Trail to Shasta (9781101622049)

by Roberts, J. R.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Clint said.

  “A man rode into town, says he’s got a letter for you.”

  “A letter? That can’t wait?”

  “Rick says to tell you the man rode Pony Express style, for days, to get this letter to you.”

  “Who’s the letter from?”

  “I dunno. I don’t think Rick even knows,” the young man said.

  “Where’s the man who delivered it?”

  “He’s at Rick’s. They’re waitin’ for you.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “okay, tell them I’ll be right there.”

  “Yessir.”

  Clint closed the door, turned, and looked at Hannah, who was staring at him.

  “Right there?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, undoing his pants, “not right there . . .”

  Twenty minutes later Clint walked into Rick’s Place. His friend was seated at a table with another man, who looked completely done in.

  “Well, here he is,” Rick said.

  “Sorry,” Clint said. “I had to . . . finish.”

  “Uh-huh,” Rick said. “This fella’s name is Danny, and he has a letter for you.”

  The done-in man looked up at Clint and asked, “Are you Clint Adams?”

  “I am,” Clint said. “Who’re you?”

  “Danny Lyons,” the young man said. He held out an envelope. “This is for you.”

  Clint accepted the letter, thought about asking who it was from, then decided to just open it to find out.

  The room was quiet as he read it. Only Rick, Danny Lyons, and the bartender were present, and it was as if they were holding their breath.

  “So what is it?” Rick asked.

  “It’s two pages, Rick,” Clint said, “from a friend of mine in Shasta County.”

  “California?”

  “Yep. Ed O’Neil.”

  “I heard you talk about him.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said. “Look, his handwriting’s not easy to read. Can you get Danny here a room and a bed so he can get some rest? I’m going to sit and try to decipher this thing.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Rick said. He waved at the bartender. “I’ll have Harve take him over to the hotel.”

  “I’ll foot the bill,” Clint said.

  “Suits me,” Rick said.

  They both looked at Danny Lyons, who was either asleep, or had passed out again.

  “Okay,” Rick said, standing up, “I better help Harve with this guy.”

  “I’ll be right here,” Clint said.

  “Have some coffee while you’re readin’,” Rick said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Harve got Clint a cup before he and Rick left. Clint poured himself some coffee and sipped while he read.

  FOUR

  NEW YORK CITY

  ONE WEEK LATER

  Clint got to the dock early, before the ship had even arrived. There were others eagerly awaiting the arrival of their loved ones. Clint, on the other hand, was waiting for two women he’d never met, had never even seen. But he’d made a promise to meet them.

  The two-page letter had laid out, in a handwriting that resembled ink on a chicken’s feet, exactly what Ed O’Neil wanted Clint to do. And when Rick Hartman got back from sticking Danny in a hotel, he’d told him the story . . .

  * * *

  “It seems,” Clint had explained, “that Ed has arranged for a woman to come over from Ireland, to marry him.”

  “A mail-order bride?” Rick asked.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it, only this one’s bringing somebody with her. An older sister.”

  “Wait,” Rick said, “isn’t O’Neil . . .”

  “Yep,” Clint said, “over sixty.”

  “And he’s gonna marry the younger sister?”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “So how old are these women?”

  “He doesn’t say,” Clint said. “Just that they’re arriving in New York next week, and he wants me to meet them there, and escort them cross-country to him.”

  “Why you?” Rick asked. “Why doesn’t he just hire somebody to escort them? This isn’t the kind of thing you do.”

  “He’s asking me to do it as a favor, Rick.”

  Rick rolled his eyes.

  “Well, we know you do those, don’t we?”

  “I owe him,” Clint said.

  Rick held up his hand. “You don’t have to explain,” he said. “When are you leavin’?”

  “Tomorrow,” Clint said. “I want to get to New York in plenty of time.”

  “New York.”

  “It’s been a while since I was there,” Clint said.

  “I guess that’s as good a reason as any to go,” Rick said. “Does this guy O’Neil do what I think he does in Shasta?”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “He’s got a gold mine. A pretty good strike.”

  “Is he payin’ you for this little trip?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I said it was a favor.”

  “So you did. Well, I’ve got to wish you luck seein’ two ladies across the country by . . . what? Covered wagon?”

  “It’s as good a way as any . . .”

  * * *

  Clint watched as the huge ship arrived, barely missing the dock as it did. Whoever was piloting the big boat had a light touch.

  It took a while but eventually they lowered two planks, one for passengers, and one to offload cargo. People crowded the dock as passengers began to offload. Clint watched as sweethearts, husbands, wives, and families were reunited. There were also passengers who were met by no one, who simply went their own way.

  And then there were two ladies.

  Since Clint knew that O’Neil was fat—the last time he saw him—and sixty, he expected the prospective bride to be sixty—and her older sister even older. These two girls were young, probably in their twenties and only a few years apart. He wouldn’t have even considered them except for two things—they were standing there with their bags at their feet, looking around, and they had red hair—Irish red hair.

  Clint approached them. As he came closer, one of them noticed him and nudged the other. O’Neil’s letter had given him their names. Bridget and Bride Shaughnessy.

  “Miss Shaughnessy?” he asked.

  “Yes,” one of them said, “we are Bridget and Bride Shaughnessy. And who might you be?”

  She spoke with a lovely Irish lilt that gave him pause for a moment. The other girl—Bride, he assumed, pronounced “Bridey”—stared at him. He couldn’t believe that she was to be O’Neil’s “bride.” She looked all of twenty.

  “My name is Clint Adams,” Clint said. “Ed O’Neil sent me to pick you up.”

  “And how are we to know you are who you say you are, an emissary from Mr. O’Neil?” the one who was probably Bridget asked.

  “I have a letter he sent me,” Clint said. “Would you recognize his handwriting? His signature?”

  “His handwriting is like chicken scratches,” she said, “and his signature is his mark.”

  Clint nodded, stepped forward, and handed her O’Neil’s letter. She opened it, briefly scanned it, and then handed it back.

  “It looks like his writing,” she said. “Greetings, Mr. Adams. How are you related to Mr. O’Neil?”

  “We’re friends, ma’am.”

  “Well,” she said, “we told Mr. O’Neil that we wanted to see your beautiful country before my sister would marry him. Are you able to arrange that?”

  “I am, ma’am.”

  “Well, this is Bride,” she said, “she is to marry Mr. O’Neil. I am her older sister, Bridget.”

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am,” Clint asked, “just how old are you?”

/>   “I am twenty-four,” she said, “and Bride is twenty-two. I do not know about your country, Mr. Adams, but in our country we are considered old maids. I hope you will not hold that against us.”

  Clint looked at the two beautiful Irish girls and said, “Not me, ma’am. Are these all your bags?”

  “They are,” she said. “We left most of our belongings behind and took only what we could carry.”

  “Just wait here, ladies,” he said, “and I’ll get somebody to help us carry them.”

  * * *

  Hidden among the crowd on the docks, two men watched as Clint met the two women.

  “You see what I see?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah,” the second said.

  “We’re gonna have to find out who he is.”

  “How we gonna do that?”

  “We’re gonna follow them,” the first man said. “See where they go. Keep our ears open. We’ll find out who this man is.” His name was Jack Ahern, and his partner was Phil Kemper.

  “Maybe we should just grab the women,” Kemper said. “Look, he’s goin’ to find somebody to carry the bags. We can take them now.”

  “Not without findin’ out who he is first,” Ahern said. “We’ve gotta be careful. We mess this up, we don’t get paid.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Kemper said. After all, getting paid was the most important part.

  FIVE

  Clint got two stevedores to carry the Shaughnessy sisters’ bags to the street, where he had a cab waiting. They loaded the half a dozen bags and one trunk onto the wagon, tied them down, and then helped the ladies get in.

  “Will we be going to a hotel?” Bridget asked. “My sister and I are very tired.”

  “I’m sorry, Bridget,” he said, “but we’re headed for the railroad station.”

  “Railroad?” she asked. “Are we not to see New York City?”

  “As much of it as you can see between here and the station,” he said. “We’re taking a train out this afternoon.”

  “Train?” Bride asked. “I thought we were to see your country on horseback?”

  “Nobody said anything about horseback, ma’am,” Clint said. “We’ll be taking the train as far as Saint Louis. From there we’ll travel the rest of the way by wagon. That’s the part of the country you want to see.”

  The two sisters exchanged a glance, and then Bridget said, “Very well, Mr. Adams. We are in your hands.”

  “Thank you, Miss Shaughnessy.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Train station.”

  “Right!”

  At Penn Station they loaded the luggage onto the train, except for one bag each that the girls wanted to keep with them. Clint had one carpetbag that he also kept. The ladies were shown to the compartment Clint had obtained for them, and then he was shown to the one right next to it. There was a connecting door that he had no intention of using. The money for the compartments, and tickets, would be reimbursed to him when they all arrived in Shasta County.

  “You can rest for a few hours,” Clint told them, “and then I’ll come and get you so we can all go to the dining car.”

  “That will be fine, Mr. Adams,” Bridget said.

  He touched the brim of his hat and said, “Ladies,” then went to his own compartment.

  * * *

  On the platform the two men looked at each other.

  “Now what do we do?” Kemper asked.

  “What we were hired to do,” Ahern said. “If that means we gotta take a rail trip, then we gotta do it. Come on, let’s get some tickets.”

  Kemper grabbed his friend’s arm.

  “What happens if he sees us?” he asked.

  “That’ll be his problem,” Ahern said. “If he forces our hand, we kill him.”

  That satisfied Kemper. They went to a ticket window.

  * * *

  When Clint Adams was gone, Bride said, “Bridget,” and pointed to the connecting door.

  “Don’t worry,” her sister told her. She went to the door and tried it. “It’s firmly locked.”

  “But from which side?” Bride asked.

  Bridget opened her bag and took out an ancient-looking .25 caliber Webley Irish pistol.

  “We are armed,” she told her sister confidently.

  “I’m still afraid,” Bride said, sitting on her berth.

  Bridget went and sat beside her sister, took her hand.

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Everything,” Bride said. “This country, that man . . . Mr. O’Neil.”

  “You haven’t even met Mr. O’Neil,” Bridget said.

  “I know it,” Bride said, “and yet you expect me to marry him.”

  “The man has a gold mine, Bride,” Bridget said. “Keep your mind on that.”

  “I am,” the younger sister said. “That is what keeps me going.”

  Bridget squeezed her sister’s hand.

  “Just do as I say,” she told her, “and we’ll be fine.”

  “A-All right.”

  “Now get some rest.” Bridget stood up, so that her sister could recline on her berth. The upper berth had been opened by the porter, but Bridget did not climb up. She set about changing her clothes, removed her dress, and took another, simpler frock from her bag. The valley between her pert breasts was heavily freckled. She held the dress to her and thought a moment.

  “He’s very good looking,” she said.

  “Who?” Bride asked.

  “Mr. Adams. Don’t you think?”

  “He scares me,” Bride said again.

  “Me, you.”

  “But you said you weren’t scared.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean he frightens me,” Bridget said, “he was . . . scares me a little. Here.” She touched her belly.

  “Bridget,” Bride said warningly, sitting up. “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “You said you wouldn’t do that,” Bride said. “You promised you’d control yourself.”

  “Oh, I know I did,” she said, “but he’s very . . . masculine, isn’t he?”

  “Oh God,” Bride said. She lay back down and put her hand to her forehead.

  SIX

  Clint went to his compartment and sat looking out the window. People were still rushing by, trying to make their trains on time. The two ladies were safely installed in their own accommodations. That part of the job was over.

  He was surprised at the youth of the two women, especially considering the age of Ed O’Neil. He wondered if O’Neil knew he’d be marrying a girl forty years his junior.

  It was true, women who made it out of their teens without being married used to be considered old maids, but wasn’t the country—the world—a more progressive place than that? Clint had met many women over the years—in their twenties and even thirties—who were still single. Not one of them acted like an old maid. But these two were from Ireland. Things must have been different there.

  He sat back, thought about taking off his boots for a couple of hours. His gun and holster were wrapped up in his pack. He had his Colt New Line stuck in his belt. As soon as they got far enough away from New York, he’d take the holster out and put it on. Then he’d feel much more comfortable.

  He closed his eyes as the train jerked to a start, dozing very lightly while the train moved out of the station and began its journey . . .

  * * *

  Ahern and Kemper got seats in a passenger car.

  “We gotta find out where they are,” Ahern said. “But we can’t let the cowboy see us.”

  “Look,” Kemper said, “we’re from the city, and he’s from the country. If we were on his trail, maybe he’d spot us, but this is our turf.”

  “You got that right,” Ahern
said, “but we’ll have to act separately. You take a walk, see what you can find out. I’ll wait here.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “We’ll get somethin’ to eat when you get back.”

  Kemper nodded and left his seat.

  * * *

  After a couple of hours Clint stood up, cleaned himself up a bit, and put on some fresh clothes. Considering himself decent enough to be in the company of two lovely Irish lasses, he left his compartment to escort them to the dining car.

  * * *

  Bridget finished tying the knot at the back of Bride’s dress when there was a knock on the door.

  “Who could that be?” Bride asked.

  “Relax,” Bridget said. “It can only be Mr. Adams.”

  Bride’s dress covered her from head to toe, but Bridget’s showed a good portion of her freckled chest.

  “Aren’t you going to cover up?” Bride asked.

  “Relax, dear sister,” Bridget said. “Everything will be fine.”

  She went to answer the door.

  * * *

  As the door opened, Clint’s eye fell right where Bridget wanted it to fall, on her chest.

  “Mr. Adams,” she said, giving him a smile. “Right on time.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she said. “We are very hungry.”

  He looked past her at her sister, who appeared more frightened than tired.

  “I’m here to take you to the dining car,” Clint said.

  “Indeed,” Bridget said. “Are you coming, Bride?”

  “Yes,” her sister said.

  In the hall outside, there was no room for them to walk abreast, so rather than give each girl one of his arms, Clint indicated that they should walk ahead of him. He followed them to the dining car, where they were seated at a table.

  Outside the window, the city had fallen away and countryside was whizzing by.

  “We’re going very fast,” Bride said.

  “Yes, we are,” Clint said, “but don’t worry, it’s very safe.”

  A white-coated, white-gloved, bow-tied black waiter came over and asked, “Somethin’ fo’ the ladies and the gentleman?”

  “Do you have steak?” Bridget asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the man said, “we’s got mighty good steaks.”