Julianne Parker

Julianne didn’t sleep most of the night. There had been no change in the comfort of the pallet where she slept or the sounds in the house. There had been a little rain overnight, but it wasn’t enough to be blamed for her restlessness.

For most of the night, she’d lain awake thinking about Hugh’s green eyes, intent with hope that she believed him. She remembered his humility and sincerity as he told his stories. She’d thanked the Lord for reaching out with His mercy to save Hugh.

If she did fall into sleep for a few moments, she was in his arms or lying by his side with his warm chest against her back, his heavy arm snugly draped around her. That was something she didn’t want to wake from, but all too soon, she did.

Julianne knew it was still early, but she didn’t know how much longer she could stay in bed. She needed to get up—to do something. The chickens. She could always collect eggs, and it would bother no one.

She slipped out from under the quilt, pulled a green gingham dress over her shift, and slid her feet into stockings and then boots. She grabbed a wicker basket and crept out the front door. Brisk morning air cooled her face. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders a little tighter and turned toward the henhouse. The moon had already set and the dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern peaks.

After gathering the eggs, she left the coop with the basket over her arm and drove the door’s wooden latch in place. When she turned back toward the church, a man stood a few feet away, between her and the kitchen.

Dougal. She’d known him from his tangled brown hair and red beard—the same man who’d ridden his horse through the group gathered at the saloon. He was the one who’d stirred the crowd into a brawl.

A startled gasp escaped her. In two steps, his huge hand clamped around her waist, the other on her mouth. She twisted and wiggled fiercely, but her feet slipped around in the mud as she struggled. It happened so quickly that she hadn’t thought to run away soon enough to escape his reach.

His rancid breath hissed in her ear. “Thought I’d haf’ta sit all day to git you ’lone, lil’ Miss Preacher.”

When Julianne screamed, she thought she could hear him suppressing a maniacal laugh. He pressed her against the chicken wire. Now his hand pressed a moist cloth over her nose and mouth. Though she kicked him, his iron grip held her until the world went black.

Sometime later, Julianne began to wake. Her head pulsed with pain as the wagon rocked under her cheek. She tried to move, sit up, or yell, but nothing worked. Her thoughts crept like sludge. By the time the wagon stopped, Julianne could keep her eyes open.

She was tied and gagged. Her pulse fluttered, fear gripping her. Her arms were crossed, and her wrists were tied as were her thighs and feet.

Julianne glanced around wildly. She tried to pull her knees up to her chest to stay away from the man, but felt the tension of a rope along her back denied her movement. Dougal leaned over the bed of the wagon and grabbed the rope behind her back, jerking her toward the tailgate. She’d been trussed up like a roasting chicken.

Julianne tried to scream, but the feeble sound was only a whisper. The large man pulled her out and slung her over his shoulder. She tried to buck, but he slung her back farther so she was nearly upside down behind him. Julianne squeezed her eyes, and tears leaked out the edges.

At least she knew he hadn’t taken her very far away. She recognized a few of the buildings in Creede. When she could get away, she would be able to get help.

He hauled her down some stairs and unlocked a door before he pushed her inside. Without her hands free to break her fall, her cheek, shoulder, and hip slammed onto a hard-packed dirt floor. He immediately left and relocked the door.

A thin, high-pitched voice behind her said, “Make some noise so’s I kin find ya. Don’t you fret none—you have friends here. We’z all in a bad way, but we’ll help each other.”

The space was absolutely black in front of her. There were no windows as far as she could tell, nor another door.

She kicked her bound feet against the door behind her. It didn’t even rattle. “We’ll get these off.” The woman’s voice was calm. Hands began pulling at the ropes. More tugged at the gag in her mouth.

“Thank you.” Julianne sighed with relief to breathe freely, but nearly retched at the pungent smell of defecation. With the ropes gone, she stretched her sore limbs. She sat with her back against the door. “What is this place? And who are you?”

Voices echoed out of the darkness as seven women said their names—Ann, Elizabeth, Hannah, Lydia, Helen, Sophia, Marta.

Then Julianne heard the high-pitched voice from before. “I’m Clara.” A small hand felt its way from Julianne’s elbow to her hand and took hold. “We’ve been throwed down a root cellar.”

Julianne remembered the rumors. “There’s talk around town of a few women who’ve gone missing. I had no idea there were so many.”

“Do you think you can stand?” the woman asked. “It’s mighty cold in here, and we huddle together as best we can.”

The woman tugged, and Julianne stood. The group gathered together like they were hugging each other.

Clara moved one of Julianne’s hands to the right and said, “There are sacks of potatoes and carrots on the shelves over yonder.” Then she moved Julianne’s hand to the left. “And there are the pails to relieve ourselves under those shelves, and empty ones on top. There’s a few barrels of water straight in front of you. When the sun comes full up, we can see a little light around the door.”

“There’s food and water, so Dougal didn’t want us to die,” Julianne said. “I don’t understand this.”

“We know who else is a part of this, and why,” Clara answered, sounding bitter.

Another person tapped Julianne on the shoulder. “My name is Sophia. I ran away from my uncle’s home in Denver. I figured I could earn some money working in a saloon, serving drinks, dancing, that kind of thing, instead of being a free servant to him. Without my own money, I didn’t know how I’d ever be able to stay away from him. So, I came here. I went to the Nugget and asked if they could hire me. Mr. Grady told Dougal to get me a room.”

Julianne’s temper flared. Despicable, evil, depraved, revolting…

Sophia continued her story. “While we walked, he chatted me up. Told me they were starting a saloon in Durango near a new railroad connection. He said I’d have good pay, and they’d treat me right. I thought he was taking me to a hotel where I’d wait until we left for the new town, but he led me here and threw me in. Later that day, another woman was tossed in.”

“That was me.” A third person spoke up beside Julianne. “My name is Marta. I came out on the train from Kansas City a couple of weeks ago. I thought I was taking a job caring for children, but that big man who met me at the station brought me here and locked me in.”

Clara’s voice spoke up again. “We’ve all been collected.”

“I won’t stay in Durango. I’ll never be a dancehall girl,” Julianne exclaimed.

“You won’t be.” Clara’s voice was nearly a whisper. “They’re taking us to be whores. Dougal told me men would pay a good price for me.”

A glacial chill ran through Julianne. She was determined to do something about it. What can we do? “We’ve got to get out of here before Dougal comes back. How much time do we have?”

“No telling. He comes whenever he snatches a woman.”

She could hear the women move around her. She felt along the wall toward the potato shelves. As far as she could tell, it was a typical root cellar—a square room with a low wooden ceiling. The walls were made of rocks mortared together. “Maybe there’s a weak rock that could be removed, and we could dig a tunnel wide enough for us to squeeze through.”

“We haven’t been able to budge any of the rocks,” one of the women said. “Anyway, there would be dirt pushed up against the walls. We’d have to dig through that too.”

“The dirt on the outside is always thinnest at the corners of the walls near the front of the cellar, where it is mostly exposed. I’ll use my knife to whittle away at the boards in the ceiling. When I cut through, we’ll dig the dirt out.” Julianne slipped her knife out of her boot. She shot a quick prayer of gratitude for her grandmother’s gift.

“You have a knife?” someone asked while someone else said, “Great idea.”

Clara piped in. “Dougal has never stepped into this room for more than the second it takes to shove a woman to the floor in front of him. But if he did, we better use a bucket to move the dirt to the back of the room and hide it behind the water barrels.”

All the women spoke at once—a spark of hope entered the room.

“I’ll start,” Julianne said. An empty bucket pushed into Julianne’s hand. She turned it over on the floor and stepped up, feeling around the corner for the smallest board and began to saw back and forth. After a long while, her arms and shoulders ached from being held above her head.

“Someone take this knife. I can’t keep my arms up,” she said, coming down from standing on the bucket. She wished she could see the progress she was making.

“I’ll have a turn,” Clara said, her voice very close. They felt along each other’s arms until they could transfer the knife. Soon she heard the sound of Clara chipping away on the wood.

Julianne felt her way along the cold rock wall past the door. Her arms and shoulders burned. Even her back and neck felt the strain of reaching for the ceiling. Doing something to free herself and the other women kept her spirits up. She was caged but alive. Thank you, God, for the pain.

Julianne’s voice softly mumbled a prayer. “I can never understand Your darkest hour nor comprehend the evil done to You. But because of Your suffering, I know You understand ours.” She’d heard her whole life that Jesus would succor His people in their sorrows. Today, for the first time, she really knew what that meant.

When rested, although her muscles throbbed and her neck ached, Julianne stepped forward again as the women took turns sawing and poking at the wood ceiling as small pieces broke off. After what seemed like hours, Marta reported that another piece of wood, the size of her hand fell from the ceiling.

Julianne pulled another bucket from the shelf and moved carefully toward the work area. When she knelt and began feeling around for the wood scraps to gather, she asked, “How big is the hole now, Marta?”

“As wide as my shoulders. When the boards next to this come out, it will be large enough to crawl through—once the soil is gone.”

Excitement bloomed in that dark room. No one dared try to sleep and miss the moment when the soil would give way and daylight would shine through.