Mail Ordered

By Troy Andrew Smith

Although two of the women characters depicted in this story were based loosely on real women, this is a work of fiction and not to be regarded as a history book, nor a journal of their lives. It is hoped that readers can get a feeling for some of the struggles and dangers those Mail Ordered Brides, as well as all the early women pioneers, were up against. 
Mail Ordered Brides were a necessary commodity in a land where women were few and far between. Especially since making a living was hard and time consuming. Enough so, a lot of men just didn't have time to go 'courting'. 
Thus, the Mail Ordered Bride filled a niche in the 'Wild West'.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Hulsey Books
• Release date: Feb 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224200238

Troy Andrew Smith

Troy Andrew Smith was born on July 13th, 1952 in the small rural town of Nowata, Oklahoma. He was raised on a ten acre place just outside of town and grew up dreaming of being a cowboy like his Dad. Although, their place was small, it was directly across the road from a large ranch and just down the road from another big spread. By the time Troy was 15 he was a regular hand during branding and shipping. He had no idea of ever being in a movie. As an adult, Troy worked as a ranch hand, machinist, carpenter, guide, dude wrangler, and Country Western singer. He also wrote a weekly column for the Nowata newspaper and had several of his Cowboy poems published in various publications. While attending film school at Montana State University, Troy supplemented his income with movie jobs in the summers and started writing novels and screenplays. He has ridden horses or driven teams in numerous movies and TV shows, including three seasons on HBO's series DEADWOOD. At this time Troy is concentrating his efforts on his skills as a Screenwriter, Author and Actor.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was a beautiful early Autumn night, in this year of 1885, with just a touch of frost in the air. The frost seemed to light up this city of St. Louis as it created the effect that the light from the street lamps almost sparkled.

A faint shaft of light filtered into the First National Bank of Saint Louis President’s Office from the street lamps outside. Maybe it was the frost that caused the light and shadows to seem to have a life of their own as they played across the interior of the room. It definitely wasn’t an overly remarkable room, especially for the office of a Bank President. Maybe, it was intended to convey a sense of frugality, while at the same time giving the impression that the bank was a safe and solid place for an individual or a business, to place their trust and their money. At least this is what the President – whom the office belonged to – believed anyway. His only obvious exception to the appearance of his frugality being the Blair Tourograph Co. field camera and equipment. Most of which he kept covered in one corner of the office.

The concept of photography was fairly new and it fascinated Bank President Milton Meryl. The camera was a vital part of his favorite hobby, even though he didn’t get the chance to partake of his most recent infatuation nearly often enough. What with his job duties, the hours he kept and the personal image he had to maintain, indulging in his passion of photography and its special uses was harder to do all the time. Which was why he wasn't in his office on this particular evening. He was, instead, being forced to spend the evening with his wife at some gala event she felt was most important for them to attend. His was an absent that had been noticed for its importance... it left the room empty.

As far as the office furnishings were concerned, there was a large Walnut desk and a wooden chair made of the same wood. It was equipped with brass casters which allowed the President of the Bank to roll from one place to the other without having to bother with lifting himself out of the chair. Not that it was any big problem for him to lift himself, he just preferred not to have to. He was fairly fit, for a man his age. Not obese, nor crippled by any means. He was tall, handsome in a pinch-faced sort of way. Most people that knew him, attributed this to the fact that he almost never smiled. He worked long hours and had lots of responsibilities in order to keep the bank operating at a profit. It weighed heavy upon his shoulders.

The one other more unusual features of the office – which would have really stood out if it wasn’t a Bank President’s office – was a Mosler safe. It stood four-feet-tall by three feet in depth and width. It was situated behind and to the left of Milton Meryl’s desk, in the farthest back corner of the office. It was partially hidden by a set of bookcases. The shelves of the book cases were heavily laden with bound ledgers. The President of the First National Bank of Saint Louis, considered it to be his duty to personally oversee and control these accounts. Unknown to all of the other employees of the bank, and anyone else for that matter, there was another, more condensed set of ledgers kept inside the safe. The figures in those ledgers much more accurate as to the true state of the bank’s financial solvency than the ones out on display were. The ones on the shelves were for window dressing purposes to appease persons of authority only.

This safe was by no means the main vault of the bank. It was specifically used as a personal place for Bank President Milton Meryl to keep private 'books' and other valuables. What did make the safe somewhat a point of interest was the engraving that Mosler decorated their 'better' quality safes with. That and the darkly clad figure of a person kneeling down in front of the safe, slowly working the combination dial. The Peterman – a slang term popular in the day that was used instead of the more modern term of safe cracker – wasn’t a large person, but gave the impression of being very agile. They were smooth with their fingers, wasting no effort with unnecessary motion with bouts of frustration, or impatience.

It took only a matter of a little over half an hour before the Mosler safe yielded to the meticulous touch of the Peterman. The door of the safe swung open with hardly a sound. The Peterman was grateful to Bank President Milton Meryl for doing such a fine job of maintaining the safe and keeping its hinges oiled. Still, he wasn’t bothering to take time to sort out the contents while squatted down in front of the safe. Instead, deft fingers quickly stuffed it all – with the exception of some of the much too heavy ledgers – into a leather valise brought along for that very purpose. As an afterthought and after seeing there was still a little space in the valise, he added two of the ledgers to the bag. In a matter of minutes, everything that would fit, had been transferred from the safe to the valise. None too quickly, as far as the Peterman was concerned. Wiping some sweat with the back of a gloved hand, he turned from the safe and started towards the door of the office. Not knowing who might still be in the bank – possibly cleaning ladies or bank guards – the Peterman wasn't at all sure as to which was the best way to leave the bank.

At that very moment, the door to the office slammed open, hitting against the wall. A policeman, his service revolver in hand, stood framed in the doorway.

Hands up! shouted the young policeman. He was obviously as nervous as he was excited. After all, it wasn’t every night a beat patrolman noticed strange shadows moving inside the upper floors of a bank. He knew he should hurry and recruit another officer or two, to cover him, but this was about his getting the chance to apprehend a real criminal, not just running in some drunk causing a disturbance. He didn’t dare hesitate. Instead he now commanded, Stay where you are! Don’t move.

All of those instructions were delivered with all the authority the young man could muster. His voice – much to his chagrin – tended to run an octave higher than normal and cracked to boot when he got excited. Still, he figured he carried enough authority – between his uniform, service revolver and, in his opinion, his rather intimidating physique – that his orders would be complied with in an orderly fashion. He had not anticipated what would actually happen.

The Peterman almost instantly, fired a shot from under the left arm. Even though it was unintentional, the shot hit the young policeman. The accuracy of the shot was more by chance than design, but it did stagger the policeman.

The sight of his own blood spraying from a hole in his shoulder turned the young policeman’s aggression into panic. His knees suddenly didn’t support him any longer and yet, even as he fell, he managed to fire off one shot.

The Peterman had not hesitated. Since all other choices of exits from the bank were now blocked by an officer of the law and rendered useless for the time being, there was no sense in hesitating to make an obvious decision. As soon as the shot was fired – without waiting to see if it was a hit or not – he held the valise in such a manner as to protect face and throat and was on the move. Within one and a half strides, he dove through the one window of the office. It was a closed window that opened out onto the city street two floors below. Fortunately, for the Peterman, the bank was one of the more progressive buildings in the city. They had installed, at the insistence of the Bank President Milton Meryl himself, an iron fire escape. The Peterman landed on the fire escapes platform, a burning pain running along the ribs just below the arm pit. He had never been shot before and wasn’t sure if that was what had happened now, but there was no time to stop and inspect the situation. It was time to get to heck out of there. That’s exactly what the man did.

***

The President of the First National Bank of Saint Louis, Milton Meryl, and the Police Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Department, James McDonough, stood inside Meryl’s office and looked at the open safe.

How much was taken? asked McDonough.

James McDonough was on his way out as the head of the Saint Louis Police Department and knew he wasn’t long for the job. He was getting older, had become more jaded – if that was possible – and had made enemies in some of the wrong political places. None of which was conducive to keeping the position much longer. It was because of those political enemies that he was even here at all. Normally, this would be handled by one of his lower ranked officers, but because it was the bank and because one of his policemen had been wounded, here he stood. He wasn’t happy. Added to that, he didn’t care much for Milton – my friends just call me Milt – Meryl. Personally, the bank president made him want to puke. McDonough wasn’t sure why, he just did. All those factors combined, made Police Commissioner McDonough less than enthusiastic about investigating the robbery. What he didn’t like though, was the fact that one of his men was wounded in the line of duty. That was something James McDonough wouldn’t tolerate.

I can’t say for sure.

You have a safe in your office and you don’t know what’s missing? asked McDonough.

Not until it’s all inventoried and re-counted. If I had to guess, it looks like around five thousand dollars. Give or take a hundred or two.

James McDonough studied the money and other items still in the safe or scattered on the floor. Looks like it could’ve been worse?

I suppose. The bank president, thought the police commissioner, looked like he was smelling something offensive. His expression was like it might as well have been a dead cow that had laid in the hot July sun for a few days. At least that was what the Police Commissioner thought. Then again, thought McDonough, Ole, just call me Milt, always looked like that. At least all the times McDonough had seen him.

Seems kind of odd, don’t you think, said James McDonough, that the thief would only take five thousand and leave the rest of this cash?

I’m afraid I’m not clairvoyant enough to know what would go on in the mind of a criminal.

Hmmm, murmured the highest-ranking police officer in the City of Saint Louis.

What’s that supposed to mean, asked the banker in an indignant tone of voice.

Nothing, said McDonough, Just, hmmm.

I believe my bank and I deserve a little more respect than what I seem to be getting from you.

McDonough turned on the banker with a fire in his eyes that up until that moment, Milton Meryl never knew existed in the policeman. I can’t say what your bank deserves, Milt. The way he said ‘Milt’ would have left little doubt to anyone who heard it, that the two men were anything but friends. Fortunately for the commissioner, there was no one else around to hear. McDonough continued, But, I know you and I personally think you’re lower than the slime on a river rock. This whole set up stinks. McDonough waves a hand at the open safe. Why you’re keeping this much money in your private office, instead of the vault downstairs in the main part of the bank, is a question I’d love to have the answer to. Problem is, if I got an answer, I know you’d just lie to me, so I’m not even going to bother to ask. What I am going to do, is find the man that shot my patrolman.

What about my money? The banker had an almost panicked sound to his voice.

If the culprit still has it when I catch him, you’ll get it back.

What will happen if you catch the thief?

That depends on if my man lives or dies. He lives, the culprit will stand trial. My man dies, I fear the culprit may be so desperate to escape that he’ll resist. If that happens, it becomes out of my control.

With that, McDonough walked out of the office.

***

On the other, less prosperous, side of Saint Louis, in a rundown tenement building, Candice Yates was dressed for bed. She also had enough spirits in her – both the alcoholic beverage type and strength of character – that she was ready to wage war. She was in a war alright. It was one she couldn’t win, but she didn’t care. Nor did she actually think of her situation in those terms. She just thought of it as another fight with her husband. Only lately, these fights had started to become far more frequent and the violence had escalated dramatically.

Candice’s main problem was twofold. One problem was she was a petite woman that barely weighed over a hundred pounds. When she had been drinking though, she had a temper that would equal that of a man who weighed close to two hundred pounds. Biggest problem connected with her ‘drinking temper’ was, she tended to let her alligator mouth overload her hummingbird butt. The other problem was that her husband, who was equally as drunk at the moment, did weigh close to two hundred pounds and had a violent temper at any time... drinking or not. It was a poor combination for harmonious living and marital bliss.

Sober, Candice was generally a nice person and much more cautious about what came out of her mouth. As a girl growing up, she had dreamed of a life with a man who loved her. A life filled with children, laughter, and good memories. She had dreamed of a man who would make her feel pretty. A man with strong arms to hold her at night, keep her feeling safe and to cause her blood to stir. Now, as a twenty-six-year-old woman who drank too much and too often, the only part of those dreams she had accomplished was, to have a man with strong arms to hold her. The problem was, that when Blue Yates wrapped his arms around her, it had nothing to do with making her feel pretty or safe. When Blue Yates put his hands on her at all, there was usually pain involved.

Standing in the small bedroom she shared with Blue, Candice glared in defiance at the closed and locked door.

You go to hades, Blue Yates! she shouted.

The locked door shattered before her eyes as Blue Yates used a size nine boot to kick the door in, sending it crashing against the wall. In his hands, he held a rolled-up newspaper in one and a half empty whiskey bottle in the other. He pointed the paper at Candice.

I'm your husband and I say we can make a chunk of money if you do as you’re told.

I ain’t pretending to be no ‘Mail Order Bride’ just so’s you can collect some drinking money from that broker.

You’ll do as I tell ya!

Go to hell! shouted Candice. It was the only words she was able to think of quick enough, to get out of her mouth before she grabbed a wooden hair brush off of the run-down vanity – the only other furniture besides the bed in the room – and threw it with a degree of accuracy that surprised both her and her husband. It hit Blue on the forehead, almost centered, between his eyes. The edge of the wood made a small cut that instantly started bleeding.

Blue reached a hand up and felt of the wound. When he looked at his fingers they were covered in blood. You cut me Candice!

Blue threw the bottle at Candice’s head, but she was able to duck under the it. The bottle crashed against the wall.

She was looking for something else to throw at her husband when Blue’s big hand slapped her up the side of her head. The blow was solid and knocked her to the floor, her nightgown rode high up her legs as she laid sprawled – in a not very lady-like manner – on the floor. She tried to scramble away, but even bleeding and as drunk as he was, Blue Yates was faster than she was. Which may have been partially due to the state of drunkenness she was in. The blow to the side of her head hadn’t helped her speed any either.

Blue grabbed her by the hair and jerked her to her feet and in one motion slung her onto the bed. Still holding her by the hair – to prevent her from escaping what he thought of as her justified punishment for not being a good wife, by his definition of course – he straddled her chest. Blue pinned both her arms down with his legs and proceeded to slap her face, each blow a little harder than the last. He alternated hands, left, right, back and forth. He was methodical, even as drunk as he was, hitting her hard enough to hurt, but not so hard as to knock her unconscious. He’d practiced on her and others enough to be very good at causing pain.

At one point, between the blows, Candice lurched up and tried to bite him. Fortunately, for Blue – but not for Candice – her neck had been less than a half inch too short for her to successfully bite her husband. The result of that attempt was disastrous for Candice. For that was when the slapping stopped and the full-fledged beating began. Fortunately, for Candice – if such a thing could be called fortunate – she only felt the first five or six blows.

Blue beat his wife with such fury he never noticed when she had passed out, nor did he care. The fact that she had tried to fight him was, in his mind, unforgivable but the fact that she had tried to bite him – and he had no doubt that was what she had tried to do – that was, well, he couldn’t even think of a word to describe such audacity. So, Blue Yates beat Candice until his arms wore out; until he was out of wind; until his energy was spent; until the booze took over and caused him to pass out; then he rolled over on his back, in bed alongside his wife and started to snore.

In the early morning light, the next day, Candice moved stiffly as she packed a cheap made carpetbag with the best clothes she had. There weren’t many. When she was done, she picked up the newspaper that had fallen to the floor the night before and once again read the ad again that advertised needing women to be mail ordered brides. The advertisement Blue Yates had decided was the answer to his prayers. The advertisement had been the catalyst for her last beating. It read, ‘GO WEST YOUNG LADIES! MARRY THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS! Females are wanted to be brides! All travel expenses are paid plus a generous stipend in cash. Start a new life in a new land with an exciting new husband! Contact Bradley Weldon at Weldon and Sons, Incorporated.

Glancing at Blue, still in bed, she said, Maybe you had a good idea after all, Blue? She tore the advertisement out of the paper, glanced again at her face in the small mirror before she packed it in her bag. Then she glared at her husband and once again told him, You go to hell, Blue Yates. Then she picked up her bag and slowly, painfully, made her way to the door. This time she wasn’t drunk even though she would’ve liked to have had a small sip... or two, to ease the pain. She looked at the broken bottle at the base of the wall and cursed Blue Yates for wasting good whiskey throwing the bottle at her. But this time she wasn’t afraid of saying the wrong thing to Blue Yates. This time she felt a sense of relief, of freedom that nearly caused her to feel light headed. 'Or maybe,' she thought, 'that was just left over from the last beating she had taken from Blue Yates.'

You go to Hell, Blue Yates, she repeated, If you ain’t already there. She knew she had taken the last beating she would take from him ever. Mainly because, he lay on the bed with a twelve-inch-long butcher knife run through his heart. 

***

Although it was still officially summer, the nights in the high country in Montana could still turn, as one miner had put it, colder’n my late mother-in-law’s black heart. This night was one of those nights. Which is why, inside what passed for a 'Gentleman’s Club' located just above one of the gold camps outside of Elkhorn, a group of miners, card sharps, some teamsters, and of course, the reason the men were there, some women – none of which were dressed warmly – sat at tables and chairs strategically located around a wood stove. The stovepipe glowed a low red color as it fought to maintain a comfortable level of heat for the scantily clad women. The men could take off layers of outerwear and did, because they sure weren’t wanting the women to cover up.

Ginger was a buxom beauty. She defined the term ‘busty’ to a tee. She worked her way through the crowd of men, trailing a finger across a teamster’s back, winking at a miner and mainly making the men feel like they were important. Ginger had learned several years before how to make men shell out their hard-earned money in order to be the recipient of her favors. She seldom went upstairs these days. Unless of course, the house was busy and the other girls were occupied. In those circumstances, she would have Claude, her bartender, watch the place. He’d make sure nobody decided to steal something. Then she would handle the overflow, provided of course, she thought she could stand to look at or smell the overflow customer long enough to let them get their urges satisfied. Tonight though, she had a feeling her normal operating procedure might change. A few moments before, a man she rather fancied – at least as much as she fancied any man these days – had come in out of the cold.

Close that blasted door, Willis! Ginger had snapped at him. You trying to freeze us?

So, Willis, with a grin on his face, did just that, he’d closed the door and replied, Gosh no, Ginger.

For a miner, she thought, Willis was usually