by Stephen Bly
“Shall we depart separately?” she asked.
“I think that’s best. Let me and Mr. Walker get off first. I’ll be out of sight by the time you step down on the platform.”
She held onto his arm. “Have we really only known each other for a few days? Oh, Race, this trip was too short.”
“You want to do it all over again?”
“Some parts I’d like to leave out.”
“Are you okay, now? I mean, with Catelynn and Marie.”
“I will never recover from that.”
“If I thought you’d do something stupid, I’d just wrap my arms around you for the rest of my life.”
She stared at him until he turned away.
When the train stopped at the station, he was the first to stand. “Well, Mr. Walker, say goodbye to the lady that gave you life. Catherine, I wish you only the Lord’s best.”
“And to you, Mr. Hillyard. I eh . . . eh . . . Race, please leave before I start bawling.”
With the saddle over his shoulder, he exited the train.
He didn’t look back.
“I’ll swan,” Francine sighed. “I didn’t figure him walking off like that.”
“He’s just a friend I met on a train.”
“Yeah, sure. And I weigh 106 pounds and wear a size four dress. Save that line for your Phillip, honey. Neither me, nor your heart, nor them Mormon girls believe it.”
Catherine brushed the collar of her dress. She tilted her hat and plucked up her valise. “Now, remember you are going to write to me.”
“And if you need me, I’ll be at my sister’s in Rough-And-Ready until the end of the month.”
“Rough-And-Ready is a town?”
“Yep. Sounds sort of like our trip, don’t it?”
Catherine waited for Francine and the children to descend. She stared around the empty coach.
Lord, I’ve done more living here than anywhere. It’s like home. All the passengers were my neighbors. And Race was my . . . .
She squeezed the tears from her eyes.
This is stupid, Lord. I’m stepping off this train into the arms of my love, my destiny.
The platform at the Sacramento train station was near empty when she stepped down. Several men and teams huddled at the freight car next to the caboose. A medium sized pig with yellow ribbon around its neck was tethered to a lamp post.
She walked around the station to the street. Several wagons rattled past. A prospector leading two mules tipped his hat in her direction and offered a toothless grin.
This is not the way I imagined it, but little wonder. The train has been delayed so many times, the poor man probably waited at the station for days. I certainly didn’t plan on spending the morning at an inquest in Dutch Flat.
I know this sounds strange, Lord. But it did help to soften the horrible blow of Catelynn and Marie’s deaths. Gas lanterns can be dangerous. It could happen to anyone.
Tears stung down her eyes.
But why? Why Catelynn? Why did it happen before I could . . . .
She gasped back a sob.
I need him right now. He should be here. He should be wrapping his strong arms around me. He should be the one to rock me back and forth and whisper that everything will be okay. Phillip Draper, you could learn a lot from Mr. Race Hillyard.
She cleared her throat. “Okay, Miss Catherine Goodwin. What do you do next?”
A short line formed at the ticket booth in the terminal. She waited for a couple speaking very broken English to make arrangements for a trip to ‘Ohgone’.
She studied the half-dozen others in the station.
I’m not even sure what Phillip looks like now. He will be tall . . . taller than I am. Sandy blonde hair. Broad shoulders. Square jaw Penetrating . . . no . . . no. I really don’t know what he looks like. I’ve travelled clear to California to marry a man whom I do not know at all.
“May I help you, ma’am?”
“It doesn’t matter what a man looks like on the outside, it’s what is inside that counts,” she blurted out.
The clerk blushed. “Eh, yes ma’am. Well, my wife finds me handsome.”
“Oh . .. no . . . I didn’t mean to say that aloud. I was thinking of someone else. Please forgive me. I’m Catherine Goodwin. I just came in from . . . .”
“From Dutch Flat. We heard all about you.”
“Oh? A very dear friend, whom I haven’t seen in seventeen years, was to meet me here. But I seemed to have missed him. Did he leave a message?”
He studied her from boot to hat. “Lady, I’m sorry to report that hardly a week goes by when I don’t hear that same story. Some woman comes west on a promise of matrimony, but the old boy just never shows up.”
“That is an insult. My Phillip would never do that.”
“I mean no offense. However, no one has asked about your arrival. At least, not today.”
“Did he leave me a note?”
“You mean, a telegram?”
“Well, perhaps. Would you check?”
The clerk fingered through a deep file box, then returned.
“Sorry lady, nothing for you. You might try the Post Office.”
“Yes. Where is it at?”
On the corner of 1st and Court. But it’s closed for the day. Won’t be open until seven in the morning.”
“Well, thank you. Perhaps Phillip’s out on the street waiting for me right now. Or at the hotel. Where’s the nearest hotel?”
“Are you looking for nobby or modest?”
“The kind of hotel a prosperous business owner might stay at.”
“The Senator. But the American River is just as clean for a lot less money.”
“Thank you.”
She spotted the three story Senator Hotel from several blocks away. The bright white paint with gold trim was lit by a flock of gas lanterns. Deep, thick gold carpet surfaced the lobby. She stepped to the desk.
“Yes, ma’am, would you like a room for tonight?”
“I’m looking for a man.”
The clerk paused with raised eyebrows.
“Do you have a guest by the name of Mr. Phillip Draper? He’s a prominent businessman from Paradise Springs.”
“Is that near Marysville?”
“I have no clue.”
He studied the guest registry. “We have no man by that name here.”
“How about the past several days?”
He flipped back several pages and perused them. “No Draper. We had a Dryer and a Trapper.”
“Well, thank you anyway.”
“Did you want a room?
“How much does it cost?”
“We have several lovely small rooms for only ten dollars.”
“A night or a week?”
“A night, of course.”
Catherine repeated the same routine at the American River Hotel. She didn’t find any trace of Phillip Draper. The stuffy room cost three dollars. She cracked a window a couple inches, but refused to light the gas lamp. Then, she washed her face, neck, hands and arms in a small basin and twice turned the gas lantern valve to make sure it was still off. She fluffed up the one pillow on the bed, the stretched out on her back, fully dressed, on top of the comforter.
She endured a fitful night. Dozing off. Waking. Dozing off.
When awake, Catherine stared at the black ceiling of the Sacramento hotel room and thought about a man.
The wrong man.
The United States Post Office at Sacramento, California, opened at 7:00 a.m. Catherine appeared at the door by 6:45 a.m. The clerk with the visor pulled a letter from a bin marked “G”. He stared at the crumpled brown envelope and handed it to her.
I knew it! I knew Phillip wouldn’t forget to meet the train. I shall march over to the train station and wave this in front of that arrogant clerk’s nose.
She strolled out to the boardwalk in front of the hotel. Her shoulders relaxed. She found an empty wooden bench shoved against the front of the building. She sat down and studied
the outside of the envelope.
Okay, Mr. Draper, let’s see what you have to say.
The lines were uneven. There was an ink smudge or two and a crossed out word.
That’s just the school-teacher in me. I don’t care how he writes letters.
She took a deep breath, bit her lip, and studied each word.
“Catherine, I’m sorry I can’t meat you in Sacremento. I couldn’t get away from the store. It should be eassie for you to gat a ride up her. I’ve got things argen taken care in P.S. Mr. P. Dryer”
Easy to get a ride? How? Where?
Catherine spotted the Wells Fargo office a block from the Sacramento River. She studied the schedule posted in front of the white clapboard, corner building.
A young man with large, dark mole in the middle of his chin stepped up to her. “Ma’am, can I help you find a stage?”
“I need to get to Paradise Springs.”
“You want to go to Paradise? That’s up by Marysville, right?”
“Paradise Springs.”
“California?”
“Yes, of course.”
The boy shrugged. “I’ll check with Mr. Montrose. He knows everything.”
She watched a six-up mud wagon pull in front of the stage stop.
Lord, it would be very nice if this coach is headed to Paradise Springs, if it’s not too crowded.
“Thursday.”
She turned to see the young clerk.
“Excuse me?”
“Mr. Montrose says you’ll need to catch the Black Butte stage on Thursday. It goes through Paradise Springs.”
“There is no stage until then? It only runs once a week?”
“Once ever’ two weeks. You’re in luck.”
“But I need to get there right away.”
“I suppose you could buy a rig and take it up there, but it would be cheaper to stay in town and wait for Thursday. You got people in Sacramento to stay with?”
“I really must get to Paradise Springs. I’m going to get married.”
“No foolin’?” The boy gawked at her. “I figured a woman your age was already married.”
“I will ignore you impertinence and give you a dollar, if you can find me a ride to Paradise Springs.”
“Yes, ma’am, and forgive my impurdiness. Come back in a couple hours and I’ll see what I can do.”
Catherine sipped a cup of tea and made an English biscuit with chokecherry preserves last almost an hour at the Anderson House Café. Then she walked along the Sacramento River, sat on a bench in a very small park and window shopped her way back to the Wells Fargo Office.
She was just entering the building when the young clerk greeted her. “I did it, ma’am. I got you a ride to Paradise Springs.”
“That’s wonderful. Where is the coach?” She walked with him to the porch.
The clerk locked his thumbs in his belt. “No coach. Frank Utt is going right through Paradise Springs on his way to Faraway Basin.”
She gazed at the men on the boardwalk. “Who is Frank Utt?”
He pointed to the street. “The teamster right over there.”
Catherine hiked over to the heavily loaded rig. “A freight wagon? Where do I ride?”
The man with black flop hat and tobacco stained vest pointed to the wooden seat beside him.
“But . . . I can’t . . . .”
The clerk slid up beside her. “Ma’am, I’m honest with you when I say Frank is the only one headed up there in the next few days. Of course, the next . . . .”
“Yes, next Thursday I can get a stage.” She opened her purse. “What will this ride cost me?”
“Frank said you could ride along for three dollars.”
“Three dollars?”
“That includes the use of two wool blankets, hard biscuits, salt pork and drinking water.”
“Wool blankets?” She peered up at the grinning man with slouch hat. “Is the trip that cold?”
Utt ran his hand across the stubble of his beard. “It is when you stop for the night.”
“It takes two days?”
“If the road hasn’t washed out.”
“And where do I sleep?”
“Next to the campfire is best,” the teamster instructed.
“For three dollars I sit on a hard bench seat, sleep on the ground, and get pulled up the hill by three mules and a swayback horse.”
Utt spat tobacco into the dirt beside the horse. “Dixie will pull her weight. You wait and see.”
The clerk scratched his short, course hair. “It’s all I could find, ma’am.”
And I promised Race I wouldn’t do anything stupid.
“Where can I purchase some .45 cartridges?” she asked.
The clerk waved his hand across the street. “Right over there at Rhineberg’s Hardware.”
“Load up my valise. I will be right back.”
“You know how to use a gun?” Utt questioned.
She turned to the clerk, “What time is it?”
“Almost noon, ma’am.”
“I haven’t pointed a gun at a man and pulled the trigger in over twenty-four hours, Mr. Utt. I don’t intend on having to use it, unless I get real nervous.”
Catherine folded one blanket for a seat cushion and draped the other across her lap. It’s not cold enough for the blanket yet, but I feel safer having it over my lap. Race, you knew you left your spare gun with me. I knew it too, but I didn’t want to give it back. Perhaps you will come to Paradise Springs looking for it, although I’m not sure how I’ll explain you to my husband.
When Utt turned left onto the River Road, he let fly with a string of curses about the animals’ ancestry and his personal view of the theology of eternity, suggesting where each animal might end up.
Catherine cleared her throat. “Mr. Utt, do you have a wife and children?”
“Nope.” His answer was more a grunt than a word.
“I suppose you live in Sacramento?”
“Nope.”
“It’s a beautiful day. Don’t you enjoy days like today?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you must enjoy something. What do you enjoy?”
“I enjoy it when people don’t ask dumb questions.”
She looked down at her hands. “I’ll make a deal with you. I promise not to talk, if you promise not to use the Lord’s name in vain when you curse the animals. You can use any words you’d like. I’ve heard them all . . . but don’t use God or Jesus in a blasphemous manner.”
For six straight, long, tedious hours neither of them spoke. The only time Catherine slept was when her hand was on the polished walnut grip of her pursed revolver.
Hard ground. Cold air. Bright stars. Catherine survived the night under a pine tree, somewhere in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas.
She was surprised at quality of the ham and eggs breakfast Frank Utt prepared. The strong, black coffee warmed her from head to toe.
As it steepened, the road to Paradise Springs narrowed to two wide ruts along a creek. The air chilled right after their noon stop. Catherine tugged one of the wool blankets around her shoulders.
She calculated it was mid-afternoon when they stopped at a cluster of two dozen scattered buildings, among a creek and small meadow surrounded by tall ponderosa pines.
“Mr. Utt, at least we’ve approached scattered civilization. How much further to Paradise Springs?”
“This is Paradise Springs.” The teamster sounded triumphant, as if he just drew a fourth ace.
“No, no, no. The Paradise Springs I’m talking about has a population of over five thousand people.”
“Used too. Back seven, eight years ago it boomed. Last time they put a sign up, it had three hundred and eight hearty souls. Probably less now.”
“Where did the people go?”
“Most moved up to Faraway Basin when they found color up there. They just tore down their stores and homes, loaded up the lumber wagons and moved. That’s the way it is around here. You got to go w
here the ore is.”
“But, I was told it’s a thriving town.”
“Oh, it was a swell place in its day. Had three banks, an opera house, a fine ladies hat shop and a half-dozen mercantiles. The real draw was the dance hall and saloons. Fourteen rowdy bars lined this street. Look at it now. There are only two saloons left and McRaffy’s is only open until the old man drinks up his own liquor.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I know what you mean. Ain’t much here. There’s them two saloons. Champion’s Store. Dr. Drefert’s office . . . she’s a fine lady. Maybe the best doc in the mountains. Back over there, Mrs. Chin still runs her laundry and oriental medications. Behind her is the Presbyterian Church. Use to be almost as many churches in town as there were saloons. But it’s all gone. Where do you want dropped off?”
“At Draper’s Store.”
“Draper? I don’t know of any such store.”
“Well, there certainly is.”
“The only store in town is Champion’s. I can take you down there.”
I assumed Phillip’s store was called Draper’s. But, of course, he might have retained the name of the previous owner.
“Yes, take me to Champion’s.”
They rattled two hundred feet down the rutted street.
“Looks like the clerk’s out there sweepin’ up. Maybe he knows your fella.”
She climbed eight steps up the front porch of “Champion’s Mercantile and Grocery.” The stairs were well worn, as was the rest of the unpainted, wooden, one-story building. The man at the end of the porch didn’t glance back as he swept and whistled.
Balding, sloped shoulders, frayed cuffs on his dingy, long sleeve white shirt. When he turned around, she spied a gold tooth in his wide smile.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Phillip Draper.”
“Catherine. You came after all.” He tossed down his broom and rushed toward her.
~~ CHAPTER THIRTEEN ~~
No, no, no. This isn’t . . . he can’t be . . . .
“Phillip?” she choked.
He threw his thin arms around her.
She froze in place.
He kissed her cheek. “Don’t your soon-to-be husband even get a hug?”
Catherine hugged his shoulders, kissed his cheek, and stepped back.
“Phillip, I just didn’t recognize you. You’ve . . . changed.”
