Hattie

by Vivi Holt

  He knew he’d likely die there alone, in his worn clothes and sun-baked skin on the shores of the San Pedro. It was time to go, to move on. Maybe he should try Los Angeles. Or the gold fields near Sacramento, though word was they’d dried up decades ago. But maybe …

  Murdoch made a strangled sound, and Harold looked up from his cradle. “What is it?”

  Murdoch didn’t hear him. He left his cradle leaning to one side and leaped up the bank, still making that strange sound.

  Harold’s eyes followed Murdoch’s stare as he slowly stood. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun’s glare burning the tops of the bushes on the riverbank. It was hard to see anything with the sun like that in your face – he saw only the fire of orange and yellow with flashes of white.

  What was that?

  There was a creature – gold, red, orange, he couldn’t say. It was moving fast, then stopped. He squinted against the light and frowned.

  Murdoch was moving now, shouting something like, “It’s a ghost, with a wee rider!”

  That couldn’t be right. It clearly wasn’t a ghost – Harold could see it with his own two eyes. And if it were a ghost, would it look different? He wasn’t sure – he’d never witnessed a ghost before – but he assumed it would be misty-like or making some kind of eerie sound. This one didn’t – it rushed through the brush and undergrowth with the rustle any creature would make.

  But it wasn’t any creature he’d ever seen, nor wanted to. It was strange-looking, with wild eyes, a long neck, legs that stretched higher than a man was tall and a horribly distorted body. And what was that on the creature’s back? It looked like a man, a rider with a whip in his hand and a blood-chilling grin.

  Harold scurried up the bank to the canvas satchel where he’d stowed his things and retrieved his shotgun, leaning against a gray tree branch beside the bag. He took aim at the creature, which had dropped its nose to the ground and appeared to be sniffing, or grazing. His gaze fixed, he bent at the knees and crept forward, anxious to get a closer look. It was ragged and wild-looking, and his heart pounded out a steady rhythm as he looked it over.

  Closer now, he could see the rider more clearly. The creature shifted, making the rider’s head loll precariously to one side, its empty eye sockets seeming to glare directly at him!

  Harold shouted in dismay and squeezed the trigger, the gun’s recoil against his shoulder, making him take a step backwards. The creature took off at a run, its rider bouncing wildly on its back and dropping something in its haste. Another shot rang out, this time from Murdoch’s weapon. He cried in dismay when he missed as well. The two men ran after the disappearing creature, guns pointing skyward.

  Harold stopped as he drew close to the thing the creature left behind and approached it carefully, his eyes wide. Murdoch followed two steps behind. “What is it?” he asked, gasping.

  Harold tugged his hat off and held it against his chest, his eyes squeezed shut. He shook his head from side to side, as if that would make the sight go away.

  “What?” asked Murdoch, peering around him. Then he covered his mouth and reeled backward with a retching cough.

  Harold opened his eyes slowly and squatted beside what was clearly a human head. Empty eye sockets made dark shadows in the skull, and a shock of reddish hair and remnants of a beard still covered patches of the chin and cheeks. He put his hat back on and backed away. What kind of creature could it have been but a ghost – a red ghost? What else would carry a skeleton rider on its back, dropping half-rotted skulls as it went?

  April 1888

  Pearl Stout gulped the mouthful of water that remained in the tin cup. She peered out across the arid landscape, wrinkling her nose at the dust that had already caused her to sneeze a dozen times in the past hour. She handed the cup back to Stan, the boy who rode up front beside Sam Smothers the stagecoach driver. She’d learned his name because of every time Sam shouted at him, which was often: “Staaaaaan!” She giggled at the thought of Sam’s wide-open mouth, his missing front teeth, and his wobbling belly protruding over the belt pulled too tight beneath it.

  Then the truth of her journey hit her again, as it had so many times since she’d set out weeks ago from New York City. She was on her way to be married to a man she’d never met, who lived on the frontier in a place called Tucson. What kind of a name was that? Sam said through a mouthful of bread when they’d stopped for lunch that they were close, but that was two hours ago.

  Still, it wouldn’t be long until she saw the town that would become her home and the man who’d be her husband.

  She took a long, slow breath and frowned. How could her parents do this to her? They’d never given her a choice – if they had, of course she’d have told them she wanted to stay in New York. It was where she was raised, where her family and friends lived. It was home. But they’d ignored all her pleas to let her stay. Her mother hadn’t even had the nerve to face her – she’d hidden in her room and made her older sister Della take her meals upstairs to her so she wouldn’t have to admit to sending her children away.

  Her father Septimus Stout was a hard, determined man, and he’d glared over his newspaper at her when she questioned his decision. When she began to beg to stay, he’d harrumphed, told her it was too late for that, folded his paper under his arm and stalked from the room. She’d cried herself to sleep that night.

  When she woke the next morning, she made a decision. She might not get to decide the course of her life, but she could determine how she behaved. And she’d be tarred and feathered before she’d let her parents see her cry again. She hated them in that moment, and when she boarded the westbound train she didn’t even bid them farewell. She’d squared her shoulders, picked up her carpetbag and reticule, and marched into the carriage without so much as a glance back.

  “Time to go, folks!” called Sam, hiking his pants up with both hands and patting his generous stomach with a smile.

  Pearl stood slowly and smoothed her skirts with her gloved hands. Beneath her boots, a picnic rug lay wrinkled over the hard red ground, dusty footprints tracked across its surface. She sighed with frustration. It seemed they would all be covered in dust before the day was through. The coach, the luggage, her clothing, everything had a fine layer of brown that settled whenever the wind fell or movement ceased.

  Her heart lurched and her gut roiled. She didn’t know the man she’d spend the rest of her life with, but she felt a burning anger deep inside just at the idea of him. Who was he to demand she marry him? Wasn’t it her choice who she invited into her life? Wasn’t she a grown woman? Well, if you counted a seventeen-year-old as a grown woman, which it seemed her parents did. They presumed her old enough to marry a stranger, which she figured meant she was old enough to make her own choices.

  But if she didn’t marry him, what then? She had barely enough money left to buy a meal. Her father had been generous enough to give her an allowance for the journey, but nothing more. Maybe he worried his daughters might try to back out of the arrangement if given too much. Or maybe he really didn’t have the money any longer.

  As she made her way to the stagecoach, her eyes widened at the thought – could it really be true? Her father, the successful businessman, investor and land developer, had lost it all? He said so, but she’d closed herself off to anything he said as soon as he told her and her older sisters they were to be mail-order brides. Her mother had confirmed his words, then left in a bustle of skirts and a rush of tears to let them process it all alone.

  Septimus Stout and his brother and business partner Ulysses had lost their businesses to a swindler, who’d also sullied their names in the process. They’d soon lose the house, the servants, everything. It was difficult for her to imagine her parents and brothers reduced to a life of poverty. And where would they go? Where would they live?

  She shook her head and stepped up into the coach, settling carefully on the leather seat. Until that moment, she’d only considered her own plight. Now she began to imagine w
hat the others might be going through. Her sisters Della and Hattie had been shipped off before her to meet their husbands in various parts of the West. And she remembered hearing her parents whisper something about her cousins Effie, Minnie and Lula sharing the same fate. But what about the rest? What would become of her brothers?

  Her stomach lurched, and she linked her fingers together to rest her hands on it.

  The rest of the group crowded into the coach with her. She pressed herself against the window frame as a large woman in long pants and a man’s shirt and hat squeezed in beside her. She offered the woman a tight smile. “Not long to go now,” she chirped, then winced. The woman made her nervous.

  The woman glowered at her through wide-set brown eyes. “Hmph!”

  Pearl tried again. “I think I caught your name earlier – was it Bella?”

  The woman crossed muscular arms over her generous bosom. “Belle.”

  “Belle … that’s a lovely name.”

  Belle raised one eyebrow. “And you are?”

  Pearl swallowed hard, “I’m Pearl.”

  “Nice to meetcha.” She nodded, the short tight curls on her head unmoving.

  “You too.”

  “You stoppin’ in Tucson?” asked Belle, her face softening. She pronounced it TOO-sahn, leaving the “c” silent. Was that how it was said?

  “I am. And you?”

  “Yep. This here’s my brother Pip. We’re from Richmond, Virginia. How ‘bout you?”

  Pearl pursed her lips. She hated to tell her story. So far, she’d only told it to the driver before they left, and he’d looked at her with pity in his milky eyes, whistling through the gap where his missing teeth should’ve been. In that moment she realized just how far she’d come down in the world. “Well, I’m from New York City.”

  The wagon set off at a slow trundling pace, making the passengers shift. Pearl clutched the windowsill tight to keep from flying into Belle’s generous lap.

  “That so?” Belle unfolded her arms, her eyes lit up like sparks from a campfire. “I always wanted to go there.” She turned to her brother and jammed an elbow into his ribcage. “Ain’t you?”

  He frowned and rubbed his side. “Huh?”

  “Ain’t you always wanted to go to New York? This here’s Pearl, and she’s from New York City!”

  “How ‘bout that.” Pip looked far less impressed. He pulled his hat down over his eyes and rested his head against the wall of the coach as if to go to sleep.

  Pearl’s brow furrowed. “Well, maybe one day you’ll get there. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back.”

  Belle tipped her head to one side, her eyes narrowed. “Whyever not? I’d go there in a flash if I thought I could make it.”

  “Well, why don’t you?” asked Pearl. “You could take the train – that’s what I did.”

  Belle’s eyes clouded over. “I don’t got no more money. Pip and I gotta get jobs in Tucson, else we’ll be beggin’ for scraps ‘fore long. We worked and saved back home just to get the chance to go west, and Tucson was as far west as we had coin for. We’ll work a while, maybe as laborers, see if we like it. Then we might head out to Los Angeles.”

  Pearl’s eyes widened as she sighed. “You’re so brave, just deciding to go here or there and making it happen. I can’t even imagine.” She looked at Belle more closely, noting the woman’s smooth brown skin and full lips beneath the layers of grime on her hands and face. It was more than just bravery that made the woman and her brother want to leave Virginia – however rough Tucson might be, it had to be better for Negroes than the stories Pearl had heard coming out of the South.

  “Well, you are too! You’re on your way to some kind of new adventure in Tucson, ain’tcha?”

  Pearl’s stomach churned and she ran a hand over her hair. “No, not exactly. I’m … well, my parents decided I should marry a man in Tucson, and I’m going there now to do it. It wasn’t my choice. I’m nowhere near as adventurous as you.”

  Belle didn’t reply for a moment, just arched an eyebrow and settled back in her seat to stare out the window. “Think you’ll go through with it?” she finally asked.

  “Go through with what?”

  “Marryin’ the man!” she exclaimed, as if indignant at the very idea of doing something she hadn’t set her mind to.

  “Well, of course. I mean, I hadn’t thought about it. Father said I should … I suppose I must.”

  “Good grief, girl, if you don’t wanna do it, ain’t no one can make you. You’re free, same as Pip and I here are. We weren’t always, but we are now and don’t we know it!” Belle slapped her thigh as she spoke, her eyes flashing. “You always been free, though it don’t seem to me like you understand it. You always do what you’re told?”

  Pearl grimaced and nodded.

  Belle laughed, a hearty chuckle that filled the coach. “Well, now’s good a time as any to find your own way, make your own choices. You could be buffaloed into marryin’ a man you don’t want and raisin’ his children. Or you could decide to have an adventure.”

  “What … kind of adventure?” Pearl asked, her eyebrows pulled low.

  Belle leaned closer and whispered, “Any kind you like.”

  There was a shout from the driver and the stagecoach swayed dangerously to the right, then the left. It stopped suddenly and flung Pearl at the feet of the man opposite her, her face almost in his lap. He’d been snoozing as they rode and his eyes flew open in alarm, focusing on her upturned face. She gasped and struggled to her feet. “So sorry, Mr. Gunderson.”

  He nodded and straightened his vest. “Never mind, Miss Stout. Never mind.”

  Before he could say more, there was another cry from outside. Pearl and Mr. Gunderson looked out the window – and her breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Some thing was there – it looked almost like a horse, but bigger and deformed. Dust swirled around it as it galloped by the coach. And a headless rider clung to its misshapen back!

  The coach horses reared up on their hind legs, whinnying across the desert landscape. Belle screamed as Pearl was hurled back into her seat, her head thudding hard against the frame of the coach. She clutched her head even as the wagon toppled onto its side and she and Belle crashed onto Pip with cries of terror. Mr. Gunderson managed to get on his feet and help pull Pip free.

  Between gasps, Pip’s voice sounded strangled. “What de debbil was that? Mr. Gunderson, Miss Stout, what you see?”

  The noise of the horses trying to regain their footing, clawing and neighing in fright, turned Pearl’s stomach. “I don’t know,” she said with a glance at Mr. Gunderson’s pale face. “Some strange beast.”

  Mr. Gunderson swallowed hard. “With a rider on its back.”

  Pip’s looked from him to Pearl and back again. “What kinda rider?” he demanded.

  Pearl shivered. “A headless one.”

  Keep reading…

  Historical Note & Author’s Remarks

  There’s something remarkable about a woman who would willingly travel into unknown territory to marry a man she’s never met. But in the United States, during the nineteenth century, there weren’t many ways for pioneers to find wives, and with the lack of eligible men after the civil war, women in the east often found themselves without beaus — so the Mail Order Bride industry boomed.

  I often wonder about the women who were sent west against their wishes. Hattie is the story of a woman, little more than a girl, sent west to marry a man whose only communication with her family was via telegram or letter. A miner, we know he won’t be a suitable mate for her but then we find out things are worse than Hattie could possibly have imagined. He’s an outlaw, and not only that, he robs the stage coach she’s riding in, on her way to meet him.

  Sounds improbable, right?

  Well, it’s not. This story, as with many I write, was inspired by a true tale. Elizabeth Berry was only 22 years old when she traveled west to meet bachelor miner Louis Dreibelbis. A school m
istress Elizabeth was to marry Louis, who described himself as a lonely miner in his newspaper ad.

  Elizabeth traveled west to avoid becoming a spinster. Apparently twenty two was approaching old age in the Old West marriage market. Elizabeth packed up her things after a short correspondence with Louis and went to California to marry him. On the way there, her stagecoach was robbed. One of the three robbers allowed her to keep her luggage, which had her wedding dress and all her other belongings for her new life in it. She noticed the man had a ragged scar on one hand.

  Later that day, she arrived at her destination. She and Louis’s went to the justice of the peace to get married. It wasn’t until after they exchanged vows, and were pronounced man and wife, that Elizabeth thought she recognized Louis’s voice, and saw the same ragged scar on his hand as she’d seen on the robber when he signed the marriage license. She fled when she recognized him as one of the robbers. Unfortunately history doesn’t tell us what happened next. In fact, Louis was a miner, but he supplemented his mining income by robbing stagecoaches with a couple of his friends.

  And so, Hattie’s story was born. A story of tragedy, love lost, hopes dashed and a little bit of the absurd.

  I hope you enjoyed reading it! Stay tuned for more.

  Warm regards,

  Vivi Holt

  Also by Vivi Holt

  Paradise Valley *

  Of Peaks and Prairies

  Winds of Paradise

  * Available in e-book, paperback and audio book

  Cutter’s Creek

  The Strong One

  The Betrothed

  Cherished

  Season of Love

  Captivated

  Beguiled