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Heartbreak and Heaven
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Commencer à lireLongueur: 304 pages4 heures
- Éditeur:
- David M. Delo
- Sortie:
- Oct 1, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9780463567937
- Format:
- Livre
Description
Edith leaves home for Carter Station to teach. Martin's position as a clerk for a store in Bear River City ends when the town is destroyed by a riot. He ends up working for Judge Carter at Carter Station. Martin and Edith reunite. Her background as a suffragette helps South Pass City's women get the vote. Edith is loved by Union Pacific boos John Casement and a brash lieutenant of the Second Cavalry. Martin focuses on success and becomes a Military Post trader. Edith discovers Casement will not marry her, and the lieutenant is killed by Indians. Martin and Edith eventually marry and settle at Martin's post on the Shoshone Indian Reservation. While they raise a family, Martin prospers, but along the way, they fight disease, a 100-year storm, crooked politicians, and hostile Indians.
Informations sur le livre
Heartbreak and Heaven
Longueur: 304 pages4 heures
Description
Edith leaves home for Carter Station to teach. Martin's position as a clerk for a store in Bear River City ends when the town is destroyed by a riot. He ends up working for Judge Carter at Carter Station. Martin and Edith reunite. Her background as a suffragette helps South Pass City's women get the vote. Edith is loved by Union Pacific boos John Casement and a brash lieutenant of the Second Cavalry. Martin focuses on success and becomes a Military Post trader. Edith discovers Casement will not marry her, and the lieutenant is killed by Indians. Martin and Edith eventually marry and settle at Martin's post on the Shoshone Indian Reservation. While they raise a family, Martin prospers, but along the way, they fight disease, a 100-year storm, crooked politicians, and hostile Indians.
- Éditeur:
- David M. Delo
- Sortie:
- Oct 1, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9780463567937
- Format:
- Livre
À propos de l'auteur
I have led a grasshopper life as a counter intelligence agent, a systems analyst and vice president of a Fortune 500 company, the owner-manager of a guest ranch, a bus driver, an author who has written 8 books, and a relatively-successful artist. I didn't begin to write until I was in my mid-40s, several years after I received my M.A. in Journalism at New York University. At the present, I have one memoir and six novels to offer. Some of these books have been published five to twenty years ago. I have created new editions of a few, and made a few changes to book structure and title. I have released the One Touch of Espionage and Creativity and the Manic Depressive: In Search of Balance and Stability, June, 2018. The rest will appear between July and December. They are my children. I hope you will enjoy their company. They are fun and instructional to be with.
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Heartbreak and Heaven - David M. Delo
Heartbreak and Heaven
Book #2: The Mountains of Eternal Snow Series
by David M. Delo
Published by David M. Delo at Smashwords
Copyrighted 2018 by David M. Delo
Smashwords License Notice
This eBook is licensed for your enjoyment only. I have between 2,000 and 4,000 hours of work in this book, so please do not sell it or give it away to others. If you want to share it, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient
Thank you for respecting the time and creative effort of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1. 1868: The Union Pacific Railroad
About the Author
The Next Book by the Author
Other Currently Available Books by the Author
Forthcoming Books by the Author
Summary of Book #1: Two for the West
Martin McLaughlin and three friends left Washington, D.C. for the west. Martin had incipient T.B.; the others were simply headed out for wherever life took them. On the banks of the Missouri River, Martin met and fell in love with Edith, a Quaker girl of sixteen. Her family planned to stay in St. Jo to avoid the violence of the Civil War. It took Martin a month one the trail before he began to feel better, in spite of almost drowning in the North Platte. Then he ended up in a Shoshone Indian camp on the wrong end of a Shoshone cure for coughing, and again almost died. By the time he arrived at Virginia City, the other three had left: Louis headed for California; Buck and Chad headed for Montana to find Buck's uncle's gold mine. For the next four years, Martin tried to find a job that suited him. Roustabout for the Halladay Stagecoach line only got him shot in a held-up, and when Halladay sold out, Martin didn't like working for wells Fargo. Worse, he hadn't heard from Edith for more than six months. He thought maybe she had married. Then he found what he though was a great job: clerk and partner for a new store in Bear River City, a band-new town earmarked as the coming winter headquarters for the Union Pacific.
While Martin was crossing the plains as a bullwhacker, Edith worked with her aunt teaching black children in St. Jo. Local rednecks torched the schoolhouse and accidently killed her aunt at the same time. When she discovered her aunt had been one of the original suffragettes. To help the cause, she attended the conference in Kansas City, but they failed. By then, Martin had stopped writing. When she inquired at his last place of employment, they said he had died in the hold-up. It nearly killed her. Then she discovered her mother had hidden Martin's later letters. Angry, impatient, and independent, Edith left home and took a job in the unsettled West teaching children in Carter Station, a depot on the newly laid tracks of the Union Pacific Railroad. It was a great job, but she missed Martin and wasn't certain how to find him. Chapter 1. 1868: The Union Pacific Railroad
Chapter 1. 1868: The Union Pacific Railroad
Edith boarded the Union Pacific Railroad passenger car the last week of September. The man who occupied the seat opposite her had joined the train at a nearly deserted stop named Julesburg, four hundred miles west of Omaha.
The stop was a little more than a collection of huts, a stage station, and piles of railroad material. But there the train had crossed the South Platte River. Edith had thought it marvelous to look out upon the sand bars, islands, and twisting water channels through the steady parade of bridge braces. The view was certainly an improvement over the Platte River Valley. For the full last day and night, it represented one long, treeless stretch of boredom. Aside from a few scattered settlements and Fort Kearny, the land had been formless. Until Julesburg, the railroad tracks paralleled but never crossed the Platte.
The new passenger smiled and gave his name as Daniel Smith, Danny, for short.
That was rather forward she thought. Nevertheless, he was cute, and as he talked casually he appeared acquainted with a number of interesting places and persons in the West. Edith would only admit that his animated presence was a nice distraction from dreary views and her reading.
Mr. Smith continued to chat breezily and asked seemingly harmless questions, but Edith had a hesitancy in her responses, aware that through all the banter the man might be testing the depths of her receptivity. She answered questions politely but sparingly.
Something about Mr. Smith was not right. He reminded her of Mr. Grandin the substitute teacher in Fulton who always managed to hover. He would smile and be instructive but his manner made Edith uncomfortable. At the end of his first week of teaching Grandin touched her on two separate occasions—harmless, accountable touches but with an undercurrent that made her skin turn cold.
Edith looked up from the letter she was writing and shook her head in answer another question. Earlier she had politely inquired as to Mr. Smith’s profession. He said he was a Professional Frontiersman,
then quickly changed the subject. His eyes, which matched his expensive, somewhat bold-looking attire, had a nasty habit of scanning her in a way that would make most women choose another seat in the car. Relocating, however, did not appear to be an option. The cars on the Union Pacific train had nearly filled to capacity in Omaha. The number of people Edith saw waiting for the westbound train had been a big surprise. From partial conversations around her she discovered the majority were going only as far as the Rocky Mountains as tourists so they could say they had seen the West.
Two days earlier, Hiram had driven her to the train station at Fulton. He mother had stayed home after having provided a good-bye speech that was both contrite and unforgiving, one in which she voiced her conviction that Edith would fall off the face of the earth, alone and with a short shriek if she went beyond the outskirts of Omaha. However, if her daughter did somehow manage to arrive at her destination in one piece, she would quickly be manhandled if not molested by social outcasts or tortured and killed by savages. Sarah firmly reminded Edith she would be without parental protection; now it was up to God—a power who her daughter had obviously ignored or forgotten as her best source of humility and guidance.
Edith had tried hard to repress her harsh feelings toward her mother. She never dared hope she would find Martin again, but she made her father promise that if a letter from him materialized, he would send it to her at Carter Station--unopened. Edith had written to Martin’s last-mentioned address but had heard nothing. She knew he had left Virginia City permanently for Salt Lake City, so she had written to Wells Fargo’s S. L. C. stagecoach station. She had not known that he had recently quit and moved on.
The letter Edith was writing was not for her father but for her mother. Now that she was on her way, she decided she would make one last attempt to narrow their rift by writing a pleasant missive about her journey to date. She would break the news that the West was huge, and for the most part empty, but that its cities were peopled by civilized human beings who wore modern clothes including suits, top hats, and canes. She was four hundred miles west of Omaha, yet had still not seen an Indian. No one had accosted her, and the crowded train included a large number of well-dressed women.
Mr. Smith had informed her that the train was only a few hours from its next stop, Cheyenne. He would be happy to post her letter for her. As Cheyenne appeared on the horizon, the morning sun lighted the sky with pale grays and blues. Edith thought those colors an appropriate match for the pastel tans and gray-greens that coated the surface of the dust-rich land. The only scene that held any appeal so far had been the strong pattern of light and shadows created yesterday by the sun as it shined through a column of cumulus clouds. She wondered if it was too early to forecast the ambiance that awaited her in Carter Station from what she was seeing.
Have you ever heard of Carter Station, Mr. Smith?
The man cleared his throat. Carter Station. Oh, yes, of course.
Please tell me that it doesn’t look like this.
She gestured out the window.
He smiled. Good heavens no, my dear lady. Quite the contrary. Lots of green hills and lakes if I call correctly. And distant mountains. Lovely.
Oh!
said Edith with a surprised expression, how very odd. Mrs. Carter didn’t mention lakes or mountains.
Ah! Well they were small lakes and, um, not immediate to the property of Mrs. Carter. It has been four or five years since I was there last.
With a feeling that the man had never seen Carter Station, Edith simply smiled. Mrs. Carter gave me the firm impression that Carter Station was new this year. It’s located on the route of the Union Pacific line, but I do not believe the tracks have gotten quite that far.
When he blinked but said nothing, she added, The conductor said the last station on the line for the public was Rawlins. Would you know how much further it is to Carter Station?
Instead of answering directly, the man smiled again. I believe my luck is changing; We shall need a stagecoach, and I shall be your fellow passenger once more. If you will allow me to assist you I will consider myself fortunate.
Just then Edith saw the conductor walking down the aisle toward them. I will be fine, thank you, Mr. Smith,
she said quickly. Are you on your way to Salt Lake City?
Ah, no. I have business in a smaller but equally active village by the name of Bear Town—often referred to as Bear River City.
Excuse me?
said Edith to the passing conductor. Please, is there a post office in Cheyenne?
Yes, ma’am.
He hesitated. If you have a letter to post I shall be happy to oblige.
Edith thanked him and excused herself from further conversation with Mr. Smith. She needed to finish her letter.
More than half the passengers disembarked at Cheyenne. From the window Edith received the impression of a raw, bustling town. All she could see really was one main street and the same stacks of railroad material and rough buildings she had seen at nearly every other stop.
Workmen went about their business moving materials, erecting new buildings, and driving freight wagons. Beyond the railroad station, women were noticeably absent. Edith decided to forego stretching her legs, and instead accepted the conductor’s offer to post her letter. Cheyenne did not appear to be the kind of town she would find interesting or comfortable.
As if to validate her decision, a clot of rough-looking men boarded the train. They stomped their boots and created dust clouds by slapping their pants with their hats as they walked down the aisle looking for seats. One of the quieter men, a large-boned man with strong, dark eyes and a coal-black beard took the seat across the aisle from her. When Edith handed the conductor her letter and smiled her thanks the bearded man glanced at the exchange.
Edith thought the man might be a foreigner. He radiated power with his heavy coat, a Cossack-styled hat, and knee-length boots made of some kind of animal hide with raw fringes. He also carried a coiled bullwhip. As he removed and folded his coat Edith noticed it had fur around the collar and cuffs, and that his hat was of fine beaver. His plain, dark suit was clean, as was his white shirt. His demeanor and appearance intrigued Edith. Outwardly the man was a rough, yet it was evident he was not a hired hand. She thought perhaps he was what a western businessman looked like.
Mr. Smith took the occasion to share his knowledge of Cheyenne with Edith. He was saying, "Last year at this time, Miss Teague, there was no Cheyenne. Like many towns along the tracks it was created by the railroad for the railroad.
In the window’s reflection, Edith noticed that the dark man across the aisle lifted his head and was now glancing at both her and Mr. Smith. His expression was impossible to read because his beard hid most of his face. His eyes were small and cloistered.
I’m not certain I understand,
said Edith still looking out the window. Why should the railroad create a town for itself?
Well, you see, it takes a lot of people to build a railroad. Towns offer settlers a way west. Those people need food, shelter, and services. And any time you have a lot of people in one place it takes others to complete the pattern. It’s like a big barn-raising.
Edith looked at the narrator. I can understand putting up buildings and services,
she said. You mean the railroad helps start the towns and then the settlers move in?
Not quite that simple nor as democratic. The people who run the railroad also own most of the land. One of the ways they get so rich is to sell property to speculators. They start new places, then promote them to make money on the sale. They even try to sell land that isn’t theirs.
The black-bearded man across the aisle coughed. Edith glanced at the man’s reflection in the window. As Mr. Smith talked, she stole a quick look across the aisle and saw that the man was also writing a letter.
If the railroad is doing something illegal, Mr. Smith, why doesn’t someone stop them?
Oh, there’s a congressional investigation going on almost all of the time, but it’s difficult to prove anything when half of Washington’s politicians are involved in western land deals. It’s all one big happy family of crooked people and crooked deals.
The train started up again and Mr. Smith now proceeded to fill Edith’s ears with tales of his adventures in the wilder west—mostly fights with Indians in Julesburg and as a passenger during a stagecoach ride. He also began to refer to some of the more insidious deeds Indians performed on the bodies of their captives. By the time the train pulled into Laramie for a meal stop several hours later, Edith wasn’t sure she could eat anything, nor whether it was safe to venture from the train.
After telling her that a month ago after an extensive gunfight the Vigilante Committee in Laramie hung six murderers, Mr. Smith assured her that she would safe in his company. He added, "I have by necessity become familiar with the less civilized element of the West. Allow me the honor of being my guest for lunch, Miss Teague.
Edith was not at all certain that having lunch with Mr. Smith was a good idea, but he seemed to know a lot about the West and his demeanor appeared acceptable. She hesitatingly accepted his invitation because she was hungry and needed to conserve her funds. Mr. Smith rose and excused himself, saying he would confirm luncheon arrangements.
He had just departed when Edith heard an educated voice say, Pardon me, Miss. I don’t normally interfere in the affairs of others, but you look as though this might be your first time in the West, so you would be well advised to take what your Mr. Smith says with a grain or two of salt.
The speaker was the man with the black beard. He stood—that is, he towered—above her in the aisle. He held his bullwhip in one hand and his coat in the other, about to leave. Edith could feel power flowing from him and not only from his eyes. When she did not immediately speak, he tipped his hat and turned away.
Whatever to you mean, sir?
Edith suddenly cried out. The strength of her reaction surprised her. She began to redden and that made her angry. What had given him the right to make such a comment, and then walk away?
The man paused, then turned back to her. I meant no offense,
he offered calmly without inflection, but that man either enjoys fabricating tall tales from half-truths, or. . .perhaps he believes you might become more dependent on his company if you were afraid.
His comment shocked Edith. And who, sir, are you to suggest that?
He responded as though she had asked the time of day. My name is unimportant, but I have worked with the Union Pacific since tracks left Omaha. Hence, I beg to differ with the gentleman’s opinions of railroad investors, the way in which Cheyenne originated, and,
he added with a suggestion of a smile, how safe or not safe it may be out here for a lady.
Edith did not miss the other’s slight deprecation when he said gentleman. Do you know Mr. Smith?
she asked.
No ma’am I do not, but I have known many like him.
Again, he turned to leave. Edith’s irritation surpassed her intrigue. That is most convenient and rather tasteless is it not, sir, to label someone you don’t know and then walk away? I would appreciate it if you would either make yourself clearer or retract your insinuations. Left as it is, you’re only labeled yourself as a rude person.
Who was this man, and why didn't she keep her mouth shut?
The man sighed, took a step backwards, turned to Edith and bowed slightly. Then he smiled and leaned lightly on the top of the seat in front of her. As he did, he appraised her openly. You’re quite right. I should curb my tendencies. I apologize.
He frowned as though undecided how much information he should offer her. My name if John Casement. I’m the principal contractor for track-laying operations for the Union Pacific between Omaha and wherever we end up when we meet the eastward-bound tracks of the Central Pacific. Your Mr. Smith. . .
"He is not my Mr. Smith, Mr. Casement. You assume sir." Why was she so mad? Was it his demeanor or did she feel guilty about her behavior she knew was far from a Quaker manner?
Yes, ma’am. I see I need to be more precise. Your acquaintance? Your fellow passenger? He dresses, speaks, and acts like a lot of professional gamblers I have known. The spend their time gambling, playing cards. I call them tricksters, card sharks, and less gentlemanly names. And because of what I do, I have no love of them. They live off of the money my men earn while they break their backs creating this railroad line.
His eyes became darker and more intense, like two steel ball bearings in reflected light. The Mr. Smiths in the proximate surroundings have been in my hair like lice for two years.
In reflex, he gripped his hat and bullwhip until his knuckles were white and his lips had pulled back in a expression that showed a hardness.
Edith did not frighten easily, so she discarded his change in attitude. But since you do not know this man in particular, you cannot say for sure, can you?
He acknowledged her statement with a small twitch of one side of his mouth. He grunted and raised his eyebrows. No. You are correct. I do not know him, and I therefore stand corrected.
Feeling somewhat redeemed, Edith had nothing more to say, so she simply broke eye contact. Casement cleared his throat, turned, and left the car. Outside, Mr. Smith rapped on her window, then beckoned. She smiled diffidently and joined him on the platform. He escorted her into the stationhouse restaurant they were seated at a clean, dust-free table with linen and silverware.
With a little extra drama, Edith relayed her indignation at what Mr. Casement had implied about the character and motives of her momentary benefactor . She thought she was being properly forthright and a bit proud that she had bested the dark-eyed superintendent. She expected r. Smith to smile, perhaps chuckle and clap his hands.
But he did not react at all as she had anticipated. The changes in his facial expression and physical demeanor may not have been discernible from a distance, but like a animal who's den and family were threatened, his face immediately flushed, his voice fricative, and his eyes two cannons of anger. Slowly, with repressed emotional control, he leaned forward several inches towards Edith, and in a tight, hushed, and sibilant voice, said with clenched jaw, West of the Missouri, Miss Teague, you must consider the effect of your words before you speak. What you have just told me is sufficient cause for most men of my temper and ability to immediately get up from the table, seek out the man in question, and kill him outright.
Edith was paralyzed. Her eyes bugged, her lower jaw dropped, and her coffee cup clattered into her saucer. Kill? Fear and panic overtook her as her hand flew to her throat. What had she done? It was all she could do to repeat his words. Get up and kill. . .?
she whispered. The man was earnest, focused, brimming with anger. His words were impossible for her to comprehend! "How could that possibly be?"
A terrified Edith grabbed his hand. Please! You must not think of doing such a thing. Killing is against God’s. . .I never meant to alarm. . .
Realizing she had clasped his hand, she quickly retreated, dropped both hands into her lap, and from an anguished expression, said in a tiny voice, Why in the world would you want to do something as reprehensible as that?
Smith pushed his chair backwards and took a deep breath as though to calm himself. Then he spoke didactically. "The West as American know it, is a frontier in its infancy. Institutions you know back east, particularly bodies of law and order, do not exist here. Everything around you on the frontier is raw, crude, and often violent. Civilization is a veneer. The forces on the frontier are gambling, greed, and violence a gamble. Law and order is perhaps a single Sheriff for an entire town, a Marshall who patrols hundreds of miles of territory, and the occasional posse of civilians who gives chase into the empty desert or mountains to pursue murderers and bank robbers.
In the absence of civilization—perhaps I might call you Edith?—is a man’s word. Depending on his vocation and surroundings, he may live or die on the value of his word to others. If his reputation has been sullied, he may as well leave the West, for if he stays he will be trampled or shot.
Edith listened to the words of Mr. Smith. He spoke in a way that encouraged belief. She remained badly shaken, and sensing the validity of his words, she felt chastised. When he paused in his diatribe, she raised her chin. Well, I cannot retract what I said. It’s true; that is, he said what I told you. I may have a lot to learn about your West, Mr. Smith—and you may not call me Edith—but I cannot be held accountable for the intemperate remarks of another.
Then she added with a touch of dignity, He also suggested you played cards, that you were probably a gambler. Are you?
Mr. Smith realized her words and his rather aggressive sermon combined to dissolve whatever interesting and perhaps stimulating moments might await the two of them. With this though, he dropped his napkin and made a twisting motion with his lips. Let’s just say I wouldn’t challenge a man who called me a professional card player. I prefer that to gambler.
Edith couldn’t believe what she was saying, especially when the man across the table verified what John Casement had alluded to. She no longer trusted Mr. Smith or desired his company. His eyes had become dark-colored marbles and his tone of voice was dismissive. The handsome Mr. Casement—yes, she could admit that he was handsome—was rising rapidly in her opinion.
Like any occupation, Miss Teague,
continued Mr. Smith, card games require skill. I’m not ashamed of it.
Edith dropped her eyes to her napkin as his voice acquired a harsher edge. "Nor does my profession automatically make me a liar or a
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