A Claim of Her Own Read online

  “Snow,” Freddie said.

  “It von’t be much,” Swede said.

  “How can you tell?”

  “My bones don’t ache so much as dey do right before a bad storm.”

  “I hate it that your bones hurt,” Freddie said.

  “I hate it, too. But in time my freighting days vill be over. Now dat ve have Mr. English—Tom—for a business partner, anyting could happen.” Maybe even a miracle. Like not having to make the last run of the season. Or warm weather long into the fall.

  Freddie pulled Eva off his shoulders and swooped her around in a circle, tickling her until she giggled so hard she got the hiccups. The family reached the top of the winding trail too soon. Looking back down on the town below, Swede said, “All right, Freddie. Let me have de baby and you get back to town.”

  Planting a resounding kiss on Eva’s cheek, Freddie deposited her back in the cradle he had anchored inside Swede’s lead wagon at the first light of dawn. Swede glanced over the wagon’s full complement of supplies.

  “You put more shells in for Old Bess?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Freddie said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mor. We’re going to be just fine.” He leaned down and put his arms around her, and Swede inhaled his musty scent.

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself one moment of being just a mother saying good-bye to her son. Tears threatened. “All right now,” she said abruptly, and pulled away. Freddie blew Eva a kiss and headed back down toward town. Swede didn’t dare let herself look back. If she did, she just might not be able to leave at all, and then what would they do. A winter of roast oxen followed by a spring of starvation, that’s what. Now get along, you long-faced, weak-hearted fool.

  “Mor!”

  Swede turned around, but she didn’t stop. She kept walking up the trail with tiny backward steps.

  “I love you!” Freddie hollered.

  Swede waved. She couldn’t trust her voice.

  After Mattie said good-bye to Swede and Eva, she turned her attention to helping Tom English build a few more shelves so he could accommodate Swede’s goods as well as his own. While she and Tom wielded hammer and nails, Freddie moved boxes. It was late in the day before the place began to resemble anything besides a haphazard jumble of goods, but finally, things began to take shape.

  “There,” Mattie said, wiping her hands on her apron and standing back to survey her work. An assortment of mugs, from shaving to thunder, were now displayed to best advantage. Tom agreed, and when he complimented her display, she blushed with pleasure.

  “I wish you’d reconsider and work here instead of mining,” he said.

  Mattie shook her head. “I have to at least try.”

  Tom set the packing crate in his arms down. “You’re certain I can’t talk you out of it?”

  “I’m certain.” Mattie tilted her head and smiled at him. “And you promised to mind your own business, remember?”

  Tom reached into the crate Freddie had just carried in and opened it. He took out a gray felt hat with a wide brim and plopped it on Mattie’s head. “All right, then, Miss Miner. I’ll mind my business.” He opened the account book. “I assume you’ve seen one of these.”

  She nodded. It was exactly the kind of book Jonas had shown her, pointing to the bottom number on each page to impress her with how well he was paying her and how her savings were growing.

  Tom wrote her name at the top of a clean page. On the first line of the “Mattie O’Keefe” page, he entered 1 felt hat. “Over here,” he said, indicating the right side of the page, “we enter the purchase price. In this case, forty cents. When a customer makes a payment, we weigh their gold.” He pointed at the gold scales Swede had bought for Garth Merchandise. “I’ll show you how the scales work in a minute, but first go pick out your boots.”

  “I already took the liberty.” Mattie lifted the hem of her skirt just enough for Tom to see her boot-clad feet. “Does the ground ever warm up around here?”

  “Of course it does.” Tom entered her boots in the ledger, talking as he wrote. “For a minimum of a week. Then, of course, winter’s back.” With a smile, he opened the small drawer built into the base of the gold scale. “You put the smallest one on this side,” he said, and set a cylindrical weight in the center of the pan suspended on one side of the scale. “And then you take a pinch of gold and weigh it against the standard, which is one troy ounce.”

  “Troy?”

  “A little heavier than a regular ounce. But the standard measure for weighing gold.” He paused before explaining, “Around here the miners expect twenty dollars in store credit for every ounce of gold they bring us. You’ll quickly learn to get almost exactly an ounce every time you take a pinch of dust.”

  “What if there’s a flake—or a nugget?”

  English pointed to the other weights in the drawer. “Then you just combine those on the opposite side until it’s balanced. Don’t worry. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Sunday is typically the busiest day of the week. You’re going to get lots of practice weighing gold dust. It’ll all be second nature before you know it.”

  “Will you keep an account page for everyone?”

  Tom shook his head. “Only for regular customers.” He smiled at her. “So since we started a Mattie page, you can tell I’m expecting you to be a regular. Don’t let me catch you over at the Big Horn.” He winked.

  The next morning, Mattie inspected the small scale again, touching the series of weights nestled in their wooden case. “It seems like there could be a lot of haggling over ounces and cents.”

  “If there is, I’ll handle it.” Tom stood back. “Ready to open for business?” He hesitated. “Oh—wait. There’s one more thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small buckskin bag at the end of a thin strip of leather. “This is where you put what you take in.” He handed it over. “Around your neck, please. For safekeeping.”

  Mattie put the empty bag around her neck and tucked it out of sight beneath the bib of her apron.

  “All right,” Tom said. “Let’s get the day started.” And with that, he crossed the tent and opened for business to the resounding cheers of a group of men waiting just outside.

  Did every miner in the Black Hills need a new hat? Had all their boots sprung leaks? Was there an epidemic of some kind causing shovel handles to snap and coffee mugs to rust through? Apparently so, because by noon on Sunday Tom English’s mercantile was nearly out of merchandise, and still, miners kept coming in droves.

  The bag around Mattie’s neck grew heavy with gold and still they kept coming. And finally, she figured it out, although it took the third sale to the same stringy-haired toothless miner to confirm it. It was just a different form of Abilene, where men played poker— badly—and lost with a smile because it wasn’t about the poker, it was about sitting at the table with “the prettiest dealer in town.”

  These miners weren’t buying from Tom English because his merchandise was better. They were buying because Mattie was selling. The idea that she had come this far only to be the center of the same kind of male attention she’d had in Kansas made Mattie want to retreat to her claim and never come back to town again. But this is different, she told herself. Tom is a good man. He’s paying you real money. And he isn’t standing over in the corner putting on airs like he’s the ruler and you’re some—

  “Mattie. Are you all right, Mattie?”

  Tom’s voice brought her back to the moment. She blinked and looked over at him. “Yes. Of course. Why?” She glanced across the counter at a familiar face and, blushing, smiled. “Hello, Mr. McKay.”

  Hugh McKay smiled back, clearly enjoying seeing every miner in the tent pause and look their way to see who it was Miss O’Keefe knew so well as to call him by name. “Ah, ye have done my heart good, miss, remembering an old man you’ve barely met.”

  “How can I help you today?” Mattie gestured at the depleted stock. “As you can see, we’ve had a good run this mornin
g.”

  “Well, miss,” McKay said, and leaned closer. As he spoke it became apparent he’d already patronized another sort of tent selling liquid “supplies” that morning. “It’s about me boys.” He hesitated. Straightened up. Glanced around. “But perhaps another time—” He turned away.

  “We’d be glad to take a special order, Hugh.” Tom moved to Mattie’s side. “I’m in partnership with Swede now. Dependable delivery guaranteed for just about anything you need.”

  “No, no,” McKay said, waving his hand in the air. “It’s not supplies we’re needing.” His cheeks colored. Taking a deep breath, he continued, “What we need, miss, is a bonny lass like you. You could take your pick. Now, I know I’m older, but I’m not a bad sort. And while me boys rumble and squawk one to the other, they’re gentle souls and—” he leaned close—“and they’ll be well set up if the claim keeps the promise it’s made. There’s good color in the quartz, Miss O’Keefe. So you just think it over, now, and I’ll be in town into evenin’ when ye’ve made up yer mind. Might even have the boys attend the church meetin’ today. A little religion might do ’em good. Make ’em more suitable—if a lady was to take an interest in either of ’em.” He winked.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Well, Hugh, now that you mention it, it is about time for me to close up and give Miss O’Keefe here a chance to attend to the reverend’s sermon. So …” He walked around the edge of the counter and, putting his hand on Mr. McKay’s shoulder, encouraged him to leave. The rest of the miners who’d been wandering from one thing to another in the depleted supply tent trickled out onto the street, and Tom pulled the tent flap down. He cleared his throat several times, and then gave up and burst out laughing.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” Mattie insisted, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

  Tom did a perfect imitation of Hugh McKay. “ ‘What we need, miss, is a bonny lass like you. You could take your pick… .’ ” He chuckled. “ ‘They’re gentle souls.’ ”

  He would not stop laughing, and finally Mattie couldn’t keep from joining him. “All right. I suppose it’s a compliment—sort of—”

  “Oh, Hugh’s all right,” Tom said. “And I guess you can’t blame a father for trying to make a good match for his sons … or even for himself.”

  Mattie shook her head. “Dillon said those three were crazy as loons. Now I believe him.”

  “Men have gotten married on less than those three know about you,” Tom reminded her. “I’ll bet your brother talked about you all the time. And now they’ve seen you and you really can’t blame them. After all, you’re—” He paused. “You’re lovely. Any father would be delighted to have one of his sons bring you home.”

  “Well, thank you for assuming such nice things about me.” Mattie began to untie her apron. “And if you can stop laughing long enough, I’d appreciate some help gathering supplies for the claim. I’m afraid if I wait until tomorrow you’ll be completely sold out. And I’ve been forbidden to shop anywhere else.”

  Tom nodded. “Thank you for helping out this morning. You’re a good worker, and you caught on to the gold scale right away.”

  At his mention of the gold, Mattie reached up to take the bag from around her neck. “From the feel of this thing, you’ve got a good deposit to make. I suppose the bank is open on Sundays, too?”

  “Absolutely. When we finish here, if you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you how we make a deposit.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good. Now, you’ve already got a shovel and pick—”

  “—and a properly rusted pan.”

  “Yes.” Tom looked around the store. “So … dishes? Coffeepot? Frying pan?”

  “As far as I remember it’s all still there and in good shape.”

  “You’ll need ammunition.” He reached behind him and pulled a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun out from behind a sack of flour. “And this,” he said as he laid it on the counter.

  Mattie shook her head. “If I tried to fire that thing the kick would knock me halfway back to Sidney.”

  “Yes,” English agreed, “right out of danger and back to someplace safe.”

  If only that were true. Mattie decided not to argue with him. “I can’t afford it,” she said. “I’ll make do with the Colt.” She held her hands up like two claws. “And these.” She pretended to knee someone. “And this. And kicking. And screaming. I can scream really loud.”

  Tom didn’t smile. “You can’t buy the shotgun. It isn’t for sale. Consider it a loan.”

  “Until I come to my senses and realize a mere woman has no business trying to work a placer claim?”

  “There you go again, putting words in my mouth I never intended to speak. The loan is until you can buy your own. And no one said anything about you being a mere woman. And for the record, I consider that term an oxymoron.”

  “An oxy-what?”

  “Mere doesn’t describe any real woman I’ve ever known, so you can smooth your hackles and take the loan.”

  Mattie pointed at the shotgun. “What are people going to think if they see me hauling this monstrosity up to my claim tomorrow morning?”

  “ ‘There goes a woman who is not to be trifled with.’ ”

  When he put it that way, it made her want a shotgun. “All right,” Mattie said and, hefting it to her shoulder, took aim.

  “I take it your brother taught you about shotguns, too.”

  “He did.” She placed it back on the counter.

  Tom began to set other supplies next to it: flour and baking soda, bacon and beans, coffee and sugar, salt, pepper, and some dried apples. “If anyone comes up with eggs to spare,” he said, “I’ll have Freddie bring some up. You won’t lack for game, thanks to him, but a piece of salt pork would be good to flavor the beans. You’ll be set for flapjacks and biscuits for quite a while.” He stood back and looked at the pile of provisions. “I’ll add this up and put it on your account and then we can go on to the bank.” He grinned. “Now all you have to concern yourself with is which McKay you’ll choose.”

  If preaching didn’t pay, Mattie thought the broad-shouldered man standing atop the empty crate across the street from the bank could have a promising career in the theatre. He modulated his voice like a trained actor, speaking loudly enough to attract attention from passersby and then, without warning, softening his tone so that his listeners leaned forward, straining to hear what he said. Maybe he had been an actor.

  “Do you know him?” she asked Tom as they stood together just outside the bank.

  “No, but if you ask me, he’s nothing more than a skilled salesman. That’s all most preaching is. Selling religion. Or guilt. Or—if the offering plate is truly overflowing—forgiveness.”

  “You obviously don’t have much use for men of the cloth.”

  Tom shrugged. “The more rabid of the Christian species get the fever to redeem the gold camps every few weeks. They come and preach and holler and tell everyone how we are all hell-bent and worthless and need salvation. After a few gullible people offer up some gold or feed ’em a few good meals, they leave. They might as well be tonic salesmen for all the good they do.”

  Mattie was quiet. She hadn’t seen the cynical side of Tom English before, and it intrigued her. He seemed to interpret her silence as something else.

  “Listen, I’ve got no quarrel with a man who’s trying to be faithful to a sincere call. That happened to one of my friends at home, and I think it was genuine. He never took advantage of anyone and he did good until the day he died. But most of the preachers I’ve run into since then were little more than vultures looking for a carcass to pick clean.” He motioned toward the man standing on the box. “If you want to get all churched up, you might want to get a little closer. This one doesn’t seem to be the shouting type. I prefer to watch from here.”

  Curious, Mattie crossed the street. The preacher’s massive hands were surprisingly graceful. They reminded her of a pianist’s, and that made her thin
k of Dutch. She wondered if he was still working for Jonas. Dutch hadn’t been very happy with the way Jonas treated her sometimes. With a little shiver, she returned to the moment just as the preacher began to read from the small Bible in his left hand.

  “ ‘Wilt thou set thine eyes upon that which is not? for riches certainly make themselves wings; they fly away as an eagle toward heaven.’ ” Closing the Bible, the preacher surveyed the crowd.

  “What a picture!” he exclaimed. “Can you imagine your bottles and bags of gold sprouting wings and flying off?”

  A miner wearing a crushed top hat answered back. “I thought I saw that very thing happen just last night. But when I woke up this morning I realized it was only the whiskey talkin’.”

  The crowd laughed. The preacher smiled. He had a dimple in his left cheek that showed just above the line of his dark red beard. His auburn hair was sprinkled with gray. If he weren’t in such desperate need of a barber, he’d be handsome. As it was, he was an odd combination of rumpled and clean.

  “Sooner or later that’s exactly what’s going to happen—whiskey or no. All of our riches will sprout wings and fly off beyond our reach.” He pointed toward the cemetery. “How much did those dear souls take with them when they died? Nothing. How much of their gold did they leave behind? All of it.

  “That is why Jesus said, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth … but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’ Jesus warns us, not just because wealth might be lost, but because wealth will always be lost. Storing up earthly treasures isn’t just wrong. It’s plain stupid. We can do better.”

  “By giving it to you, I expect?” someone hollered.

  The preacher ignored the question. “Let us suppose that you were in the South during the war and you had accumulated an impressive stash of Confederate currency. And then one day you learned that the North was going to win the war. What do you do? Do you continue hoarding Confederate money, or do you quickly exchange what will soon be worthless for U.S. dollars?”