Treasure at Trail's End

By Dorothy Bodoin

Left without family and with financial resources, Mara Marsden learns she has inherited a property in Colorado Territory from an unknown benefactor.  She travels west, not knowing someone or something is determined to keep her away from Trail's End.

              

In searching for a storied treasure hidden in the ranch house, Mara discovers another, more precious and enduring treasure.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884317

Book preview

One

It is the greatest irony of my life that on a dreary April afternoon, when my future seemed as uncertain as the return of spring, I became an heiress. The legacy, originally intended for my late mother, had never been claimed, nor even mentioned in my family.

The proof of my inheritance, a brittle old letter, had been lying in my father’s roll top desk for ten years. Although he made no attempt to conceal it, not once did he ever speak to me of the Colorado Territory, Trail’s End, or my mother’s mysterious benefactor, Jules Carron.

If I hadn’t been looking for the deed to my house that I was about to sell, I would never have known about Jules Carron’s gift, and my prospects would have been as dull as my worst imaginings. Then I found the letter, and my future was suddenly filled with bright possibilities.

Jules Carron had willed the property, a ranch in the Colorado Territory known as Trail’s End, to my mother in 1866, the year of his death. I assumed that she was in some way connected with him, but the nature of the relationship and her reason for secrecy eluded me.

After my mother’s death from influenza in that same year, my father and I had lived alone until his sudden passing last winter. In the long, lonely months that followed, I’d grown accustomed to having no family. That hadn’t changed, but now I was also a woman of property.

The pride of our small northeastern Michigan town was the new railway station. From my bedroom on the second floor, I could view trains departing for far places. Often I longed to be going somewhere, anywhere, but I never did.

For a moment, standing in my father’s study, I remembered our family legend, my Aunt Marjorie, who had traveled westward to the gold fields. We didn’t know what had happened to her, or even if she was still alive. Perhaps, thanks to the largess of Jules Carron, whoever he was, I would also have an adventure. Maybe my aunt and I would meet in some far-flung frontier town.

Until my discovery, I had been contemplating several prospects, each one less appealing than the other. My savings were dwindling at an alarming rate, and I was on the verge of desperation. The most suitable of the positions I was considering was that of companion to an elderly widow who lived in a fine residential area of Detroit, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do.

So the ten-year-old letter was literally a godsend. Still, I was cautious by nature, and even with the proof in my hand, I couldn’t believe in my good fortune. I carried it to the parlor window, where a few beams of weak sunshine filtered in through thick pine branches, and read the momentous sentences again.

They were brief and clear, written on fine stationery, to Mrs. Adam Marsden by Mr. Joshua Johnston of Silver Springs in the Colorado Territory. After briefly describing the ranch and referring to other property, Mr. Johnston asked her to contact him and advise him of her intentions.

Since the letter had been written in the year of my mother’s death, I had no way of knowing whether she had received it. It was now 1876, and much could have happened in the intervening years. Perhaps the inheritance was no longer valid. I had to find out, and fortunately, I knew someone who could make the necessary inquiries for me.

Mr. Douglas Cameron, the father of my good friend, Eliza, owned the Pineville Lumber Company and much of the surrounding land. He had always treated me as another daughter, and I knew he had many friends throughout the United States and the Territories.

That same day I took him into my confidence and showed him the letter. As I hoped would be the case, he knew a lawyer in Denver, Mr. John Barclay. They had served together in the War and were still in contact with each other. He promised to have my western inheritance investigated.

Eliza was in Ohio at the time. She was engaged to a country doctor whose practice was in that state, and the wedding was being planned for August.

The practical aspect of my inheritance handed over to the capable Mr. Cameron, I went home and settled down to wait for the verdict from the Colorado Territory and to ponder the identity of Jules Carron.

Who was this man with the melodious French sounding name? At first, I assumed he was a relative, but neither of my parents had family still living, except perhaps for Aunt Marjorie, and she had gone with the gold seekers into oblivion. He couldn’t have been a family member then.

Still, I searched through my mother’s Bible and confirmed that they were all accounted for, dead, the ancestors I had never known. There wasn’t a French name among them. Jules Carron must have been a friend, one my mother never mentioned. In addition to property, I had inherited a mystery.

THE SEASONS CHANGED. Spring became June, and still Mr. Barclay’s letter didn’t arrive. Anxious and at the same time hopeful, I turned down the companion position in Detroit. Those endless days were a time of waiting and dreaming.

Then one cool evening in June I was sitting in front of the fire with my mother’s favorite shawl around my shoulders and a pitcher of hot chocolate on the table before me. It seemed as if I could see a hundred different and glorious new worlds for myself in the leaping flames, and all of them were possible now that I was an heiress and, like my Aunt Marjorie, about to set out on a grand adventure.

A sudden pounding on the door interrupted my reverie and brought me back to the present.

My visitor was Mr. Cameron. Not since my father’s death had he come to my house, even with Eliza. He never left his comfortable library in the evening where his brandy, books, and memories were sufficient company. I could think of only one reason for his presence here tonight.

Trying to appear calm, I said, Good evening, Mr. Cameron. I’ve been waiting for you.

Yes, Mara, I can believe you have.

He was tall, bearded, and blustery, and although nearing seventy, still an attractive man. In his youth he had been a logger and then, during the War, an officer in the Union army. Today he was Pineville’s richest and most influential citizen.

He sat down beside me, and all thoughts of my aunt evaporated.

Did you receive an answer from Mr. Barclay? I asked.

Yes, today, and the news is good.

There was a twinkle in his eye that was not often present since the defection of his Southern wife. She had gone home to Louisiana with her baby daughter, Camilla, for a visit just before the firing on Fort Sumter and been trapped behind the Mason-Dixon Line. After the War, she had remained in the South, where she died soon after, leaving one of her cousins to bring her child back home.

In a great booming voice, he announced, You have inherited a silver mine, my dear. He leaned back in the chair, thoroughly at ease, and told me the details.

The ranch, Trail’s End, has been deserted for several years, but your claim to it is clear and undisputed. It’s a valuable property. You’re more of an heiress than we suspected, with ten thousand dollars in a Denver bank and a genuine silver mine.

In that moment I had only one thought. Now I had enough money, even without the ranch, to continue to live in my own house and avert the grim fate of companion to an elderly and needy woman. The deed to my house could remain misplaced forever.

Mr. Cameron was saying, When your ranch is sold, you’ll have enough money to do whatever you wish. Barclay thinks you’ll receive a good price for the land. There are several ranchers in the area wanting to expand. As for the mine...

Sold? It was as if I had heard the one word only.

I brought another cup from the kitchen and, lifting the pitcher, carefully poured the still-warm chocolate. I suspected that my guest would have preferred the drink laced with brandy, but this would have to suffice.

He accepted the cup, lifted it to his mouth, and in one swallow, drank half of the contents.

Thank you, my dear. It’s very thoughtful of you. The mine is rumored to be worthless, although I understand that at one time, rich strikes were made in the area. Barclay can advise you.

I still stared into the fire as if the road to my future lay in the flames. I could almost see a livable house at Trail’s End and a man who would belong to me, waiting for me in front of a similar fire.

I don’t think I want to sell the ranch, I said.

My announcement came as a surprise to both of us. A minute ago, I hadn’t intended to say this at all.

Mr. Cameron nearly spilled hot chocolate on himself. Why, what else would you do with it, Mara?

Instead of answering directly, I asked a question of my own. You knew my parents for years, Mr. Cameron. Did you ever hear of Jules Carron?

No, but then I don’t know everything. He left his property to your mother. Now it belongs to you. That’s what’s important.

You’re right, but I can’t help but be curious. I’ve been wondering why an unknown man would make my mother his heiress. There’s only one possible answer. He knew her.

Of course, he must have. Did you search the rest of your father’s desk?

Yes, I looked everywhere. There was nothing, only the one letter. At times we could have used the extra money. I can’t understand why Father wouldn’t have inquired about the inheritance.

Mr. Cameron looked down into his empty cup. Is there any chance he didn’t know about it?

I’ve thought about that. I don’t see how it’s possible. I found the letter in his desk, after all. He may have planned to tell me and waited too long. My mother might have told me, but she was so sick and withdrawn before she died, and I was very young then. Now there’s nobody left to ask.

I reached for the pitcher and found it empty. Mr. Cameron broke the brief silence. If you don’t plan to sell the ranch, what will you do?

I knew what I was going to say even before the words were formed. An alien spirit must have taken possession of me this evening. I’m going to go to Silver Springs and claim my inheritance. Perhaps I’ll find the answer there. I want to know who Jules Carron was and why he left his ranch to my mother.

Quickly and firmly, he said, But you can’t do that.

Why not?

You’re too young to undertake a long journey alone. His expression was stern, his voice commanding. He might have been addressing one of his recruits.

I’m twenty-one, I said. That’s only two months younger than Eliza, and she travels to Ohio frequently.

That’s different, Mara. Eliza is engaged to Doctor Lexington, and she stays with his mother. Besides, Ohio isn’t a wild frontier.

I set my empty cup on the table and tried to conceal my amusement. No matter how many arguments Mr. Cameron threw down in my path, we both knew no one could order me to sit by the fire and spin in Pineville when I wanted to go West. Still, I allowed him to talk. His objections only made the trip seem more exciting.

You’ll be leaving the United States of America for an Indian-infested territory full of rough men where a lady such as yourself would be devoured; and I believe this Silver Springs is a glorified mining camp. You have a fine, comfortable house in Pineville. Eventually you’ll probably find a husband. It’s what your poor dead parents would have wanted.

Now that’s unfair, sir, I said. They’re not here, and I can live alone as easily in the Colorado Territory as here. I’m responsible for my own future, and my chances of finding a husband in this tiny town are practically non-existent. I appreciate all you’ve done to help me, but I’ve decided, and I’m not afraid, neither of these rough men you talk about nor of Indians.

That last wasn’t strictly true. I didn’t know much about the Territorial natives, only what I read in the occasional dime novel that came my way, but I knew I wanted to do this in spite of any possible danger.

If I have ten thousand dollars in that bank in Denver, I can afford a train ticket, I said. But how do I withdraw the money?

Acknowledging defeat, Mr. Cameron stood up and lifted my chin with a gentle hand, a gesture that reminded me of my father.

It might do you good at that, Mara. You’re pale, not like my girls. Perhaps a change of scenery will make your cheeks glow again, but you must let me make all the arrangements and advance you the money. You can repay me later. Anytime.

He was speaking as if the idea had been his own. I didn’t want to accept his financial help. I was certain I could manage to move myself from Pineville to Colorado Territory with the last of my own funds. Once there, I would have the inheritance.

Please, I began, although I sensed that I was about to lose this battle.

No, Mara. For your father’s sake, you must allow me to do this. He would have done as much for Eliza or Camilla. I’ll buy the ticket and wire Barclay to make reservations for you in a good hotel in Denver. You can visit Silver Springs, see your ranch, and arrange for him to sell your western property, if that’s what you want to do. Then you can come home.

Or I can stay there.

He continued talking as if he hadn’t heard me. Whatever you do, don’t talk to strangers on the train. If you keep to yourself, you should be safe. I think the Indians are subdued in the Territory at the moment. That’s one danger you won’t have to worry about.

I’m sure I’ll be all right, I said. Now goodnight, Mr. Cameron, and thank you again. I know it’s late, but I’m going to start getting ready for my trip.

AFTER THAT NIGHT, TIME raced ahead at a dizzying pace. Now that I had made my decision, I wanted to leave at once. The excitement of traveling by rail all the way to the Colorado Territory, seeing Trail’s End, and solving the mystery of Jules Carron was invigorating. As I set about preparing for my departure, occasionally I glanced in the mirror. I thought I could already see the beginning of a glow.

Mr. Cameron took care of the arrangements. All I needed to do was pack and write to Mr. Johnston, informing him of my travel plans and intent. No doubt, as Jules Carron’s lawyer, he would have known him well. When we met in Silver Springs, I could ask him a few discreet questions about his deceased client.

I also penned a short note to Eliza, who wouldn’t return to Pineville before late summer, and wished her happiness in her marriage. I was reasonably certain I wouldn’t be coming back to Michigan, and, strangely, I wasn’t unhappy about that. My loved ones were gone from this place, and I could take my memories with me.

That night, after a hasty supper, I gathered together the most serviceable and attractive of my garments, which proved to be a formidable task. My wardrobe was in sad shape, suitable for living alone in Pineville, but not for railway travel.

I had two fine dresses, both of them silk, one light green and the other black. I hadn’t cared about being fashionably clothed since my father’s death and had worn primarily dark colors. Now I had no time to sew a new wardrobe.

These went into my small trunk, along with the best of my under attire, and I set aside a plain, heavy dress of dark brown to wear on the train. Although it was summer in Michigan, Mr. Cameron said that a mountain state would be cold.

As jewelry, I would take my pendant watch and my mother’s pearls. They were now mine, but I had never worn them, nor even moved them into my own room.

After my father’s death, I had closed the door to his bedroom. Now, I paused at the head of the staircase, reluctant to enter the room in which both my mother and father had died. I closed my hand on the knob, turned it slowly, and pushed the door open. The warmth of the June morning followed me inside.

This was the largest and most pleasant room in the house with a view of the garden. Faded floral wallpaper covered the walls, and the furniture was oak and massive. Bright and soft touches were everywhere, constant reminders of my mother.

As I stepped over the threshold, I breathed in the scent of roses. Although I had neglected the bushes, still the flowers bloomed profusely in red and pink colors. My mother had perfected the art of drying their petals and preserving them in jars, using her own recipe.

One of the delicate glass vessels was still on the dresser, amidst miniature family portraits. That must be the source of the sweet rose fragrance in the musty room.

I knew that my mother’s jewelry box was in the top drawer of her dresser. Feeling only a faraway sense of loss, I opened the case to take out the pearls she had always said were to be mine one day.

It was there that I found the ring. Wrapped in a small square of white material, it had been pushed to the back of the case. Now, freed to the light, its brilliant green and white fire blazed at me.

The ring was exquisite with a gold setting in the shape of a bouquet on which dozens of small diamonds clustered and sparkled around an emerald of immense size. I could never remember seeing it on my mother’s finger.

Two strange things happened then. A coolness drifted through the room. Like a draft from another world, it cut through the warm air. Through the years, I remembered the sound of my mother’s voice.

This pearl necklace is my only possession of value, Mara. One day it will be yours.

At the same time, an image began to form in my mind. While the emerald winked its green fire at me from my palm, a memory from the distant past replayed itself in fuzzy hues.

A woman in gray sat at the window reading a letter. Slowly, with a sigh, she folded it. I could feel the heartbreak pulsating through the years. Her emotions were mine, and they were connected with the ring.

Was I remembering or imagining my mother reading Mr. Johnston’s letter? But why was I assuming the letter had come from him? Perhaps Jules Carron had sent it.

My mother often said I was overly imaginative. It seemed she was correct.

She had never spoken of the magnificent emerald, but somehow I knew that Jules Carron had given it to her and she had kept it hidden. Why? I now had one more question without an answer.

I slipped the ring on my betrothal finger and wasn’t in the least surprised to see that it was a perfect fit. The emerald matched the green glints in my eyes that were like hers. That was why he had chosen this particular stone.

I knew I would never wear this ring. Carefully, as if handling a precious relic, I returned it to the back of the jewelry box. With the pearls in my hand, I closed the dresser drawer.

Jules Carron, I said, I will find out who you are.

The room was silent and June-warm again. As I closed the door, it seemed to me that the scent of roses grew stronger. It followed me wherever in the house I went until the end of the day.

BEFORE SUNRISE THE next morning, I locked the house and walked to the train station with Mr. Cameron and Eliza’s sixteen-year-old sister, Camilla. Both father and daughter were energetic for the early hour and as excited as if they were going to accompany me on my Western adventure.

Remember everything I told you, Mara, especially about the strangers, Mr. Cameron said. I’ll watch your house until you come home.

Don’t stay away too long, Camilla added. You have to be home in time for Eliza’s wedding.

Camilla was becoming more like Eliza every day, just as blonde, almost as pretty.

Tell Eliza I’ll write as soon as I reach Silver Springs, I said. Mr. Cameron, thank you again for helping me. I couldn’t have done this alone.

Of course you could, my dear. I’m not sure I’ve done you a kindness, but it’s what you wanted. Maybe it’ll be for the best.

While I tried to find a response to this less than enthusiastic farewell, I savored my last look at the little town of Pineville. I couldn’t see my house in its entirety from the train station because of the trees, but my bedroom window, through which I’d watched hundreds of departures and arrivals, was visible.

In a minute, if I didn’t take care, I’d be getting sentimental; in five, I’d be in tears.

It seemed that I was to be the only traveler to Detroit this morning. We waited for the train together, Camilla chattering about outlaws and Indians. At her side, Mr. Cameron was quiet.

Please write to me too, Mara, Camilla said. I want to know everything that happens to you. Some day I’ll go out West, too.

Mr. Cameron reached for his daughter’s hand. That won’t be for many years, Camilla.

I promised to do as Camilla asked. Then someone was helping me with my trunk, and I was inside one of the cars, watching through the window, as Mr. Cameron and Camilla waved to me. This really was goodbye.

As we left Pineville behind on the first part of my journey, I felt the sadness drift away from me. All of my feelings were focused on the future. I could hardly wait to begin my new life.

Two

The Pullman Palace Car that was taking us to the Colorado Territory was an improvement over Aunt Marjorie’s covered wagon. We could walk on richly patterned Oriental carpets, sit on luxuriously upholstered seats, and eat and sleep on the train, while we headed in the same direction my aunt had taken almost thirty