“Well, let me be the first to offer you my congratulations.” Sky lifted his coffee mug in a toast. “To the happy groom.” No one in the room responded; he hadn’t expected them to. Turning back he gazed into the fire. A log dropped, shooting a cascade of orange sparks upwards. The silence in the room hovered palpably; only the crackling of the fire and the clatter of silverware disturbed the stillness.
Lord, what should I do? I wouldn’t give a dog I liked to Jason. You know I care for him, but... Sky tried to think of a solution. Nothing came to mind.
Weariness weighted his eyes and, remembering he still had to travel home tonight, he set his cup down.
Turning to Jed, he placed a hand on his stomach and grinned. “Best hog swill I’ve had in a long time, Jed.”
Jed grunted, waving his fork in dismissal.
To Fraser, he said, “Been a pleasure, Fraser. See you again soon.”
Fraser regarded him with a friendly smile as he wiped the corners of his mouth with long, slender fingers. “Sky, always good doing business with you.” Sky nodded and Fraser’s eyes held Sky’s for a moment, questioning what he was going to do about Jason’s situation, before he turned back to his food.
“Good night, gentlemen,” Sky said to the rest of the men at the table. The leather of his hat felt smooth against his fingers as he removed it from the peg by the door and pushed it back onto his head, exiting onto the now-darkened street.
The muffled sound his boots made in the soft dust of the roadbed didn’t carry far into the cricket-serenaded night. At the rail in front of Fraser’s Mercantile he untied his mule. Leading it further down the street toward the livery, he studied the starry sky. Jason getting married. Unshakable heaviness settled on his shoulders.
“Get a grip, Jordan,” he grumbled and forced himself to focus on the road ahead as he resettled his hat. There was nothing he could do for the poor woman. And maybe she’d be good for Jason.
With renewed determination to let the matter go, he retrieved his stallion, mounted up, and cantered out of town, leading the mule behind.
Chapter 2
Lewiston, Idaho Territory
August 1885
In the shadow cast by the telegraph office a man stood with his head bent low over a telegram. He leaned one shoulder into the building as a sardonic smile twisted his lips and he read the message again.
It’s in the back room STOP Come at your convenience STOP Have men in place STOP
L C
Pierce City
He rubbed his hand across his chin, still staring at the paper before him. His first two fingers paused on his chin, and he tapped it slowly twice as he thought. The news was good, but so many plans still had to be made. He peered both up and down the street. Although it teemed with traffic, no one looked his way, so he slipped back around the corner and into the telegraph office.
The operator was just heading out the door. Startled, he pulled his round spectacles to his eyes by the rim. “Oh, hello again—” one side of the paunchy little man’s mouth tilted up nervously, his eyes darting across the room to a board with several wanted posters pinned to it— “did you forget something?”
“I need to reply to this message.” He made sure his tone and face emanated calm.
The operator quickly returned to his side of the counter and took up a pen. With a shaking hand, he dipped it into the inkwell before him and waited expectantly.
The man dictated, “Coming by stage to Pierce City. STOP. Wait for my arrival.” He glanced at his watch. 11:59 a.m. As the operator reached to send the message, the man leaned across the counter and gripped his shoulder. Jumping, the operator turned toward him with a frightened expression, but he only said, “Wait,” and paced across the room to peruse the wanted posters.
Slowly the second hand ticked around until the time read 12:05 p.m. He nodded at the operator, who was now sweating profusely. “I will wait until you have sent the message.”
With shaking fingers, the operator tapped out the message to Pierce City. Once the message had been sent, he allowed his face to soften. He even thanked the operator politely for his help and patience.
Mopping his sweat-covered brow with a white handkerchief, the operator smiled his relief and nodded, face calming.
The man turned toward the door and took two long strides. Then, suddenly changing his course of direction and not bothering to use the gate, he placed his hand on the counter and, in one smooth motion, leaped across it to the side where the now gaping, slack-jawed operator sat. Grabbing the trembling telegrapher by his collar, he dragged him into a small room he could see at the back of the office, pressed the trembling man against the wall, forearm to his throat, and pulled a knife from his sheath under his jacket.
He turned the blade, watching as the light glanced off it and made pleasant patterns on the operator’s plump face. “Be a shame if somethin’ were to happen to your missus,” he murmured.
The little man clutched at the arm pressed to his neck and nodded vigorously.
“Funny thing about those wanted posters. They seem to pop up all over the place. A man can’t get any peace.”
This time the telegrapher shook his head. “I have never seen you, I swear.”
Chuckling, he pressed the tip of his blade to the soft skin under his captive’s eye. The man scrunched his eyes tight.
He grinned. As though that will protect them from my blade.
“P-Please. I won’t say a w-word.”
He let the knife point bite the flesh just enough to draw blood. “See that you don’t. I’ve seen your missus, and it would sure be a shame if somethin’ were to happen to such a pretty little thing, if you catch my meanin’.” With one last surge of pressure, he pushed away from the shuddering man. “And take the poster down. It’s an awful likeness. Makes me look as though I’m some unkempt hooligan.”
The operator nodded and, as the man turned to leave, he heard him slide down to the floor. He smirked and sheathed his blade.
Moments later he stepped out onto the boardwalk. Smoothing the front of his coat and squinting into the sunshine, he walked up the street toward the stage that waited for boarding passengers. Tipping his hat, he smiled at a woman with a young child in tow.
Pierce City
12:03 p.m.
Lee Chang lumbered up the street toward the telegraph office. Opening the door, he eased himself into the small, dusty room. The office had been shut down several years ago, when the population had dwindled to the point that there were no longer enough people in town to warrant its use, though the telegraph was still operational. An occasional message came through, though, and if someone who could read Morse code happened to be passing by on the street to hear it, sometimes it even got to the person for whom it was meant.
On this day, however, Lee knew a message would be coming through and didn’t want to chance someone walking by on the street and hearing the clatter of the code. Especially not David Fraser, who understood Morse code.
Leaning out the door, he scanned the street to be sure no one was near. Finally satisfied he was alone, he eased the door shut. He had just turned toward the desk in the darkened corner of the room when the telegraph began to click and tap out its message. He scrambled for a pencil and paper.
Lewiston
12:15 p.m.
Brooke placed both hands beside her on the seat to help keep her balance as the stage careened around corners and over bumps, heading toward Greer’s Ferry. She tried to ignore the chatter coming from the man opposite her. Brushing a stray curl of hair out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear, she peered out the window at the passing scenery and tried to swallow the lump of nervousness in her throat.
Wondering what the man she was to marry would be like, she wished again that Uncle Jackson had not sent her away. I could have gone to work and helped support him. Even living with Uncle Jackson was preferable to being married to a man like the ones she’d seen yesterday.
But his cutting words still rang in her ears. �
��You good-for-nothing little tramp. I should have sent you off the moment I became your guardian.” His laugh had been cruel as he continued, “At least I’m getting fifty dollars for the trouble you’ve been! Congratulations on your upcoming marriage, my dear.” She shuddered, giving herself a little shake to dispel his face from her memory, and forced her mind back to the present.
Besides the minister, who traveled with her to perform the marriage ceremony at the trail’s end, two other passengers had gotten on the stage. One, a burly mountain man who resembled how she’d always imagined a mountain man would look—with a long, tangled gray beard. It evidenced the fact that often when he spit tobacco juice, he didn’t really spit at all but merely let the juice dribble out the corner of his mouth…a most disgusting phenomenon Brooke had witnessed more than once on the trip. When he’d hauled his considerable girth onto the stage, he’d grunted a greeting, let his eyes rove over her form, and then slouched in his seat with his muddied boots stretched out as far in front of him as they would go. Giving Brooke another appreciative look, he’d rested his head against the side of the coach and fallen fast asleep. His snores would have been enough to harry a hen laying eggs, but any hens in the vicinity had probably already been disturbed by the second personality who’d joined them on the stage.
This man had not been quiet for more than five consecutive seconds since his foot first touched the floor of the stage. His blond, frizzy hair poked from his head in unruly abandon, giving him a rather wild look. He wore a pair of round spectacles that invariably slipped down his nose, and he constantly pushed them back up. He would cease to expound on one topic and Brooke would sigh in relief, thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything more to say on the subject, when he would begin anew. As annoying as she found the talkative man across from her, Brooke did find that she learned a lot about the area that they drove through.
“There are really some fascinatin’ rock formations in this area.” He gestured out the window with fingers so heavily laden with gaudy gold rings that Brooke wondered how his slender hand supported the weight. “Take that one down there across the river…do you see it?” Even before Brooke nodded he continued, “The Ant and the Yellow Jacket.”
Brooke regarded him quizzically.
He pushed his round spectacles up on his nose with a bony forefinger. “Yep, the Nez Perce say that the ants and the yellow jackets lived peaceably together until one day their chiefs got into an argument. The yellow jacket— of course the Indians just call them ‘Ant’ and ‘Yellow Jacket,’ like that was their names or somethin’.” He chuckled. “Anyway, the yellow jacket chief, he had found this piece of dried salmon and was eating it on a rock. The ant chief comes along and he is hungry, see? So he gets jealous of the yellow jacket and starts hollerin’ at him that he should have asked permission to eat on that rock. The yellow jacket responds, ‘I don’t have to ask your permission for anythin’,’ and they raise up on their back legs and start fightin’. Well, the old coyote, who the Nez Perce believe is very wise, comes along. He sees the piece of salmon and those two a-whalin’ on each other. He’s across the river, so he hollers at them, ‘Hey, you two, quit your fightin’!’ but they pay no attention. So the magic coyote turned them into those rocks you see over there just like that—” He snapped his fingers. “The coyote crossed the river and ate the salmon, and to this day the ants and the yellow jackets are feudin’ among themselves.
“Yep, sure is some interesting country you have come to Miss… Hey, I haven’t introduced myself. I am Percival Hunter.” He bowed from the waist, as good a bow as one can give from a sitting position, removing his bowler hat. “And you are?”
Brooke smiled; she was beginning to like this talkative man before her. “Brooke Baker. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended a hand, which he took and raised to his lips.
“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”
Brooke pulled her hand away and focused on her lap, not wanting to give him the wrong impression. She was, after all, on the way to her wedding.
Percival cleared his throat. “Well, as I was sayin’, this sure is interesting country you’ve chosen to come visit, Miss Baker.” He continued without pause, or Brooke would have informed him that she was not here by her own choice. “Take the ferry we’ll use to cross the Clearwater. Did you know that the Greer Ferry, as it is called, was constructed in 1861 by two enterprisin’ souls who saw a sure-fire way to make some money off of the gold strike up in Pierce?”
Brooke shook her head, resigned to listening to his prattle for the rest of the trip.
“They built the ferry to aid the miners in crossin’ the river on their way to Pierce City, where gold had been found. As I see it, their venture was a lot more profitable than goin’ on up the mountain to dig for gold. There are even sleepin’ quarters where we’ll stay tonight.”
The minister, resting his forearms on his knees, added, “The first ferry and sleeping quarters were burnt to the ground a few years ago in the Indian War of 1877 when the Nez Perce used it to cross the river and get away from the army chasing them. They crossed the river on the ferry, then torched it and the cabin so the army would have a harder time following them.”
Percival nodded. “That’s right. After the war, though, a new ferry and cabin were built. Those are the ones we’ll see this evenin’.”
“I’m amazed at how much you know about this country, Mr. Hunter,” Brooke said.
He grinned and shrugged, indicating it was no big deal. Then, after only a short silence, he went on to tell how the Nez Perce Indians made their camp on the Camas Prairie each fall in order to collect the Camas bulbs that grew there in wild abandon. “All the bands of the Nez Perce come together and place their teepees in six camps over a two-mile radius. It’s quite a sight.”
He told of many men who, in the winter of 1861, while making their way to the gold camps, were blinded by the brilliant, glistening snow and were never found until the spring thaw. Brooke shivered, but if Percival noticed, it only inspired him.
On and on the stories went, and when suddenly the stage came to a jerking halt, Brooke was amazed to find that the day had ebbed away. They had come to the place where they would cross the river. But as she looked out the window, she was surprised to see that the river still lay below them a good 1500 feet.
“Now comes the fun part,” Percival said.
Brooke felt dizzy as she stared down the precipitous pitch to the water. “What are we doing now?”
Her answer came in the form of the stage driver, who poked his head in the door. “Ya’ll can get out and stretch a mite if ya want to. We’ll be here a few minutes while we hitch up the tree drag.”
Brooke wondered at the term tree drag, but as she stepped down from the stage, she saw it was just what it sounded like. The stage driver and the man who had been riding shotgun were hitching a large tree trunk to the back of the stage. Her gaze returned to the river, and her stomach pitched. “We are going to drive down that?”
“Yep,” Percival answered. A little too gleefully, if she were the judge.
“Well, if I die, at least I won’t have to get married,” she mumbled under her breath as she gazed at the steep track before her.
Soon they all climbed back into the stage except for the mountain man, who had never gotten off. He was awake now, though, and took the opportunity to stuff another wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek. He considered Brooke wolfishly. “Best hold on tight,” he told her, winking boldly.
With a shouted “Gidd’up!” the driver cracked his whip in the air, and the horses lurched into the descent. Brooke gripped the edge of her seat and wondered whether she wanted to look out the window or close her eyes as tight as she could. Deciding that if she was going to die, she wanted to see it coming, she peered out and watched the scenery fly by.
Even Percival held his silence. Thank goodness!
It was soon apparent that the log hooked to the back of the stage was what saved them at each corner f
rom launching over the edge of the trail into open space. The horses dug their heels in until they almost sat. Still, the stage careened down the steep incline.
Dust boiled up, whirling into the coach in a suffocating cloud. Choking and coughing, Brooke closed her eyes against the grit. Waving a hand in front of her face did nothing but stir the thick, roiling cloud. Feeling something pressed against her face, she realized that the minister was offering her his handkerchief. Gratefully, she grasped it, tears streaming from her eyes as she tried to see what was happening outside.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the death-defying ride was over. She slumped back in relief. The river meandered placidly beyond the coach’s window. They had made it down, and she was still alive.
It couldn’t have taken more than a handful of minutes to plunge down the side of the mountain, but to Brooke it had seemed like an eternity. The coachman pulled the snorting horses to a stop and stepped down to unhitch the tree drag.
Brooke glanced down. Her dark blue dress was literally brown with dust. She touched a hand to her face and patted her hair. I must look a mess!
The ferry waited for them on the near side of the blue-green river, a smiling, kind-looking man standing on the landing. Brooke eyed the little raft tied to the bank dubiously. Ferry was really too grand a term for the wooden contraption floating on the water. Will that even float with the stage on it?
The horses walked onto the wooden platform with the loud clatter of hooves, and they pushed off into the river. She glanced out the window, looking back at the path of their descent in utter disbelief. Well, the descent from that ridge didn’t kill me; maybe I’ll drown crossing the river.
Her stomach felt like it was tied in knots. The man she was to marry would be waiting for her across the river at the landing. My dress! I can’t get married looking like I’ve been wallowing in a mound of dirt! Oh, what will the man think when he first lays eyes on me? So much for first impressions.
The Joy of the Morning: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 6) Page 10
