Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

  “Sure do.” Finn glanced down at his vest pocket. “Might be illegal to carry it within the city limits, but anything could go on in this town right now.”

  I slowly turned around, and, sure enough, the lanky stranger was staring directly at us. His cheek twitched above his matted gray beard. He whispered something to a stocky man next to him, who then displayed crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. The thief tipped his hat at us, then the pair walked across the street toward the entrance of the saloon.

  “That’s a sure cure for me wanting an afternoon whiskey.” Finn released a deep breath.

  “Next time we run into them, it might not be so easy.” I started the opposite direction, with Finn catching up to my side.

  “Where’re we headed?”

  “The registration booth. Need an idea how many people are going to be fighting for those forty-two thousand claims.”

  “Doing your homework?”

  “As always.” I secured the strap on my leather bag holding my art supplies—and my revolver. “Then we’ll head to the starting line and see what kind of rise we can find for the best vantage point. I’m counting on you to get photographs that will make the readers’ jaws drop.” My pace quickened. “We have work to do. No time for getting beat up, or worse.”

  “Not to worry, ol’ man. Got you covered.”

  “That’s my concern.” I rolled my eyes at my friend, and he grinned. “Why do you think that crook’s here?”

  Finn shifted the strap of the camera. “Same as everyone else. Or he’s up to no good. Plenty of people to rob that have little money to lose.”

  “May have come to find us,” I said.

  “Thugs like that can find trouble with anyone. We’re nothing special.”

  “Except you pinned him up against a train with a pistol in his belly.”

  “And took back plenty of money that wasn’t his.” Finn whistled. “More than I’d ever seen in one bundle.”

  My eyes widened as I looked at Finn and thought about the trouble that could come our way. “I wonder where Mr. Reid has been these last few days?”

  *****

  With the Rush less than forty-eight hours away, the rumored second registration booth opened to accommodate the overflow of registrants. The single line that stretched for well over a mile, now split into two like a long piece of twine that had been snipped in half. The new line shuffled toward the booth as the officials tried to keep some semblance of control and order.

  When we neared the jury-rigged booth, clearly hammered together with ill-fitting pieces of wood, it was easy to spot the rotund Mr. Reid. Most of those around him were coatless, wearing only a shirt and suspenders, or some with a vest. In contrast, he appeared quite businesslike in his suit and tie, covered with dust that turned the dark wool to an ashen gray.

  “Gentlemen.” Mr. Reid extended both arms as if greeting old friends. “I wondered if I’d see you two again.”

  “In this horde of humanity, it is a wonder.” Finn shook his head. “Figured you’d be signed up by now.”

  “Should have been. He knuckled his bloodshot eyes. “After we said farewell, I went straight to get in line. Never imagined it would be such a wait. I’ve been out here day and night since … well, two nights sleeping on the ground. The first day’s mistake was stepping out of line to get some water and food. Gave a husband and wife behind me a few bucks to hold my spot. When I came back, the line had moved on a bit.” He shifted his weight from leg to leg, teetering like a massive bear. “Do you know what happened?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t imagine.”

  “That couple told me to head to the back of the line. Said they had never seen me before—unless I was willing to give them more money. When I argued, others around them got riled up and said anyone trying to jump in line would regret it.”

  “Rough crowd,” Finn added.

  “Speaking of that, our friend from the train is in town.” I surveyed the crowd. “Probably a good idea if you keep your wits about you. He certainly hasn’t forgotten what he had of yours.”

  Mr. Reid looked around. “Good to know. At least good fortune has been with me.” He leaned in closer. “See that woman about a dozen or so in front of us?”

  Finn and I bent to the side and glanced. Finn blew out a puff of air. “Sure do. You’d have to be blind not to notice her.”

  “For hours, talk had been hanging over us like a swarm of gnats that there was going to be a second booth added. When the officials did it, they split the line right in front of her. These government folks don’t know how to organize thousands of people, but they can spot a good-looking woman.” He cinched his tie that had sagged around his neck. “Lady luck for me.”

  “Needle in a haystack,” Finn agreed. “Daniel, what were the chances of that happening for our friend, Mr. Reid?”

  Even though Finn’s question reached my ears, my eyes were set on the woman. And though I wanted to blame it on the heat, I felt a bit light-headed.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mary ~ Official, September 14, 1893

  It was a welcoming sound when my boots thumped on the flimsy piece of plywood inside the shed marked booth number nine.

  “Ma’am, step right up.” A burly man sat behind a table much too small for his mass. “Full name, birth location, and date.”

  “Mary Louisa Johnston Roberts. Ohio, January 24, 1860.”

  “And your husband? Need both of your signatures on these documents.”

  I leaned forward, resting my hands on the edge of the table. “Sir, my husband is deceased. I’m a widow.”

  The clerk scrutinized me over the wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. “My apologies. A pretty woman like you wouldn’t typically be alone in a place like this.”

  “Actually, I’m not.” Straightening to my full five-foot-four height, I looked down at the seated man. “My dear friend is with his ill wife at the moment. I’ll be registering for both of us.”

  “Sorry. He’ll need to be present. Can’t register anyone who isn’t here in person.”

  “But his wife is extremely ill.” The chattering and shuffling behind me magnified the growing impatience of the crowd. “He can’t leave her to stand in this line.”

  “Not my rules, ma’am.” He flipped through an enormous ledger. “K, N, P, here we go, R.” He turned a few more pages and ran his finger down the length of the yellowed page. “Did you or your husband participate in any other land race?”

  “No, and why would it matter if my husband had?” My frustration was rising.

  “You still share his name,” he said, “and if he had rushed before, I couldn’t grant you permission.”

  I swallowed hard to push down my anxiety and tapped the page with my finger. “Regardless, you won’t find either of our names in that book. You won’t find Joseph Contolini either.”

  He narrowed his brow into a question mark.

  “The dear man who is taking care of his wife. They were kind enough to help me travel all this way.” I forced a smile and folded my hands in front of me. “Please …” I softened my voice. “He’s a cobbler, looking for a chance to start a new business on a town lot.”

  “Just like everyone else.” He crossed his beefy forearms on the table.

  I set my small bag on the table and bent close enough to smell stale tobacco on the official’s breath. “I’ll sign and pay for both of us. Please.”

  The man’s gruff appearance softened as he took a deep breath and relaxed his features. “I shouldn’t do—”

  “Mr. Nelson.” A slight man with a high-pitched voice appeared next to me. “What’s the hold-up? We have an angry group out there that says this line still isn’t moving.” He slammed his fist on the table.

  “No issue, Mr. Hoyt. Finishing up with this lady.”

  “Ma’am.” The man gave me a quick nod and then pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed the sweat on his brow. “No offense, but we need to speed it up.” He circled a
round to the back of the table and spoke to the clerk. “You help the next person, and I’ll complete her papers. We’ve got less than twenty hours until we shut down registration, and more people keep coming. It’s like flies on manure.”

  The clerk rolled his eyes as he shuffled through other papers. My heart sank. The chance of a new start for Joseph was slipping away as quickly as Lizzie’s life.

  *****

  Even tightly holding a certificate stamped Number 5370, my hand felt empty. Pushing aside the canvas flap revealed Joseph sitting cross-legged next to his sleeping wife. He raised his finger to his lips, and I took a step backward into the night air.

  Settling onto a log next to the campfire, my legs welcomed the chance to rest as I leaned back and gazed at the darkening sky. Stars were beginning to appear, and as more came into view, I felt insignificant—one out of so many who had come, all desiring a piece of this unclaimed land.

  Lord, why am I allowed to race and the Contolinis aren’t? You know there isn’t time for Joseph to make it through the lines. Foolishly looking around to see if anyone heard my thoughts, I spoke aloud to the sky. “It isn’t fair. I’m the one who shouldn’t be doing this.” Suddenly, the urge to run away washed over me. An anger swelled inside that hadn’t been present since seeing Tuck bruised and bloodied in the jail cell.

  When I began to push myself up from the log, a gentle hand rested on my shoulder. “La vita non è giusto.”

  I took Joseph’s hand and held it against my cheek. When he gently cupped my face, he seemed to hold my heart as well. Tears rolled down my face at his tenderness.

  “Life isn’t fair,” he whispered. “It’s not supposed to be.” He settled next to me, and we stared at the sky, now powdered with glistening stars.

  “I tried,” I said between sobs.

  “I know you did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Lizzie and I talked. It was obvious you would try to take care of us.”

  Neither of us said anything for a while. The only conversation was the hissing logs speaking to the crackling twigs.

  “What will you do?” I asked.

  He turned toward me, and the creases around his eyes deepened when he grinned. “We have a plan. Lizzie says it’s the Lord’s plan, and we’re His helpers.” Joseph’s face was like an ancient map, the deep-set wrinkles traveling among his features.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Lizzie does a lot more talking with God than I do, but she says, and I think she’s right, that He wants you to have a new life—you and your son.” He lifted his face to the night sky. “Do you see all those stars?”

  My gaze tilted upward. “Sure do.”

  “If we got a star for each year of our lives, all our blessings, and all the love God has for us, we’d have been given more than we could ever count.” He reached his hands toward the sky and cupped them together as if filling his hands with fresh water from a stream. Then he carefully lowered his hands and turned to me with his offering. “Look.” He nodded at his hands. “I do understand one thing …”

  I gazed into his cradled palms.

  “God has plans to fill the sky with stars for you.” His eyes widened as a child’s would at the sight of a present. “And the largest bucket in the world would never be able to hold them all.”

  He wrapped his arms around me, and my head rested on his chest. A long-forgotten memory of my father holding me when I was young tiptoed into my mind and knocked on my heart. It made me feel safe.

  “You’ll ride out on Sadie,” he spoke into my hair. “She’s still quick and sure-footed.”

  I sat upright. “But what about you? She’s your horse.”

  “She’s my ol’ girl, faithful animal. But she’ll run as fast for you as for me.” He stood and walked to the other side of the fire. “Lizzie and I will wait until you run the race and stake your claim, then we’ll head to St. Louis. Pastor Allen said there are good doctors there who might be able to help.”

  “But that’s a long way to travel again. Is she up for it?”

  “We don’t have a choice, Mary.” Joseph rubbed his forehead. “He’s sending word to his congregation to help us out—perhaps a place to live until we get Lizzie back on her feet.”

  “You and I can make the run together in the buckboard, just like we planned. You get your town lot first, and I’ll continue on.”

  “It will be much faster on horseback.” He looked at me through the rising smoke. For a moment, it felt like a dream. “From the start, our plan had some faults. Even if luck went our way, most likely only Lizzie and I would have gotten a claim. Now, seeing how many people are rushing, it would be mighty difficult for you to get back in the race at that point.”

  I stood, my arms crossed in defiance, hoping to muster a solid argument, even though my legs were shaking. “But your shop. You and—”

  “We can do that in St. Louis. People wear shoes there as well. “Besides, we believe this is God’s plan. I’ll admit I don’t like all of it, but it’s not mine for choosing.”

  I paced back and forth, trying to steady my legs as my thoughts jumbled around. It would definitely be faster on horseback. There would be a much greater chance of driving in a marker stake before others beat me to the spot. And what about Wesley? I’ve traveled all this way to make a new life for my son and myself. No, it’s ridiculous. Who do I think I am that I could do this race by myself, let alone successfully get land? Maybe it’s time to go back to Adair and live with Mother until I find work.

  I stopped pacing and stared into the fire. The embers glowed beneath the dancing orange and blue-tinged flames. A few flames lashed out, and with them, an unsettling vision of Sheriff Murphy’s smug face. But as the flames retreated, the image was smothered—replaced by a sense of peace.

  The note from my mother had been read several times over the course of the journey, and now the carefully written verse from Philippians played across my mind. For Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

  As I took a deep breath and lifted my face once more to the sky, the fire crackled and let out a loud pop—the sound I would soon hear at the starting line for the Rush.

  CHAPTER 17

  Daniel ~ Starting Line, September 16, 1893

  As though an electric wire hovered along the border, each person, horse, mule, and even barking hound skittered with excitement. Finn and I wove our way through the array of spoked wheels—prairie schooners, open-top wagons, buggies, spring wagons, two-wheeled carts, and buckboards—as they rolled into position, their wooden slats groaning under the weight of supplies and family members.

  “Not sure how that bicycle will fare, but I’ll give that gentleman his due for courage.” Finn held up his camera toward a man in a straw hat. “Taking photographs for the Boston Globe. Mind if I capture the moment?”

  “Not at all.” The young man smiled widely and adjusted his bowtie. “Be sure to include the name, Douglas Stone. Proprietor of the future Stone and Sons Bicycles.”

  “And your sons?” I asked.

  “None to speak of yet. I’m counting on this new adventure to provide me a wife as well.”

  Finn shot me a grin. “My friend here may need your help.”

  “For a bicycle?” He swung his leg over the bar and settled onto the seat.

  “No, a wife.” Finn laughed and then steadied the camera.

  “I’d rather risk my life on one of those two-wheeled machines.” I pulled a notepad from my bag and jotted down the entrepreneur’s information—a journalistic habit as natural as breathing. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Stone.”

  Other spectators dotted the hill from which we would view the race—townsfolk, fellow reporters, and others simply wanting to witness what was being called the last Rush of the final frontier. About two h
undred yards into the Strip, a team of deputy marshals readied a cannon to sound off in tandem with the official gunshot.

  A gruff voice rang out in front of us. “It’s high noon!” Suddenly, a surge of horses and wagons lunged forward, nearly running us down. I yanked Finn by the back of his shirt and pulled him to the side.

  “It’s got to be a false start.” I pulled the chain on my pocket watch and glanced at the time. “Twenty minutes to go.”

  Shouts and stomping hooves added to the confusion as horses were drawn back. A few wagons tried to circle back into position, only to become log-jammed with other teams of horses and mules.

  “We’d better get to the rise. The officials won’t be able to hold this throng much longer.” I tucked my watch back in my vest pocket and headed toward the mound.

  *****

  Sure enough, from the rise, we witnessed fifty to one hundred horsemen draw out of the line at least a half dozen times more, only to be driven back by cavalry patrolling the Strip. In the dust-filled air, tension hovered like a swarm of wasps between the soldiers and the mob—determined forces in opposing directions.

  Finn was on his knees, digging small divots with his fingers to steady his tripod on the bumpy ground. “Matters aren’t helped with word spreading about the Sooner being killed yesterday. A soldier shot him from his horse as he rode across the border.”

  “Can’t say I feel too bad for the man.”

  Finn grunted. “Daniel, you’ve become a hardened bloke.”

  “I’ve heard the stories. People disappearing from the camps, supposedly hiding out in the timber within a reasonable distance of a town site or choice claim. Once the race is underway, they’ll run their horse enough to show a good sweat. That’s cheating.”

  “True enough.” Finn stood and secured his camera to the mounting plate. “Some will even come out of their hiding place once the others have run from the line. With their fresh horse, they can catch up and beat the others.”

  “And those they beat out become the unknowing witnesses to prove they passed each other in the race if anyone is ever questioned.”