by Penny Hayes
Julia picked up the lantern and turned up the wick, brightening the room. She walked over to the oven and, bringing the lantern closer to it, began to inspect it carefully. "My father bought this cookstove for my mother years ago. He had it shopped all the way from Albany, New York. It's an I. C. Potts. I've always loved its beauty."
The name of the maker meant nothing to Margarita, but she could see that the oven was an expensive model. She hadn't seen many like it. The black beast, as the women had called it as they had sweated over it, had swinging side trivets above its six burners, with three graduated size plates designed for various degrees of heat. The stove also had a water reservoir and a warming oven. Ornate overall designs and gracefully curved legs with nickel-plated trim contrasted strikingly against its black surface.
Julia continued her detailed inspection. "It's put together with nuts and bolts and welding. If I drew a picture of every piece we took apart, where every nut and bolt went, we could put it back together ourselves if we could get a man to help us horse around the heavier parts."
"And for what purpose?"
"It would be cheaper than buying a brand new one. I'd never find one this good, used."
"You're not making sense."
"Not yet, I'm not," Julia admitted. "But in time, I will." She yawned luxuriously and put an arm around Margarita's waist. "I'm getting sleepy. Let's go to bed."
"Do you want to discuss anything?"
"No, I want to sleep."
"Immediately?"
"No."
"What do you want to do with your life? I mean really, truly do with it?" Julia lay staring at the ceiling through the dull morning grayness. Rain pelted the house, a hard tattoo on the roof.
Margarita snuggled against her almost rigid body. "So serious, first thing in the morning."
Julia glanced at her watch lying on the bedside table. "It's ten. We should have been baking since five this morning."
With a sigh, Margarita pulled away and lay beside her lover, not touching her. It seemed that Julia was going to continue her melancholy behavior. "Julia, you've been like this for five days now. When are you going to smile again? We can't bake and make a decent living at it. We know it and we've talked about it."
She couldn't go through another day with Julia staring endlessly out the window, or wandering off by herself for hours at a time. It was time to get on with things, whatever they were. "Come on. Let's get up," she said, feigning an enthusiasm she did not feel, "and start the day with a big breakfast." She pushed her lover playfully to get her going.
Julia nestled against her. "I haven't meant to be an old crab. And you're right. I've been badly discouraged. But it hasn't all been time wasted. I've been thinking, too."
Margarita was relieved that Julia had willingly moved against her body. "What have you been thinking?"
"I asked you once what you would really like to do with your life."
Margarita burrowed deeper into Julia's sheltering arms. "I want to buy land one day. And on this land I would like to raise horses. Not scrubs, but good stock... already broken to the saddle and ready to be sold at a good price."
"Who would pay such a price for a good horse like that?" Julia asked casually, not even reacting to the fact that it was a novel idea for a lone woman. Perhaps not even thinking of it.
"Fort Union would."
"It would take a long time to train such a horse. He couldn't be gun-shy. He'd have to ground tie. He'd have to be fast. You'd need hired hands to help you drive the herd to the fort."
"I would do all right." Margarita spoke confidently. "I know how to breed and to train for excellent quality in a horse. I learned from Seth what and what not to do to make a good mount. Do you know," she added proudly, "that our gang's horses outran anything that came after us? Every time. Sam used to choose our horses for us. He was quite good at it."
There followed a prolonged silence as she remembered with pain her loss of the beautiful horses at the meadow. Wanting to match Julia's growing good humor, she pushed these depressing thoughts aside and asked brightly, "And you? What do you want to do?"
"I'd like to paint. I'd like to paint all day long and all night long, and never stop." Julia rolled away from Margarita and stared dreamily at the ceiling.
"Not even sometimes?" Her dark mood of a moment ago now conquered, Margarita ran her fingernails sensuously down the middle of Julia's chest and belly, and felt her shiver.
"Yes, I'd stop now and then — to eat."
"Oh, you!" Margarita squealed, and in a flash was up on her knees tickling Julia.
The desperate victim screamed in surrender, "I'd stop for you, Margarita. I would! I would!"
"All right, then," Margarita answered, laughing hard and rolling Julia over to slap her bare bottom. As they snuggled deep into the bed again, she said, "You told me painting is a chancy way to make a living."
"No doubt I'd starve."
"You have an idea, don't you?" Margarita accused, propping herself up on an elbow and looking down on her. "What is it and why haven't you talked to me about it?"
"Because I wanted to think it through first. Because the whole idea may not be sensible at all." Julia spoke earnestly. "We know we can't bake in Colter and make a living at it. But maybe we could someplace else."
Margarita tried to interrupt, but Julia stopped her with an upraised hand. "We're good cooks, Margarita. That's a fact and we've proved it all over town. I thought then that we should go someplace where there are few women. A place where, if there are any women, they're either married and busy tending a demanding man, or are ladies of the night. There would be little chance of competition then, and we could get a very good price for our goods. We could do well. Damn well."
"You're suggesting a mining town," Margarita guessed. Her eyes gleamed at this new financial possibility.
"Exactly."
"Hungry miners would pay five dollars for a pie."
"Ten," Julia corrected. "I've heard they do irrational things with their gold dust — like spend it foolishly."
"We could go down to Santa Fe. They have an assay office there. They'd know where gold strikes are happening."
"Let's ask Belle first. She may save us some time and money. She hears a lot and might know something."
"Let's go later today."
"Come on in, gals," Belle invited them loudly, waving Julia and Margarita into her receiving parlor.
Belle was small for a saloon girl, Margarita saw. Most women working in public houses had a bit more size just to protect themselves against some of the larger, rougher men who called on them. But Belle had a reputation for holding her own. Already made up for duties that would soon start in the saloon, she wore a colorful low-cut calico dress which set off her fair and freckled skin and green eyes. Long red hair was piled loosely on top of her head and her lips were painted a bright red.
Margarita looked around as she entered. In contrast to Belle's rather gaudy appearance, her receiving parlor was surprisingly restful and quiet, papered with soft shades of blue and furnished with comfortable furniture and fine rose-colored parlor lamps that sat on intricately hand-carved hardwood stands alongside the chairs and a horsehair couch. She and Julia were invited to sit on the couch.
The saloon girl's living quarters were not at all what Margarita had imagined. She could have been sitting in her own parlor. There was no evidence of wild night life that would probably occur here later tonight. But then, who was she to question someone else's life? She felt guilty that she had been prepared to.
Belle said, "I want you to hear something." Proudly she cranked up and played her latest purchase from the East: a phonograph. Through its large, flower-like horn came the violin strains of My Old Kentucky Home and Jeanie With The Light Brown Hair, each melody produced from five-inch long cylinders. "See the fine grooves on this thing?" Belle asked, displaying a cylinder. "That's where the music is stored. All the time."
"Who
in the world would think of such an idea?" Julia marveled.
"It says, T. A. Edison," Belle replied, reading the name off the machine.
Julia said, "I read about him in the newspaper last year. He and some other fellow, Swan, I think his name was, made the streets of New York City light up with electricity."
Incredulously Margarita asked, "How could they do that? No one can light up a whole street with electricity."
"I think they said they used glass bulbs, or something like that. I don't rightly remember. It's hard to believe, anyway."
Each cylinder was played twice more, the women thoroughly enjoying the music. Then Belle asked, "What brings you here? I don't get too many lady guests." She let out a hoarse laugh at her own joke.
Julia began her story by describing the short-lived efforts of the Blake-Sanchez baking services, concluding by briefly describing their future plans.
"A good idea, if you can do it," Belle answered enthusiastically. She relayed to her guests what she had learned not too long ago from a friendly drover, ending with, "The place is called Dimmick's Goldfield in western Arizona. It's a pretty good strike, I hear."
"Arizona is awfully far away," Julia remarked.
"You have to go where the gold is," Belle answered philosophically. "Wait here." Disappearing into another room, she returned to hand Julia a small box.
Julia and Margarita peered into the box, at a chunk of ore the size of a small fist. "Good Lord!" the women remarked simultaneously.
"That's gold," Belle said casually, "I got it six months ago from a drover who came through Colter. He won it in a card game. The man he got it from had sold his claim to somebody else. That was the only piece he'd kept, till he lost it."
"If he could find this kind of stuff," Margarita wondered as she picked up the nugget, "why did he sell out?" She hefted the gold. It lay heavy in her hand.
"The miner got twenty thousand for the claim. It was faster money than digging for it. He had a girl someplace and wanted to get rich quick and get back home even faster, as I understand the story."
Belle returned the nugget to the box. "I like to dream, so I keep the thing," she said, glancing at the container. "I'll never have much more gold than what's in that rock right there."
"How can you be sure your cowboy wasn't lying to you?" Julia asked.
"Why would he? He had nothing to gain. You can try Santa Fe if you want," Belle continued. "But I wouldn't waste my time. I'm telling you, there's a run in Dimmick's Goldfield." She spoke with assuredness.
"Then we'll make plans," Julia announced.
Margarita agreed. Belle sounded too sure to be wrong, and Julia seemed to have complete confidence in what she said. Margarita herself had heard the same strike rumors months ago from the boys after they had returned from a binge in Sourdough.
Leaving Belle's room, Julia and Margarita did not discuss their plans further, nor talk about the possibility that the dancehall girl might be mistaken. Nor did they speculate on all the things that could go wrong with the grandiose scheme that was growing and fermenting in both their minds.
By six the following morning, still in bed, they were jabbering constantly, unable to let one finish speaking before the other began.
"We'll dismantle the oven and take it with us along with every utensil in the kitchen. That'll save us quite a bit of money. We'll need a large tent to cook in…"
"And to sleep in…"
"We need...."
Scrambling out of bed like children, they talked non-stop while they dressed.
Seated at the kitchen table, they began to compile a list of all they thought they would require to succeed, as toasted bread crumbs dribbled unnoticed to the tablecloth and coffee was swallowed in large gulps instead of leisurely lingered over.
Over the next two days, their list grew to a frightening length as they estimated goods, figured costs, and studied both the Montgomery Ward and Company and Sears, Roebuck and Company catalogs for additional baking utensils. Then there was the list of people they must consult. In the end, they had assembled in the notebook a thorough inventory of bakeware and drygoods, as well as other essentials: chickens, one cow, a tent, two cots, blankets, clothing. They would need to have the wagon dismantled; it, too, would be taken along as well as the horses. The account was extensive and thorough, and it almost overwhelmed them. They agreed to set it aside for a whole day just to escape for a while the massive logistics problem looming before them.
They filled the following day by tarrying in bed until noon and taking an afternoon drive and picnic to a spot loved by Julia from her childhood, a secluded area nestled between two rolling hills. That night they made love for hours.
The next morning they arrived at a total cost, and solutions for obtaining that amount of money.
"We need five thousand, two hundred, eighty-seven dollars, and sixty-three cents. That would just set us up," Margarita said despairingly. "I could rob a bank."
Julia frowned. "And you could get yourself shot. Better that we just go borrow the money."
"You can't take a joke," Margarita pouted. Julia needn't be so serious. "I know I can't rob a bank. Not that bank."
"Not any bank," Julia warned.
"Why do you think I would even think of such an idea now?"
"Because you were a stagecoach robber — and a bank robber."
"Not a very good bank robber, but a damn good stagecoach robber."
"Never mind. We will borrow the money."
"With my way, we wouldn't owe money."
"You can forget your way. Even if you did get away with such an act, it would likely take more than a single robbery to gain five thousand dollars."
Margarita looked questioningly at Julia. "You've thought about it... about robbery... haven't you?" She could barely contain herself. "Now you understand why one might become an outlaw. The rewards come fast."
"Not fast enough, Yellowthroat. We'll go to the bank tomorrow — and borrow."
Julia's pronouncement, which Margarita knew was the only possible solution, caused a brief but painful nostalgia within her. It had been a very free life she had once led in spite of tough men and crude living conditions. No, she told herself firmly, this life was better — and she would allow herself to think no more about the past.
Chapter Sixteen
The following morning at nine o'clock, Margarita and Julia were at the Colter Bank. One of the tellers politely escorted them into the private office of President Douglas B. Marsh who stood to greet them. Margarita hid her hands in the folds of her dress to conceal their shaking. This place always made her nervous.
Margarita was introduced. The banker had known Julia since she was a little girl. She had tended his wife and children from time to time when they had needed medical help or something from the drugstore's shelves.
Marsh's office was neat and precisely furnished. Shelves of books occupied two walls, a painting of his family dominated another. A large mahogany desk, graced by three expensive leather chairs, seemed to fill the room.
Marsh looked a bit like a giant, the impression partially created by a massive head with thick, unruly silver hair. His face was half hidden behind a luxurious mustache and generous muttonchops. Deep blue eyes pierced anyone who looked into them. A gold chain hung across the vest of an expensive black suit; Marsh's thumbs, on surprisingly slender hands, were hooked in the tiny pockets of the vest, holding back his coat and revealing a spreading waistline.
He gestured for the women to be seated. Settling his large frame behind the desk, he leaned back comfortably. "Good to see you again, Julia. Wonderfully tasty pie you baked last week. My wife told me that when I saw you I was to order another right away."
Margarita waited impatiently while Julia smiled and exchanged banalities with Marsh for five minutes. She wanted to conclude this discussion quickly and get out of here. Holding her handbag tightly with both hands to hide their continued trembling, she ignored
the sweat dampening her underarms.
Julia finally spoke in earnest. "I have an idea I would like to propose to you, Douglas." She withdrew the notebook from her purse and painstakingly explained their plans. Marsh listened with acute attention. She spoke confidently as if she had been to Dimmick's Goldfield, had studied the area personally, and knew to a body how many people were already at the fields.
Then Julia told him the exact amount that she and Margarita wished to borrow. Marsh smiled slightly, relaying a ray of optimism to Margarita that he would lend them the money without question.
"Well," Marsh finally said, after he had sat a full minute in silence. "That is an ambitious undertaking, isn't it? I can see you've given it a lot of thought." He laced thin fingers together across his paunch. "But you must realize, ladies, that it's an impossible thing you ask."
His words struck Margarita like a hammer blow. She hadn't realized how much hope she had placed on this man.
"I don't understand," Julia said.
"The whole idea is quite preposterous," he said. "Two women going off alone into unknown territory."
"There are seven thousand people in Dimmick's right now, and the place is still growing rapidly," Margarita declared. "That can hardly be considered the unknown." She could back Julia's facts, whether she knew them to be true or not.
Marsh held up a condescending hand. "It's a place full of tough men. Gamblers, miners, speculators...like yourselves."
"And women — some wives," Julia added. "An established community."
"Hardly." Marsh leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk. "Frankly, I don't loan money to women, Julia. I never have. I thought you understood that."
"No, I do not understand that," she replied sharply. "I have never heard it mentioned in Colter."
"Oh, yes. A few women have been to see me. I've had to turn them down."
"Had to? Why? Women earn money. This town has had several women proprietors — and a female lawyer."
"And they give the money they earn to their husbands, who, in turn, put it in my bank. And I take careful care of it for the ladies."