Friends and Enemies

by Stephen A. Bly

  “You’re right,” Miss Augusta added with unsmiling face, “and we have to kill all of you.”

  “That ain’t funny,” Puddin replied.

  “It was not intended to be,” she cautioned.

  “Now Oscar … don’t go rilin’ a lady with a gun in her hand,” Robert cautioned. “What happened in Miles City?”

  Miss Sandra continued the story. “Well, that ain’t no mining town. There’s only cowboys and railroad men up there. Mac was discouraged. He was on a two-week melancholy when he came into the dance hall.”

  “He was drunk, that’s what he was,” Miss Augusta blurted out.

  Miss Sandra pointed the bayoneted musket at her sister. “A man don’t have to be drunk to dance with me.”

  With her shotgun looped over her shoulder, Miss Augusta glared back. “He was drunk!”

  “That might be, but he didn’t dance with you, even if he was drunk!” She held her chin high. “He was bragging about owning the fastest horse in Dakota, and I told him me and my sister owned the fastest horse in Montana … so naturally …”

  “He wanted to race?” Samuel prodded.

  “Yep. He stopped the music in the saloon and announced a horse race right up Main Street of Miles City. Said he would put up his interest in the Big Boulder Mine.”

  “My word, what was your collateral?” Chambers pressed.

  There was a long pause. The two women stole a glance at each other. Miss Sandra’s response was almost soft. “We weren’t covered with dirt back then.”

  Under the dirt Robert thought he could see her blush.

  Chambers tugged at the cuffs of his once-white shirt. “You mean to say a man would actually gamble a gold mine for a woman’s eh, virtue?”

  Sam Fortune cleared his throat. “Two women,” he corrected.

  “Men have abandoned claims for a whole lot less,” Robert added. “Daddy bought half-interest in the Andrew Jackson for half an elk and a dutch-oven peach cobbler.”

  Chambers sat awkward and stiff as he adjusted his top hat. “But, I say, to gamble one’s chastity … however polluted it may be … for a worthless mining claim.”

  “It wasn’t worthless, and we wasn’t gamblin’ anything,” Miss Sandra insisted. “There was no way we could lose. Augusta can straddle a horse better than any man.”

  “You rode the horse?” Robert quizzed.

  “Yep, and I won by a head.”

  “You could have won by a length if you hadn’t turned around and stuck out your tongue,” Miss Sandra lectured.

  “There were fourteen horses in the race,” Miss Augusta added. “We not only won the claim but picked up six hundred fourteen dollars and twenty-seven cents from the cowboys.”

  “Then what happened?” Sam asked.

  Miss Sandra snickered. “We left town in a hurry. Men don’t like to lose to women.”

  “But what happened to MacClaren?” Chambers probed. “You said he was buried in Miles City?”

  Miss Sandra scratched her head from one side to the other as if chasing a tiny unseen critter. “We heard he went on a drunk and got pinched by a train the next morning.”

  “Pinched?” Chambers questioned. “You mean he got arrested?”

  “Nope.” Miss Augusta licked her fingertips and wiped the dust out of the corners of her eyes. “Mac got caught between two railroad cars … and was … you know … crushed to death.”

  Chambers’s mouth dropped open. “And … and … they buried him in Miles City?”

  A sly smile broke across Miss Augusta’s tight, stoic face. “Yep, they buried both parts of him. Used a shorter casket, so I hear tell.”

  Chambers held his hat up to his mouth. “My word, I believe I’m going to regurgitate,” he choked.

  Miss Sandra leaned over to watch Chambers. “He’s going to what?”

  Robert shoved his hand on Chambers’s back and pushed his head between his knees. “So you two came up to work the claim?”

  “Yep, Tio and Poco were here. So we decided we’d live off the cowboy winnin’s and work the claim for a few weeks. Then we got a draft from the Bank of Ottawa in Toronto, so we kept diggin’.” Miss Sandra shoved the rod-shaped bayonet back into the trapdoor musket.

  A white-faced Byron Chambers sat up, holding his hat in his hand. “But the draft was signed by MacClaren.”

  “That’s Tio …” Miss Augusta explained. “He’s mighty good at cipherin’ someone else’s signature.”

  “But that’s illegal … it’s forgery!” Chambers blustered.

  “We surmised you sent that money to keep the mine in operation. That’s exactly what we did. We are the legal assigns. We won our share fair and square. We surely ain’t spent it on ourselves,” Miss Sandra huffed.

  “That’s obvious,” Puddin snorted.

  “But … but … you can’t just take the bank’s money and …”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Chambers,” Robert interrupted. “I think these ladies are right. Your company wanted a mine shaft dug, and that’s what you got.” Robert turned back to the ladies. “The important question is, are you finding any color?”

  Augusta glanced over at Sandra, who nodded.

  “We’ve been tracin’ a favorable lead. So far we’ve been crushin’ it out on a millstone, then pannin’ out enough to pay for groceries. But if we hit the big lead, we’ll be in the money,” Miss Sandra explained.

  “I still will have to see the books,” Chambers insisted.

  “We don’t have any books,” Miss Augusta replied.

  “But, you said you had a record of expenses,” Chambers sputtered.

  Miss Augusta reached down and picked a tiny piece of lint off her filthy dress, as if she were about to enter a church. “Yep, we got that. We got two dynamite boxes full of receipts. Ever’ time we spent a dime of that draft, we got the receipt and put it in the box.”

  “My heavens,” Chambers roared as he shoved his hat back on. “It will take all afternoon to sort this out.”

  “Maybe we ought to bring Tio and Poco up and have them cook us all some dinner,” Miss Augusta suggested.

  Sandra Raxton, toting her trapdoor musket over her thin, bony shoulder, strolled over to Robert Fortune. “I suppose all you men are married?”

  “My brother and I are married, but I do believe Mr. Chambers is unattached and so is Oscar.” Robert glanced over at the big man. “If he doesn’t get hanged, he might be the most eligible bachelor in the Black Hills!”

  “I ain’t the marryin’ type,” Puddin retorted.

  “Now, Oscar, when the right lady comes along, all of that will change,” Samuel said.

  “One thing fer sure,” Puddin declared, “she’ll be clean.”

  “Will she own a gold mine?” Robert challenged.

  “I ain’t dreamed that grand,” Oscar admitted.

  “And there is certainly no reason for you to do so now!” Miss Sandra sneered.

  The sounds of the steam-driven piston cranking a huge wooden spool muted all conversation until the two older Mexican men were hoisted to the surface. Their clothes and faces were the same color as the Raxton sisters. Under the dirt both had narrow shoulders, gray hair, leathery faces, and dark brown eyes. Oscar Puddin was put to building a fire, while Poco and Tio began to cook.

  Sam Fortune climbed to the top of the headworks to survey the surrounding landscape for the best route for a telephone line. Byron Chambers and Augusta Raxton sat on the worn, weathered front porch of the cabin, surrounded by invoices and receipts from worn weathered board to worn weathered board.

  Robert strolled over to a pile of crushed rock and gravel the size of the cabin. “Is this your tailings?”

  Sandra Raxton trailed behind him, no longer carrying her long musket. “This is our good stuff. We don’t sluice it out until right before we go to town. Figure no one would want to steal it in the raw form.”

  Robert glanced around at the yard. “Where do you sluice it at?”

  “We have to pack it down to w
ater.”

  “How far is that?”

  “There’s a trail to a spring about halfway down the cliff into Spruce Canyon.”

  “How do you get it down there?”

  “Two mules and four donkeys.” She pointed to a small corral behind the only two trees within half a mile.

  Robert picked up some of the crushed rock and gravel and let it run through his fingers. “What are you making on this?”

  “About four hundred dollars a ton, but we don’t think we’re recovering half of the gold,” she admitted.

  Robert whistled and shook his head. “If that’s true, you’ve got a rich claim.”

  “It takes the four of us almost two weeks to work a ton. There’s two in the mine, one on the wench, and one standin’ guard. And it’s tough packing the rock down the hill.”

  Robert rubbed his beard. “Miss Sandra, you need more equipment and manpower. If you can get that much with such a primitive set-up, some big outfit would pay you handsomely for this mine.”

  “It’s our mine,” she snapped. “And we don’t want to sell it.”

  “But you wouldn’t mind making more money, would you?”

  She brushed her hair back across her forehead, revealing another layer of caked dirt. “It depends on how much goes back to the Bank of Ottawa.”

  Robert glanced over at the fussing Bryon Chambers. “I’ve got a feeling you could buy out their share. Then you could have all the profits when you hit that big lead.”

  She jammed her hand inside the collar of her dirty cotton dress and rubbed her bony shoulder. “Mr. Fatty’s right about one thing.”

  “Puddin?”

  “Yeah. If we could get more water up here, we could buy us a bathtub. I ain’t always been this dirty, you know.”

  “I reckon there are sacrifices to make a mine work.”

  “That’s exactly what I keep tellin’ myself, only some days I jist don’t want to listen.”

  Sandra Raxton and Robert Fortune strolled over to the edge of Spruce Canyon and stared down at the creek, thirteen hundred feet below.

  Robert pointed down to the canyon floor. “Miss Sandra … I believe you could be a little more efficient in this operation.”

  “You know much about mines?”

  “My daddy and my oldest brother, Todd, are the family experts on Black Hills mining. I don’t know too much, but I’ve spent almost twenty years in the army and I know lots about logistics.”

  “About what?”

  “About how to get from here to there. Could I give you some suggestions on how to be more efficient in getting your ore to a smelter?”

  “As long as we don’t build us a road all the way from Deadwood so ever’ bummer and unemployed drifter can come try and steal our ore.”

  “If you want to avoid Deadwood and take your ore to Spearfish, then the fastest route is right straight off the side of this cliff.”

  “That’s over a thousand-foot drop.”

  “Yes, but there’s water at the bottom.”

  “What are you sayin’?”

  “Build a cable line right off the side of the cliff. You can lower your big bucket and ones like it down the canyon floor with your donkey engine. Then build a stamp mill or reduction plant there where the water is. That way you can ship out the gold rather than the bulky ore.”

  “Now you’re talking like a government man,” she carped.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Like we could print our own money. There ain’t no way we could afford a set-up like that.”

  Robert tried to look past the dirty face at the narrow blue-gray eyes. “Take in more investors.”

  “I’m tryin’ to get rid of the ones we have.”

  “How about some local investors. Perhaps just a loan, not a partnership. My preliminary opinion is that you need to have a bigger operation to make any money.”

  She strolled back to the big outdoor table where Tio and Poco were slicing elk meat into an iron frying pan that was two feet wide. “We’re gettin’ by jist like we are.”

  “Would you be happy if this is the way things are still going ten years from now?”

  “All of us will be dead, if we keep up this pace. But it beats what we were doin’ in Miles City.”

  Robert put a foot up on a bench and brushed his dusty trousers. “At some point you two Raxton sisters have got to ask yourselves, Is this what the Lord wants me to do with my life?”

  Miss Sandra jerked back as if stung by a bee. “What in the world does God have to do with this?”

  “He made the gold …”

  “I reckon I agree with you there.”

  “And He made the Raxton sisters.”

  Miss Sandra stiffened. “Where is this goin’, Fortune?”

  “If He made you and the gold, then He probably has a plan for both of them.” He pointed his finger at her. “It seems to me the secret of a successful life is finding out what those plans are.”

  “Now you sound like a Methodist preacher,” she challenged.

  “Baptist. Ponder it a while. If you think God wants you to haul that gold out of this mountain, you have to find some backers. But if He’s in it, you will.”

  “Are you tryin’ to buy into our mine and sugarcoating it with religion?” she confronted.

  “Nope. I don’t have the funds. But I know people in Deadwood and Lead who might be interested. If you ever come to town, I’ll introduce you to them.”

  “We ain’t dealin’ with ol’ George Hearst.”

  “I don’t know Mr. Hearst. He seems to be doing quite well with the Homestake.”

  Miss Sandra Raxton stared back in the direction of Spruce Canyon. “Cable big buckets right off the side, huh?”

  “It can be done,” he said. “I’ve seen them do it down in Arizona.”

  “But it would be like runnin’ two operations. How would we coordinate it?”

  “With telephones. That’s where brother Samuel comes in.”

  “But … but with two camps, where would we live? Up here … or down there?” she pointed.

  “Why you’d live in Denver, or San Francisco or Chicago, what with all the money you’d make,” Robert teased.

  “Look at me, Mr. Fortune.”

  Robert gave a quick look at Sandra Raxton, then back at the men chopping meat at the table.

  “I said, look me up and down,” she demanded.

  Robert’s face flushed as he studied the tired weak eyes, long dirty nose, and filthy dark cotton dress that hung limp on the skinny frame of Sandra Raxton.

  “Now,” she said, “can you honestly say that you can imagine me living in a fine house on the north side of Chicago?”

  He cleared his throat. “Eh, no ma’am. I think you’re right. That’s a little far-fetched. But, Miss Sandra, I can imagine you living on a five-thousand-acre spread along the Yellowstone River just out of Miles City, Montana, with a stable full of long-legged racing horses and a big, new, two-story ranch house with a wrap-around veranda and a half-dozen servants ready to do any chore you gave them.”

  Sandra Raxton’s weak eyes slowly lit up. One lone tear braved the dirty cheek and plowed its way down to her upper lip. “You’re right, Fortune. I can see myself in such a place. Do you reckon God would ever allow such a thing?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Suddenly, her shoulders stiffened. “I should have shot you before you ever reached the mine.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Why?”

  “Then I wouldn’t have such pretty but impossible dreams in my head.”

  “Well, you can’t shoot me now,” he declared.

  “And just why not? I can still go fetch my gun.”

  “Yes, but shooting me wouldn’t do any good. Because you’re going to have that dream to haunt your mind whether I’m alive or dead.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or curse you, Robert Fortune.”

  He stepped back.
>
  Sandra Raxton had such an explosive, unexpected laugh that Tio and Poco dropped their knives into the big black iron skillet. “Relax, Mr. Fortune,” she hooted. “I don’t reckon I’m goin’ to do either.”

  “I’ll have him hung!” Jamie Sue fumed as she stormed into the living room.

  Her brown hair now in dual pigtails, Veronica danced over toward the entry hall. “Look, Mama, all the trunks are here!”

  Jamie Sue tugged off her beige gloves. “No, I was wrong. He should be drawn, quartered, then diced and fed to ravens!”

  “We couldn’t find the key, Mama.” Patricia circled the green wardrobe trunk that was taller than she was. Her hair, too, now hung in pigtails.

  “I’ve heard of stupid men, but he is the stupidest in the entire world.” Jamie Sue unpinned her straw hat and tossed it on the small table near the door.

  Veronica tugged on her arm. “Every one of our trunks and cases is here. Isn’t that marvelous, Mama? Not one piece was lost.”

  Jamie Sue stared at her reflection in the mirror. Dark hair pinned back, wide-set blue eyes, narrow cheeks, large mouth, pale skin … except for the blush of fury. “It’s fiction,” she blurted out to the image in the mirror. “Fiction stories are make-believe. Unreal. False. All fiction writers are liars. Everyone knows that!” Lord, I have never been so unjustly accused and felt so helpless. He is not being reasonable. I don’t know how to deal with people who refuse to listen to reason. Besides that … my mouth is too wide and my lips too full.

  “Mama, can we have the key and unlock the wardrobes?” Patricia pulled at her other arm. A small gold locket dangled at the end of a thin gold chain, resting on the crocheted lace yoke of her dress.

  Jamie Sue stomped into the kitchen, squatted down next to the stove, and stuck several small sticks of wood into the dying embers of the firebox. She faced the back door and waved a stick of kindling as if lecturing an exceedingly naughty student. “Mr. Hawthorne Miller, I would advise you never … ever show up in Deadwood!” she declared. “You will justly suffer the consequences your actions deserve!”

  Veronica now hung on her mother’s arm. “Who’s Hawthorne Miller?” she quizzed.

  Patricia pulled a pigtail across her face and chewed on the end of it. “Is he the man that writes those dime novels?”