Bushedwhacked Groom (14 page)

Laughing, she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.
“Boys, really, no firm date has been set.”

“You’re already discussing dates?” Matt cried, crest
fallen.

Glancing at her son, Jessica grimaced at the sight of his bruised jaw and ripped shirt. “Matt, what on earth happened to you?”

Matt gulped but did not reply.

“Old man Trumble knocked him down the front
stoop,” explained Vance.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” Jessica said wearily.

“What?” cried Matt.

She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you boys just show up
there in the middle of the week, without an invitation?”

“Well, we wanted to court his daughters,” grumbled
Zach.

“Your father explained that to me. But there’s more
to courting than just following your noses. Why, to
intrude that way—”

“That’s what I told ‘em, Ma,” put in Cory self-
righteously as he stepped inside the kitchen to join the others. “How they were going off half-cocked and not
thinking this through.”

“Amen,” agreed Jessica.

“Old man Trumble wouldn’t let us see his girls, anyhow,”
griped Vance.

“Gee, what a shock,” murmured their mother.

“Well, our intentions were honorable,” spouted Zach
with a dark look. “Old man Trumble knows we all have
marriage on our minds.”

“I’ll just bet he does,” Jessica concurred.

“And I told him I’d provide well for his Bonnie—if she’d just give me a baby right quick,” added Matt.

“You didn’t!” Jessica gasped.

Matt rubbed his jaw. “And that’s when the geezer
knocked my carcass three ways to sundown.”

“Well, I can’t say I blame him.”

“Ma!” protested Matt.

Jessica balled her hands on her hips. “Boys, I’ve told
you and told you that when the time comes for court
ing, you must show the proper respect. Sunday after
noon is the appointed time. Going-to-meeting clothes
are in order, as well as modest gifts of candy or flowers.”

“But, Ma, he even demanded we show calling
cards,” protested Zach.

“A fine idea,” Jessica agreed. “We can go into town
and get some printed up.”

Zach’s jaw dropped open.

Matt was pacing about angrily. “But that’ll take a
month of Sundays, and baby sister is already besting us.”

“I told you nothing has been firmly decided.”

“Hell, she’ll have that sissy yoked up before the week
is out,” put in Vance with disgust.

Jessica had to smile. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so frus
trated, boys. But if you want to win this contest, you’ll
need to proceed with a little more finesse in ap
proaching your future wives.”

“But Ma, Pa bushwhacked you home and it worked out just fine,” complained Zach.

“Son, that was a very special incident, and frankly,
your father is lucky I didn’t roast him on a spit. If you
really want to court your ladies, then you need to listen
to me, and start remembering some of those lessons in
good manners that you’ve all so conveniently forgot
ten.” She smiled at her youngest son. “All except Cory,
that is.”

Jessica’s three oldest sons regarded her in surly si
lence—and Cory grinned from ear to ear. “Didn’t I tell
you boys? Ma is always right!”

Zach snarled at his younger brother, then jerked his
thumb toward Matt and Vance. “Come on, boys, let’s go
rub down the horses and see if Sanchez has any chili left out at the bunkhouse. Sure beats the company in
here.”

Watching her three older sons troop out, Jessica
sighed, then turned to Cory. “Honey, I’m sorry the
courting expedition was such a disaster.”

“Well, I warned my brothers—and you did, too.”

“I know, but I do feel badly for the boys.” Jessica pen
sively eyed her youngest son. “What are your senti
ments regarding this contest, Cory?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you want to win like the others? Do you
favor one of the Trumble girls yourself? I know you’ve
mentioned helping out Ida May at the library”

He grinned. “Yeah, I like her a lot, Ma. She’s pretty
and smart—and favors books, like I do.”

Jessica bit her lip. “She is lovely, dear, but I don’t want to see this absurd competition derailing your fu
ture. Of you five kids, you’re the one I’ve always con
sidered to be the most like me.”

“Hey, that’s quite a compliment.” He affectionately
hugged her.

“And you’ve also been the one who is most devoted to pursuing your education,” she continued. “Indeed, I was hoping we might go visit the
University
of
Colorado
this fall, perhaps enroll you.”

He nodded. “I’d like that, Ma. And of course we can
do it.”

“But what about Ida May?”

He winked. “By then, who knows? We might even be
able to take her along with us—that is, if her pa will
ever allow me to court her.”

Jessica laughed. “Well, that is a thought. Actually, I
was really hoping we might take Molly—but with her
already so fixated on marrying Lucky . . .”

Cory rolled her eyes.
“
Ah, Ma, don’t worry about
Molly. I don’t think they offer many courses in ‘The
American Dime Novel’ at the University.”

“Yes, I suppose she does have rather lurid reading tastes,” she rejoined dryly. “And I do think she and
Lucky might be good for each other. I’m just afraid this
whole business will deteriorate into a nasty war—es
pecially between Molly and your older brothers.”

Cory nodded. “I know, Ma. Me, too. Truth to tell, al
though I like Ida May, I’m involved in the competition
mainly to keep my brothers out of trouble.”

She patted his arm. “I pretty much figured as much. Poor
Cory. That’s been your role all your life, hasn’t it?—
keeping the other boys from ruining theirs.”

“Well, I can’t let you and Grandma be the only cru
saders in this family,” he quipped.

“Thank heaven for that,” Jessica replied, laughing
and embracing him.

Chapter Eleven

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Lucky could not believe his eyes and ears as he and
Cole rode down the streets of Mariposa on two range
horses. Only days earlier he’d seen this place as a ram
shackle ghost town. Now he viewed a thriving com
munity of the early twentieth century. Storefronts
boasting signs emblazoned with everything from
APOTHECARY
to
HABERDASHERY
to
DRY GOODS
to
SALOON
lined the streets. On an adjacent square, a red brick
Victorian complex housed the county courthouse, jail
and library.

Citizens mingled on the boardwalks, gentlemen in
old-fashioned suits, farmers in denim, lumberjacks in
dungarees, ladies in long, straight gowns and feath
ered hats, little girls in pinafores and bonnets, boys in
overalls and straw hats. Crude telephone poles laden
with wire zigzagged past. In the cobbled streets he
spotted all sorts of amazing conveyances—several an
tique carriages, a couple of drays hauling logs, a few
riders on horseback and a couple of high-wheeler bi
cycles. He even spied a Model T Ford sputtering along,
its mustachioed driver wearing a jaunty cap, an ascot,
a sack coat and knickers.

What in hell was going on here? Some sort of movie
production, maybe? He was half expecting to see
Kevin Costner or Clint Eastwood come striding down
the boardwalk.

Lucky regarded Cole in suspicion and amazement.
“How exactly did this town come to be?”

“Mariposa was originally a mining town that sprang
up when the Aspen Gulch Consortium made its strike at the eastern branch in 1883,” Cole explained. “But
there was mining in these parts for decades before
that, thanks to those snakes in
Colorado Springs
.”

“Snakes?” Lucky asked.

Cole’s mouth was set with bitterness. “The
Aspen
Gulch Consortium. They’re the sidewinders who poi
soned the water and the land with metal runoff, and
murdered the miners by overtunneling. My ma lost
two good husbands due to those vipers. My pa,
Chester
Lively, was killed in a cave-in, and my brothers’
pa, Joseph Reklaw, died of miner’s lung.”

“Hey, I’m sorry to hear that,” Lucky said sincerely.

“That’s why almost three decades ago my brothers
and I started robbing gold shipments from the Consor
tium—”

Lucky snapped his fingers. “And became the infamous Reklaw Gang, the one that later kidnapped Pro
fessor Jessica Garrett off the stage?”

Cole smiled wryly. “So you’ve heard of us?”

“Guess so.”

“Well, we did bushwhack Professor Garrett, the very
woman who’s my wife today. And I take it you’re open
ing up your mind a little about what has happened to
you?”

He glanced about slowly and mumbled, “Looks like
I may not have much choice.”

“Anyway,” Cole continued, “after Jessie came here,
she, too, was appalled by the plight of the miners, and
convinced the Aspen Gulch Consortium to close the
mines down and pension the miners.”

“How did she do that?”

He grinned. “Though some—er—hardball tactics in
volving the
Colorado Springs
press. Unfortunately,
around that time the
Colorado
City
sheriff got wise to
me and my brothers’ activities. After Jedediah Lum
mety almost nabbed us, we had to hightail it. We all got
married, then pulled up stakes and moved with our
wives to
Wyoming
.”

“Hiding out, eh?”

“Right. When we left, we kind of expected the town
to fade away. But a decade later, when my brother Billy
and I decided to return here with our families, we
were pleased to discover Mariposa had revitalized itself around farming and lumbering.”

“Yeah, I guess not having all that pollution must
have made a difference,” Lucky muttered.

Cole motioned to Lucky to pull up his horse at a
hitching post. “Come on, let’s take a walk,” he suggested.

Hands shoved into his pockets, Lucky trooped along
with Cole. As they passed a soda shop he glanced in
side and spotted a soda jerk in white jacket and cap
standing behind a bar with a huge, antique Coca-Cola
plaque behind it; the man was serving ice cream sodas to two ladies wearing absurd feathered hats. Next they
passed a bakery, where a plump woman was pulling
loaves of bread out of a wall oven; Lucky had to admit
the smell of warm baked goods wafting out the open
door was tantalizing.

Cole motioned toward the general store ahead.
“We’ll stop in here. Jessica asked me to fetch home
some flour and bacon.”

They entered to the jangle of a bell and an over
abundance of sounds, sights and scents. Lucky
couldn’t begin to take it all in at once, so he started
with the people: the aproned proprietor with gartered shirtsleeves and handlebar mustache, standing behind
a counter stacked with tins of tobacco; the housewives
perusing yard goods and grocery staples; the old-
timers in overalls chatting around a barrel of pickles.

Next, the objects and wares: the antique wooden
telephone hanging on the wall; the Victrola with huge
shiny horn, displayed for sale in a front window; the
fussy rows of ladies’ satin slippers and button-top
shoes; the cast-iron toys for the children; the jars of
mustache wax and bottles of castor oil and other
patent medicines; the old-fashioned mason jars and
antique tin cans, offering foods ranging from pickled
pigs’ feet to “Son-of-a-gun Stew.”

And the smells: tobacco and leather; old-fashioned
talcum and pomade; spices and sawdust; pickles and
molasses.

Lucky felt baffled, disoriented. Where were the sym
bols of modern life—the security cameras and video
games, the coolers with beer and freezers with mi
crowave meals, the racks of mass-produced groceries and staples?

Determined to get to the bottom of this, he strode
over to the group of old-timers and addressed a
bearded man with a potbelly and a pipe in his mouth.
“What year is it, sir?”

The men guffawed, and the one he had addressed
turned to Cole. “Who’s this young whippersnapper you
brung into town with you, Cole? Bit short on manners,
ain’t he?”

Cole strode forward. “Sorry, Walter. This is our house
guest, Lucky Lamont. Had himself a bit of an accident
the other day—”

“Did he fry his brains?” asked another old gent, amid
more spurts of laughter.

As Lucky glowered, Cole held up a hand. “No, Lucky
here fell off his horse.”

“Weren’t too lucky for him, eh?” interjected a bald oldster in overalls.

While Lucky ground his teeth, Cole explained, “Any
how, he took a bad spill, and since then he’s been—”

“A trifle tetched in the head?” offered Walter, prompt
ing more gales of mirth.

Lucky had had his fill of these codgers and their
jeering. “Would you geezers kindly stop breaking my
butt and give me a straight answer? I want to know
what year it is.”

Walter whistled. “Got a temper on ‘im, don’t he,
Cole? Well, young fella, it’s the year of our Lord 1911.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hey, watch your lip, you little snot nose,” Walter
scolded.

Lucky jerked a thumb toward Cole.
“
How much did
he pay you guys to do this?”

“Do what?” asked the bald one.

“To pull the wool over my eyes.”

The man scratched his jaw. “Don’t see no wool there, young fella—”

Exasperated, Lucky snapped, “Would you lose the farmer-in-the-dell routine? What I’m asking is, how
much did he pay you to
pretend
you’re living in the
year nineteen-eleven?”

The man appeared mystified. “But we ain’t play-
actin’, young man. This
is
the year 1911.”

“And I’m Madonna in spurs.”

Walter whistled. “He’s a mite sacrilegious, ain’t he,
Cole?”

Before Cole could answer, Lucky turned aggres
sively on Walter. “Quit talking to him and cough up the truth.
We all know damn well it isn’t 1911.
Either you guys have pulled a fast one, setting up this
practical joke, or I’ve just walked onto the set of a very
bad spaghetti western.”

“Spaghetti what?” Walter asked. “Cole, this youngster
is loco.”

“I told you he’d taken a bad fall.”

Walter pointed to his head. “And now he has
spaghetti for brains, eh?”

Before more chuckles could erupt, Lucky grabbed
Walter by the lapels of his flannel shirt. “Okay, Rip Van
Winkle, stuff the attitude and tell me what the hell year
it is.”

“Hey, cool down, young fella,” Walter retorted, shak
ing himself loose. “Look, sonny, I know you don’t want
to hear this, but it really is 1911.” Watching Lucky go
wild-eyed, he hastily pointed across the store. “Hell,
don’t listen to me. The
Denver Post
is right over there.
Go see it with your own two eyes.”

Lucky gave Walter a nasty look, then strode across the store and grabbed a newspaper from the stack. He
gulped at the date of the issue, from May of 1911, then
quickly scanned the front-page articles: suffragettes staging another march in Washington, D.C.; news of
the investigation of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire in New York City; a photo of Harry Houdini escaping a
bank vault; details of an orphan train arriving at the
Denver station; a picture of the Colorado governor
John F Shafroth greeting the Theodore Roosevelts dur
ing a visit to the state.

“You convinced yet?”

He turned to see Cole standing beside him, regard
ing him with amused indulgence, while the old-timers looked on, smirking, from across the store.

Despite the fact that his confidence was crumbling,
Lucky slammed down the newspaper. “All of this could
have been staged.”

Cole waved a hand. “You know what, young man?
I’m beginning to believe you are a good match for my
Molly since you’re every bit as stubborn as she is.
Look, I know this is a lot for you to absorb, but you
must face the truth. What will it take to convince you
you’re really living in the year 1911?”

Lucky thought fiercely, then snapped his fingers. “
Take me to Buck Hollow.”

“I can’t do that, son,” Cole replied patiently. “As we’ve
already told you, there is no town of
Buck Hollow
.”

“All right, then. Take me to
Broken
Buck
Mountain
.
It’s gotta be due south of here. And the town lies right beneath the peak.”

Cole nodded, then grinned. “Broken
Buck
Moun
tain
, eh? Now that I can arrange.”

***

A hard two hours’ ride later, Lucky found himself sit
ting on horseback beside Cole, staring in bewilder
ment at
Broken
Buck
Mountain
. The dramatic peak
loomed before them with its every well-remembered
contour, its soaring pines and aspens, its haze encir
cling the snowy crest.

But the town of
Buck Hollow
was nowhere to be
seen. Instead he viewed a lush valley where
Colorado
bluebirds chattered and a moose grazed; a stand of
Douglas firs stood where the
Broken
Buck
Motel
should have been.