On the Trail of the Truth

by Michael Phillips

  All through the conversation about Royce and Fremont and the elections, Almeda remained silent, although I don’t think it had anything to do with the money. I could tell she was listening to every word and was very interested in what was being said—that much was plain from one look at her face. Just as clear was that she was thinking real hard. But what she was thinking about, she didn’t let on so much as one little peep.

  The weeks of summer went by. Royce kept up his pleasantness campaign. The leaves on a few of the birch trees started thinking about turning yellow. Both Mr. Singleton’s Gazette and Mr. Kemble’s Alta were full of the Fremont-Buchanan election, and there wasn’t much room left for an aspiring girl-writer from a little foothills gold town. I hadn’t seen anything of mine in either paper since May, though I kept writing. Mr. Kemble was still looking at two more articles I’d sent him—one called “Summer in the Foothills of Gold Country,” and the other one of what he called his “human interest” stories about Miss Stansberry and the school, and especially about how she had learned to use her lameness as a strength instead of a weakness.

  The Summer-in-the-Foothills one was mostly about the beauty of the countryside and how summer was such a special season. I had the idea out walking one day, watching Pa and Uncle Nick and Zack and Mr. Jones all working away in the stream and mine from where I was standing up on a hill behind the house. I had been thinking how much I loved the countryside God had made, and when I saw them laboring away after little pieces of gold, the realization came to me that the land itself was really the treasure, not the gold. The “real gold”—that’s what I called it in the article—was the land and its people, not just the nuggets that they were digging out of the streams and rivers. Someday, I said, there might not be any gold left, but there would still be this wonderful land, and there would still be people to love and cherish the land, and that was more lasting than any riches any miner could ever dig out of even the wealthiest mine. So the article had one of those “double meanings,” because I meant the word “gold” in the title to stand for the wealth of the land itself.

  Anyway, I figured Mr. Kemble would be sending it back to me some time real soon. But I hoped the article on Miss Stansberry might get published. And in the meantime, the papers were full of editorials about the election and reprints from papers out East and articles about the slavery question and where the two presidential candidates stood on that and all kinds of issues. There were also other elections going on for California’s senators and representatives in Washington. So much was happening so fast. Everything was growing. Sacramento had just been made the capital of all of California two years before in 1854. Now that we were so close to the center of politics, the elections for state offices had gotten everybody’s attention too, and even a time or two men came through making speeches and telling everybody to vote for them, though half the time no one had ever heard of them.

  Chapter 21

  Almeda Surprises Everybody!

  One evening toward the latter part of July, Almeda was late coming home from town. I’d been home for some time. Supper was all ready, Pa had quit working and was cleaned up, but still she didn’t come. Finally Pa said we should just go ahead and eat, though it wasn’t like her to be so late. At first I think he might have been a trifle annoyed, but by eight o’clock, when she still wasn’t home, he started to worry.

  Finally Pa got to his feet. “I’m going into town,” he said, “to find out where she is and if she’s okay.”

  He walked out the door and toward the barn to saddle his horse. But not two or three minutes later, Almeda’s little buggy came around the bend and up the road toward the house.

  A moment or two passed before she and Pa came through the door together. From the look on Pa’s face, she still hadn’t told him what had caused her delay.

  Without sitting down, she waited until everyone was quiet. We all had our eyes fixed on her, wondering what she was going to say. Her face was serious but bright, and it was obvious something was brewing inside her head that she was dying to tell us all about.

  “I’m sorry to be so late,” she said. “I didn’t expect this, but as I got ready to come home, suddenly a great . . . a great sense . . . of God speaking to me began to come over me and I knew I had to be alone for a while. As it turns out, I’ve been thinking, praying, and crying for over two hours! But now . . . I believe I know at last what he’s been trying to tell me.”

  She stopped and took a deep breath. Then she got a big smile on her face, and was clearly excited about what she had to say.

  “I’ve reached a decision,” she said. “Hopefully with God’s help—”

  She paused again, then announced:

  “I’ve decided to run against Royce . . . for mayor!”

  Silence fell like a heavy cloud throughout the house. No one said anything. Everyone was too shocked.

  Becky was the first to break the silence by bolting past Almeda and through the door.

  “Where ya going?” called Pa after her.

  “To tell Uncle Nick and Aunt Katie!” shouted Becky back at him, already halfway to the bridge over the stream.

  That was all Pa said for a while. He was real quiet, and from the look of expectation on Almeda’s face I could tell she was waiting for him to say something.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all,” he finally said. “You are a lady full of surprises, I’ll say that for you.”

  Almeda laughed, and finally sat down, showing some relief. I brought a plate and set it down in front of her at the table.

  Pa didn’t say anything more, just sat there thinking about this turn of events. From looking at him, I couldn’t tell whether he approved or not. I guess it was quite a thing for a man to get used to, his wife saying she was going to run for politics. It wasn’t the kind of thing women did, or that men usually approved of!

  I decided to break the silence myself. “What makes you think you can do it?” I asked. “If a woman can’t vote, I wouldn’t think they’d let you run for an office.”

  “Well, women ought to be able to vote,” she replied, “and I intend to run whatever anyone thinks.”

  “Anyone . . . including me?” said Pa finally, looking over at her.

  “Well, I . . .” Almeda hesitated. “I just thought, Drummond, that you’d be all for it. I’ve heard you say yourself you didn’t like the thought of Royce as mayor.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. I reckon I just wish you’d said somethin’ to me first, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry, Drummond,” she said, genuinely surprised, as if she’d never thought about talking to Pa ahead of time. “If you’d rather—”

  “No, no,” interrupted Pa. “I ain’t gonna stand in your way.”

  Then he tried to lighten the tension some by letting out a laugh. “Who knows, maybe I’ll like the notion of bein’ known as the mayor’s husband! But what about Royce?” he asked, serious again. “He ain’t gonna like this one bit!”

  “Franklin Royce can think what he will. If he calls my notes due, I’ll borrow the money from you! I don’t owe him more than a couple thousand dollars.”

  Pa laughed again. “Well, you’re determined enough,” he said, sounding as if he was getting gradually used to the idea. “I reckon I’ll give you my vote. But since women can’t vote, and men being what they are, I can’t see how you’ll get many more.”

  “What about everything you and Nick have been saying about none of the men around caring for Royce?”

  “That was before. Now that he’s changed, I ain’t so sure most of the men wouldn’t still prefer him to voting for a woman.”

  “Are you prejudiced against the idea?” asked Almeda, still wondering what Pa thought.

  “I’m just tellin’ you how folks’ll see it, and you know as well as I do how men are about women doing ‘men’s work.’”

  Almeda sent a glance in my direction, as if to remind me of the conversations we had about that very same thing.

  “We’l
l see,” she said. “I’m not so sure Royce has changed as much as everyone thinks. I have a feeling he’s just as conniving as ever, and if folks have a choice in the election . . . well, we’ll have to wait and see. I just think they ought to have a choice.”

  In a few minutes Katie and Uncle Nick, led by Becky, came in. Uncle Nick was carrying fourteen-month-old Erich, but set him down as soon as they were inside. He’d been walking about three or four weeks, and now he went toddling about while Becky and Tad tried to keep up with him. Still sitting at the table, Almeda did her best to eat some supper and answer everyone’s questions. Her surprise announcement caused an uproar in the house. No one knew what to think, but everybody had plenty to say in response!

  “I think it’s exciting!” said Katie over and over. “If I’d thought of it myself, why I’d have run!”

  “Being the wife of this character,” said Pa, tossing his head sideways toward Uncle Nick, “I wouldn’t exactly have recommended you as qualified for the position.”

  “Why, Drummond, how dare you!” she said.

  “I’m only saying,” laughed Pa, “that Almeda here’s got a reputation as a businesswoman that goes further back in Miracle Springs even than Royce’s—when did he come to town, Almeda?”

  “I think it was late ’51 . . . maybe early ’52.”

  “There, you see,” continued Pa. “Parrish Mine and Freight has been doing business in town since ’50.” He stopped. “Hmm, now that I think about it, maybe you can put up a campaign against Royce.”

  “Sounds like a campaign slogan to me,” said Katie. “‘Hollister for Mayor—Part of Miracle Springs from the Beginning!’”

  “How about being my assistant, Katie?” said Almeda.

  “No, no, no!” interjected Uncle Nick. “If a woman’s gonna try to go up against a man, at least you gotta have a man runnin’ it for ya.”

  “Are you suggesting, Mister Belle,” said Katie, “that two women would not be able to do it?”

  “Three women!” I added.

  Katie and Almeda cheered and clapped to have me joining their debate. “Now we three outnumber you two!” said Katie. “Perhaps we should vote on who should be the campaign manager, right here and now!”

  “Make it three against three!” chimed in Zack. “I’m sixteen. My say oughta count as much as Corrie’s!”

  “Now you’re talking, son!” said Pa. “You just stand aside, Katie, and let us men figure out the best way to go about this thing!”

  By now we were all laughing, including the kids, who had never seen a family squabble line up quite so definitely with the women against the men. It was sure good to see Pa entering into the spirit of it now, after his initial hesitation.

  A lot more lively discussion followed throughout the evening. Despite all the suggestions the rest of us were free to give, the wisdom of the candidate prevailed when she said, “Perhaps the best idea is that we let this whole committee manage my campaign. What do you say—we six, three men, three women? That way we’ll be able to give even voice to the concerns of the men and the women, the young and the old, the married and the unmarried, the business persons and the miners. We’ll have our whole Miracle Springs constituency represented right on our ‘Hollister for Mayor’ committee—do you all agree?”

  Everyone looked around at each other. What she said made sense.

  “Maybe you are cut out to be a politician, Almeda,” said Pa. “That sounds just like the kind of solution a mayor oughta be able to figure out—with a little speechmaking thrown in!”

  We laughed.

  “And the first thing for the committee to get busy on,” she said, “is publicity. That, I think, would be your department, Corrie,” she added, turning toward me.

  The result could be seen the next afternoon in the window of the Parrish Mine and Freight Company, with a hand-lettered poster where the words Vote Almeda Hollister for Mayor of Miracle Springs suddenly declared to the whole town that the poster in the bank’s window wasn’t the only political message to be heard anymore.

  This election had now become a two man—that is, a two-person—race!

  It took only the rest of that day and half of the next morning for the poster to be seen and for word to begin to get around. But when it did, the news spread like a brushfire in a hot wind. Before the week was out there wasn’t anything in the mouths of people for miles around other than what they thought of Almeda going up against Franklin Royce. Some folks thought it was ridiculous. Others said privately they would vote for her if they could, but they just couldn’t afford to rile Royce. A lot of the men said women ought to stay where they belonged and keep out of politics. Of course, all the women admired Almeda and loved the idea, but none of them could vote. And most of the men, whether they liked the idea or not, said she had guts to try it, although some added it would probably ruin her business in the end. Royce wasn’t the kind of man you got on the wrong side of, they said.

  All of a sudden, the Fremont-Buchanan election seemed far away and uninteresting!

  Chapter 22

  The Campaign Gets Started

  With the town all a buzz, there was still not much active support for Almeda against banker Franklin Royce.

  People were talking about the election, but nobody was coming out and saying they actually supported Almeda. If anything, business around the office was quieter than usual. Almeda was right in the middle of a hurricane of talk and interest and discussion, but the Parrish Mine and Freight office was quieter than a tomb. And even the people who did come in seemed reluctant to mention the election. They just took care of their business and left without more words than were necessary.

  “You know what it is,” said Almeda one day in frustration to me and Mr. Ashton. “They’re all afraid Franklin is standing behind his window over there watching!”

  The bank and freight office, two of Miracle’s busiest places and biggest buildings, sat looking right at each other across the intersection of the two main streets. There they sat, with the General Store and the sheriff’s office and jail on opposite corners and lots of other little stores and buildings in between, making up the central square block of Miracle Springs.

  And there stood the posters in the windows of each, saying nothing out loud, but silently saying so much about what really made Miracle Springs work and operate and “function” every day as a town. Royce for Mayor, said the one, promoting the man who owned the bank and who as a result co-owned or part-owned three-quarters of all the farms and ranches and businesses and homes for miles around. And in the other window folks read the sign I had made that said Vote Almeda Hollister for Mayor of Miracle Springs. Everyone knew that it was Almeda who had gotten them their gold pans and sluice boxes and their bags, shovels, wagons, spare parts, picks, saddles, ropes, and nails. At her livery half their horses and mules were tended, and at her blacksmith’s forge Marcus Weber repaired their tools, re-shod their horses, and fixed their broken wagon wheels.

  I don’t suppose any two people had done more to make Miracle Springs what it was in 1856 than Franklin Royce and Almeda Parrish Hollister. Yet it seemed more than likely that most folks would end up on Royce’s side. Even though through the years Almeda had given credit to most of the men of Miracle Springs one time or another, she didn’t hold mortgages on their property. And if she went out of business, as sorry as they might be, they could always get what they needed someplace else. If she was gone, probably Royce himself would set up a new business to replace hers!

  “What we need is a flyer, a pamphlet!” Almeda exclaimed, after a few moments pause, still staring out the window, looking toward the bank. “Folks are just too nervous to be seen talking to me. But if we distributed something they could take home and read when they’re alone, then they wouldn’t have to worry about being seen by you know who.”

  She spun around and faced me. “What do you say, Corrie? A flyer—you can help me write it, and I’ll take it down to Sacramento to have it printed up. We’ll get five hundr
ed, even a thousand printed up. We’ll scatter so many of them around that everybody will see it eventually!”

  We got started on it that very afternoon.

  Almeda told me what she wanted to say. I wrote it down in the best way I could, she made some changes, and then I wrote it over again. I started to work on a couple of pictures for it, too, so that it would look interesting—a sketch of Almeda’s face, and another one of the front of the Freight Company office, as a reminder of what Parrish Mine and Freight had meant to the community.

  During the evening we all sat around and talked—what Almeda still called her campaign “committee”—trying to figure out what we ought to say. Katie kept talking about needing a campaign slogan, and Almeda finally settled on: Almeda Hollister—A Hard-Working Part of Miracle Springs’ Past Who Will Be Faithful to Its Future. She Will Put Your Interests First.”

  That slogan would go on top of the handbill. Under it would be my sketch of Almeda. At the bottom would be words like: Integrity, Experience in Business, Familiar with Needs of Miners, Dependable, Friend of Miner and Rancher and Farmer, Working Hard for Your Prosperity.

  All that would comprise the front page. Inside the fold, people would open it up and read the written part about how Almeda had come to Miracle Springs, how the business had been started, and how much she had done for the miners through the years—helping get what they needed, giving them extra time to pay if needed, delivering things at odd hours or even in rain or snow if something was needed right away, opening up her livery or blacksmith’s shop in an emergency even if it meant getting Marcus up in the middle of the night—and finally saying that as mayor she would continue to do all those things for the community, always looking out for the interests and well-being of the people she represented.