Rivals

by Janet Dailey

  “It’s almost time, isn’t it, Kell?” She gripped the fingers of his hand a little tighter, unable to take her eyes from the scene. So many people, yet all of them so still, so quiet, so tense, bodies and hearts straining—she could feel it. Unconsciously, she held her breath.

  “Almost,” he confirmed.

  At precisely high noon, the eight million acres known variously as the Cherokee Strip or the Cherokee Outlet would be thrown open to settlement. The morning newspaper claimed that over one hundred thousand settlers would enter the Strip from various gathering points along the northern and southern boundaries.

  In the unearthly silence of the moment, the pounding of her heart sounded louder than the puffing chug of the idling train. Here and there an impatient steed pawed the ground or champed restlessly on the bit in its mouth. Noises that once would have been lost in the din of the thousands gathered here now sounded unnaturally loud, jangling nerves already thin with stress. Again, Ann scanned that long ragged line, certain that Jackson Stuart was among them somewhere—but where?

  A hundred yards distant, a horse reared and lunged ahead of the column, the bright sunlight glinting on its shiny black neck, wet with sweat. The man upon its back effortlessly wheeled the anxious animal back into line—a man wearing a black hat and a gun strapped to his side, like so many of the other riders. Although she had only a brief glimpse of him before he was swallowed up by the line, Ann felt certain it was Jackson Stuart. She leaned closer to the window, trying to locate him again.

  As the trumpeter blew the first sweet, swelling notes on his bugle, the staccato crack of rifle fire broke all the way up and down the line. Instantly the jagged line erupted, bursting forward in a seething rush of humanity. The thunder of thousands of pounding hooves, the rumble of rolling wheels, the rattle of moving wagons, the shriek of the locomotive’s whistles, the neighs of panicked horses, and the yells, shouts, curses, and screams of the settlers all melded together into one terrific roar—a roar of agony and madness suddenly unleashed on the world, frightening in its fierceness and stunning in its volume. Red dust rose in a mighty cloud, momentarily enveloping the stampeding horde that left in its wake overturned wagons, fallen horses, and downed riders.

  Paralyzed by the sight and sound of it, Ann stared. For an instant she was certain that all had been swept away by the billowing red sand. Then a scattered line of horsemen broke from the devilish cloud and raced with the wind ahead of it. And one of them—yes, one of them was Jackson Stuart. The fear that had knotted her nerves dissolved in a rush of relief. He was safe. More than that, he was in front, streaking across the prairie on his swift black stallion.

  More and more wagons and riders emerged from the settling dust cloud and fanned across the empty plains, the horrendous din from their numbers fading to a rumble dominated by the fierce chugging of the train. Talk broke behind her in a flurry of awed comments.

  “So many dreams racing across that prairie,” Chris murmured.

  “But more than dreams will die before this day is over,” Kell replied in a hard, dry voice.

  Jackson Stuart wouldn’t be one of them. He was there in front, leading the way. He would succeed. Others might fail, but not he. Swept by a feeling of elation, Ann swung from the window to face her husband.

  “It was glorious, Kell. Simply glorious. A sight never to be forgotten. An experience I wouldn’t have missed for the world.” So much danger and excitement—observed from a safe distance, it was true, yet she’d been part of the moment, feeling the heat and the wind, the heart-pounding tension and strain, the thunderous roar of the masses and panicked need for speed.

  “Then I’m glad I brought you with me.” His mouth curved slightly in one of his rare smiles. “Tomorrow we’ll head home—back to Morgan’s Walk—and enjoy a little peace and quiet for a change.”

  He looked at me with so much love in his eyes that I felt ashamed of myself for wishing, even briefly, that we didn’t have to return. What is wrong with me? I long to see my son again and hold him in my arms, yet I loathe the thought of spending day after day in that house again.

  22

  A blotch of ink stained the remaining third of the page, giving Flame the impression that Ann Morgan had cast the pen down in agitation and frustration. She felt the same tormented mix of emotions, the same sense of dread. She had no desire to read more, certain she could guess the rest of it.

  As she started to close the diary, she was pulled sharply back to the present by Ben Canon’s remark: “Interesting reading, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she responded automatically, suddenly aware of the cheery crackle of the fire blazing brightly in the fireplace and the pungent aroma of pipe smoke drifting through the air.

  Windowpanes, darkened by the shadows of evening beyond them, reflected the light from the lamps that had been turned on. From some other part of the house came the muted bong of a clock, slowly tolling the hour. Flame wondered if Ann Morgan had listened to that same bell mark hour after hour in this house.

  “Would you like another cup of coffee, Flame?” The attorney stood next to the massive marble fireplace, a brier pipe loosely cupped in his hand. He used the chewed stem to point to the silver coffee service. “I made a fresh pot, so I can guarantee it won’t be as strong as the last.”

  A smile rounded his shiny cheeks, but the bright twinkle in his eyes had a sly look to it. Each time she looked at him, Flame expected to see pointy ears poking through the fringe of hair that ringed his bald crown. It was a bit of a surprise when she didn’t.

  “If you’re gettin’ hungry,” Charlie Rainwater volunteered, comfortably ensconced in the twin to her chair, positioned close to the hearth, “they’ll be bringin’ sandwiches over from the cook shack in another hour or so.”

  “No, I don’t care for anything.” She glanced down at the partially closed diary on her lap, the pages held apart by the finger she’d wedged between them. “And I don’t think it’s necessary to read any more of this journal. Obviously she abandoned her husband and ran off with this Jackson Stuart.”

  “Nothing is obvious,” Ben Canon asserted with a certain knowing quality. “I suggest you read a little further. If you’ve passed the part about the land rush, then skip ahead to the month of—November, I believe it was, somewhere around the tenth.”

  Irritation rippled through her. “Wouldn’t it be quicker and simpler if you just told me what happened back then, Mr. Canon?”

  “Yes,” he agreed quite readily. “But, under the circumstances, Mrs. Stuart, it would be better if you learned about it from a source other than myself. I wouldn’t want to be accused of bias or prejudice.”

  Flame responded to his smile with a glare, then directed her attention back to the diary. Fighting this strange sense of foreboding she had, she opened the book again and flipped ahead to pages bearing a November date.

  November 9, 1893

  Two absolutely wonderful things happened today! This morning at breakfast, Kell announced that we will go home to Kansas City for the holidays! I have longed for this, hoped for this, prayed for such a trip almost from the day I arrived here. That first year, we couldn’t go because I was anticipating the arrival of my precious Johnny. And the second and third year, he was much too small to take on such a trip—and I couldn’t leave him. And I don’t think Papa would have welcomed me if I had come without his grandson. But this year, Johnny is a sturdy three-year-old, and we are going, all three of us. Kell has already made arrangements for us to have a private car for the journey. We will leave on the third of December and spend at least a month there.

  The holiday season in Kansas City…I can hardly wait. There will be so many parties and gatherings, so many festivities to attend, such a gay and glorious time we’ll have.

  But what to take and what to wear? Living out here, I fear my dresses have become hopelessly outdated. I will have no choice but to peruse at length my most current issue of “Harper’s” and see if I can rectify the problem. There is t
ime to do nothing else, and I refuse to go back and have all my friends regard me as a country bumpkin.

  I had no opportunity to do anything about my wardrobe today because…we had a visitor. And you will never guess who it was. I could not believe my eyes when I saw him. After Johnny had awakened from his nap, I took him outside to play. It was such a warm and bright afternoon—the finest autumn weather—that I thought the fresh air would be good for him. Heaven knows, in another month that dreadful north wind will come howling across this country, bringing along those dreary gray clouds filled with ice and snow—and it will be much too cold to venture out.

  Anyway, by pure happenstance, while Johnny was frolicking with the puppies of one of Kell’s hunting dogs, I wandered onto the front lawn. Why? I don’t know. It’s as if I was drawn there by some mysterious force. When I glanced down the lane, I saw a man leading a lame horse. From his manner of dress, I knew instantly it was not one of our cowboys or a neighbor. And I also knew, even though at that distance I couldn’t see his face, that the man was Jackson Stuart. How often I have thought of him these past weeks and wondered how he had fared that day of the great Run. The newspapers were filled with accounts of those murdered in apparent disputes over land claims. Some were “sooners” and deserved no better fate, but others were legitimate settlers like Mr. Stuart. So many times, I had hoped he was alive and well—and there he was.

  Mr. Stuart was on his way to Tulsa when his beautiful stallion went lame. Fortunately, he remembered he was near Morgan’s Walk. Considering the lateness of the hour, I knew he wouldn’t reach Tulsa before dark and suggested to Kell that Mr. Stuart spend the night with us and continue his journey in the morning on one of our horses. Naturally, Kell agreed with me….

  Dinner that evening was easily one of the most enjoyable—if not the most enjoyable—Ann had experienced since her arrival at Morgan’s Walk. Rushed as she’d been trying to prepare everything for their unexpected, but much welcomed, guest, she hadn’t been able to spend as much time at her toilette as she would have liked. But judging from the frequent, appreciative glances Jackson Stuart sent her way, he obviously found a great deal about her appearance to admire. She felt like a flower blossoming under the sun of his attention.

  Naturally, the topic of conversation at the table centered around the great land Run into the Cherokee Strip, an experience they had all shared in, either as a participant or observer. For the first time, Ann felt free to chatter away, recounting her many and varied impressions of the start of the race.

  “The din was quite deafening,” she said. “I have heard that others likened it to a mighty artillery barrage. I really couldn’t say if that was so or not, but I do know that the noise was so great that one felt completely consumed by it. I cannot imagine how it must have sounded to be in the middle of it. Was the start of the race truly as dangerous as it looked? You were there in the midst of all that chaos, Mr. Stuart. Tell us what it was like.”

  “Insanity. Everyone on that line was of one mind—to get in front quickly and escape the crush. But in those first few jumps after the gun went off, wheels locked, horses bolted, wagons overturned, riders collided.”

  She remembered that scene of horror, and shuddered expressively. “All for the dream of owning a piece of land. I can’t imagine risking your life for a dream.”

  “What is life without a dream?” Jackson Stuart challenged lightly. “Mere existence, Mrs. Morgan, with no hope for anything more. And there has to be more. Otherwise, why go on?”

  “What is your dream, Mr. Stuart?” Chris inquired.

  Jackson Stuart leaned back in his chair and looked around the dining room with its long cherrywood table and glittering chandelier overhead. “To own a house as fine as Morgan’s Walk someday, to travel and see the sights.”

  “That’s a tall order,” Kell observed.

  “Why dream small, Mr. Morgan?” Stuart reasoned. “You didn’t.”

  Dinner that evening ended much too soon for Ann. She wished she could linger at the table another hour and enjoy more of Jackson Stuart’s stimulating company, but when Kell rose, she had no choice but to follow his lead. Hardly had she made the first movement to rise, but Jackson Stuart was there to pull out her chair. She acknowledged his assistance with a faint nod of her head, conscious of those black lashes screening a look that was much too bold in its admiration, screening not from her but from her husband. Trying to control the sudden pitter-patter skip of her pulse, she turned to Chris and walked with him from the dining room, the lampas skirt of her golden brown bengaline gown whispering softly with the gliding movement.

  “What was the situation in the new territory when you left it, Mr. Stuart?” At the inquiry from Kell, Ann suppressed a sigh. Business. Sooner or later, the conversation always turned to cattle and crops or politics.

  “There were still a large number of disputes over the ownership of various claims. It will probably be months before all that’s settled. But the rest of the homesteaders are looking to spring. If you have more horses to sell, especially work animals, you’d find a ready market for them, Morgan. After the race, it’s been hard to find a horse in the territory that isn’t windbroke.”

  “That might be a good idea, Kell,” Chris spoke up. “We probably have a dozen or so head we could spare from our haying teams. Maybe keep the younger stock and sell off the older animals.”

  “It’s something to consider,” Kell agreed, typically noncommittal.

  At the drawing room arch, Ann paused and turned back, her glance automatically running to their handsome guest. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll leave you to your brandy and cigars.”

  For an instant, Jackson Stuart seemed taken aback by her announcement, but that brief flicker of surprise was quickly smoothed from his expression. “In all honesty, Mrs. Morgan, I wish you wouldn’t. I noticed the piano earlier and had hopes you might play this evening. You do play, don’t you?”

  Modesty prevented her from admitting that she was a competent pianist. “A little, yes.”

  “Then, may I impose on you to play for me? It’s been a long time since I’ve heard anything other than someone pounding on a barroom piano.”

  “I—” She glanced at Kell, but she could read no objection in his bland expression. “—I should be delighted to play for you, Mr. Stuart.”

  “You do me honor, Mrs. Morgan.” He bowed slightly from the waist, the gleam in his eyes most stimulating.

  Aflush with pleasure, Ann entered the drawing room and walked directly to the ornate piano of elaborately carved ebony. She sat down on its bench and arranged the fall of her skirt, then reached for the sheets of music propped on its stand.

  Conscious of the crystal clink of the brandy decanter and the subdued murmur of voices behind her, Ann glanced over her shoulder. “Was there a particular selection you would like to hear, Mr. Stuart?”

  “No,” he demurred, briefly lifting his brandy glass to her. “I’ll leave the choice to you.”

  “Perhaps something by Bach, then.” She chose a concerto filled with suppressed passions and began to play, all the while conscious of her audience and determined to acquit herself well.

  Stuart applauded briefly when she finished. “Beautiful, Mrs. Morgan. Simply beautiful.” She glowed under the praise that was in both his voice and his look. “But I beg you not to stop now.”

  “Yes, play some more, Ann,” Kell urged as he pushed out of his chair, rolling fluidly to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Stuart, I’ll leave you in my wife’s capable care. I have considerable paperwork waiting for me in the library.” He turned briefly to Chris. “I’ll need to talk to you before you turn in tonight.”

  Ann started to protest his departure, then firmly pressed her lips together, recognizing that it would do no good. It never had. That’s what was so vexing. He’d spend all day riding over his precious ranch, then most of the evening hunched over its ledgers and account books, leaving scant time for her.

  She turned
back to the piano and began to play, unconsciously choosing a particularly volatile piece. Halfway through it, she saw Chris leave the room, tossing a quick smile in her direction that promised he’d be back. She doubted it, not once Kell got his hands on him. But what did it matter? Jackson Stuart was here. She smiled, aware that at least she had his undivided attention.

  Chris Morgan walked into the library. “I just realized who that is in there, Kell.” Unconsciously he lowered his voice to conspiratorial volume. “That’s Blackjack Stuart. He’s supposed to be connected with the Dalton gang.”

  Kell showed no surprise at the news as he briefly looked up from his ledger, each entry made in a labored scrawl. “That connection was obviously broken last year when the Dalton gang was wiped out in Coffeyville.”

  The Indian Territory had long been a haven for outlaws. Emmett, Grant, and Bob Dalton had lived in Tulsa most of their lives. The locals rarely commented on the presence of the notorious in their midst. Too much time and trouble was involved in reporting them to the nearest federal authorities in Fort Smith, Arkansas, one hundred miles away—three days by horseback or one by train. And usually by the time a U.S. marshal would arrive on the scene, the outlaws would have been warned and gone. Judge Parker, the so-called Hanging Judge, had done his best to bring law and order to the Territory, but he was only one man with seldom more than forty marshals at any one time to police an area that easily required twenty times that number to do the job adequately.

  Chris stopped before the big mahogany desk. “You’ve known who he is all the time, haven’t you?”