Brides of Prairie Gold

by Maggie Osborne

  Instead of boxing Cora's ears as she yearned to do, she made herself stroll back to Bootie's side. "My dear Bootie, I do hate to impose on your good nature, but poor Cora forgot to bring any coins with her, and you know I did tooso silly of us bothso I wonder if you might lend me another three pennies. It's hot in the sun, and the poor thing would enjoy a sip of something cool."

  Bootie leaned around her to peer at Cora, then spoke in a whisper. "She sounded so demanding. Do you permit her to speak to you in that tone very often?"

  Augusta unclenched her jaw and lifted a gloved hand in an airy gesture of forgiveness. "She's hot and tired, poor thing. One must be charitable and take circumstances into account."

  Bootie opened the drawstring on her little purse. "I swan, Augusta. You're truly a marvel of generosity."

  "How kind of you to notice," Augusta murmured, lowering her lashes modestly.

  Once she had Bootie's three pennies in her hand, she returned to Cora and slapped the coins against the palm of Cora's mended glove. "There! Are you satisfied?"

  "No," Cora said sullenly, counting the pennies. "And I won't be until I get all my back wages!"

  "Hush!" Panicked, Augusta prayed that no one had overheard. Bootie was watching, but Augusta didn't think she was close enough to hear. She fervently hoped not. A rivulet of nervous perspiration zigzagged between her breasts. Her lips trembled.

  Hands clenched at her sides, eyes narrowed, she watched Cora walk toward the Addison boy's cider stand, imagining a swagger. Anger and despair twitched her lips. Cora was going to humiliate and destroy her; Cora was going to trample everything the Boyds had represented since the Mayflower.

  With the help of the Boyd attorney, Augusta had managed to salvage the debacle of her father's disgrace and keep the worst of it from becoming public knowledge. But she didn't know how to stop Cora. For that, she needed money.

  For a moment her shoulders sagged and helpless tears swam in her eyes. She couldn't manufacture money out of wishes and desperation.

  It was the only thing she thought about, day and night. She desperately needed money to pay Cora's wages and shut her up, but there was no possibility of getting any. Every night while Cora slept, Augusta counted her forty dollars, again and again, praying that she had erred and her purse would yield hundreds.

  "Augusta?" Bootie called.

  "In a moment," she answered, hoping her voice didn't sound moist or teary. You are a Boyd, she reminded herself angrily, taking courage from the proud old name. Boyds do not make a public spectacle of themselves.

  Now she noticed the group of hard-eyed men loitering beneath a budding cottonwood, watching her. Addison's farm appeared to be a gathering spot for all manner of unsavory characters. Dirty, bearded, and half drunk, the men looked like cutthroats all. She slashed them a glance of disdain before she rejoined Bootie.

  "Any one of them would knock a woman over the head to steal the earrings from her ears. It's disgraceful that Mr. Snow and that Indian would expose us to such a low element!"

  "I couldn't agree more," Bootie said with a sniff.

  Bootie would have agreed if Augusta had claimed the sky was made of blue pudding. Actually, Augusta expected those she allowed into her circle to agree with her, but occasionally unthinking acquiescence could be annoying.

  One of the men under the trees detached himself from his cronies, wiped a sleeve across his mouth, and ambled toward them, his strange yellowish eyes fixed on Augusta's breasts.

  " 'Scuse me, ladies. Are you two of them brides off Captain Cody Snow's train?"

  Augusta cast him a freezing glance and turned her back, but not before she noticed that his beard was ragged and untrimmed and he reeked of cheap whiskey. She was utterly offended that he imagined a lady such as herself would recognize his existence or speak to him.

  Bootie's hands fluttered to her bonnet strings. She cast an uncertain look toward Augusta's stony profile. "Ah well, yes, we are."

  Augusta sighed. Bootie Glover was such a silly, irritating little creature. If she could have caught Bootie's eye without facing the reprobate, she would have brought the brainless twit to her knees with one of her famous icy glares.

  "Me and the boys was wondering what's ole Cody carrying in them freight wagons?"

  "Are you a friend of Mr. Snow's?"

  Augusta longed to give Bootie a slap. She could hear Bootie's voice oozing trust. The woman was hopeless. Was there no one to whom she wouldn't speak? Had she no standards at all?

  "I've known the Captain for years, ma'am. Served under his command in the army, I did."

  "Oh. Well, then, I suppose it's all right to tell. We're transporting arms to Oregon, and molasses to Fort Laramie."

  "Do tell. Molasses and arms. Did I hear you right, ma'am? You did say molasses?"

  "Two wagons full," Bootie offered brightly. "We're going to sell the"

  Augusta could not endure it another minute. Turning, she gripped Bootie's arm, squeezing hard enough to cut off the flow of words.

  "If you wish to discuss our business," she said in a frigid voice, addressing both Bootie and the drunk, "I suggest you do so with Mr. Snow." Turning, she dragged Bootie away from the man.

  "In case I don't see Mister Snow, you tell him that you met Jake Quinton. You tell the son of a bitch that old Jake ain't forgot nothing."

  The menace in his tone made Augusta look back despite herself. She stared into the meanest, coldest, most frightening smile she had ever seen. A prickle of fear shuddered down her spine. At once she knew she would see that terrible smile and those yellowish snake eyes in her nightmares. Panicked, she frantically looked for Miles Dawson and Bill Macy, the teamsters who had accompanied the women to the farmhouse. She didn't see either of them.

  "You seem What's wrong?" Bootie asked anxiously, trotting along beside her. "He said he was Mr. Snow's friend."

  "Hush," Augusta hissed. "That man is no friend of Mr. Snow's." When she darted another quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Jake Quinton licking his lips, his hard slited eyes studying the sway of their skirts.

  "Dear God," Augusta muttered. Her lips were dry as toast.

  A rush of relief nearly overwhelmed her when she spotted Webb Coate and Cody Snow striding toward the farmhouse. But when she dared another frightened glance toward the men beneath the cottonwoods, Jake Quinton had vanished.

  "Thank heavens!"

  Lifting her skirts, she hurried forward to relay Jake Quinton's message and to berate Webb Coate for choosing this terrible place as a campsite.

  Her heart beat a little faster as she noticed Coate watching her approach, a condition she stubbornly attributed to her upset regarding Jake Quinton's threatening manner.

  Augusta Boyd would never disgrace herself by feeling any attraction toward an Indian. She had standards.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My Journal, April 18,1852: Every day we rotate the wagons. The lead wagon goes to the back and everyone moves up a space. All of us hate being last because the dust is so bad. It gets in our mouths and eyes, on our clothes, and it scums the water buckets.

  The lead spot is best because I can see him. He rides out ahead most of the day, but occasionally he drops back alongside the first wagon. I've noticed that he usually comes to my side whether I'm driving the oxen or taking my rest, but not always and I understand that. He doesn't want the others to notice that he favors me.

  He doesn't say anything of a personal nature, nothing that would cause anyone to gossip about us. But sometimes his guard drops and I see his feelings in his eyes. Then he says things that are meant for my ears alone, but disguised so an eavesdropper would hear nothing to suspect. Still, it seems he could find a way for us to be alone. And he has yet to come right out and declare his feelings.

  It thrills me that we share the secret of our love, but I struggle to understand why we must pretend to be strangers. My day is broken into the moments I see him, and the hours when I must suffer his absence. I need to be alon
e with him, need to hear him explain this game we're playing. I need to know the reason, need to hear it stated from his own beloved lips.

  We have waited so long, lost to each other and believing we could have no future together, I tell myself I can wait longer if we must, but I wish so greatly that it could be otherwise. It shames me to confess that I don't always understand his secret messages, although I understand the glances he sends me, and I comfort my heart with the love I read in his gaze. I have loved him for so long.

  We can see Fort Kearney in the distance and will camp therefor a day of rest. The Fort does not look like much.

  It rained again yesterday. We see graves beside the trail every day. One of the teamsters got stepped on by an ox. Most of us have set aside any pretense at finery and wear old wash dresses of plain wool or serge. No one except Augusta still wears crinolines.

  I long for him so much that I fear I will reveal our secret. I plunged my hand in the coals of our campfire; burning flesh cooled the heat of my yearning.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The chilly, overcast morning seemed more a reminder of winter than an affirmation of spring, Perrin thought, watching the men work. Heck Kelsey and the teamsters inched along the line of wagons, caulking bottom boards with tar and pitch to prevent the waters of the Platte from soaking into wagon beds. Ordinarily the broad but shallow river reached only knee high on a man, but swollen by the spring melt, the water had risen to four and a half feet. The crossing would be difficult.

  Perrin joined Hilda on a muddy bank overlooking the turgid flow. From here, they had a clear view of wagons from other trains struggling to cross the river, and they could see the entire length of their own train. They watched Cody Snow shouting orders and moving along the line to inspect the teamsters' work.

  "For the rest of my life I'll associate the smell of tar with being wet and cold," Perrin murmured, speaking against the wind. She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders and dodged a breeze-blown tumbleweed. She had lost count of the number of river crossings, all of them difficult.

  " Ja ." Hilda sighed and tucked a strand of blond hair beneath the braided coronet that crossed the top of her head like a tiara. "Mr. Kelsey says the crossing will take all afternoon and into the evening." They both glanced at the leaden sky. "I hope it doesn't snow or rain again."

  Perrin dreaded the fording. Despite its comparatively shallow depth, the Platte was noted for unpredictable currents, quicksand, and shifting banks. It wasn't one river, but a series of streams that wound together like an intricate water braid, the strands interspersed with sandbars. They would have to cross six of the streams, each presenting its own peculiar set of problems.

  "I overheard Smokey Joe telling Mr. Snow that the Platte is too thick to drink and too thin to plow," Perrin said, trying to smile. Automatically her gaze followed Cody along the length of the wagons. Usually the sight of him grounded her anxieties about any particular difficulty, but raised anxieties of a different sort. She didn't permit herself to analyze those anxieties.

  Her shoulders tensed when she noticed he'd stopped to talk to Jane Munger. She fervently hoped Jane hadn't interrupted him with something trivial. Cody would be concerned about the upcoming crossing, and he was waiting for Webb Coate to return from a scouting trip to Fort Kearney on the north side of the river.

  As Perrin watched, her hopes sank. Cody swung in her direction and pointed, saying something to Jane, then Jane stiffened and strode forward, heading toward the muddy point where Perrin and Hilda stood braced against the wind. Cody continued to stare toward Perrin's flapping skirts until he was certain she had noticed his frown.

  Perrin swallowed a sigh. Last week, she had handled a myriad of small problems, all of them referred back to her by Cody, who had let her know the interruptions had not ceased. None of the brides were accustomed to taking problems to a woman; their instinct was to approach the man in charge. They resented being turned back to Perrin.

  Regardless, Perrin had helped a distraught Lucy Hastings locate the family Bible she had feared left behind at their last camp; she had found Hilda's wandering cow; she had traded a bottle of castor oil for a bottle of peppermint oil to treat Ona Norris's earache; she had asked Smokey Joe for answers to Thea Reeves's questions about the bison they would be seeing soon.

  These problems or questions had loomed large for the women involved, but none had been overwhelming for Perrin. She was discovering that helping others satisfied a deep-seated need. But none of the problems so far had been as serious as the problem she suspected Jane Munger was bringing her.

  Jane marched across the muddy ground with no thought for her hem or boots, her face clamped in an angry scowl. When Perrin first met Jane at Cody's predeparture meeting in Brady's hall, she had admired Jane's high coloring and glossy dark hair, had thought her pretty, though sharp-featured. Now Jane's cheeks were pale and drawn with weariness. Dark circles ringed her eyes. The luster had faded from her skin and hair, and her lips trembled.

  Jane started talking before she reached them. "I've spent all my life in towns. Before this, I'd never ridden in a covered wagon, had never driven oxen, never cooked outside or slept outside. I've known hardship, but nothing like this!"

  Hilda slid a quick look at Perrin, then backed away. "I'll finish packing for the crossing." She hurried toward the wagons.

  "I would never have agreed to join this train had I known that I'd be doing all the work! I was told I would have a wagon partner who would share in the duties!"

  "Jane"

  "I can't continue. I'm exhausted! And look at my hands." Jerking off her gloves, she extended shaking palms smeared with the bloody fluid of broken blisters. "And look at this!" She held out her skirt to show Perrin burned spots along the hem where sparks from open fires had charred the wool. "Everyone else gets a rest from driving the oxen, gets to walk a bit behind the wagons and visit awhile. But not me. Winnie can't drive, couldn't be trusted to drive if she would try. And everyone else takes turns doing the cooking or the laundry or setting up the tent or milking in the mornings or baking or searching for firewood. But I have to do it all because Winnie Larson can't do anything !" Her hands flew up to cover her face, and her shoulders shook. Her voice cracked and sank to a whisper. "This isn't fair!"

  "No, it isn't," Perrin gently agreed. Stepping forward, she hesitated, then placed an arm around Jane's trembling shoulders and led her toward an abandoned water barrel. When Jane was seated, Perrin knelt at her side.

  "It's only been three weeks, but I'm so exhausted that I'm afraid I'll fall asleep at the reins. I'm too tired even to eat. Last night rain washed inside our tent and soaked our bedrolls, and I slept through it." Jane covered her eyes with a shaking hand. "Then this morning, I had to spread out our blankets and sheets to dry. But it's going to snow or rain again and they'll never get dry. Tonight we'll sleep in cold wet blankets, and it's just the last the last I just can't do this!"

  Dropping her hand from her face, she gripped Perrin's fingers so hard that Perrin couldn't suppress a wince. "Please. I can't go back, I just can't! Oh, God, I don't know what to do! I can't go back, but I can't make it all the way to Oregon doing the work of two people!"

  Withdrawing her hands from Jane's grip, Perrin patted her shoulder. "I'll speak to Winnie again," she said, frowning toward the line of wagons. Winnie Larson sat on the tailgate of the wagon she shared with Jane. The distance was too great for Perrin to see what object Winnie held in her hand, but it seemed to absorb her attention to the exclusion of all else. She appeared oblivious to the frenzied preparations occurring around her. She wore no shawl or hat, apparently unaware of the wind and cold.

  "Talking does no good," Jane cried, anguish lifting her voice. "You must know that by now! The only thing that's going to help is for someone to take the laudanum away from her!"

  Perrin's head jerked up. "What are you talking about?"

  "Winnie is a laudanum addict!" Jane wiped her eyes and returned Perri
n's incredulous stare. "You didn't know?" Sudden confusion drew her eyebrows together. "But I thought you all know each other, so I assumed"

  "Oh, Jane. You thought we burdened you with Winnie because none of us wanted the extra work of taking care of her?"

  When Jane nodded, carefully watching her expression, Perrin shook her head and took the other woman's hands in hers.

  "I swear to you, this is the first I've heard about Winnie and laudanum. I know Winnie's father is the chemist in Chastity, and I've run into Winnie and her mother in Brady's Mercantile, but until this journey, I'd never actually met her or exchanged a word with her." She considered a moment. "It's my guess that few of the others know her well either."

  Jane's shoulders collapsed and she pulled one trembling hand free and pressed it against her eyelids. "If that's true, then I've done all of you an injustice. I've been so angry because I thought" She waved a hand and shook her head, then gazed into Perrin's wide eyes. "I don't know what to do."

  Perrin's first anxious instinct was to run pell-mell toward the wagons and throw this problem at Cody. She checked the urge with difficulty. "Did you tell Mr. Snow about Winnie?"

  "I didn't get that far before he sent me to you."

  Think it through, Perrin urged herself, wringing her hands. If Cody knew about Winnie, what would he expect her to do?

  Rocking back on her heels, she studied the dark clouds scudding low to the earth. The sky was gray, the river gleamed like bands of gray ribbon, her thoughts were gray. She didn't have the faintest idea how to approach this problem. But she knew she needed to solve it herself, without asking Cody's advice.

  "Can you manage a little longer?" she inquired finally, lowering her gaze to Jane's face. "I need to think about this."

  Jane turned weary eyes toward the low banks beyond the two-mile expanse of water. Every inch of the crossing was fraught with dangerous possibilities, promised to be a battle. The other brides would have help from their partner or at least encouragement. But she would endure the ordeal alone, with Winnie daydreaming in a makeshift bed in the back of the wagon.