The Bride Lottery

Saturday had been chosen, partly because it was the payday at the mine, and partly because the preacher came over on Sundays and could conduct the wedding.

By eight o’clock, a sweaty, unkempt crowd filled the saloon. The piano plinked, the whiskey flowed and the greasy smells of frying onions and meat floated in the air. Thick clouds of cigar smoke hung over the tables where men gambled away their weekly pay. Shrieks of feminine laughter mingled with rowdy, masculine voices.

Two more miners bought a ticket and stood transfixed by the rope barrier, staring at Miranda as if she were about to sprout wings and fly. And yet she understood their reverence would do her no good at all. They lived in a tent, survived hand to mouth, and the way they pushed and shoved at each other hinted at a violent nature. She’d starve, she’d freeze, and she’d very likely be beaten once the novelty of a having an educated wife wore off.

The marshal walked in accompanied by a man Miranda had not seen before. Lean, medium height, in his late twenties, he had straight black hair that fell to his shoulders, and sharply angled cheekbones. His skin was smooth and bronzed. From the dark coloring and the long hair, Miranda assumed he might have some native heritage, but when he got closer, she could see that his eyes were pale gray, almost like chips of ice, and just as cold.

The two newcomers settled side by side at the bar, both with one boot propped on the brass rail. The stranger jerked his chin in her direction and said something to the marshal. The marshal replied, grinning. Lucille ducked beneath the counter, poured whiskey into two glasses—the good stuff, not the watered-down swill—and smiled at the men.

The stranger listened to the marshal, knocked back his drink, slammed down the empty glass and ambled over to Miranda. He stepped over the rope and came to a halt in front of her. Miranda’s kid slippers hit the floor. The chair stilled its rocking. The man might only be medium height, but it made his presence no less threatening.

“Read,” he ordered.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

He leaned forward. With him came the scent of soap and leather and the aroma of good coffee and expensive whiskey. His eyebrows were straight, his pale eyes deep set, and they seemed to glitter, as if a flame flickered somewhere deep within. He tapped one lean finger on the book she was clutching in her trembling hands.

“Read,” he said. “Aloud.”

She opened a page at random. Psalms. Number eighty-eight.

Her eyes strayed to a verse in the middle, and she read: “‘I am confined and cannot escape; my eyes are dim with grief. I call to you, Lord, every day...’”

The man held up one hand. “Enough.”

Miranda fell silent. She noticed a scar on his palm, a star-shaped, puckered mark. Without another word, the man turned away and walked back to the bar. Miranda watched as he reached into his pocket and tossed a gold coin on the counter.

Lucille tore a page from the receipt pad, printed down a name, folded the ticket and came to drop it into the glass jar on the small table beside Miranda. The dark man with the icy eyes picked up his refilled whiskey glass and resumed his conversation with the marshal. He never once glanced in Miranda’s direction again, unlike the other ticket holders, who were jostling by the rope, craning forward and staring at her with the eagerness of thirsty men denied access to a spring.

Lucille banged a pewter mug against the counter. “Silence,” she yelled. “Bride lottery will begin. Marshal Holm will officiate. His decision will be final. Anyone who complains will spend the night in jail with the four bank robbers brought in today.”

Four bank robbers. Miranda recalled the marshal saying something about them a week ago. A bounty hunter was supposed to bring them in. They must have been delayed, and the dark man with the marshal must be the bounty hunter. Why on earth would a man like that, a transient without a permanent home, be interested in a wife?

Marshal Holm walked up to the rope and smiled. Miranda’s temper flared. She was being offered up like a sacrificial lamb and he behaved as if a smile would smooth things over. She cleared her throat and put her plan in motion—not as good as escaping but better than accepting the vagaries of luck.

“A dying man is usually granted a final request,” she announced tartly. “May I have one?”

“You ain’t dying if I win you, sweetheart,” one of the drunken miners yelled. “You’ll learn your life has only just begun.” Swaying on his feet, he waved at the prostitutes. “These ladies can vouch for me.”

Nellie and Desiree shouted back obscenities that made Miranda’s ears burn.

“Your last wish as a single woman?” the marshal prompted.

Miranda picked up the glass jar and shook it, making the tickets rustle inside. “Not a random draw,” she explained. “I’d like a chance to ensure that I end up with a man who possesses the qualities required for a successful marriage. I want to ask these men questions. Set conditions. Those who fail to give satisfactory replies to my questions or refuse to meet my conditions will be eliminated, until we have a winner. Does that suit you?”

“That’s a splendid idea,” Lucille called out.

Of course Lucille would think it a splendid idea, Miranda thought with a trace of bitterness. It would stretch out the suspense, keep the whiskey flowing and the cash register ringing.

Marshal Holm nodded. “I guess I can go along with that.”

Miranda closed her eyes and fought the wave of gratitude. She didn’t really care, had formed scant impression of the men who had entered the draw, but she was desperate to avoid Slater, the big hulk who picked his teeth clean with the tip of his knife.

She rose from the rocking chair and turned toward the room, like an actress on the stage. “Only clean shaven men. No beards, no moustaches. Day-old stubble is acceptable.”

Right there, in front of her horrified eyes, Slater took out his knife. He held it in his right hand and picked up the whiskey bottle from the table with his left hand and poured a stream of whiskey over the blade to clean it.

He set the bottle down again, raised the knife, pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger and sliced off one side of his moustache. Then the other side. The sandy wedges fell on the tabletop and lay there like a pair of dead baby squirrels.

Nausea churned in Miranda’s belly. Slater was determined, she granted him that. She suspected that if he won her, he’d be just as determined to make the most of having a wife. He’d have no mercy. She’d cook and clean and carry and fetch all day, and continue her toil in bed at night. Even though Miranda’s isolated spot in the bridal display had prevented her from engaging in many conversations with Lucille’s girls, she had been able to listen and observe. Any romantic notions about a wedding night had vanished.

“Only men who can read and write,” she called out.

“How will you verify the skill?” asked Hooperman, the trim, neat banker in his early forties. He was a widower, with two children. He would have been the obvious choice, if it hadn’t been for Miranda’s experience with the boisterous Summerton girls in Boston. In two hours, the little monsters had driven her to the brink of insanity.

“Easy to check,” Lucille declared. She tore off pages from the receipt pad and handed them out to the lottery participants. “Read something aloud,” she told Miranda. “These gentlemen will write it down.”

Miranda leafed through her Bible, picked the trickiest passage she could find. After the men had found pencils, she dictated a sentence and the candidates scratched down the words. Lucille collected the pages and inspected them. Once those with too many spelling mistakes had been disqualified, only three candidates remained.

Hooperman the banker.

The dark bounty hunter.

And, horror of horrors, Slater, who was grinning with victory. Blood beaded on his upper lip where he’d sliced too deep while shaving off his moustache. His tongue kept poking out to lick away the droplets.

Miranda could feel her legs shaking. A knot tightened in her belly. She sank on the rocking chair. It would have to be the banker. An educated, well-bred man. Maybe his children would be nice, and there were only two of them.

“The next question is to test a man’s education,” she announced. Her brain went blank as she tried to come up with the right task to eliminate Slater. She could remember the Lord’s Prayer, but Slater might have been brought up in a devout home, or in a church orphanage, and there was a possibility he might know the words.

In a flash of inspiration, Miranda recalled her father’s favorite poem. She took a deep breath and called out, “‘Yet all things must die.’” Blank stares met her. Good. That’s exactly what she wanted. “It’s from a poem, by Alfred Tennyson,” she added. “What is the next verse?”

The banker put up his hand. “What happens if no one knows?”

The marshal considered. “The lady can make her choice.”

The banker broke into a smile of triumph. “I have to confess I don’t recall the words, even though I greatly admire the romantic poets. Tennyson. Keats. Shelley.”

Slater did not give up so easily. His narrow features puckered into a frown. “‘Because we were all born to die?’” he ventured.

Miranda exhaled a sigh of relief. “No.”

Slater got to his feet, as big as a mountain in his grimy duster. He scowled at her. “How do I know it’s not right? You could say that about anything.”

“Because it goes, ‘The stream will cease to flow, the wind will cease to blow, the clouds will cease to fleet.’”

The verses came in a deep, husky voice. It was the first time Miranda had heard the bounty hunter speak more than one word at a time. A shiver rippled along her skin as his eyes swept over her, cool and indifferent, unlike the hot, hungry glare of Slater, or the admiring glances of Hooperman.

Miranda swallowed. Honesty remained her only choice. “Yes,” she said. “That’s how it goes.”