Forgiving

by LaVyrle Spencer

  By the devil, I aim to find out!

  In the morning Sarah awakened to the tinny clang of someone replacing the cover on the water canister in the hall. Her eyes snapped open to the sight of the naked ceiling joists above. The memory of last night returned, and with it a zeal to get her sister out of Rose’s.

  She bolted from bed, flung open her trunk, rooted for clean clothes and tossed them across the bed. She unbarred the door, peeked into the hall and, with her enamel pitcher, hurried to the water tin. Poking a finger inside, she muttered wryly, “Oh, grand... just grand,” dipped her pitcher anyway, carried it back to her room dripping, and in spite of the cold water, put the soap and the privacy to good use. Thirty minutes later, still shivering, with her hair in a doughnut at the back of her head, dressed in high-top black shoes, a brown broadcloth skirt, a no-nonsense brown shirtwaist and a double-breasted wool jacket, she stepped out of the Grand Central Hotel.

  The September morning was chilly. Standing on the shaded boardwalk, she shuddered again, squinting up and down the street, drawing on her gloves, her money pouch clutched beneath one arm, a two-penny notebook between her teeth. She walked to the end of the boardwalk, her heels playing a tomtom beat on the hollow floor, and peered up a side street. It ended behind the hotel where Whitewood Creek brattled along just beyond the point where Deadwood Creek fed into it. On the far side of the water the gulch wall rose sheerly, holding back the sun. Taking a bearing from the shadows, she deduced the gulch ran in a northeasterly by southwesterly line. She and the Grand Central were at the southwest end; the “badlands” and her sister were at the northeast.

  Out on the street, she lifted her eyes to the cerulean sky and turned in a circle. The canyon walls were dizzying, leading to a brownstone ledge high above the creek bed, and on one side, a stretch of towering white rocks, like great shark’s teeth taking a bite out of the blue firmament. The rocky outcroppings were connected by stands of ponderosa pines blanketing the hills in great rolling stretches, then trailing down ravines and draws in jagged green-black fingers. Alive, the pines towered; dead, they crosshatched the depression in thatches of gnarl, lending Deadwood Gulch its name.

  The town itself looked like an extension of the deadfall, as if tumbled down the ravine by centuries of weather. It started as a collection of tents and huts high up in the hills and straggled down to a bottleneck wide enough at one point to accommodate only a single street—Main—and it a disappointment. Its buildings were a sorry lot, thrown up hastily by the prospectors and merchants who’d come to cash in on the gold rush begun only that spring. Before coming out here, Sarah had read articles in Eastern newspapers claiming that Deadwood cabins were springing up faster than teepees on the Little Bighorn. There were accounts of lots being purchased on Monday and by Saturday holding frame buildings open and stocked for business. They looked it! Between these unpainted structures, brush wickiups and canvas tents served as temporary shelters for new arrivals who waited their turn for lumber or logs. Adding to the haphazard, appearance of the town were the sluice boxes that poked their long snouts down the hillsides into the creeks, looking like giraffes with their feet splayed and their heads dipped to drink.

  Sarah walked the length of Main Street, whose only spots of color shone from the shingles of newcomers heralding their practices and products: butchers, lawyers, doctors, a second hotel (The Custer), assayers, gambling halls (the Montana Club and the Chicago Room proving to be two of the largest buildings in town, filling the full size of their lots—which she estimated at twenty-five by one hundred feet—and boasting signs saying their doors never closed); gunsmiths, barbers, brewers, saloons (she lost count of these after thirteen); bakery, hardware and, of course, the badlands. As she had feared: everything for the adventuring male, but nothing for his lady. Not even a single mercantile store.

  The two theaters, however, offered the promise of refinement, though by daylight the Langrishe proved to have wooden walls and a canvas roof! The liberty pole down on the corner of Main and Gold Street gave evidence that the country’s centennial had been celebrated in some way on the Fourth of July. Also encouraging was the fact that someone had begun constructing what appeared to be wooden water ditches to convey water from some unseen spring to the town for domestic use.

  Already at seven-thirty Deadwood was busy. Everywhere Sarah went, men’s heads snapped around for a second look. Some of their mouths dropped open. Some flushed. Others mechanically doffed their hats. Along the creek men were working with cradles over open placer mines. All-night gamblers stumbled from the gaming houses with bags beneath their eyes. From the bakery came the smell of bread baking, making Sarah almost light-headed from hunger. Wranglers were hitching up horses at a livery stable. Out in front of a miners’ supply store, a man with the longest arms Sarah had ever seen was hanging out gold pans on an overhead wooden grid where the breeze set them tinging like glockenspiels. Up the street she discovered a bathhouse—a bathhouse! she rejoiced. In the empty lot beside it two men were lighting a fire under an enormous black pot. She paused and watched awhile, coveting the idea of hot water—enough hot water to submerge oneself in. She was surprised when she saw them drop clothing into the pot and begin stirring it with long sticks.

  “Good morning!” she called.

  The pair turned and reacted like all the others, gaping as if she were an apparition.

  “Good morning,” they chorused after an awed pause.

  “Are you a laundry or a bathhouse?”

  “Neither, ma’am. We sell rags,” said the shorter of the two,

  She would need rags; there was always ink around a printing press.

  “Oh, wonderful. That’s what you’re boiling there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The miners they come into the bathhouses carrying new clothes and they leave their old ones behind. Same up at the whorehou—” His buddy punched him with an elbow. “Ah, up at the badlands, that is, if you’ll excuse our saying so. We pick them up free and delouse them and sell them again.”

  “How enterprising. I’ll most certainly be one of your customers. Well, have a nice day, gentlemen.”

  “Wait!” they shouted when she turned away.

  She paused and faced them.

  “Who are you? That is, I mean to say... I’m Henry Tanby and this is Skitch Johnson.” Tanby, the shorter of the two, removed his hat and held it in both hands over his chest. He had the features and neckless build of a bulldog.

  She approached them and shook hands. “Mr. Tanby, Mr. Johnson.” Johnson was young, skinny, pimply-faced, and apparently tongue-tied. “I’m Sarah Merritt from St. Louis. I’ll be printing the first issue of my newspaper as soon as I locate my press.”

  “Newspaper. Well, I’ll be. You come in on the stage?”

  “Last night.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Tanby repeated, then seemed to go blank, smiling into her face, forgetting to don his hat. Finally he remembered. Johnson was still standing with a gaping smile. Tanby nudged him in the ribs. “He’s got no manners. Gawks like he never seen no woman before. ‘Course the truth is we don’t see many of ‘em up here in the gulch.”

  “So I’ve heard.” A self-struck woman would have reveled in all the attention she was getting; it merely amazed Sarah, who’d never before in her life made heads turn. “Well, I must move on, gentlemen.”

  As she turned away Tanby called, “You need anything, just ask! Always happy to help a lady!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tanby! Nice to meet you, Mr. Johnson.”

  Johnson came out of his stupor long enough to return her wave. Walking away, Sarah felt a fresh flash of surprise at receiving so much male attention. She was honest enough, however, to realize the underlying reason for it. She’d known there was a dearth of females in the goldfields, but had never guessed its extent. It put her in a rather advantageous position, she admitted, and decided she wasn’t above utilizing that advantage when necessary. As a single woman in a new town, inaugurating a newspaper, there’d be times
when she’d need help, guidance and support. Tanby, Johnson, Reese and Bradigan: she would remember the names of those who’d shown overt friendliness.

  The town, she learned during her walk, held several faro banks but only one for use by the general public. She found it with no difficulty. It went by the very high-sounding name of Pinkney and Stahl’s Merchants and Miners Emporium of Gold, Bills and Exchange. Its verbose marquee also boasted, “Greenbacks Exchanged... Loans Given... The Only Large Sized Iron Safe in the Diggings... We Take Gold Dust for Safe Keeping.” She was waiting when its doors opened at the odd hour of eight-twenty. A short, overfed man dressed in a pressed black suit and four-in-hand tie unlocked the double-paned door and his eyebrows flew up when he saw her outside.

  “Whu—am I seeing things?” He was bald and pink as a June plum.

  “Not at all. I’ve come to cash some Wells Fargo certificates.”

  “Well, come in, come in.” He ushered her in solicitously and extended his hand. “My name is Elias Pinkney, at your service.”

  He fixed her with an eager smile, though he was forced to look up to do it.

  “I’m Sarah Merritt.”

  “Miss Merritt... well, well...”

  Again she was compelled to extricate her hand. Pinkney seemed to follow the hand as she withdrew it, moving so close she took a step backward. “I must say you’re a welcome sight. A welcome sight.”

  Did he repeat everything?

  “I’ve just arrived in town and I need some gold dust so I can buy a meal.”

  “You don’t need gold dust at all if you’ll allow me to buy you breakfast. I’d be honored. Most honored.”

  His undisguised pressing startled Sarah, who was totally unversed in rejecting men’s advances. She groped for a gracious refusal. “Thank you, Mr. Pinkney, but I have a lot of business to transact today. I’m going to be printing Deadwood’s first newspaper.”

  “A newspaper. That is good news. Very good news. In that case, I could introduce you up and down the street.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t want to take up your valuable time. And I do need gold dust, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Of course, of course. Right this way.”

  She saw immediately that Mr. Pinkney, in spite of his overt interest in her, was a shrewd businessman. She exchanged one of her Wells Fargo certificates for gold dust, which she accepted in a buckskin pouch, Mr. Pinkney having extracted the customary five percent for the bank’s fee; she deposited the remaining certificates in the bank safe, agreeing to pay a rate of one percent for the first month’s service. Before leaving, she struck a barter with Pinkney whereby in the future she would have the use of his safe without charge and he would have free advertisement in her newspaper.

  “So you’re a woman with a good head on her shoulders.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Pinkney. Thank you.”

  She would have foregone a parting handshake, but he forced the issue, extending his hand first in a small breach of etiquette. Once he captured her hand, he retained it beyond the point of discretion, looking up at her from his diminutive height.

  “The invitation to dinner stands open, Miss Merritt. You’ll be hearing from me soon. Very soon.”

  With gold dust in hand at last, she escaped, hurrying, breathing easier once she was out of the bank. What a repugnant little man. Rich, no doubt, and wearing fresh laundry, but so certain that his money and social position would woo the first single woman to hit town. She found herself relieved that she’d been wearing gloves during all that handshaking.

  With her stomach growling, she stopped at the first eating establishment she could find, a crude frame building called Ruckner’s Meals. The place was filled with men who, by turns, stared, murmured, whistled, passed close to her chair for no good reason, doffed hats, spoke in undertones with then heads close together and chuckled. None of them, however, settled in the tables adjacent to hers, but left a ring of unoccupied chairs with her highlighted in its center.

  A boy of perhaps sixteen came to take her order, grinning all the while.

  “‘Morning’, ma’am. What can I get for you?”

  “Good morning. Could you fry a beefsteak so early in the day? I haven’t eaten since yesterday noon.”

  “No beef, ma’am—sorry. Not much space for the beef to graze around here. We’ve got buffalo, though. It’s just as good.”

  She ordered a buffalo steak, fried potatoes, coffee and biscuits, realizing every man in the building heard her do so. After the boy went away she donned a tiny pair of oval spectacles, opened her notebook, extracted a pen and a vial of ink from her organdy pouch and, trying to ignore the fact that she was being openly ogled, began composing her first article for the Deadwood Chronicle.

  “$1.50 In Gold Dust Welcomes Editor of Deadwood Chronicle.” In it she paid credit to all who had been solicitous in helping her the previous evening.

  She was still writing when her food arrived.

  “’Scuse me, ma’am.” A suspendered man stopped at her elbow with a platter of sizzling meat that smelled heavenly.

  She glanced up and closed her notebook, removing it from the tabletop. “Oh, excuse me. Mmmm... that looks delicious.”

  “Hope you like the buffalo. You could sure have beef if we had it.” He set down the plate and remained at her elbow while she capped her ink and removed her spectacles. “My name’s Teddy Ruckner, ma’am. I own this place.” He was thirtyish, blond, dimpled and handsome in a boyish way. He had bright blue eyes and a likable smile that never wavered from her face.

  “Mr. Ruckner.” She extended a hand. “I’m Sarah Merritt. I’ve come to Deadwood to publish a newspaper.”

  When their hands parted he remained, wiping his palms on his thighs and nodding at her notebook. “Figgered you for a smart one when I saw you writing. It’s sure good to see a woman around here. Where are you setting up business?”

  “I’ll have to locate a place. For now I’m staying at the Grand Central.”

  “There’s one boardinghouse. Loretta Roundtree’s. You could try there.”

  “Thank you, perhaps I will.”

  She picked up her fork, hoping he’d leave—her stomach positively ached—but he lingered, asking her several more questions, until she began to feel additionally conspicuous as the focus of his overeager attention. Though she was not a woman prone to blushing, she blushed. Finally he realized he was delaying her meal and backed away. “Well, I’d better let you eat. Anything else you want, you just let me know. There’s plenty more coffee where that came from.”

  She was in the restaurant for the better part of an hour and during that time not one customer left. More came in, however; perhaps two dozen more—quietly, unobtrusively, slipping in like children to see a sleeping infant, pretending to pay her no mind when it was obvious the word had spread she was there and they’d all come in to give her a gander. The chairs filled and still they came, standing to drink their coffee while in an immediate circle about Sarah the chairs remained vacant. Their furtive glances made her feel dissected. She kept her eyes on her plate and the article, on which she continued to write as she ate. Others—she could feel their eyes—studied her more overtly, probably assessing her as the sister of “Eve” from up at Rose’s. Her coffee cup couldn’t get a quarter empty before Teddy Ruckner refilled it: the only one brave enough to venture near her. When her plate was empty he came again with a piece of dried-apple pie. “On the house,” he said, “and it’s the house’s pleasure—the whole meal, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh Mr. Ruckner, I couldn’t possibly accept without paying.”

  “No, I insist. You’re about the most welcome thing we’ve seen around here since the last piece of fresh fruit came in. Enjoy the pie.”

  Self-conscious once more at being the center of attention, she concentrated on her pie. She had eaten half the slice when she heard repeated greetings of “Mornin’, Marshal.”

  “Mornin’, boys,” came the reply as the newcomer moved through
the crowd. He shuffled to a stop on the far side of Sarah’s table, taking a stance with his feet set wide and his hands on his hipbones. Even with her eyes downcast, Sarah saw his black trousers and the gun at his hip and sensed who stood before her.

  She raised her eyes slowly to the silver star on his jacket, the rusty mustache, the black cowboy hat he declined to remove. In the clear light of day he was freckled as a tiger lily—she’d never been partial to either mustaches or freckles. He looked strong as a mule and about as pretty, with gray eyes and that notch at the end of his nose. She supposed some women might find it boyishly attractive. She, however, was put off by everything about the man, starting with his effrontery.

  “Mr. Campbell,” she said, cool, even as her blood began to rise.

  He touched his hat brim. “Miss Merritt. Just wondering what all the hullabaloo was about in here.”

  “Hullabaloo?”

  “Anytime the men start flocking to one spot it’s my job to find out what’s drawing them. Usually it’s a fistfight.”

  Her blush continued glowing, fired by the realization that the marshal of Deadwood frequented its whorehouses, had carnal knowledge of her sister, and had offered to buy the services of Sarah herself last night within an hour after her arrival in town. Distasteful and cocksure, he stood before her with his Colt. 45 strapped to his hip, daring her to make something of it.

  “So it’s Marshal Campbell, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  She laid down her fork and met him eye to eye, speaking loudly enough to be heard in every corner of the room. “Is it common out here on the frontier for the town marshal to frequent its whorehouses instead of trying to shut them down?”