Forgiving

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “But aren’t there others waiting in line to buy it? That’s what I was told.”

  Bradigan cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “Ahh... well, you see, those others were men, Miss Campbell, not eligible young colleens like you.”

  The implication left the unpretentious Sarah at a loss for a reply. Gracious, she thought. Mr. Pinkney again. Fatter than a Christmas goose and forty years old if he was a day, with his glowing pink head upon which Sarah looked down from her superior height. How discomfiting to rationalize Mr. Bradi-gan’s remark while Marshal Campbell looked on, drawing his own conclusions.

  She quickly changed the subject. “Well, luckily for all of us, I’ve paid my licensing fee. Marshal, have we done everything legally this time?”

  “As far as I can see. If you have no complaints about Bradigan usurping your press, I’ll leave you.”

  “No complaints at all.”

  He turned toward the door and she called, “Just a moment, Marshal.” From the table she swished one of the newly inked sheets and folded it in half with the edge of her hand. “Any changes in the content, Mr. Bradigan?” she inquired.

  “No. Just as you laid it out.”

  “A complimentary copy, Mr. Campbell,” she said, offering it to him with the editorial faceup. Given all the hubbub today, she knew he hadn’t read it. Her contrary side felt a thrill of satisfaction when he took it and said, “Well... thank you.”

  He glanced down and she watched his eyes find the headline. He read a line or two, then lifted his eyes. They were gray and flat as riverbed stones. “You do enjoy butting heads, don’t you?”

  “It’s my job, Marshal.”

  He regarded her for several seconds before handing the newspaper back to her. “Give it to someone who’s interested,” he said, and left.

  CHAPTER

  5

  From the moment Sarah entered Emma Dawkins’ kitchen, she knew she’d found a friend. Emma flew from her black iron range across the room and enfolded Sarah in her arms.

  “Mercy, what you’ve been through today. I heard it all, and no woman should have to go through that. Well, you just sit right down and have a good strong cup of coffee while the girls help me dish up. A nice hot meal will take the jitters out of your stomach. These are my daughters, Lettie, she’s twelve, and Geneva, ten, and this here is my man, Byron. Everybody,” she addressed the group, “this is Sarah Merritt, the new woman I told you about.”

  Lettie was a thin, black-haired beauty with skin like eggshell, a feminine version of her brother. Geneva still wore her adolescent fat and had overstated dimples that would soon be beguiling the young boys around town. Byron looked as ordinary as a fresh-rolled noodle, his skin so naturally pale it appeared to carry a dusting of flour from his day’s work. He was thin, with even paler skin along the insides of his wiry blue-veined arms, and had lanky brown hair and a clean-shaven face. Looking at him and Emma, Sarah wondered where Lettie’s and Josh’s dark-haired beauty came from. Byron came forward and shook Sarah’s hand with a diffident nod of his head, then rested his hands along his thighs.

  “Welcome,” he said simply. “Won’t you sit down?”

  The meal was delicious, cabbage rolls filled with a mixture of venison and rice, richly flavored with onion and allspice, accompanied by an endless supply of warm bread. There was, however, no butter. Emma explained that the shortage of grazing land made dairy farming impossible except in the upland valleys, thus goat milk was widely used. The dearth of cattle created a butter shortage, too, so the town made do with salted lard for their bread.

  Sarah made a memorandum to this effect in her notebook, adding that the butcher shop handled mostly wild game and fowl.

  For dessert they had a marvelous tart stuffed with cinnamon and apples, accompanied by coffee.

  The girls did the serving and clearing, without waiting for orders from their mother, and Sarah found herself impressed by-their good manners and willingness. The Dawkins were a warm family who talked and laughed at the table; Sarah’s presence was accepted as if she were a longtime friend. During the meal Sarah learned that all three of the youngsters helped their parents in the bakery and that none of them had attended school since the previous year in Iowa.

  Sarah added another scribble in her notebook on a page with a heading, Need for School.

  “How many children would you guess are in the gulch?”

  This led to a ticking off of family names in which all the Dawkins took part while Sarah wrote down a list, including the locations of their homes.

  When all but the coffee cups were cleared away, Sarah said, “I want to thank you both for sparing Josh to help Patrick Bradigan get my office set up.”

  “No need to thank us. He was only too willing, and the day’s work was done at the bakery.”

  “Nevertheless, it was very kind of you to send him over. He did a respectable job, too. He helped Bradigan handle the press, and together they turned out three hundred twenty-five copies of the newspaper.”

  “Three hundred twenty-five!”

  “That’s what I said. But Bradigan assures me there’ll be no trouble selling them all. As a matter of fact, Josh has applied for a job as my newsboy.”

  Across the table, Josh’s brown eyes widened. When nobody spoke, Sarah went on. “Josh tells me he’s interested in learning the printer’s trade. If you thought you could spare him from the bakery, I’d be willing to pay him fifty cents a day to help around the newspaper office.”

  Josh’s jaw dropped. His parents exchanged glances while Sarah pinned her earnest gaze on the boy. “He’s a willing worker and Bradigan seemed to think he had a good, steady rhythm at loading the paper. On the day an issue comes out I could use him selling copies on the street if he wanted to. Also, once frost comes, I’d need him to go down to the office and start the fire early in the morning to thaw the ink.”

  “Pa, could I?” Josh’s eyes shone with excitement.

  Byron glanced from his son to his wife. “Emma, what do you think?”

  Emma turned to Josh. “You’d rather learn that than be a baker like your father?”

  Josh leaned forward eagerly. His glance darted between his parents and came to rest on Emma.

  “Fifty cents a day, Ma,” he said longingly, “and Miss Mer-ritt says she could teach me how to set type.”

  “And perhaps to write articles, in time,” Sarah added. “It’s not school, but until we can get one here in Deadwood, it’s as close as he can come. He’ll be working with words, and— think!—is there any power greater than the power of the written word? My father always said, a man who can make words behave can make men behave. You would be giving Josh a wonderful opportunity.”

  “Well... I suppose since we still have the girls to help in the bakery...” Emma remarked as if convincing herself.

  Byron said, “If that’s what you want, son, I guess we have no right to stop you.”

  Josh pushed back his chair and leaped up, beaming. “I can do all those things and more. I can sell subscriptions door to door, and sweep up the shop at the end of the day, and shovel out front for you in the winter and carry in your wood and take messages for you when you’re out. I promise you won’t be sorry you hired me, Miss Merritt!”

  “I’m sure I won’t,” Sarah told him with a smile.

  Later, when Sarah and Emma had the kitchen to themselves, Sarah said, “I’m awfully lucky to have met Josh so soon after I came to town. He’s going to be an asset to me, I can tell.”

  Emma was darning a sock stretched on an old wooden bed knob. She wove her needle in and out between the hand warping and spoke without lifting her eyes. “It’s sad to see your young ones grow up. You know you’ve got to let them go, but when it happens, you’re not quite prepared for it. Josh now, leaving us to earn his first money on his own...” She stopped darning for a moment and let the thought trail off.

  Sarah leaned forward and covered Emma’s hand. The women’s eyes met.

 
“Should I have asked you first?”

  “Aw no, it’s not that. Josh is a real bright boy. If you want to know the truth, I never thought mixing bread dough would be enough for him.”

  Relieved, Sarah sat back. “Watching his eagerness tonight brought back memories of how I first helped my father. I was twelve when he first allowed me to set type. The piece was a very short filler about how to dry flower seeds for winter storage, and it had about fifteen lines or so. When I was done setting it my father was full of praise and he asked me how I’d done it so fast. Well, the secret was, I’d been ‘playing printer’ whenever I could sneak into his office and do so. He’d be busy at his desk or pulling a proof and I’d be doing what most children do—imitating. He’d hear the type clicking and he’d call to me, ‘Be sure you put them back in the right places, Sarah.’ So by the time he let me do it officially for the first time, I already had a rudimentary knowledge of the typecase layout and could actually find some of the letters without looking.”

  “So you were close to your father then?”

  Sarah’s expression became tender with reminiscence. “Always.”

  “And your mother?”

  Sarah looked down into her coffee cup. “My mother ran away with another man when I was seven years old. I have only vague recollections of her.”

  “Oh Sarah. Oh my, how sad.”

  “We got along. We had a housekeeper, and Addie and I still had Father.”

  Emma studied her with sympathetic eyes before returning to her darning. “So you do have a sister.” From Emma’s tone it was clear she’d heard rumors.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it true that you came here to look for her and found her working up at that place called Rose’s?”

  “It’s true.” Sarah’s gaze became distant. “I just wish I knew why.”

  “Forgive me for asking.”

  “No, Emma, I don’t mind, and what’s the difference? The whole town knows anyway.”

  “Isn’t it odd how two children can end up so different from one another?”

  “Mmm... my sister and I were always different.” Sarah brushed absently at the tablecloth, remembering. “From the time I first became aware that there was such a thing as physical beauty, I knew that was the biggest difference between Addie and me. It went without saying—she got the beauty and I got the brains. All through school, all through our growing-up years, she was the one old ladies patted on the head and I was the one they patted on the shoulder—there’s a difference, you know.”

  Emma glanced up and waited for Sarah to go on.

  “Children always wanted to be her friends, boys and girls both, while they somehow always stood back from me as if I cowed them. I never meant to. It was just the way I was. When the others would go out to play, I preferred to read. Boys pulled Addie’s pigtails but they asked me how to spell the hard words. Addie won the prize for the prettiest-child contest and I won the spelling bees. Father even treated us differently. He babied her. I’m the one he took to the printing office with him. I’m the one he taught to set type. I’m the one who became his apprentice, his right-hand man. And don’t get me wrong—I was proud to be. But I used to wonder sometimes why Addie didn’t have to go to the office and work, too. Now, of course, I realize I was the lucky one. If Addie had learned a trade she might not be doing what she is.”

  “It’s not your fault she ended up at Rose’s.”

  “Isn’t it? I sometimes wonder. Was it something I did or didn’t do that made her run away from home? She wasn’t happy there and I knew it, but I was so busy helping Father that I didn’t take time to sit down and talk to her. From the time Mother ran away she was a sad little girl, but during her teen years she became even more quiet and withdrawn. I thought it was just growing pains.”

  “Now, don’t you go blaming yourself,” Emma said. “I haven’t known you long, but what I do know tells me you had a hard row to hoe, growing up without a mother.”

  Sarah sighed and sat up straighter. “Goodness, haven’t we gotten morose?”

  Emma brightened and refilled their coffee cups. Clacking the pot back on the stove, she inquired, “So what do you think of our marshal?”

  Sarah shot a glance at Emma. “Did you just see the hair bristle on the scruff of my neck?”

  Returning to her chair, Emma laughed and took a sip of hot coffee. “There are a lot of rumors flying around about the two of you.”

  “They’re not rumors. They’re all true. We quite despise one another.”

  “What started it?”

  “He started it!” Sarah became incensed. “The first night I came into town looking for Addie, who do you think was the first man I encountered going into Rose’s? Your honorable marshal, that’s who!”

  “He’s single, in the prime of life. What did you expect?”

  “Emma!” Sarah’s eyes and lips opened in astonishment.

  “I’m only being realistic. We just got finished naming the families in the gulch. Us few married women, plus you and the upstairs girls are the only females for three hundred miles around. And men will be men.”

  “He’s paid to uphold the law, not to flaunt it!”

  “That’s true, and I’m not excusing him. I’m talking about the nature of men.”

  “You are too excusing him!”

  “Well, perhaps I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think he’s a fair man when it comes to the law and he’s got a hard job, taming this town.”

  “What if it were Byron who was frequenting Rose’s? Would you be so forgiving then?”

  “But it’s not.”

  “But if it were.”

  “Byron and I have talked about it. He’s happy at home.”

  Sarah had no idea married people discussed such subjects. She found herself discomfited and hid behind her coffee cup.

  “Well.” Emma set down her mending and slapped a hand down on the tabletop. “It seems we’ve had our first disagreement. This will tell us how good a friends we can be.”

  “I espouse causes, I know. Sometimes I become too zealous.”

  “I suppose that’s how it ought to be for a woman in your business. But for a woman in mine it pays to look plainly at the temptations the world holds for a man and to see to it that my man has no reasons to seek them out.”

  They grew quiet for a while, studying each other, realizing they had been uncommonly frank with one another in this first private discussion.

  “So...” Emma said.

  “So...”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes, friends.”

  Emma squeezed the back of Sarah’s hand on the tabletop.

  The exchange lingered on Sarah’s mind as she walked back to her hotel. Before coming to Deadwood if she had bumped heads with a woman over the subject of men frequenting brothels she’d have shunned the woman ever after. But she liked Emma, respected her in spite of her outlandish stand, and valued her newfound friendship, which Sarah was sure would grow in the years ahead. Emma was a wife and mother, a respectable woman who had a respectable marriage, and still she took a liberal stand on the issue of the marshal’s peccadilloes.

  How surprising that Sarah still respected Emma.

  Perhaps she was still growing up.

  The thought came with some surprise, for she had always considered herself years ahead of her age in maturity, thrust into it by the early loss of her mother, her sister’s dependence on her at home, and her father’s dependence on her in business, and he certainly had depended on her, more and more the older she got. Oddly, however, by depending, he had made her independent, for he had afforded her the opportunity to demonstrate her capabilities at an age when most young girls were still at home stitching samplers. Serious-minded as she was, she had thrived upon both the challenge and the success. The more her father praised her, the more diligently she had worked, in the end acquiring a master trade, a rarity for a woman.

  So it was true; she’d been playing a grow
n-up role for so long she hadn’t realized she had some maturing to do. Yet within two days of arriving in Deadwood she had bumped up against situations and people who had already begun to force her to a new plateau of growth.

  Adelaide, of course—and who knew what mellowing would be required on Sarah’s part before coming to terms with Adelaide’s situation?

  The marshal—she’d already run such a gamut of emotions due to that man, she felt years older after the confrontations.

  And now Emma—a good, wholesome wife and mother who had reached out a hand in friendship but who—Sarah was certain—aimed to teach Sarah a thing or two about tolerance.

  Well, she’d concede that Emma had the right to hold whatever views she chose about Deadwood’s representative of the law visiting whorehouses instead of shutting them down, but she, Sarah, intended to use her considerable power as both a woman and a newspaperwoman to bring him to heel and to shut down the houses and clean up this town.

  The following morning she awakened early, took a set of clean clothes and went to the bathhouse, where she sank into a copper tub of hot water to her armpits. Reclining, she let her hair trail into the water behind her and emptied her mind of all but the unaccustomed luxury of being warm, clean and drifting. She washed her hair, towel-dried and twisted it into a knot, dressed, and rolled up her dirty clothes to be dropped off at the laundry. She opened the door, stepped out into the hall and came face to face with Noah Campbell, holding his own roll of dirty clothes.

  They both came up short.

  He looked like a herd of buffalo had stampeded his face. It was eight shades of blue, purple and rose. His left eye was split like an outgrown tomato skin and his lower lip was bigger than Dutch Van Aark’s. No hat in sight either, to help hide the damage. A single glimpse of Campbell and Sarah felt her collar grow tight.

  “Marshal,” she said stiffly.

  Campbell nodded, stiffly, too.

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he replied sarcastically.

  “How is your friend Mr. Blevins?”