Read Online The Year We Were Famous by Carole Estby Dagg - Free Book Online
Authors: Carole Estby Dagg
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the door handle to turn and nearly fell into the room when a burly man in Union Pacific uniform opened the door. "Oh, golly," he said. "You look like ghosts. Not to criticize, but most people have the sense to take the train instead of walking across the Blue Mountains in a blizzard."
As I pulled Ma toward the potbelly stove, she looked like she was in shock that the weather had not behaved itself for us today. What would have happened to Ma if she had been on her own? We had armed ourselves with ponchos, a pistol, and pepper gun, but never thought we'd have to battle a snowstorm in May. What else had we neglected to prepare for?
CHAPTER 10
ALMOST JAILBIRDS
May 21, 1896âDay 16 La Grande, Oregon
Dear Arthur and Johnny,
In case you have not had your quota of dime novels this month, I am sending you a true account of our First Adventure:
Our two brave heroines are Helga Estby, a Norwegian immigrant homesteader, and her daughter Clara. For two weeks they had walked through heavy mud, swollen rivers, and rugged mountains, determined to reach New York City to win a wager that would save their family's farm.
Only the day before, the valiant women walkers had crossed the Blue Mountains in a ferocious blizzard. When the next morning dawned clear, they had no presentiment that this day would be other than an uneventful walk into La Grande, Oregon, where they hoped for the reward of a long, hot bath.
Late in the day, they came out of the foothills on the far side of the Blue Mountains. Looking down on the wheat growing in the Grande Ronde Valley, they could see the ruts left by the
thousands of wagons carrying courageous pioneers westward on the Oregon Trail.
Still concentrating on their footing in the loose rock slicked by melting snow, they did not notice the slow hoofbeats behind them until they heard a man's voice. "You headed into La Grande?
"
Helga Estby quickened her pace. She did not answer.
In a quick glance back, Clara observed the man's straight dark mustache, oiled hair, bowler hat, suit, and once white shirt.
"
How far you two been walking?" he asked.
Clara, innocent as she was of the darker side of human nature, started to reply, but her mother warned her to keep her silence.
The man was willing to do all the talking himself, however. He slid off his horse and walked along behind the two women.
Though travel-ravaged and less clean than was their wont, their proud carriage still identified them as paragons of decent womanhood. In the gentle wind blowing southward through the valley, a strand of Clara's fair hair pulled loose from her decorous bun and glowed like a golden filament halo in the solitary ray of sun, which pierced the billowy cloud.
"
Why you out here by yourselves?" His voice was coarse and menacing He paused, inviting a reply, but the women remained silent. "You got a boyfriend, titmouse?" He drew abreast of Clara and poked his elbow into her arm to make sure she knew he was addressing her, but Clara still did not answer.
He dropped behind again and continued his one-sided conversation.
"
Sure would like to see what's in them satchels. Run off with your old man's loot?
"
When he shoved her mother, Clara's eyes widened in hor
ror. Would she have to use the gun her father had insisted they carry? Her face grew hot as she fumbled in her bag to bring her gun to the top where she could grab it if she had to.
The dark-mustached man shoved Clara's back this time. As she lurched forward he jabbed her again, harder, and she fell to her hands and knees across her satchel. He grabbed her chin from behind, like a cougar snapping a sheep's head around to break its neck. As Clara flailed helplessly, he leaned over her to growl, "When I talk, look at me like you're listening
"
Clara's frantic mother grabbed one of his shoulders and tried to wrench him off her daughter, but he swung one scarred fist, which landed with a thud on her brow. In spite of the trickle of blood now running into her eye, she
As I pulled Ma toward the potbelly stove, she looked like she was in shock that the weather had not behaved itself for us today. What would have happened to Ma if she had been on her own? We had armed ourselves with ponchos, a pistol, and pepper gun, but never thought we'd have to battle a snowstorm in May. What else had we neglected to prepare for?
CHAPTER 10
ALMOST JAILBIRDS
May 21, 1896âDay 16 La Grande, Oregon
Dear Arthur and Johnny,
In case you have not had your quota of dime novels this month, I am sending you a true account of our First Adventure:
Our two brave heroines are Helga Estby, a Norwegian immigrant homesteader, and her daughter Clara. For two weeks they had walked through heavy mud, swollen rivers, and rugged mountains, determined to reach New York City to win a wager that would save their family's farm.
Only the day before, the valiant women walkers had crossed the Blue Mountains in a ferocious blizzard. When the next morning dawned clear, they had no presentiment that this day would be other than an uneventful walk into La Grande, Oregon, where they hoped for the reward of a long, hot bath.
Late in the day, they came out of the foothills on the far side of the Blue Mountains. Looking down on the wheat growing in the Grande Ronde Valley, they could see the ruts left by the
thousands of wagons carrying courageous pioneers westward on the Oregon Trail.
Still concentrating on their footing in the loose rock slicked by melting snow, they did not notice the slow hoofbeats behind them until they heard a man's voice. "You headed into La Grande?
"
Helga Estby quickened her pace. She did not answer.
In a quick glance back, Clara observed the man's straight dark mustache, oiled hair, bowler hat, suit, and once white shirt.
"
How far you two been walking?" he asked.
Clara, innocent as she was of the darker side of human nature, started to reply, but her mother warned her to keep her silence.
The man was willing to do all the talking himself, however. He slid off his horse and walked along behind the two women.
Though travel-ravaged and less clean than was their wont, their proud carriage still identified them as paragons of decent womanhood. In the gentle wind blowing southward through the valley, a strand of Clara's fair hair pulled loose from her decorous bun and glowed like a golden filament halo in the solitary ray of sun, which pierced the billowy cloud.
"
Why you out here by yourselves?" His voice was coarse and menacing He paused, inviting a reply, but the women remained silent. "You got a boyfriend, titmouse?" He drew abreast of Clara and poked his elbow into her arm to make sure she knew he was addressing her, but Clara still did not answer.
He dropped behind again and continued his one-sided conversation.
"
Sure would like to see what's in them satchels. Run off with your old man's loot?
"
When he shoved her mother, Clara's eyes widened in hor
ror. Would she have to use the gun her father had insisted they carry? Her face grew hot as she fumbled in her bag to bring her gun to the top where she could grab it if she had to.
The dark-mustached man shoved Clara's back this time. As she lurched forward he jabbed her again, harder, and she fell to her hands and knees across her satchel. He grabbed her chin from behind, like a cougar snapping a sheep's head around to break its neck. As Clara flailed helplessly, he leaned over her to growl, "When I talk, look at me like you're listening
"
Clara's frantic mother grabbed one of his shoulders and tried to wrench him off her daughter, but he swung one scarred fist, which landed with a thud on her brow. In spite of the trickle of blood now running into her eye, she
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