A Claim of Her Own Read online

  “It’s more likely to end badly for any varmint lying in wait to prove his manhood by taking advantage of the weaker sex.”

  “Sounds like the voice of experience.”

  “Every woman alive has had an experience or two with varmints,” Mattie said. “The only difference between me and them is I’m not one to wait around for somebody in pants to rescue me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Let them be turned back and brought to confusion

  that devise my hurt.

  Psalm 35:4

  Look, mister, if you want to provide the red devils with a new scalp, you just go right ahead. But I’m telling you the best way to Deadwood is to hook up with a string of freighters and share their campfire.” The balding livery owner planted his feet and hooked a thumb behind his holster buckle. “Either way, yer gonna have to buy a horse outright instead of renting from me, and that bay ain’t fer sale.” He nodded toward the first stall. “He’s the best horse I’ve got, and I owe him better than to send him where I know he’s gonna end up crow bait on account of some idiot who won’t listen to reason.”

  Jonas grabbed a handful of the man’s worn shirt and gave it a twist. With his hook he snatched the gun from the man’s holster and tossed it toward the corner of the barn, where it landed in a pile of fouled hay.

  “Now, you listen to me,” he said, enjoying the sound of the cretin’s vain struggle to breathe. “I understand your reluctance. Really, I do. But I’m convinced that if you think about it for just one minute more you’ll see how misguided it is for a businessman such as yourself to refuse to sell that horse. Why, I looked him over carefully, and I can tell you that bay is very nearly at the end of his usefulness.” He smiled at the question in the man’s eyes. “What you may not understand is that I have an uncanny ability to evaluate horseflesh, and that bay has a look about him. Just think how you’ll feel tomorrow when you find he’s foundered or got in the way of a stray bullet. Think how you’ll regret missing the chance to make some money off him.” Jonas held on a little longer, and just at the second when the man’s eyes began to roll back in his head, he let go.

  The man gagged, coughed, bent over, gasped, then staggered backward and dropped onto a stack of hay bales, his hand at his throat. He glanced at his gun, now resting atop the manure-laced hay. “Forty-five dollars,” he croaked.

  “I’ll need the whole outfit,” Jonas said. “Saddle, bridle, saddle blanket.”

  “Forty-five dollars,” the man repeated, waving his hand toward the barn door. “Just take what you want—and go.”

  Jonas peeled forty-five dollars off the money roll in his pocket, then made a ceremony of raining bills over the man’s head. As they drifted to the ground, he said, “See there? I knew we could come to an agreement if we really tried.” He headed for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour. Have my horse saddled and ready.” He didn’t bother to look back. After a while it got boring watching weak men tremble.

  Mattie had been staying on her claim for nearly three weeks when she woke one night to the realization that someone—or something— was snooping around her claim. She could hear them—or it—circling the tent. Her stomach clenched. An owl hooted. Closing her eyes, she listened. Wouldn’t there be some kind of animal sound if it was one of those mountain lions? What did bears do in a camp? Did they just come crashing through the canvas or would she have some warning? Could whatever it was smell her fear? Almost holding her breath, she leaned down and felt around in the dark for the shotgun Tom had loaned her. When at first she couldn’t feel it, her heart sank. Would the Colt be enough?

  Someone cleared his throat. Instantly she thought of Jonas, but just as quickly she knew it wasn’t him. Jonas was stealthier than a snake. He’d never make a mistake that warned his prey.

  She was about to have her first encounter with a claim-jumper, and all of a sudden she wished she’d loaded Bessie II with something besides Tom English’s homemade rock salt cartridges. It didn’t help that Fergus McKay had an entire complement of stories about claim-jumpers and loved telling them around her campfire. Well, here you go, Fergus. Hopefully this will give you another story I’ll live to hear.

  She lay back with the shotgun pointed at the tent flap. Whoever was out there was fumbling around at the opening now. She’d always felt like those ties weren’t enough. But—a hand. Someone was sticking their hand inside.

  Mattie pulled the trigger. As the claim-jumper roared with pain, she dropped the shotgun, grabbed her pistol and, leaping up, ripped the tent flap open. “You’d better lay still,” she said as she pointed the pistol. “If I pull this trigger it’ll do a lot more damage than wadding and a few pellets of rock salt.”

  The intruder stayed put, moaning and rolling from side to side in agony while Mattie tried to think what to do. She should probably tie him up, but to do that she’d have to put her gun down. He might be playacting about how badly he was hurting.

  The McKays were still in town or they would have come running by now. The two men supposedly working the claim just above her hadn’t actually been on their claim since she’d arrived. Apparently there was some rule that a miner could put in his work on a road or a trail around here and it still counted as working a claim. At any rate, there didn’t seem to be anyone nearby.

  Finally someone from down below shouted, “Ho there, what’s happened?”

  “Shot a claim-jumper on Mattie’s Claim,” she hollered back.

  “Is he dead?”

  The claim-jumper tried to sit up and hollered, “No, I’m not dead!”

  Mattie kicked his boot. “You shut up,” she snapped. “Whatever you were up to, it was no good and you deserve whatever you got, you good-for-nothing—” Just when she’d spouted some of the most colorful terms from her Abilene days, she noticed a half-dozen lanterns coming up the hill. Let them hear it. Maybe it would make the point that she wasn’t some little lady to be taken for a fool. And so she kept up the swearing about everything from the cold stream to the worthless claim to low-down varmints who tried to take advantage. Although she had much more useful words than varmint in her vocabulary.

  “Are you really all right, Miss O’Keefe?”

  Great. Just great. In the light of the lanterns she could see concerned faces, and among them the preacher. When she felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, it made her angrier still. After all, she didn’t even think he was a real preacher.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “What in tarnation are you doing up here?” She glanced at the others and recognized more than one face. “I didn’t know you boys were in the habit of holding prayer meetings.” Of course they weren’t. But they all played cards and gambled around their campfires. And if her suspicions about him were correct, Gallagher had probably been winning.

  Gallagher knelt beside the intruder.

  “It’s just rock salt,” Mattie said. “I didn’t use the pistol—yet.”

  Gallagher held the lamp up to the man’s face. “Brady? Brady Sloan? Is that you?” He sounded surprised.

  Recognizing the name, Mattie blurted out, “He wanted to buy my claim!” She looked at Gallagher. “Ellis Gates had his offer all written out the same day I got into town.” She kicked Sloan’s boot again. “Decided to just help yourself to what wasn’t for sale?”

  Sloan moaned and tried to sit up. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “I just wanted to borrow—”

  “—some sugar? Coffee? Tea?” Mattie leaned down and yelled, “GOLD?”

  “No!” Sloan protested, but he was in no condition to explain any more. Hugging himself, he began to moan again.

  Gallagher called to the men who were with him. “Let’s get him down to the doctor.” He turned around to face Mattie. “We’ll need a blanket.”

  “Check Mr. Sloan’s shanty,” Mattie said, but then something in the way Gallagher looked at her—as if he was disappointed in her—made her grab one of Dillon’s extra blankets from inside and hand it over. Two men she’d ne
ver seen before rolled Sloan onto the blanket and, with a man grabbing each corner, hoisted him off the ground and headed down the gulch with two others holding lanterns to light the way.

  As soon as they were a few feet away, Mattie sat down abruptly on one of the tree stumps she used as camp seats. She saw Gallagher say something to one of the stretcher-bearers and head back her way. She began to tremble. Here we go again. Just like always. Near to fainting as soon as the crisis passes.

  “Give me the gun,” Gallagher said gently and held out his hand.

  Mattie handed her pistol over. Gallagher ducked into her tent and emerged with another blanket, which he draped around her shoulders before stirring up the fire. Removing the lid to her coffeepot, he peered in, inhaled, and made a face. “Care if I dump this?”

  “What? You don’t like my coffee?” She swiped at a tear.

  Gallagher made a fresh pot, set it on the fire to heat, and sat down. Mattie sniffed and dabbed at her cheeks with a corner of the blanket. Gallagher was at least polite enough to appear not to notice. All she needed was for him to think she needed some kind of maudlin comforting. She’d really fall apart then. “You don’t have to stay,” she said. “I’m a little shaky, but I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m quite certain you will be fine,” he replied. “I just thought I’d hang around and make sure Sloan was acting alone.”

  She hadn’t thought about that. What if Sloan wasn’t acting alone? What if his partner was out there somewhere watching them right this very minute? What was the partner’s name again? It had been on that bogus offer Ellis Gates had worked up. She couldn’t remember. She glanced at Gallagher. He was unarmed. She wished he hadn’t taken her Colt into the tent.

  Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she peered up toward the top of the gulch. “There’s a ledge up there,” she told him. “Finn McKay was up there the other day. Said he found a vein of quartz.”

  Gallagher followed her gaze but said nothing.

  “He used a rope to lower himself down to it.” Mattie shivered involuntarily. “I hope he pulled it back up after he did whatever it was he was doing.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Gallagher said.

  They sat quietly while the coffee brewed and Mattie regained most of her composure. When it was ready, Gallagher poured them each a cup. Mattie kept her palms curled around the tin cup after taking her first sip. The warmth felt good. She finally stopped shivering. “Good coffee,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Gallagher picked up a stick and poked at the fire. A shower of sparks flew up.

  “I-I’m grateful you and your friends came to the rescue.”

  “I’m glad someone was around, too.” The edges of his mouth turned up in a little smile. “I guess the word will get out now that Mattie O’Keefe shoots first and asks questions later.”

  Feeling defensive, she answered, “I suppose you would have turned the other cheek and all that.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know what I would have done. But I’m glad you did what you did. There’s already one too many O’Keefes in the cemetery as far as I’m concerned.” He cleared his throat. “Saying words over your brother wasn’t easy. He was a good man.”

  “You knew my brother?”

  Gallagher nodded. “He caught my attention because he didn’t heckle when I preached.” He smiled. “Although he did ask some of the darndest questions.” He looked across the campfire at Mattie. “Your brother was a hard case when it came to the things of the Lord.”

  “He had reason to be.”

  “That’s exactly what he said.” The preacher poured the remaining coffee out of his cup into the fire and stood up. “I’d best be getting down to the doc’s and see if Brady Sloan needs praying over.”

  “You think he’s hurt that bad?” Mattie’s heart thumped. Now that she’d had time to calm down, she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of mortally wounding a man, even if he was trying to steal from her.

  “Not physically. But if his conscience is bothering him, he might be open to a word or two of the gospel. I’ve seen the Lord use things like what just happened to haul a black sheep into the fold.”

  “ ‘Repent, sinners, for now is the hour of salvation,’ ” Mattie said in a sonorous voice. When Gallagher looked her way with surprise, she smiled ruefully. “Why yes, Brother Gallagher, I’ve heard it all many times before.”

  “Apparently not from anyone who lived the message.”

  “Is that what you do, Reverend Gallagher? Live the message?”

  He shook his head. “As I’ve said before, I don’t qualify for the title of ‘reverend.’ I’ve never been to seminary. And as to living the message, I do try, but sometimes it seems that the harder I try the more I fail.”

  Mattie was about to ask him why, if he was a failure, he kept climbing up on that box and telling other people how to live. But just then a skittering of rocks tumbled from right above where they were sitting. Mattie yelped and jumped so high she nearly unseated herself.

  “Don’t be a-scared,” Freddie said, gasping for breath as he stepped into the campfire light. He’d been running and could barely talk, but from what he did say Mattie gathered he had heard about her encounter with Brady Sloan and come sneaking up the gulch along the opposite side of the creek—making sure there weren’t any more varmints on the prowl, as he put it. The idea that Freddie had run to her rescue made Mattie want to get up and hug him. But she didn’t. She wasn’t the hugging type.

  “You should pray with Aron,” Freddie said. “It will make you feel better. I pray a lot, and it always makes me feel better. Like when I’m worried over Mor and Eva when they are gone.” Freddie sat down on the vacant stump near the fire and, sitting up straight, put one hand on each knee and waited. When Gallagher didn’t speak up, Freddie said, “Okay. We’re ready.”

  Gallagher looked at Mattie with an unspoken question. When she shrugged and nodded, he sat down again and bowed his head. “Heavenly Father. Thank you for Mattie’s courage. Thank you for giving her a brother who loved her. Thank you for keeping her safe tonight. Thank you for listening when we talk to you, for loving us, and for promising eternal life. Thank you for Jesus. Amen.”

  Freddie spoke up. “I’ll stay and sleep by the campfire tonight, Mattie. If you want me to.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t have to,” Freddie said. “I want to.”

  “Then thank you. I appreciate it.”

  Freddie looked at Gallagher. “I know what you said in that prayer is right. About God keeping Mattie safe,” he said. “But don’t you think sometimes God likes it when people protect people, too?”

  “Absolutely.” Gallagher stood up. “And between you and the good Lord, I believe Miss O’Keefe is in good hands.” He moved the coffeepot off the fire, tipped his hat, and headed off down the gulch.

  Wagon master Red Tallent had a crooked nose and a thick beard that reached almost his waist. Swede liked him and Eva adored him, at times treating him like her own personal pet to be alternately cuddled and pummeled according to whim. Red seemed to delight in either one, and Swede would have almost allowed herself to like him a great deal if only Red weren’t in the habit of drinking himself into a stupor at the end of every run.

  Still, the man insisted that his wagons were loaded properly, so as to make the hauling as easy as possible on the oxen. More than once he’d saved fragile cargo by suggesting a better way to stack things, and he was not above shouldering a crate of goods and working alongside the teamsters. Swede had seen Tallent negotiate between two drivers about to come to blows over something that happened on the trail, and had learned to trust his judgment about campsites. She respected the man and had thought he respected her. Until now.

  “Cats?!” Tallent nearly spit the coffee out of his mouth as he sputtered the word. He stared across the campfire at Swede in disbelief, swallowed his coffee, and leaned forward as he repeated, “Did you just say you’re thinking of
hauling cats to Deadwood?” He pointed at the black pup cradled in Swede’s arms. “You starting one of them zoological parks?”

  Swede stroked the pup’s head even as she glowered at the burly German. “Vat I am starting is a campaign to keep my store free from mice,” she said, “and to make some money in de doing.”

  “Well, you’re starting with the wrong critters,” Red said, pointing at the dog.

  He was right, of course. There was no good reason for rescuing the half-starved puppy she’d found cowering beside a chicken coop back in Sidney. She didn’t need the extra mouth to feed. She didn’t need the worries. She didn’t need the distraction. And yet, she could no more have left the black-as-coal puppy to the elements than she could let her own oxen suffer. When the man who owned the chickens joked about shooting the black “wolf ” hanging around his hens, Swede asked if the dog was for sale. That man, too, had looked at her as if she were crazy, although he was more than willing to accept the half-dollar she offered for the pup.

  Ah well, Swede thought as Red made fun, he would eventually think over what she had said and perhaps be willing to help her. For the moment, though, he didn’t see the potential. He was, in fact, looking around to see who would share the joke. Eva distracted him by crawling too close to the fire. Tallent swept her up and, with a chuckle, said, “Did you hear your mama, little one? She’s talking crazy.”

  If she could have somehow given her oxen wings, Swede would have done it right then—first to escape Red’s teasing, but also because she was impatient to see her new store. Other than the unusual addition of a puppy to the freight, life on the trail these past weeks had been uneventful. No one got sick. Everyone kept their wagon wheels greased and in good repair. Each noon and evening they gathered in groups of four around campfires and took turns cooking. The men had even begun to toss scraps the puppy’s way. God had provided unusually good weather, abundant grass, and plenty of fresh water along the way. And yet, it was difficult to be patient with the plodding oxen. Swede wanted to see her new store, to see her cargo arranged on shelves she owned, to see the proof that Doubt was mistaken—she could provide her family with a home of their own.