Trail to Shasta (9781101622049) Read Free

guess that’s it, only this one’s bringing somebody with her. An older sister.”
    â€œWait,” Rick said, “isn’t O’Neil . . .”
    â€œYep,” Clint said, “over sixty.”
    â€œAnd he’s gonna marry the younger sister?”
    â€œThat’s the way it looks.”
    â€œSo how old are these women?”
    â€œHe doesn’t say,” Clint said. “Just that they’re arriving in New York next week, and he wants me to meet them there, and escort them cross-country to him.”
    â€œWhy you?” Rick asked. “Why doesn’t he just hire somebody to escort them? This isn’t the kind of thing you do.”
    â€œHe’s asking me to do it as a favor, Rick.”
    Rick rolled his eyes.
    â€œWell, we know you do those, don’t we?”
    â€œI owe him,” Clint said.
    Rick held up his hand. “You don’t have to explain,” he said. “When are you leavin’?”
    â€œTomorrow,” Clint said. “I want to get to New York in plenty of time.”
    â€œNew York.”
    â€œIt’s been a while since I was there,” Clint said.
    â€œI guess that’s as good a reason as any to go,” Rick said. “Does this guy O’Neil do what I think he does in Shasta?”
    â€œYes,” Clint said. “He’s got a gold mine. A pretty good strike.”
    â€œIs he payin’ you for this little trip?”
    â€œNo,” Clint said. “I said it was a favor.”
    â€œSo you did. Well, I’ve got to wish you luck seein’ two ladies across the country by . . . what? Covered wagon?”
    â€œIt’s as good a way as any . . .”
    * * * 
    Clint watched as the huge ship arrived, barely missing the dock as it did. Whoever was piloting the big boat had a light touch.
    It took a while but eventually they lowered two planks, one for passengers, and one to offload cargo. People crowded the dock as passengers began to offload. Clint watched as sweethearts, husbands, wives, and families were reunited. There were also passengers who were met by no one, who simply went their own way.
    And then there were two ladies.
    Since Clint knew that O’Neil was fat—the last time he saw him—and sixty, he expected the prospective bride to be sixty—and her older sister even older. These two girls were young, probably in their twenties and only a few years apart. He wouldn’t have even considered them except for two things—they were standing there with their bags at their feet, looking around, and they had red hair—Irish red hair.
    Clint approached them. As he came closer, one of them noticed him and nudged the other. O’Neil’s letter had given him their names. Bridget and Bride Shaughnessy.
    â€œMiss Shaughnessy?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” one of them said, “we are Bridget and Bride Shaughnessy. And who might you be?”
    She spoke with a lovely Irish lilt that gave him pause for a moment. The other girl—Bride, he assumed, pronounced “Bridey”—stared at him. He couldn’t believe that she was to be O’Neil’s “bride.” She looked all of twenty.
    â€œMy name is Clint Adams,” Clint said. “Ed O’Neil sent me to pick you up.”
    â€œAnd how are we to know you are who you say you are, an emissary from Mr. O’Neil?” the one who was probably Bridget asked.
    â€œI have a letter he sent me,” Clint said. “Would you recognize his handwriting? His signature?”
    â€œHis handwriting is like chicken scratches,” she said, “and his signature is his mark.”
    Clint nodded, stepped forward, and handed her O’Neil’s letter. She opened it, briefly scanned it, and then handed it back.
    â€œIt looks like his writing,” she said. “Greetings, Mr. Adams. How are you related to Mr.