by Debra Samms
"Come on! Upstairs! All of you!" ordered Molly, and the three women all got themselves upstairs even though they had to half drag and half carry Abigail.
Once in the bedroom, Molly bolted that door, too while Lydia made the hysterical Abigail sit on the floor in the far corner. Molly threw the down comforter over her and then began reaching under the bed.
"What did you do that for?" asked Lydia, trying to look out of the window without getting too close.
"Saw a man do a similar thing with a panicked horse once. Put it in a corner with a blanket over its head. When it couldn't see as much, it started to calm down." Finally Molly straightened up and sat on the edge of the bed with the heavy shotgun in her hand. "Lydia! Stay down!"
Lydia ducked down behind the window even as Molly craned her neck to see outside. In the midst of all the screaming and shouting and hoofbeats coming from the parade ground, now there were gunshots. It was absolutely terrifying but as she held the shotgun and watched the men in blue uniforms standing their ground against the invading Indians, Molly found her courage returning.
She got up and went to the window, kneeling beside Lydia. "All right," she said. "I don't have a lot of ammunition. Where are they?"
"I don't see John or Nathan. They're probably out back. But – oh, Molly, that's William right there!"
Even as men fell down beside him with arrows sticking out of them, William stood tall with a pistol in each hand. First one Indian fell from his spotted pony, and then another, as William got them in his sights.
But as Molly watched in horror, another one rode up from behind him. With no time to think, she swung up the shotgun, rested it on the windowsill, and got her finger on the first trigger, tilting the gun down until she could get the Indian in her sights.
It was not like the rifle sights. Molly was both angry and frustrated that William had not had a moment to take her out and let her practice with the shotgun, but it was too late to worry about that now.
She pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Molly sat down hard on the floor as the shotgun fired, and if it had not been for Lydia's quick move the weapon would have fallen right out of the window. Together they pulled it back inside.
"Lydia! Get me another shell. They're in a little box under the bed. Hurry!"
She managed to raise the weapon and get it resting against the windowsill again, even as another shell appear on the sill right beside the gun.
"Thanks, Lydia – oh!" Molly glanced down to see Abigail crawling alongside her with the box of shotgun shells. "Thanks," she whispered, very glad that Abigail, too, had found her courage.
But there was no time to think about that now. William had been pushed back until right up against the house – there were more Indians coming up around him – and she could not see them to fire since they were directly below –
Molly jumped up with the shotgun and the shell, climbed over the two other women and ran for the door. "Molly! No! Don't!" cried Lydia.
"Stay here!" she yelled to them, and got down the stairs as fast as she could while carrying the big heavy shotgun.
She threw open the front door and saw that William was trapped in front of the porch, with Indian riders galloping past just a few yards away and aiming their bows and arrows at him even as he struggled to reload his pistol.
Molly raised the shotgun towards the nearest rider and fired, pulling the second trigger this time. Even as the kick shoved her backwards again, she was rewarded by seeing the Indian fall heavily to the ground and his riderless spotted pony race past her.
She could hear William firing once, and then again, although just barely – her ears rang and rang from the huge noise of the shotgun. Fumbling with the extra shell, she struggled to break the gun open so she could reload it – and then realized she didn't know how.
Molly looked up to see that the Indians had changed their tactics. Four came riding straight towards her and William, but three of them leaped down from their ponies at the last minute and ran over on foot with clubs and knives in their hands.
William raised his pistol and shot twice, taking down two of the attacking Indians; but when he tried to shoot the third one there was nothing but a dull click from the weapon.
Then Molly screamed and screamed, for the three Indians ran past William and came straight for her. The shotgun was ripped from her hands and she found herself being dragged down the steps by rough hands.
Then William grabbed one of the Indians and managed to pull him away, punching him hard in the jaw until that one, too, dropped to the ground. But the other two Indians pulled Molly over to their friend on the pony and threw her face down across the animal's shoulders, where she was held fast in the iron grip of the rider on the back of her neck.
"William!" she cried, against the pony's shoulder. Then the animal swung around and she could see her husband in front of the house, quickly reloading his pistol again as the battle raged around him.
In an instant William had raised the gun and aimed it right at her.
If an officer sees a woman captured by an Indian, he is to shoot her dead so as to prevent her suffering at their hands.
Molly closed her eyes and cried out as the pistol fired.
Then the grip on her neck relaxed, and fell away. The pony whirled around and she slid from its shoulders, landing on her feet and stumbling down to catch herself with her hands. William grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up onto the porch. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him grab a shotgun shell out of the box that Lydia held.
In an instant he'd reloaded the shotgun and finished off the last two Indians who had tried to take on William and then Molly. Out on the parade grounds, the men of the fort galloped back and forth and chased away the last of the renegades who'd tried to attack them. Some of the cavalrymen went into the surrounding forest, while others headed towards the river or the creek.
There would not be any attackers left to surprise them later.
She saw Lydia sink down to sit in the doorway of the house, with Abigail holding on to her from behind. And then William took hold of Molly and pulled her close, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe, but she embraced him just as closely.
"Are we alive?" she whispered, against his broad chest.
"Indeed," he said to her. "And we're going to stay that way."
"Yes. We will. So, now – "
"Yes?"
"Now will you teach me how to load that damned shotgun?"
He leaned down cheek to cheek with her, laughing, and then raised her chin and kissed her.
"I love you, Molly. I'll never let you go. Whatever our future brings, we'll face it together."
CHAPTER TWENTY
One month later, on a perfect June day, Molly stood in the warm sun at the edge of the parade ground. She waited just outside the long, low building which held the offices for the clerks and record keepers of the fort.
It was not long before she heard the door open behind her. Quickly she turned around, and saw William walking outside and placing his hat back on his head.
A cowboy's hat. The hat of a civilian.
And Molly knew that waiting for him in the corrals was the horse of a civilian, too: The same spotted Palouse mare whose Indian rider had tried to take Molly away with him. The mare had run loose and joined up with the cavalry horses on the fort, where she had remained.
It had been decided that the mare should belong to William Strong, and so she did. Molly had named her Butterfly, after both her flighty nature and the shape of the white pattern on her dark bay rump.
Molly went to her husband and took him by the hands. "Is it done?" she asked.
"It's done. I am now Mr. William Strong – soon to be Sheriff Strong of Sawyerville, Oregon."
"You're sure? I don't want you to do this because of me. I know how much your army career meant to you. And I know how very good at it you were."
"I am sure," he said. "For the hundredth time – yes, I
am sure."
Molly took his arm and they started out across the parade ground towards the white duplex that had been their home. Though he looked quite fine to her in his Kentucky jeans, heavy white cotton shirt, and cowboy's work boots, she could not help sighing a little.
"I will miss seeing you in your uniform," she said. "No one cut a finer figure than Captain Strong."
He grinned. "Well, I thank you for your kind words, ma'am," he said, "but you shall have to settle merely for William from now on."
"I am not settling in the slightest," she said, smiling up at him, and they continued on their way to their home. As they walked across the parade grounds, a little flight of butterflies danced through the air around them and then disappeared in the direction of the river.
Molly smiled at the sight of them. "I'll miss seeing that," she said. "This really is a special place, in so many ways."
"It is," William agreed, "but I'll bet Sawyerville will have its own sort of butterflies."
Waiting on the front porch, sitting at a small table with several glasses and a pitcher of lemonade, were Lydia and Abigail and their husbands, Private John Fisher and Private Nathan Ross.
The two men stood up and shook hands with William before they all sat down again. "Well, I'm glad to see that there are at least a few men left still wearing a uniform," said William.
"Oh, yes, sir," said Private Ross.
"We expect to be here for some time," added Private Fisher.
"Good. Good," said William. "It's a fine career."
"But what about you?" asked Lydia. "Are you really going to Oregon?"
"We are!" said Molly. "We are getting a homestead and we will settle there near a brand new town."
"Sawyerville," said William. "It's a newly established logging town. They're in need of some law and order. I've already accepted a position as sheriff out there."
"Sheriff," said Abigail quietly. "In such a rough place?"
"I think I'd rather take my chances with the Indians," said her husband, John Fisher.
William smiled at them. "I am confident that we – that both Molly and I – can help to start this new town on the road to a good future. The people there say they want help with building new lives and building a town, and the first thing they need is law and order."
"Indeed," said Molly. "Before it can truly be a town, it must be a place that is safe for families with children."
Lydia frowned. "How many families are there now?"
Molly glanced at William. "Not many," she said. "In truth, I don't think there are any families there at all – I mean, none with children. A few of the men have wives – maybe four or five – but that is all."
"And how many men are living out there?" asked Nathan Ross.
William glanced at him. "Several hundred. Close to a thousand."
"A thousand!" Lydia gasped. "With no wives? No families? I think I'd rather take my chances here in this place, with the Indian tribes."
"Lydia, many towns start out in just that way," said Molly. "The men go first to clear the way and begin to build. Then the women follow. William and I believe that establishing law and order out there is one of the very best ways to allow more women – and, later, families – to come to Sawyerville."
"Where will you find all these women?" asked Abigail.
"Let me guess: The Matrimonial Times," said Lydia.
Molly grinned at them. "That's my idea," she said. "We will start there. Though oftentimes, I am told, if one woman arrives and makes a successful marriage, she will encourage her sisters or cousins or friends to do the same. And that way, there is at least a little connection between the new brides and the men they are coming out to marry."
The other two women nodded. "I can see that," said Abigail, glancing at her husband. "After all, I certainly made a very good match. I would do it again in a moment."
"So would I," said Lydia.
"And I would, too." Molly smiled. "I have to admit that my mother and her two friends, Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Andrews, were right. This sort of marriage may well be a common fashion in the future.
"Well, I don't know about that," said William, "but I do want to go to a place where I can build a future for ourselves and for an entire town. I believe I can make good use of the things the army taught me: leadership, and courage, and how to shoot, and how to build. I am very anxious to put all of these things to good use out in Sawyerville.
"I could not help the Indians," he went on. "All I could do was destroy their way of life. But I believe that by going to Oregon, I can help to build new lives for a great many people."
"Molly, are you sure about this?" asked Lydia.
"Oh, I am. I am," she answered, smiling brightly at her. "I cannot wait to help build a whole new place. It sounds wonderful. Creating is always better than destroying."
Molly stood up and took the nearly empty pitcher from the table. "Wait here. I'll bring us some more lemonade."
She walked inside, and was a little surprised to see that William had followed her. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I agree with you about creating being much better than destroying. And speaking of creating – "
William picked Molly up in his arms and before she could do more than squeak, he began to carry her up the stairs.
"Oh! What about our guests?" she said, laughing into his shoulder.
"There are no guests up here," he said. "Only you and I."
He set her down on the landing at the top of the stairs. "I love you, Molly."
"And I love you, William." They held each other close, and all thoughts of anyone else floated away like butterflies on the soft summer breeze.
THE END
THE PLACE OF THE BUTTERFLIES
A SAWYERVILLE BRIDES STORY
Book 3: Journey to Sawyerville
A Sawyerville Brides Story
CHAPTER ONE
Port of San Francisco
May 25, 1878
Maeve Eleanor Harrison, along with four other young women, walked down the ramp of the Sea Spirit clipper ship and stepped onto the dock at the Port of San Francisco. All of them looked towards the land and then hurried towards the terminal building. "I just want to step foot on solid ground again," said Maeve. "Never thought I'd miss it so much."
Soon they reached the building and sat down to wait for the steamship that would take them on the last part of their journey to Oregon. "Wonderful to sit on something that isn't moving!" said her friend Hattie, finding a spot on a bench. Maeve agreed with her, as did Eulalie, Ruby, and Jemima.
As they sat together enjoying a few moments of stillness before having get on a boat again, Maeve looked up to see a group of young women walk up to stand in front of her. There were at least a dozen of them, and they were all nicely dressed in good cotton dresses. Most wore bonnets and carried small purses.
They were quite a contrast to the travel-worn, threadbare, damp, and just plain dirty state of Maeve and her four companions.
"Hello," one of the girls ventured. "My name is Ellie. Are the five of you going back to New York City, by chance?"
"We're just wondering if you would like to join us," said the one beside her, quite timidly. "The more of us there are traveling together, the safer we will be."
Maeve shook her head. "Sorry," she said. "We're all going farther north, up into Oregon. Place called Sawyerville."
The girl's eyes widened. "Sawyerville!" she whispered, obviously horrified. "No! You can't go there. You can't!"
"Sawyerville is worse than anything you can imagine," said Ellie, and Maeve could see the real fear and horror in her eyes. "Don't go there! I beg you. Don't even think of going to Sawyerville!"
Maeve frowned. "What do you mean? It's still there, isn't it?"
"It's still there, all right, though I wish it wasn't," said another of the girls, looking equally frightened. "You may as well live as a prisoner as to live in that place. If you've got any sense at all, you'll get right back on whatever boat brought you here a
nd go straight back to wherever you came from!"
"Now, listen to me, dearie," said Maeve, pointing a bony finger at Ellie, the first girl. "The five of us here just spent nearly six months on board a vile, filthy, greasy, stinking whaling ship, going from New York City around Cape Horn and then all the way up to San Francisco. We sailed with the worst men you can imagine under conditions that would make sleeping on bare stone sound heavenly."
"Oh, no," whispered Ellie. "Even an awful ship is only temporary. You can be very sure that you didn't have the worst conditions. Or the worst men. You weren't living in Sawyerville."
***
A year before, at U.S. Army Fort Lapwai in the Idaho Territory
June 15, 1877
On a beautiful morning in midsummer, Molly Howard Strong and her husband of just two months, William Strong, rode out of U.S. Army outpost Fort Lapwai alongside six covered wagons. They were all heading west to pick up the Oregon Trail, traveling to a logging town on the Umpqua River called Sawyerville.
Molly glanced at her tall and handsome husband as he rode along on his quick little bay Palouse mare, Butterfly, whom Molly had named for the butterfly-shaped spotted "blanket" of white on her rump. The mare had ended up at the fort after a battle with some outlaw Indians, and she had gone to William as a reward for his bravery in ending the battle and saving the women of the fort – including Molly.
William had cut a fine figure as a captain in uniform, but now that he had ended his time with the army he looked just as good to her now in work clothes and a western hat.
She herself rode along comfortably on Big Joe, an aging work horse that William had been able to buy at a good price from the army. The big black draft horse had been badly scarred by a poorly fitted harness collar and could not work as part of a team anymore, but he was fine to ride and his quiet nature and soft jog trot suited Molly perfectly.
All of the people on the wagon train were going to Oregon as homesteaders – all except William and Molly Strong. William, newly retired as an officer in the Army cavalry, had been hired as the sheriff for the town of Sawyerville. Molly, already educated as a schoolteacher during the time she'd lived in Ohio, hoped to work as a teacher in Sawyerville, too.
