Chapter 40
A Surprise Letter

The rest of that week things were pretty sullen and quiet around the office and at home. We were all disappointed and angry, yet there was nothing we could do. Mr. Royce had us over a barrel.

I didn’t write a word or interview anyone. As much as I hated to quit on something I’d started, a dollar or two wasn’t worth getting Almeda or Pa in trouble with a man like the banker of Miracle Springs. As for what he’d said about me, I have to say I didn’t think of it that much. I didn’t see how anything I wrote could possibly put me in any danger. Almeda didn’t say anything to Mr. Royce, though she took the banner down from our office window.

The thought did occur to me that perhaps I could still write an article or two about the election, even maybe with some of the quotes from talking to people, if I showed it to Mr. Royce first and he didn’t see anything wrong with what I’d said. I would hate to do that! But it did seem like a possible way to be able to do the article. Maybe this was the other side of the question Almeda had put to me before I went to Mariposa: How bad did I want to write? Did I want it bad enough to crawl to Mr. Royce for approval? I didn’t know if I wanted it that bad.

Fortunately I didn’t have to decide. All of a sudden I was thrown into the middle of a new story, one that made the Miracle Springs election—or what was left of it, anyway—seem small and far away.

The following Monday a letter arrived for me in the mail. I immediately recognized the Alta envelope. I opened it and read:

Miss Hollister,

A major story is about to break which will doom Colonel Fremont’s chance for election. We can still stop it, but time is short and I need your help. After your article on Mrs. Fremont—which I must confess turned out to be worth the $8 from all the favorable response it has received—it could well be that you have the necessary contacts to get to the bottom of this scheme to ruin the Colonel’s reputation.

I must warn you, however, there could be danger. Powerful men with great resources behind them are involved. If you want to help, the Alta version of the story will be yours to write. I hope this reaches you in time. If interested, I will be at the offices of the Daily and Weekly Sacramento Times at two o’clock on the afternoon of Wednesday the 12th. Meet me there.

Edward Kemble
September 8, 1856

I could hardly believe my eyes! Mr. Kemble was asking me for help!

I ran across the street and burst through the door of the office. “Look at this!” I cried, waving the letter in my hand.

Almeda took it and scanned it quickly. Then she just looked up at me with raised inquiring eyebrows.

“I’ve got to ride home and pack my things,” I said. “I’ve only got forty-eight hours to get there!” I reached for the letter and was ready to head back out the door.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Corrie?” asked Almeda.

“This could be my big chance!” I answered.

“And the danger?”

“How bad could it be? No one would try to hurt me.”

“People do awful things sometimes when you try to thwart their plans. You remember what Royce said.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Just be sure, Corrie, that’s all.”

I paused, my hand on the knob of the half-opened door, and looked back at Almeda. Her eyes were filled with concern.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But maybe the only way I’m going to be sure is to go ahead, and see what God does. But I’ll talk to Pa . . . and I’ll pray. I’ll try hard not to do anything foolish.”

“Then God go with you, my daughter. I love you . . . and I too will pray!”

For one moment our eyes met, and in that moment worlds were spoken between us. The next instant I was out the door, onto my horse, and dashing toward home as fast as Raspberry could gallop, my hair streaming out behind me, the early autumn wind chilling my nose and ears.

I was at home in less than an hour. I threw together what food I could find, rolled up three blankets, and repacked my little tin fire box. It wasn’t cold yet, but the nights would be chilly so I dressed up as warm as I could, and put extra clothes, a warm coat, an extra pair of boots, a rain slicker, and several old newspapers in a bag. Then I got together my writing satchel.

Once Pa read the letter, he figured it was too late to try to stop me. He probably wouldn’t have tried, anyway. The look in his eyes said to me that he thought I was ready to face whatever the world might throw at me. And if I wasn’t, then maybe it was high time I learned to be.

“You go and do your name proud, Corrie Hollister,” he said. “You’re a Belle and a Hollister. And when anyone tries to give you a hard time, you just remember that, and remember you’re tougher’n any of ’em. And you’re God’s daughter and Drummond Hollister’s little girl too—and I figure that gives you a winning hand against just about anybody. Now you go and show that fella Kemble what kind of stuff you’re made of!”

“Thanks, Pa,” I said.

“I love you, Corrie Belle,” he added. His voice was soft and shaky.

I wheeled Raspberry around. I couldn’t say anything back because of the big lump in my throat and the tears in my eyes. I dug my heels into my mare’s sides and took off down the road. Before I was out of sight, I glanced back and waved. There was Pa still standing in the same place, his hand in the air.