Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

  Trapped.

  The realization spun through my mind, and for one brief moment I was drowning. First a swirl of blue, green, and white—gasping for air—then everything went black.

  *****

  As though being plucked from the river by the hand of God, someone grabbed me around the waist and lifted me above the water. Massive arms held me, and as they pressed harder, I coughed and gagged as a small river of its own sputtered from my mouth. Though the current still tugged at me, an arm scooped under my legs and nestled me.

  Pushing the hair from my face with a limp hand, my eyes took in the face of Sheriff Murphy. His eyes were dark, his lips terse. It was difficult to be certain, but a look of fear—foreign for a man of his stature—swept across his face. He only stared at me, then waded toward the riverbank. Once at the edge and still cradling me against his chest, he climbed the embankment and laid me on dry ground.

  “Mama!” Wesley sprang from the brush, panting hard, eyes as big as wagon wheels. “We saw you fall. I tried to swim upriver to catch you.” He was shaking, and his shirt and pants clung to his tiny body.

  “He’s one tough little boy. Threw his rod into the water and started running upstream like a fish going to new spawning ground.” The sheriff grinned at my son. “Problem is the water’s too swift and the rocks too slippery for a boy his size.”

  “Oh, Wesley.” My arms reached out and pulled him close. He rested his head on my chest and cried. “I am so sorry to frighten you.” I hugged him tightly. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

  The familiar saying echoed in my mind. My mother said it to me as a child, and Tuck and I coined it early on in our marriage and with our three sons. How drastically my life had changed. However, determined to keep that promise for Wesley, I repeated the phrase. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.” A coughing fit followed, and I rolled onto my side, spitting a rancid fluid into the dirt.

  Spent, Wesley stepped aside and plopped onto the grass.

  “Here, let me help you to your knees.” Sheriff Murphy took my hand, helping me sit upright. “You have half the river in your gut.”

  Rocking forward, deep breaths slowly filled my lungs—air that had always been taken for granted. With bowed head and eyes closed, I silently prayed for the first time in weeks, perhaps even months. And even though death had just taken my husband, I thanked God for letting me live. Mostly, I thanked Him for Wesley.

  “Mary.” The sheriff’s voice was urgent as he held my hair away from my face. “Are you all right?”

  When my eyes opened, the man who had plucked me from the river was crouched in front of me. The fear on his face had waned, but squinted eyes revealed what seemed to be genuine concern.

  “I’m all right.” I nodded sheepishly, feeling ashamed of not only my foolishness, but also my appearance. My soaked clothing was in disarray around my body, and the bodice clung to my chest. My usually wavy golden hair with flecks of auburn hung limp and matted against the sides of my face.

  Obviously exhausted, the sheriff sat on the grass and stretched out his legs. His pants were soaked, and his shirt equally wet from holding me against his chest. Slipping off his boots, he tipped them upside down and let the water dribble out. For the first time, we all laughed.

  His squinting eyes locked with mine. “You really scared me, Mary.” The man swallowed hard. “I mean, not much scares me, but I thought you ...” He grimaced. “I thought I had lost you.”

  Thought I had lost you. The words felt strange to my ears. Logically, I knew what he meant, but the way he looked at me made me uneasy. Why couldn’t I be grateful for heaven’s sake? The man just saved me from certain death.

  The words were forced but had to be spoken. “Thank you for saving my life.” I bowed my head to avoid those piercing eyes. “It was foolish to go into the water like that. It would have been easy to find you and Wesley by looking up and down the river. When Mother said you took my boy fishing, it was obvious you’d be somewhere near this area.”

  “Why did you come looking for him?” He cocked his head to the side and looked at me as if confused. “I’d have brought him home soon enough.” He put his hat on and adjusted the brim. “I’d say after yesterday’s tumble on the porch and now a near drowning, we’ve had enough excitement from you for a while.”

  Heat rushed to my face. For someone who prided herself on being capable with most things, in less than twenty-four hours, the same man who’d brought news of my husband’s death carried me to safety.

  Ignoring his latter comments, my words formed with as much composure as possible. “It was time to get along home. That’s all.” Once on my feet, I felt light-headed, and my body swayed. The man offered his hand, but I pretended not to notice.

  Wesley came to my side and slid his arm around my waist. “I’ll help you home, Mama.”

  “Son, your mother may need a bit more help than you can offer.” Sheriff Murphy stepped to my other side and took my elbow.

  “We’ll be fine.” I followed with a forced smile. After all, you did just save my life. “You truly saved my life. How can I ever repay you?” The words were cliché and came too easily. But the moment they were spoken, I wished to take them back.

  “You can start by calling me David. Sheriff Murphy is too formal for someone who has held you twice in his arms within the last twenty-four hours.” He tipped his hat and walked away from the river. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back. “I believe someday you’ll have the opportunity to repay me.”

  He snickered, and the sound caused a sensation to ripple through my body that was hard to describe—as if from some faraway and future place, a door-rattling, pounding on my soul.

  “You could say I feel it in my bones,” he added as he stepped into the thick brush bordering the river and disappeared from sight.

  I looked down at my son and pulled him close. “Time for both of us to put on dry clothes.”

  “And time to eat.” He smiled up at me with his missing-front-tooth grin. “I’m as starved as a coyote chasin’ rabbits for days.”

  I chuckled in spite of my exhaustion. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Daddy made it up.” Wesley took my hand. Together, we made our way through the scrub brush and grasses toward the road.

  Once we got home, he would need to know about Tuck—need to know his father would never be coming home. I squeezed his small hand. No child should ever have to hear those words. No child. Especially not mine.

  *****

  Whether it was the moment in the river when death called my name or a mother’s deepest instinct to protect her child at any cost, my decision was sealed. It was all too clear now. It was time to leave Adair to begin a new life. If not, all the heartache from the losses and betrayals would pull me under. I’d stop breathing … stop living. I couldn’t do that to my son and wouldn’t do that to myself. And in that precious, brief moment before the water pulled me under, the river cradled and refreshed me. In that moment, I believe God was reminding me that only He could calm the raging waters in my life.

  CHAPTER 10

  Daniel ~ Train from Boston, September 7, 1893

  Finn dozed as the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway tracks led us across the border and into New York. Undoubtedly, he had stayed out late with his friends and—if he had his way—Elizabeth Turney as well. Suppressing a yawn, I pulled my bowler lower to shade my eyes from the sun’s glare.

  My fatigue was brought on by something else—painting well into the night, covering over the grays and muddy greens in the park scene I had begun weeks before. Now, the canvas was transformed with blue, crimson, ochre, and, admittedly, an abundance of bright cadmium yellow into a scene that forced me to smile. Surely, Finn would like to claim I finally came to my senses and took him up on his challenge to render my paintings—and my perspective on life—more optimistically. Maybe Finn’s prompting did urge me to come up for air, fill my lungs, my mind, and possibly even my heart with life, at least one
more time.

  Logically, it made no sense to be so excited to temporarily leave the comforts of Boston, along with the modern conveniences and sophistication of the East Coast. Even in the plummeting national economy, the city offered many intriguing places. For me, it provided a job and a place to lay my head. Lucky, some would say. In my mind, I was blessed. The country’s unemployment had risen to eighteen percent, and banks and businesses were closing their doors at an alarming rate.

  Last February, days before Grover Cleveland was inaugurated, an unnerving panic rose over the rich and poor. Like a continual drizzle, the Globe and every other newspaper across the country recounted the dismal economic situation. Whether people read the paper to keep informed, to commiserate with others experiencing the same duress, or to simply watch for a glimmer of hope for their future, the stories, articles, reports, photographs, and illustrations captivated the populous and kept me working.

  The Globe paid me a decent salary that allowed for a comfortable flat at ten dollars a month. A new coal-burning furnace in the basement of the building pushed heated water into the radiator throughout the cold winter months.

  In the evenings, large windows welcomed the warm glow of the gas street lamps. For the little cooking I did, a small wood-burning stove was sufficient. After all, a market and several restaurants were a short stroll from my front door—a convenient excuse for my mostly bare pantry. Running water served my other needs and those of five neighbors down the hall.

  With another quick glance at Finn, I folded my arms behind my head. Why would anyone leave all that to head to a desolate, rural, and—by all reports—wild and unruly landscape? Maybe they have nothing left to leave. My eyelids became as heavy as my thoughts. Or perhaps they’re running away, choosing to leave something, someone … I swallowed hard … or a haunting memory behind.

  I awoke much later to Finn rustling a newspaper in my face.

  “Daniel, you’ve been sleeping for hours. Been missing all the excitement at the depot stops.”

  One eye opened enough to squint at the back of the Wichita Daily Eagle, September 6, 1893. “Either we’ve made it all the way to Kansas, and you’re reading day-old news, or we’ve gone back in time.” My thumb methodically rubbed the soreness from my neck.

  “I believe we’re somewhere in the heart of Indiana now.” Finn creased the paper. “Someone left this in the dining car. Take a listen. ‘Eight thousand people in line at Arkansas City, two thousand more arriving each day. The Santa Fe will run six trains for the boomers. The Rock Island will also run six boomer trains. These trains will be used mostly by those going to the town sites.’” Finn peered at me over the top of the paper.

  “And?” My head automatically cocked in anticipation of his brilliant response.

  “Just think, thousands of people swarming like flies on a horse’s rear end coming on all those trains.” He tapped on the glass. “And by what I’m seeing, the further west we travel, it’s beginning to look like a horse’s rear end.”

  “Not sure about that.” I gazed out the window and took in the golden fields of prairie grass stretching endlessly to the south. The waving grasses, syncopating between a golden yellow and a deep, earthy rust, reminded me of the ocean waves I had lived near most of my life. “I find it to be … freeing.”

  “Poetic, my friend.” Finn propped his feet on the seat opposite him. “Let’s see if you find it as freeing when we depart the train into a sea of people who haven’t bathed for weeks.”

  I nudged him with the toe of my boot. “Finn Allaway, you are becoming a snob.”

  “Alas, I’m afraid I’ve become a Bostonian.”

  “I don’t think a Scotsman can officially do that. At least not one who hails from Galloway and Wigtown.” My eyebrows drew together as I studied my friend. “Aren’t you the one who maintained, once a Scot, always a Scot?”

  Finn sighed and pushed my boot away from his leg. “Aye, I did at that. But that’s all behind me. Now, I’d be classified an American.” His boyish enthusiasm was infectious. “But with the wit and good looks of the Scottish.”

  *****

  The train slowed as we pulled into the next large town. Between the crowds on the platform, I pieced together the letters on the sign designating that we had arrived in Indianapolis.

  More passengers climbed aboard, filling the cars to capacity. A miscellany of humanity, mostly men with a few women, filled the cars with various accents and languages. Like a patchwork of mismatched fabrics, Germans, Italians, Poles, Russians, French, Dutch, and many more, clambered to find seats as the train lunged forward toward what most were seeking—a better life and the opportunity to claim their own land in the West.

  A burly man with a thick, black mustache wedged himself into the seat across the aisle. He positioned a brown leather case on his lap and began shuffling through papers.

  Finn and I eyed one another. Whatever he was doing, it obviously had great urgency to be completed before he arrived at his destination. He cursed under his breath and then looked across the aisle at me.

  “Would you happen to have a pen and ink?” In spite of his overgrown mustache, his clear green eyes and smooth, rosy cheeks revealed a much younger man than one might have guessed. “Must have left mine behind in my hurry to get packed and catch the ol’ iron horse.”

  “I can oblige you.” Fumbling in my bag secured in the rack above my seat, I found what the man needed. “It’s not much of an eye-drop filler. Been having a horrible time with it leaking. Here’s a pencil, if you prefer.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll take my chances with the pen. Can’t have anyone erasing the contents of these important documents.” He reached for more papers and a handful slid onto the floor. More curt words followed as he bent at his rotund waist.

  “Let me help.” Finn gathered the papers, handed them to the man, and extended his free right hand. “Finn Allaway at your service.”

  “Bartholomew Reid.” The man held the papers against his chest and extended his right hand. “Attorney at Law.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reid.” Finn nodded toward me. “This is my friend, Daniel McKenzie.”

  I reached across the aisle and shook the attorney’s hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Lucky to get a ticket. Had to pay extra and take a first-class seat. Second class is sold out to the Boomers. They’re even letting folks huddle in the freight cars.” He took a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped the sweat forming on his temple. “Feel awful for those people back there. The heat is merciless, and there’s no letting up in the direction we’re heading.” He shook his head and wiped it again. “No, I’ve never experienced temperatures and dust like those in Guthrie. Can’t believe I’m going back.”

  “To the Oklahoma Territory?” My eyebrows shot up. “Amazing what happened. They say a town grew up overnight. We hear Oklahoma City is going to give Guthrie some fierce competition as the state capitol if things go that way.”

  “My bets are on Perry to be the next metropolis.” Mr. Reid pulled a paper from the stack. “See this map? Some forty-two-thousand claims to be made. Most of them are one-hundred-sixty acres each, just waiting to be snatched up.”

  The map was neatly divided into a perfect grid, each square labeled with a number. He pointed to a section in the bottom left, also equally segmented into smaller rectangles set apart by longer, narrow strips running north and south, and east and west. “But it’s not a big homestead I’m after. No, sirs.” He tapped a pudgy forefinger on town lot number twenty-three. The attorney lowered his voice, “That prime piece of land is the future site of the law offices of Simon, Levy, and Reid.”

  “But you don’t have it yet.” Finn strained his neck to survey the map.

  Mr. Reid glanced around and then leaned in closer. “That’s true. But I will.” He ran his finger along a thin line bordering the grid. “See, the train will run all the way to this point. Just about here it should slow down to a crawl. That’s when I’ll jump off
and run like a bat out of hades for my lot, pound the flag in the dirt, and stand my ground until a registrar documents my claim.” He wiped the sweat from his brow once again, obviously excited at his plan.

  I think my eyes had opened as wide as Finn’s. “You mean you’re going to jump off a train, run through the sagebrush for who knows how far, and beat the others who are racing on horses and in buggies?”

  The lawyer frowned. “Sir, I may not look like one who can run at lightning speed, but I assure you, I have the brains and determination to beat any other man when my future is at stake.” He lowered his voice even more. “Not to mention, Mr. Simon and Mr. Levy will not be pleased if I don’t secure our parcel.”

  Finn chuckled. “And where are Mr. Simon and Mr. Levy?”

  Mr. Reid frowned and looked rather annoyed. “Most likely napping after indulging in an ample and expensive meal.”

  “Why aren’t they making the Run with you?” I asked. “Seems if the three of you were going for the same lot, you’d stand a better chance if at least one of you made it there before the others.” I looked at Finn. “Don’t you agree, partner?”

  Finn nodded and grinned. “Sounds right to me.”

  “That might work for you, gentlemen, but Mr. Harold Simon and Mr. Rubin Levy, Esquires, they are not the sort of men to be getting themselves involved in situations like this, at least not directly. They’ve made me the offer that if I secure lot number twenty-three, they’ll make me partner—the youngest in the firm’s history. Simon, Levy … and Reid.”