by Marian Wells
Again she sighed heavily. Watching the weary lines settle over the woman’s face, Amy wondered why the idea of having all that gold made her unhappy.
Chapter 17
A week had passed since Amy’s arrival in Buckskin Joe. Away from the sheltering influence of home, she saw life stripped down to the crude, raw essentials.
On the first day she saw a gun fight over a woman, the wife of one of the men. She isn’t even pretty, Amy thought. She looked from the coarse face of the woman to the bloody arm of her lover and walked away, shaking her head.
Amy fingered the cotton curtains and watched the bevy of dance-hall girls promenading down the street. With arms linked, they built a playful barrier in front of the tired, dirty miners returning home to barren rooms or silent shacks behind the hotel.
Amy had been watching the girls since she had arrived. Initially she had searched for the girl in the straw bonnet, but now every bright-frocked woman caught her attention. She found herself admiring the saucy, daring demeanor of the girls on the street. Brashly they thrust themselves before the men, and there was no rejection here. Smiles of delight signaled their acceptance. Amy sighed and turned away from the window.
“Seems,” she murmured, “there are some meant to sail through life on clouds of ease and others …” Her voice trailed away as she looked at her reflection in the sliver of mirror on the shelf.
Without taking time to think, she pulled down the severe knot of hair and reached for the hairbrush. Brushing curls around her fingers she pushed them high off her neck. Turning before the mirror, she studied the cascade of curls, wishing the reflection revealed more of the bright yellow lights in her hair. “Oh well,” she muttered, “faded calico doesn’t do much for settin’ off curls.”
She had just reached for the brush when she heard the stairs creak, and Augusta pushed at her half-open door. Amy saw the frown as Augusta said, “Looking like the dance-hall girls. I don’t abide a girl of mine seeking to attract men, especially when she says she’s married.”
“Oh, Mrs. Tabor, I don’t intend to wear it this way downstairs. I just saw the girls and I wanted to prove I could look as saucy as they. But the curls are strange on me, with this dress.”
Augusta’s frown deepened. Amy explained, “I was looking out the window, watching the girls and men. Feeling all pleased with myself for seeing when they didn’t know I was up here. I suddenly realized that life isn’t all we want it to be. Sometimes it feels like it’s going to crash down on top of you.”
The frown on Augusta’s face cleared. “And yours is crashing down? Why are you here, Amy? You aren’t really married, are you? Where did you come from? Why did you avoid going down the street to the post office the other day? Did it have something to do with that preacher out on the street preaching about repentance and hell?”
“Oh, Mrs. Tabor!” Amy gasped, putting her hands on her warm cheeks. “I think I need to do some explaining.”
Augusta sat down on the edge of the cot and waited. Looking into her eyes, Amy thought of Aunt Maude; but there was a difference; this woman waited patiently. “I know what it is to pull your heart out for a man and have him refuse it,” Augusta said.
“No, it isn’t that at all!” Amy protested. “We are married, but see—even before we had a chance to—settle in, well, he just took off. Being a preacher was more important than anything. He didn’t want to go back to the states and have a decent life. There’s just this crazy dream he has about being a pastor to a bunch of miners.”
“Then you know Father Dyer?”
“That man preaching on the street? I didn’t know his name, but I saw him with—my husband.” For a moment Amy was lost in contemplation. Husband. It seemed odd to be using that word for the tall brown-eyed stranger.
Augusta added, “So you ran away. Where were you going?”
“Well, I didn’t really intend to run away. I was going to Denver City to meet my father. I figured by the time Daniel caught up with me, he would be glad to go back to the states.”
Augusta was shaking her head sadly. “Where did you get the idea you could treat a man like that? Amy, women are supposed to follow their husbands, trying to make life pleasant for them. It’s called being a helpmate, until death parts.” She sighed. A faraway look crept into her eyes, and Amy was glad to be forgotten.
At last Augusta got to her feet and reached for the door, then paused. “What are you going to do now?”
Amy lifted her chin. “Well, seems he’s not going to come looking. All he would have had to do is just ask about the stagecoach. He could have come after me. Besides,” she added, “I don’t have money to go back, so I’d better get a job and earn some money or I’ll be here the rest of my life.”
“Is that why you were fixing your hair fancy?”
Amy blinked, but as she gasped, her protest came out rather feeble. “You thought I’d be a dance-hall girl? Oh my, Mrs. Tabor! I’ve been raised to believe that’s sinful. Aunt Maude doesn’t even approve of pianos; she’d have a stroke if she ever finds out I’ve learned to play one.” As Amy finished her protest, she was left with an uneasy feeling that there was some unplumbed depth in her that was threatening to make itself known.
Augusta got up with a sigh. “You’re an innocent. Well, I can offer you a job in the post office if you wish. The pay isn’t good, but you can live here and help out. With Mr. Tabor gone much of the time, I’m about worked to pieces. Hardly have time for the little one.”
Amy’s duties behind the wire cage of the post office began immediately. The post office had been started on the corner of a desk at the Tabor’s grocery. Now occupying its own milled lumber building next door, Amy became the sole employee, and the only person on the premises most of the time.
But she was happy in her new domain and took pride in keeping the mud swept from the plank floor and the plants watered. There was cactus by the spittoon, while the cold potbelly stove at the far end of the building was topped with a drooping geranium.
Across the front of the building was a window nearly as large as the one in the Tabors’ store. When there was nothing to do, Amy could watch the traffic move up and down the street.
The plain lumber walls had been decorated with posters and notices, mostly about men who were wanted for committing crimes in the area. She read the brief horror stories and shivered. One Ben Ames was wanted for shooting his partner and leaving the country with all the gold from their diggings. Another was a description of Jim Reynolds, con artist and lately a highway man, wanted for holding up the Denver City-California stagecoach.
When there were customers, Amy retreated behind the wire enclosure where the cubbyholes held the mail. Three times a week heavy canvas bags of mail were dropped from the stagecoach. It was Amy’s job to sort the mail into the proper slots.
She also read the newspapers from Denver City and learned to know which of the townspeople were apt to receive mail. After a week it was easy to guess which miners were married and eager for news from home.
She had been behind the desk for nearly three weeks before she realized that one segment of Buckskin Joe’s society almost never came into the post office—the dance-hall girls.
As the summer waned, more men with families began moving into the area. The number of children grew, and soon there was talk of a school.
Amy learned to call the newcomers by name, and kept up on the gossip. She could guess by the faces just who was prospering and who would be leaving town before the first snows.
As the days passed, she also watched Augusta’s face become deeply lined and sad. Was it related to the activities of her husband?
H.A.W. Tabor seemed to be everywhere at once—in the newspaper office, on the street with a cluster of men around him. By chance Amy discovered that in the mining claim office, he was frequently the center of a group, and when the discouraged miners filed out of Buckskin, H.A.W. was left holding their claims.
Amy needn’t be told that the Tabors were prosp
ering; it was evident in the trail of expensive merchandise that moved through the store. In addition to Augusta’s new black silk gowns and H.A.W.’s fawn suits and tall hats, a shiny new carriage was housed in the log barn.
Another group in town seemed to be prospering—the dance-hall girls across the meadow. Amy was well aware of them, and she knew how frequently their rambling two-story boardinghouse vibrated with light and laughter.
She also noticed the line of girls going into the Tabors’ shop was directly proportionate to the number of new claims discovered and how much gold the Phillip Lode was producing.
That information was easy to come by. Hardly a week passed without a ragged, dirty miner riding his jack into town with a broad smile and a sack of ore. Frequently his find was announced with a wild shout and a race down main street while his buddies celebrated by discharging their pistols into the air.
After the first few times it happened, Amy stopped running into the street. Now like the rest of the town, she merely smiled and nodded. Buckskin Joe was doing very well.
In late August a ponderous wagon crepted slowly across the meadow toward the boardinghouse. When all the respectable citizens in town lined the street to watch, Amy joined them.
There were awed exclamations when it stopped in front of the boardinghouse, but Mrs. Dickens said it all. “A piano! Would have been nice if it could have come to rest in a church instead of in that place. Sometimes it doesn’t seem the Lord is dealing things out right. Here our men are working their fingers to the bone and we’re a-goin’ to church; while all the time they are the ones getting the pretties and the piano.”
Amy agreed with Mrs. Dickens. Still, thinking of Aunt Maude, she had to retort, “Seems to be a worldly thinking, having a piano in a church, don’t you think?”
“Times are changing,” replied the short, cheerful miner’s wife standing beside Amy. “I was raised with that thinking, but do you know Father Dyer has a little portable organ? Seems to be the coming thing. I hear a church in Denver City’s going to get a piano, too.”
Amy turned back into the post office. For the remainder of the afternoon she was thinking about it all. So the girls across the way had a piano, and Father Dyer had an organ. For a few minutes Amy toyed with idea of going to church on Sunday morning.
The next day when Lizzie appeared in the post office, Amy could do nothing but stare at the girl. “Lizzie! I’m so flabbergasted I don’t know what to say. You’re the last person I’d expect to see. I didn’t even know you had moved from Central City.”
Lizzie smiled, but her voice was dry. As she talked, Amy studied her friend’s face. It was easy to see that Lizzie wasn’t the lighthearted girl she had been in Central City. She said, “There’s not many places in the Pikes Peak land that’ll support the likes of us. You want to find a gal, you go to Denver City, Central City, Fairplay, or Buckskin. I’m hearing they’re enforcing some old ordinance in Central City that could move all the girls outta the place.”
Amy saw the shadows deep in Lizzie’s eyes. There was a cynical twist to her lips. She was saying, “I hear you got married. I pulled out of Central City right after that. You were crazy to have tossed over that Tristram fella. He could have put you on easy street for the rest of your life.”
Slowly Amy said, “Lizzie, what’s wrong? Aren’t things going well for you? You seem so strange now.”
Lizzie blinked and turned, but Amy saw the tears. “You’re having it rough? Can’t we be friends again?”
Lizzie had her money out and was moving away from the counter. “I don’t suppose your man will want us to be friends.”
“Lizzie, I need to talk to you.” Amy spoke slowly, wondering how much she should say. The door opened to admit a miner and Lizzie left the building. Amy went back to sorting mail, but for some reason Lizzie’s sad face stayed with her.
The next day when Amy went to meet the stagecoach and pick up the mail, Father Dyer was there. As he turned from the stage, she saw that he recognized her.
Taking the heavy mail sack from her, he said, “I’ll carry that for you; it’s too heavy for a woman.” There was nothing for her to do except follow him back to the post office.
Inside she took the sack and went behind the barricade, hoping that he would leave. But he leaned on the counter and asked, “I don’t suppose there’s mail for John L. Dyer?”
“Not from the last batch. I won’t have the new one done for a couple hours.” The question slipped out unintentionally. “How come they call you Father?”
“I guess because that’s the way some of the fellows see me—not authority, just pa.” He was still watching her as he said, “I’m a preacher, Methodist Episcopal. I’ve seen you around town, but I believe I’ve seen you somewhere else. Could it have been at the quarterly meeting in Denver? It’d be nice to have you come to services on the Sabbath.”
She shrugged lightly. “Maybe sometime.”
He waited; then finally he asked, “Mind if I inquire about your name?”
She had expected it. Shuffling the letters, she kept her head down and pondered the question. He might know Father. Lifting her head she said, “I’m Mrs. Gerrett. I think you’re mistaken. I’m certain we’ve never met.”
He waited a moment more and then in an easy conversational tone he said, “I’m trying to get the job of carrying the mail over Mosquito Pass. Seems a waste to walk over for preaching without having my hands full of the mail those people are waiting for.”
Late that afternoon, as Amy locked the post office and started toward the boardinghouse, her thoughts were full of the past. Seeing Lizzie and Father Dyer had plunged her backward, filling her with lonesome feelings.
And finally, when all the thoughts had trooped past with their images of Father, Aunt Maude and Daniel Gerrett, she sighed and shook her head. “There’s not a thing I can do about it all. I’m here, and my wages barely pay my keep. It’ll be a long time before I can afford to take the stage back to Central City.”
And then the thought came, solid and undeniable: You could write. Her mind protested. Someday, but not yet. How could she justify that thought? At what point had isolation become so precious?
Chapter 18
Amy decided working in the post office was better than watching life through the bedroom window. There was little to do beyond sweeping the floor and reading the newspapers coming in from Denver City.
The newspapers played a double role in Buckskin Joe. Before long, Amy became the source of information in Buckskin Joe for those who didn’t read the Rocky Mountain News.
One day, with her head deep in the newspaper, Amy muttered, “I was getting to the place where I thought I knew everything happening around the territory. Here it is September; we’ve been a territory since last February, and I didn’t know they had decided the official name was Colorado. I’d thought we were stuck with Jefferson for a name.”
Feet shuffled and she raised her head. A miner waited for his mail. “Name’s Murphy,” he said gruffly, “and I don’t care about the shenanigans Congress has put us through. I just want to know if there’s a letter for me.” He took his letter and headed for the door, saying, “The sooner I clear out of this place the better I’ll like it.” But Amy wasn’t listening to him; she stared instead at the girl walking through the door.
Lizzie’s smile was apprehensive as Amy came from behind the barricade to give her a quick hug. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! I’ve been wanting to visit, but I didn’t know where to come looking for you. I thought Mrs. Tabor knew everyone in town, but she didn’t know your whereabouts.”
Lizzie’s smile became bitter. Amy asked, “What’s happened with you? You’re unhappy, that’s clear. And why did you fly out of here the last time you were here?”
“Look, Amy, I don’t need to hear this line about friendship. Just drop the talk. Let me get this letter sent and I’ll be on my way.”
“Lizzie, I don’t understand. We were best of friends last spring. Why�
��”
The expression in her eyes was changing. For a moment Amy expected Lizzie to laugh. Abruptly she turned away. “You haven’t talked to Clara Brown? I supposed you’d found me out, that’s all.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Your precious Aunt Clara Brown pinned me to the wall. Saw me once when I wished she hadn’t. From the talking she gave me, I supposed you knew it all.”
“Lizzie, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You want me to spell it out? Amy, use your head. Why do you think I had an in with Mrs. Arnold at the boardinghouse?”
Finally Amy said, “Are you trying to tell me you were one of her girls? Well, Lizzie, that does surprise me. But I can forget the past.”
“Past? What do you think I’m doing now—scrubbing floors?”
In the silence the clock on the wall gonged out the hour. Amy watched the bronze pendulum sweeping back and forth behind the glass. All nice and neatly ordered. But Aunt Maude isn’t here to put me in a box like that. Her eyes slanted toward Lizzie. Keeping her voice level she said, “Lizzie, if you don’t criticize how I earn my living, then I won’t criticize you. Seems to me we both need a friend mighty badly.”
Lizzie blinked her eyes just as the door opened. She looked up. The woman who had walked into their conversation was glaring at Lizzie. “Yer one of those fancy gals. Didn’t know the likes of you addressed decent people.” Amy dropped her paper and jumped to her feet.
The door banged behind Lizzie. Going to the window Amy watched Lizzie swishing down the road. Turning to the woman waiting for her mail, she said, “You hurt her feelings.”
“Jest a dance-hall gal. Seems they’re uppity enough without encouraging them.” She reached for the letter Amy held out to her. Fingering the letter, the woman said, “You best be careful who you line up with around here. A young lady like you could get a bad reputation.”