A Claim of Her Own Read online

  What about you? Swede harrumphed at the thought. Whatever she was, she didn’t think the word lady applied. Just the thought of Swede Jannike being invited to join a Ladies Aid Society or to have tea almost made her laugh. Or cry. She wasn’t sure which. You must stop such toughts. Dey profit you nothing.

  Perhaps she would ask around in Sidney the next time she was there and learn what was involved in homesteading on the prairie down that way. What did it cost people to build those sod houses? She’d helped Garth plow once. Surely she could break sod. She and Freddie could build a house together. If the sod road ranches she’d visited were any indication, she would want a board roof. The dirt ones leaked. Or maybe they should settle where a person could build a proper house of logs. If Freddie felled the trees, she could strip bark. Yes, Swede decided. A log house would be better.

  Or maybe they should live in a town where she could buy out another storekeeper. How much money would she need for that? And what town should she choose? Looking down into Eva’s sleeping face, Swede decided that yes, a town was the right choice. A town with families and a school and a church. How long had it been since she had set foot in a real church?

  With a sigh of longing, Swede got up and retreated inside the tent, where she laid Eva in her cradle. Buttoning her chemise, she stepped back outside. The sky had cleared. Good. She was just settling her soup pot on the spider positioned over the fire when Freddie and Mattie O’Keefe returned.

  She was an interesting girl, that one; a real beauty with very little to say about her past. Of course a young woman who kept a pistol tucked into the waist of her skirt wasn’t likely to want to talk about the past. Mattie probably didn’t realize Swede knew about the gun. She wore a little jacket most of the time and tied a beautiful paisley shawl about her when she didn’t wear the jacket. But Swede hadn’t survived in a man’s world alone by taking up with strangers and inviting them on the trail without becoming a student of people. She’d known about that pistol all along, and she’d even slept with the rifle she called Old Bess beside her for several nights on the trail. But as the days wore on Swede realized that Mattie O’Keefe was just what she seemed—a beautiful woman running from an unknown past toward a promise.

  Eventually Swede put Old Bess back in its place just inside the first wagon. And now that the two of them had shared so many campfires, Swede was concerned for the young woman. After all, in a few days she would be gone back up the trail and Mattie O’Keefe would be on her own in Deadwood. Heaven help her.

  “You vill sleep in our camp tonight,” Swede said. “As you have seen, Deadvood is no place for a lone woman.”

  “You’re alone.” Mattie glanced up at Freddie and then back at Swede. “Much of the time.”

  Swede nodded. “Yah. And I am six feet tall and strong as an ox. And,” she said, nodding at Freddie, “in Deadvood I have my son.” She motioned for Mattie to sit by the fire.

  “I’m not defenseless.” Mattie lifted her shawl to show the Colt at her waist.

  “You are safer vit us,” Swede insisted as she dished up soup. Gunshots sounded somewhere off toward the Badlands part of town. Swede repeated, “You are safer here.”

  Mattie relented. “Thank you. I’ll take the offer of a place to sleep. But I can’t eat right now.”

  Swede glowered at her. “You have very big decisions tomorrow. You vill need your vits about you. So eat.”

  “You aren’t old enough to be my mother,” Mattie chided.

  “But I am big enough to be your father and strong enough to bully oxen into doing vat I say, so I am not likely to give up ven it comes to knowing vat is good for you for dis night.”

  Mattie tasted the soup. “It’s good.”

  “Thank you.” Freddie smiled.

  “You made this?”

  He nodded. “Antelope. Got him over by Gayville.”

  “Freddie tracks and traps and shoots straight,” Swede explained. “And he is a good cook. He is good at many more tings people do not expect of him.”

  “I’m not smart like some people,” Freddie explained.

  Mattie shrugged. “But you are smart—just in a different way. I’d starve if I had to hunt my food.”

  “I help Mor by staying here and hunting and working,” Freddie said, “and I watch over Mor’s town lot and live in the tent. It’s important.” He shook his head. “I don’t tag along on the trail like a baby.” He gulped down a last spoonful of soup before standing up. “More boxes to unload,” he said, and headed back toward the waiting wagons.

  “You must talk to de mining district recorder tomorrow,” Swede said to Mattie as soon as Freddie was gone. “He vill know which claim is Dillon’s. You should be ready for some offers to buy.”

  Freddie turned back around long enough to say, “I could help find Dillon’s claim.”

  Swede smiled at him. “Do you know someone who vould help Miss O’Keefe vit de business dealings and not take advantage?”

  Freddie chewed on his bottom lip while he thought. Finally, he nodded. “Mr. English. Tom.”

  Swede was doubtful. “After how I treated him earlier, Mr. English vill be in no mood to help us.”

  Freddie insisted. “He shook my hand, Mor. He looked in my eye. And he treated me—”

  “I know, I know. But dat does not mean—”

  “And let me finish.” Freddie held up his hand with the index finger extended, like a child asking for permission to speak in school. “He said the best way to make money mining is to sell things to the rest of the fools who want to work in freezing cold water or burrow in the dirt. He said he figured that out on his claim over at Blacktail and he got enough out of it to set himself up in business.” Freddie looked at his mother with what Mattie could only think of as a cat-that-got-the-canary look. “So he knows all about mines but he don’t want one so he would tell Miss O’Keefe the truth and he treats me good and that means a lot.” Freddie’s face sobered. “You know how it is, Mor. People who treat me nice are nice to anybody. Even dogs.”

  Swede looked away quickly. She cleared her throat, then nodded briskly. “All right then.” She glanced at Mattie. “Ve see Mr. English in de morning.”

  Mattie woke with a start. Had she been dreaming? No. You really are in this awful place. And Dillon really is gone. A dog barked somewhere. It was still dark out and oddly quiet except for the occasional rattling of spurs as someone picked their way toward the gambling houses and saloons at the lower end of town.

  Maybe it was her imagination, but Mattie almost thought she could hear laughter and raucous voices and … a piano? She listened more carefully. Yes. There was music on the clear night air. Well, you didn’t think the piano Swede hauled up here was for a church, did you? She hadn’t let herself think about it very much when Swede said she had been paid top dollar to bring the first piano to Deadwood. The dance hall owner must have come for it while she and Freddie were at the cemetery. And someone must have tuned it. Whoever was playing it was good. Very good.

  She wondered if the girl who’d been rescued from the mud this afternoon was up there right now, dancing or selling drinks to lonely miners. She wondered if the man who’d rescued her was up there, too, buying her drinks—or buying her. Just thinking about it made her shiver. She lay back down.

  Someone came galloping into town, charging by only a few feet from the tent. There was gunfire and shouting, and Eva began to cry. In a flash Mattie snatched her Colt from beneath the edge of the pallet. She sat up, her heart racing. When nothing more happened, Swede began to hum softly. Eva stopped crying.

  Freddie must have gotten up and checked outside. He spoke in low tones. “They went on up the street. I’m right here in the doorway. I’ll take care of you. It’s all right, Mor. You can go back to sleep now.”

  After a few minutes, Mattie put her gun back under the edge of her pallet and lay back down. She had no doubt that sweet, simple, sixteen-year-old Freddie Jannike would protect his family or die trying. But he was wrong about one th
ing. Things were not all right. They were not all right at all.

  Early the next morning Freddie escorted Mattie back up the street toward Deadwood Gulch, where a huge canvas tent pitched beside a babbling brook Freddie called City Creek proclaimed Opening soon—English Dry Goods. When Freddie pulled back the tent flap and called for Tom, Mattie heard a pleasant voice answer, “Good morning, friend. Come right on in.”

  English was standing behind a counter that was little more than a few rough-hewn boards spanning the space between two upended crates. From the stacks of similar boards and crates lined up along the far wall of the tent, it appeared he had plans for quite a number of counters and shelves.

  It wasn’t until Freddie tied back the tent flap and morning light glinted off of Tom English’s hook that Mattie’s heart began to pound. As Freddie introduced her, she looked around, surveying the well-organized goods, telling herself to relax. The place smelled of freshly cut wood, spring grass, and pipe tobacco. The wiry man before her sported a neatly trimmed moustache above a warm smile. His dark eyes shone with kindness and intelligence. What with the gray flecks at his temples and the well-tailored brown pants and vest worn over the clean striped shirt, Mr. Tom English might have been a professor or a minister. And yet, Mattie recoiled from the hook. Embarrassed, she apologized.

  English held it up. “Cannonball at Shiloh,” he said, shaking his head in mock dismay. “Ended all my dreams of being a gunslinger.” He smiled even as he flexed the long fingers of his left hand. “It took me about three years to teach leftie here to do what rightie used to do. And that was after I finally got it through my thick skull that rightie wasn’t there anymore.”

  “I-I’m so sorry,” Mattie said again, scolding herself inwardly, You can’t go through life flinching every time you see a man with a hook.

  “No need to apologize.” English gazed down at the hook. “It is a hideous thing.” He looked back at Mattie. “But it will do no harm, and I have learned to be grateful for it.”

  Mattie could feel her cheeks growing warm. Glancing up at Freddie, she changed the subject. “Freddie says you’ve some experience with mining, and—” She paused, swallowed, and then in one long breath told him how she’d arrived only to learn that her brother was “… dead … and … you can imagine my quandary,” she said, and then her voice just trailed off because she couldn’t go on without breaking down.

  Mr. English said what society demanded. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

  Freddie spoke up. “I told Mattie what you said about wanting to make your money selling things to the rest of the fools while they work in freezing cold water or burrow in the dirt—”

  English’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “You did, did you?”

  “That’s what you said.” Freddie nodded.

  “I suppose I did.”

  “And I told her you are honest and kind.”

  “Well.” English patted Freddie on the shoulder. “Thank you for that. I couldn’t ask for a better endorsement.”

  Mattie spoke up. “I was hoping you’d agree to be my adviser in matters concerning my brother’s claim. I need help locating it, and now that he’s … gone …” She cleared her throat. “I need advice. From someone who knows about prospecting and such.”

  English gestured around him. “But as you can see, Miss O’Keefe, I’m no longer prospecting.”

  “But you have experience.” Mattie liked the idea that he didn’t seem eager to step into the position she was clearly offering. Overeager men made her wary.

  English sighed. “Yes. I’ve probably been here as long as any other white man. I came in with Custer and helped a man named Gordon build a stockade a couple of years back—but then you probably don’t need to hear any of that.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “By the time the army decided to usher us all out of these hills, I’d found enough color to intrigue me, so I managed to get separated from the party and ‘lost.’ I hunkered down and got through the winter on my own, and I imagine you’ve heard all of the rest of that story worth telling from Freddie.”

  “Everything you’ve just said only serves as more evidence that Freddie was right to suggest that I come to you for help,” Mattie said, staring at English evenly. She wasn’t above using the violet eyes that seemed to fascinate men to work a little magic on her behalf.

  English stared back for a moment, then looked away. He plucked an imaginary thread off the sleeve of his shirt. Scratched his beard. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I had not met your brother, Miss O’Keefe, but if I had the good fortune to have a sister who cared about me, I suppose I would hope that someone honest would be willing to help her out if she needed it.” He nodded. “All right. If I can be of assistance in helping you get your business settled, I’ll be pleased to do what I can.”

  He smiled at Freddie. “Do you think you could get your mother to join us for coffee and some of Aunt Lou’s biscuits? She and I have freighting business to discuss. I always like to seal my covenants over food, and I’ve been hankering for Aunt Lou’s biscuits and gravy since I woke up this morning.”

  Mattie didn’t like the claims recorder at all. She didn’t like the way he looked her up and down when she came through the door of the oversized closet he called his office. She didn’t like the way he made a show of shaking her hand when Mr. English introduced her and presented her case, and she especially didn’t like the condescending way he waved her into a chair and addressed himself to Mr. English, almost as if she weren’t even in the room.

  “He left her the claim, Tom—may I call you Tom? It’s as simple as that. I have it right here.” He opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a document. “Doc Reeves witnessed it.” He pointed to the line where the doctor had testified to hearing Dillon Patrick O’Keefe’s last will and testament, which left his placer gold claim and all his worldly goods to his sister, one Mattie Eileen Clare O’Keefe.

  Mattie leaned toward Mr. English and said in a low voice, “How do we know this document is legal when it comes to the claim? Will it stand up in court if someone challenges the idea of a woman owning a placer claim?”

  The man still didn’t look at her, although he took it upon himself to answer the question she’d clearly addressed to Mr. English. “It’s as legal as you’re going to get, ma’am—in light of the fact that Deadwood doesn’t really exist as far as the United States government is concerned.” He pointed to the unopened envelope lying beneath the affidavit. “This is his claim certificate. Gives the exact location and records the day he filed it.”

  When Gates held it out to Mr. English, Mattie grabbed it. Opening it, she read, Personally appeared before me Dillon Patrick Clare O’Keefe and recorded the undivided right title and interest to Claim Number 7, “Above Discovery” of 300 feet for mining purposes. Recorded this 9th Day of July 1875. She handed the certificate to Mr. English, and while he read she repeated her question, “Can I be certain no one will challenge my taking ownership?”

  Gates shrugged and once again addressed Mr. English. “As you know, Tom, we’re operating in a rather … unique situation.” He cast a condescending smile in Mattie’s direction. “This entire territory is officially part of an Indian reservation. Now, we expect that to change in the next few months, but until such time as it does, all I can tell you is we have adopted the same time-honored practices established in California, Montana, and other regions of the country where people are engaged in the mining of precious metals.” He paused. “We are confident that these contracts and practices will be judged lawful, and in the meantime there is widespread acceptance among the mining community.”

  “So I own my brother’s claim,” Mattie said.

  “As soon as she signs this she does,” Gates said, pointing to the transfer papers.

  Mattie signed her name before asking, “And my brother’s gold?”

  Gates tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He was prospecting,” Mattie said. “He wrote
of results. I therefore assume there’s gold somewhere with his name on it.”

  Gates shrugged. “I know nothing about any gold, Miss O’Keefe.”

  “But you know where he might have deposited it,” Mr. English said.

  “Check with James Woods. He’s got a safe behind the counter of his fledgling hotel. It’s not much of a bank, but a good number of the boys who came up early made deposits with him. Could be Mr. O’Keefe was among those who chose that route.”

  Mr. English nodded. “We can check with Miners and Merchants, too.”

  “Yes,” Gates said. “Of course. You’d want to do that.”

  The claim’s paying well, Mattie. It’s hard work, but it’s paying off.I’ve learned to mine with a toothpick. But lately I haven’t needed the toothpick. Mattie didn’t know exactly what Dillon meant, but she wasn’t about to ask Ellis Gates about it. Her pulse quickened. She was the owner of a paying gold claim. Was she about to be rich? She told herself not to get her hopes up. Dillon always did paint circumstances in the best light possible. Perhaps he’d exaggerated to give her hope. She stood up. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be wanting to sell, I presume.” Gates didn’t get up.

  “I’ll be wanting to speak with the banks now,” Mattie said, and taking Mr. English’s proffered arm, she left.

  “Don’t mind them,” Tom English said, referring to the men in the street who stared as she passed by.

  “I don’t.”