|
Book No. 3 of the "Celebrating the American Woman" series published by Servant Publications in 1995 and 1996.
Cover art by David Hile Illlustration & Design
Cover design by Diane Bareis
Set in the Colorado Territory of 1876 - the truly wild Wild West - Marilla brings to life the the nature of America's frontier women: their amazing resilience, ingenuity and against-all-odds humor, and the faith that gave them deeper strength.
Marilla Hay's parents die of Yellow Fever, and the young woman is duped into selling their homestead and moving to the mining town of Independence, Colorado. Working for Ian MacDonald at The Independence Hotel, she soon realizes her mistake and begins to plot to recover the farm. But her "association" with Ian MacDonald, a man with ties to the Clark Gang, makes her suspect in the eyes of the law.
As she struggles to release herself from her situation, she re-defines her parents' ethics, choosing revenge over justice, and pride over courage. But when circumstances finally give her a chance to regain her parents' homestead, she learns it takes more courage to love than to hate.
Marilla was inspired by a trip to Colorado - the McMath's honeymoon. When she and her husband, Chuck, drove over Independence Pass and saw the remains of a mining town, she was struck by the incredible contrast: the magnificent evergreen ountains with their deep slopes and silver streams, barely touched by the short, cruel life of a 19th century mining town - the "city," a true flash in the miner's pan. Then she wondered what caused Americans to leave everything to attempt a miner's life from land so bent on destroying their chances of success.
This story is her answer.
Remains of the mining town north of Independence Pass
Page 29
After being duped again by MacDonald, Marilla thinks on her future in a mining town .
... I gathered my thoughts and weighed my options, then shook my head. Well, I could always marry a miner!
Three lonely fellows asked me to marry them the first week I came to town: the first one right there in the hotel lobby and the next two on the street. That first time I was so shocked I couldn't reply. Oh, but he was earnest. Starts telling me everything about himself and takes my silence for encouragement. Eventually his friends pulled him away, and me with my jaw still hanging open as they pushed him into the hotel saloon.
They're quite serious about marriage - firmly dedicated to the idea all during the seconds it takes to ask. They're so dead lonely for home, for a home-cooked meal, a clean place, a woman they don't have to share... But marriage to a miner is the most wretched life I can imagine. They have a hunted look in their eye after they've been at it for a while. Their only conversation: where to find the gold; who has it; who lost it; how to get it again. If they get it, someone steals it from them at the boarding house, or they lose it gambling, or to a saloon girl. If they manage to send it out of town, it's stolen off the stagecoach or the train. A miner's life is a gamble and a nasty hard life while it lasts, from what I've seen, and I don't want any part of that.
I could hire myself out as a cook or washerwoman, but what would be the hair's worth of difference from what I do now? At least MacDonald takes care of me. And if there is a way to let the law get at MacDonald, I want to around to see it happen.
In this restless and bitter state of mind, the first month passed, then another, and another. Six months. And oh, how I nurse this little flame of hate for MacDonald; keeps me going each day. This incredibly strong desire for revenge permeates my thinking day and night. It's been six months since my parents died, but it may as well be six years, or sixty.
And today? Today I've had all the hope kicked out of me besides.
Back to Books, Articles and Other Writings
Page 52
The question is not whether he's a vigilante, but whether he's a crazy vigilante.
Then it comes to me - the only real chance to get away from him is right now.
As the cart trundles onward, I carefully shift the rest of the sacks off my back and scoot my way backward toward the edge of the wagonbed. Soon my feet have reached the edge.
I peer up from the blanket to see an opening in the forest dead ahead. I'll slip off there. The thought then hits my stomach and I swallow hard.
The wagon reaches the edge of the forest; here the trees come right up to both sides of the road. If I can manage to slip off the back quietly, I'll be able to hide in these woods. I pull at my cloak and begin my descent.
As luck would have it, I slip off easily, right into the road. Bruised my knees a bit, but my cloak broke my shoulder's fall, thank heaven.
So as not to spoil me with a feeling of triumph for more than one second, Jones chooses the next moment to cry, "Whooaa" and pull his horses to rest.
A chill rides up my spine, but I lie there, perfectly still, staring at the mud.
"Miss Hay? You can sit up... Miss Hay? MISS HAY? Tarnation, woman! Of all the stupid...." He scrambles down from the cart and comes around to the back.
His boots slog toward me.
There is silence as he stands over my prone form.
"Miss Hay?"
Well, his voice is quieter than I imagined it would be. "Yes?"
"Would you mind standing?"
"Yes, I would."
"Have you hurt yourself?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then what's the trouble?"
The trouble? The trouble is, Mr. Jones, I've had enough. My parents are gone. Our homestead stolen out from under me. I work my fingers to the bone for the man who did the stealing. He owns everything and everyone. And now I'm trapped by a madman.
The trouble, Mr. Jones? The trouble is I am tired of living at the moment.
"If you are going to kill me, I'd just as soon take it here and now."
Oh, Marilla, did you really want to die? Weren't you planning an endearing, passionate, mercy-imploring speech? Didn't you want to win your freedom? A lump rises in my throat. Couldn't you keep from saying it?
And now he's laughing. My God, he's laughing.
I squeeze shut my eyes and await my fate.
"Kill you?!" he shouts. "Me... KILL you? What in the blame... Are you crazy?!"
My eyes blink open, and I turn my head ever so slightly. "No, Mr. Jones. Are you?"
Back to Books, Articles and Other Writings
Page 84
Jones and Shaw in a story-telling mood.
Jones is propped back in his chair, with the heel of his boots barely touching the floor. During the conversation, one boot will rise to the side of the mantel. Over time, he'll switch it. He's restless, very restless, I note. Mr. Shaw, on the other hand, sits in his chair as still as a rock, with his feet propped on a low stool. His right hand holds a pipe, and this is the only thing that moves - lighting, puffing, tapping, filling - as Jones' stories, like his friend's steady smoke rings, rise to the air one by one.
"Heard about a Judge," says Jones.
"Yep."
"Judge Pokum."
"Pokum?"
"Yeah. Judge Pokium had an awful duty to perform."
"Mmm...," says Shaw.
"Held a man's life in his hands... Well, in his pocket, anyway."
"In his pocket, you say?"
"Had a statement in his pocket that would condemn a man to die - an eyewitness account of a murder. Yes, sir. All he had to do was take this paper to court and the man was certain to be hanged."
"I see. So what's the trouble?"
"Court was a far piece. Court was over the mountain and across a flooded river."
"Well, he were a judge, weren't he?"
"'Zactly." Jones waits as Shaw refills his pipe.
"Please go on, Mr. Jones."
"My pleasure, Mr. Shaw."
I am the audience. It makes me smile. Jones shifts his footing.
"Well, Judge Pokum had a horse. More specifically.... a nag, but she got him over the mountain."
"Good horse."
"But she wouldn't swim the river."
"Shoot the dang horse."
"Din't have to."
Silence.
"Pokum had to swim the rest of the river by himself. Got to the other side and found an empty cabin."
"Nice luck."
"Firewood in the fireplace."
"Mmm."
"But nothin' to light it with!"
"Too bad!"
"Just one sheaf of papers on him."
"No!"
"Yes, sir."
All is silent as I hold my needle still waiting for the ending.
Suddenly Jones says, "Judge Pokum came to court. He stood before the jury and right away said the man was free to go."
"No kiddin'."
"'Lack of evidence!' says the Judge."
"Ain't it the truth."
"Furthermore,' says he, 'no ladies was hurt in the fracas, so I don't see as any real harm was done.' "
"Uh-huh."
"They let him go."
Lord, I wish my father could hear this. I laugh quietly and can't quit laughing no matter how hard I try. Soon I can't surpress the sound.
Jones lets his chair fall forward with a thump. "Is she laughin' with us or at us, Shaw?"
"Must be at us," he answers slowly. "'cause she ain't one of us."
Back to Books, Articles and Other Writings
Contact the Author
FAVORITE BIBLIOGRAPHIC RESOURCES:
A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains, Isabella Bird, VIRAGO Press, 1992
Letters of a Woman Homesteader, Elinore Pruitt Stewart, Houghton Mifflin, 1988
Pioneer Women, Joanna L. Stratton, Touchtone of Simon Schuster, 1981 |
home