Brides of Prairie Gold

by Maggie Osborne

  Augusta hid her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. "No one will believe such a ridiculous story!"

  "Probably not. The others think you're rich. But you ain't aren't, are you?"

  "Are you asking me to pay you not to spread ludicrous rumors? Is that it?" She could hardly speak the words. There wasn't enough air in her lungs to push the words out.

  "No," Cora said promptly. "It's bad luck to spend a dead man's money. But I figure to pay you back for all you done to me." She studied Augusta and smiled. "Someone left a note way back at the Chimney Rock, looking for information about the Eagglestons. If I find him, I'm going to tell him that you stole the Eagglestons' money. I'll tell him about those trips you took out behind the Eagglestons' wagon and how you came back with your gloves stuffed full of coins. That's what you did, isn't it?"

  "I didn't steal anything! I just that was" She was dying. She could not pull enough air into her chest.

  "Save your lies for the Eagglestons' friend or relative. It's his money you're spending."

  Augusta stared. "It was you that night, wasn't it?" she whispered. "It was you watching us in the woods."

  "What are you babbling about?"

  Augusta bit her tongue. Maybe it hadn't been Cora. She was too tired to think. Crazily, she wondered if Cora had felt this exhausted, this low in her mind when Cora was riding with her and doing all the work. How had she borne it?

  Suddenly she thought of the army of servants who had staffed the Boyd mansion in Chastity, most of whose names she couldn't recall. Had they gone to bed too tired to eat their supper? Had they ached deep in their bones? Had they resented and hated her?

  She had never had such thoughts before, had never tried to imagine the lives of the people who had served her.

  Cora threw Augusta a look of pure contempt, then tossed her head and returned to Sarah's wagon.

  It was customary to camp a day at South Pass and celebrate reaching the highest altitude of the journey. High-spirited teamsters and passengers galloped along drifts of snow, firing their sidearms and whooping. The children from a Mormon train plucked wild alpine flowers near icy patches. Everyone marveled at snow in late July.

  Mem and Bootie strolled down a row of wagon beds, twirling their parasols and examining various arrays of goods. It seemed everyone had something to sell. When they reached the plank Heck had set up for Cora, they paused to admire Thea's sketches.

  "My, my," Bootie marveled, leaning to inspect the prices. "Is anyone actually paying a whole nickel for these?"

  Cora displayed a tightly sealed jar and rattled the nickels inside. "Sold five sketches so far," she announced proudly. "And the questions they do ask!" She rolled her eyes and laughed. "I swear, the man who bought Jane's sketch well, he asked so many questions, I swear he fell in love with her portrait."

  Bootie's gloves fluttered before her bosom. "Oh, dear! Jane didn't want her portrait displayed!"

  "Oh?" Cora frowned. "Well, nobody told me."

  Mem couldn't take her eyes off a sketch of Webb. Thea had portrayed him astride the mustang, returning to camp after a day riding out ahead of the train. His head was high, his body relaxed. Thea had captured the pride of a warrior, the grace of an Englishman.

  On impulse, Mem dug a nickel out of her little wrist bag and dropped it on the wooden plank. "I'll take that one," she said, blushing to the roots of her hair.

  Cora scooped the nickel up before the sun hit it. Carefully, she rolled the sketch into a cylinder and tied it with a piece of yarn. "Here's another that is especially good," she said, grinning as she pushed forward a portrait of Mem and Bootie carrying laundry toward a stream. Their sleeves were rolled up and their skirts tied back. Bootie looked pretty and flustered. Mem thought her own depiction was highly romanticized; she too looked almost pretty.

  "Now, why would we pay a nickel for Thea's sketches when she'll give us one for nothing?" Bootie said, lifting an eyebrow at Mem. "And why would you want a portrait of that" she saw Mem's posture stiffen, "our scout?"

  Because I love him, Mem thought hopelessly. "I want to remember everything about this trip," is what she said aloud.

  Sometimes it was hard to protect another person's secrets. Right now she longed to reveal Webb's family identity and background just to watch her sister's expression. A sigh lifted her chest and she adjusted her bonnet against the sun's glare. She hadn't had a headache in several days and had dared hope they were gone forever. But now her head pounded.

  "Mem?" Bootie asked as they began the walk back to their wagon. "Where do you go at night?"

  A flush stained her cheeks. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Occasionally I wake up and you're not in our tent." Bootie tightened her hold on the potatoes she had paid a fortune for at one of the displays. She kept her gaze on the ground. "I hope you're not doing anything foolish," she said in a voice more serous than Mem had heard from her in years.

  "Foolish like what?"

  "We have husbands waiting for us in Oregon. We'll live next door to each other, I'll insist on that, and we'll have a good life." She lifted eyes that were soft and gray and pleading. "Please don't do anything to spoil our future. Don't do anything you'll regret. Mr. Coate seems strange and interesting to youI know you're curious about himbut, Mem, he's only a half-breed scout. A man who lives on a saddle. He can't give you a home or any of the things that make life comfortable."

  "Why do you well, that's just" Mem blustered into silence. Had Bootie spied on her? Did anyone else know about her and Webb meeting beside Smokey Joe's fire? They walked a little farther, then she said in a low tone, "What if I told you that I that Webb Coate and I are friends? Good friends."

  Bootie didn't fall to pieces as Mem had half expected.

  "It would make me very anxious," Bootie said finally, lowering her nose to sniff the potatoes. "Mr. Coate is not a savage as I used to think he was," she said after a brief hesitation. "He's polite and clean and he does his job well," she continued, listing the qualities she admired in a man. "He seems decent enough and respectable."

  "But he's an Indian. Is that what you're trying to say?"

  "It's unseemly to chase after one man when you're pledged to marry another. That's what I'm trying to say."

  Mem stared at her sister, appalled. "Do you think I'm chasing after Mr. Coate?" A guilty flush stained her throat.

  "And, you're right. He is an Indian. Not our kind."

  The slur came almost as a relief. For an instant, it had seemed as if Mem were speaking to a stranger. "You know," she said, frowning, "I just realized something you're doing your share of the work!"

  Bootie rolled her eyes. "Well, I swan! Of course I am."

  "You weren't at the beginning." Why hadn't she noticed this before? Bootie had made tremendous progress toward finally growing up. There was no other way to say it. A burst of pride and surprise lit Mem's face. Before they reached their wagon, she praised Bootie extravagantly, then touched her sister's arm.

  "Don't worry about me," she said in a voice of quiet regret. "Mr. Coate and I are only friends. I enjoy his company and he appears to enjoy mine. That's all it is or will ever be."

  Heart aching, she accepted this was true. She and Webb continued to meet every night by Smokey Joe's fire, but he'd made no attempt to repeat the kiss they had shared at the Sioux village. Mem's lust and wantonness were wasted.

  But her intellect had discovered a banquet. She and Webb discussed religion, politics, literature, art, everything under the sun. They discovered areas of accord, and entertained themselves by arguing their differences far into the night.

  Occasionally, she caught him gazing at her with smoldering speculation. Then her heart raced into a gallop and she waited breathlessly, hoping he would reach for her. But he never did.

  As she had told Bootie, they were good friends, that was all. Except one of the friends deeply loved the other.

  When they reached their wagon, Bootie halted in dismay. They spotted the teamsters left to guard the
arms wagon and Jane passed by them, headed for the stream carrying a basket of laundry; otherwise the camp was deserted.

  "Everyone is still at the pass! We left too soon," Bootie exclaimed. "I could have bought that little pot I wanted."

  "Go back and buy it, but I think I'll stay here. I have a headache." Actually, she craved solitude to study the sketch that she'd purchased from Cora.

  After she persuaded Bootie to return to the festivities at the mouth of the pass, she exchanged her good shawl for an older, warmer one, tidied the area around the wagon, then wandered toward the willows concealing the stream, intending to sit on the banks, hidden from view, and daydream a little over Thea's portrayal of Webb.

  "There you are, you slut!"

  Mem froze in the midst of the clump of willows that reached almost to her ears. Lifting on tiptoe, she spied the top of a man's hat; it seemed to rush along the top foliage of the willows, heading for the stream. Alarmed, she pushed forward, fighting out of the branches and onto a narrow sandy bank.

  Twenty yards upstream, Jane Munger stood in the shallows, a soapy and dripping petticoat in her hands. She straightened abruptly, her face white, as the man crashed out of the willows. He glanced at a sheet of paper, then tossed it aside.

  "It is you! I thought so."

  "Hank!"

  Before the paper floated into the water and was swirled away, Mem identified it as one of Thea's sketches. When she looked upstream, the man had rushed into the water, had grabbed Jane by the shoulders, and was shaking her so roughly that her head snapped back and forth. Stumbling, Mem gasped, then halted in shock, unable to believe her eyes.

  Swinging a beefy hand, the man slapped Jane across the face so hard that it was more a blow than a slap. Jane would have fallen into the stream if he hadn't gripped one forearm so tightly that his fingers disappeared into Jane's sleeve.

  Spittle flew from his lips and his face was purple with rage when he leaned forward, snarling curses into Jane's frightened face. She cringed, but she didn't scream.

  "Hank, wait. Let me explain." Blood dripped from a cracked lip. Her eyes were wide and black with terror. She shook violently and cried out when he jerked her hard against his body and cruelly twisted one arm up behind her.

  "No one runs out on Hank Berringer! Did you think you could humiliate me and get away with it? You bitch!" He jerked up on Jane's arm and Mem heard a sickening crack.

  The sound broke her paralysis. Lifting her skirts and shouting, she ran toward them. "Let her go, you brute! You're breaking her arm!"

  Twisting, he shot a warning over his shoulder. "I'll do whatever the hell I want. This is my wife! Leave us alone."

  One moment of distraction was all Jane needed. Jerking out of his grip, she shoved hard against his chest with her left hand. He lost his balance and slipped into the water, falling to his knees, cursing and snarling. Jane shouted, "Mem! Get out of here or he'll kill you too! Run!"

  Before she rushed headlong into the shallows, Mem noticed Jane's dangling right arm and understood it was indeed broken. Then she was in water up to her knees, looking wildly around for something to use as a weapon. A rock? Jane's washboard? There wasn't time to reach the washboard; the man was pulling himself out of the water.

  Clutching her broken arm against her body, Jane kicked at him, but he caught her ankle and twisted hard, toppling her into the stream. Then he rose up, water pouring out of his shirt, his brutish eyes fixed on Mem. With a snarl, he caught a fistful of her skirt and pulled himself up. In horror, it occurred to her that a man was about to strike her for the first time in her life. She tried to hit him, but her blows bounced off his shoulders as a child's fists might have done. He was shorter than she, but stocky and solid; his arms were like iron rods.

  His fist hammered her on the jaw. The blow flung her on her buttocks on the sandy bank. Dizzy and disbelieving, shocked, she tried to sit up, her head ringing. He was coming toward her again when something soft and black whipped across her cheek.

  Before her dazed mind registered that the soft black thing was cloth, a skirt, she recognized a high thin scream. Bootie flew past her toward the edge of the water. Her arm came up, swinging a small iron pot. When the pot hit the man on the forehead, Bootie reeled backward from the impact. She fell on the bank beside Mem, gasping.

  Blood spurted from his head. He blinked hard, touched the blood streaming into his eyes, then crumpled to his hands and knees in the water. Jane was on him in a flash, lips pulling back from her teeth in a snarl. She dropped on his spine with her knees, flattening him beneath the surface. When he started to thrash and flail, Bootie and Mem rushed into the water, but Jane shouted them away. They stood in the shallows, water swirling around their knees, and watched in helpless shock as Jane held the man's head beneath the surface until he stopped moving.

  White-faced and shaking violently, Jane climbed off of him. Slowly, his body floated to the surface, limp in the water, and she hastily backed away. They all did, fighting the weight of wet skirts and the weakness of straw knees. Standing on the bank, shivering and silent, they watched as the current slowly tugged him to the center of the water, then pulled his body downstream.

  When he floated out of sight, they collapsed onto the sand and sat shaking and fighting to catch their breath.

  "Oh, Mem!" Bootie tilted her head back, gasping for air. "I was coming to show you the pot I bought" Her hands fluttered in front of her and she glanced at the water, but the iron pot had sunk out of sight. "Then I saw that horrible beast strike you, and I just" She dropped her head and covered her face with a shudder. "I hit him and I killed him!"

  Gingerly, Mem touched her aching jaw. She was going to have an impressive black and blue bruise. She put her arm around Bootie, who shook as if she had severe chills.

  Jane spoke sharply. "You didn't kill Hank, Bootie. I did. You stunned him, but I held him under the water until the son of a bitch died."

  When Mem could speak, she swallowed and stared at Jane. "He broke your arm. Your lip is cracked and you're going to have a black eye. I still can't believe it!"

  "Oh, he's done a lot worse," Jane said, staring at the water as if she feared he would rise out of it. She rested her broken arm on her lap. "His name was Hank Berringer. He's my husband." She drew a long breath, then closed her eyes. "My name is Alice Berringer, not Jane Munger. I made up that name after I ran away from him. I thought if I ran far enough But I should have known he'd come after me. I guess I did know."

  Bootie's eyes widened to the size of pie plates. "You're going to Oregon to get married? But you already have a husband?"

  Jane's dulled gaze fixed on the pile of laundry scattered beside the stream. "He broke my ribs. He broke my collarbone. This is the third time he's broken one of my arms. He kicked me in the stomach so hard that I lost two babies. He threatened to push my face into his blacksmith's forge." She turned blazing eyes toward them. "I'm glad the son of a bitch is dead! I hope he burns in hell!" She spat on the ground. "I knew he'd kill me if he ever found me. He would have killed Mem too just because she was here and he was mad." She focused a blazing gaze on Bootie. "You saved our lives. If you hadn't come when you did"

  Mem wet her white lips, brushed the sand off sodden skirts. "We need to see to that arm. And we'll have to tell Mr. Snow about this." Lips twisting, she peered downstream, half expecting to see Hank Berringer's body caught in the willows that overhung the bank on the far side.

  Jane closed her eyes. "I've imagined killing him a thousand times. I know what to do." She drew a long shuddering breath, cradling her arm against her body. "Give me until supper tonight, then you can tell Mr. Snow. Will you do that for me? Please?"

  Mem considered Jane's story, her arm tightening around Bootie's trembling shoulders. "Where will you go?"

  Jane's laugh was short and harsh. "There's always a man looking for a woman. It doesn't matter if he's in Oregon or in one of those trains up ahead. I'll find one to help me."

  "There's a train scheduled t
hrough the pass this afternoon," Mem offered, swallowing hard. "Going to California." She didn't know why she was agreeing to this, except they had shared so much together, so many hardships. Plus, she knew what would happen if Jane were caught for murdering her husband. If they didn't hang her on the spot, they would send her back to Missouri to stand trial. They would hang her there, because a woman couldn't kill her husband no matter what violence he wreaked on her.

  Jane inspected her arm. "Can I have your shawl?"

  Silently, Mem rose to find her old shawl and shake the sand out of fringe and folds. After helping Jane fashion a sling, she and Bootie assisted her up the bank and out of the willows. They paused, looking at the deserted, sun-bleached wagons.

  "I thought it would work," Jane murmured, tears of pain in her eyes. "I thought I could escape and find a second chance."

  "Maybe you still will," Mem said, looking at Jane as if she had never seen her before. Jane Munger was a runaway wife named Alice Berringer. Hank Berringer was dead. She couldn't make herself believe it. Everything that had happened in the last half hour shimmered with distortion, as if none of it were real.

  "You'll give me until after supper before you tell anyone?" When Mem finally agreed, Jane embraced her. "Tell Perrin that I wanted to confide the truth. Tell her that" She closed her eyes, swayed on her feet. "Thank you. You were both true heroines. You saved my life."

  Silent tears ran down Bootie's cheeks, tears she didn't seem aware of. She gripped Mem's hand so hard that Mem thought the bones in her fingers would crack.

  Together they hung back and watched Jane hurry toward her wagon. They waited beside the willows until Jane reemerged, carrying a carpetbag in her uninjured hand. She gazed at them as if memorizing their faces, then she turned and walked toward the trains camped close to the entrance to the pass.

  "She'll be all right," Mem commented after a few minutes. They watched Jane veer toward a dozen men working near a row of wagons with California Or Bust scrawled on the canvas.

  Bootie shook the water out of her skirts and pulled back her shoulders. "Mem? Would you say saving your life and Jane's makes up for me running my mouth at Jake Quinton?"