Whistler in the Dark

by Kathleen Ernst

  Emma twirled a pine needle between her fingers. “If Blackjack is dishonest, he might not want a reporter in town. He might be afraid that Mother will write an article about the accusations. It would be bad for his business.”

  “Maybe.” Jeremy didn’t look convinced.

  Emma wrote Blackjack and Something to hide? in her book. “Can you think of anybody else?”

  “Not offhand.”

  Emma leaned against the tree trunk. It was pleasant to smell pine instead of the manure and garbage in the street. In this quiet moment, she could almost imagine the vision that Mr. Spaulding and Miss Amaretta Holly had for the town …

  Emma caught her breath. Miss Amaretta hated Mother’s Reform Dress, didn’t she? And Mother had mentioned her interest in dress reform in her letter of application. “Before we got here, Jeremy, did you hear that my mother is a dress reformer?”

  Jeremy wrinkled his forehead. “No. If your mother said so, I don’t imagine Mr. Spaulding cared much—if he even knew what a dress reformer was.”

  Still, Mr. Spaulding might have mentioned Mother’s ideas about dress reform to Miss Amaretta. Could Miss Amaretta have stolen the press handle? Ridiculous! Emma couldn’t bring herself to even mention that idea to Jeremy. Still, Emma scribbled Miss A. H. and Disapproves of Reform Dress before slapping her notebook shut.

  “Let me know if you think of anyone else who might want to make trouble for us,” she said. “It means everything to my mother to make a go of it here.”

  “To my pa, too.”

  “I’m starting to figure out just how important the newspaper could be,” Emma said slowly. “To help attract a minister and schoolteacher and more farmers, and all.”

  Jeremy sucked his peppermint stick for a moment, staring at his toes. “It’s more than that to my pa,” he said finally. “My ma didn’t want to come here. They argued about it, back in Indiana, after I was in bed at night. Pa said it would give me and my brothers a better foothold in life, to come out here where land was cheap. She finally gave in, but she up and died on us a few months after we got here.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Emma understood. Did sudden memories still take Jeremy by surprise? Did unexpected reminders bring tears to his eyes—like that beautiful swirly-wood box of Mr. Spaulding’s had for her?

  “After we buried her, Pa stood over her grave and promised her that our farm would succeed. ‘It won’t be a waste, Betty,’ he told her. And then he bawled like a baby.” Jeremy swallowed hard. “Some folks farming up the valley from us have already bailed out. It would break my pa down if our place fails and we have to move on. The day Mr. Spaulding offered to buy Pa out, talking about how sorry he was that Twin Pines hasn’t turned out like he planned, and how it looks like the whole place is going to go bust—that was a bad day.”

  “Well, The Twin Pines Herald will attract new settlers. You’ll see.”

  Jeremy smiled. “I think so, too.”

  Emma crunched the last bit of candy between her teeth. “That peppermint sure tasted good. Thanks again. This is the nicest time I’ve had since leaving Chicago. What do you do for fun around here?”

  “Oh, lots of things. You like to climb trees?”

  Emma blinked. “Um, no. That is, I never tried.”

  “This is a great one.” Jeremy patted the twin pines. “Climbs easy as a ladder, and you get an eagle’s view once you’re up a ways. Once when Clark was pestering me something awful, I slipped away and climbed up. I spent an hour watching him search the whole town for me.”

  “That’s terrible!” Emma protested, but she couldn’t help smiling. “I like to paint. Do you like art?”

  “Naw. But I collect rocks. A professor once came through, surveying for one of the mine companies, and he taught me a few things.”

  “Did he find any gold?” Emma asked. “A gold mine around here could solve Twin Pines’ troubles!”

  Jeremy smiled. “There’s gold in the creek, but not so’s you could make any money from it. Placer mining—what folks back east call panning for gold—that played out years ago around here. But rock hunting, now that’s pretty good. I’ve found agates and rhodochrosite and some nice quartz. Want to come with me sometime?”

  Emma fumbled for words. She didn’t want to hurt Jeremy’s feelings, but climbing trees and hunting rocks was not her idea of fun! “Well … I expect my mother will keep me pretty busy,” she managed finally.

  If he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Do you ride?”

  “No.” Emma sighed wistfully, remembering how lovely Miss Amaretta Holly had looked on horseback.

  “I can teach you. We’ve still got my mother’s sidesaddle.”

  Emma gave him a genuine smile. “I’d like that.”

  Before heading home for afternoon chores, Jeremy promised to return the next morning. “We can sell more subscriptions,” he promised as they walked back to the main street. “We didn’t talk to everybody in town, and we have to ride out to the farms and ranches around here.”

  Emma waved good-bye and turned toward the print shop. Now that so many people were excited about the newspaper, maybe the troublemaker would leave them alone …

  A man bellowing from down the street interrupted her thoughts. Was the stagecoach coming in? No, Silas wouldn’t be back till Monday. A saloon brawl? Or maybe—

  “Fire!” someone screamed.

  Fire! Clutching up her skirt, Emma ran toward the commotion. In a moment Emma saw the crowd gathering at Mr. Torkelson’s freight business. Smoke shivered skyward. Emma eeled through the throng. Beside the warehouse shack, a waist-high pile of goods was burning. Flames licked greedily at the shack wall’s dry planks.

  Mr. Torkelson had already organized a bucket brigade stretching from the well behind the stable to the fire. “Get the buckets! Ya, ya, there!” A tight feeling squeezed Emma’s chest as she watched the men frantically passing buckets.

  With amazing speed, the men put out the fire. The shack wall was charred and smoking, the goods beside it were reduced to ashes, and the stink of smoldering wood hung in the air. But Mr. Torkelson’s business was intact.

  “That was close,” breathed a woman standing near her. “Thank God there was no wind. The whole town could have burned to the ground.” People jostled around Emma, muttering and shaking their heads.

  Emma remembered to pull out her notebook and make a few notes. She should find out how the fire started. Mr. Torkelson was hollering in what she guessed was Norwegian to two younger men, and she edged closer.

  Then the freighter saw Emma and strode toward her. “Oh, Miss Emma …”

  “Do you know how the fire got started? I’m going to write a story for the newspaper—”

  “The newspaper!” Mr. Torkelson snatched his hat and slapped it against his thigh, looking frustrated. “That’s the problem, ya? My building iss not so bad hurt. But the paper …”

  The paper. Something cold twisted in Emma’s belly. “The shipment of paper? The one you told me about? That’s what burned?”

  He nodded. “I am sorry. I never had such trouble in my business before. You can ask anybody—”

  “How did the fire start?” she interrupted.

  “I don’t know. My driver—my son Lars—came in right on time. We unloaded that shipment of paper along with everything else, and I set it off to the side so I wouldn’t forget to deliver it straight off. Well, I did have some papers to check first. I got to do that right away when a load comes in. So I go back inside, and Lars goes off to help his brother tend the horses. Suddenly I hear, ‘Fire! Fire!’ I run outside and see that crate of paper burning.” He shook his head again.

  “That was our paper that burned,” Emma murmured. She felt dazed and sick and angry, all at once. “The shipment we need to print the newspaper on.” Good glory. What would she tell Mother?

  “I am sorry And I’ll make it right by you, ya? We’ll get word to the nearest telegraph office, and they’ll get another shipment started. Or maybe we can buy some
in Denver City or Golden. I’ll work it out with Mr. Spaulding.”

  “How long will it take to get the new shipment here?”

  “At least several days. Maybe more.” Mr. Torkelson fingered his suspender straps, looking miserable. “It wass a terrible accident.”

  Accident, my foot, Emma thought. She didn’t believe it for a second.

  CHAPTER 6

  BREAK-IN

  “Oh, my.” Mother sank down on her bed as the evening sun disappeared over the mountains. “Too much is happening.”

  Emma began unbraiding her hair. “I’d say so.” The stolen press handle, the fire—not to mention the whistling, which Mother hadn’t even heard here in Twin Pines—it all made her feel cold to the bone.

  “I’m ready to start setting type for the prospectus. But we don’t have any workers. And now we don’t even have paper to print on.” Mother sighed. She sounded ready to quit. To go home.

  “Mother,” Emma said quietly, “maybe we should give up.”

  Mother studied her fingers, then looked at Emma. “It’s not that simple. Two train tickets, two stagecoach tickets, paying to get the press and our things freighted out here … well, it was all very expensive. I still have a bit of money tucked away, but it’s not enough to get us back to Chicago.”

  Emma’s hand stilled. What? She’d known that Mother didn’t want to go home, but it felt very different to know that they couldn’t go home. Is that why Mother wasn’t trying to find out who was behind all the trouble? Since she’d made the decisions that had left them stranded in Twin Pines, was it easier to believe the theft a prank and the fire a coincidence?

  Mother tried to smile. “Things will work out. But at the moment, I’m too tired to think straight.” She stood up and kissed Emma on the top of the head. “You go to bed. I need to visit the outhouse before settling down.”

  Emma turned out the lamp, slid into bed, and lay staring at a shadow on the ceiling. They were trapped in Twin Pines … with someone who didn’t want them there. Could Dixie John have started the fire? Maybe she should ask Mr. Torkelson and his sons if they’d seen Dixie John around. She could take her notebook, ask a number of questions—make it sound like she was simply working on a newspaper story—

  Whistling pierced the night. Maggie by My Side. Emma jerked upright in bed.

  For a moment she couldn’t move. Goosebumps raised on her skin. In the silence, the jaunty tune sounded somehow eerie and menacing.

  As the last note faded away, Emma bounded out of bed and darted to the window. The night was cloudy, and she caught only a glimpse of a shadowy figure melting into the darkness. Was it The Whistler?

  Lamps glowed in the windows of The Raven. The faint scratch of a fiddle drifted across the street. A man stumbled out the saloon doors. Two more men trotted up on horseback, tied their mounts, and disappeared inside. Heart still pounding, Emma jumped when the door behind her opened.

  “Emma?” Mother asked. “What are you doing?”

  “Just looking out the window.” Emma let the curtain drop and slid back into bed. A moment later the ropes supporting Mother’s straw mattress creaked as she got into bed, too.

  Emma curled into a tight ball. Who could know that Maggie by My Side had unique meaning for her and Mother? And … could The Whistler be the person trying so hard to stop them from publishing the newspaper? Had he followed them all the way from Chicago, asking Silas about them on the road to be sure he hadn’t lost them? If so, the trouble was suddenly much more personal—and scary. Emma’s skin prickled. “Mother!”

  “Yes, dear?”

  Only the weariness in Mother’s voice stopped Emma from blurting out her fears about The Whistler. Mother was already worried. Emma didn’t have the heart to add to her burden tonight.

  “Nothing,” Emma muttered. Shivering, she inched farther down in bed.

  The next morning, Emma woke feeling as if cobwebs draped her brain. Avoiding Mother’s hopeful gaze, she left her Reform Dress on its peg and pulled on her plain work dress.

  As she and Mother walked to the print shop, she didn’t regret her choice. A few people—folks she’d met the day before—gave them friendly nods as they passed, but others gawked at Mother’s costume. One young man pointed and hooted, “Hey, lady! You forgot your skirt!” Emma stared at her shoes, cheeks flaming.

  “I shall stay in the office this morning,” Mother said as they neared the shop, “in case any subscribers come to make their payment. Will you go ask Mr. Spaulding to stop by? I want to know—” She stopped, staring at the newspaper shack with dismay.

  “Mother? What’s wrong?” Nothing looked amiss—

  Wait! There. The lock that Mother had secured the evening before hung open. Emma’s bones went cold.

  Mother drew a deep breath, tugged the dangling lock free, and pulled open the door. Don’t! Emma wanted to cry. Maybe The Whistler is waiting in there. But Mother charged inside before Emma could speak.

  When she followed, Emma felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. The press cabinet doors were open. The typecases lay on their sides, discarded. And the type—hundreds of tiny bits of lead, which she had spent hours sorting and organizing the day before—was scattered over the sawdust floor.

  “That’s enough.” Mother sounded defeated. “That is absolutely the last straw.”

  Emma dropped to her knees. The different type fonts were jumbled together, some pieces already buried in the sawdust. It would take forever to collect and sort the type again. Emma blinked hard as tears of frustration scalded her eyes. This was the last straw …

  Then anger began to steam away her despair. “You’re right,” she said slowly. “That is enough. Now I am really, really angry.” She glared at the type as if it had jumped from the cases. “Thunderation! This is just too much!”

  Mother stared at her with wide eyes. Suddenly she burst out laughing. Emma didn’t see the joke. But she was relieved to see color coming back into Mother’s cheeks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mother gasped, wiping her eyes. “But you look so fierce, sitting there in sawdust. I wish whoever did this could see you right now.”

  A knock on the door frame interrupted them. “Excuse me. Miz Henderson?” A big Negro man stood just outside, hat in hand. His skin was black as the best ink. Muscles showed through his thin work shirt.

  Mother composed herself. “I’m Mrs. Henderson, and this is Emma. May I help you?”

  “I heard tell you might be looking to hire.”

  “Yes,” Mother said. “We are.”

  “I don’t have no experience with a newspaper,” the man said quietly. “But I learn quick.”

  Mother tipped her head, considering. “What is your name?” she asked after a moment.

  The man shifted his weight. “Folks call me Mule.”

  “Mule!” Emma burst out. That was a horrid name!

  “Yes, miss. On account of me being strong as a mule.” A smile played at his lips. “Them that gave me the name didn’t intend a compliment. But I’ve come to carry it that way.”

  Watching his face, Emma wondered where Mule had come from, what his life had been like. Had he been a slave? She had met a few Negro people in Chicago, but never a former slave. Seeing Mule’s eyes, sensing what might lie behind his soft words, Emma felt very young and ignorant.

  Mother extended her hand. “Please come in. If you’re going to consider working with us, there are a few things you need to know. First, the workdays are likely to be long. I need a strong man to handle the press, but I’ll need help with other jobs, too. Can you read?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Second, someone has decided that Twin Pines doesn’t need a newspaper run by a woman.” Mother gestured to the mess of type. “We’ve been having … incidents. Someone broke in last night and caused more mischief.”

  The big man looked around the shop. “I could sleep here, if you like. Ain’t nobody likely to get past me.”

  “Do you live in Twin Pines?” Mother
asked.

  “I’m just in from Big Gulch. Haven’t had much luck prospecting, but I ain’t giving up till I earn me enough to buy a good piece of farmland. I need a job so I can fix me up another grubstake and head back to the goldfields.”

  “If I can’t scare up a shipment of newsprint, this job won’t last long,” Mother said. “By coming to work for us, you’re taking what some may see as an unpopular position.”

  Again, that ghost of a smile. “I figure I’ve been in that hole before.” He didn’t seem particularly worried. Emma smiled encouragingly.

  “Do you have references?” Mother asked.

  “I done some odd jobs last time I passed through town. You could ask at the freight office, or Miz Sloane’s place. Can’t nobody say my word or my work ain’t good.”

  “Fine. Just one more thing.” Mother looked up at him, square in the eye. “I won’t call a man ‘Mule.’”

  His silence grew so long that Emma’s nerves began to flutter. She didn’t want him to walk away now. The curses and whip-snaps of a teamster prodding his string of oxen down the street drifted into the little shack.

  Then the big man nodded. “A long time ago, my mama called me Thomas. ‘Mule Tom’ might suit.”

  Mother smiled. “That will do.”

  Phew! They were back in business.

  Emma left her mother and Mule Tom to work out the details. As she headed down the street, she found herself looking over her shoulder. Was that man The Whistler? Or that one, in the red shirt? It felt horrid to know that some stranger was working so hard to frighten her and Mother. Why? Why?

  She found Mr. Spaulding in his office. “We had more trouble,” she reported grimly. “Someone broke into the newspaper office last night. Dumped over the typecase. The lock was hanging open when we got there this morning.” Emma plopped into a chair. “Mother wants to know if you kept a spare key to the padlock.”

  “Why—ahem! Yes, I did. I have keys for most of the buildings that sit on lots I still own. I learned the hard way to do that. Too often men up and leave for the goldfields without letting me know, and I’m left to dispose of their belongings.”