Whistler in the Dark

by Kathleen Ernst

  “Did Spaulding paint a pretty picture?” Silas shook his head. “That’s a land speculator for you. He’s a promoter. Staked every penny he’s got on this town, so I hear. Came out from New York and bought lots of land cheap, so he could sell it to farmers and businessmen as prices rise. Spaulding’s desperate to bring new immigrants out from back east.”

  “Mother—” Emma began, but she saw fire in Mother’s eyes and swallowed the accusation she wanted to shout: Look what you’ve done!

  The driver caught one of their carpetbags and set it off to the side. “I’ll be here long enough to rest my horses and get a meal, ma’am. Let me know if you want me to load your luggage again and take you back.”

  Emma caught her breath. Oh! Could they go back to Chicago?

  “Leave it there for the moment,” Mother said in a clipped tone. She looked around grimly. “I expected to be met,” she muttered. “Emma, wait for me here.” She marched toward the Land Office. Emma was glad Mother had decided to travel in a sensible gray dress instead of the horrid Reform Dress. She looked formidable enough as it was.

  Silas set the other carpetbag at Emma’s feet. “This is yours too, ain’t it?” Emma nodded miserably. Silas was chewing tobacco, and he wore a huge bowie knife on his belt and smelled of sweat and onions—and he was the most familiar thing in sight! Tears threatened, and Emma blinked hard.

  “There’s some good folks in town,” Silas said, as if reading her thoughts. “Oh, say, did that fellow find you and your mother last night?”

  “What fellow?”

  “Never saw him before. He stopped in the stable and asked if Mrs. Henderson and her daughter were on my stagecoach. I told him you were inside the station house. Didn’t he find you?”

  “No.” Emma frowned. “What did he look like?”

  “Well, it was dark, and I was tending a horse with a loose shoe, so I didn’t get a good look. Short fellow. Had a limp, I think. Smelled like he’d been traveling hard.”

  Emma crushed a clod of dried mud beneath the toe of one boot, considering. She’d heard someone whistle Maggie by My Side again last night as she was dropping off to sleep. “You must have been dreaming,” Mother had said crisply this morning—just as she had when Emma had thought she’d heard the tune again in Chicago. But Emma knew she hadn’t been dreaming. Was Father somehow trying to reach his widow and daughter? Fear and hope mingled in a quick shiver before she shook her head. Father had stood taller than most men, and a ghost wasn’t likely to ask a stage driver for directions—

  “Emma?” Mother called, hurrying forward with a portly man in tow. “This is Mr. Spaulding.”

  “How do you do,” Emma said reluctantly, sizing up the man who had painted such a rosy picture of this miserable town.

  “I trust your trip went well?” Mr. Spaulding asked. The buttons on his maroon paisley vest looked ready to pop. Beneath a dusty top hat, his forehead glistened with sweat, although the afternoon smelled like rain and a cool breeze made Emma appreciate the sun sifting through her shawl. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

  “The trip was uneventful.” Mother’s voice was hard. “But, Mr. Spaulding, I must be frank. My first glimpse of Twin Pines does not reveal the idyllic town you described in your letters.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, I—ahem—I have occasionally been accused of describing the town as I know it can become, instead of as it is. I’m sure you’ll forgive me that indulgence.” Mr. Spaulding didn’t quite meet Mother’s eye.

  “Is there a church?”

  “No. That is—not yet. Although Miss Holly has organized Sunday gatherings. Bible readings and hymn singing and such.”

  Mother pursed her lips. “What about a school? I expect Emma to attend a proper school in the fall.”

  “And she will! That’s what, three months away? I’m sure … that is, by then … with a little luck …” Mr. Spaulding’s voice trailed away as he reached for his pocket watch. “Not quite one o’clock!” he concluded, as if that had direct bearing on the conversation. “Silas made good time.”

  The man was impossible. This place was impossible! No church, no school—why, it was horrible!

  Mother glanced at the luggage, then at Silas, who was heading toward the saloon. “I’d like to see our house, sir,” she said. “And then the newspaper office.”

  “Yes! Yes, of course. The freight driver delivered your equipment two days ago. As to your accommodations … ahem! I’m afraid I’ve had to arrange for temporary quarters. Right this way.” He picked up their two carpetbags and led the way—to a two-story frame building labeled “Boardinghouse.”

  Emma’s spirits, already low, dipped further. A boardinghouse!

  “You did promise us a house of our own.” Mother’s tone could have sliced lard.

  Mr. Spaulding nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, of course. I—ahem!—am already working on that small detail. There are shortages, you understand …”

  Emma gave Mother a pointed glance. What kind of people stayed at such places in squalid little towns like Twin Pines? What accommodations were provided for bathing and … other necessary things?

  Mother stared at the boardinghouse, looking unhappy. But after a moment she pinched her lips again and followed Mr. Spaulding up the steps.

  Mrs. Sloane met them with a broom in hand. A stout woman, she wore a faded blue dress and a no-nonsense air. She briskly swept some fine dirt into a pile, then set the broom aside and extended her hand. “You must be the Hendersons. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Mr. Spaulding waited in a small sitting room while Mrs. Sloane gave Emma and Mother a tour. “Dining room’s in through there.” She indicated a closed door. “Breakfast is served between seven and eight. Dinner at noon, but I can wrap you a cold meal to take if you prefer. Supper at six.”

  Mrs. Sloane led Emma and Mother up the stairs to a scrubbed but cheerless room overlooking the street, furnished with two beds, a dresser, and a desk. Their trunks, sent ahead by freight wagon, waited. Mother’s sewing machine sat in one corner—ready to sew more of the horrid Reform Dresses! Emma turned away.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sloane,” Mother nodded. “We’ll settle in later.”

  As Mr. Spaulding led them back outside, a boy about Emma’s age darted up. “Hello! Are you the editor-lady?”

  Mother smiled. “Yes. I’m Mrs. Henderson, and this is my daughter, Emma.”

  “Well, we’ve been waiting ever so long for a newspaper!” The boy revealed a gap-toothed grin. He tipped his faded felt hat and then planted it firmly back on his black curls. “I’m Jeremy Abbott. My pa’s still rounding up the mail, but he’ll want to meet you.”

  “Jeremy’s father was one of the first settlers to buy land from me. He’s got a farm north of town,” Mr. Spaulding said as they set off, with Jeremy trailing along.

  Jeremy’s welcoming smile couldn’t dispel the distaste gnawing at Emma as they walked through town. What would Judith make of this raw place? Of the sudden burst of song from the saloon as they passed, or the chicken bones and rags tossed into the street? Of the line of men’s underwear flapping from a clothesline near a laundress’s tent? Of the mule train and freight wagons, with their curse-spewing drivers cracking long black whips? Of the brave false fronts on the saloon and store, as if the buildings—just like Mr. Spaulding—needed to pretend things were more important than they were?

  Just then a single rider turned into the main street from a side alley. A young brunette woman rode side-saddle on a small bay horse. She wore gloves and a trim straw hat, and a peach-colored dress that spread like an open flower against the horse’s dark coat. She could be from a Godey’s fashion plate, Emma thought, mesmerized by the unexpected sight of a vision from the pages of her favorite magazine.

  The woman smiled. “Welcome to Twin Pines!” she called. Emma managed a sincere smile in return.

  “Howdy, Miss Amaretta!” Jeremy called, adding to Emma, “That’s Amaretta Holly.”

 
Ah—the Sunday school lady Emma gazed after Miss Amaretta Holly. Even her name was lovely.

  Mr. Spaulding led them down the boardwalk fronting the little row of frame buildings. Emma heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath as they stepped back down into the muck and kept going. “I don’t see any telegraph lines,” Mother observed suddenly.

  “We hope to get lines sometime this year … or perhaps next year.”

  “But—how am I to get news? People will want news from the East.”

  “Denver City has telegraph service. That’s only twenty miles or so away. I’m … working on arrangements,” Mr. Spaulding said vaguely. He tramped past several cabins and finally stopped in front of a large canvas tent. “Here we are.”

  “Mr. Spaulding!” Mother stopped. “I assumed we’d have a roof over our heads!”

  Mr. Spaulding nodded. “And you will! In time. I did get your equipment unpacked, you’ll be pleased to see.” He held one of the canvas flaps aside invitingly.

  Emma ducked inside first, dodging a lantern that hung from the ridgepole. The tent was larger than their parlor back home in Chicago, but crowded with rough-hewn tables lining the two side walls. The printing cabinet holding trays of lead type stood in one corner. The printing equipment—galley trays, type sticks, and the heavy dismantled gear of her father’s old Washington Hand Press—had been spread neatly across the tables.

  And a single piece of paper, hand-printed with large letters, lay in plain sight:

  NO JOB FORA LADY!

  Emma caught her breath. Mr. Spaulding, following her mother into the tent, paused for only a second before smoothly scooping up the paper, crumpling it in his fist, and sliding it into his pocket. “As I said, I did unpack your equipment for you,” he said, as if the note had never existed.

  Even in the dim light, Emma saw Mother’s cheeks flush. “Evidently someone in this town doesn’t approve of your choice of editor, Mr. Spaulding.”

  “A joke, I’m sure, nothing more,” he muttered. “If you only knew how people had hounded me to hire an editor and get a newspaper established—hounded me! I assure you, all that most people in this town want to see is a good weekly paper. We have a floating population of about one hundred.”

  “And more farmers and ranchers outside of town,” Jeremy added. “And lots of men passing through, headed up to the mining camps. Everybody’ll want to subscribe. There’s nothing else to read.”

  Mother drew a deep breath and folded her arms, looking over the equipment. “Who have you hired to work with me? I’ll want to get the press assembled as soon as possible.”

  Mr. Spaulding cleared his throat. “I have not quite been able to finish those arrangements. You understand, it wasn’t practical to hire anyone until you arrived! Men need steady employment, and so many are just passing through …” His voice trailed away.

  The stuffy tent got very quiet. Things are even worse than I imagined, Emma thought. But she felt so sorry for her mother, and so embarrassed for Mr. Spaulding, that she spoke up. “We can’t run the paper alone, sir.” Mother flashed her a look of grateful surprise.

  “I’ll help!” Jeremy offered.

  “That’s very kind, Jeremy,” Mother said, then swung her gaze back to Mr. Spaulding. “Let me understand. You’ve brought me and my daughter all the way from Chicago to start a newspaper, and you have no office for me to work from. No pressman. No typesetter. No printer’s devil. No telegraph station. And someone in this town is already offended that you hired a woman for the job.”

  Mr. Spaulding’s forehead beaded with sweat, and he pulled out his damp handkerchief again. “That seems to be the case, Mrs. Henderson,” he admitted. “And the truth is, I wouldn’t blame you and Emma if you decided to get back on that stagecoach and go home. Wouldn’t blame you one bit.”

  Emma and her mother locked gazes. This is all a horrible mistake! Emma wanted to shriek. Let’s go home! But she saw in Mother’s eyes a tiny bit of foolish, stubborn hope. Emma remembered how happy Mr. Spaulding’s invitation had made Mother. And she remembered her own promise to Father, that she’d be obedient. Reluctantly, Emma tried to keep any pleading from her face as she waited for Mother’s decision. A man brayed with laughter somewhere nearby. A heavy-loaded wagon rumbled past the tent.

  “No, sir,” Mother said finally. “I’m not ready to give up before I even begin.”Jeremy beamed. Emma let out the breath she was holding, torn between disappointment and pride. Her mother was many things, but she wasn’t a quitter.

  While Mother and Mr. Spaulding discussed business details, Emma looked at the disassembled press. She ran a finger over the wooden tympan, which held sheets of paper during the printing process, and the iron forestay, which supported the bed holding the type. She knew every aspect of the press almost as well as her mother did. Precious memories of Father’s newspaper office rose again now: the astonishing speed of the typesetters’ fingers, the smell of cigar smoke and ink, the printers’ grunts as they labored over the creaking equipment, the sense of urgency as Father and his small staff rushed to make deadline.

  Father hadn’t wanted Mother to work in the press shop after they got married, but sometimes Mother had helped out in a pinch. Emma recalled watching her mother set the type, letter by letter, for Father’s stories. When the war began, Emma sometimes helped Father at the shop while Mother organized Sanitary Fairs and other events to raise money for the soldiers. After Father enlisted, Mother tried to juggle the newspaper and her relief work, but when the foreman quit, Mother decided to cease publishing the newspaper altogether. Emma remembered feeling a mighty loneliness as she looked at her father’s printing press, standing silent and still.

  But here in this strange new place, the disassembled press didn’t seem sad. Here in Twin Pines, Colorado, was wood and iron that Father’s hands had known. Emma smiled as she touched each piece, visualizing the press being reassembled, brought back to life—

  She stopped abruptly, daydreams gone, and took another mental inventory. Then she looked under the tables and in the empty packing crates. “Mother,” Emma cried, “the press lever is missing!” During the printing process, the iron lever was pulled to force the paper against the inked type.

  Mother quickly took her own inventory, then turned on Mr. Spaulding. “Emma’s right! It’s missing!”

  “But …” He spread his hands, looking confused. “Everything was laid out when the crates were unpacked yesterday. Are you sure it was packed?”

  “Quite sure! I supervised the packing myself, back in Chicago.”

  “Then …”

  “It seems that leaving my equipment alone overnight in a tent wasn’t a wise decision, Mr. Spaulding,” Mother snapped. “I can’t operate a printing press without a lever!”

  Emma heard the high, brittle note in her mother’s voice, and saw that her hands were clenched into fists. Was Mother feeling the same chilly shiver that whispered down Emma’s neck? Someone in Twin Pines didn’t want them there.

  CHAPTER 3

  CHOICES MADE

  That’s done it, Emma thought. This will surely push us back to Chicago. She opened her mouth to suggest that they go catch Silas before he left—then shut it again. A slow steam of anger was burning away that painful ball of loneliness and unease in her chest. She hated Mother’s decision to bring them to this awful place. But even more, she hated seeing Mother so shaken. How dare some—some stranger—treat them this way?

  Emma stood straighten “We can fix it,” she said.

  Mother shook her head. “We can’t fix something that’s been stolen.”

  “Surely we can rig something up!”

  Mr. Spaulding looked doubtful. “We’re a long way from any source of new equipment for a printing press.”

  “How about wood?” Emma asked. “Maybe someone could carve us a new lever.”

  “I bet my pa could do it!” Jeremy offered. “He can carve anything.”

  “We’d need a very strong wood,” Mother said slowly. “Pine wo
uldn’t do.”

  Jeremy grinned. “Mountain mahogany. It’s strong as iron, almost. Pa can—”

  “What’s this you’re promising me for?” A stocky man with hair as black as Jeremy’s walked into the tent.

  Jeremy introduced Mother and Emma and explained about the missing lever.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am, miss.” Jeremy’s father doffed a sweat-stained felt hat. “I’m sorry to hear there’s been mischief. My boy’s right, though. Mountain mahogany’ll do the trick. Tell us what you need, and we’ll get you fixed up.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Mother’s words emerged in a flood of relief. “I can make you a sketch, with measurements. But—I still must have a room I can lock so that this doesn’t happen again.”

  Mr. Abbott turned to Mr. Spaulding. “How about that place where Gus Stevens sold mining supplies?”

  “Is it empty?” Mr. Spaulding blinked, looking confused.

  “Gus cleared out three days ago. Got gold fever himself, I heard. It’s off the main street, but it’ll do.”

  Mr. Spaulding nodded. “I own that lot. That will do nicely. I’ll pick up a new padlock at the store.”

  But Mr. Abbott was still frowning. “Mrs. Henderson, I got to ask you one thing plain. This town needs a newspaper real bad. Running a business is ten times harder out here than back east. Are you up to the job?”

  “Yes, Mr. Abbott. I am.” Mother’s voice was firm.

  But Mr. Abbott wasn’t convinced. “I invested every penny I had in my farm, and me and my boys have put two years of sweat and labor into making it a go. Lots of other folks around here have staked everything they’ve got on this place, too. Twin Pines is set up prime to serve the farmers and ranchers hereabouts, and the miners heading up into the hills. But this town is going to die if we don’t attract new settlers and businessmen from back east. And to do that, we need a good newspaper. Nobody around here can afford to see the newspaper fail because you’re here on a fancy.”

  Emma drew in a long breath. Almost nobody, for someone had already tried to dishearten her and Mother. Still, she hadn’t realized how much was riding on the success of the newspaper.