The Year We Were Famous (14 page)

By the light of the bedside candle, Ma read from the pamphlet the numbskull at the newspaper office had given her on Colorado mining.

"Luck is with us; don't you feel it?" Ma said.

"What I feel is that for over four months we've nearly killed ourselves walking toward New York and it will all be for nothing if we miss our deadline so you can see some cockamamie gold mine."

"Humph!" Ma continued to flip pages in her booklet.

"Ma, that brochure is just hoopla and snake oil. The stores selling pickaxes made more money than ninety-nine percent of the miners." I grabbed the pamphlet. Ma tugged back. The pages ripped.

"Now see what you've done!" Ma held her ragged half of the pamphlet toward me reproachfully.

"I don't want to hear any more about those mines. We didn't get an extension for the days we were lost in Idaho, so we're twelve days behind now—we can't waste time on a detour. The bet is a sure thing if we just keep going. This gold nonsense?" I threw my pages of the pamphlet in the air.

Ma dived to pick them up and began to piece pages together on top of the bed.

I heaved my seat down on the bed. "Ma, look at me—look—
are
we trying to win or not?"

Ma pressed her lips into a sharp line and did not take her eyes from the pieces of the pamphlet as her fingers fluttered to reassemble them. Once she satisfied herself that all pieces were in place, she looked up.

I unfolded the map from her satchel and pointed out Denver and Cripple Creek. "Round trip it's at least one hundred and fifty miles, hiking at altitudes of up to ninety-five hundred feet. We'd squander another week—maybe two—getting there and back on course again. And what are you planning to do when we get there? We don't have a claim, and if we start digging on someone else's claim we're likely to get shot."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Clara. We can go to Cripple Creek and still get to New York on time." She leaned over the map and tapped a finger on the yellow rectangle of Nebraska and the orange of Iowa. "It's so flat, we can make up time there," she said.

"You started out to walk across the country and now you want to play gold miner. I think that's why Pa said he'd only let you go if I came with you—not only to keep you safe, but to keep you from flying off-course with some harebrained idea."

Ma scowled.

I continued my argument. "Why did we even leave home if you don't mean to win? With ten thousand dollars we could pay all our debts, all of us children could go to college, or you could set up Ida in her own hat shop and buy farms for all the boys. You said you were on this walk for the sake of the family, but I have to wonder if that's true. Maybe you're the one who wanted a change from Mica Creek and made up this walk as an excuse to get away."

When Ma stopped fluttering and went statue-still, I dared to hope I was getting through to her. "You were the one who said we can't afford to lose the farm. 'Without the land we starve' is what you said."

Ma sat, refusing to look at me. I took out Pa's owl and held it inches from her face. "Think of Pa. Think of Olaf, Ida, Bertha, Johnny, Arthur, William, and Lilly. They're all at home rooting for you, Ma."

At home, between the times she fought the dismals or the whirlwinds, we enjoyed blessed normal periods. Ma stretched a few pennies' worth of thread into a lace collar for Lilly to rival anything the Astors or Vanderbilts wore. She made prizewinning jams, she coached Arthur with his spelling, cut down one of her own dresses for Ida to wear for a dance. At the end of the day, she rocked Billy and Lilly on her lap and sang them her silly off-key lullabies. At these times, she was the best mother in Mica Creek. I wanted that version of my mother back.

I sagged when Ma stood, slipped on her shirtwaist, and fastened her skirt instead of coming back to bed. Circles of pink bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyes caught sparks from the flickering candle. I knew the pattern, and dreaded what might come next. A week from now she could burn herself out and she would be in bed again, more than a thousand miles from home, and more than a thousand miles from New York.

With fumbling fingers I refolded the map and stood as Ma laced up her shoes and started toward the stairs.

It would have been easier to persuade iron shavings to ignore the pull of a magnet than to persuade Ma to ignore the pull of gold. I stood at the top of the stairs, a hand over my mouth, blinking back tears. When Ma was like this, it was impossible to reason with her.

I had started the walk believing we might only be gone for a month or two before Ma ran out of steam and we returned home. Now—even though we were nearly two weeks behind schedule—I had almost dared to dream that we might reach New York and come home with enough money to fund a better future for everyone in the family. But not if we lost another two weeks on this crazy detour to Cripple Creek. I was almost mad enough to set off to New York by myself and try to collect from Miss Waterson, but not mad enough to forget my promise to Pa.

In five seconds I was scrambling into my clothes, sliding on dirty stockings, and skipping half the eyelets as I laced my boots. I blew out the candle and clomped down the stairs after Ma.

Mrs. Dawson, our hostess for the night, was standing at the door, watching Ma stride out on her new course toward Cripple Creek. She turned to me as I took the last two stairs in a leap. "You don't have to be off before breakfast, do you? I have the sourdough starter going for my specialty..."

My stomach rumbled at the thought of sourdough pancakes, but I looked anxiously at Ma's retreating back. I hesitated at the door just long enough for an apology. "Sorry to run, but when Ma gets it in her head to go, there's no stopping her." I ran after Ma, satchel banging against my thigh.

We only walked eighteen miles yesterday, and we were falling farther behind every day. At this altitude, we had to stop and rest every mile or so. We hardly spoke to each other, mile after mile, hour after hour.

We followed the Midland Terminal tracks around Pike's Peak and then to Gillett. We looped around the bottom half of Cow Mountain; looped northwest, south, and up and down Grassy Gulch; past Bull Cliff, Battle Mountain, Big Bull Mountain; and in to Victor.

It would have been another three miles from Victor to Cripple Creek as the crow flew, but since locomotives couldn't handle steep grades and we were following the tracks, we had to wind through the low spots between mountains. We slogged on and endlessly on, around Squaw Mountain, Elkton, Anaconda, Gold Hill, and Signal Hill. As we passed through wooden snow sheds that protected tracks at the bases of steep hills, we met men stationed inside to put out any fires the engines might spark. At each station, I fell to my knees and drank like a thirsty mule directly from their buckets.

I was scared to think of trying to take care of Ma so far from home. My nose was so dry that it bled, and I didn't even have the breath to scream at the frustration of wasting time zigzagging southwest through the mountains instead of getting closer to New York. Every few steps I took out my frustration on a rock and kicked it, pausing to watch it tumble over the side of the narrow ledge the tracks ran on, and down hundreds of feet into the ravine below. Our hopes of making it to New York were tumbling along with the rocks.

Gasping for breath, I dropped my bag and collapsed on it, but I didn't get a chance to rest. My bag upset the delicate balance of the ragged slide of rocks on the uphill side of the track, and rocks bigger than my head began to clatter down. In my panic to avoid being swept over the brink in a roaring rockslide, I leaped to the side and nearly lost my balance in the gravel. While I was still tottering, I was startled anew with a rattle that sounded like the frenetic buzz of a hundred riled-up bees. Something living took shape in the waves of heat radiating from the mountainside.

It was strange the things you noticed when you thought you were going to die. Close up, the scales on a rattlesnake looked like the scales on a pine cone, though a pine cone didn't breathe, rattle, and raise its head.

The snake opened its mouth and darted its forked, licorice-black tongue up and down to taste the air for me. I turned, stumbled, and screamed when a sharp pain slashed through my ankle. As the snake slithered out of sight back into the rock pile, I was sure I felt its venom working through my leg, swelling my body inch by inch with poison.

I can't remember how we got to Cripple Creek. I awoke alone in a strange room, stretched out on a tufted divan in someone's parlor. From the adjacent room, pottery and metal clinked and aromas of fried beef and onions drifted in.

Cutting through a mild hubbub of men's voices was a woman's voice ... a familiar voice. "Ma?"

Her voice halted in midsentence. Rapid footsteps approached my room. "You're awake!" Ma covered the space between the door and the divan in three vigorous strides. "How's your snakebite?" she said cheerfully.

At my shocked expression, she said, "Just kidding. All the way here you were mumbling about a rattlesnake bite, but at that altitude he probably didn't have the energy to bite. You just sprained that ankle jumping out of the way."

"Hurts though," I said. "Let me look." I boosted myself upright against the sloped side of the divan.

Ma hiked my skirt up to my knee and unwrapped the dishtowel that had been holding chunks of ice in place. My ankle was puffed up to twice its normal size, and looked like I'd rubbed blackberry juice on it. I winced.

"It'll look worse before it looks better," Ma said as she rewrapped my ankle. "At least I found us a nice place for you to recuperate. Mrs. Fitzwilliam—this is her house and restaurant—said we can stay as long as I keep bringing in customers to hear about our adventures." Ma kneeled and stroked my hair back from my forehead. "Would you like something to eat?"

At my weak nod, she returned with a tray of soup, slabs of bread slathered in butter, and a cup of coffee. "You know I don't approve of coffee for young folks, but I guess you could use some perking up."

Ma offering me coffee? It was as good as an apology for dragging me off-course into the mountains. Despite Ma spoiling me something awful over the next few days, I wrote a self-pitying letter to Charles.

I made more of my ankle than I needed to when I saw its effect on Ma. She always claimed she didn't have control over her ups and downs, but in a heroic effort to help me, she broke free of her gold fever, as if waking from a spell. It also helped that the miners she entertained with her stories confirmed my earlier guess that most of the good claims were already taken.

The next morning, as she held another ice bag on my ankle, she said, "If I try something like this detour again, you have my permission to put me in a harness and drag me to New York City."

I smiled halfheartedly. When Ma promised no more detours, I knew she meant it; but if another fancy took hold of her brain, who knew if she would be able to resist it?

On the third day, Ma spread her maps on my lap as I lay propped up on the bed, another ice bag on my ankle. "We have a thousand miles of flat ground until we get to Pennsylvania," Ma said. "And since the eastern half of the country is more settled, we should find someone willing to take us in every night. If we start each day rested and fed, we should make thirty miles a day."

I was not as sanguine in my estimates as Ma, but we could still make New York in time if we got an extension. By the tracks it was about eighteen hundred miles between Denver and New York City. At just twenty miles a day—though no days for rest or work—we'd need ninety days to get to New York. Ma wrote Miss Waterson asking for more time.

September 15

To: Miss A. J. Waterson, 95 William Street,
New York City, New York

From: Helga and Clara Estby

My daughter sprained her ankle crossing the Rocky Mountains, so we are laying up in Cripple Creek. I request a two weeks' extension of our deadline to allow time for her ankle to heal.

My ankle still throbbed at night, but it wasn't as bad as I had made it out at first. Although Ma asked for a two-week extension, with the aid of a donated crutch I was on the road again in five days.

Letters sent, October 5–October 11, 1896

To: Miss A. J. Waterson, 95 William Street,
New York City, New York

From: Helga and Clara Estby

Monthly Report # 5: Kearney, Nebraska

Miles covered, September 5—October 5: 443

Notes: Clara is mending; we are making good time again. We will attempt to see Mrs. William Jennings Bryan when we reach Lincoln.

Sunday, October 11, 1896
Lincoln, Nebraska

Dear Mr. Doré,

I apologize for burdening you with such a maudlin letter last time and vow to henceforth be a more cheerful correspondent. My first good news is that I no longer need my crutch and my ankle
is healing, though slowly. My second good news is that Ma did not find gold in Cripple Creek. If she had found a nugget the size of a pinhead, she would still be playing prospector. At least she has rededicated herself to our walk and we are making up a little of the time we lost. I'm exhausted and often bored—so many miles of flat fields and scrub—but as Ma says, the worst should be behind us. Some days the only thing that keeps me going is the thought of winning the money so we can buy two train tickets home.

For my brothers' sakes, I had hoped we would get to see Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley while we were in Nebraska, since the Wild West show train is crisscrossing the state this month, but instead we met the wife of someone nearly as famous!

We knew from the newspapers that Mr. William Jennings Bryan (Ma's choice for the next president) was campaigning in the Midwest, but she hoped to find Mrs. Bryan at home. Their house was ordinary. It had a friendly wraparound porch and a bicycle leaned up against a tree in the front yard. Mrs. Bryan herself opened the door, wearing a half-apron over her dress as if she had been doing some of her own housework.

You know how forward Ma is. She thrust out her hand, bold as a Bible salesman, and said we'd walked two thousand miles from Spokane, Washington, just to shake her hand and get her autograph.

Well, what could she do after that but invite us in?

I had scrubbed my hands at the railroad station before our visit, but when I looked at my rough, brown fingers around her dainty flowered teacup, I felt like I would never be clean enough for anyone's parlor again.

Mrs. Bryan asked politely about our walk, and Ma
explained the other reasons—besides meeting her—for leaving Mica Creek. When Mrs. Bryan's four-year-old daughter, Gracie, came in to claim her mother's lap, Mrs. Bryan lamented that no matter where she was, she felt duty calling her someplace else. f she was home with her children, she felt she should be helping her husband campaign; and if she was campaigning with her husband, she felt she should be home with her children.

Ma said she understood.

We even got to see the library where Mrs. Bryan works with her husband. (She is a lawyer, too!) I still thought her husband was longer on fiery speechmaking than statesmanship, but at least by marrying a woman like Mrs. Bryan he showed he believed women could use their brains without losing their hearts.

I didn't tell Ma, but after meeting Mrs. Bryan I was almost tempted to vote for Mr. Bryan myself. If I could vote.

Most sincerely,
Miss Clara Estby

P.S. I never asked you: Are you in favor of votes for women?