Chapter twenty six

FOR FOUR DAYS the illness had raged through New Hope, and a growing panic seized the townspeople. Almost half the families in town had been struck by the fast-moving influenza, and everyone knew someone sick with the high fevers, wracking coughs, and suffocating bloody fluids in the lungs. In some homes there had been deaths, mostly among the very young or the very old, the ones with little strength to fight the rampaging infection. But here and there it was a young man or woman, struck down suddenly, and taken within hours. Those who had escaped the disease were afraid to go out and the streets lay eerily deserted. The few who were too restless or too stubborn to stay inside congregated at the saloon.

Frank had come down sick the previous day, and Mae and those of her girls who were still well were looking after the customers in the bar. Conversation was slight, most men lingering remorsefully over half-finished drinks, not wanting to talk of news that seemed all bad. Mae tried to keep up appearances, chatting briefly with each newcomer, forcing a smile. She stared in surprise at the newest face in the long row of unshaven men leaning against the bar. Thaddeus Schroeder nodded hello, his face drawn and pale.

"Thaddeus!" Mae said warmly, "Never expected to see you in here during daylight hours. Wish it was under better circumstances. What can I get you?"

Thaddeus smiled wanly. "A good strong whiskey, Mae. Things are getting terrible, just terrible."

Mae looked at him pityingly and poured him a drink. "How are your people, Thaddeus?" she asked gently.

He looked at her with sorrowful eyes. "My John Emory's ailing with it, but the Doc said last night that the boy had passed the crisis, thank the good Lord. He wasn't sick at all just three days ago, and then --" His voice broke and he looked away. "So fast. It comes so fast." He cleared his throat and reached for the glass that Mae had filled for him. "The Doc says we're probably lucky to have lived through that terrible spell in '52. Makes us stronger now, he says."

She patted his hand. "That's fine, Thaddeus, just fine."

She had missed the terrible epidemic that swept over the western plains and beyond over a decade before, decimating the Indian populations and new settlers as well, but she had seen the effects of the devastating infection in the crowded tenements of New York City, and death looked the same everywhere. She prayed that this outbreak would be over quickly, and the losses few. Lord, life was hard enough without this, too.

But Thaddeus was beyond consoling. He had come to the saloon because he needed to talk, and he couldn't burden his wife, who was so busy herself looking after the boy and helping the neighbors, too. He continued to ramble, almost to himself. "There are so many, Mae. So many others sick with it." He sighed. "More will die, God help us."

"Thaddeus," Mae said kindly, touching his hand. "These people are strong, pioneer stock. They'll survive. Don't you be giving up hope now."

He raised remorseful eyes to hers. "It's Martin and Martha Beecher I feel so bad about. They're not like the rest of us, not used to such hardships. I feel like it's my fault for bringing them out here. That girl is going to be on my conscience, Mae!" Tears brimmed in his eyes and he reached quickly for his pocket handkerchief.

Mae stared at him, an awful fear crowding out her breath. "Thaddeus, what are you talking about?"

"It's their daughter, Kate," he replied when he managed to contain himself. "She came down with the illness yesterday and Doc says she's very bad. Might not even make it till tomorrow." He finished his drink. "My fault. All my fault."

Mae wanted to scream at him to hush so she could think. Kate dying? That couldn't be, could it? Not young, beautiful, vibrant Kate. But of course it could. There was no rhyme or reason to these things, and very little one could do to change fate. Not a thing, really.

She turned away from the lonely man, unable to summon any words of solace. She moved sadly down the bar, pouring shots of inadequate comfort for the mourners.

 

The house had a dark, deserted look about it. The windows were dead eyes looking back at her, and no smoke curled from the chimney. For an instant her heart seized with terror. What if death had visited here already? Would anyone have thought to tell her? Wouldn't she have known somehow if she were gone? Controlling her panic, Mae knocked on the wide front door. When there was no answer, she pushed open the door and hesitantly stepped inside. It was cold, as if all life had departed days before.

"Who is it?" a low, quiet voice said out of the darkness.

Mae cried out sharply, her eyes searching the hallway, trying to peer into the room from which the voice had emanated. "Jess? For God's sake, Jess, is that you?"

Suddenly a match flared, flickered, and then caught. A moment later lamplight illuminated the library in a faint yellow glow. Jessie stood wraith-like by the fireplace, pale and hollow-eyed. She placed the lamp on the mantle and turned slowly toward Mae, her normally straight back slumped, her gaze dazed and listless.

"What is it, Mae?" she asked slowly. She gripped the edge of the stone ledge tightly, a little unsteady on her feet. She hadn't had much to eat. Couldn't remember her last meal actually. The fireplace was empty; she hadn't cooked. She dimly recalled Jed coming up to the house that morning, or maybe it was the night before, asking after her. Saying he had seen the wagon still out back, warning that the snows were coming any day. She had sent him away, telling him she would not be needing the wagon after all. He had wanted to say more, she could see the worry in his face, but she shut the door. There was nothing to say.

Jessie looked up from the cold hearth, surprised to see Mae standing there, staring at her. She cleared her throat. "What is it?" she asked again.

Mae came forward slowly, wondering if Jessie was sick with what everyone else had. She looked so drained, so empty. Mae had never seen her look like that, not even right after her father had been killed. "Jess," she said quietly. "Jess, are you sick?"

'No, Mae," Jessie said with a shake of her head, confused. She didn't feel anything. That strange numbness was still there, everywhere.

"Then what are you doing in here in the dark?" Mae was so worried and so scared she was beginning to lose her temper. "It's freezing in here, too! Are you trying to get sick?"

The hard edge in Mae's voice penetrated Jessie's muddled consciousness. "I'm not sick, Mae," she said, a little of the life returning to her voice. "What are you talking about? Why are you here?"

Mae gasped. "Lord, you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" Jessie asked, an ominous dread stirring in her chest. "What's happening?"

"The grippe," Mae said bitterly. "It hit town a bit ago, and the last two days have seen some sorrow."

Jessie's face slowly lost its last trace of color. "Kate," she whispered. God, she was a fool! Why hadn't she gone into town and looked for her? Why had she let her doubts keep her away? She grabbed Mae's shoulders, leaning down to look into her face. Her eyes were wide and wild. "Kate! Is she sick?"

Mae paused, not sure until just that moment what she had come to say. The torment and terror in Jessie's face convinced her. She nodded, then said very quietly, "She's bad, Jess. The Doc says she doesn't have long."

Jessie's head snapped back as if she had been struck. For a moment she was completely still, the only movement a faint pulse beating in her neck. Then a horrible glint flashed in her eyes and a sound more like a snarl that a word tore from her throat. "No!"

Mae reached for her as Jessie snatched her gun belt from the table and strapped it on. "Jess," she said hesitantly, afraid of what Jessie might do in her state of mind. "Her family -"

The look Jessie gave her stopped Mae cold.

"There's not a man alive can keep me away from her, Mae," Jessie answered stonily, heading for the door. "I can't let her die without me there."