by Penny Hayes
Patiently the bullwhackers waited to see who unloaded the most boxes and barrels and other crated bundles ready for hauling. The more bundles, the more money. Other travelers stepped off the train and headed immediately for Dimmick's on foot with only what they could carry on their backs. Some shouted and hooted, others whistled nameless tunes, high spirited as they headed north. In about a day's time, the walkers, footsore and exhausted, would be passed by the wagoners. The bullwhackers would pick up additional dollars hauling these tired bodies without taxing the oxen at all, their animals more precious to the drivers than anything else they owned. It was a lucrative trade, making the whackers richer, faster, than most miners would ever become.
There were no baggage handlers here. Brokenwing barely counted as a whistle-stop. And so for an hour three dozen men and the three women unloaded the train, stacks of goods to go to Dimmick's Goldfield rising higher and higher beneath the afternoon sun. Even in the heat, people laughed and called to each other, the men joking about beginning a new town altogether, what with all the things they had brought along.
Indeed, some were here to try to do exactly that — if the gold lasted long enough. More and better saloons would be built, and more bath houses; a Bible-thumper, the first preacher to be going to Dimmick's, had brought along boxes of Bibles, and was promising to build a church this summer. One gentleman had for the five days gone from one end to the other of the fifteen-car train, loudly bragging about his drugs and perfumes. If he couldn't cure folks, they'd go out smellin' pretty.
Most of those aboard the train were serious business people. They had carefully calculated every necessary item to bring, had done their research, just as Julia and Margarita and Belle had. They were glad to see tough looking guards standing by the bullwhackers' wagons, holding shotguns and rifles as if they were part of their bodies.
Finally the train was emptied of its enterprisers and their possessions. A lonesome whistle screamed across the desert as the train began to chug slowly toward the west, continuing its long journey, leaving the newest residents of Dimmick's Goldfield gazing after it, some apprehensively, some completely unconcerned, some already wishing they were at the fields, set up, and raking in gold hand over fist.
The women were of the group who looked with apprehension after the train. "We will make it," Margarita said determinedly. "We didn't come here to fail."
"Of course we didn't," Julia answered confidently. "Let's get us a wagon."
Someone behind them said, "Help you, ladies?" They turned with surprise toward the female voice.
Five and a half feet tall, a slim woman in a plain brown dress trimmed with a wide white collar walked over to them, her skirt carving a soft pattern in the dust as it trailed slightly behind her. She carried a heavy stick in one weatherworn hand, and in the other a bullwhip which she gently slapped against her leg. "Name's Arizona Mary." Her face was heavily tanned and her intensely blue eyes crinkled at the corners with mirth. White teeth sparkled in her dark face. She wore a sunbonnet covering brown hair tucked loosely beneath.
"Come again?" Julia asked.
"Arizona Mary."
How did we miss seeing her, Margarita wondered.
Mary thrust out a wide brown palm with thick short fingers, shaking each woman's hand. With interest, Margarita noted the roughness of the palm. The only other woman's hand she knew that felt like that was her own, no longer as rough since being so long away from the meadow.
"Mind doin' business with a woman?"
Wide-eyed, Margarita asked, "Is this your wagon? Are these your oxen?"
"All fourteen of 'em. All paid for. You wanna ship with me?"
Their hesitation must have caused the slim bullwhacker concern, for she quickly said, "I can cuss with the best of 'em."
Out of the corner of her eye, Margarita saw another bullwhacker approach.
Mary looked toward the advancing man. "I can give you a better deal."
"You are a better deal, Arizona Mary!" Julia spoke quickly. "I'm sure your rates are fair. Let's load."
Carelessly Mary flipped the whip onto the seat of the tall wagon. "I'll help you. Let's go." Without a word, the man turned back and approached another group who waited by their own small mountain of belongings.
"Looks like you made him angry," Margarita said.
"Oh, that's old Jessie. Him and me are always stealin' from each other. Keeps us on our toes. You load, I direct," she said briskly. "Whackers don't load. Git the weight in the middle. Keep everything even on both sides. Don't leave any gaps in between boxes." She climbed onto the seat and continued to guide from there, advising the travelers on how to properly build their stack, occasionally having the grunting and sweating women reposition a box here or a barrel there, for better weight distribution.
It took over two hours to pack, tie the cow and horses to the rear of the wagon, and settle themselves and the chickens, housed in three large bar crates, on top of the freight. They had paid a man thirty dollars to help unload the oven from the train. It had cost another thirty to get it onto the wagon.
"Just hang on tight if you get to rockin' too bad," Mary advised, and with surprisingly powerful lungs yelled "Gitup, ox," following the command with a long string of curses and a sharp crack of her bullwhip that snapped over the backs of the big rusty colored beasts, never touching their hides. Other voices of bullwhackers sounded out. Grunts and snorts from the oxen filled the air as they strained against their yokes. Almost as one, the line of wagons began to creak and groan in protest under their staggering weight as they began to roll northward.
"I can't believe we brought enough to fill this entire wagon," Belle said.
"We brought it all," Julia answered, and grabbed a rope securing the canvas on which they sat as the vehicle hit a stone in the path they now traveled.
It wasn't long before Belle said, "I'm getting down to walk. This is too rough for me."
The others agreed, and climbed gingerly to the ground to walk alongside the wide iron-rimmed wheels rather than be unpleasantly jolted about.
As they walked, they chatted with Mary. She had been a bullwhacker for years, she told them. Couldn't bear being inside a house. But she was a lady, mind you. Wore a dress ever' day she worked. In turn, her customers told her their stories, relaying their dreams, asking her opinion. "You'll do well. The men will eat anything, and if it's sweet, they'll eat ten times as much. An' they're always lookin' fer more entertainment."
While en route, they contracted with Arizona Mary to freight future supplies, quickly sealing the bargain with a down payment of three hundred dollars hard cash before they even knew for certain what they would need.
She had already been paid four hundred dollars to take them to Dimmick's. Not expecting the cost to be that high, they were glad now that Belle had suggested they borrow the extra thousand.
The eight wagons traveled until seven that evening. The passengers were happy to stop. The miles they had walked or ridden had been long and exhausting. Sitting around a campfire and drinking coffee and eating beans and biscuits was the only thing they had thought about for the last two hours. No one had expected to travel this late today.
The supplies required for cooking and sleeping had been logically packed last: pots, pans, food, bed rolls. A few curses by greenhorns who had not thought ahead could be heard throughout the quiet camp as they shifted boxes to reach what they needed.
At a stream near a small hill, thirsty animals lapped up silvery water. A heavy oak bucket in her hand, Margarita carried the delicious fluid back to camp and set it down carefully by Belle who had volunteered to be first to cook. Margarita wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and dried it against her skirt. "Damn, it's hot for spring," she said, and offered a big dipperful of water to Julia who smiled a grateful thanks. A disgruntled Belle took the second dipperful and said, "Try cookin'," a bead of sweat clinging precariously to the tip of her nose.
Belle was
right. Margarita shouldn't have even mentioned the heat. She didn't have to sit before a fire stirring beans and baking biscuits. She thought, as her mouth puckered involuntarily, that they could eat dried foods for tomorrow's meals. She gave up the idea instantly. After a day's walk on the trail or riding on top of that rocking wagon, none of them would want to eat leather food. She herself would cook for them all tomorrow and keep still about it.
At the end of the day, guards were posted around the wagons as the passengers crawled beneath. They rolled themselves in blankets and in minutes were asleep.
It was the fifth night that Margarita and Julia hadn't slept together. Margarita missed feeling Julia lying in her arms, a leg thrown carelessly across her as her lover breathed deeply and contentedly.
She wondered why she even thought about it, why she cared so much. All along she had known that one day she would be leaving. She could not see herself a year, two years, five years down the line, still living with Julia. Julia had been so strong-minded about her staying, coming right out and telling her that was what she wanted, that she, Margarita, had gone along with the idea, not wanting to hurt her. It would be very hard now to be truthful, but she would do it all the same. It was just a matter of an appropriate moment. It would be after she had all the money she needed, free at last, to rebuild her life. Meanwhile she would continue on as if nothing were changed.
She fell into a troubled, restless sleep. Her thoughts became so real that she seemed to already miss Julia's touch. She would be glad when Julia finally knew what was on her mind.
For thirteen days the bullwhackers hauled them northward, beginning at seven each morning, nooning at watering holes or streams, and then continuing on until five in the afternoon, winding deeper and deeper through mountain passes and rich forests.
We'll be there tomorrow," one hoary bull whacker promised the tired travelers who had gathered together as a group on this final night for supper. They had all come to know one another on the trail and last evening had agreed to eat as a family. The men treated the ladies with respect, promising the future bakers of Dimmick's Goldfield to sample their wares as soon as they were set up.
That evening after supper Belle said, "I'll be gone for a while. Don't wait up for me."
"I wonder where she's going," Julia commented as Belle walked away.
"To work, pogo" Margarita answered, and tucked the last of the dishes into a box, placing it beside their wagon for immediate use in the morning.
"Wonder what she'll charge?"
"Plenty, if she's smart. We're in gold country."
"She'll make more than we've made so far."
"A dollar an egg and three dollars for a quart of milk isn't bad, Julia."
"Still, she does have the advantage, doesn't she? We have to milk twice a day; stick our hands into those wretched chicken cages daily. I hate it. For her, five, ten minutes, and she's a hundred dollars richer, or ought to be."
"Our way is better." Margarita knew what she was talking about. She had sold herself many times for information. As it turned out, not a moment of it had been worth her time.
That night Julia and Margarita rolled themselves into their blankets as the last of the light fell, looking only at each other. They hadn't as much as exchanged a passing caress since they had arrived at Brokenwing; not even during a normal day's activities. This was not only gold country, it was also man's country, and they were prudent and cautious.
It would be nice when they could once again sleep in privacy, even it was to be only a lowly tent.
Chapter Eighteen
"Dimmick's," Julia said breathlessly.
The day was brilliant, the air pure and cool. Only birds decorated the cloudless sky. In fact, many birds, Margarita noted. Big birds. Buzzards, she realized. Why buzzards?
The guards had gotten everyone up earlier than usual this morning. There were only a few miles left to go, but the bullwhackers wanted to be there by nine in order to begin their return trip to the train that in another two weeks would be coming from the west with new passengers.
Arizona Mary's wagon was last today. She had started the trip first in line nearly two weeks ago, each day the lead wagon dropping back to the rear, the second wagon then becoming first, so that no one had to eat dust all the time. But even the dust did not dampen the hopeful travelers' spirits as they rode high on the wagon to see Dimmick's.
As they crested a rise to begin their final long, slow descent to town, Margarita stared with sickened disbelief at what had drawn the buzzards to the area.
A thousand memories assaulted her, wrenching her back to that time when her world had been ripped to shreds. She could not tear her eyes away from the distant scene. She knew with ghastly horror that men would never change, never be kind, never be gentle. And even as she admitted this to herself, she felt defeated with the knowledge that one day she would marry again, would have to marry. She could not live alone. Not for the rest of her life. She would become the wife of a man who was capable of doing this to another human being.
They were upon the scene now. The tree was big. The biggest in the area. They must have forced the unfortunate victims to stand on a wagon seat to get them this high. Even in the still air, the bodies rotated slowly. They had not been blindfolded and their eyes protruded horridly from their faces. Their skin color was as gray as slate, and their necks were grotesquely long and taut as the weight of their bodies pulled against the thick rope that had ended their lives. Around each neck hung a sign whitewashed with a single word:
CLAMEJUMPER
"Why, ain't that Josh 'n Andrew?" Mary called to the driver ahead of her.
"Shore looks it, don't it?" he yelled back.
"Them boys knew better." Mary's wagon creaked loudly as it rolled by the grisly scene.
For the first time since they had boarded the train in Colter, Julia touched her, putting a supporting and comforting arm around her lover. She and Belle helped the weak-kneed and nauseous Margarita down off the wagon, keeping her between them as she walked off old memories and a deep emotional wound. She had never dreamed she would see a hanging again.
"Why do they do such things?" Margarita asked. "Why? We marry them, live with them, raise their children. And yet...." Tears streamed unashamedly down her face.
"That's why I take them for all they're worth," Belle answered. "I made seventy dollars the other night and only laid with two of them, and them not even bullwhackers. They thought they were real men, but I can fake it. Oh, I can fake it."
"What in hell is a real man," Julia demanded, "if they do that to each other?" She gestured with her head toward the dead men.
"I don't know," Belle answered. "I feel sorry for them all. But," she added, "they're going to make me rich."
Feeling more in control, Margarita shrugged off the women's hands. "I'm fine now. Thank you." But she wasn't fine. She knew what the future held for her. She didn't relish it. She wished her husband were alive. He had been kind. And, she staunchly told herself, she had loved him. Very much. Determined to arrive in Dimmick's with a smile on her face no matter how she was still feeling inside, she said firmly, "A new life. Let's begin it with happiness."
"Let's," Julia answered stoutly, and Belle began to lead the rest of the way on foot.
A half mile from the edge of town, Julia said, "Stop here, Mary. This is where we'll live."
The three women stood quietly. Ahead of them lay Dimmick's Goldfield. In two single rows creating a main street were buildings of crude lumber with whitewashed signs — businesses which had been thrown together in haste last year for those rugged souls who sought to stay the winter. Strewn in haphazard fashion, dozens of tents dotted the surrounding area. There was a cemetery off to the right of town, clearly visible on a rise of ground, its more than two dozen graves marked with nameless crosses.
Rough garbed men, and horses, mules, and wagons filled the street. A heavy rain had hit the area two nights ago. On the trail,
everyone had huddled beneath wagons. Here, there had been buildings and tents to escape within, but runoff had turned the ground to a mucky yellow soil. Mud sucked at boots and hooves and wagon wheels, while shouting men cursed the animals, the mire, and each other. Along with this noise, Margarita counted tunes from three different pianos and gunshots from two different directions.
As the din filled their ears, each woman stood lost in thought of her life ahead until the end of summer. It would be a long season.
"Come on, ladies," Arizona Mary said. "Git the wagon unloaded."
And they obeyed; box after box, barrel after barrel, crate after crate. Again, Julia paid to have the oven moved. This time the cost was fifty dollars for the added help. The cow and horses were tied to a crate, and the hens, at last set free, began to squawk and to scratch and peck at the ground and to beat their wings wildly.
Belle had learned from Arizona Mary that there were five women of the night in town, and a man had to wait days to visit one. He didn't mind handing over gold dust for her favors. She didn't mind taking it. Now three more ladies had arrived.
The day's idle miners walked over to greet the bullwhackers' wagons. Seeing Arizona Mary's freight, the men cried out happily, "Thanks Mary." No one bothered making overtures to her. She was a bullwhacker — that was all.
Other men were already propositioning the new arrivals. "We're bakers," Julia announced loudly and firmly, pointing to both herself and Margarita.
"I'm not," Belle said. She only had to tell them once and the men left Julia and Margarita to fight for the right to talk to the dancehall girl. The throng quickly thickened around her but no one touched her. "Come back tomorrow," she shouted to them. "Right here. Then we can talk — if that's what you really want to do." They shouted and hooted and slapped their knees at her wit. But they didn't go away.