by Zina Abbott
The cloth still covering his face, Hank cringed as the door to the kitchen opened with a jerk. He suspected his sister-in-law now stood inside the doorjamb on the kitchen floor. It served as a strategic move since it placed her on a step above him. He turned and slid the fabric down until he caught sight of Della, wearing her typical indigo blue silk gown, filling the doorway. He didn't have to study her face to know he would find a scowl there.
“Make sure you wash up good, Hank. I don't want you trailing any dirt through my house. Dinner's almost ready to be served, so you better change your clothes quick.”
Hank grunted his reply. He gritted his teeth to keep from saying what he really thought. He sighed with relief as she spun on the ball of her foot—no small feat for a woman her size—and slammed the door behind her.
There was no love lost between him and Della, and they both knew it. She resented him staying in the house now that his business had failed and he worked as a common laborer—a position he knew she had insisted on instead of the available foreman job which he’d already refused when Louis asked him about it. He realized what she really feared was that her husband would soften and later offer him more responsible positions, giving him a greater say in the business—and a greater portion of the profits.
Hank knew, even if his older brother were to do such a thing, he would refuse to accept. Nothing about the brick-making business had ever attracted Hank. A sensitivity to dust had plagued him during his childhood. Unless snow or mud covered the ground, boyhood trips to the brickyard with his father had meant bouts of wheezing and coughing until he had spent hours in his room at home for his body to work the irritants out of his lungs. Fortunately, he outgrew it. Although now he tolerated the dust, his childhood experiences had left a negative lasting impression as far as making bricks his life’s work.
Hank’s only aim regarding his job at the brickyard was to save as much money as possible in order to try his hand at another store selling stationary and books. After all, he was too tired after working at the brickyard to pursue his writing—his greatest career goal. One of the benefits of running a retail shop, especially one did not have a steady stream of customers, was it allowed him to mull over what words he wished to commit to paper. He easily fit in a few paragraphs between customers and business tasks.
Unfortunately, he had tried his luck in his home city. His former store, the second floor of which had served as his living quarters, had been located in the heart of Salt Lake City two blocks from Temple Square. Hank grumbled an expletive under his breath at the thought. Those Mormons belonging to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, who called themselves “saints” and who made up most of the city population, tended to buy from their own rather than “gentiles,” which was what they called those not of their faith. Even though the non-Mormons controlled the local and state government—not to mention most of the financial and political institutions in Utah now—in comparison, their numbers were few. There had not been enough of them to keep his business solvent. He knew he needed either to find a good-sized town elsewhere in Utah that did not have a large Mormon population or relocate in another state.
The thought of living someplace where his path and Della’s would never cross inspired in Hank the desire and motivation to move far away from Salt Lake City.
Hank entered the kitchen. Before he hurried into the small room off the kitchen that served as his bedroom, he nodded briefly to the cook and one of the maids that helped to set the food on the table. Actually, dear old Della had assigned him that room, claiming that she did not want him trailing brick dust through the main house and up the stairs to one of the family bedrooms. His room suited him fine. The fewer opportunities to come in contact with either his brother or his sister-in-law, not to mention their three inept young children, the better.
Hank quickly stripped and tossed his dirty clothing into the corner of the room. No sense giving it any special treatment. He would take them outside to shake them one last time before he aired them overnight. In the morning he would put them on again to wear to the brickyard. Della let him know the day he moved into his brother’s house he was responsible for doing his own laundry or paying to have it sent out. She would not allow him to add his clothes to the family laundry. He handled that by waiting until his work clothing stank so bad not even he could stand the smell any longer. Only then did he take them to be washed.
Dressed as informally as he dared to, Hank joined the family for the evening meal. As he entered the formal dining room and headed for the chair next to his seven-year-old nephew named after his father, he once again suppressed his grimace. He knew if Della had her way, he would be consigned to eat in the kitchen with the hired help. However, as much as Della had been less than delighted for Hank to move in with them so he could be within walking distance to the brickyard, in a rare show of assertiveness, his brother had informed his wife that Hank would join them at the supper table. Evidently, Louis’s fear of censure at the hands of their father overrode his reluctance for dealing his wife’s criticism. His hands folded in his lap, Hank waited for Della to give the cue that it was time to begin eating.
As usual, hardly any conversation took place at the supper table. Hank had already figured out his brother had little more to say to his wife than Hank did. However, having her as his choice of wife had suited Louis when they married. At the time, the elder Louis Cauley suffered his first attack of apoplexy which left him partially paralyzed and unable to speak coherently for months. Between that and the nationwide business recession that had made its way to the West, Hank had been called home from college back east. At his father’s request, Louis had courted and married Della, the spinster daughter of their father’s business associate. It was her money that kept the family from losing the brickyard and sinking into destitution. Della knew this, and she never failed to use this knowledge to her advantage.
Upset over the interruption of his studies, Hank had found employment as a manager at a local department store in Salt Lake City rather than work in the family business under his brother’s thumb. Being forced to accept a job with his brother in recent months had been a bitter pill to swallow.
Hank had almost finished his supper when Louis cleared his throat. With a growing sense of trepidation, Hank slowly turned his head to look at his brother, and then he glanced at his sister-in-law. The look of expectation on Della’s face did nothing to calm his apprehension.
“Hank, I recently became aware of an opportunity that Della and I think might suit you. As you know, I have kept in touch with our territorial Congressional representative to Washington, D.C. There was a big mining disaster up in the Uinta Mountains a few months back in a place called Wildcat Ridge. You might have read about it since it was in the papers for several days. It left behind a town with very few surviving men and a lot of women who have not moved on.”
Hank wanted to snap at his brother and demand to know when he would have had the time and energy to read the newspaper, especially since Della made it a point to keep the Deseret News that arrived at the house in their private rooms to which Hank did not have access. At this point in his life, he considered buying a newspaper a frivolous expense, since it would take away from his saving towards his next business venture. Instead, he forced himself to stay silent and listen.
“One of the men killed was the postmaster. He wasn’t a miner, but he took part in the rescue attempt that ended up claiming the lives of a lot of merchants and businessmen in town. With enough people still there to justify a post office, and the position now open, the government is looking for someone who is willing to move to such a remote location to fill it. Since it is a small office without mail delivery every day with only a minimal monthly salary, it means you would need to live frugally on the income provided. I…” Louis glanced across the table at his wife. “We thought it would be a good opportunity for you, since you do not seem to wish a future in the brick business.”
Hank fought down the surge
of excitement welling up within him. This position held great possibilities. It would bring in a steady source of income—money over which he had complete control—for a job that would leave him enough freedom to pursue his own desired career. He could find a small retail space and once again open his shop. He could use the leftover inventory he had crated up and stacked in both his room and a back wall of a storeroom at the brickyard. If the post office building was big enough, he could sell his inventory there. Most importantly, he would have time to finish his novel he had almost completed before he had been forced out of his shop and into a job working for his brother. No, he would do that before he left.
A quick glance at the smirk of satisfaction on Della’s face told him she was the mastermind behind him being offered a position far away from Salt Lake City—completely disassociated from the business she wanted to eventually go to her son, Louis Junior, rather than to Hank. For once, he felt grateful he had not indulged in his usual hair-trigger tendency to act—often over-react—to a situation. It would never do to let Della know he welcomed the prospect.
Hank slammed his open palm on the table next to his plate and, with a scowl on his face, half-rose from his chair. “What are you trying to pull here, Louis? Pushing me out of Salt Lake City and away from our family? What on earth makes you think I’d be willing to move to—where did you say this place is? Wildcat Ridge? What kind of a name for a town is that?”
“Hank Cauley, how dare you. That will be quite enough. I will not allow you to exhibit such unrefined behavior in front of my children.”
Hank looked over at Della who, her lips pinched, rose from her chair. Good, he thought, he had gotten exactly the reaction from Della for which he had hoped. He suspected she now would move heaven and earth to see that he was awarded the postmaster position so he would be pressured to leave his miserable job at the brickyard behind.
Hank looked across the table at his two wide-eyed nieces, five and almost four in age, as they sat motionless. Clutching their forks, they both stared at him. It was hard to imagine either of these sweet girls turning out like their mother. However, with her as their example, one never knew. Next, he looked down at his brow-beaten nephew, his father’s heir, who shrank away from Hank and his outburst. He felt the urge to shake the boy and tell him he needed to toughen up if he planned to take over his father’s business one day. The effort would be wasted. The boy was still young, and there was nothing positive he could tell him that wouldn’t be immediately countermanded by his mother. His attention again turned to Della who held her hands out to her brood. “Come, children. It appears you are finished with supper, anyway. We will ask Cook to send your dessert up to the nursery so your father can talk some sense into your uncle.”
As Della led her children from the dining room, she tossed one final glower in Hank’s direction. He sat back down in his chair and placed his hands in his lap. Perhaps, in the process of putting on a show for their parents, he should not have frightened his nephew and nieces. However, what was done was done, and it set him on the road to his future. He fought the urge to feel jubilant.
Turning to Louis, Hank remembered to put a frown on his face for his brother’s benefit. He dared not let him know the excitement he felt over this opportunity. If Louis knew, and accidently let it slip to Della, she would make a point to prevent him from being awarded the postmaster position. He leaned towards his brother. “Tell me what you know about this place where you plan to banish me.”
Hank watched as Louis lifted an eyebrow and studied him with a doubtful expression. Drat! His brother knew him too well. He worried Louis had figured out he was not as upset about the prospect of becoming a postmaster in a small town in the middle of nowhere as he wished everyone in the family to believe. If so, Hank hoped his brother did not share such suspicions with his wife.
“Like I told you, it is high in the Uinta Mountains, maybe thirty to forty miles south of Evanston. They used to have a train run there, but it no longer serves Wildcat Ridge since the mine owner decided to not reopen the mine. That’s why the Wells Fargo stagecoach picks up and delivers the mail twice a week on its normal runs.”
Definitely not a full-time position, Hank realized. Just what he needed. “What’s happening to the mail now that there’s no postmaster? Are they holding it somewhere else?”
“No, I think the deceased postmaster’s widow has temporarily taken over. However, the position is technically vacant. I imagine it is a strain for her to take that on, especially if she has a household full of children to tend. I’m sure she’ll be happy to be relieved of the responsibility.”
“When would the job start?”
“I believe the first of September. They are allowing enough time to receive letters of application from interested parties. The representative will then award the position based on his considerations. Postmaster jobs are offered based on political patronage, Hank, in case you don’t know. Fortunately, he and I are in the same political party, and I did contribute to his last campaign.”
Hank sat back as he considered this information. Being granted the postmaster job in a large city might be a rich reward in exchange for political support. However, for a small town like what his brother described, maybe not so much. “If the mine disaster killed that many men and ruined the owner and investors, what makes you think the town will keep going?” Hank watched Louis exhibit the hint of a disparaging expression and shook his head.
“A lot of men are dead, but the owner and main investor is a man named Mortimer Crane, and he is getting along just fine. He has more than one mine in northern Utah and other businesses that bring him to Salt Lake City on occasion. He owns most of the land in Wildcat Ridge and goes there periodically to collect rents and run a few of his non-mining enterprises in town. A few people in the area are building up businesses independent of Crane’s control, which I understand annoys the man to no end. If you do accept this position, I will offer a word of warning. From the little I’ve heard about Mortimer Crane, he can be a shady character who surrounds himself with hooligans to do his dirty work. You’ll want to be careful about doing business with him.”
Hank had run into bullies all his life. He refused to be intimidated by them, in spite of most of them being bigger and stronger than he was. Now was not the time to remind Louis of this. “You don’t make going to this town and dealing with someone like that sound very appealing.”
“Knowing you, Mr. Crane and his men you can handle. What I am concerned about is that the job is part-time, at best. I worry about your willingness to live on a restricted income the rest of your life, since I don’t think there are many jobs in that region that will appeal to you and which you can dovetail with postmaster responsibilities. I have no complaints about your performance in the brickyard, but that doesn’t seem to be the kind of work you enjoy doing. I know you liked running your store, but if you couldn’t succeed in a big city like Salt Lake City—”
Hank cut him off. “I’ll find work that suits me, no matter where I end up. I know you think I’m a failure who will never amount to anything, but the time will come when I will prove you wrong.” With an air of determination, he met his brother’s gaze and held it, daring Louis to disagree with him. Instead, his brother straightened up and sat taller in his chair.
“I guess time will tell. I’m going to write the letter recommending you for the postmaster job, Hank. If you are awarded the position, we’ll talk about it then.”
Hank turned away from Louis so his brother would not see the excitement in his eyes. “I don’t know if I want to go to an out-of-the-way place like this old mining town and work a job like that, Louis. If I’m offered the position, I’ll decide then if I’m willing to accept it.”
.
.
.
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Chapter 2
~o0o~
Wildcat Ridge, Utah – June 30, 1884
A sense of emptiness engulfed Diantha as she entered the kitchen for the Ridge Hotel
to make breakfast. The previous week had been busy with a hotel full of guests who had come for the horse auction. All but one had taken their equine purchases and left for their ranches and homes, wherever they might be. Most of them who had planned to catch Monday’s train out of Curdy’s Crossing this morning left Saturday. Now the hotel seemed eerily quiet.
She looked over at the door leading to the former cook’s quarters. Most recently, after the cook departed to live with family following the mining disaster, it had been the home of Diantha’s friend and the hotel laundress, Nissa Stillwell, and her two children. Nissa left on Saturday, bound for Colorado with a rancher named Dallin Walsh to be his housekeeper. Diantha secretly wished the two might end up in a closer, more personal relationship. Nissa’s first marriage had been less than ideal. However, Diantha felt Nissa deserved a second chance at marriage with a husband who would love her and treat her with respect. She hoped Dallin was the man. Her wishes for Nissa’s future did not prevent the sense of loneliness Diantha felt over no longer having her friend close by to talk to.
While Diantha waited for water to boil for her morning tea and egg, she opened the side door to the kitchen leading outside. Standing in the doorway gave her an excellent view of the hotel laundry shack and clothesline area. She had stripped a few beds of their sheets and gathered up used towels from some of the rooms on Saturday. On Sunday, even though there were no longer formal church services in Wildcat Ridge since their pastor died in the mine disaster, his daughter, Priscilla, had been reading some of his old sermons. That might end once she married in a few weeks and moved to a different mountain where she and her fiancé, Braxton, would open and run the Angel Hot Springs. Still, with hotel customers still departing on Sunday morning, she had not dared leave the hotel. Today, once her last auction guest checked out, she would strip the rest of the beds.
