Beneath a Prairie Moon

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Then what is…” She blinked rapidly, forcing her eyes to focus, and at once she realized a band of men stood shoulder to shoulder, all with heads shiny from oil. Macassar oil, if her nose was correct in identifying the scent of coconut on the wind.

  Mr. Cleveland crunched his face into a scowl. “Looks like the grooms are waiting.”

  Mrs. Bingham adjusted her hat and brushed dust from her dress front. “How nice of them to meet us and make us welcome.”

  Mr. Cleveland angled a look Abigail would define as wry at the matchmaker, but he didn’t say anything. What was he thinking behind those piercing blue eyes of his? She glanced at his firmly set lips. It might be better if she didn’t know.

  She turned her gaze to the waiting throng, and her heart began a rapid patter. Mr. Cleveland had indicated they were eager, and she saw evidence of it in their raised chins, wide grins, and twitching frames. These would be her students. Would their eagerness extend to learning the manners Mrs. Bingham expected her to teach? A schoolteacher kept his or her pupils on task with threats from a hickory switch. How would she keep these grown men focused?

  The panic she’d first experienced when Mrs. Bingham presented her plan returned in a rush, and her pulse bounced as wildly as a tumbleweed crossing the prairie. She grasped the side of the wagon and wished she still believed in God so she could pray for strength.

  Mr. Cleveland stopped the wagon at the edge of the business district, twenty paces from the men. For a moment the group remained in a line, as if suddenly overcome with bashfulness. Then a rotund man with a full, bushy beard jabbed his fist in the air and whooped—a sound nearly as high pitched as Abigail’s squeal had been. The entire smiling group surged forward.

  Had Mr. Cleveland not set the brake, Abigail was certain the horses would run away. The poor animals shifted within their traces, tossing their heads and snorting in protest as the mob of men surrounded the wagon. They grabbed the sides and peeked into the bed, and then as one they raised their scowls.

  “Hey!” A tall, rawboned man with a sun-scorched face and the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled back to expose thickly muscled forearms balled his hands into fists and marched to Mr. Cleveland’s side of the bench. “What’d you do with our wives, Mack? Leave ’em behind?”

  The men muttered, nudging each other and sending accusing glares at Mr. Cleveland. Abigail’s heart pounded with such intensity she feared she would faint. She gripped the seat’s edge even harder although her fingers ached badly.

  A second man, as tall and suntanned as the first but wiry and wearing a dusty, threadbare suit, settled his gaze on Abigail. His frown changed to elation, and he darted at her, arms extended. “Least there’s this one.” Before she had a chance to react, he grabbed her around the waist, lifted her from the bench, and held her up as if claiming a prize. “I’ll take you, even if you are a scrawny thing an’ I requested a woman with some meat on her bones.”

  Abigail pounded her fists on his solid shoulders. “Release me at once, you brute!”

  The fellow laughed and set her feet on the ground. “Not much meat on her, but she’s sure got gumption!” He grinned down at her, his eyes nearly squinting shut. “My name’s W. C., darlin’. What’s yours?”

  Before Abigail could answer, the men swarmed the clod. Faces pressed near, warm breath grazed her burning cheeks, and their clamoring voices pierced her eardrums.

  “You got no claim to her, W. C. Let ’er go!”

  “Hoo-boy, them are some fancy duds she’s wearin’. This un’s a real looker. I asked for a purty one. I aim to keep ’er.”

  “We gonna hafta draw straws to see who gets her?”

  “I asked for a little gal, so she suits me fine. C’mere an’ lemme get a better look atcha.”

  “What color are your eyes, honey? I’m partial to green.”

  One of the men tapped her shoulder with his finger. “You ever saddled a horse, little gal?”

  Abigail jerked away from the offensive lout, which caused her to slam against W. C.’s chest. He slung his arm around her waist and grinned like a fool. She’d never felt so exposed and vulnerable and frightened. And angry. Why didn’t Mrs. Bingham or Mr. Cleveland do something? She flung a pleading look at Mrs. Bingham. The woman stood glaring down at the milling mob, her fists on her hips. Her mouth was moving, which meant she must be speaking, but her words were lost in the ruckus caused by the men.

  Mr. Cleveland peered past Mrs. Bingham, and his gaze collided with hers. Grim determination steeled his features. He leaped over the side of the wagon and plowed through the group, pushing men left and right. They grunted and yelped, but they didn’t try to block him. He reached the center and yanked W. C.’s hand from her waist. Then he planted both palms on the man’s chest and sent him backward several feet.

  W. C. caught his balance and glowered at her rescuer. “What’re you doin’, Mack? You didn’t even send for a bride, so you got no call to—”

  Mack jabbed his finger at him. “You’ve got no call to accost the lady the way you did. Look at her. She’s scared half to death.”

  Abigail scuttled away from the group and hugged herself, her chest heaving as if she’d run the distance between Pratt Center and Spiveyville. She eyed the circle of men, ready to shriek louder than anyone had ever shrieked before if one of them so much as stretched a finger toward her.

  W. C. squinted at Abigail, and remorse twisted his mouth. “Reckon I did come atcha a little strong. Sure didn’t mean to scare you. But you gotta understand, you’re a welcome sight in these parts, miss.”

  The bushy-bearded man whose waving fist and whoop had begun the entire melee glared at Mr. Cleveland. “Nobody would’ve gone after her that way if there’d been more’n one woman with you. Where’s the rest of ’em? The telegram said all our brides’d be comin’ today.”

  “I beg to differ with you, sir.” Mrs. Bingham moved to the edge of the wagon and held her hands to Mr. Cleveland. He assisted her down, and she glided across the dusty ground to the grumbling man. “Your name, please.”

  The man folded his stubby arms over his chest. “Clive Ackley. I’m the postman an’ the telegrapher for Spiveyville.”

  “Where is the telegram of which you spoke, Mr. Ackley?”

  He poked his pudgy fingers in his shirt pocket and withdrew a scrap of paper. “Right here. Been carryin’ it next to my—” He grunted. “That is, been carryin’ it ever since it come.”

  Mrs. Bingham beckoned to Abigail with her quirked fingers, and Abigail crossed on shaking legs to the matchmaker. The woman curved her arm around Abigail’s waist, her encircling gesture much more welcome than the one from W. C., and offered a slight nod at the telegrapher. “Read it, please. Loudly, so everyone can hear.”

  From the corner of her eye, Abigail witnessed Mr. Cleveland slip between buildings. Disappointment stabbed hard. She’d thought him chivalrous when he came to her defense, but would a chivalrous man leave two women to face an angry mob unprotected?

  The telegrapher unfolded the paper, gruffly cleared his throat, and held the telegram nearly under his nose. “ ‘Coming…October 15. Arrive on two o’clock train. Please send…driver.’ ” He scowled over the top of the telegram. “See? Says right there send somebody to pick up our brides.” The men began to mutter again.

  Mrs. Bingham held up her finger, and silence fell. A soft smile graced her face. “Ah, Mr. Ackley, you made a presumption. How is the telegram signed?”

  He shifted his scowl to the paper. “Mrs. Helennuh—”

  “It’s pronounced Heleena,” Mrs. Bingham said.

  The small amount of his face not hidden by the overgrown beard flushed pink. “Heleena Bingham.”

  “It doesn’t say, ‘The brides for Spiveyville’s single men’?”

  The man’s thick brows formed one fuzzy mass in the middle of his forehead with his fierce scowl. “I done to
ld you, it’s signed Mrs. Hel—Heleena Bingham.”

  The matchmaker extended her hand in a graceful motion. “I am Mrs. Helena Bingham and, as the telegram stated I would, I arrived on the two o’clock train.”

  “But where are our brides?” The tall man with the thick forearms shouted the question, and others echoed it with varying degrees of frustration and confusion.

  “Your brides, gentlemen, are in Newton, Massachusetts.”

  “Massachusetts!” Half a dozen men blasted the word, and the others clenched their fists and muttered.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bingham said as sweetly and calmly as if addressing the gathering of a ladies’ club, “where they will stay until—”

  The grumbling rose again, louder than before and with greater acrimony. The men bumped each other with their elbows, their faces red and angry. Abigail grabbed Mrs. Bingham’s elbow. Should they escape to a safe hiding spot? She searched the area for a likely place in which to hide.

  Clive Ackley pushed the telegram into his pocket and hooked his thumbs on his suspenders. “Listen here, lady, I—”

  “Clive, watch your temper. Is that a polite way to speak to a guest in Spiveyville?”

  The genial yet firm voice of a stranger came from behind Abigail. She glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Cleveland approached with another man—obviously a man of the cloth, based on his black suit, white collar, and the Bible tucked in the crook of his arm. Mr. Cleveland stopped near the horses, but the preacher strode to the shuffling group of men. Abigail swallowed a knot of regret. She’d misjudged Mr. Cleveland.

  The telegrapher threw his arms outward. “Preacher Doan, this lady tricked us. We all ordered brides from her, but instead of bringin’ a whole passel, she just brung one. I sent in our bride-dues—enough for a bride apiece for all o’ us—an’ she didn’t keep up her end of the deal. I got every right to be angry.”

  “Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t.” The preacher placed his hand on Mr. Ackley’s round shoulder. “Either way, remember the biblical admonition to ‘be ye angry, and sin not.’ ”

  The telegrapher hung his head and toed the ground. Many of the others snuffled or shifted their sheepish gazes to the fading sky.

  Preacher Doan smiled at Mrs. Bingham and Abigail. “Welcome to Spiveyville, Mrs. Bingham and Miss Grant. Mack tells me you traveled all the way from Newton, Massachusetts. You must be tired and hungry after your long journey.” He turned a firm look on the group of men. “It’s six thirty already, fellows, and night will fall before we know it. I think it’s best that you all return to your homes.”

  “But, Preacher!” A short man with bright-red hair and the air of a fighting cock stomped his scuffed boot. “She ain’t told us yet what happened to our brides!” More mutters erupted.

  Abigail pressed closer to Mrs. Bingham, fear making her mouth go dry.

  The preacher shook his head. “Vern, I know you’ve waited a long time for a bride. All of you have. But doesn’t Romans 12:12 instruct us to be patient in tribulation?”

  The red-headed man scowled, but he fell silent, as did the others in the group.

  “You’ll get your answers. I’ll see to it.” Preacher Doan sent a meaningful glance over his shoulder at the women before facing the men again. “Meet me tomorrow evening—seven thirty at the church. Mrs. Bingham and her assistant will be there and will answer all your questions.” He turned a slow circle to pin Abigail and Mrs. Bingham with the same firm look he’d given the rowdy men. “Is that all right with you, ladies?”

  Mrs. Bingham nodded, the scraggly feathers of her hat bobbing against her neck. “It’s a splendid plan, Reverend. Thank you for arranging it.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to the men. “We’ll see you again tomorrow, fellows. Go on, now.”

  Still grumbling, the men ambled off. The preacher caught hold of the arm of a stout man with thin brown hair combed from ear to ear over his round dome. “Athol, these ladies need a place to sleep tonight. Can they stay in some of your upstairs rooms?”

  He shrugged. “Fine with me. The rooms likely need cleanin’, though. Nobody’s used ’em in a good long while. But I got nothin’ against them stayin’ above the restaurant.”

  “That meets their need for lodging, but they still need supper. What’s on this evening’s menu?”

  “Most o’ the fellas ate together while we watched for Mack’s wagon, an’ they cleaned me out o’ salt pork an’ baked beans. But there’s some beef stew still simmerin’ in a pot. Always got biscuits an’ cold milk ready, too.”

  Preacher Doan arched one brow. “Do you ladies like beef stew and biscuits?”

  Such simple fare, but Abigail’s stomach rolled over with a hunger she didn’t realize she possessed. “Yes, sir.”

  The preacher beamed. “Good. Ladies, follow Athol to his restaurant. He’ll see that you’re well fed. Mack and I will carry in your luggage. He says you brought enough for a stay of a day or two.”

  Mrs. Bingham released a light laugh. “Mr. Cleveland presumes nearly as well as your fine telegrapher.” She urged Abigail in the direction of the two-story red brick building bearing the simple proclamation Restaurant in white paint above the porch roof. “To be completely frank, Preacher, we intend a stay of half a month. But we’ll discuss that at tomorrow evening’s meeting.”

  Five

  Abigail battled a very strong urge to escape through the restaurant’s double front doors. Evidence of the building’s previous purpose lurked in every corner, from the battered upright piano, its top holding a spattering of grimy shot glasses, to the twelve-foot-long bar, complete with a tarnished brass footrest, which ran half the room’s length. Mother would roll over in her grave if she knew that her daughter was sitting at a blackjack table in a southwest Kansas town. At least the cards and chips had been removed.

  Above them, bumps and scuffling noises gave evidence of Mr. Cleveland’s and the preacher’s activity. According to the restaurant’s owner, each of the six rooms contained a bed, bureau, and wardrobe. Then he’d warned, “Them rooms ain’t been cleaned in a month o’ Sundays, so the dust’s prob’ly an inch high.” The preacher had draped his black jacket over a chair and requested a broom, bucket of water, cleaning cloths, and clean sheets. He’d then herded Mr. Cleveland up the stairs to help him ready the rooms for occupancy. Mr. Cleveland hadn’t looked eager, but he’d shrugged out of his jacket and gone along without a word of complaint, and unexpectedly Abigail warmed toward the man. He respected his minister. It spoke well of him.

  Balancing a dented metal tray on his wide palm, Mr. Patterson shuffled across the stained wide-plank floor that carried the slight essence of malt liquor. As he neared the table, the delightful aroma of meat and vegetables rising from the bowls on the tray chased away the other scent that made Abigail wrinkle her nose. He placed a bowl and spoon in front of each of the ladies, then plunked a basket of biscuits between them. “Milk or coffee?”

  Mrs. Bingham sat with her spine straight, chin level, and one hand in her lap—the same way Abigail had been taught to while dining. Abigail had never realized how ridiculous the pose appeared in rough surroundings. “Coffee, please, and a napkin, if you’d be so kind.”

  The man frowned. “I ain’t got napkins. Most o’ the fellas who come in here to eat use their sleeves to wipe their mouths.”

  Abigail cringed. She would certainly address the topic of table manners with the men.

  “I reckon I can bring you a wipin’ towel if you like. It’s some bigger’n a napkin, but it’d do the job.”

  “A…wipin’ towel?” Mrs. Bingham glanced at Abigail, puzzlement in her gray eyes.

  “Yes’m. What I use to wipe out the dishes before I put ’em on the shelf.”

  “Ah. A dish towel.”

  “That’s what I said. A wipin’ towel.”

  Mrs. Bingham’s lips twitched. “That would be satisfact
ory, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Just call me Athol.” He swung his unsmiling gaze on Abigail. “You wantin’ coffee, too?”

  She wanted tea, but he hadn’t offered it. “I prefer milk if it’s cold.”

  “It is. Got me a cellar under the kitchen. Keeps everything nice and cool.” Pride briefly lit his features. “This was the only saloon in Pratt County with a rock-lined beer cellar.”

  Mrs. Bingham gasped, but she covered it with a small cough behind her hand.

  Abigail swallowed her own gasp. No gentleman would discuss beer with ladies! Worry chased away the bolt of shock. Did he keep the milk in kegs previously used for beer? If so, she shouldn’t drink it. But how could she ask? She dare not utter the word beer. Before she determined a polite way to inquire about the milk’s storage, he scurried off in the direction of the swinging door that presumably led to the kitchen.

  She leaned toward Mrs. Bingham and lowered her voice to a whisper—a breach of etiquette, but she couldn’t allow Mr. Patterson to hear her use such language. “Do you suppose the milk is stored in beer kegs?”

  Humor graced the woman’s eyes. “I suppose the milk is stored in cans. But if I have to carry you up the stairs later, we’ll know otherwise.”

  Abigail drew back. “Mrs. Bingham!” She fanned herself with both hands.

  “Forgive me, my dear, but our environment…” She glanced around, her brow furrowing. “It does invite one to indulge in a bit of…earthiness.”

  Abigail made a silent vow to hold tight to the manners she’d been taught by her dear, saintly mother regardless of her environment. She began exercising her commitment by dipping her spoon at the edge of the bowl and lifting a small amount of thick broth and a slice of carrot. Steam no longer rose, assuring her she could place the bite in her mouth without fear of scalding her tongue. Her face, as Mr. Cleveland had predicted, burned as if someone held a candle to her flesh. She didn’t wish to experience the same discomfort on the inside of her mouth.