South Pass Brides

by Sterling Scott

  “The oxen are already yoked,” Thomas said. “They are getting ready to leave.” Thomas stood silent for a long moment, and then reached down to release the leather strap that held his revolver in its holster. “Mr. Hatch, the day Olga and I arrived in your camp you said you would hang the man responsible for her husband’s death, if you could get your hands on him. Now it seems the good Lord has delivered him into your grasp.”

  Jamison, Hatch, and Rees approached the man along one side of the wagon. Thomas came up behind him from the opposite side. As the startled Harry Bloomfield examined the three men advancing upon him, Thomas jerked Bloomfield’s revolver from its holster and pressed its barrel into his back.

  Thomas did not cock the pistol’s hammer, but he did snarl in Bloomfield’s ear. “You are under arrest for the murder of Peter Graus on the night of June thirteenth.” Thomas gripped the man’s collar and pushed him forward.

  “What?”

  Rees produced a leather strap and bound Bloomfield’s hands behind his back.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bloomfield found his voice and shouted. “You can’t arrest me.”

  “I dare say, we can, Mr. Bloomfield,” Major Jamison stated. “True, there is no formal law enforcement in the territories. However, we citizens are righteous. We require no code of laws other than the moral code enacted by our Creator and which is found in the heart of every decent man. We won’t allow murderers to walk free among us.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.” Bloomfield turned to another man. “Tell them Andrew, tell them that I’m with you.”

  “This is my brother—”

  Andrew started to explain, but Thomas interrupted, “He will get his chance to explain his side of the story.”

  “You are the lawyer here,” Hatch said to Thomas. “How do we proceed?”

  A throng of over twenty people had gathered and Olga wondered whose side they might be on.

  “What’s going on?” she heard one voice say.

  “What did he do?”

  “He’s a murderer.”

  “They’re going to lynch him.”

  Olga’s stomach churned and she stooped to retch. Someone reached out to support her.

  “Go find twelve men who don’t know either Harry Broomfield or Olga Graus. We’ll hold a trial,” Thomas announced.

  Hatch nodded toward Rees, and he scurried to poll the on-lookers. In the ten minutes it took to gather twelve citizens, the crowd surrounding them grew to a hundred people. It seemed to Olga that everyone in the Fort John encampment gathered to watch.

  Thomas released Bloomfield to stand alone. “This woman, Olga Graus of Cincinnati, has accused this man, Harry Broomfield of murdering her husband, Peter Graus, on the night of June thirteenth. As the only one in these parts with legal training, I will direct this court. You men,” Thomas swept his arm across the gathered jury, “will stand in judgment. Your verdict will be the law here.”

  “I didn’t do—”

  Thomas poked Bloomfield in the gut—hard. “You will get your chance to speak.” Thomas put his arm around Olga and gently led her into the circle. “Mrs. Graus, is it true that you and your husband were members of Major Jamison’s wagon train when you left Independence?”

  Olga looked at Thomas and then at Bloomfield. Her gaze surveyed the crowd and settled on Major Jamison. “Yes.” She did her best to speak clearly, without hesitation.

  “And when your wagon was damaged, did Major Jamison instruct your husband to turn back?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you stopped for the night, when you went to the river to fetch water, did you hear a gunshot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us what you saw when you returned to your camp?”

  “Yes, I saw that man—”

  “Let the record show that Mrs. Graus has identified the defendant, Mr. Harry Bloomfield,” Thomas said before realizing that no one was recording the proceedings. “Uh, please continue.”

  “Yes, that man was standing over the body of my husband, Peter. I hid in the bushes and watched as he stole Peter’s money belt, and then took all of his clothes. He then whipped our oxen,” Olga pointed to the nearby wagon and its yoke of oxen, “and took them across the river.”

  “How are you certain that this is the man?”

  “He has the same scar on his face. And, she is wearing my dress!” Olga pointed to the woman they had first approached.

  “Madam,” Thomas guided Mrs. Bloomfield into the circle, “please tell us how you came to own this dress.”

  “He-he gave it to me.” She pointed toward Harry Bloomfield. “He said he found it in a trunk discarded along the trail.”

  “Mrs. Graus, can you describe your trunk where you had stored your dress?”

  “Yes. It was about so big,” she estimated its dimensions with her hands, “and black with red trim. Our names were carved into its top surface.”

  “Someone search that wagon and see if there is such a trunk inside,” Thomas commanded and two men hastily moved to comply. In a few moments, they produced the trunk and set it down in the circle. “Gentlemen of the jury, please note that the names of Peter and Olga Graus can still be seen in the surface of the lid, even though someone has attempted to scratch them out.”

  The twelve men examined the trunk and nodded.

  “Now, Mr. Bloomfield, do you wear a money belt?”

  “What?”

  Thomas signaled to Rees and he pulled up Bloomfield’s shirt to reveal a money belt. Rees pulled the belt loose and handed it to Thomas. He examined it for a moment and then passed it to the jury.

  “Mrs. Graus, what was your late husband’s middle name?”

  “Uh, Anthony.”

  “Will the jury notice that the initial embroidered in the money belt are P-A-G, which are the initials of Mr. Peter Anthony Graus,” Thomas stated confidently, and waited for the crowd to settle before continuing. “I contend to the jury that it has been proven beyond a doubt that this man, Harry Bloomfield, did murder Peter Graus and steal the belongings of Mrs. Olga Graus.” The crowd again churned and Thomas fired a pistol shot into the air to silence them. “Mr. Bloomfield, you may now express your position.”

  Harry Bloomfield examined the faces of the jury. The attentive stares did not waver from his eyes. “I didn’t, did not murder anyone. I found the trunk along the trail.”

  “And the wagon?” Thomas questioned.

  “Uh—“

  “Mr. Meyer, might I add a comment?” Major Jamison called out.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I wish the jury to know that I keep careful records of the brands on the livestock in my wagon train. I can testify, without a doubt, that the double-hat brand on those oxen,” he pointed toward the yoked team, “was on the team that Mr. Peter Graus purchased in Independence.”

  “It was somebody else that done the killing. I found the wagon, that’s all,” Bloomfield focused on his defense.

  “Mrs. Graus, would you again state for the jury the description of the man that you saw standing over your husband’s lifeless body?”

  “Yes,” Olga reiterated the description that matched that of Bloomfield.

  “I will now ask the jury to consider the evidence and testimony here and announce their verdict,” Thomas gestured to the gathered twelve men.

  Nodding their understanding, they gathered together and deliberated the fate of the accused. Only a minute later, one man turned and announced, “We find this man, Harry Bloomfield, guilty of murder and pass a decree of death.”

  “Get a rope,” a voice shouted from the crowd.

  There being no tree available, two wagons were positioned nose-to-nose and the tongues of their hitches were bound together. As the wagons were pushed closer together, the tongues reached into the air to form a tall A frame. A hangman’s noose was suspended from the top. Bloomfield was placed upon an unsaddled horse, facing backwards. The noose was placed around his neck.

  “D
o you wish to meet your maker without confessing your sins?” a preacher approached the convicted man.

  “I-I,” he turned to face Olga, “I beg for your forgiveness.”

  The crowd silenced and all eyes were upon the young widow.

  Olga thought of Peter and his dreams of a farm in Oregon. She shook her head and turned her gaze to the ground.

  “May God forgive you and welcome you into his arms,” the preacher concluded.

  Major Jamison slapped the horse’s rump and it jumped away to leave Bloomfield hanging. Olga did not look up.

  From its beginning to its end, the entire business lasted no more than two hours.

  Olga turned into Thomas’s embrace and wept.

  Someone handed her the money belt with Peter’s initials. “I want my things,” she spoke sharply. She raised her face and shouted, “I want my wagon and team back. I want all that was stolen.” Then Olga’s eyes fell to the woman wearing her dress. “You can keep it. I don’t want the dress.” Olga turned to Andrew Bloomfield. “What of his wife? What will become of her?”

  “If she ever learns of this, I expect she’ll rejoice. My brother was a bad man and he beat her. His wife left him two years ago.” He turned and spat into the ground. “It was she that gave him that scar.”

  Chapter 11

  July 3, 1848

  Fort John on the Laramie River

  Rees and several other men ushered Olga’s wagon toward Major Jamison’s camp. Collecting their horses, Thomas and Olga followed.

  “We are leaving in the morning,” Major Jamison told Olga. “Will you be ready?”

  “Yes.” As weary of travel as she was, she was ready to leave Fort John and the awful business behind her.

  “Mr. Hatch has returned to his wagon train to express my offer to the other Protestants. If they accept, their wagons will be brought across the river this evening.” He paused for a moment to consider his next words. “Mr. Meyer said that he will be driving your wagon, if that is acceptable to you?”

  Olga nodded. She was glad to hear that Thomas would remain by her side. She had expected it. However, she was confused how this worked into his plan to go to California. Major Jamison’s train was heading to Oregon Territory. Diverting her mind, she began sifting through the contents of her wagon. Those items she didn’t recognize as hers, she tossed out the back end.

  “Olga,” Thomas called to her.

  “Yes?” She poked her head through the canvas cover.

  “I’m going back with Mr. Rees now. I’ll be helping Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Howe cross the river, and then I’ll return here.”

  “Thank you.” She touched his face and looked up into his eyes. “Thomas, thank you for everything.” Seeming to understand the fullness of her meaning, he nodded. “You might not want to throw all this away.” He gestured to the pile of goods she had tossed. “We will need items to trade for food and supplies along the way.”

  We, yes, we will need supplies.

  She watched him ride away, trailing Mr. Smoot’s horse. She repacked the items that appeared to have trading value.

  With a bucket of cold water, she washed her face and changed into fresh clothes from her trunk. Since her new shoes would not be ready for two days, she contemplated donning her church shoes which were still in the trunk. However, she didn’t want to risk ruining them in the dirt pathways of Fort Union. So, she put the worn moccasins back on. Holding her breath, she dug into the bottom of the trunk. She opened the hidden compartment. The ten American Gold Eagle ten-dollar coins were still there. Olga sighed with relief to once again have the hundred dollars that her father had presented as her dowry. Harry Bloomfield had not found the money. She counted out another forty dollars in miscellaneous gold and silver coins. In Peter’s money belt, she found an additional eighteen dollars.

  A hundred and fifty-eight dollars!

  Olga was relieved that she was no longer destitute, living off the mercy of others. She took off her wedding ring and placed it with the coins. She repacked the trunk, concealing the false bottom. She started to toss the paddle that Peter had purchased out the back, but then worried who might find it. Instead, she put it with the pile of items to be used for trading.

  In the peace and quiet that she had not known for the past month, she collected her writing materials. Slowly, she drafted a letter to Peter’s parents telling them of his demise and the justice that had been handed down to his killer. Then, she wrote a similar letter to her own parents. To this letter she added that she was continuing westward, probably on to California, with a man, Thomas Meyer, whom she hoped would ask for her hand in marriage. She closed the letter promising to write again.

  “Mrs. Graus?” Olga heard the familiar voice of Mrs. Jamison.

  “Hello.” Olga climbed down from the wagon and embraced the woman. “I am so very glad to be back in your company.” Olga briefly related her adventures and accepted Mrs. Jamison’s invitation to supper.

  Olga handed the two letters to the wagon master. “Major, I’ve written Peter’s and my parents. Could you see that these are placed with the mail heading eastward?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  “And here, sir, I insist on paying my way.” She handed him twenty dollars in loose coins. “This is what remained in my husband’s money belt.” It was a small lie. She did not see the need to pay the full fifty dollars.

  The major first attempted to refuse the money, but seeing the determination in Olga’s eyes, he accepted it.

  When they had finished eating, Beth, Grace, and the other two families that had been attacked by the Indians arrived with Thomas.

  “Olga, Grace tells me that they have a bathhouse in town. Would you like to join us?” Beth asked.

  Olga saw that she had Mrs. Clark and another woman in tow. The third woman was a young bride, Rosalie. She and her husband, Charlie, were among the Protestants that were changing from Mr. Hatch’s wagon train to Major Jamison’s.

  Olga turned to study Fort John. She wondered if she should show her face in the town. While late in the day, the midsummer sun was still high above the horizon, and she didn’t want to be recognized.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve slept with you; I know. Come on dreary, you need a bath as bad as the rest of us and this will be our last opportunity for a long while.”

  Beth tugged on her hand and Olga allowed herself to be swept along with the other three women.

  While it had been possible to bathe in the rivers and streams along the way, most women had shunned the opportunities. The majority of the plains was wide open, offering no privacy. Additionally, they would not have been safe unless guarded by the men folk. While married women could accept the protection and privacy offered by their husbands, the unmarried women had no such protection. Olga had not bathed since the South Platte River crossing.

  Men lined up to bathe in the Laramie River. While west of the stockade a large tent had been erected as a bathhouse for the women.

  “How much you pay?” a Chinese woman asked in her singsong version of English. Olga had never seen a Chinese woman before, but she recognized her features from drawings that she had seen.

  The woman rapped her long nails on a sign. Reading it, the four women learned that each tub of water was used four times. The first bather paid a quarter-dollar while each subsequent bather paid a nickel less than the one before.

  “I think we deserve clean water,” Grace said and plopped down a silver dollar. “My treat for all of you.” The other three women profusely thanked her. “No,” she shunned their expressions, “this is my way of thanking y’all for all the support you’ve given me for the past two weeks.”

  After waiting until four of the tubs had been used four times, the women were ushered into the big tent. From the inside, the building was a wooden frame with the walls and ceiling fashioned from sheets of white canvas. Olga was reminded of the huge sails that propelled her ship to America.

  They undressed while Chinese
women dumped and refilled the tubs. They eased their dusty, weary bodies into the refreshing water. While not hot, it was pleasingly tepid. They took their time washing with the real soap, being sure to get Grace’s money’s worth. Finally, they dried their bodies with real towels before dressing.

  It was twilight when they stepped onto the street. There were very few women about, but several men were coming and going from the largest tent in the encampment. Piano music could be heard radiating from the makeshift building.

  “Who’s up for a drink?” Grace asked, and headed toward the saloon.

  “I’m with you,” Beth said and Rosalie silently followed.

  “I didn’t bring any money,” Olga said. She didn’t indicate how much money she had left behind in her wagon.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll lend you some.” Beth took her hand, dragging her along.

  Entering the saloon, they noticed they were not the only women in the big room. However, they were the only women fully dressed. There were a half-dozen women sporting about in their undergarments. They wore black boots and stockings with short red underskirts—barely covering their knees. They had nothing more than a tight red bodice covering their bosoms. These women were drinking and talking with the men, two of them sitting on the men’s laps. The nearly two score of men were mostly engaged in standing at the bar drinking or sitting at the tables playing cards. The men nearest the door stopped talking and stared at them.

  “Oh, my word!” Olga turned to leave, but Beth did not let go of her hand.

  “Come on,” she said, and pulled Olga inside.

  “Let’s sit over here.” Grace led them to a table on the opposite side of the room from the piano player. Leaving them, she strode up to the bar and returned with a bottle of amber fluid and four small glasses. She poured them each a measure and then held hers up in the air. “A toast, to the halfway point.”

  Silently, the women clinked their glasses and sipped their whiskey. Olga had tasted whiskey before and she didn’t like it. Nonetheless, the alcohol relaxed her, so she found herself drinking too much as she laughed with her friends. She found herself forgetting the turmoil and agony that the day had brought.