"Wait! Ladies, please give me a moment," the marshal said.
Those standing sat down again.
"Thank you. I want to remind you all we need to be careful what sort of men we invite here, whether on purpose or not. We don't need more riff-raff showing up like those three men who thought the town was deserted and came to help themselves to whatever they found."
"Is that all, Etta?" Hester asked when Etta fell quiet.
The marshal nodded, and Hester closed the meeting. Women stood, talking softly as they aimed for the door.
Priscilla jumped up before Hester and the marshal could leave. "Hester. May I have a word with you, please?"
The marshal turned to leave.
"Wait, Etta," Priscilla said. "It might be good for you to hear this too."
"All right." As was typical, she stood with one leg cocked and a hand on her gun butt. Etta had lost a husband like so many others in Wildcat Ridge, yet Priscilla had yet to see her shed a tear. "What is it?"
Priscilla smiled. It felt good to be able to share good news. Too much time had passed since they'd had any. "Have either of you been up on Wildcat Mountain since the disaster?"
"Can't say as I have," Etta answered. "I know you like to hike and ride in the mountains, which you know I don't approve of. What did you find?"
"Well, you know the mine collapse and explosion shook the land for miles around and caused the earth to shift in places."
"Yes," Hester interrupted. "A lot of folks thought it was an earthquake. Windows broke, roofing fell off and a couple of outhouses tipped over."
"A long crack in the ground appeared over near the road to Evanston," Etta added.
"Yes." Priscilla nodded. "It also caused big boulders like giant geodes to break and slide down the hill."
"Oh, my." Hester frowned. "What if one of these 'geodes' roll clear into town? Someone could be hurt."
"The boulders aren't round, Hester," Priscilla said. "They're broken, more like jagged slices. The important thing is, the boulders breaking away revealed a spring cascading down the hill from pool to pool. I call it Angel Springs."
Hester's eyes widened. "That's incredible."
"There's more. One of the pools is large enough for bathing." Priscilla paused for effect. "In warm water, ladies. As warm as the bathwater we go to so much trouble to heat on Saturdays. It smells of sulfur so I'm sure it's full of minerals. I believe what we have on our hands is a hot spring like Thermopolis in Wyoming Territory."
"Lawsy, Lawsy," Hester breathed. "I've got to see this."
Priscilla turned to Etta. "What about you? Can you go?"
"Afraid not today. I wired the commander at Ft. Bridger and he's sending troopers to collect two prisoners, so I need to be here. Besides, the weather will be better tomorrow." She glanced at the windows as if she could see the sky and predict the weather. "No snow or sleet."
"I didn't know you had prisoners," Hester said.
"Well, one is Dinky Moon. That worthless man is always inebriated. The ones the army's coming for are the two-legged pieces of garbage who tried to set fire to the school."
"Poor Dinky," Priscilla said. "He wasn't like this before his wife ran off with a tinker right after the collapse."
"Why don't we go in the morning?" Etta suggested. "It will be a long trip. We can use my horses."
"Good idea." Priscilla looked at Hester. "Will it be all right with you, Hester?"
The mayor pursed her lips. "I'm not sure I'm strong enough for such a laborious trip."
"You're our mayor. It's important for you to see this. These springs could bring people to Wildcat Ridge and provide income for the town."
Hester hesitated as if mulling over Priscilla's words.
"I think I know what Priscilla has in mind," Etta said. "A good hot spring can bring in people from all over — sick people, injured people — willing to pay to use the springs in the hope of healing themselves."
Hester nodded. "Such a venture could save our town. Of course, I'll go. I'll find the strength."
"Good." Priscilla beamed. "These springs will improve everything for Wildcat Ridge."
Everything except the loneliness and fear.
Chapter Two
Next Day, Curdy's Crossing,
Four Miles from Wildcat Ridge
Braxton Gamble stumbled and fell back into his chair at the faro table as he attempted to push himself to his feet. With his pockets empty, he'd contented himself watching his two new friends play. Irish O'Malley and his partner, Logan Cash, had been pushing drinks on him most of the afternoon. Despite his blurred thinking, Braxton began to wonder why.
Right now, Logan had four eyes, which made Braxton laugh.
"What's so funny?" Irish asked, placing his bet.
"Me. How'd you boys get me this drunk?"
Irish winked at him. "Hell, you ain't drunk yet, boyo."
Logan giggled. Braxton had never heard a grown man giggle before, but that was what he heard. Besides the four eyes, the man appeared a little blurry. His long-handled mustache had turned into two sets of spikes sticking out from under his nose. Braxton had a vision of Logan spearing a woman with those spikes. He needed to stop drinking.
"Aw, come on." Logan filled his glass with whiskey from a bottle he and Irish had bought at the Blue Star Saloon. "Have another. Can't let the fun stop too early. It's only four in the afternoon."
"Yeah, Braxton. Be a man and drink up. You're behind us by two drinks already," Irish needled.
"I don't know." Braxton wobbled a bit as he searched for a back door leading to an outhouse. "I reckon I've had enough. Where's the door?"
"That way." Logan pointed.
"Which door is it?"
Logan giggled again. "What do you mean? There's only one."
Braxton shook his head and almost fell over. Two doors wavered in front of him. He aimed toward them.
"Let me help you," Irish said, taking his arm. "Can't have you falling on your face out there in the mud." Yesterday's storm had passed but left everything wet.
Braxton tried to shove him off. "I can do it alone."
"No, you can't." Irish guided him out, down the steps and into the outhouse. In the dim light provided by half-moons carved in the walls and door, Braxton found his buttons and finished his business. He pushed on the door. It didn't budge. He saw it wasn't latched. Not on his side. What was going on?
"You done?" Irish opened the door.
"Were you leaning against the door?" Braxton asked. Why would the man do such a thing?
"Wanted to make sure you didn't fall out." Irish laughed.
If the Irishman meant his action as a joke, Braxton failed to appreciate it. "I need to lay down."
"Not now." Irish led him back into the saloon. "We're out of cash. Need to go make a withdrawal at the bank."
"I'll wait here," he said, trying to snag a chair on the way through the saloon. Irish refused to let go of him. Logan took his other arm, and they hauled him into the street, where they stopped and checked their guns. What did they need guns for? Braxton felt a strong urge to get his horse and light out.
The Summit County Bank stood two doors down. They walked in, or, in Braxton's case, staggered in. Only an elderly lady with white hair and a mole next to her mouth occupied the place. Braxton felt sorry for her having a big mole like that in such a conspicuous place. At least, she wasn't young anymore, so it might not matter to her how she looked. He wondered if she'd ever been kissed but couldn't envision it.
Irish walked up to the teller's window. The lady on the other side appeared too feeble to be working in a bank or anywhere else in Braxton's opinion. If she had any family, they ought to feel ashamed for letting her work like this. She should be home in front of the fire knitting hats.
"This is a stick-up," Irish announced, drawing his six-shooter.
Logan giggled. He too held a gun.
Braxton's mouth fell open.
"Take the money," the woman said. "I don't care."
<
br /> Logan thrust a saddlebag into Braxton's hands.
"Hold the bag so she can stuff the money inside." Irish pushed him toward the counter.
Braxton shrugged. If the teller didn't care, why should he? He helped the woman shovel the cash inside. With the drawer empty, he turned and headed for the door.
"Hold on, boyo," Irish said. "We can't leave witnesses. Shoot her."
Braxton pointed at his chest. "Me?"
"Yes, you. You have a gun in your holster. Shoot her."
He gaped at Irish, thinking the man had gone crazy. What were they doing? He looked at the saddlebag in his hand. This wasn't a withdrawal. It was theft. He dropped the bag to the floor. "No, I don't shoot women."
"Do it or I'll shoot you."
"No."
Braxton didn't think Irish would pull the trigger. Now, Braxton lurched as a bullet drilled into his left shoulder. He'd never thought about how a bullet would feel entering a body, hot and painful like the jab of a lightning bolt.
He staggered, then sat on the floor as if someone had cut off his legs, except there they were sticking out in front of him. Thank heaven. He didn't want to lose his legs. How would he walk through the Pearly Gates?
Blood leaked out through the hole the bullet had left in him.
He looked at Irish. Before he could ask why the man had done such a thing, Irish turned to the teller and prepared to shoot her.
Braxton's cloudy mind cleared as if the sun had come out inside his head, yelling Save the old lady. Save the old lady.
He grabbed the saddlebag beside him and used the wall to heft himself to his feet. "Don't, Irish. You can't shoot her."
As soon as Irish looked at him, Braxton slugged him with the saddlebag and bolted out the bank's double doors. He had wondered why Irish had insisted on leaving their horses by the bank instead of the saloon when they came into town.
"Gawddamn you, Brax," Irish shouted, aiming his six-gun at him. "Stop."
"Hold on, there," Logan yelled, drawing his gun. "You can't take that saddlebag."
"Sorry," he called back. "It's glued to my hand."
Irish's bullet zinged past him as he dodged behind the horses. Since Logan shot at him, he dragged out his Walker-Colt and returned the favor, while doing his best to release all the horses from the hitching post.
More bullets sang past and he fired a few more times, not taking aim, just trying to keep them inside.
At last, the horses were free. With a slap of his hand, he sent Irish and Logan's galloping out of town, splattering mud everywhere. He hefted the saddlebag over Raisin's back, fired at the bank a couple more times, and groaned as he hoisted himself into his saddle.
Irish and Logan yelled nasty names and threats. He didn't care.
The bank must have a back door. Through the alley next to the bank, Braxton saw the woman running with her skirts in the air. He hadn't known the ol' gal could move so fast.
His bay gelding took off the moment his rider's buttocks hit the saddle. Good thing too. Bullets from Irish and Logan continued to pepper the air around him.
He rode hard across wet meadows and through snowy forests, staying far from the road. When he felt Raisin tire, he patted the horse's neck and slowed the pace. While the horse rested, Braxton surveyed the land to get a handle on his location. Blood ran down his arm and dripped from his fingers. He needed to stop the bleeding. Instead, wary of taking the time, he kept riding. High, snow-capped mountains peeking above the white-crusted trees led him onward.
With a jolt, Braxton realized he'd fallen asleep. Raisin must have given himself a shaking and woke him. Good horse. He patted Raisin's neck again and took stock of his whereabouts. He sat at the edge of a river bordered by trees and willow bushes. The ground here was clear of snow. It seemed as good a place as any to stop.
Hidden among the trees, he dismounted, filled his hat with water from his canteen and offered it to the gelding. While Raisin lapped up water, Braxton peeled his shirt back to check his wound. The bleeding had slowed. He dug into his saddlebag for an extra shirt, wadded it up and placed it over the bullet hole. When the horse began to graze and seemed rested, Braxton climbed back in the saddle and they rode on.
Once, he woke up on the ground, covered with mud and his shoulder paining him like hell gone amok. He had passed out and fallen from his saddle. Raisin grazed nearby.
Braxton pushed to his feet. Climbing back in his saddle, he rode on. He'd heard about a town in this area where a mine collapsed, killing all the miners and some townspeople. Now, he reckoned it was deserted, a perfect place for him to lay low for a while and heal up.
Chapter Three
Despite the wet, freezing cold and snow drifts two feet thick under the trees, Priscilla grinned with pleasure at being in the woods again — her favorite place. She drew her slicker tighter around her neck and laughed at the antics of a Steller's jay. After all the horror and agony of the mine explosion, the freshness of the forest helped to renew her spirit.
The narrow trail they followed suited deer better than horses, although its frequent use by prospectors and fishermen had widened the path in places.
A flash of bright yellow in the willows caught her eye. "Look. Goldfinches," Priscilla called out. "I love how cheerful they are."
She felt as if she were starved and enjoying her first meal. Robert had never had time to go riding with her and no interest in nature. Her father had consulted him over a legal matter concerning the church and brought him home for supper. She had thought him wonderfully handsome and funny. He'd been well-spoken and educated. When he proposed, she had felt honored. But when it came to ordinary daily life, they'd had little in common.
"Noisy is what I'd call them," Etta muttered. "And those jays… gah-h."
"Why, Etta," Priscilla said. "You don't like birds?"
"I'm not particularly fond of forests or anything in them. Got lost in one back in Arkansas. I was five years old and it took two days for my family to find me." Etta shuddered. "It still gives me nightmares."
"Oh, Etta," Hester said, "I'm so sorry."
Priscilla nudged her horse and rode up alongside Etta. "I am too. Would you like to go back to town? Hester and I can go on alone."
"But we wouldn't have any protection then," Hester protested.
"I'm not going back," Etta said. "But I would like to get this over with as soon as possible."
It pained Priscilla to think what Etta missed by being unable to enjoy the woods. Everywhere Priscilla looked, she saw beauty. Marsh marigolds peeped out from the melting snow, along with spring beauties and wakerobins.
"Perhaps we should all go back." Hester already appeared tired though they'd only gone halfway. "Riding is far easier than walking, but I'm not sure I have the energy to travel that far. My dear Randolph would have loved it. He was a good husband. I miss him so."
Priscilla winced. She'd seen enough tears and misery in the last four weeks. Funerals, the reading of Papa's will, then Robert's, the empty house she now had to run on her own. The haunting emptiness of the house, of her bed. She did miss Robert cuddling her.
She reined in her horse and waited for the mayor to catch up with her. "You're the mayor, Hester. It's vital you see this."
Hester heaved a sorry sigh. "All right. Lead on."
Priscilla rode behind Etta now. The marshal's braid had come undone and dangled down her back swinging in time with the horse's gait like a metronome.
An eagle flew from the top of a pine tree, and Priscilla tilted her head back to watch it soar into the sky. Conifers grew among the quaking aspen here, creating a lovely contrast in color and light. They came upon a half-thawed beaver dam and skirted the pond.
"We must be getting close," Etta said over her shoulder. "I smell sulfur."
"Yes." Priscilla eyed the sun on its downward swing. "I suggest we hurry, ladies. It will be late when we get back."
The horses trailed through thick layers of last fall's soggy leaves and more snow. Scrub oaks, w
ild raspberry bushes and sumac grew in thickets with melting ice on them like a blanket of snowflakes. But at last, the land leveled out, sunshine had melted much of the snow and travel became easier.
Ground squirrels darted out of the women's way, berating them in high-pitched voices for their intrusion. Farther up, a mule deer burst from the bushes and bounded up the slope into a thick stand of trees so fast Priscilla couldn't determine if it was a doe or a buck.
"If I'd been faster..." Etta raised her rifle to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel. "I could have shot that deer. A bit of venison would taste mighty good. I'm tired of chicken."
"We're fortunate you have chickens," Priscilla said. "Some of us might starve if not for you."
"Yes," Hester agreed somberly. "We'd be reduced to eating roots like the Injuns."
"You're exaggerating a bit," Etta replied. "You can usually get meat from Olive Muckelrath."
They emerged from a thick stand of trees and Priscilla, at the head of the party now, pointed up the incline. "There are the springs."
"Dear heaven," Hester said. "Will you look at that?"
The three women sat on their horses, staring at the scene before them. Not only had the mountain cracked open to reveal cascading pools of steaming water, but mosses in varying greens sprouted along the edges, adding to the beauty. Gouges in the earth around the spring showed where the rocks had broken away from where they'd once stood, hiding the springs. Giant snow-bedecked spruce trees shaded some pools while sunshine bathed others.
"It's fantastic," Etta breathed in awe.
They continued along the stream that spilled from the pools to vanish beneath a jumbled rock formation, returning to the earth that had given it birth.
"Look at that!" Hester repeated when they reached the first pool. "People would come from miles around to see this, let alone enjoy the water." She slid down off her horse, made her way through the small gully left by the rock breaking away and squatted on a patch of bare ground beside the water. The women watched as she dipped in a hand and drank from her palm. "You can taste the minerals but it's not a bad taste. We'll need to check for alkali. It could make people sick. But, despite the smell, I believe we have something here worth developing."
Priscilla (The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Series Book 1) Page 2
