Molly's Hero

by Susan Amarillas

  Across the street, next to the El Dorado Saloon, was Brinsfield’s Mercantile, according to the large blue sign that was displayed over the double doorway. Paint was peeling from the white clapboard walls and the wood on the front porch was curling from winter rains. The displays in the front windows were of cloth—everything from calico to red satin, and he wondered briefly just who in town was going to be decked out in that.

  He opened the door, which squeaked. A small bell announced his arrival to anyone who hadn’t heard those complaining hinges. Inside, the place was long and narrow, two sides lined with glass cases that served as counters, the walls behind filled with everything from bright-yellow cans of Coleman’s Mustard to white-labeled canned milk.

  The back of the store was stacked with blankets, both for horses and people. Burlap sacks of feed took up one corner. In the opposite corner, several wooden barrels were filled with brooms and mops and rakes, looking like some strange bouquet.

  “Morning,” Ethan said to the narrow-faced man behind the counter as he reached for the supply list in his pocket.

  “Morning,” the man returned with a smile. “What can we do for you today?”

  “I’ll be needing a few things.”

  The clerk scanned the list. “No problem. This everything?” He glanced up. “We’ve got a sale on sugar.”

  “Sugar, huh?” There wasn’t any sugar on her list. Ethan strolled along the counter, taking stock of the goods displayed and remembering the pitiful condition of her larder. “Maybe a couple more things.”

  His couple more things turned into half a dozen, then a dozen, including canned milk and honey—a personal favorite of his—sugar, coffee and butter. The clerk made note as Ethan indicated the amounts of each item.

  “I think that’s about it.” He’d nearly bought out the store.

  “You wanna wait or do you wanna come back?”

  He thought maybe he’d head on over to the restaurant he’d spotted in the boardinghouse, have a little lunch while he waited. “I’ll come back.”

  “It’ll be ready, Mister…”

  “Wilder.” The clerk scribbled it down as Ethan walked outside.

  Standing on the plank sidewalk, he was about to check out that boardinghouse restaurant when he noticed the post office sign on the front of the stage depot. Might as well see if there was any mail. Billy, his superintendent, knew he’d been headed here, of course.

  His spurs jingled as he strode across the street. A buckboard rattled past, a couple of local cowboys perched on the seat, the back stacked with several rolls of rope and sacks of oats. Ethan skirted around behind them and jumped up on the high sidewalk.

  As two women strolled by, he touched two fingers to the brim of his hat. “Ladies.”

  They nodded in response.

  He went into the stage depot. It turned out to be a small square room with a scarred wooden counter running across the entire front like a barricade that left little room for customers and lots of room for the freight that was stacked there.

  A tall, lean man in a faded blue-plaid shirt and shiny black trousers ambled up to the counter. “Yes, sir?” He let fly a stream of tobacco that hit the brass spittoon with practiced expertise.

  “Any mail for Wilder? Ethan Wilder?”

  The agent scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he finally said, “I think there was some thin’ come in on yesterday’s stage. Let me hunt ’er up.”

  “Fine.”

  Ethan kept thinking about Molly, about her land. He knew Billy was expecting things to have been handled. He gave a slight shake of his head. What the devil was wrong with him? Why didn’t he tell her what he wanted and be done with it? Trouble was, once he told her there was no more reason to stay. There was a funny feeling, a sorta pain that moved through his chest every time he thought about leaving, about never seeing Molly again.

  Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

  Lust was what it was. Or was it?

  Get your mind back on business.

  Yeah. Business. That was a nice safe topic, not to mention an urgent one.

  “Here’s that letter,” the clerk said, and Ethan blinked hard a couple of times, surprised that the man was standing right there in front of him.

  “What? Oh, sure. Thanks.” He ripped open the pale-yellow envelope.

  It was from Billy all right. He recognized his scrawl without having to look at the signature. Quickly, he scanned the lines. “…be in War Bonnet in less than thirty days…trouble with suppliers…rain delayed but picking up the pace…see you soon.”

  Ethan scanned the letter one more time just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He hadn’t. He didn’t understand what the trouble was with the suppliers, but Billy would handle it, he knew that. He’d been relying on Billy since, well, hell, since the army.

  It seemed that Ethan had spent most of his life in one kind of institution or another. Before the army it had been the orphanage.

  Orphanage. Now there was a place that seemed a world away. Brick and wood, it was three floors of wall-to-wall kids. It seemed the good sisters of charity could never say no to a child in need. Guess a woman has to have a big heart to want to be a nun.

  Ethan had been twelve when his mother died and his father ran off and Ethan ended up with the sisters.

  Days were long and there wasn’t much to do once schooling was done. But they had been near the railroad tracks so it had been only natural that he would watch the trains go by, make up games and stories about where each was headed, then pretend he was on board, off to a great adventure. Trains were his escape, his promise of better things to come, of the future.

  One day, he’d simply run away. Good sisters or not, he wanted to be on his own, to find all that adventure he’d been talking about. Ethan had been sixteen.

  After a year of living from hand to mouth, he’d joined the army.

  A year later the war had broken out.

  Four years of blood and gore that somehow he’d survived without permanent injury. He’d left the army right after the surrender, without a place to go or a plan to get there.

  Ethan glanced at the clerk. “Thanks.”

  Holding Billy’s letter, Ethan went outside. At the end of the street he could see his horse tied up and the wagon wheel propped against the hitching post.

  He leaned one shoulder against the porch post. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the curve of his elbow before settling his hat back on his head. He let his mind wander back.

  Right after the war, his old commander had taken on a job with the Union Pacific and he’d asked Ethan if he wanted to come along. Well, sure he did. Work with trains, work on the railroad? All those kid’s dreams and fantasies had come rushing back faster than he could say, “Sign me up.”

  Colonel Bridges was eastern bred, old money, college educated. He’d liked Ethan from the first and had taken Ethan under his wing, taught him about engineering, about surveying and planning and budgeting. That’s where Ethan had again met Billy, who was the superintendent of the men.

  By the time the tracks met in Utah, Ethan had built what some called an impressive reputation as a man who knew how to get things done, and with Billy as his partner, well, they’d figured there’d be no stopping them.

  Ethan had put together a plan to build his own railroad, a spur north to cattle country, to War Bonnet. Investors had been willing based on Ethan’s reputation and help from the Colonel. He’d seen to it Ethan had met the right people. Why, he’d even invested, and that was pretty much enough of a guarantee for everyone else.

  Everything had fallen into place and he and Billy had figured they couldn’t lose.

  But that was before Molly Murphy.

  Something had happened almost from the first, from seeing that flame-red hair of hers, from feeling her curled so helplessly in his arms as he’d carried her into the cabin, from seeing how scared she’d been that first night.

  Something. But what?

  A
couple of blackbirds settled in the middle of the street, squawking and flapping at each other over some slight, he supposed.

  Like the blackbirds, Ethan needed to settle things and get on with business. He had obligations to Billy and to the investors. He had made a promise to himself.

  “Mr. Wilder?” a male voice interrupted his thoughts.

  Ethan looked up.

  A tall, barrel-chested man dressed in a tan-striped suit held out his hand. “Ed Bartel, head of the businessman’s association here and owner of both saloons. You are Ethan Wilder with the railroad?”

  “Yes,” Ethan responded, thinking the man had the slick look of a devious horse trader he’d once known.

  Bartel was busy still shaking Ethan’s hand. “We’ve been expecting you, Ethan. You don’t mind if I call you Ethan.” It wasn’t a question and Ethan was half tempted to say he did mind just to see what the man would say. He didn’t. Bartel here was part of Ethan’s customer base and there was no sense riling up the customers.

  “How’d you know—”

  “Oh, I was over to the mercantile,” he interrupted Ethan’s question. “They said you was here, at least someone with your name….” His grin widened and he kept shaking Ethan’s hand.

  It was like pulling taffy to get his hand free, but Ethan managed, flexing his fingers as he did. He adjusted his hat more comfortably on his head. “Yes, Mr. Bartel, we’ve corresponded.” He’d written to Bartel discussing various business plans, encouraging him to put the word out to the local ranches that the railroad would be available for their spring shipping and that he’d negotiate rates with them. “I appreciate all your work.”

  “Nothing to it,” Bartel replied, his voice booming so that people on the other side of the street glanced their way. “Think nothing of it, Ethan. Glad to do it. Glad to do it.”

  Sunlight inched up on the porch and the two men took a step sideways, closer to the wall of the stage depot. “When you got to town, you should’ve come on over to the office and looked me up. Now, you come along with me. I’m gonna show you around, introduce you to a few folks.” He gestured broadly, that horse-trader grin of his firmly in place.

  “Some other time, Mr. Bartel. I’ve got—”

  “No time like the present,” Bartel countered, and the next thing Ethan knew the man had him by the arm and was propelling him along the sidewalk. “Now, we’ll get you a room at the boardinghouse. Nothing fancy, but clean and good food. Mrs. Haggerty is a mighty fine-looking woman too, which ain’t a bad way to start the morning, if you know what I mean.” He winked at Ethan.

  Ethan understood but wasn’t interested. “I’m not staying in town, Bartel.” The man was beginning to irritate him. “I’m picking up a few supplies is all.” He didn’t mention Molly or the land or his staying with her. He knew full well how quickly a woman’s reputation could be ruined and he wouldn’t do that to her.

  “Supplies? You hauling supplies for the railroad?” His blue eyes widened in excitement and he slapped Ethan on the back. “Hot damn! So the line is that close, huh? I didn’t know. How come I didn’t know?” he said out loud, as if someone would be held accountable to his being uninformed.

  Ethan corrected his impression. “No, it’s not that close. I’d say—” he glanced at Billy’s letter again “—about a month if the weather holds and supplies are on time. Maybe two.” And if I buy the key piece of land to make the whole damned thing happen, he thought, but didn’t say.

  “Sure. Sure,” Bartel said in a dismissive tone. “Sounds mighty close to me. Wait till the boys hear this.” Bartel had Ethan by the arm again and was ushering him along the sidewalk. “You know this railroad’s gonna make this town prosper. That’s why we’re selling lots already.” He skidded to a halt and in a conspiratorial tone, said, “I can make you a good deal on a couple of prime parcels, and if you want a place with a house on it I got one out the other end of town—porch, fireplace in the parlor and even a white picket fence.” His bushy eyebrows inched up and down his forehead a couple of time.

  “You want land, you see me. No one but me, now, you hear?”

  Ethan nodded. “I hear.” He wouldn’t buy a bucket of water from this guy if he was on fire, and he pitied the people who were going to have to deal with him in the coming months.

  The afternoon breeze ruffled Bartel’s hair and he flattened it against the top of his head with the palm of his hand. He kept walking, half pushing, half dragging Ethan along with him.

  The next thing Ethan knew, they were standing in front of Evans’ Feed and Grain. It was a plain storefront next to the town’s other saloon, called the Bull Dog.

  “Ralph,” Bartel called out, and the man inside the store came onto the sidewalk to join them. He was shorter than Ethan, and thin, with a graying fringe of hair.

  “Ralph Evans, this is Mr. Wilder, our railroad owner,” Bartel said.

  Evans wiped his hand on the dirty white apron he wore over his light blue shirt and brown trousers. The men shook hands.

  “Mr. Evans.”

  “Wilder. Is this your first time here?”

  “Yes. My partner surveyed this route a year ago.”

  Bartel spoke up. “Ralph, Ethan here says the railroad’s about a month away.”

  “Maybe two,” Ethan corrected.

  Evans nodded. “Any chance you might be here sooner than that? The spring roundup is getting started in a couple of weeks. It’s a little late this year because of the heavy snows we had.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ethan said. The snow had delayed the railroad too, which had worked a real hardship on their finances. It was gonna be tight.

  Feeling suddenly anxious to get back to Molly, to get this land thing resolved once and for all, he said, “Look, I’ve really got to go.” He glanced over at the mercantile. “I’ve got some supplies to pick up and—”

  “Fine. Fine,” Bartel interrupted again. Didn’t the man ever let someone finish a sentence?

  Bartel continued. “So now, when can I set up a meeting with the local ranchers?” His expression turned thoughtful. “How’s next Monday?”

  Ethan didn’t know about next Monday. He didn’t know about tomorrow. “Look, I’ll have to get back to you on that.” He swung down off the sidewalk and started across the street. The men hurried to catch up.

  “But,” Bartel was saying, “we have to talk about rates and schedules and—”

  “Later.” This time it was Ethan who cut in.

  “Now, passenger service will begin at the same time, right?” Evans asked.

  “Uh, right. Passenger service from Cheyenne. Mostly I think that’ll be miners, soldiers and their families—”

  “And investors,” Bartel added. “Investors in our town, Ethan. Don’t forget investors. Why, we’ve advertised in the Cheyenne Leader about the train and our town.” Bartel gestured broadly. Obviously the man had a lot of money sunk in the locale and was chomping at the bit to cash in. It wasn’t wrong, but it irritated Ethan.

  “Gentlemen, I really have to go.”

  “Now,” Evans piped up, “we’ll be putting together a celebration for you. The whole town will want to meet you and thank you for what you’re doing.”

  “It’s too early for celebrations,” Ethan told him. “Let’s wait until the train actually gets to town.”

  “Yes. Yes,” Bartel agreed, nodding as he spoke. “How about a drink before you go?”

  “Go?” Evans cocked his head to one side. “Aren’t you staying in town?”

  “Uh, no. I’m doing some surveying. You know, looking things over along the route and such.” It was kinda the truth. “So I came in for messages and supplies, then I’m headed back out again.”

  The men seemed to accept his explanation. He was relieved.

  The three of them walked over to the mercantile together.

  “Here’s your order, sir,” the clerk said as they walked in.

  Ethan went to the counter. “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

&nbs
p; “Six dollars will cover it.”

  Ethan counted out the money in silver coin then hefted the crate and was heading for the door when he spotted a large peppermint stick in the glass case. He remembered Katie’s parting words. “Let me have one of those, too.” He gestured with his head.

  “One of these?”

  “Yeah. The peppermint sticks.”

  The clerk wrapped the candy in brown paper and tucked it in the top of the crate. “Sweet tooth,” Ethan said in answer to the men’s questioning looks.

  “Ah,” Bartel mumbled. “I have one of those myself.” He rubbed his rounded stomach as proof of his words.

  “How much?” Ethan asked the clerk, shifting to balance the crate on one hip.

  “It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  The men trailed after him as he went outside en route to the livery.

  Even before he spoke to the man there, he could see that the buggy was hitched and the wheel tied on the back. He put the crate on the seat beside him.

  “We’re all square. Right?” he asked as the liveryman approached.

  “Sure are.”

  Ethan climbed up on the wagon seat. Looking down at the men gathered, he said, “I’ll be around the area. We can talk more later.”

  With that, he slapped the reins on the horse’s rump and the wagon lurched forward. He turned around and headed back out the way he’d come.

  The three men stood near the corral gate at the livery stable and watched him go.

  “Well, that was strange,” Bartel said after a minute. “The man sure was in a hurry to leave.”

  “Yeah, I thought so, too,” Evans said. “What’s the wagon wheel for?”

  Old Harry, the livery stable operator, rubbed his face with his hand, “Don’t know exactly.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Bartel demanded, obviously exasperated.

  “All I know is where he’s going.”

  “Well!” Bartel snapped. “I swear, Harry, trying to get information of you is like trying to get water out of a rock.”

  The men looked at him.

  “He said he was headed out to the Murphy place.” With that Harry turned and walked away.