by Julie Weston
Rosy stumbled, catching himself on the wall, swearing.
“Can you lean on me and walk?”
“I can lean all right, but you’re too bitty to hold me up.” Still, he put his arm around the girl’s shoulders and took a hesitant hop. His weight nearly shoved her to her knees.
“Wait. How about the tripod? I’ll carry the candle and you lean on the tripod and me together. Just don’t pull my hair again.” She gave a shaky laugh.
Candle in one hand and an arm around Rosy’s waist, the girl took small steps forward and Rosy tried to hop and walk at the same time. Her arm was strong, but he could feel how heavy he was compared to her. She felt like a child. Even so, she straightened her shoulders under his arm and tightened her grip. He was afraid he’d hurt her, but they hobbled in this fashion down the tunnel for a ways.
“This ain’t gonna work.”
“Yes it is. Keep moving.” Her breath was as labored as his. “Unless it hurts too much?”
They moved once again, stopping frequently to let Rosy rest and then to let Nellie rest. The candlelight wavered and they stopped to let it steady itself. “Been awhile since I been in here,” Rosy said. “Seems like the tunnel got longer.” He stopped again. “Lookee here. Let me carry the pack.”
Nellie shook her head.
“I promise I won’t do anything to it or let your precious camera get hurt. That would lighten your load some.”
The girl looked at him. He could imagine what she saw—a grizzled old man with a white eye, coated with dust, looking meaner than the devil. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. Nellie handed the candle to him and then slipped off her pack. She wiggled her shoulders back and forth and took the candle back, then helped Rosy get his arms through the straps. After that, they made better progress. Neither one had much breath to talk with. Rosy did his best not to groan with pain.
By the time they exited the mine, he hurt like hell. He supposed the girl did too, but she was a trooper, he decided, and a lot stronger than she looked. He handed the pack back to her. “Thanks, Nell.”
Inside, Rosy plunked down on a chair to rest. Light never looked so good. Gladys fussed over Nell, glaring at him. She whispered something to the girl.
“No, no. He saved me. Without Rosy, I would have been . . .” She shuddered and bit her lip.
“Without Rosy, you wouldn’t have been in the mine.”
With the help of the tripod, Rosy stood up. He ignored Gladys. He’d done what she wanted and now he wouldn’t bother to spend the energy to spit on her. “Let’s get the hell outta here. Goddamned criminals.”
“You can’t drive in that state,” Gladys said. “I’ll take you both back to Ketchum.”
“Your auto ain’t here and you ain’t drivin’ mine. Get me a length of bandage and I’ll fix up this damned ankle. I’m drivin’ back.”
As soon as he reached his automobile, Rosy pulled out his bottle and drank. He felt like the river of life was flowing through him. That was a closer call than the time he lost his eye. Gladys was right about one thing. It was his fault for taking Nell into the mine. His hand trembled and he didn’t want her to see it, so he took another long draught. He glanced at Nell, figuring she wouldn’t object, and she didn’t.
Nell chattered. “It must have been an accident, don’t you think? An ore train instead of the trolley? The driver must not have seen us. I’ve never heard anything so loud in my life.”
He let her think what she wanted. Probably better that way. He grunted.
Nell coughed, a deep one that came up from her lungs. She pulled out a hankie and covered her mouth. “I’m going to Twin Falls tomorrow. There, I can print up all the portraits I took. Yours will be the first.” Her hacking started up again.
Rosy held his bottle out to her. “Best medicine there is.” She surprised him by taking it and sipping some. She swallowed and shuddered, but her cough stopped and she handed it back.
“Why did you bring me out here?” There was a different tone in her voice this time; the chattiness had disappeared.
Rosy readjusted his seat, took the bottle from between his legs, emptied it, and sat up straight. “You said you wanted a picture of the miners. Seemed like you was tryin’ awful hard to make a go of it. You ought to get somethin’ of what you want.” He was getting to be such an old fool, his eyes watered. “Some women do and some don’t.”
Rosy clamped his mouth shut. He sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of an easterner. Neither said a word the rest of the trip back to Ketchum. At Goldie’s, he stopped the car. Nell leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” She helped herself, her pack, and her tripod out of the auto and closed the door. Rosy waited until she was clear and drove off, tossing the empty bottle out his window over the top of the auto and into the snow. The bit of water filling his eyelid dropped down his cheek.
CHAPTER 20
Next morning, as Nellie left to catch the train, laden with her camera pack and all of her negatives, Mrs. Bock handed her an envelope. “This was slipped under the door last night. Came from those Chinamen.” She sniffed and dropped it in Nellie’s outstretched hand as if the paper were on fire. Nellie stuck it in her bag and dashed out, leaving the stuffy house behind her. The fumes of another mustard plaster still clung to her pores, but the fresh, blue morning revived her spirits. Even the air sparkled.
The clackety-clack brought back the stark fear of the day before. Was Rosy or Mrs. Smith after her? Who killed Ah Kee? And why? Exasperated with herself, she took out the negatives and studied them by the light of the train window. Portraits, portraits, portraits. Here she was, working at what she swore she had left. Still, she now had miners on a piece of film. That was a start, along with her landscapes. Enlarging her moon-shadow photos might also advance her endeavor to find out what happened at Last Chance Ranch. Indeed, she was beginning to equate solving the mystery with success in photography. One would lead to the other. That wasn’t logical, but there it was.
Jacob Levine grinned when Nellie arrived. He showed her the new door on the darkroom, a new negative holder, a more substantial lock. Even his face looked all right—slightly more used, perhaps, but the scratch marks were disappearing. They spent an hour discussing photographic news and new techniques that Mr. Levine had learned while in the hospital and at home, recuperating by reading magazines and newspapers. Then they talked about what work Nellie could do for Jacob, and the times she could use his darkroom. And last, he brought up her moon-shadow prints and asked her to accompany him to supper, bringing the prints with her, when they finished their schedule for the day.
Having an opportunity to discuss photography was so rare. Even though she had tried to sound like an expert at their first meeting, he had more experience and she could learn from him, especially about running a business.
While her new colleague took portraits of customers, Nell printed a small stack of negatives for him. She slipped in a few of her own, beginning work on Bert the Butcher’s children. At closing time, she and Mr. Levine followed his plan, stopping to tell Mrs. Olsen, who treated them like two chicks.
After supper, while the two of them drank coffee, they studied Nellie’s prints. “If I do send these to San Francisco, then you must send your portrait of the Chinese woman.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Miss Burns. I will consider it.” Then he pointed to the photo of the cabin with the moon overhead. “You could lighten the rock chimney, could you not? Is this smoke rising against the background?” He leaned forward and took a magnifying glass from his chest pocket. “If that small detail, there, could be brought forth, it would be quite effective.”
Using the glass, Nellie studied the pale wisp. She remembered smoke when he mentioned it, but had forgotten about it since. Certainly, something white and wispy seemed to hover over the house. She had conjured up a ghost at the time, but that was silly.
“I can try by dodging that part of the photo.” Dodging meant covering over the section o
f the print while the remainder was exposed to more light. The result would be to make the dodged section lighter than the rest. Nellie’s technical thoughts were interrupted by a puzzle. If it were smoke, wouldn’t the stove have had some warmth?
Mr. Levine was talking and Nellie pulled her attention back to him. “—covered up the rest of the negative, then it might work.”
She didn’t want to admit her distraction, so she nodded her head.
“And this photo of the grass and trees in the snow. I wonder if you could lighten up the background to capture more detail. I’d like to know what this is.” He pointed to the dark place that Nellie intended to study with an enlargement. “It almost looks like someone standing and watching.”
“I planned to enlarge it and take a closer look. I doubt if it’s a person. I was alone in the meadow. Rosy was back in the car and I heard no one else.” She looked up at the photographer. “Do you suppose it might have been a wolf or a bear?”
“Not a wolf. I am afraid the wolves have been destroyed by the sheepmen, cattle men, and bounty hunters.” His half-smile reflected regret. “A bear? They’re hibernating. Perhaps an elk or a deer, although . . .” He too used the glass to study the photo. “No, now I see nothing but a dark shape. If it were an animal, the photo might be even more striking. It would be a discovery for the viewer that was not immediately apparent—a mystery.”
With a last sip from his cup, Mr. Levine said, “Shall we return to the studio? We could finish my proofs tonight if we worked together for an hour or two.” Concern wrinkled his forehead. “But, forgive me, you may wish to wait until tomorrow?”
“Oh, no, let’s begin.” Nellie pumped as much enthusiasm as she could, although she didn’t feel it. She wanted to enlarge and dodge both photos to see what she had missed. And her chest was feeling tight again.
They walked back to the studio, streetlamps lighting their way. After Ketchum, Twin Falls felt like a metropolis. Automobiles passed on the avenues and several store windows contained displays to attract shoppers. Maybe a store here would carry trousers made for women, the long loose-legged kind that were just beginning to appear in Sears catalogs along with much shorter skirts as she left Chicago. If she wore one of those short skirts in Ketchum, or even in Twin Falls, people would be scandalized, especially if she smoked a cigarette in a long holder at the same time. She smiled. And why not? If she ever had her own photography show, that is exactly what she would do.
They worked together, finishing his prints. Nellie wanted to stay and work on her photos, but Mr. Levine insisted she leave with him. Her crestfallen expression was probably the reason he agreed to return early the next day to let her work alone, while he caught up on paperwork.
The morning was still dark when Nellie left the boarding house. Snow fell lightly, but the air was warm enough to melt it, creating slush along the street and slicking the sidewalk. A temporary lull in autos passing by gave her an isolated feeling, the only life in a deserted town. She trod carefully, watching each step and only half-noticed a large man hurrying across the street toward her. When he grabbed her arm, she gasped and nearly fell.
“You little harpie! Comin’ into my town and tellin’ lies about me! Who do you think you are?” His fingers were strong enough to pull Nellie off her feet.
“Let go! What are you talking about?” She tried to pull back. “Who are you?” The man wore a thick sheepskin coat and a cowboy hat. “Let go, or I’ll scream.”
He tightened his grip. Nellie thrashed, trying to release herself. The darkness and trees in the planting strip hid them from the view of anyone on the road. The man pulled her close and clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. “Scream, you god-damn hussy!”
Fear strengthened Nellie. She stomped on the man’s instep as hard as she could. “Let go!”
“Owww!” The man loosened his grip, but not entirely. He lost his footing and they both went down in a heap. Nellie’s dress caught on her heel and ripped, and she landed chest-first so hard on the man’s knee that the wind was knocked out of her. She couldn’t move for a minute, but then rolled away, choking for breath and clutching at her breasts.
Nellie, groaning, crawled to her knees and pulled herself up by the trunk of a tree, feeling bruised in body and mind. She was on the point of kicking her assailant as he lay on the sidewalk, when she thought better of it. One whole side of her was sopped and she wanted to run to the studio. But who was this? She edged closer and grabbed the hat from his head. At first, she had no idea who this big shaggy, white-haired man could be, until he opened his eyes. Even in the dim morning light, their blueness surprised. Gwynn Campbell, the sheepman.
“How dare you!” Nellie swatted the man’s head with his own hat, once, twice, and again. Each swipe compounded her anger. He raised his arms to shield himself.
“Stop!” He rolled to his knees, and she kept hitting him. “Stop, please.” The last word sounded so weak and broken, Nellie caught herself. He was an old man.
She glanced up and down the street. Day hinted at its presence by a subtle decrease in the gloom hanging over the trees, although globby flakes continued to fall. One auto passed, then another. Up the street, a bench marked the entrance to a small park.
With an effort, Nellie helped Gwynn stand and aimed him there. When he dropped to the seat, he motioned for her to sit beside him. She had no moral obligation to help him further, but his bedraggled appearance and woebegone expression tugged at her.
“What do you want?”
“Tommy said you called me a goddamn murderer.” She handed him his hat and he placed it on his head, a shame because his hair gave him a dignified demeanor. Otherwise, he could have passed as a bum on Chicago’s south side.
Nellie couldn’t decide whether to quibble with the policeman’s term. She had suggested he had killed Ah Kee, but she had not used the word “murderer.” “When did he say that?”
He shifted on the bench and it creaked under both their weights. It was meant for strolling ladies who wished to rest. “Said I was gonna be charged with the murder of that goddam Chinaman, the one who killed my Lily.” He mumbled on, but Nellie couldn’t hear what he said.
“What? You’ll have to speak up.” Cold slats were beginning to turn Nellie’s backside numb. She gathered herself to leave.
“I wished I’d a done it.”
“And you didn’t?” She slumped back.
“I woulda, but he was already dead.”
New news. “Do you mean you saw him dead?”
But Gwynn was off on a tangent. “That goddamn Kipling. That’s who I shoulda killed. Old enough to be her father. He never shoulda married her. She’d be alive today. But no, first she wanted to marry that sheepherder. I stopped that one. No daughter of mine was goin’ to make me a laughin’ stock.” He made a queer grating sound. “Then she married a goddamn miner. Told her no miner was gonna inherit my sheep ranch!”
Nellie wasn’t certain what Gwynn meant, but clearly, he had dictated a course of action that his daughter had rebelled against. “Maybe, then, it was your fault she died.”
The stricken look he gave her confirmed that he, too, had blamed himself at least once, even if he was casting the net of guilt everywhere else. Another thought occurred to Nellie. “Did you knock Mr. Levine down in his studio?”
A crafty expression replaced the stricken one. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Were you after my photographs?”
“My Lily was like you. Smarty mouth and thought she knew it all.”
“You and Sammy?” Nellie persisted, not certain if he heard anything she was saying, but he understood her then.
“That goddamn Chinaman. I told him a thing or two.”
Mr. Levine walked hurriedly up to them. “Miss Burns, are you all right? You were late, so I decided to look for you.” He reached for her hand and she used his to pull herself to her feet. “What happened?”
“Mr. Campbell fell in the snow. I tried to help him.” No sense i
n accusing him again. The short, soggy rest had done little to restore Nellie. She was freezing cold and her chest hurt; she could hardly breathe without wheezing. Mr. Levine looked so concerned and inviting with his carefully cropped beard back again, warm overcoat, and broad shoulders that she stepped close to him, giving him little choice but to wrap an arm around her.
With only a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Levine led her away. Then he stopped and called back, “You better go home, Gwynn. You will catch pneumonia if you do not.”
“Catch pneumonia and die is how it goes,” Nellie whispered. “Serve him right.”
The studio was bright and toasty. Mr. Levine led Nellie into the kitchen, sat her down, and filled a coffee pot. Soon its perking, the tocking of the clock, the burnt toast smell of strong coffee, and finally, the brring of the telephone brought Nellie back to normal. She stopped trembling, but a coughing fit hit her. When she stopped, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Levine.”
As he entered the hallway to answer the telephone, he said, “Could you call me Jacob? I am tired of ‘Mr. Levine.’ ”
Upon his return, she answered. “Only if you call me Nell. Everyone has been so formal here in the West, I thought I should be, too.”
“Nell, then. Is that a shortened version of Eleanor?”
“No, it’s just Nell. My mother named me Cora Nell, but my father always called me ‘Little Nell.’ Thanks heavens ‘Cora’ was left by the wayside.” She looked down at herself. “Which is where I might have been left. Look at me. My dress is torn, my hands are dirty, and my coat is soaked. I can only imagine what’s happened to my hair.”
Jacob smiled at her. “You could return to the inn, or if you do not mind men’s clothing, and I understand some women have adopted such a fashion as men’s trousers, I have a spare pair and a shirt in the bathroom on the linen shelf. They are old, but clean. And your hair—well, I have nothing to stop it from curling. You should change or you, too, will catch pneumonia and die.” He placed the creamer back in the refrigerator. “I have some other work. You can use the darkroom when you are ready.” He studied her a moment longer and left.