Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

“So, these wise businessmen see a future in the new territory?” I asked. “And they see you as the right man to set up shop?”

  “That’s exactly right. They know I’m not only smart but brave enough to expand the firm into an area that will need my expertise with law.” He leaned back and gave us a contented smile. “That’s what all these papers are for. There are hundreds of cattlemen begging for help to keep the land they’ve been leasing from the Cherokee for years, not to mention all the homesteads that will be changing hands once the Rush is over. There will be businesses setting up left and right.” He lifted my pen, and a thin trickle of black ink dribbled onto his thumb. “Yes, Bartholomew Reid will become a household name in the Oklahoma Territory.”

  “Well now, that might make jumping off a moving train worth it.” Finn gave the man a mock salute. “If you don’t die trying, that is.”

  As our conversation stalled, I turned to the window to keep myself from laughing. Only the sound of rustling papers came from across the aisle. A few minutes later, the sound of screeching metal was followed by passengers being lunged forward as the train came to an abrupt halt.

  Mr. Reid scrambled from his seat to retrieve his open case that had slid from his lap. I joined him on my hands and knees to retrieve the papers scattered haphazardly under the seats ahead and a few feet down the aisle.

  “Where is it?” he muttered to himself, grabbing more papers and clutching them to his chest. When he lifted his head, the color had drained from his face. “They’ll kill me.”

  “Who?” I handed him crumpled papers.

  He ignored my question, ruffled through the sheets, and then tossed them onto his cushion. “You have it, don’t you?”

  My baffled expression must have answered his question as he returned to poking his head under other seats. He searched as though his life depended on finding whatever had been kept in his leather case.

  What did he have in there besides all those contracts?

  In the commotion of passengers gathering items that had fallen from the racks and a few young children being calmed by their mothers, my gaze settled on a gentleman two rows ahead of Mr. Reid. Unlike the other passengers who were trying to settle back into their seats, he clutched his belongings and hastily made his way toward the vestibule leading to the next car. Finding it odd that this passenger was moving at such a hurried pace, the journalist in me decided to follow him.

  “Where are you going?” Finn put down the newspaper he had been reading as if nothing had occurred.

  “Acting on a hunch.” I stepped over Mr. Reid, who was still crawling in the aisle, swiping his hands from side to side near the passengers’ shoes.

  “Then I’m coming with you,” Finn called after me.

  Instead of passing into the adjoining car, the man I was following took a sharp left and bounded down the steps leading to the outside of the train. He was lanky and his stride long as I scrambled in the loose gravel to catch up to him alongside the passenger cars. Though too hot for the weather, he wore a long, leather coat, its tails flapping like a bird caught in a windstorm.

  I ducked my head and ran faster.

  “What in the …” Finn shouted.

  “Gut says that fellow took something of Mr. Reid’s.” I panted as Finn came alongside me.

  He nodded and took off at a youth’s pace.

  When I caught up, Finn had the tall man pinned against the railing on the first passenger car. A good head shorter than the man, Finn held him by the shirt collar. The gray-bearded man struggled to free himself, but the wrinkles on his forehead and around his glassy eyes betrayed his age. He gagged as Finn tightened his hold.

  “You got something that isn’t yours?” Finn sneered.

  This was a new side of my friend—at least one I had never experienced. “Take it easy, Finn.”

  He released his grip. The man straightened his collar and glared.

  “We don’t want any trouble. Just what you have in your pocket.” I stepped forward and thumped the man on his chest. “Or we can call those conductors over here, and they can get the proper authorities.”

  Standing next to the coal car, two men in dark suits and short-brimmed caps were exchanging heated words, presumably about who was to blame for a train still sitting at the depot when another was approaching. Both conductors shook their fists in the air and yelled over one another until the engineer called from the window that the train was ready to resume its course.

  “I got nothing of yours.” The man darted his eyes toward the crowd milling around the platform. “Leave me be unless you want real trouble.” He began to slip his hand inside his coat but stopped.

  “Like this kind of trouble?” Finn growled as he poked a Colt revolver into the man’s gut.

  My eyes widened, but for that moment, it was necessary to act as though this event was a common occurrence for my friend and me. I opened the man’s coat enough to pull a crumpled envelope from his pocket. It was bulging and partially torn open, exposing money. Assuredly, a great deal of it.

  “Looks like we’ve caught us a train robber.” Finn pushed in closer, causing the man to groan. “I’m sure the sheriff of this town would like to meet you since you stole money belonging to Mr. Bartholomew Reid.”

  Without warning, the train’s whistle screeched. Like startled possums, the three of us stared at one another. Smoke billowed from the train’s chimney as it inched forward. Grabbing the man’s arm, I pulled him away from the tracks where he then stumbled and fell.

  He pushed himself to his knees and cursed, eyes wild like a rabid dog. “Better catch the train, gentlemen.” He gave us a look that said he would not forget us. “And I know just where yer headin’.” He coughed as if years of dirt had settled in his throat. “I’ll be sure to see you and yer friend again. Mr. Bartholomew Reid—a memorable name.” He stood and hobbled toward the congestion of travelers on the platform.

  With another blast from the whistle, I nodded at Finn to put the gun away, slipped the envelope into my pocket, and we raced back to our car, barely in time to leap onto the steps as the train moved down the tracks.

  CHAPTER 11

  Mary ~ Mother Talk, September 7, 1893

  Leaving a life behind is much easier when you have little to leave.

  Except for Wesley and my small rented house, the rest of my belongings were sparse that needed to fit into the cramped space allotted to me on Lizzie and Joseph Contolini’s buckboard wagon. The older couple had graciously offered to let me join them and their horse, Sadie, on the four-hundred-mile, nearly week-long journey to Arkansas City. Short of walking, there were no other means of travel to one of the designated jumping-off towns to register for the Run. From there, I would make my way to the starting line on the sixteenth of September and wait for the noontime gunshot that would launch me and thousands of others on a mad dash into the future.

  *****

  “Not much room except for a change of clothes and a few books.” I pressed down on the top of the small case mother had retrieved from her attic. She had set it on the extra bed that Wesley and I had been sharing since we vacated our house in August. “Lizzie said she’ll help me sneak a few extra items into the back of the wagon when Joseph isn’t looking.”

  “That man never smiles. He’s either had a hard life from the start or regrets he ever left Italy.” Mother lifted the hem of her skirt. “But he knows how to mend a boot. Put a new heel on for me when mine caught in a rut on the street.”

  “It’s hard not to be concerned about them making the trip, let alone being in the race. It’s a long way in this heat, and Lizzie said she hasn’t been feeling well lately. I worry about her.” I ran my fingers gently across my mother’s cheek. “I worry about you too.”

  “Why?”

  “For one, you’ll be here alone. And you’re—”

  “Old?”

  Sitting next to my mother on the edge of the bed, we both looked at our reflections in the vanity mirror. Her once dark hair had turned the
silver of the full moon on a cold winter’s night. Mine was golden, like the harvest moon, mixed with the added warmth of auburn—the same moon, made by one Creator, yet revealed so differently in the phases of our lives.

  Her hair, smooth along a delicate hairline and pulled back in her usual bun until bedtime, revealed a thin neck and slight frame. Wrinkles coursed their way across her forehead like the lines on a map, reflecting the detours and journeys her life had followed. I studied her cheekbones, and then her soft lips—the gateway to wise and discerning words shared with those she loved over so many years.

  In comparison, my hair curved around my face and cascaded onto strong shoulders—its thickness and waves determining its own course. And even though the proper style was to keep it brushed and pulled tightly in a bun and clips, it gave me pleasure to release it at the end of a long day and set it free—allow it to be untamed like the desires and dreams of my heart. My cheekbones shared a similar high position to Mother’s, but my lips were different than hers. Mine wore the fullness of more years to come—more years to learn to speak kindly and wisely, to smile, to laugh, and … possibly to touch another’s.

  How could I think such a thing? I’m never going to rely on love again.

  Mother giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “In so many ways you are still the little girl who climbed high into the trees and crawled to the ends of limbs, bouncing in the breeze. You are the girl your schoolteacher described as very intelligent, but even more obstinate. And most definitely, you are the same girl who challenged the boys to races in the field and beat them every time.” Mother clapped her hands together. “I’m glad you did.”

  “Even though the neighbors told you I should—”

  “Act more like a lady?”

  She smiled at our reflections in the mirror. “Yes. I’m glad the Lord served you a healthy portion of courage and determination.” She turned toward me, leaving the two people in the mirror to eavesdrop. “Because you’re going to need that and so much more to succeed at what you’re taking on.” Her smile faded, and her eyes locked with mine. “I’m older for sure … slowing down in many ways.”

  “But, Mother, you’re doing well. Every day you—”

  “It’s hard to accept. But you see it. My steps are slower, each one contemplated. Opening a canning jar used to be easy. The names of folks I once knew dangle on the tip of my tongue and then slip away as if swallowed—still inside me but unreachable.” She gave me a sad smile. “Surely, I couldn’t ride a horse like before.”

  “But you’re feeling healthy, right?” A knot settled in my throat. “Nothing’s wrong?”

  “No, I’m fine. The good Lord knows to keep me around to take care of Wesley until you get settled and come back to fetch him.” She tilted her head as if looking straight through the ceiling toward heaven. “Lord, am I right with thinking you need me here more than there for quite some time?” She hesitated as if waiting for a response, then looked at me again. “Now, I want you to think about something.”

  “I know what you’re about to say. We can have a good life here, and I should drop this wild idea of going into an unknown and dangerous situation, especially for a widowed woman. It would be better to stay and be a good mother to Wesley and find a responsible man to marry. Even Sheriff Murphy. But I’ll tell you—”

  “Stop, child.” She cupped my face between her soft palms and gently placed her forefinger across my lips. “Listen. That’s all I’m asking.”

  My lips automatically pursed, and my eyes closed. So many times, I’d had to calm the defiance that raged in me—the instinct to justify my position and maintain my independence. Pride. The misguided badge of honor I’d worn for much of my life.

  “I’m not asking you to give up a dream or be someone you were never meant to be. I’m not even asking you to reconsider staying here, even though it scares me to death at the thought that something or someone might …” Her voice wavered.

  When my eyes opened, hers were moist. My heart ached, but I continued to listen for the words she would be sure to choose carefully.

  “You’re right. This body is getting older, and if I had my way, I would want you to be part of as many of those days as possible. But my hopes, and perhaps yours, are not necessarily the plan God has for you. That’s what really matters. It’s the only thing, really.” She took my hands in hers and gently ran her thumb over my skin, just as she had done hundreds of times when I was a child, sad or hurt. “Go to Him and ask if this is His plan for you.”

  Tears blurred my vision, further clouding the confusion playing havoc in my mind since Tuck left. “I have prayed. At least I’ve tried. Maybe He doesn’t want to hear from me.” An unexpected sob released a torrent of tears held back for over a month.

  Mother pulled me into her arms and kissed the top of my head. “Oh, my sweet Mary. He’s not only listening to you, He’s working in you. You just have to make room for Him.”

  My arms wrapped around her, and we clung to each other as the setting sun dimmed the room. Resting my head against her chest, I memorized the sound of her beating heart—tucking away a part of her that I could carry with me forever.

  *****

  Later that evening, Wesley and I snuggled in bed to read more of Treasure Island. I read longer than usual, wanting to savor each minute with my son before leaving the next day with the Contolinis.

  Joseph’s plan was to spend the first night in one of the small towns on the way to Kansas City. Eventually, we would head directly south toward the Territory, hoping to reach our destination in about a week if all went well with the wagon, the horse, the weather, and whatever other obstacles we could stumble upon.

  “Who’s gonna read the rest of the story to me?” Wesley yawned as he rubbed his eyes.

  “Your grandmother is going to finish the story with you. But you have to promise me that you won’t tell me what happens to Jim Hawkins. I want to find out when we read it again in our new home.”

  “Where’s that going to be?” He rolled onto his side, propped his head in his hand, and stared at me with brown eyes the size of the moon. “Will it be a big house like Teddy Reynolds’?”

  “No, not nearly that big. That’s quite a house.”

  “Can we have cows and horses? And a dog too?”

  “Maybe someday.” I forced my smile to remain as reality flashed across my mind. Sod house. Struggling garden. Windswept fields of prairie grass. Freezing winters and blazing hot summers.

  Tuck and I had talked with others who knew folks who made the 1889 Rush near Oklahoma City and Guthrie, towns of ten-thousand-plus people that literally sprang up in half a day on the twenty-second of August. The people we talked with and the newspaper stories we read shared many success stories but also acknowledged thousands of failures and lost dreams. Maybe that’s partly why my husband left, hoping the gold in the mountains of Colorado would be a better way to go—an easier way to happiness. Too bad he never made it.

  “Are you sure there aren’t any Indians?” Wesley’s eyes grew wide.

  “Some have stayed on the land where they’ve been allowed.”

  “Hmmm.” He squinted as he did when in deep thought. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  I leaned back on the pillow and let out a sigh. “You’re right. Not everything in life makes sense.”

  It was silent except for the lingering chirps of the crickets outside the open window. Then, an almost inaudible whisper broke the quiet. “I miss Daddy. I wish he was still here.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t respond. I missed the old Tuck— the man with whom I first fell in love, married, and shared in the creation of three wonderful children. But he had ceased to exist. Even before “death do us part,” the Tuck I knew and loved had died at the expense of drink and the desire for those other than me. But what does a mother say to a six-year-old boy missing his father?

  I pulled Wesley close, holding him as only a mother can—unconditio
nally and completely. “I miss him too. If only he could be here with us.” Kissing his hair, ears, and cheeks, I tried to stamp the essence of his scent into my memory for the long journey ahead.

  “How long will you be gone?” He wiggled out of my grasp and eyed me with one eye squinted again, revealing the seriousness of his question.

  “Only a month. I plan to be back by the middle of October.” I fastened the top button of his nightshirt. “Besides, you’ll be busy with school. You’ll hardly notice I’m gone when you’re with all your friends. You may not even want to leave school.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do good in school, especially ’cuz I’m smarter than most of the other kids.”

  “You’ll do well in school because you like to learn.” I tapped the end of his nose. “Now, time for sleep. Morning isn’t going to wait for us.”

  “You always say that.”

  “That’s because your mother is smart too.” I kissed his forehead and pulled up the sheet and blanket even though the late summer heat lingered longer than usual. “I love you more than the drops of water in the sea.”

  “I love you more than the all the apples on Grandmother’s tree.” Wesley giggled. “Even though I picked most of them.”

  “Goodnight, honey.”

  “I like it when we play that game.”

  “Me too.” It was a game learned in my childhood. My mother had played it with all of her children, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it took her to get us all to sleep.

  Nearing the bedroom door, a piece of paper caught my eye tucked in the wooden frame of the mirror above the dresser. My mother’s slanted and precise handwriting was easily recognizable, always presented as carefully as her spoken words.

  Dear Mary,

  The Lord wanted me to share this with you. He wants you to know there is a divine plan especially for you if you will seek Him. He loves you even more than I do. That’s hard for me to comprehend, yet I deeply believe it is true.

  Loving you more than all the leaves in the trees,