Brides of Prairie Gold Read online

  "I don't recall exactly what" Bootie shot an imploring glance toward Mem, seeking help, but Mem appeared thunderstruck. She stared at Bootie as if she couldn't believe her ears.

  Augusta tossed her head and narrowed her eyes. "I tried to warn her not to speak to that reprobate!" Accusation thinned her lips and she stared at Bootie. "Now look what you've done! If you had listened to me, those poor teamsters would still be alive!"

  "Oh, my Lord!" Shock blanched the color from Bootie's lips and face and she would have collapsed if Hilda hadn't caught her by the elbows. "Oh, no! They're dead because of me?"

  "We don't know that," Perrin interjected quickly. She threw Augusta a look of disgust. "What we do know is that two young men died trying to protect a wagonload of molasses barrels." She paused and frowned at the faces peering back at her. "Does this seem strange to anyone else?"

  "Strange in what way?" Jane asked, still staring at Bootie.

  Sarah nodded. "It's always seemed peculiar that our bridegrooms and Mr. Snow think there's profit in molasses. The profit must be so slim as to be negligible."

  "I've wondered about that too," Perrin agreed. "Now I'm starting to doubt whether it's really molasses we're carrying."

  "That is an offensive implication." Ona Norris crossed her arms over her bosom. "Captain Snow would not deceive us."

  "Really?" Perrin snapped. "Men have made a virtue of deceiving women for centuries!" She had yet to meet a man she could rely on. Men lied and used as a matter of course.

  Mem frowned. "Let's suppose you and Sarah are correct. If there's slim profit in molasses, then it follows that no one would want to steal it. So what are we hauling?"

  "There's one way to find out." Perrin reached inside the back of her wagon and removed a hatchet. "Shall we?"

  A chorus of suddenly angry voices urged her onward. In a body they converged on the remaining molasses wagon and Sarah and Perrin climbed onto the tailgate. Perrin drew back the canvas covering and everyone contemplated the stacked barrels stamped molasses in red letters.

  Perrin and Sarah looked at each other for a moment, then, heart beating loudly in her chest, Perrin drew a breath and swung the hatchet to knock the bung off one of the barrels.

  She wanted Cody to have told them the truth; she wanted him to be the exception among the men she had known. It surprised her how much she longed to be wrong about her suspicions. But thin dark liquid trickled over the tailgate and spilled onto the ground. All she had to do was inhale to know it wasn't molasses.

  "Whiskey!" Sarah said loud enough for all to hear. The fumes were unmistakable.

  "This is not right! We should have been told!" Crimson flooded Hilda's cheeks and she threw out her hands. "Now that I know we've been carrying arms and whiskey, I am surprised we have not been waylaid before! I am furious!"

  Heck Kelsey appeared at a run, skidding to a stop when he spotted the dripping barrel and the sea of accusing faces that turned to confront him.

  "Did you know about this?" Hilda demanded, moving toward him like an enraged Valkyrie. "Did everyone know but us?"

  "Ah," he said uncomfortably, reversing his course. He backed away from Hilda's advance. "Mr. Snow will be mighty displeased when he sees what you ladies have done here."

  "Is that so!" Sarah shouted from the tailgate. "Well, you can just tell him that we are mighty displeased!"

  "I, for one, am outraged!" Augusta snapped, pushing forward. "It's bad enough to place our lives at risk by transporting arms. But whiskey? Whiskey is a magnet to immoral men. Men who would not dream of stealing a gun would steal a barrel of whiskey in an eyeblink! We are going to be in danger all the way to Oregon!"

  Murmurs of agreement buzzed like the sound of angry hornets. Heck Kelsey stepped backward and raised his hands. "This isn't my affair. You'll have to take it up with Mr. Snow," he said before he turned and fled rapidly toward the cook wagon.

  Seething, her dark eyes snapping, Perrin faced the brides and waited for silence. "Mr. Snow believes Jake Quinton stole the wagon and killed the teamsters. Quinton must have figured it had to be something other than molasses too." She examined the angry faces glaring back at her. "We need to decide what we're going to say to Mr. Snow." They followed her scowl toward the plains, where three dark specks galloped after stray animals.

  "I don't know what we say to Mr. Snow." Cora shook her head. "But watching that whiskey soak into the ground is like watching money drip away. A downright shame, if'n you ask me."

  "I agree." Sarah dusted her hands briskly. "Fetch your cups, ladies. Last night and this morning have been a real trial; I'd say we all deserve a drink."

  "Of whiskey?" Augusta gasped, appalled.

  "Acquired a taste for it when I was in the army," Sarah said. She laughed. "Major Jennings, my late husband, always said whiskey tasted bad but felt good. Right now I could use a little feeling good. It was a bad night, and it's been one hell of a morning." Her gaze dismissed Augusta's gasp of disapproval. "Sometimes a swear word is the only word that will do."

  "I've wondered what whiskey tastes like," Mem commented. "I've never had anything stronger than brandy." She joined Bootie, who leaned against the wagon yoke, weeping. "You could use a strong drink too."

  "Oh, Mem," Bootie whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "When that man I just didn't think! I didn't mean"

  "I know you didn't, and what happened isn't your fault. You couldn't possibly have guessed that Quinton was an outlaw and a killer." Mem placed an arm around her sister's shoulder and squeezed. Over Bootie's head she shot a venomous glare at Augusta. "Come on, we'll fetch our cups, sample a little whiskey, and we'll put this out of our minds."

  When Perrin tasted the whiskey, it seared her throat and made her eyes water. Having never tasted anything stronger than sherry, she gasped, sputtered, then grinned weakly as the others applauded. Mem was next. She clasped her throat, coughed, blinked, then gamely swallowed another sip to shouts of laughter. Each had a turn at being the focus of tension-relieving laughter except Augusta and Ona, who looked on with steely-eyed censure.

  When everyone had sampled the fiery whiskey, Perrin cleared her throat and spoke in a husky, liquor-choked voice. "You've had some time to think, so what shall I say to Mr. Snow?"

  "You're our leader what do you suggest?" Winnie asked.

  For a moment Perrin couldn't respond. This was the first time anyone had referred to her as a leader, or had acknowledged that her opinion was worth hearing or considering. She gazed at their expectant faces and swallowed back sudden emotional tears.

  "I know exactly what I'd like to say to Mr. Snow," she said when she could speak.

  For the first time, they listened carefully. And to complete her small and very personal triumph, they all agreed with her. Even Augusta and Ona.

  Leaving Webb and John to run the animals back into the square, Cody rode the camp perimeters to check on his passengers. His unease deepened as he passed one empty wagon after another.

  By the time he trotted up to the cook wagon, his chest had tightened like sun-baked leather. "Where the hell are the women?" he demanded, halting in front of Heck and Smokey Joe.

  Smokey Joe thumbed back his hat and grinned. "You got big trouble, Capt'n."

  "Damn it, Smokey. Where the hell are they?"

  Smokey Joe jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Heck says they're over at the molasses wagon." His grin widened.

  Leaning forward, Cody touched his bootheels to the buckskin's flanks and raced toward the molasses wagon. Smokey Joe's grin never portended anything pleasant. He reined hard when the whiskey fumes hit his face. Then he saw them.

  Perrin Waverly, Bootie Glover, and Thea Reeves lay facedown on the prairie, sprawled out like they'd dropped where they'd been shot, which was his first chest-tightening fear. Only when he heard Bootie snore and saw one of Perrin's wool stockings twitch did he realize they were alive.

  Relief collapsed his chest and made his thighs slacken. He had to tighten the reins to keep the buck
skin from bolting away from the strong fumes wafting out of the wagon. Slowly, disbelieving, he swung from the women lying facedown on the dirt toward the raucous sound of singing.

  Sarah perched on the edge of the tailgate, her stockinged feet swinging like a child's. She was singing loud, bawdy military songs to Mem and Cora, who held on to each other, weeping with hysterical laughter. Cody frowned. Sarah would be mortified when she recalled that she had sung such vulgar ditties, and Mem and even Cora would be appalled that they had laughed and shouted for more. If they remembered.

  Hilda and Jane had collapsed spraddle-legged on the ground. They leaned against the back wheel of the molasses wagon, propped against each other, dead asleep. Hilda had vomited in her lap.

  Finally he spotted Winnie. She sat Indian-fashion on the bare prairie, a tin cup cradled in her lap. She faced east, staring toward home while huge silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She was chanting Willie or Billie over and over in a singsong voice.

  Closing his eyes, Cody rubbed a hand down his jaw. They were all stone-dead drunk.

  After taking another look at Perrin's exposed legs, he wheeled the buckskin and returned to Smokey's cook fire. Smokey handed him up a grin and a cup of coffee laced with whiskey.

  "Figure you could use a little bone tightening, Capt'n."

  Cody swallowed the coffee and whiskey in one gulp, ignoring the scald as it burned down his throat. "Heck, if there's any whiskey left in that barrel, replace the bung. Then you and Smokey put the women in their wagons to sleep it off."

  He frowned in frustration and slapped a hand against his saddle. He had two dead men. They'd lost half a day rounding up the animals. They would lose the remainder because the brides were too damned drunk to drive. Due to fog, swollen streams, and Lucy's death, they were already running a week behind schedule.

  When it occurred to him that a couple of the brides were unaccounted for, he rode around the square, eventually coming to Ona Norris's tent. He found Augusta and Ona sitting in camp chairs on the shady side of the wagon, sipping tea. They were sober, but they might have been sucking lemons for the looks on their faces. Neither of them greeted him.

  There were a dozen things he might have said. But he couldn't think of any of them. He stared at them; they stared coldly back.

  Finally he glanced at the sky. "The temperature's dropping. It's going to hail. Another day wasted."

  Swearing under his breath, he rode to check on the animals, feeling the women staring icily at his back.

  Smokey Joe's rise-and-shine gong ratcheted through Perrin's head like a series of clanging explosions. She awoke to find herself on the floor of the wagon, aching in every joint. Hilda's knee was in her face. Slowly, they sat up, Clasping their heads and whimpering.

  Squinting, Perrin peered at Hilda, who was in greater disarray than Perrin had ever seen her. One braid had come unraveled and tangled blond waves dropped to Hilda's waist.

  Her skirt reeked and had stiffened with dried vomit. Bits of prairie grass clung to her gown and her loose hair.

  "Ach! I am disgusting!" Hilda moaned, staring down at herself. She inhaled, then looked as if she might be ill again.

  When she inventoried her own state, Perrin groaned. Dirt and grime caked her face; her stockings had twisted around her legs. A rip opened along her skirt seam, and she'd lost a shoe. Her eyes felt gritty and her mouth tasted so horrible that she gagged. She would have sold a portion of her soul for a hot bath.

  Without speaking, their faces grim, she and Hilda changed clothing, then slowly emerged into a chilly overcast morning. Hilda sniffed the scent of frying bacon drifting from Smokey Joe's fire and her face turned green. She dashed for a clump of plum bushes, holding her stomach.

  Leaning over the water barrel, Perrin scrubbed her cheeks until they burned, tried to comb the dirt and grass out of her hair, then kindled their fire and hung a pot of coffee over the flames. She didn't bother stirring up a batch of johnnycakes; Hilda wouldn't eat anything and neither could she.

  Thirty minutes later, partially fortified by two cups of strong coffee, she tottered to her feet, drew a deep breath of courage, and went in search of Cody Snow. Two by two, the brides fell into step behind her. They were all shamefaced and bleary-eyed except Augusta and Ona, who refused to look at the others except with self-righteous disgust.

  When Perrin spotted Cody, saddling the buckskin, she veered toward him, struggling to hold her head up. Each step on the uneven ground jarred her brain and made her wince. The only thing that offered the slightest pleasure was seeing Cody's soaring eyebrows when he noticed all the brides advancing on him. To give him credit, he recovered quickly and strode forward to meet them. Halting, he folded his arms over his chest.

  "Well?" he asked coolly, studying Perrin's white face and shaking hands. Anger flickered in the depths of his eyes.

  His attitude made it easy. How dare he use that tone of voice, as if they needed to explain themselves. "You deceived us!" she snapped angrily. Murmurs of assent lifted from the women behind her.

  The fury that trembled on her lips was personal. She had wanted Cody to be different. She had begun to believe that he was. But he was like the other men she had known. Deceivers, all of them. Instead of the truth, a man said what a woman wanted to hear. And when he was caught, he insisted that the woman was in the wrong, never him.

  "You lied to us!" she accused, spitting the words at him.

  "Would you ladies have slept better knowing you were carrying arms and whiskey?" His calm tone infuriated her.

  "Don't try to blame us for your deceit! We should have been told!" She resonated with the heat of past deceptions.

  She told herself this was not Garin Waverly exploiting a young girl's loneliness with honeyed words. This was not Joseph Boyd manipulating her sympathy and gratitude. This was Cody Snow, who had treated her fairly and straightforwardly. Until now. But nothing she said to herself lessened her anger at him for being revealed as a deceiver like the others.

  "We refuse to risk our lives by traveling all the way to Oregon with arms and whiskey." Because she had allowed herself to begin to trust this man, his deception cut all the deeper.

  "Is that right?" Cody's eyes narrowed dangerously and his hands dropped to lean hips and tightened into fists.

  Perrin leaned forward from the waist. "That's right!"

  "And what do you propose to do with your bridegroom's investment? Abandon the wagons beside the trail?"

  "We demand that you sell the arms and whiskey in Fort Laramie." Another chorus of agreement sounded. Strong conviction asserted itself against the morning ravages of strong drink.

  Cody swept them with a silencing glare. "That is not an option. If there are two things a military post has an abundance of, it's arms and whiskey. Our freight will fetch three times the price in Oregon, and that's where it's going."

  Perrin thrust out her chin and sparks flashed in her eyes. "Then we aren't."

  Cody's shoulders jerked and he stared at her. He hadn't expected this. After studying her unyielding scowl, he lifted his gaze to the other women. Their faces were equally determined.

  "We don't have time to waste on foolishness. Put out your fires and get in your wagons. We'll depart in ten minutes." One or two of the brides started to turn away, but Perrin's voice stopped them.

  "No," she said firmly, her refusal ringing in the crystal air. "We aren't going anywhere until we have your promise that you'll dispose of the whiskey and the arms in Fort Laramie. That's our condition for proceeding."

  "You aren't going to get it," he snapped.

  Spinning on the heel of a worn pair of shoes, she marched through the aisle opened for her by the brides. They glared at him, then closed ranks behind her, united in their decision and determination. Shoulders stiff, they returned to their wagons, presumably to search for headache elixirs.

  Cody signaled Smokey Joe to announce it was time to mount the wagons. Smokey's dinner gong banged out the call, and Cody finished saddling
his horse, giving them time to take their places. Then he waved his hat and shouted, "Waaaaagons, hoooo!"

  The wagons didn't move. No one stirred. The oxen didn't turn out of the square and plod toward the trail.

  Cody sat on his horse, scowling. He and feisty little Mrs. Waverly had come head to head. She had instigated a mutiny.

  "Well, we'll see how things look after she's had a day to sit on that pretty little butt and think about it," he muttered as Webb rode up beside him.

  He hadn't overlooked the significance of the brides' united support, but his anger focused on Perrin. Grinding his teeth, he rode toward his two remaining teamsters, shouting orders.

  An hour later, Perrin noticed without much interest that Miles Dawson and John Voss were unyoking the oxen. As the day wore on, a few of the women summoned the energy to bake bread or roll out pies. Winnie and Cora wandered off in search of ripe plums. Everyone else nursed aching heads or dozed on the shady side of their wagons and swore never again to sample whiskey. Everyone wished they had access to clean water and a bath. But all they had was the dirty Platte, not fit for man nor beast.

  From time to time throughout the day Perrin glimpsed Cody talking to the men, gesturing angrily. He rode out with Webb and a few hours later returned with enough antelope that Smokey Joe gave each of the wagons a chunk of fresh meat for the stew pots. Near suppertime, she spotted Cody standing with Webb, studying the remaining whiskey wagon.

  The very best part of the day was when each of the brides found a reason to stop by Perrin's wagon and then praise her for standing up to Cody and reassure her that they were united in their position. When Augusta appeared, Perrin froze, dumbstruck.

  Ostensibly, Augusta came to return a cup of sugar that neither Perrin nor Hilda could recall having lent her.

  "I guess we showed him a thing or two," she said firmly, pouring her cup into the sugar sack that Hilda held open. "He'll not endanger our lives!" This was the closest Augusta would ever come to voicing approval of something Perrin had done.

  Perrin nodded, and waited. Because, of course, Augusta, being Augusta, couldn't leave it at that.