Searching for Silverheels

by Jeannie Mobley

  * * *

  That evening, the Crawfords came to the café for supper. Mr. Crawford was handsome like his son, but I never saw much of him. He was always working at the store in the mornings when his wife came into the café for coffee and gossip. And when he occasionally came in the evenings, as he had this evening, he generally retreated behind the evening paper. Tonight, however, he looked me up and down when I stepped to the table to take their order. I supposed he knew how I felt about his son and was sizing me up, deciding if I was suitable.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked, without any hint as to what his verdict was.

  “Shepherd’s pie, fresh-caught trout, or sausages and fried potatoes,” I said.

  “Not German sausages, I hope,” Mrs. Crawford said with a frown.

  I shrugged. “Just the same sausage we always get from the butcher.”

  “Perhaps I should speak with your mother. Run along and fetch her, please, Pearl.”

  I went to the kitchen and told my mother what Mrs. Crawford had said. Mother sighed heavily, but she wiped her hands, arranged her face into a smile, and went out front. She left me to watch the sausages sizzling in a skillet on the stove, but I snuck to the doorway and listened.

  “Maggie, dear, you know we all have to do our part for the war effort. I’m only thinking of our boys over there,” Mrs. Crawford was saying in a honeyed voice.

  “You know full well we Barnells are doing our share,” Mother said with a little catch in her voice. I understood. I missed Father too.

  “But sausages, Maggie? From Schmidt’s Butcher Shop?”

  “Rest assured, Phoebe, that our butcher’s sausages are as American as my apple pie,” Mother said. “Mr. Schmidt is a good man. Now what would you like for supper?”

  Mother came back into the kitchen a few minutes later with the order, but without the smile. Mrs. Crawford wasn’t smiling either when I returned to the front with plates of food. She was talking to her husband and son, but plenty loud for everyone in the café to hear her.

  “I’m only trying to do what’s best. Heaven knows, our boys have it hard enough over there. It’s every citizen’s duty to keep the home fires burning. That’s why I’m organizing the Fourth of July picnic this year, and making sure it’s the most patriotic we’ve ever had. People talk, you know, and I won’t have folks saying that Como isn’t doing its part!”

  Mr. Crawford retreated as usual behind his paper, leaving George to listen to his mother. I felt sorry for George, and I tried to show my sympathy by smiling as I refilled their water glasses and coffee cups. George gave me a brief smile in return, then went back to nodding at what his mother was saying.

  When Mrs. Crawford finally finished her supper, she instructed her husband to leave the money on the table and stood.

  “Come along, George,” she said as she turned toward the door. George stuffed his last bite of pie into his mouth and scrambled to his feet. His hat, which he had hung on the corner of his chair, had fallen on the floor. I picked it up and handed it to him with another sympathetic smile.

  “Thanks,” he said. He glanced at his parents, now almost to the door, and hesitated. “Whatever you’re doing with Josie Gilbert, be careful, Pearl,” he said quietly. “My mother says she’s un-American.”

  I frowned as my cheeks warmed. “What do you mean? I’m not doing anything with her.”

  “Come along, George!” said his mother again, stepping out into the night.

  “Good, because Sufferin’ Josie says things that are going to get her in big trouble someday.” George looked into my eyes and smiled, a smile that made my knees go a little wobbly. “And I’d sure hate to see her get a sweet girl like you into trouble. If she ever bothers you, just let me know, okay? I’ll come to your rescue.”

  “Okay,” I managed to choke out as he walked away. But in my mind, I was already swooning into his arms.

  CHAPTER 6

  After George offered to save me, I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the evening. I was dreaming both before going to sleep and after. I woke the next morning more determined than ever to get Josie to leave me and the café alone. If I was going to have any chance at all with George, I couldn’t let him think I was up to anything with her. I could call off the bet, but that would probably just inspire her to come into the café and needle me more often. If I wanted to get her to leave me alone for good, the best way—the only way—I could think of was to prove my version of the Silverheels story correct.

  So early the next morning, I sat down with the old-timers before the café got busy, to find out what they might know. I asked if any of them knew anything more about the story than what they had heard me tell a few days earlier.

  “I think you know the story as well as anyone,” Orv said.

  “And you do a mighty fine job in the telling, too,” Harry added.

  “Thank you,” I said. “But is there anyone around who really knows what happened? Maybe someone who was around back then?”

  Orv shook his head. “Back in ’61 prospectors were panning free gold out of the creeks. When the nuggets dried up, they moved on. It wasn’t till hard rock mining got going in the seventies that folks put roots down. The early prospectors were all gone by then.”

  “But someone must know more about it. Like the names of other folks in Buckskin Joe?”

  “Well, let’s see,” Tom said, rubbing the white bristles on his chin. “I believe there was a fellow owned a dance hall. His wife was one of the only other women in town in those days. I think his name was Jack. I can’t quite recall her name.”

  “Lou Bunch?” I asked.

  As soon as I said the name, all four men looked alarmed, then glanced around at each other in that way adults do when they realize a kid knows something she shouldn’t.

  “What on earth made you think Lou Bunch had anything to do with Silverheels, Pearl?” Russell said. Being the youngest of the old-timers, he had stayed quiet until then. Orv, Harry, and Tom seemed relieved to have him jump in now, though.

  I could feel the heat of a blush prickling up my neck and into my cheeks. I couldn’t think of any answer except the truth. “I thought I heard Josie mention her.”

  Russell scowled. “Did you, now. That just figures.”

  “Why? Who was she?”

  All the old-timers glanced at each other again. “No one you need to worry your sweet head about, Pearl,” Orv said.

  I frowned at them. I wasn’t a little child anymore. I wanted an answer. I wished Father was there—he always gave me an honest answer without beating around the bush.

  “Lou Bunch didn’t know Silverheels,” Russell said. “Josie was playing a trick on you. Mrs. Bunch runs—um—a parlor house over in Central City. She never came here, and Silverheels was long gone before she was even born.”

  “Oh.” My face was on fire now. Josie had known I would ask around, so she had picked a name that would make a fool of me when I said it in public. I vowed right then that I wouldn’t trust anything Josie told me again. And I would certainly think twice before blurting out any more names she gave me!

  I stood and hurried to get the coffeepot. As soon as I disappeared into the kitchen I could hear the old-timers snickering. It was kind of them to spare me, but I heard it all the same. Josie had gotten the better of me for sure.

  I loitered in the kitchen, hoping the old-timers would move on to some other gossip before I headed back out with the coffee, but the bell on the door jangled. With a sigh, I took the coffee and returned to the front.

  Frank, the city boy from the day before, was standing alone just inside the door, his hands thrust into his pockets. I smiled and gave him a nod in greeting.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” I said.

  “Are you all alone this morning?” Orv asked as Frank sat down at a nearby table.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are your friends?” Harry asked.

  “They aren’t my friends. Annie’s my sister. Th
ey’re on their honeymoon. Annie was pretty nervous about it. She hasn’t known him that long, you see, and he’s signed on for the war, so he asked her to marry him. I guess Annie got over her fear after the first night, though, and changed her mind about wanting me around. So they left me here.”

  “Left you?” Russell said in alarm.

  “Just for a few days,” Frank added quickly. “They went on to Breckenridge. They’ll be back.”

  “Will you be lonely?” I asked.

  “Lonely? I’m glad to be rid of them. All they wanted to do was moon about. I want to explore. Besides, I don’t like Robert much.”

  “Well there’s your ticket, Pearl,” said Harry. “If you want to know more about Silverheels, take young Frank here up to Buckskin Joe and explore. If you want names of folks that were around back then, there’s plenty of them in the cemetery.”

  “That’s a fine idea!” Frank said, before I could even respond. “I wanted to go there yesterday, but Robert wouldn’t. Would you take me up there, Pearl? We could make a day of it. You said you take folks on tours, and I can pay.”

  “I’d love to, but I’ll have to ask my mother,” I said.

  I took Frank’s order and retreated to the kitchen to ask Mother’s permission.

  She hesitated when I told her it would only be me and Frank. “I don’t know, Pearl. Things are different this summer without your father here. I don’t know about you going off alone with him.”

  “What if Willie went with us?” I suggested.

  She considered, then nodded. “If Willie will go, I suppose it’s okay.”

  Willie was out back chopping wood for the cookstove, so I went to ask him. Last summer, he would have been quick to agree, but I wasn’t sure what he’d say now that he had decided he was too old for my games.

  Imogene was sitting on top of the woodpile, her chin in her hands, watching Willie and chattering away as usual. From the cheerful way she welcomed me into the conversation, I could tell she wasn’t getting anywhere with Willie.

  “That boy Frank is in the café and he wants to go to Buckskin Joe today,” I explained to them both. “Mother says I can take him if you will go along, Willie.”

  Willie paused in his chore and looked at me. “What’s in it for me?”

  I sighed, even though I had expected it. “He’s paying. I’ll give you half.”

  Willie smiled. “Okay, then. But you can’t go until after the lunch rush, can you? We won’t have much time at Buckskin Joe if we go that late.”

  I bit my lip and looked up at Imogene. “I had thought of that too. Maybe Imogene could wait tables for me at lunch? You could have the other half of the tour money. And of course, some folks leave tips. You could have those, too.”

  Imogene sat up straighter. With so few tourists staying in her family’s hotel, she wasn’t getting much pocket money this summer. “Can I have a piece of pie, too?”

  “After the lunch train pulls out you can have anything left over.”

  “It’s a deal! Let me go tell my mother.” She jumped down off the woodpile and ran to the hotel’s back door, just a few yards away from ours. I went back into the kitchen and told my mother the plan. She wasn’t thrilled to have Imogene take my place. Imogene had helped before, but she wasn’t as quick as me. Seeing how eager I was to go to Buckskin Joe, however, Mother agreed.

  I served until the last of the breakfast stragglers drifted out of the café. Then I hurried to wash all the dishes and lay out the fresh napkins, silverware, and coffee cups on the tables and counter so all would be ready for lunch. When that was done, I ran upstairs for a paper and pencil. I would write down every name I saw in the graveyard. I didn’t know what I might gain from it, but it was the only place I knew to start. Maybe some name up there would jog a memory for someone.

  Back in the kitchen, I grabbed my old straw hat and a canteen. My mother was making sandwiches and she let me take three. I wrapped them in waxed paper and put them along with three apples in my apron pocket. It was a glorious day, with clear skies and comfortable temperatures, and I figured a day like that called for a picnic.

  Willie and I stepped out the front door and turned toward the hotel. Strawberry, the best horse money could rent at Johnson’s Livery, was hitched to a trap and waiting in front of the hotel. Frank grinned and waved from up on the seat, then quickly jumped down and offered me a hand to step up into the buggy. I didn’t need it, but it was a sweet and gentlemanly gesture, so I smiled and took the offered hand. It was soft and uncalloused, not like the hands of folks around here. Willie scrambled up from the other side, squishing me in the middle. Willie offered to drive, but Frank was eager to take the reins, and he snapped them smartly on the horse’s croup to get us started. We jolted along at a trot, a merry party all the way to the track that turned up Buckskin Creek. Here the road got steeper and rockier, and Strawberry slowed to a walk. Even so, it was rough going. We were all glad to get to the old ghost town at last. We climbed down from the trap and stretched our muscles. The boys rubbed their jolted backsides. Being a girl, I remembered my manners and refrained.

  Buckskin Joe was as picturesque as ever. The buildings stood silent, their windows empty, their weathering boards gray and rough. Grass and wildflowers grew up around them and in the open spaces that had once served as roads and alleyways. Aspen were sprouting here and there between the old cabins, their shimmering leaves the only movement in the deserted town. Aspen were always the first trees to come back around the mining towns, and as Buckskin Joe’s last residents had left it nearly twenty years before, they had a good start here.

  Frank was drawn at once toward the old dance hall. It was the largest and finest building in the abandoned town site, a two-story structure crowning the top of a low hill. With its milled clapboard walls and well-finished door and window frames, it sat like a stately queen overlooking the cluster of log cabins and crooked shacks that made up the rest of the town.

  “That’s where Silverheels herself danced,” I told Frank, hurrying to keep up as he climbed the hill with long purposeful strides. Willie had stayed behind to secure the brake on the trap and put rocks behind its wheels.

  Frank reached the door of the dance hall and stepped through without hesitation. I liked him for that—so many city folks declared the old buildings too dirty or unsafe. That was certainly true of the empty mine shafts and riggings that dotted the mountainsides, but the dance hall was still a fine building and I loved going into it.

  “The piano must have stood over in that corner,” Frank said as he looked around the big downstairs room. “And maybe they had a bit of a stage over there.” When he had turned three-fourths of the way around, he was facing me. “And right here where we are standing is where all the men would line up to dance with—what did you call her? Silver Shoes?”

  “Silverheels,” I corrected.

  “Right. Her.” He suddenly bowed to me and said, “Silverheels, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

  Before I could answer, he grabbed me around the waist with one arm and took my hand with the other, and we were off swirling around the room in a lively polka as he hummed accompaniment for us. I couldn’t help laughing when my old straw hat flew off and landed where we had imagined the pianist to be.

  We had circled the room once when Willie stepped through the door. He watched us make a second circuit, then stepped into our path as we came past him again.

  “Excuse me, but I must cut in,” he said. “You dance so charmingly, Silverheels, that I must have the next dance!”

  Frank and I stepped apart. To my surprise, Willie grabbed Frank’s hand instead of mine and the two of them resumed the crazy polka around the room. Still dizzy from my spin, I fell over laughing. It was like the old, fun Willie had come back as soon as we had gotten away from Como. Frank proved himself a good sport by doubling the tempo once he got over his initial surprise, and they wheeled so crazily around the room that I just knew they would crash into something and hurt themselve
s. At last they broke apart. Frank spun past me by himself, then collapsed beside me, laughing and breathing hard as he stretched his long legs out on the boards. Willie did one last jig, apparently having now become Silverheels instead of her suitor. He kicked his bulky boot heels up in several silly steps, pranced toward us on his toes, then dropped into a clumsy curtsy, holding imaginary skirts wide with both hands. Frank and I clapped enthusiastically, and Willie plopped down beside us. We sat in silence in the cool room while they both caught their breath. Then Frank got back to his feet and retrieved my hat from the corner.

  “So that’s the dance hall,” he said, grinning. He extended a hand and pulled me back up to my feet. “I can’t wait to try out the saloon.”

  We walked through the rest of the town site, poking our heads through cabin windows or pantomiming the lives of the people who had once lived there. At the saloon, we passed around the canteen and offered toasts to everything we could think of. At the old mercantile I went behind the counter and “sold” Willie and Frank the cheese sandwiches from my pockets, a little worse for the wear from the day’s activities. We found a sunny patch beside the creek and sat to eat them.

  “What’s that over there?” Frank asked, pointing across the water. From where we sat we could see a leaning picket fence amid a grove of young aspen.

  “That’s the old cemetery,” I said.

  “Where the ghost of Silverheels still walks,” Willie said in a low, mysterious way. He was trying to give Frank a shiver, but his mouth was too full of cheese sandwich for his voice to sound ominous.

  Frank chewed, considering. “She wouldn’t have to be a ghost, you know. She didn’t die in the epidemic, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So say she was eighteen—Annie’s age. She’d be about seventy-five now, right?”

  Willie laughed. “Well, when people see the veiled woman in the cemetery, they never mention her having a cane.”