by Stephen Bly
“We ate too much, smoked too many big cigars and drank way too much. Neither of us had ever been much of a drinker, but we both must have had a lot to forget that night.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to forget all the things we want to forget?”
“Sounds nice, but ever’ time I’ve tried to play God, I just mess it up all the more.”
She closed her eyes again and stretched her neck. “Yes, I suppose we would abuse the gift.”
“Meanwhile, our house had been sold for cash for the California project, so I was staying at a hotel. Robert insisted on his own separate room. I woke up in bad shape the next day about ten in the mornin’. I cleaned up a bit and knocked on Robert’s door. When he didn’t answer, I figured he was sleepin’ it off. I kicked the door open just to check on him.”
Catherine sat straight up and opened her eyes. “I don’t think I want to know,” she murmured.
Hillyard’s words lumbered out slow, as if they had been in hibernation. “He wrote me a long letter, then . . . he . . . he took his revolver and . . . .”
“No, Race.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “You don’t have to say it.”
“Maybe I need to. My brother, whom I idolized from the time I was two. My brother who was loved by all people. My brother who trusted in Jesus as Lord and Savior every day of his life, put a bullet through his brain, all because he couldn’t face me.”
Tears streamed down her dusty face. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t want to look at anyone. She tried to think of something to say. She wanted to talk about God’s love and grace and goodness. Catherine wanted to think of springtime and daffodils and smiling babies and young men laughing. But all her thoughts, all her visions, all the images in her mind turned dark, frightening, depressing. She fumbled in her valise for a white linen handkerchief with violet embroidery.
Hillyard reached his a hand over and she clutched it.
The train rumbled. Miners snored. Francine murmured in her sleep. Catherine couldn’t stop weeping. “I’m so sorry, Race. It breaks my heart.”
Now his voice rang clear, strong. “In his scrawling, ten page letter, Robert explained that while in Crocker’s office going over the architect’s design of the armory, a team of mining engineers burst in with a pile of papers, maps, deeds and a proposition. They had discovered an incredibly rich diamond mine somewhere in the Montana/Wyoming/Idaho/Nevada region. They wouldn’t disclose where. They sought financing. Crocker laughed them out of the office.”
She wiped back the tears, then coughed. “I didn’t know there were diamonds in the West.”
“Neither did anyone else.”
“Oh, dear . . . .”
“But these guys persisted. They returned with New York bankers, diamond experts from Tiffany’s, mining men from Amsterdam, all convinced of the mine’s authenticity. Finally, Crocker put together his own team of geologists and engineers and a few curiosity seekers, including Robert, to go out and inspect the mine sight. They had to wear head masks for two days during the trek.”
Catherine folded the wet handkerchief and tucked it back into her valise. “An incredible story.”
“The mine was deemed authentic. The potential investors were satisfied. They kept it a secret from others in San Francisco and New York, so there wouldn’t be a diamond rush. And Crocker invited Robert to join in.”
“How much did he invest?”
“Robert said he prayed about it a lot and sent me a telegram.”
“But you were in Brownsville, recovering from a broken romance?”
“Yeah,” he winced. “The deal turned out that the mine owners did not want to sell stock. They wanted ten backers to put in $100,000 each. None could put in more. None less. They felt like they could keep it out of public eye with such a limited partnership.”
“Did you and Robert have $100,000?”
“It took every penny from the sale of the armory, houses, Texas property, savings . . . everything. Crocker had to go to Washington, so he instructed his banker to seal the deal for him. They projected that in six months the mine would pay dividends. The initial funds would be returned in twelve months. And they could expect anywhere from $500,000 to a million dollars apiece within the life expectancy of the mine, about five years.”
“I’ve never even heard of that much money.”
Hillyard sighed. “Robert had a plan. Running the armory would tie us down to long days and years. He had always been fascinated with William Cary’s missionary work in India. He carried in his wallet Cary’s phrase, ‘Expect great things from God, attempt great things for God.’”
“And he felt God’s leading?”
Hillyard paused. “I don’t know. He thought that even if we only double our money, we could live handsomely on the dividends. This, eh . . . beautiful society lady from San Francisco shared his dream and he wanted me to be able to remain in Texas with . . . .”
“Don’t tell me her name.”
“He wanted to go to the Orient and encourage Christian mission work.”
Catherine rubbed her forehead to ease the beginning of a headache. “So he invested it all . . . and it turned out to be a ruse.”
“A total deception. Only six of the investors proved legitimate. Crocker, and his pals . . . and Robert. The other so-called New York bankers acted as shills. The geologists, jewelers, and engineers were either paid off or duped into writing the report.”
Catherine now massaged her stiff neck. “Even the lady with the rose pink lipstick?”
“Yes. She was an actress from Denver. The main crooks were last seen on a steamer to South America.”
“South America? That’s a wild and faraway destination.”
“And safe, I suppose. Crocker and the others took their lumps but they had plenty of assets left. He felt sorry that he had gotten my brother into this. He offered to go ahead and build the armory as planned. My brother and I could work for wages as plant superintendents. But he wanted to keep the diamond swindle quiet so he wouldn’t be a laughing stock. ”
“There’s no way to recover the funds?”
“That’s what Robert claimed in his note. He came back to break the news. I think the drinking contributed to his action. Never in his life did he get that drunk. So, he wrote the confessional letter. He said he knew he had let me and the Lord down. He couldn’t face me, and would take his chance on the grace of God.”
“We all are accountable, I suppose.”
“Well, both me and the Lord have forgiven him. After I buried him, I went sort of crazy and rode down long the border. I worked some ranches this spring and then I took on a job to drive two-hundred mustangs across Texas into the Indian Nation by myself.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“To tell you the truth, I was hopin’ to get ambushed. Mexicans, Comanches, outlaws . . . anyone. I was prayin’ that someone would shoot me out of the saddle, but had bad luck that way. By the time I delivered them in the Territory, I made up my mind what to do next. I took five of those mounts and rotated them, riding straight up to Omaha without sleeping. When a horse broke down, I just turned him out. That’s when I first met you at the depot. I know I was in a lousy mood. Two old boys tried to rob me right before I saw you. Shoot, I reckon I’m still in a lousy mood, although tossin’ an outlaw off the train did perk me up a little.”
Catherine felt a heaviness even as she offered a half-smile. “Oh, Race, I’m so sorry. You struggled with real life while I played games at the station. I apologize for my arrogance. What will you do in California?”
“Robert wrote that several of the side characters in the charade, including the woman, remained still in the San Francisco area. I figure I owe them a visit.”
“Are you going to kill them?”
“I doubt it. But I’d like to get a lead on those in South America. I’d might kill them if I found them. I won’t be able to rest until there is some justice metted out.” He stopped to stretch his arms and legs. “I’ve nev
er told any of this to anyone.”
“Not even . . .”
“Not even Miss Charity Ann Johnson.” He stared out the window. “A fascinating woman can make a man do dumb things.”
“Hmm . . . beautiful and fascinating, I’m guessing.”
“You know, in the moonlight of Galveston Bay her hair looked like . . .” Hillyard gaped at the window. “Hey, daylight’s breaking across the prairie. Makes me want to sip strong, boiled coffee around a campfire and ride and ride and ride.”
“Whoa, wait a minute. I feel like I’ve just got bucked off a horse. I thought we were talking about the fascinating Charity Ann . . . and now we’re boiling coffee?”
“I changed the subject.”
“I see that. I just need to brush myself off and get back on. I didn’t anticipate that sudden turn.”
“Catherine, do you like to ride horses?”
“I’ve been around horses my whole life. I love to ride. Can I tell you a secret that no one but Catelynn knows?”
“I’d be honored.”
“I love straddling a horse and riding bareback.”
“Heavens! How shocking,” he grinned.
“I know, I know. Did you ever ride a horse sidesaddle?”
“I don’t believe I have.”
“It’s the most uncomfortable and stupid way to ride ever proposed by mankind. And I do believe men invented it.”
“I’ll take your word on it.”
“If daylight was breaking, and you were out by that campfire, and you mounted a good horse, where would you go?”
“Doesn’t matter. Sometime you just have to ride hard and try to leave the past behind.”
“I’ve never done that, but there are times to run away.”
“Isn’t that what you are doing right now?”
She thought of Phillip’s last letter and the glowing description of the home being built for them. “I suppose I am running . . . but I do have someone waiting for me.”
“For that, Catherine Goodwin, I envy you. As far as I know, there is no one, anywhere that’s waiting for me.”
“How about your mother?”
“We didn’t part with pleasant words.”
“Did you tell her about Robert?”
“I sent her a short telegram.”
“How short?”
“Two words. ‘Robert died.’”
Francine sat up and spread her massive arms. “Good morning. I trust that was a bad dream last night. Or did you two kick a half-dozen gunslingers off the train?”
“Race did the hard part.”
“You rushed that old boy with the gun as if you knew it was going to misfire.”
“Race removed Cantu’s bullets earlier.”
“You knew it was empty?”
Catherine nodded.
“Well, ain’t you two the clever ones. It was as if I was in one of them dime novels.” Francine propped a wide-eyed Preston in the corner of the blanket and stood in the aisle brushing down the wrinkles in her dress. “My Farley says I ought to write a book about the things I’ve done, and if I do, there will be a chapter on you two.”
“Don’t use up pages on us,” Hillyard said.
“Oh, it will be a big book. Farley says everything I do is big.”
Hillyard winked at Catherine.
The now clean shaven conductor strolled into the car and pushed his hat back. “Folks, we’ll be stopping at Harrison’s Siding in about ten minutes. You can buy breakfast there. Mrs. Harrison is one of the best cooks on the line. I’ll give you forty minutes this time. I need to file some reports about last night’s ruckus.”
“Raw eggs. Solid fat bacon. Gritty coffee. Undercooked, bitter potatoes,” reported Hillyard.
“Yes, but the rest of the meal was quite nice,” Catherine teased. “After all, she’s one of the best cooks on the line.”
“Makes a person want to fast.”
“Perhaps we’ll have a decent meal with the judge.”
“You don’t see him and those around him enjoyin’ Mrs. Harrison’s fine cuisine.”
“Do you think we have time for a stroll?” Catherine asked. “Sitting on a hard leather cushion for twenty-four hours seems to stiffen everything.”
“I think so. Of course, you could have had a luxurious sleeping board and pillow.”
“Don’t start that again, Mr. Race Hillyard.”
The muddy North Platte River paralleled the train tracks and scattered buildings at Patterson’s Siding. Mountains of firewood blocked her view of the river, but as they strolled west, the river and the bluffs behind it appeared. To the south, short, dry, brown grass sprawled for miles across treeless, rolling prairie. Occasional wagon ruts recorded the direction of an intrepid pioneer.
The morning sky flashed a deep, royal blue, with high streaks of white clouds that looked like thick paint slung across the sky. A slight breeze drifted towards them as they trekked across dusty, rocky trail that served as Patterson Siding’s only road.
Catherine’s high, lace up leather shoe slipped off the gravel. She grabbed Race’s arm.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hillyard. I twisted my ankle.” She stopped and stretched her foot.
“You’re just trying to butter me up for a loan.”
Catherine bent her finger poking him in the ribs, then pulled her arm away. “You better be teasing me.”
He reached over and slipped her arm back in his. “As long as the good Mr. Phillip Draper won’t mind, I’m happy to assist a pretty lady on a walk.”
“Hmmm . . . a compliment from Mr. Race Hillyard. Should I be suspicious?”
He continued to lead her along the train cars. “I’d be disappointed if you weren’t, Miss Catherine Goodwin.”
Catherine studied the faces in the train car looking back at them. “You know, Race, yesterday I held you in deep disgust.”
“Has that changed?”
“Yes, today I hold you in mediocre disdain.”
“I’m glad my charm is growing on you.”
“I wouldn’t call it charm. You are quick to speak, opinionated and quite thoughtlessly blunt.”
His wide grin startled her. “And what are my negative qualities . . . besides being dirty, unshaven, and poorly dressed?”
“I must admit, I would enjoy seeing you cleaned up some time. As, I’m sure, you would me.”
“Nope. I like you dusty and droopy.”
Catherine’s back stiffened. She jerked her hand away from his. “I am not droopy.”
“All tall ladies tend to droop their shoulders.”
“But I most certainly do not. I have been disciplining myself not to slump my shoulders since I was eight. I do not droop.” She stomped several steps ahead of him.
“Whoa, I can see that is a sensitive subject.”
“You have no idea how sensitive tall women can be about their height.” Catherine strolled along the train cars in front of him, nodding to passengers who stared out.
Hillyard scurried to catch up. “I suppose it’s too late to say that you carry yourself well and that I believe a tall lady stands out like a queen in a crowded room.”
She pointed her small nose up at the pale blue Nebraska sky. “It is entirely too late. As long as I live, I will never forgive you for calling me a drooper.”
Hillyard pushed his hat back. “I reckon this means you will not be taking my arm any time soon.”
“I most certainly will not.” With curled lip and smirk, her eyes clamped on a tall, mustached man on the train with three-piece suit and crisp black bowler. Zane? Matthew Zane? What is he . . .?
She twirled with back to the train and slung her arms around Race Hillyard’s neck, implanting her full lips against his narrow, chapped ones.
~~ CHAPTER FIVE ~~
Catherine’s lips slid next to his ear. “Nothing personal,” she whispered.
“It’s personal to me,” he said.
“Take me back to the train car without letting anyone on the Pullman see my face,” s
he insisted.
“You’re hiding this time?”
“Yes.”
“So, I get a kiss because you want to hide from someone. If I had been a bale of cotton, you could have ducked behind me without kissing.”
“Please, Race, I can explain later. And you can tell me what I should have done. Please.”
Hillyard shielded her from the train car as they scurried back down the tracks. “Is it okay if I admit that I don’t understand you at all.”
“Quite acceptable.” Catherine glanced over her shoulder. “Most days I don’t understand myself either.”
They stopped near the door to their train car.
“Okay, we are out of sight. What’s this all about?” he prodded.
“Wait until we get inside.”
“This is crazy.”
“Be patient.”
He held her arm and she pulled herself up the steps. “You’re trembling. Are you mad or scared?”
“Both.”
Other than a sleeping prospector on a back seat, the train car was empty. The windows were down, but little breeze filtered through. The dry air felt dry, dusty, stale.
“Francine fixed our seats again. How nice.” Catherine patted the saddlehorn. “Mr. Walker, I trust you had a peaceful night. What? You didn’t get a wink of rest? First, a little girl hid behind you. Then all night you trembled in fear that the sleeping board would collapse? I can see your difficulty. You sit right over there by the window and rest.”
Race tugged off his wide-brimmed hat. “Did I ever tell you it gets on my nerves when you talk to my saddle?”
“Why do you think I do it? But I’ll make you a deal. Let me sit by the window and I won’t pester Mr. Walker.”
“Sit by the window? Does this have anything to do with your latest charade kiss and hiding from some unknown interloper?”
Catherine sat by the window and patted the seat next to her. Dust fogged up. “Yes, but I must admit I rather enjoyed the kiss. Didn’t you?”
“Enjoy?” When Race plopped on the cushion, she bounced up an inch or two. “I was in such a state of shock, I could have been kissing a carp.”
“Oh, so you think I kiss like a carp? I don’t believe anyone has ever told me that before.”