In an idle moment, I looked up St. Mark, and couldn’t see any obvious connection between the New Testament St. Mark to railroading. (I am being facetious.) The matter became more clear when, while I was supposed to be dusting Father’s study, I thumbed through an old annual report of the Union Pacific Railroad. There he was, Mark Hopkins, first treasurer of the Union Pacific and the man who chose my father to succeed him. Oh. That St. Mark. My father seldom missed an opportunity to move upward.

I must point out here that all winter on the sly, I had been sending letter after letter to the Quapaw Indian agent in Indian Territory, asking for word about a Nez Perce known as Kaya, or Hawk. I never received a response. It was as if the agent looked at the return address, rolled his eyes, remarked to himself, “Hell’s bells, her again?” and tossed it. My letters to the Bureau of Indian Affairs also vanished into the government mist.

No one cared. By winter’s end, my efforts to patiently let go of whatever events I had no control over anyway were wearing thin on my battered heart. And now I had a committee meeting today after luncheon. Life was unfair.

Matters worsened. The morning of my committee meeting, the widower from Red Cloud sent me a telegram, informing me that he would be in town in two days. He hinted of a great surprise in store for me.

I had a bigger one for him, and for my committee, and my family, and it happened that very day.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-seven

To say that my mind was in turmoil that day would be to greatly understate the matter.

What an afternoon. For any of you who duck and run when asked to serve on a committee, even you would have enjoyed this meeting. I have certainly never forgotten it.

We were sitting in the parlor, pads and pencils at the ready to make final assignments, when the doorbell jangled. Dawson, our butler, answered it. My committee was all accounted for, so I assumed Mother and Father were expecting guests. Consequently, Dawson startled me by banging open the parlor doors and scurrying to my side.

You have to know Dawson to appreciate this. Dawson never banged doors or scurried anywhere. He stalked about in such stately fashion that the less informed mistook him for the head of the house.

Eyes wide, he stood by my chair practically plucking at my sleeve. His mouth open and closed several times. One of the committee members, a tiresome girl named Agnes Wilson, started to titter.

“For heaven’s sake, Dawson, whatever is the matter?” I asked. “Can’t it wait?”

He finally found his breath or his wits. I think it was the former, because all he said was “Miss, miss, miss,” over and over. Agnes’s titter turned into a choking sound behind her handkerchief.