A Sensible Arrangement (3 page)

Just then Paul Morgan and several other men entered the room. Jake had no idea where they had been. Since his arrival, he'd only been in Mrs. Morgan's company and was beginning to feel uneasy.

“Mrs. Morgan, please forgive our delay.” Mr. Morgan gave his wife a nod, then turned to Jake. “Mr. Wythe, may I introduce some of my associates. Just so happens they are my friends, as well.” Jake got to his feet. “This is Mr. Charles Kountze, a man well known in our banking industry.”

“It's nice to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“Pleasure is mine. I've heard some great things about you from Paul.”

Morgan ignored the reference and continued to make the introductions. “This is John Brown; he's the owner of that monstrous structure at Ninth and Grant. I've heard it said that folks call it ‘the schoolhouse,' but I cannot say
I've
heard it said.”

Brown laughed and extended his hand to Jake. “It's because I have so many children—nearly a dozen. It's good to meet you, Mr. Wythe.”

“Likewise, sir.”

“And this is Mr. Moffat.” Morgan stepped aside so the two men could exchange pleasantries.

“A name I know well,” Jake admitted. Fact was, he knew each of these men by name and reputation, although this was his first encounter with them face-to-face. The two men shook hands.

I'm standing in the
presence of royalty.

At least Denver's royalty. Jake retook his seat as the men settled into chairs. He marveled at the collective worth of the gentlemen gathered there. Their fortunes came from banking, mining, railroads, and a vast number of other investments. Each was a savvy businessman whose actions had done much to develop Denver into a thriving metropolis.

“Again, I apologize for the delay in joining you here today,” Morgan said, refusing a cup of tea from the servant. He motioned her instead to the liquor cabinet. “I had hoped to conclude our business prior to your arrival. After all, this is a holiday.”

“A new year, 1893,” Moffat said, shaking his head. “Hard to believe this century is nearly gone from us. This year stands on sandy foundations, but if wiser minds prevail, we will see it soon reinforced.”

Jake had heard all manner of rumors concerning the state of finances in America. The government about to take office blamed the Sherman Silver Purchase Act, which had required the government to purchase silver using bank notes based on silver or gold holdings. People had been arguing for and against bimetallism as a major issue of politics since the act had gone into effect two and a half years earlier.

The servant returned with a bottle of amber-colored liquor and five glasses on a silver tray. She started to pour Morgan a glass, but he took the bottle from her and held it up. “Gentlemen, may I interest you in a drink?”

“Oh, Mr. Morgan, must you?” his wife questioned.

“My dear, it is a holiday, and we are celebrating. I promise we will only imbibe in one small sampling.” He winked at the men and smiled, adding, “For now.” The woman rolled her eyes but said nothing more.

Jake shook his head when Morgan looked his way. He held up his teacup. “I'm perfectly fine.” There was no need to explain that hard drink had once been his downfall. He had sworn off the stuff ever since making a fool of himself in front of Deborah Vandermark. Even Josephine's nonsense had not caused him to forgo his promise to leave off all alcohol.

“I had forgotten you were a teetotaler, Wythe,” Morgan said, as if he disapproved. The man seemed to just as easily put it aside, however, as he moved on to the next man.

“We have a responsibility to our country,” Brown declared, taking a glass from Morgan, “but more so to our own community and state. Silver is king in Colorado. We will see to it that Colorado stands strong. We have the resources here to back our financial institutions and must prevail in keeping order.”

“What say you, Mr. Wythe?” Kountze asked. All gazes turned to Jake.

For a moment Jake wasn't sure what to say. He had no idea of his opinion mattering in the least. “I believe,” he said in slow, measured thought, “that taking preventive measures is always preferable to reflecting on hindsight and regrets of what should have been done.”

“Well said, young man. Well said,” Moffat agreed. “I've been laying foundations for success since before I was your age. I went to work as a child in a nearby bank, and by the age of sixteen I was promoted to assistant teller. I have owned properties, created businesses, and now labor to see a railroad completed that will connect Denver to Salt Lake. This can only serve to benefit our fine city.”

“Gentlemen, I have no desire to sit and listen to a business discussion,” Mrs. Morgan interjected. “Today is a day of
rest and a celebration of the New Year. I would ask you to postpone your choice of topics to another day.”

Mr. Morgan smiled and nodded, while the other men offered their apologies. Jake felt a sense of relief as the conversation turned first to the weather and then to some of the artistic touches that could be seen in the architecture of the house. Even the liquor seemed to be forgotten.

“Yes, yes, the windows were something I had to have,” Mrs. Morgan admitted. “After seeing your beautiful stained glass, Mr. Kountze, I could hardly do without.”

Kountze chuckled. “I suppose it wouldn't be fitting to let our ladies' desires go unmet. I have learned in my lifetime that keeping the women of the house happy is almost certainly a guarantee of one's personal contentment.”

“And shortly Mr. Wythe is to learn that lesson for himself,” Mrs. Morgan said with a knowing smile. “He is to wed soon.”

“Congratulations, Wythe,” Morgan's associates offered nearly in unison.

Kountze nodded in approval. “This is indeed a day of celebration. And might I inquire after your young lady? Tell us about her.”

“She's a widow from Texas . . . my home state,” Jake added the latter as if it would matter to these men. “Her name is Mrs. Martha Olson.”

“Is she of means?” Mr. Brown asked.

Jake didn't quite know what to say. He'd never really inquired as to Marty's financial circumstances. At first he'd figured if she was answering an ad for a mail-order bride, she couldn't be much to look at. Then she had sent her picture, and Jake knew that wasn't a problem. He figured she wasn't
financially secure and needed to find a husband who could take care of her needs.

“Let us refrain from such vulgar talk,” Mrs. Morgan said before Jake could reply. “I'm sure we shall enjoy getting to know Mrs. Olson—Mrs. Wythe—for ourselves.”

“I hope so,” Jake replied. “I believe Marty, uh, Mrs. Olson, will be a pleasant and genteel addition to my home. I've been too long without a wife, as your good husband pointed out.”

Marty shifted uncomfortably as the stage hit yet another rough spot in the road. Why she had ever allowed the Stellington sisters to talk her into taking the stage from Colorado Springs to Denver was beyond her. After several train delays, her friends had assured her that this service, for women only, was one their father had made available for ladies of means traveling unaccompanied from Colorado Springs to Denver and back. The journey, although not as fast as by train, would afford her comfort and amiable companions.

Looking across the enclosure at the three dozing old ladies positioned in the seat opposite, Marty couldn't help but smile. They had been all talk the first twenty or so miles of the trip. But now even the younger matron and daughter who sat beside Marty had stopped their incessant arguing and fallen silent. The only men were the stage driver and his shotgun rider. No doubt they were glad to be riding topside. Marty envied them.

Cradling her carpetbag, Marty considered what was to come. They had changed horses at the Seventeen Mile House; their next goal would be the Four Mile House, but Marty knew
that was still more than an hour away. She was thankful that the weather had been so nice—though far colder than what she'd known in Texas, she knew the temperatures had been mild for the area. And though there was no stove on the stage as there had been on the train, Marty was used to taking such matters in stride. Much of her life had consisted of desperately hard work, along with occasional periods of ease and pleasure.

And now
I'm to marry a stranger
.

The thought left her feeling both nervous and excited. Jacob Wythe had promised her a life of ease in his last letter, a life filled with pleasantries and beauty. Marty wasn't sure what all that might involve, but it had to be better than life in Texas, where death stalked her at every turn.

She rubbed her gloved fingers along the ivory handle of the carpetbag and tried to imagine what her new life would bring. Mr. Wythe had told her of his lovely house and the servants who would see to their needs. She considered pulling out the letter again to read Jacob's descriptions of Denver, then thought better of it. To open her bag would cause her to jostle the matronly woman beside her, and Marty had no desire to stir up a conversation. Besides, she had nearly memorized the lines of each letter.

This decision had not come easily; neither had it come without a price. She could still hear Hannah's insistence that Robert accompany Marty at least as far as Colorado Springs. Marty knew her older sister was concerned for her safety, but Marty also knew it was important to make a stand. She had done her best to assure Hannah that she would be perfectly fine—that traveling by train in the 1890s no longer necessitated a chaperone for a woman in her position.

Hannah had been less than convinced, and Marty thought
this almost comical for a woman who, during the War Between the States, had ridden off alone to help nurse a small band of hostile Comanche who were suffering from smallpox. Throwing out that memory in the face of Hannah's protests quickly quieted her sister, but still didn't win her approval. Nevertheless, Marty had her way.

I'll miss them.

There was no doubt about that, and Marty didn't pretend otherwise. She loved her family. It was Texas she hated. Texas and ranch life. She thought of Thomas again and gazed out across the landscape at the horizon. He would have liked Colorado—especially the snow-covered mountains. He might have even wanted to move there, Marty mused.

One of the old ladies began to snore, causing the matron's daughter to giggle. Marty had thought the silent young woman asleep, but even if she had been, her mother's sharp elbowing now put an end to that. The daughter straightened and gave a howl of protest, which only served to awaken the sleeping old women.

“Oh, do be quiet, Amanda,” the matronly woman demanded. “You've disturbed the entire coach.”

“It's not my fault! You hurt me. I am most likely bruised the full length of my side.” The girl clutched her right side for emphasis. “I don't know why we have to go visit your aunt anyway. She's old and she smells funny.”

One of the older women let out a
tsk
ing sound and turned to her traveling companions with a shake of her head.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense. You do go on.” Her mother was clearly in no mood for her daughter's whining, and neither was Marty. She was prepared to say as much when the unmistakable sound of a shot rang out.

Before they could say another word, the shotgun sounded from overhead and the stage picked up speed. Marty leaned out the window and hollered up to the driver. “What's happened?”

“Bandits!” the man yelled. “Get down in there!”

Marty pulled back inside and turned to the other women in the coach. They were now all wide awake. “Do any of you have a weapon?”

The women collectively shook their heads. Marty opened her carpetbag and pulled out a Smith and Wesson revolver. “Well, I do.” The matron gasped and her daughter pretended to swoon. Marty knew it was pretense, because the girl had given this performance multiple times on their journey.

With precise action, Marty loaded the .32 caliber top break without even doffing her gloves. Thomas had gifted her the gun the summer before his death. It was mostly for warding off rattlers and copperheads, but Marty had no difficulty protecting her welfare from snakes of the two-legged variety.

“You don't really mean to fire that thing, do you?” the matron asked.

Marty aimed the gun out the window as the first glimpse of a rider came into view. “I most certainly do.” A bullet ricocheted off one of the hubs of the stagecoach. “You ladies would do well to keep your heads down.” The shotgun boomed again, and this time Marty added her own precisely aimed shot.

Her traveling companions offered no further protest. Ducking low in their seats, they murmured prayers aloud instead. Marty could now see there were at least two riders. She hoped there weren't more. Surely between the shotgun rider and her own efforts, they would be able to hold the bandits at bay.

The bandits fired a flurry of shots in rapid order. Marty felt the horses pick up an even faster pace and fought hard to keep her aim straight. The shotgun echoed a reply, as did the little .32 revolver. Marty quickly ejected the spent cartridges and reloaded the gun. One of the riders had gained on them considerably and was nearly to the rear of the stage. Leaning as far out the window as she could manage, Marty aimed and fired again just as the shotgun blasted. The rider fell back, wounded. She had no idea if her bullet had helped to cause the damage, but she felt a sense of satisfaction as the shotgun was fired again and the rider dropped from the saddle.

“We got at least one of them,” she declared to the women. Not even one of the formerly talkative old women responded. They were all terror-stricken and looking at Marty with new respect.

Marty smiled to herself and turned her attention back to the task at hand. There was no sign of the other rider. She wondered if he'd crossed to the opposite side of the stage. Unconcerned with the matron's protest, Marty threw herself across the older woman and her daughter to look out the opposite window. The stage was slowing now.

Straightening, Marty called up to the driver, “Are they gone?”

She heard the man calling out to the horses and the stage rolled to a stop. Without thought to her safety, Marty opened the door and jumped out. She wasn't used to the extra forty pounds of heavy traveling clothes and nearly went to her knees. Righting herself, however, she looked up to where the driver and his shotgun messenger sat. Only now the driver was slumped in the seat, clinging to the reins as the other man did his best to keep him upright.

“How can I help?” Marty called up.

“Mac's shot up bad,” the man said. “I can't say I'm much better off. My arm's no good. We barely got the team stopped.” His voice sounded strained.

Marty lifted her heavy wool skirt and tore a huge strip of petticoat. Casting a quick glance down the road, she felt relieved that no riders were in sight.

The matron and one of the old women had poked their heads out the windows. “What's going on? What is happening?” the matron demanded to know.

“Our driver and the shotgun are badly wounded,” Marty replied.

“What are we to do?” the old lady asked fearfully. “Those men will soon return, and we will be . . . oh my . . . we might be . . . ravaged.”

Marty would have laughed out loud had it not been for the precariousness of the situation. “I think they meant to rob us. Now, stay put while I help the men with their injuries.”

She hiked her skirt again and put her booted foot on the hub of the stagecoach wheel. The wheel was nearly as tall as she was, and with the extra weight of her clothes it wasn't an easy feat. Not only that, but she was still trying to adjust to the higher altitude. She panted a bit as she struggled to place her right foot on top of the wheel rim itself. The nervous team refused to stand still and began to back up. Marty barely managed to grab hold of the rail at the front of the driver's box before she lost her footing. With strength she didn't know she possessed, Marty managed to swing her foot up to catch the edge of the front boot. All the while she vowed to herself that she would never again wear this many layers of clothing.

It seemed to take forever, but in fact only a few seconds passed as she hoisted herself awkwardly into the boot. Straightening, she secured the brake and took the bloodied reins from the wounded man and wrapped them around the rail. The shotgun rider cast her an apologetic glance as he slumped back. The driver was now unconscious.

“Sorry, ma'am. I couldn't hold 'em.” Both sleeves were blood-soaked, and the man's face was nearly as white as her shirtwaist.

“It's not a problem. We have them now.” Marty handed him the torn material. “Use this to stop the bleeding as best you can. How's the driver?”

“He took a bullet to the back and one grazed his head. I think he's still alive.”

Even with the brake set, Marty knew it was dangerous to ignore the team of six, but she had to see to the driver. Doing her best to keep sight of the reins, she leaned across the slumped man and felt his chest. He was still breathing. Her gloved hand came away even wetter with blood, however.

“How far to the next stagehouse?”

“A good six miles,” the messenger replied. “But I can't drive—not this way.”

“I understand. I didn't mean for you to. I'll drive the team.”

“You, ma'am? But you're just a little bitty thing.” The man struggled to tie off the material around his wounded arm. “I can't let you do that.”

“Nobody else is able to do it,” she told him. “I've driven wagon teams before. I can handle this, as well. You just settle in and direct me.”

Marty managed to straighten the unconscious driver enough that she could take a seat. Calling down to the passengers,
she released the brake. “We're heading out, ladies.” It was the only warning Marty gave before she snapped the reins. “Yah!” she bellowed and the team stepped into action.

By the time they reached Four Mile House, Marty's forearms burned and her hands cramped. She had pushed aside her discomfort, knowing that the lives of the driver and shotgun were reliant upon her getting them medical attention. She had pressed the team to their limit and couldn't help but sigh with relief at the sight of the station.

The stagehouse operators appeared for the relay change. They stared up in stunned surprise at the small woman. “We were attacked,” Marty called down. “These men need a doctor fast!”

The two men who'd come to change out the team quickly went into action to retrieve the wounded men from atop the stage. Meanwhile, the women passengers spilled out from the coach. The matron and her daughter were sobbing in each other's arms, while the old women were chattering on and on about their brush with molestation and certain death. Marty waited patiently while the injured men were taken inside the house. She was relieved, however, when a young man bounded up the side of the stage and took the reins from her hands.

“I'll see to this now, ma'am.” He gave her a grin as big as Texas. “You sure are somethin'. Ain't many women—especially one so purty—that could handle a team like this.”

Marty looked at her bloodied clothes and thought of how disarrayed her hair and hat must be. She smiled and shook her head. “Perhaps you can tell me where I might clean up.”

“I'll help you, ma'am,” an older man called. “Let me get you down from there first.”

Marty stepped to the side of the boot and allowed the
man to help her from the stage. She felt her knees very nearly buckle as her feet hit the ground again.

“Easy there, ma'am.” The man held fast to her arm as Marty drew in a deep breath and steadied herself.

“Thank you. I'm fine now.” She allowed him to escort her into the house, where the other women had gathered. Everyone paused and turned their gaze to Marty. One of the older women came forward and took Marty's arm.

“Come with me, deary. I'll help you get cleaned up. You saved our lives, you know. You're a heroine!”

Marty shook her head. “No, I only helped our men. They are the real heroes.”

The old woman kept moving Marty toward a stand with water and fresh towels. A woman Marty didn't know appeared and began to help.

“I'm Sallie,” the woman explained. “I'm wife to the station manager here. What's your name?”

“Mrs. Marty Olson.” She glanced around the room. “Was there someone nearby to help our driver and his man?”

Sallie smiled and stripped the bloodied gloves from Marty's hands. “Dr. Bryant is just a mile away. I already sent my boy to get him and the sheriff. You did real good in bringing them on in, Mrs. Olson. Probably saved their lives. I'll get these bloody gloves soaking in salt water. Since the blood is still fresh, I'm thinking we can get it out.”