In June 1875, Clara O'Shea stepped off the dusty stagecoach in Gulch City, Colorado Territory, posing as a mail-order bride to escape an illegal debt-indenture in Boston.
My hands were raw, bleeding, and numb from the cold. Gideon Hawley, his face streaked with dust and tears, stood beside me, his pickaxe rising and falling with grim determination. For three agonizing hours, we had dug. We had scrambled over the still-shifting debris of Deadman’s Pass, calling Arthur’s name until our voices were hoarse. The air smelled of pulverized rock and something metallic, something terribly final.
“Arthur!” I screamed, my throat burning. “Arthur, answer me!”
Hawley paused, his pickaxe suspended. “Clara, I hear something,” he mumbled, straining his ears against the mountain’s silence. “A whimper. Or… a groan.”
We scrambled toward the sound, digging with renewed frenzy. Under a massive, splintered pine log, buried beneath layers of jagged shale, we found him.
Arthur lay twisted, half-buried, his body at an unnatural angle. His leg was pinned beneath a monstrous boulder, and his chest was a ruin of crimson and dark bruises. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then slowly found mine.
“Clara,” he rasped, a thin, wet sound.
I clawed at the rocks around him, tears streaming down my face. “Arthur! We’ll get you out! Hold on!”
Hawley dropped his pickaxe and started frantically pulling at smaller stones. But the main boulder was immovable.
Arthur’s gaze was already distant. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, a faint smile touching his lips, meant for me. His hand, cold and clammy, fumbled for mine.
He squeezed, a surprisingly firm pressure. Then, with a monumental effort, he slid something from his own finger onto mine. It was his mother’s signet ring, cool metal against my skin. The heavy, gold band had a tiny, almost invisible notch on the inside.
“Denver,” he whispered, his breath shallow, his eyes fluttering. “Bank. The key… in the notch.”
His grip loosened. The light in his eyes dimmed, fading like a lantern running out of oil.
“Arthur? No, please, Arthur!” I sobbed, clutching his hand to my cheek. But his eyes had closed, his body stilling. He was gone.
Gideon Hawley slowly pulled his hat from his head, his face a mask of grief. The cold wind whipped through the pass, carrying away the last remnants of Arthur Pendelton’s breath. I held his mother’s signet ring, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth that had just left him. The tiny notch, a secret yet to be uncovered, now rested on my finger.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours