by Natalie Dean
In Lester’s eyes, Joseph’s reluctance was a sign of his integrity. He had felt Greta’s young age and innocence would be unsuitable for the teaching position near the mining camp. He had thought Greta would be too delicate to witness the brutality and corruption that festered like a boil in the ungoverned wilderness. Lester chuckled again, softly and privately. Greta had the delicacy of steel; slick and beautiful but stronger than any other metal.
As soon as Greta awoke on that memorable Christmas morning and discovered him in the living room, playing with her dog, he knew that how much he liked and approved or disapproved of Joseph Marston wouldn’t have mattered. The astonishingly grown-up Greta had made her own decision. That was what happened when you took women west. They grew stronger. They fed off the stones, becoming stone women themselves.
He had another reason for grinning. After eleven years of living and working within the mission, he was ready to try something different. There was a bustling exuberance in the Colorado territory that was agreeable with youthful bones.
He jumped out of bed finally, after shooing the puppy off, pulled on his pants and adjusted the suspenders, then clumped down the stairs in his unlaced boots. “You know, Handel is a really stupid name to give a dog. It’s a sign of unreasonable expectations. He can’t and will never be able to play the piano.”
“It pleases me much better than the names you men lovingly give your pets. Killer. Growler. Stomper. Snake Bite. I do not expect my dog to be any of those types. Handel at least denotes an appreciation for music.”
“Dogs are tone deaf.”
“Who said so? They have far more sensitivities to sound than we do. I would expect they could make spectacular music if they were properly equipped. Which reminds me, do you still have your flute?”
She had made it her mission not to forget, and she hadn’t forgotten. When she summoned her childhood memories and Lester’s early letters home, she summoned a slender young man whose music had been welcomed at home, church and public performances. This was her image of him and could not be escaped.
The couple had risen earlier than he had and the early morning chores were already done. Breakfast was on the table, and the two looked at him expectantly. “Yes, I do,” he said, turning to wash his hands before sitting. “Please don’t ask me to play at seven o’clock in the morning.”
“No, but you could play this evening. It would be nice entertainment.”
“You play the flute?” asked Joseph Marston with interest. “It would be nice to have a music instructor at the school.”
Lester shook his head with a short laugh. “I play the flute for the same reason people sing in their baths. It feels good. I’d actually like to find work as a carpenter.”
“He’s being modest,” said Greta. “He actually plays very well. Did I ever tell you, he spent his first year as a pony rider before joining the mission? It’s true! He spent a full year teaching the gospel in the wilderness. He drew people to him by playing the flute.”
Lester held up his hands in protest. “They thought I was crazy, and they thought I knew some new form of magic. I don’t think they understood a word that I said, but since I was crazy, I was holy, and since I knew magic, I was a shaman. I was left alone.”
“Then you know a lot about the Indians?” asked Joseph.
“Our church works directly with the Indians, but from what I have seen, there is as much that we can learn from them as they can learn from us. A far more serious threat is the lawlessness among us.”
“Is this why you’ve chosen to stay?”
“That, and I fully intend to keep my eye on you,” said Lester, giving Joseph his widest grin.
“I’m sure you’ll find much of interest.”
Joseph finished his breakfast without joining the banter between brother and sister, then said, “You should probably finish getting dressed. The Boulder City Committee meets at ten this morning. The main discussion will be on school expansion, but we’ll also be talking about general development. The town is booming. Once the railroad is in, it will start bursting at its seams. It needs builders and carpenters.”
“Your husband doesn’t have much of a sense of humor,” observed Lester as Joseph went out to hook up the buggy.
“He has much on his mind. Your answer to his question about the Indians means a lot to him.”
“There have been uprisings?”
“Just the opposite. Most of the Indians were removed from this area before the Civil War. There are only a few of them left, but there is the lawless. They prey on the Indians. And they leave behind children without homes or a way of defending themselves. Last week, some miners forty miles up the canyon, burned down the home of a settler for harboring orphaned Indian children. It’s a plague upon us, Lester, this war against the innocent.”
“What type of place is Boulder?”
“It’s a stable town. It’s a main supply line for everyone; the miners, the cattlemen, and the farmers. We feel, with our close ties to the academic community, we could establish an orphanage somewhere between the settlement and Boulder, where we could safely house orphans, regardless of their distinctions. Nearly everyone is in agreement that we need a place for those young lives who have been robbed of parents, not so many feel we should include orphaned Indians.”
“This is a disturbance for Joseph and you?”
“Yes, and the Haldeman’s. I fear our convictions are in short supply.”
“In Oregon, there are also those who would cull other distinctions from their midst. It is a terrible price to pay for civilization.”
Deciding not to dwell on such darkness, Lester changed the course of the discussion. “And every week, the stagecoach drops off more mail order brides. That’s what you said in your letter. It’s a remarkable thought. I think what I miss most about Atchison, is the stagecoach. It’s like holding on to America’s main artery.”
“You will see it all then. After the meeting, we’ll go downtown and visit my friend, Hannah, who came up with me on the stagecoach, all the way from Richmond to be a bride, but when she got here, she decided she didn’t want to marry. So then, she is now saving money for her own dress shop and is taking care of Lizbeth. And you don’t know who Lizbeth is. Well, you see…” She continued talking rapidly, cramming her words together while she gathered her bonnet and her muff, and hung the thick, wool cloak firmly around her. “Oh! And I am not trying to talk you out of living here, but Boulder is a far more exciting place for a man like you to develop opportunities.”
“And what type of opportunities would a man like me have for developing?”
“Well, you know. To settle down and marry. To own land, build a home. Your talents are not so greatly appreciated in a mining camp.”
“Then perhaps that’s where they need to be most greatly applied.”
Lester insisted on taking his own horse, claiming the cowpony was too small for carrying three people. The truth was, he was as attached to his steed as Greta was to her dog. A full hand taller than Snake Bite, he was too large to be hitched next to the smaller horse and too skittish to carry something behind him anyway.
His horse was a brown and white paint, with the laid-back ears and twitching flanks of an animal who loved to run. Few people had been able to control the spirited mount, but that’s what Lester liked best about him. He loved the way the animal leaped into movement as soon as his heels touched its sides. He loved the quick defiance as it reared back its head, then the eager gait as the horse realized who was on top.
This was a horse that seldom tired. He had clipped through the Oregon Valley in a matter of days and began the long climb into the Rockies without protest. There were times when there had been only him and his horse. Times when shelter meant lying down with the horse next to a rocky shelf, with only a blanket and the warmth of each other to protect them from pounding rains or hail-driven winds. He had told Greta the horse’s name was General Grant, just to get a reaction, but the name he crooned while he
groomed him was Thunder Heart.
His horse rode just ahead of the cowpony pulling the buggy and pawed at the air with impatience. “Hey!” Lester called. “General Grant says the troops are too slow. He’s throwing down a challenge. Get up, little fat pony! From what I’ve heard, you’ve got fair maidens waiting for you.”
As though Snake Bite knew what had been said, he picked up his pace. Joseph gripped the reins more firmly, and his tight, square jaw tightened even more as the buggy bumped and slid on the thawing trail, but Greta laughed with each jolt as she held the puppy under one arm and used the other to keep her balance. They reached the meeting house in very good time, although Joseph did not appear too impressed with their bustling pace. Lester drew him aside while he was still feeling a little flustered, and spoke before the older man could deliver a lecture. “Don’t mollycoddle my sister. She’ll respect you better for it.”
Meeting the committee members wasn’t much different than meeting the staff that ran the missionary. They had a plan. Denver had already laid down its first gleaming rails, and soon the steel-driving men would come to Boulder. Already flourishing, Boulder City would become the western center for the transportation of goods, grains, livestock, and farm and mining equipment. With the railroad, the population would likely double.
Even the speakers had the same weathered look as the missionary elders. A look that said there isn’t anything I haven’t seen or done when wrestling with the forces of nature and humankind’s own ingenuity. Ultimately, they had the same goals; a peace-loving society. Only their tactics were different. The mission centered on religion and taught education. The Boulder committee centered on education and taught religious codes and ethics. It was their opinion that advanced educational facilities would attract a law-abiding citizenry. They planned to build a university.
Lester listened intently but didn’t say much. Afterward, when they circulated among the group, all he mentioned was his interest in hiring out his carpentry skills. It didn’t take him long to find the name of a builder who was searching for skilled laborers to construct a new boarding house. John Bowman was late middle-aged, with skin folds that creased over each other, and an indented smile that hid his small, yellow teeth. He wore overalls that had been washed so many times, the color was bleached white in spots, and boots that were as cracked and dry as his skin. Most of his help was inexperienced laborers, and he was enthusiastic about finding a journeyman who was young, nimble, and knowledgeable about carpentry. He took out a pad and pencil, scribbled some instructions and bade Lester to show up at the work site the next morning.
Once they were back outside though, Greta began prying him. “I can see when your thoughts are churning. You might as well come out with it.”
“It’s just a peculiar thought. The difference in what we say we’re going to do and what we ultimately end up doing. We build walls around our mission of peace, and then, begin accepting only those who have already heard the Word. It’s a strange turn of affairs.”
Joseph interrupted. “There is safety in numbers. Out there in the camps, it’s more than a den of vice. It is mob rule. Sentences are often carried out by hanging. No court. No trial. We can’t protect the people who could be saved from this barbarism without the Christian settlers, and without these honest folk, we can’t run businesses. One day, the mining camps will be gone, but Boulder City will still be here. It will still have its farmers, its cattlemen, its railroad station, boarding houses, shops, and stores. With a university, it will prosper.”
Without really noticing what he was doing, Lester unhitched his horse while Joseph unhitched the buggy and began walking beside him until they had reached the main road into town. “Where do we go to now?” he asked, his eyes taking in the buildings packed beside each other, advertising rooms for rent, food, showers, hardware, furniture, and other items that generously celebrated civilization at its height. For a start-up town, it was noisier and busier than he thought it would be, but smaller and far less cultivated than Oregon City.
“Maybe it’s your lucky day,” said Joseph. “We’re going to meet Greta’s friends.”
Chapter 3
The door was opened by a ripening young woman in her late teens. The full blush of youth shone in her rosy cheeks and in her sparkling eyes that shifted in color from green to brown. Hazel eyes, observed Lester to himself. Mood catchers.
The girl flew first into Greta’s arms, smothering her with kisses, and then into Joseph’s, who behaved awkwardly at the flurry of affection. Only after she stood back did she notice the new arrival. She giggled.
“I know who you are! You look so much like Greta!”
“I always thought I was much prettier.”
“No!” she giggled again. “But you sort of have the same face, the same kind of coloring. You can’t be anyone else except Greta’s brother.”
“I see you are a woman of science, gathering the evidence for the most logical conclusion. You could be wrong. I could just be a stranger passing through and noticed this resemblance to my family so thought I would start a conversation.”
She giggled almost uncontrollably. “But I’m not wrong. I knew you were coming. Everyone has been talking about it.”
“So then, I am a celebrity?”
Greta clutched his arm before more could be said. “Say no more, Lizbeth. The more you try to explain, the deeper in you’ll get. Lester, there is not a thing that can get past Lizbeth’s ears. If an eraser drops in the schoolhouse, she is sure to know about it.”
“Ah,” he said, extending his hand. “You are the young lady who doesn’t like being married off to old men.”
“Ugly old men,” she corrected.
She tittered again, this time into her apron while looking at him coyly. It made him think of the young girls at the mission. Girls he had watched grow up and who now dangled awkwardly between carefree children and womanhood. “I agree,” he said. “The ugly ones are the ones to watch out for.”
“What is the ruckus…” A more mature womanly voice floated into the hallway and stopped short. Lester turned his head. His eyes met with those of a woman with flowing russet hair and brown eyes so deep, you could fall into them. The easy flirtations he used with all young girls and their silly rapture suddenly fell away.
At the mission, she would have been married by now, but no ring adorned her finger, and her gaze was uncomfortably bold. “You must be Lester,” she finished in a soft, southern drawl and gave him her hand as a lady would, the wrist limp, the fingers draped over the top of his own.
He bowed, not too deeply he hoped, and kissed the air above her delicate wrist. “And you must be Hannah Barkley. I’ve heard much about you.”
“Not all of it negative, I hope.” Her laughter was unguarded, almost careless.
“None of it negative as far as I know. The wilderness shapes us in many ways.”
The expression she gave him was unreadable, but her joy at seeing her married friends was genuine. She ushered them into her drawing room and offered them tea. As much as he tried, Lester could not stop following her movements. She didn’t dress like the plains women and the missionary women he knew so well. She wore a dark silk dress, gathered to a pointed waist in front and a bustle in the back. Lace cuffs fanned down below her wrists and fluttered gracefully when she raised her tea cup. Her mouth was rouged, and he watched those rouged lips shape every word she spoke.
Ridiculous was that he couldn’t string those words together into a comprehensible dialog, only follow the sounds like listening to a new melody. There were too many trilling voices. Too many light sounding bird calls filling the air in the guise of women talking and laughing together. Lester glanced over at Joseph for a cue. His brother-in-law appeared nearly as uncomfortable. He only came to life when they began discussing the rising violence against the remaining Indians that still wandered through the Colorado Mountains.
“I heard,” said Lizbeth, who apparently heard everything. “There is a group circulating t
he mining camps, riling people up. There were some hangings not long ago, up around Burnt Mountain. They want to push the Indians south, away from the settlements.”
“To the lands we can’t farm or mine,” said Joseph, spitting out the words like nails.
“Well, the Utes don’t place value on farming and mining,” said Hannah, then remembering the company she was keeping, added, “but since they don’t, it seems like there should be no reason we can’t all just get along. “
“I’m afraid for Trader Cole,” murmured Lizbeth. “My daddy never allowed me to play with his children while we were all growing up, but they were really nice. They showed me how to sew with leather lacing. They are very clever with their hands.”
“We won’t let anything happen to Trader Cole’s children,” promised Joseph.
“Excuse me Mr. Marston for saying so, but you don’t know the extent to what the mining camp can hate. It festers in those who have nothing, and in those who have found gold and fear to share it. It festers because they are dirty and tired and still unsatisfied. You have not lived among them. You do not know.”
“But it was the Marston’s who brought you safely here and have watched over you,” said Hannah gently. “I believe they must know something.”
“They had people on their side. The Haldeman’s. The other members of the parish. You won’t find such willingness to protect half-Indian children.”
Hannah sighed. “Our little girl has grown beyond our control, Greta. She cares little for words of discretion or grace. You, Mr. Samuelson. You have become accustomed to Indians. What do you think should be done?”
“I suppose we should give them all a good spanking. How dare they choose to be born different?”
