smirk. “That being the case, an unwed mayor isn’t what I’d call respectable, is it?”
Chase stared at him in shock. Of course he and Percy had thought of ordering Charlie a bride – Lord knew the man could use a good woman in his life. But Charlie was so against the idea and Chase didn’t want to push him. But marry Charlie off just to get the railroad?
“Nor an unwed preacher,” Percy tossed in for good measure.
Chase paled. Being single was one of the benefits of preaching in Noelle. Most towns wanted a married preacher, but Chase wasn’t ready to get married, so this place had suited him quite nicely. Besides, he’d rather wait and get married once Noelle became more … respectable.
“Now wait just a doggone minute.” Liam Fulton, owner of the dry goods store, stepped forward. “There’s only twelve straws and twice as many of us. I can see maybe the mayor having to get married to make the railroad happy, but then that leaves only eleven brides.”
Percy frowned. “To make the railroad really happy, all of you would marry. But I’ll wire my uncle and let him know you’ve only twelve brides to work with at the onset. I’m sure he’ll deem it a suitable number. But that means all twelve must be married and settled by the deadline.”
“Then let the reverend get hitched the next go-round,” someone in the crowd suggested.
“I say they draw like the rest of us chaps,” Hugh Montgomery put in. “What they get is what they get. Even if it means that leaves only ten brides. Should they be lucky enough to draw a winning straw, that is.”
“Very well, then – let them draw like everyone else,” Percy said. “But it doesn’t change that my uncle wants this town to meet his deadline.”
Chase glanced at the ceiling, then faced the men once more. “Okay, we draw like everyone else. Speaking for the mayor and myself, we just want to get the railroad here, regardless of how.” His eyes darted around the room. “Where is Mayor Hardt?”
“Maybe he is up at his mine,” Nacho volunteered. “Who knows? I have not seen him for days.”
Chase nodded at Jack. “Well then, we need two more straws.” He looked over the men once more. “You’d best let me be the one to tell Mayor Hardt if he wins.”
The men glanced at one another, then at Percy, who was busy smirking. No one envied the thought of informing Mayor Hardt that Percy’s uncle wanted to see him wed. Or had it been Percy’s idea, and the little rat had somehow managed to talk his uncle into it? Who knew? What the men did know was the term “deadline.”
Chase knew it too as he held the handful of bristles, now numbering twenty-six, in front of him. He took a deep breath and drew one for himself, then one for Charlie, praying the latter didn’t shoot him the moment he learned what was done on his behalf. He looked at the men. “Come forward, take a straw and keep it to yourself until every man has one, is that clear? Short straws win a bride.”
One by one the men plucked a bristle from his hand and, hiding it between their palms, stepped back. Meanwhile, Percy perched himself on a barstool next to Chase. “All right, gentlemen,” Percy said in his signature nasal whine when the last man moved away. “Everyone ready?”
Chase nodded in annoyance. “Okay, I’ll go first.” He held up his straw – long – then Charlie’s – short. Oh boy. He looked at Culver Daniels. “Culver, let’s see yours.”
Culver blew out a nervous breath and held his straw up. “Looks like a short one.”
Chase sensed the rest of the crowd was getting restless. “Aw, heck – everyone, show me your straws.”
The remaining men held up their straws and began to compare them. A few whooped, while others cursed their bad luck, depending on their hopes. Jack and several others appeared both relieved and worried to have drawn a short straw. Horatio, on the other hand, looked thrilled at his. “Well, well – some lady is about to be very lucky.” He stroked his waxed mustache with a flourish.
Chase sighed at the straw he’d drawn for himself – long – and Charlie – short. He wondered how he might break the “good news” to his friend. Maybe he’d get lucky and Charlie would stay up at his mine for the next couple of months. But that wouldn’t suit the deadline – and it meant he’d have to write Charlie’s letter to his bride. Which under the circumstances might not be such a bad idea, but …
He ran a hand through his hair. Best get back to the business at hand. “All right, calm down, everyone. If you drew a long straw, better luck next time. Remember, Mrs. Walters said she’ll do what she can to get more brides.”
“Yeah, but when’s that gonna be?” a disgruntled loser groused as he tossed his long straw on the rough-hewn floor.
“There’s no pleasing everyone, Preacher,” Seamus consoled quietly from behind. “Ye’re doing yer best, as is Mrs. Walters. But now there’s this deadline to deal with. Best ye concentrate on that, lad.”
“Thank you, Seamus, you’re right.” He took a deep breath. “Gentlemen, those of you that have to wait, I know you’ll get along fine until then. The rest need to write a letter telling a future bride about yourself. Pronto – I want all letters delivered to me here by noon tomorrow.”
“What?!” Silas Powell screeched. “But I … I …” He didn’t finish, just ran out of the saloon.
Some of the men erupted into laughter. “Poor Silas,” someone said. “He never was real g
ood at talkin’ purty. No wonder he’s in a panic!”
“Tomorrow?” Horatio scoffed with an oily smile and glanced at the other winners. “Why, it will take Woody at least three days to pen his letter.” Some other men fell out laughing.
Woody’s blue eyes were downcast as his face turned red. He eyed the fop, jaw moving as if he was deciding whether to punch him or not.
Nacho put a hand on Woody’s shoulder. “Do not let him get to you, amigo. He would like to get you into trouble, si? Besides, you drew a bride!”
Woody swallowed hard and relaxed. “You too.”
Nacho grinned ear to ear as he nodded. “This calls for a celebration. I make us something to eat and we write our letters together, si?”
Woody smiled again and nodded. “Thanks, Nacho.”
“Any time, amigo, any time.” The two headed for the double doors of the saloon.
“Mind if I join you?” Culver Daniels asked.
“Not at all! More is good!” Nacho said happily. “I make plenty for us to eat and celebrate!”
Culver nodded and followed them out. The rest of the men began to scramble for the doors as well, all eager to get home and write their future brides, whomever they might be.
Chapter Three
Once the men were gone, Chase slowly climbed the stairs to his room. Once there he plopped into the nearest chair, reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a second letter from Mrs. Walters. They had been corresponding the last two months, but this letter, which he’d received yesterday, was the one he’d been waiting for. He’d kept it and her previous letter, the one he’d read aloud, to himself until tonight’s meeting. Now that he had his list of grooms, he could proceed.
