Forgiving

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Miss Merritt.” Beneath his mustache his mouth was shrunken into a tight knot. “I don’t like you and you don’t like me, so why pretend to make polite chitchat when we run into each other? Just stay out of my way and let me do my job, and we’ll pretend to tolerate each other.”

  He turned and stalked off up the hallway, leaving her to stand red-faced with embarrassment.

  When he disappeared her mouth got just like his had been. Insufferable, despicable, freckle-faced boor!

  She was so angry she went to Emma’s to blow off steam. Emma wiped her hands on her white cobbler apron and said, “What’s got you upset this morning?”

  “The marshal, that’s what!”

  “You run into him already this morning?”

  “At the bathhouse. He’s despicable!”

  “He probably thinks the same thing about you. Here, have a warm bun and cool down. You two are going to be bumping into each other pretty regular in a town this size, so you might as well get used to it.”

  Sarah tore off a mouthful of bun and chewed it in a totally undignified manner. “I’m going to put a stop to him or to the brothels or both, Emma, mark my words!”

  Emma laughed and said, “Well, good luck.”

  Josh appeared and Sarah was forced to cool down.

  “Morning, Miss Merritt.”

  “Hello, Josh. Why don’t you call me Sarah.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She smiled. Emma and Byron had raised some fine kids.

  “I was just heading for work,” Josh said.

  “So was I. Let’s walk together.”

  Sarah took some extra buns and the two headed toward the Chronicle office. It was a pretty day, the town was bustling, and she forced the marshal from her thoughts.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said to her new apprentice, “this first issue of the paper—it might be good for business to make it a complimentary copy. What do you think?”

  Josh was surprised at being consulted. “But—gosh!—if you sold them for a penny apiece you could make three dollars and twenty-five cents!”

  “But if I gave them away free, and gained goodwill in return, then went to two sheets next issue, I could perhaps get three cents, or four, or even a nickel. Now what do you think?”

  They decided the first copy would be complimentary.

  At the office Sarah fixed Josh up with a canvas shoulder bag to carry the papers. As he headed out she ordered, “Leave one on every doorstep, and at every business, then go up and down the gulch and give them to the miners.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He opened the door.

  “Oh... and, Josh?”

  “Yes?”

  “Every business but the badlands. I don’t want you anywhere near those buildings.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to go.

  “And one more thing,” she called. “Make certain that the marshal gets one. You hand it to him personally, do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Josh was gone, Sarah checked her watch. She had agreed to give Patrick Bradigan a try as a typesetter and had made arrangements to meet him at the office at eight A.M. It was already eight-twenty and no Irishman in sight.

  He arrived at eight-fifty, red-eyed and affable, dressed in a brown tweed frock coat with his composing stick in his pocket and a red muffler tied jauntily around his throat.

  “Top o’ the morning to you, Miss Merritt,” he offered, doffing an aging black top hat and bowing from the waist.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bradigan. Am I mistaken, or did we agree on meeting at eight o’clock?”

  “Eight o’clock, is it?” He pronounced his t’s crisply. “I thought it was nine. I says to meself, a pretty young thing like Miss Merritt must be getting at least that much beauty sleep to have eyes as bright as highland bluebells.”

  “And you’ve been kissing the Blarney stone, Mr. Bradigan.” He was a likable fellow, but she took his flattery with a grain of skepticism, realizing that the footing upon which they started was the one upon which they would proceed. In a tone of light reproof she told him, “If you want to work for me you’ll have to understand from the start that I won’t abide your oversleeping, or arriving late, or missing appointments. When I commit myself to printing two newspapers a week I must know that I can rely on my staff to be here when I expect them.”

  He doffed his hat again and held it over his heart, bowing deep. (She already recognized he was a great one for bowing.) “My apologies, young miss, and I’ll remember.”

  “Good. Then permit me—may I ask a few questions?”

  Returning his hat to his head and tapping its top, he said, “You may.”

  “How old are you, Mr. Bradigan?”

  “I’ll be thorty-two on the Feast of St. Augustine.”

  “You’re a journeyman printer?”

  “I am.”

  “Where have you worked before?”

  “From Boston to St. Louis and a dozen towns in between.”

  “What kind of presses have you worked with?”

  “The wee ones—Gallys, Cottrells, Potters—and the big ones, too—the Hoe Ten Cylinder. I’ve even had a chance to operate one of the new Libertys that won the gold medal in Paris last year.”

  “Ah, and how was it?”

  “’Twas a beauty. Printed clear as a Kilkenny brook and distributed the ink perfectly. And that treadle saved on me poor tired back.”

  “Then why did you leave it?”

  “Well now, you see...” He cleared his throat and scratched his temple. “There was a sortain young lady who broke me heart.” He placed his hand over it and gave the ceiling a gaze of dejection.

  A likely story, thought Sarah. He probably showed up inebriated for work once too often and got fired. Or woke up in a stupor at noon one day and decided it was time to move on.

  “How fast can you work?”

  “I can set two thousand ems an hour.”

  Her left eyebrow rose. “Two thousand?” That was fast.

  “Mignon,” he added, naming the style of type.

  “As you saw yesterday, I use Caslon, primarily, for the body type. It’s what my father used.”

  “Caslon’s all right. I’ve worked with it, too.”

  “I’ll give you a try, then, Mr. Bradigan, at a dollar fifty a day if that’s agreeable, and you’ll work from eight until six.”

  “Those terms are acceptable.”

  “Agreed, then.” She extended her hand. When he took it she felt the early-morning tremor in his. “To the success of the Deadwood Chronicle,” she said, giving two hard pumps.

  “To the success of the Chronicle,” he seconded, and she withdrew her hand.

  Leading the way toward the rear, she said, “Before we do anything else I want to get Father’s clock hung up. I learned to the sound of its ticking, and I miss it.”

  “I spied it yesterday, when we were setting up. I’ll be know-in’ just which crate it’s in.”

  With Bradigan’s help, Sarah unearthed the familiar Water-bury in its fine walnut case, with its eight-day movement, ornamented pendulum and detailed hand carving. When it hung on the wall she set the hands to 9:09, closed the glass door and set the pendulum swinging. Standing back, she looked up at it.

  “There, that’s better. Wait until you hear it chime. It has a splendid cathedral gong that strikes on the quarter hour.”

  “Ahh,” he responded, rolling back on his heels.

  For several seconds they listened to the tick-tocks, then Sarah inquired, “Is there any plaster in this town, Mr. Bradi-gan?”

  “Plaster, you say?”

  “The clock looked so much better on our plastered walls in St. Louis. I miss them.”

  “Not that I know of. Not a soul I know’s got plastered walls.”

  “Then let’s be the first,” she proposed. “I shall order some by Pony Express Mail today. Have you had your breakfast, Mr. Bradigan?”

  “Me breakfast?�
�

  “I’ve brought some buns from the bakery. Would you like one?”

  When she offered one, he backed off with both palms raised. “No, no, none o’ that for me. Me belly can’t take it so early in the mornin’. But if it’s all the same to you I will have a tot o’ the rye—to oil the hinges, don’t you know.” From the capacious pockets of his frock coat he withdrew a small flask of whiskey and, with two fingers raised, took two deep swallows.

  Watching him, she knew it would be useless to protest. Much as she disliked his imbibing, especially in so forthright a manner, she suspected that if she remonstrated with rules about his alcohol consumption she would lose a 2,000-em-per-hour typesetter. He was what she’d suspected—a tramp printer who’d wandered in off the stage with his composing stick in his pocket, and who would wander off again without notice, in a year or less, following the pattern of the majority of his ilk. The country was full of them, men who by virtue of the tedium of their trade had turned to the “ardent spirits” to break the monotony of routine, talented men who could set type like dervishes once they had several shots under their belt, but whose hands, without benefit of alcohol, shook as if palsied. She’d seen dozens of them come and go from her father’s newspaper office over the years. Since Patrick Bradi-gan had seen the need to “oil his hinges” before so much as touching type for the first time today, she supposed he’d need the same lead time every day to allow the insidious stuff to calm his hands.

  She turned away to find the article she’d written about yesterday’s riot and subsequent arrest. Handing it to him, she inquired, “Can you read my writing?”

  “As clear as me old mother’s prayer book.”

  “Good, then I’ll leave you to your task, since you know where everything is.”

  Covertly she glanced at the clock—9:13—and set about unpacking her books and small tools while pretending to pay him no mind. He did all the proper things, all in the fashion taught her by her father: removed his outerwear and rolled up his sleeves, a must where restricted movement meant inefficiency and a starched cuff could cause pied—spilled—type. He measured the width of yesterday’s columns; set his composing stick to the correct length; dropped in the proper-length slug; settled it in his left hand with the thumb inside, fingers folded across the bottom—faultless form. Though Sarah turned away, she was wholly conscious of the snick, snick, snick, as he began plucking type—left elbow tilting, bringing the stick to meet the type in the most proficient fashion. Snick, snick snick: spacing, justifying, with scarcely a syncopation in rhythm.

  He hadn’t been lying. He was fast. Three lines were filled and transferred to the galley before the clock struck the quarter hour. Even the sound of the chime didn’t distract him.

  “You’re right—splendid,” he remarked at the reverberation, his hands flashing.

  Patrick Bradigan went on creating the music Sarah loved while she unpacked her possessions and smiled at her good fortune. She thought of her father and how they’d worked together companionably this way, years ago; of her future and all she hoped to build here with this newspaper.

  She thought of Noah Campbell and wondered if he’d read her editorial yet.

  She thought of Addie, probably asleep in her room after a night of men like Campbell.

  There were reforms needed in this town and she, Sarah, was here to make them.

  Bradigan finished typesetting the article and slid it onto the composing stone, framed it with the chase, filled it with the furniture, locked it into place with quoins and tilted it to check the justification before carrying it to the press and pulling a proof. He used a pallet knife to spread a strip of ink, rolled it even on the brayer and inked his type with exactly four passes of the tool—the perfect number for greatest efficiency. He loaded the frisket, pulled the proof and brought it to Sarah for inspection.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, then put on her spectacles and looked it over slowly. He had chosen Gothic Sans Serif for the headline—an appropriate matchup for Caslon body type. His indentations were uniform, justified edges clean; no misspellings or omissions. Flawless, fast work.

  She removed her glasses, returned the proof and gave him a smile. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Mr. Bradigan.”

  Sarah spent the morning setting up the remainder of her shop and greeting townspeople who came in to welcome her and the newspaper to Deadwood. Josh returned from distributing the papers and said he needed more, so he and Patrick got the press running again while she went to make calls on Lawrence Chapline and Dr. Turley. She paid the doctor and learned that True Blevins was progressing nicely. She went next to Elias Pinkney’s bank to withdraw some gold dust and inquire about the wording on his advertisement. When he saw her enter the building he leaped from his desk chair and met her with his hand extended.

  “Miss Merritt, my my, how lovely to see you again.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pinkney.” His name truly was appropriate: his cheeks, pate and mouth were all as pink as a baby’s belly; pinker than ever as he continued smiling ingratiatingly and appropriating her hand.

  “Everyone is talking about the first issue of your paper. Everybody. We’re awfully proud to have it and you in Dead-wood.”

  “I understand I have you to thank for making it possible.”

  “It is absolutely my pleasure to be of service to you.”

  She forcefully freed her hand from his grip and discreetly wiped it on her skirt. “The building is perfect and I’d love to keep it on whatever basis it’s available. I can either rent or buy.”

  “Come, Miss Merritt.” He appropriated her elbow. “Have a chair, please.” He seated her beside his desk and concentrated on her eyes as if they were pools of blue water and he a man finishing hard labor on a hundred-degree day. For a moment she imagined him shucking off his clothes and getting ready to jump. The picture was distasteful. He was pudgy all over and had hairless, pink, feminine hands to go with his hairless, pink, feminine face.

  “The rent, Mr. Pinkney.” She put on her most professional mien. “Shall we settle that?”

  “Oh, there’s no hurry.” He waved away her concern and sat back in his chair. “Your newspaper is the talk of the town. It’s very well done. Very well done.”

  His repeating drove her crazy. She considered replying, “Thank you, thank you.” Instead she told him, “I’ve hired some good help—Mr. Bradigan and Josh Dawkins. Without them I’m afraid I couldn’t have gotten the first issue out nearly as fast as I did.”

  “How often do you plan to publish?”

  “Twice a week.”

  “Ahh... industrious. Very industrious.” He leaned close enough that she caught whiffs of his breath. It smelled like cloves, and she found herself wondering if he’d popped one into his mouth since she’d entered the bank.

  “I thought perhaps we could set down the wording of your ad while I’m here.”

  “Of course! Of course!” he said eagerly. While they did business he smiled so broadly, attended her so ingratiatingly, that she felt claustrophobic. She brought up the subject of the building three more times, but he refused to name a price. Though he had a clerk to do so, he personally fetched her gold dust from the safe, and touched her hand while returning her pouch. She scarcely controlled the urge to recoil, but thanked him politely and bid him good day.

  “One moment, Miss Merritt,” he said, detaining her with a grip on her elbow. She knew instinctively what was coming and scrabbled through her mind for a graceful refusal.

  “I wondered if some evening you’d do me the honor of allowing me to buy you supper.”

  But I’m looking down on the top of your bald, pink head.

  “I do thank you, Mr. Pinkney, but I have so much to do these days, getting the business set up and acquainting myself with the town. Why, I still don’t have a decent place to live.”

  “Perhaps I could do something about that, too.”

  “Oh no. I wouldn’t want any more favors. My fellow townspeople might b
egin to resent me when the waiting lists are so long.”

  “I own a lot of property in this town, Miss Merritt. Where would you like to live? I’m certain something can be arranged.”

  And all I have to do is go to dinner with you. And let you fondle my hand and breathe cloves on my chin (the level where his mouth reached).

  “Thank you again, Mr. Pinkney, but I’ll wait my turn. The hotel really isn’t so bad.”

  He smiled and extended his hand for a shake. She gave hers reluctantly and he held it in his damp palm. “The offer still stands. Supper anytime you’re free.”

  Leaving the bank, the light dawned. He was bribing her! Free rent and a place to live, and all she had to do was submit to his attentions. Her face grew red and her temperature boiled. Why, he was no better than Campbell! He only disguised his proposition behind a facade of graciousness.

  She had no delusions about herself and her pulchritude. She was a plain woman with too long a nose, overly tall, with more intelligence than most men wanted in a female companion. But she was—after all—female. No other qualifications were necessary in a town with the dearth of distaff that Deadwood suffered. It would have made some women feel heady. Sarah felt insulted. If a woman shortage was the only reason the men in this town wanted her, they could all go lick!

  She returned to the newspaper office in a lather and had scarcely caught her breath when the door opened and the marshal walked in.

  She knew in a moment that he had read the editorial.

  She faced him squarely as he propelled himself across the room with clunking steps that said he’d as soon plaster the walls with her as speak to her.

  “Your license,” he said, without preliminaries, dropping it on a table where she’d begun arranging her wood engraving cuts.

  “Thank you.”

  “See that you keep it posted on your wall.”

  “I will.”

  The two words hadn’t cleared her lips before he was halfway back to the door, slamming it behind himself. No “Good day, Miss Merritt,” no greeting for Patrick or Josh, just clunk, clunk, hang this, clunk, clunk, bang!

  Sarah, Josh and Patrick were still exchanging surprised glances when the door opened and Campbell stormed in again. Standing two feet inside the entrance, he jabbed a finger at Sarah and said, “You owe me for a hat, lady!”