The Dolan Girls Read online

  The musicians’ laughter echoed across the camp like distant waves of thunder. But later, as the Dolans snuggled down onto their bedrolls inside their main wagon, each one stayed silent. Minnie could only imagine what Cora, her little hand resting over her heart, was thinking. Was it about how Mam looked that night, finally confident about her new life? And Da, was he scared but determined to make sure all went smoothly the next day by securing the straps and reins on both teams one more time?

  She tried to stop her mind from whirling and speculating, but couldn’t. Not until she started to count sheep, anything to calm her real feelings of impending doom.

  * *

  The next morning an eerie, almost ghostlike presence blanketed the camp. Families, singing and dancing the night before, now hastily chowed down their breakfasts. Horses snorted softly, mules stifled their brays, and settlers gently clicked at their steeds while checking for loose horseshoes. Tightened straps around toolboxes were given a final inspection and bedrolls on packsaddles were secured, but not a single word was uttered.

  To Minnie, the stillness only enhanced her sense of doom, and as she looked out on the vast, daunting, exciting plains that stretched before them, just ready for the taking, her heart fluttered faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

  “Stay in your places, folks! Stay in your places! If anyone starts before the white flag drop and gun salute, they will be disqualified,” barked several cavalrymen making their rounds through the rows of hopefuls.

  Wiping his brow, Gillian stopped one of them in passing. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said, “what if we are not one of the frontrunners? They’ll not be any land left.”

  “There are also lots close by to settle on,” came the clipped reply.

  “But those ain’t good for farmin’,” hollered a disgruntled man across the way.

  “Again, there are also lots close by to settle on,” the solider replied gruffly, in no mood to be argued with.

  “Da, is that like the map of parceled land we saw in the newspapers before we left?” Minnie asked.

  “Ay, that it is. But don’t worry, I’m going to make sure we’re one of the ones who gets the rich farmin’ land. That’s a promise!”

  Mam started biting her lower lip as Minnie had seen her do a hundred times. “Gillian, I don’t think I can drive the mules that fast.”

  “Don’t worry, Love. I’ll charge ahead, you follow the best you can.” His arm covered her thin shoulders before he turned to his oldest daughter. “And Minnie, you follow your mam, and don’t you be coming after me.”

  “But I’m not saddled down with a wagon, Da. Shouldn’t I be the one chargin’ ahead?”

  “Girl, you’re not going to try me patience on this day of all days! For the love of God, do as you’re told!”

  As Minnie glowered, Mam bit, and Gillian grumbled, Cora shifted from one foot to another.

  Bradford Jones appeared from out of nowhere. “Hello! How ‘bout a picture of you all before the big rush?”

  It was a couple of seconds before Da found his voice. “Why, that’s grand of you, Bradford. Very kind, indeed. Isn’t it, Mattie! Isn’t it, Minnie?”

  Directing them professionally, Bradford lined up the family in front of Gillian’s wagon, talking nonstop, oblivious to their solemn mood. Unfolding his wooden tripod, he then placed his brand new Fallowfield camera with its fabric bellows and focus lens on top of a ledge and stepped around behind the black curtain attached to the mechanism.

  Cora started to giggle. “Look Mam, he’s disappeared!”

  In spite of themselves, Mattie, Gillian, and Minnie started to laugh. They laughed so hard that Bradford had to reappear to reprimand them. “Listen, no smiling, folks. This is a formal picture. No smiling.” But the skin around his eyes crinkled, his grin infectious, and just before he ‘disappeared’ again to give the camera a quick click, he sent the lot of them a broad wink.

  “Before I go up on the ledge with the soldiers to record the entire event, I just want to wish you the best of luck,” he said, taking down his equipment.

  “What about our picture?” Cora exclaimed.

  “I’ll develop it in town and give it to you afterwards. You can hang it up in your new homestead.” After a bow and a wave goodbye, they watched him wend his way over to the northeasterly ledge to position his camera and tripod near a group of soldiers.

  Anticipating orders, the cavalrymen had already lined up for the seven-gun salute, their faces and brass buttons reflecting off of the sun’s glare, their single white flag poised to drop, while below them the settlers were jockeying for their futures. Despite Minnie’s mood, she was impressed.

  Suddenly a bugle blared, the white flag dropped, and the rifles cracked over their heads, sending off a frenzy of “Hee-haw’s,” “We’re off!” and “Let’s go, let’s go!” Wagon wheels set their slow churn in motion as horseback riders galloped on ahead, unloading a choking cloud of dust behind.

  Da swiveled around in his seat to give one quick wave to Mam before taking off, driving his team with the skill of the best of them. Next to him Cora was holding on for dear life, trying to smile but clenching her teeth instead. Back in the sea of grit came Mam, her reins clutched so tightly her hands would blister in a matter of minutes, while behind their trailing wagon, a frustrated Minnie trotted, her pulse beating so loudly in her ears she thought they would burst.

  The first quarter mile out, the human pack was dense, pressed together as a single unit. But very quickly wagons, carts, and dashing contenders spread out, like a stream exploring ways to refill a creviced land. Men on horses were waving their hats and holding onto their claim flags, the fast glop-glop-glop of galloping horses intermingling with a fog of dust and dirt, thick enough to produce thunderous coughs everywhere.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Minnie took in a few of the cavalrymen, their single-shot military rifles nestled in their side cases, their barking orders to “Maintain order, maintain order!” useless in the tumultuous din. All at once, the flat prairie turf had turned into a rough, sinewy terrain, jostling the wagons even more vigorously and instantly sending one settler flying.

  “God all mighty!” Minnie heard her mam scream, as she doubled up on her reins and watched the settler scramble for his life.

  Off to one side, a large chuck wagon hit a boulder, throwing both the driver and horse to the ground. While Minnie watched in horror, a tangle of both man and horse legs flailed helplessly as the oncoming rigs swerved sharply to the right or the left, in an all-out effort to miss the struggling mass. Powdery dirt rose up, veiling the air with tiny particles that stung Minnie’s eyes and made Mam sob.

  “I can’t see anything, I can’t,” she wailed, just as an oncoming wagon trampled over the settler and his animal, leaving them both writhing in agony.

  Another horse buckled under from the rough ground, screeching in pain, and as she rode by, Minnie saw its owner yank out his pistol and shoot the horse in its head.

  “Why in the world would you do that?” she yelled at him.

  “He ain’t no good to me now,” was his answer as more and more wagons, carts, and stagecoaches streamed by.

  In no time at all, their once clear path was now strewn with scattered supplies, flung wide from the wagons and adding to the bumpiness. Straddlers on the sides of stagecoaches, clinging to anything within reach, were being thrown off at an alarming rate, and each time they dropped, a gasp and a groan partnered their thud as they landed, only to be hit or trampled on seconds later.

  Pete, the poetic snake oil man, came next, ambling along on his horse as calm as could be.

  “Aren’t you in a rush, Mr. Pete?” Minnie asked, shouting loud enough to be heard over the ruckus.

  “I figure there won’t be any farmland left for the likes of us tag-a-longs, so I'll probably end up in the two-street town they call South Benton, anyhow,” he shouted back, tipping his hat to Mattie as he slow-gaited with her for a while before moving on.

  Suddenly, a sl
ight wind cropped up, blowing the circulating dust even farther into eyes and noses. Abandoned barrels lay everywhere as Minnie watched her mam trudge on, barely able to see. When Minnie pulled up beside her, Mam shaded her eyes and gave a stoic nod as if to say, ‘I’ll be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right.’ Her daughter smiled, and was still smiling when her mother’s right front wheel hit a boulder the size of one of their suitcases, tilted, and flipped over.

  Time stood still as Minnie watched her mother being hurled from her front seat, flung a good five yards, and then crushed by the very dresser she cherished. Drawing up short, Minnie dropped down to the ground, screaming for help while desperately trying to pull the heavy furniture off her motionless mother. But no one stopped. All the noise drowned out her pleas; the race for land, too vital.

  From out of nowhere, Pete appeared.

  “Lordy, lordy, dear girl!” he exclaimed as he jumped off his horse and ran over to her mam. Tugging and lifting, he and Minnie managed to free Mam from the dresser, her prized possession, but it was too late. Her bleeding and indented skull spoke volumes. After Pete measured her pulse, he turned solemnly to tell Minnie what was all too clear. The Irish pioneer woman was no more.

  By the time the race had ended and the dust settled, the plains were strewn with broken wagons, supplies, horses, and bodies. Faint moans and soft pants now filled the same surroundings that just hours before had housed eager shouts and big dreams.

  Gillian and Cora were finally slowly making their way back to their family, unable to have claimed any land. But as they approached the twosome standing by the Dolan’s other wagon, they sped up, once again racing for the second time that day.

  Leaping onto the ground, Da rushed over. “What in the world? What happened?” he hollered before he spied his wife on the ground. “Oh, no! Oh, no…” he wailed, kneeling down next to her and cradling her in his arms.

  “Da, she hit a rock. It was so awful!” Minnie whispered at his elbow.

  “It was your job to watch over your mam, it was!” he hissed, then stopped when he looked at his daughter’s tortured face. “I’m sorry, Love. I know you couldn’t help her. No one could.” He looked up into the sky, his tears mixing with a trail of spittle from his mouth. “Oh, God, it’s me own fault, it is!”

  Rocking his wife back and forth, he began sobbing and railing at himself and the world as Cora clung to Minnie, her ten-year-old thumb finding its way into her mouth, her eyes dulled. Pete stood a respectful distance off to one side, but a few settlers, either returning to look for closer parcels or claim their good farming land, began to form a tight circle of condolence around them.

  Still on the ground, Minnie first gazed up at the supporters, then at her da. “Oh, Lord, I wish with all me heart we’d never come, I do, I surely do!”

  * *

  Pete stopped talking, stared into the distance and sniffled twice.

  “Oh, my Lord! That’s terrible, Pete!” Thomas cried. “How old was Cora back then?”

  “Just ten, I believe.”

  “No wonder she’s been so sad at times. No wonder.” He wiped one eye with his shirtsleeve. “Please, go on, Pete. What happened next? What happened to their da? How did she and Minnie end up at Madam Ana’s?”

  Pete held up his hand. “Wait, you’ll see…”

  * *

  At first, after burying Mattie in an unmarked grave in the only cemetery in South Benton, Gillian did try. He managed to fix breakfast for his girls in their two adjoining rooms above the local Water Stop Saloon. He cooked suppers as well, with the sounds of laughter and honky-tonk music drifting upstairs, serenading them as they ate. Minnie would tap her fork in time to the rhythms or hum a bar or two before Gillian gave her a stern eye. Cora usually ate in silence, watching these interchanges, but unlike her older sister, never drove Da any further to distraction.

  His dreams of farming thwarted, he nabbed the only available job––sweeping and mopping up floors for the saloon owner downstairs. A sparse, wood-planked, whistle stop with a tuneless piano, the saloon served its basic function: to likker up anyone who came in. Gillian’s days––and sometimes nights––consisted of cleaning up spilled drinks, food, and vomit, while he listened to local cowboys and drifters boast about their powerful cattle driving abilities or how they were as good as any hired gun for sale.

  But after a few weeks, the girls began asking him questions. They both noticed butter was being replaced by lard, eggs by pigs’ feet, red peppers by chard, and their plates, once full, now held at most, meager portions, not fit for growing children.

  “Da, we need to make more money,” remarked Minnie, the pragmatist, one night at supper. “I could work downstairs at the saloon, I could.”

  He looked at her in horror. “No daughter of mine will be working in such a hell-hole!” he barked, as he slammed his fist down on the table and flipped their plates up a good quarter inch.

  The girls said nothing. But as if lit on fire, their father jumped up, headed downstairs, and marched across the street, straight to Madam Ana’s, where he pleaded with the notorious madam to give him a part-time job. The tough, but kind-hearted woman, who knew full well about his motherless girls, instantly gave him some work, then as the months passed, watched the light slowly leave his eyes.

  Finally, she had had enough. “Gillian, your Mattie is gone. She is no more. So vhy you forget your girls, huh? They are here. They are alive and they need you!” she clucked, placing a gentle hand onto his back.

  He gave her a slow, thoughtful nod. “You’re right, Mrs. Ana. Of course you’re right,” he said, promising to do right by his daughters from here on in, but he knew he wouldn’t––he was too lost, too broken.

  When he left her a letter on the parlor’s mantelpiece early one morning, as the cold October rains pelted down in sheets and the rest of the household was sound asleep, he was already far away, completing his mission.

  It was a short note, but the madam couldn’t finish reading it.

  “What is it, Madam Ana?” Becky entered, her eyes wide.

  “Read it, just read it,” Ana whispered, collapsing on the settee and dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  Picking it up, Becky started reading out loud with a groggy, morning croak:

  Dear Mrs. Ana,

  I am truly thankful for your kindness these past months.

  You saved my family from God only knows what. Please forgive me, but I’ll be needing your help once again.

  Tomorrow I’ll be going away to a better place. A place where I can be together with my Mattie forever, up in Heaven.

  Please take care of my little girls, because I’m never coming back.

  With much appreciation and trust,

  I am your grateful servant, Gillian Dolan

  * *

  Thomas leaned back against the tree. “He abandoned them. Her ma was dead, and he abandoned them.”

  “He was a tragic figure, my boy.”

  “I don’t care, Pete! I would never do that to my children.” His eyes grew fierce. “And that’s why I’m not going to abandon Cora.”

  “You have no choice! If you love her, you will stay away. That’s what she wants. Do you have enough love to do that, my boy?”

  Thomas stared at the would-be bard a couple of seconds, and drew a deep breath. “Yes,” he half-whispered. “If that’s what she wants. Yes, I love her that much.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  1861 - 1871: Harsh Realities

  The morning after Wes attacked her, Cora woke up to one eye swollen shut, a pounding head, and a bruised face and body that ached all over. With a hot water bottle wedged up against her womb, she tried to prop herself up onto her freshly laundered pillows, but it was no use. Even the tiniest movement brought excruciating pain.

  But what lay inside her head was far worse. Every hour, every minute, was filled with Wes. Wes, unbuttoning his vest; Wes, putting his gun down on the side table; Wes’ hot breath on her back and neck as he chased h
er through the house. And always, always, the sound of Wes’ pants sliding down his legs.

  From down the hall came routine morning sounds: Mrs. Ana setting out dishes around the kitchen table, the doves trudging downstairs and slowly shuffling toward the kitchen to line up for the madam’s famously strong coffee, while endless wagons rolled by on the street. To Cora, these noises would normally seem pleasant, but now, just listening to them all, she had to stop and hold her head, it hurt so badly.

  But as Minnie held her hand, she managed to utter her first words. “Where’s Thomas? I need him. Where is he?”

  Minnie stroked her face with a cold, wet cloth. “Honey, he had to go away. To the army.”

  “But Thomas…”

  “Army. He’s gone to fight, Cora.”

  Cora closed her eyes.

  After a week, she could actually sit up in her bed, just in time to hear her sister and Ana conversing in the hall.

  “The doctor says she’ll make full recovery. All she needs is good, long bed rest,” Ana told Minnie. “Thanks to you, dear girl. You stayed vit your sister all day, all night.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the tough, twenty-year-old said. “But I’m never going to let anything happen to her ever again!”

  “Minnie, you’re such good sister, you make my heart glad,” Ana said, and continued pouring coffee.

  Cora could hear the clink of coffee mugs, dishes clattering, and silverware being plunked down onto the table.

  For Cora, bed rest was easy at first. With such low energy and great pain, that was all she could manage. But several days and nights passed, and she began improving more than anyone thought possible.

  At least, physically.

  “What’s that noise, Minnie? It’s a man, isn’t it?” Cora kept crying out from their bed, her pupils dilated, her favorite dime novels strewn out on either side of her.

  “No, honey, like I told you an hour ago, that’s not a man. I think it’s Becky this time,” Minnie reassured her. “Remember, all the men are in the main parlor, far away from here.”