Whistler in the Dark

by Kathleen Ernst

  “Could someone have stolen your key to the newspaper office?”

  “Well … I suppose so.” Mr. Spaulding opened a desk drawer, then shook his head. “Oh, Lord. Yes. It’s gone.” He pressed his fingers to his forehead. His skin had a pasty look. “This whole venture is turning into a disaster.”

  His air of defeat annoyed Emma. Thunderation, didn’t she have enough to worry about? “Mr. Spaulding, is there a—a sheriff in town? Someone who can help us?”

  He shook his head. “No. Closest one’s in Denver City. A dying little place like this—we’re on our own.”

  On our own. Emma didn’t like the sound of that, and her voice came out sharper than she’d intended. “Well, we’ll have to take care of things ourselves, then. Mother just hired a big Negro man named Mule Tom to help with the press and to guard the shop at night. But we’ll still need a new padlock.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Spaulding stared dully at his desk. “Stop at the store and tell Mr. Boggs to put it on my account.”

  Emma found Mr. Boggs unpacking a crate of skillets. “Every man heading to the goldfields needs a good fry pan,” he said cheerfully. “What can I do for you, Emma?”

  “We’ve had trouble at the print shop, and we need a new padlock.” She told him what had happened.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “And I heard about the fire yesterday. You ladies have had a string of bad luck, that’s for certain sure.”

  It’s more than bad luck, Emma thought. She leaned on the counter as he fetched a new padlock. Two keys were tied to it with a twist of wire.

  “Want me to wrap this up for you?” Mr. Boggs asked.

  “No, I—” Emma caught her breath. “Why, that’s it!”

  “Begging your pardon?”

  Emma pointed at the big roll of brown wrapping paper behind the counter. “Can we have some of your wrapping paper? To print the prospectus on? There’s no other paper in town. I’m sure Mother or Mr. Spaulding will be able to replace whatever we use.”

  “But—it’s brown. And heavier than newsprint. And in one big roll—”

  “None of that matters!” Excitement bubbled inside Emma. “We can cut the paper down to size, and the black ink will still show up. Can we use it?”

  Mr. Boggs folded his arms, looking baffled but pleased. “Well, sure! I’d be tickled to think I helped get The Twin Pines Herald off the ground.”

  Emma smacked the counter. One more problem solved.

  At the edge of town, Emma found the freight yard bustling. One of Mr. Torkelson’s big blond sons was hitching a team of oxen to a massive wagon. A farmer pulled his own wagon into the yard. “I got thirty pounds of fleece I need carted to Golden,” he shouted. “Where you want it unloaded?” Mr. Torkelson hurried from the office with a notebook in hand.

  “May I bother you for a moment?” Emma asked, after the farmer had left. “I’ve got some good news. We’re going to borrow some wrapping paper from the store. That will tide us over until the shipment of real newsprint arrives.”

  “Ya? That iss good news!” Mr. Torkelson grinned. “And your ink iss here.”

  “Wonderful!” Emma pulled her notebook and pencil from her pocket. “But I still have a couple more questions, for my article. Do you remember seeing anyone in the yard right before the fire?”

  “Nobody in particular. I had joost gone inside. My boys did not see anything. My other hauler left for one of the ranches before the fire started.”

  “Can I talk to that man anyway?”

  Mr. Torkelson shrugged. “When he gets back. He headed out on an overnight run this morning.”

  Crackers. No help there. “Nobody else was around?”

  “Well … a few. People waiting for Lars to unload something of theirs, ya?”

  “Was Dixie John one of them?” Emma dared, trying to sound casual.

  “Nah. He hass never hired me. Got nothing to haul, I’d say.”

  Emma sighed. This was getting her nowhere. “Well, the fire might have been an accident. Or someone might have started it deliberately. Can you think of anyone who might want to cause trouble?”

  Mr. Torkelson looked bewildered. “But who would want that?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Torkelson.” Emma put her notebook away and managed a smile. “I was just asking.”

  Mr. Torkelson chuckled. “Miss Emma, you are going to be one good reporter. But this time, I think there iss joost no story.”

  Disappointed, Emma nodded and waved good-bye. What else could she do to find the troublemaker? She chewed that over as she headed back to the print shop. The attacks against the newspaper still made no sense.

  Someone hollered behind her, and she stepped out of the way of a man leading a pack-mule train out of town. In addition to kegs and crates and even a tin coffeepot, each mule was hauling two planks of sawn lumber, the ends dragging in the dirt. Emma wondered if some mining-camp shack would be built from the lumber. Until arriving in Twin Pines, she’d never thought about everything that people living far from cities had to give up. Things like sawmills. And sheriffs. Mr. Spaulding’s words echoed in her memory: We’re on our own.

  Emma pulled her notebook from her pocket and looked at her list of suspects: Dixie John, Blackjack, and Miss Amaretta. Emma couldn’t imagine Miss Amaretta whistling outside her window! But … how could any of them be The Whistler? The Whistler had first appeared in Chicago. Emma didn’t think any of her suspects had left Twin Pines long enough to make that trip. Besides, according to their stagecoach driver, the strange man asking about Emma and Mother along the trail had a limp. Neither Dixie John nor Blackjack limped. Had The Whistler been sent by one of them? The whistling had begun the day Mother received Mr. Spaulding’s job offer.

  Below her list of suspects, Emma wrote, Who is The Whistler?

  Emma swallowed hard, tapping the page with her pencil, as a cold breath slid down her collar. She knew what she needed to do. Tonight, if The Whistler made another appearance, she would be waiting.

  CHAPTER 7

  NEW RESOLVE

  “I think I’ll keep both of these,” Mother said, pocketing the two keys to their new padlock. “Mr. Spaulding means well, but I honestly don’t know how that man thought he could ever build a town. He doesn’t have the sense of a goose.”

  Remembering how dejected Mr. Spaulding had looked, Emma changed the subject. “Mother, I have good news. I found some paper! Mr. Boggs said we could use his big roll of wrapping paper!”

  Mother paused, a finger on her chin. “Wrapping paper. Yes, that could work. Our prospectus will look odd, but that’s no matter. Yes.” She nodded with more enthusiasm. “Yes, indeed! Emma, you’re brilliant!”

  A glow spread like warm honey through Emma. But she didn’t have much time to enjoy it, for Mother went to work like a whirlwind. She and Mule Tom had carefully retrieved all of the jumbled type from the sawdust, and Emma went back to work—again—sorting it by letters and sizes. Mother sent Mule Tom to retrieve the heavy roll of paper, and then to the freight office for the waiting keg of ink. When Jeremy arrived, Mother set him to work measuring and cutting the wrapping paper into press-sized pieces.

  Once the typecases were finally organized, Mother set the type herself, snatching each needed letter from the typecase and shaping the pieces into words and sentences. Her speed was astonishing, especially since the type had to be inserted into the tray backward so that it would print correctly when applied to the paper! She used a type stick to make straight lines and kept her articles handy for reference. “You’ll catch on,” Mother said when she noticed Emma staring. “It just takes practice.”

  By late afternoon they were ready to begin printing. Mother showed Jeremy how to moisten each piece of paper with a sponge and how to ink the waiting type. Mule Tom claimed the exhausting job of tugging the lever Mr. Abbott had carved, which brought the paper and inked type together. Emma strung thin cord back and forth above their heads and draped each printed piece of pap
er over it to dry. They repeated the entire process for the reverse side of the paper.

  “I never knew printing a newspaper was such hard work,” Jeremy sighed as the sun began to slip behind the mountains.

  “Be glad this is just a single sheet,” Emma muttered. “When we print the full newspapers, each sheet has to be hand-folded and the crease pressed in with a whalebone.”

  He shrugged. “Well, it’s better than digging fence-post holes for my father. Mrs. Henderson, sorry, but I gotta go. I’ve got evening chores waiting.”

  Mother looked startled. “My goodness, is it suppertime already? Emma, would you run and ask Mrs. Sloane if she’d be so kind as to let you bring supper over in a pail?”

  Jeremy and Emma walked together as far as the boardinghouse. “I never met anyone like your mother before,” Jeremy said.

  “She loved helping at my father’s newspaper office. And during the war, she worked for the Sanitary Commission. She likes having a job to do.” Emma tried to keep any hint of resentment from her voice.

  “She sure works hard.” Jeremy’s tone was admiring.

  “Well, she wanted to print three hundred copies of the prospectus. She won’t stop until she gets it done.”

  Emma’s prediction came true. After she, Mother, and Mule Tom split a dubious dinner of fried doughnuts and cold beef stew, Mother hung two lanterns from the rafters and they went back to work. Emma helped until her eyes felt sandy and the muscles between her shoulder blades ached. “Mother,” she said finally, “I need to go to bed.”

  “Oh, Emma!” Mother darted from the press and gave her a quick hug. “Of course, dear. You’ve been simply wonderful today.” Then she hesitated. “I would like to finish up here, though. Would you mind horribly going back by yourself?”

  Emma sighed. She’d spent the day watching Mother stride back and forth in her ridiculous trousers, overseeing her inexperienced workers, greeting the occasional patron who stopped by to ask questions or pay for a subscription. Mother’s hair had straggled down from its bun, and her left cheek was streaked with ink. And she was happy.

  “No, Mother,” Emma said. “I don’t mind going on alone.”

  She walked back to the boardinghouse as the last blues of twilight shadowed the garbage in the streets. Emma was fiercely proud that they’d managed to print the prospectus. Still, loneliness nibbled. Emma couldn’t help remembering all the times when Mother’s war work had consumed all else: “Emma dear, we want to get the hall decorated for the donation party tonight. Would you mind horribly having dinner with the Littletons again?” Or, “I’d love to look at your sketchbook, darling, but can it wait? I’m scheduled to meet with the contractor about the floral pavilion for the Sanitary Fair.”

  A man coughed somewhere behind Emma, and she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder into the deepening shadows. Was The Whistler watching her? Maybe even following her? Didn’t Mother worry about Emma walking back alone? Emma had to remind herself, in fairness, that Mother didn’t know The Whistler had appeared in Twin Pines. Still, Emma walked back to the boarding-house as fast as she could.

  In their bedroom, Emma lit a lamp and sat staring at the photograph of her father. If only he hadn’t died, if only the dreadful Civil War had never started …

  Emma gave herself a mental shake. She wasn’t sure Father would approve of this Colorado venture, but he would want Emma to help Mother in any way she could. And, after all, Mother’s absence tonight made Emma’s plan to catch The Whistler much easier.

  Emma washed her face and tidied the room. Then she dimmed the lamp, tiptoed downstairs, and eased into a chair by the front parlor window. If The Whistler followed the pattern of the last two evenings, he would soon appear, whistling Maggie by My Side.

  Who would she see? Emma rubbed her arms. If she could catch sight of him right here in the middle of town, with Mrs. Sloane and The Raven’s patrons within hollering distance, maybe she’d have the courage to confront him. If she didn’t recognize him, she’d demand to know who he was and why he was trying so hard to scare the Hendersons out of Twin Pines.

  Laughter and shouting drifted across the street from the saloon. Emma heard several horses trotting by, and the rattle of a wagon. A man leaving the saloon cursed roundly when he stumbled down the steps. But as the minutes stretched into an hour, Emma did not hear a man whistling.

  Frustration and disappointment welled in her throat. Finally, when she couldn’t stay awake any longer, Emma gave up and went to bed.

  “Look at this,” Mother said triumphantly Early-morning sun slanted across piles of the brown prospectus, stacked on one of the print shop’s worktables. “Three hundred of them.”

  “Great guns!” Jeremy exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mule Tom echoed more quietly.

  Emma picked up one of the papers. “The Twin Pines Herald” marched across the top in big print. The front page contained subscription and advertising information, as well as Mother’s article about the stolen press handle and the burned paper shipment. The right-hand column, labeled “Local Items,” featured tidbits Emma had gathered while soliciting subscriptions: Mrs. Handshew recently became a grandmother. Mr. Taylor is recovering from a bad cough. Jim Moody had Dixie John dig a new well on his ranch.

  “I predict that every one of those people will subscribe to the paper, if they haven’t already.” Mother grinned. “People love seeing their names in print. Your father taught me that, Emma.”

  As Emma and Jeremy headed out for a morning of distributing the prospectus and soliciting subscriptions, Jeremy scrunched one hand down into a pocket. “I got something for you,” he said.

  He laughed at her expression when he plopped a rock into her palm—a rough, egg-shaped, mud-colored rock. “Take it home and hit it with a mallet.”

  “Um … all right. Thank you.” Emma slipped the rock into her own pocket, suddenly missing Judith terribly. This was no doubt some mineralogical treasure that Jeremy had found. But minerals didn’t interest Emma, and this particular rock was as ugly as the rest of Twin Pines.

  Jeremy had driven a light wagon to town that morning. “I told Pa that you and I need to travel out to some of the farms today,” he said as he helped her clamber up to the seat. “We’ll cover more ground this way.” He picked up the lines and clucked to the mare.

  They dropped off stacks of the prospectus at the boardinghouse, Mr. Boggs’s store, and the land office. Jeremy even left some at The Raven before they headed north into the long valley that cradled Twin Pines.

  “Twin Pines is at the southern end of the valley,” he told Emma. “Mr. Spaulding bought land up to the northern end, about four miles from here. There are three farms up there, ours and two others, all strung along the creek. It’s good land. We do better than the farmers down on the plains. We get more rain from those showers that come over the mountains.”

  Rocky foothills bounded the valley on both sides. The pretty, rolling meadow Jeremy drove through bore no resemblance to the desert Emma had seen in eastern Colorado—or to the scarred slopes around Twin Pines, which were studded with tree stumps left by men hastily building cabins and chopping firewood and which were grazed to stubble by the pack mules and freight oxen. “It’s so green here!” Emma sighed.

  Jeremy smiled. “My ma called this Peaceful Valley—Oh, say! Did you see that wild canary? They’re a sight. And see that swale? My pa shot an elk there last winter. The snows force ’em down from the high mountains.”

  It grew hot, riding in the open wagon without shade. But Jeremy was a lively guide, and so much green eased something tight inside Emma. Jeremy showed her how the cottonwood trees marked the creek—“footprints of the river,” he called them—and carpets of blanketflowers and larkspur took her breath away. “Perhaps I can pick some later to arrange for a still-life painting,” she said. “I haven’t touched my paints since we arrived.”

  When they reached a pass that angled away from the main valley, Jeremy turned of
f. “There are a few ranches tucked up in some of the higher draws—”

  “Draws?” Emma wrinkled her forehead.

  “Small canyons. They weren’t part of Mr. Spaulding’s land, but we’ll still want to visit the folks who live there.”

  That morning they visited five bachelor brothers, a family with three little girls wearing identical dresses, and a man with a scraggly black beard who talked enthusiastically about running cattle. By the time Jeremy and Emma circled back to Peaceful Valley, the sun was high overhead.

  “Now we’re back on Mr. Spaulding’s land,” Jeremy told her. “We’ll head south again past the three farms. My pa bought the one closest to Twin Pines. A family from Ohio bought this far one.” He pointed to a log home squatting near a field already reclaimed by weeds. “They gave up and sold the land back to Mr. Spaulding again, so it’s empty.” Jeremy stared grimly at the forlorn farmyard for a moment, then slapped the reins against the horse’s back. “Pa said somebody new just settled on the middle place, though,” he told Emma. “We should visit there. We can stop at my place after that if you’re getting hungry.”

  “I’m just thirsty.” Emma tilted her straw hat against the sun’s glare. Sweat trickled down her neck.

  A few minutes later, they approached a tiny cabin made of black logs, roofed with a haphazard pile of pine boughs heaped on a framework of poles. A blanket served as a door, weighted at the bottom with rocks to keep it from flapping. A young woman in a faded dress and limp sunbonnet was scratching in a big garden beside the cabin.

  This stop is surely a waste of time, Emma thought. Since coming to Colorado, she’d met many people who barely had a pot to stew chicken in. But this place smelled of pure and absolute desperation.

  As Emma and Jeremy climbed from the wagon, the woman dropped the hoe and bounded to greet them. She didn’t look more than a few years older than Emma. Her face was hatchet-thin and dotted with freckles in spite of the tunnel-like sunbonnet. “Hello! I’m Tildy Pearce.” Tildy surprised Emma by pumping her hand.