by Jane Peart
Timmy explained all this to her. She had met Timmy one day coming out of one of the saloons, carrying a bottle to take back to Byron at the office. Her face must have shown her shock at a man sending a boy on such an errand because the youngster quickly defended the editor. “Mr. Karr is a trump. Most of the time, anyways. And when he’s drinkin’, the boss don’t get mean or ugly like some do. He don’t get into fights, nothin’ like that. Don’t harm no one, just gets quietly drunk.”
Mindy was learning a new kind of tolerance. In Wood-haven, such a man would be ostracized, his behavior condemned. Whatever hidden demons Byron had, the oblivion afforded by alcohol seemed to fend them off. As Timmy had pointed out, he didn’t hurt anyone—but himself. On Mondays, even if a little heavy-lidded and haggard, Byron was always at his desk, sorting through his copy and ready to prepare the next edition.
One Tuesday morning, Byron asked Mindy. “Think you’re ready for a big assignment?”
Never knowing when Byron was teasing, “Of course,” Mindy answered, hoping, maybe it would be something like a court case. But his next words dashed that hope.
“Community meeting tonight. Eight o’clock. Town hall.” Anyway, it was her first assignment in the official role as a reporter for the Gazette. The article would actually be printed in the paper. She would have to take accurate notes, be factual, no flights of fantasy as in her old Dixie Dillon column. The town’s people who attended would each have their own axe to grind, a point of view they wanted to project. They would all be listening to the speeches and getting their own impressions of what was taking place. If any of the proceedings they had witnessed were not correct, the reporter would be blamed and the paper vilified. Byron assured her that Coarse Gold people had no problem speaking their minds.
Until now Mindy had not gone out as a reporter. She had spent most of her time in the newspaper building learning the ropes. Other than the few advertisers to whom Byron had sent her to check ad copy and collect fees, Mindy had not met many people from the community.
At seven-thirty she entered the big, drafty building. Little knots of people, gathered in groups, were catching up on gossip and discussing recent events, which would be debated and voted on that night.
Mindy smiled timidly at one or two folks who caught her glance. Then she looked around for a seat, one near the front so that she could hear everything that was going on and take notes verbatim. A long table and five chairs were placed in front for the councilmen. At eight sharp a big, barrel-chested man with a sandy bush of a beard, strode up to the front, took his place behind the table, and lifted a gavel. He brought it down hard. “This meeting will now come to order.” The murmur of voices quieted. People found seats, late-comers wandered in, and sat down in back as the meeting got under way.
Mindy took notes as fast as she could, while she worried that she might miss something important. It was impossible to record everything everyone said on both sides of an issue. Each speech was interrupted and objected to, and the loudest voice often prevailed in the arguments that followed. By the time the evening was over, she had a pounding headache and a quivering knot in her stomach. How could she ever write this up? She remembered one thing she had learned at her old job in Woodhaven: “Get all the names of anyone who spoke and spell them right.” At least she could do that.
She approached the chairman and introduced herself. “Well, howdy, miss. I heard Karr had hired a gal—I mean a lady—at the Gazette.” His gaze swept over her, taking in the small, feathered hat and the stylish jacket, and thinking, Karr sure knows how to pick ’em.
With his admiring glance, Mindy realized her appearance might work against her. She would never be taken seriously unless she was very professional. She drew herself up to her full height and asked for a list of names of the people who had spoken on the agenda.
At first, the chairman seemed flustered by her businesslike manner, but he handed over a paper on which the speakers had written their own names. After that he seemed to regain his joviality. He pumped her hand, thanked her for coming. “Nice to have met you, ma’am.” On her way back to the office, Mindy felt a prickle of pride. She had accomplished her task and also made the impression that she was a real working reporter.
The town meeting was duly written up and appeared in the next edition of the Gazette. Since nobody complained and no irate letters to the editor came in the mail, Mindy felt she had passed the first hurdle in her life as a reporter in Coarse Gold.
By the end of two month Mindy felt she had been in Coarse Gold for ages—as if no other life had existed before she went to work at the Gazette.
One Friday, Mindy was working alone in the newspaper office. Byron had vanished right after press time the day before. She knew now he would be unreachable for the weekend. She liked having the place to herself. It was usually such a beehive of noise and activity. This gave her time to catch up on some of the material that came across her desk. She was trying to come up with a feature. She thought Byron might like her to do something distinctive, something that would be her unique contribution to the paper. Not like Dixie Dillon, but maybe “One Woman’s Opinion”—a mixture of ideas and reflections. She would approach him on a good day—and very tactfully.
She suspected that, underneath, Byron still had some reservations about a woman being a reporter. She discovered that there had been no other applicants for the job when she appeared on the scene—so he had been desperate and hired her. Now, she wanted to show him she was worth taking on.
She had written a few things but wasn’t sure how they would look in print. She had watched set type Pete often enough. Could she maybe do it?
She got up from her desk and went back to the print shop. On press day Mindy was fascinated by the way Pete and Timmy moved around doing all the varied tasks necessary to get the paper out. Of course, Timmy had all the dirty jobs: washing the forms and inky presses, cleaning and refilling the ink plates, keeping the rollers clean, gathering the discarded paper from the floor, and taking it out to the burn barrels behind the building.
On the other hand, Pete was a skilled craftsman. Sitting up on his high stool, his hands moved effortlessly. With the printer’s stick, a short, shallow, metal tray held in his left hand, he assembled the type, letter by letter, line by line, until he had a stickful—about a dozen lines. Then he transferred that type into a long steel tray, called the galley, and started over with an empty stick. An experienced compositor, like Pete, had long ago “learned the case”—that is, where to reach for each letter, space, and punctuation mark. The type was kept in shallow wooden trays, called cases, separated into boxes for the individual letters. There were two cases, one for the small letters, the other for capitals. The two cases were set on a rack with the small letters immediately in front and the capitals just beyond and tilted up at an angle.
Pete made it look easy. He never seemed to hurry. He would casually glance at the copy to be set, read a line then, with a click-click-click, he set the letters in the stick. All the lines seemed to fill and be spaced properly as if by magic. Pete could even carry on a conversation while he was setting type.
Mindy was in awe of another skill that Pete possessed: his ability to read type upside down, from left to right, and from the bottom up, line by line. Type, of course, is backwards—it shows the reverse of how the actual printed letters will appear.
As Mindy wandered around the composing room, looking at everything in Pete’s domain, she heard the creak of the front door opening. She peeked around the corner to see who had come in. A tall figure filled the door frame, a young man with a rangy build. He had a strong-jawed face and blunt handsome features. His eyes were very blue in a deeply tanned face. At the sight of Mindy in the door of the composing room, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and shook back his thick locks of sandy hair from his broad forehead.
He wore a leather vest over his a blue denim shirt. Around the waist of his dark pants was slung a gun holster. For a minute Mindy wondered if this was a
hold-up—the kind she’d read about in the more lurid penny dreadful Westerns her brothers had read when younger. Then she saw a large metal star on his leather vest. A law man!
In spite of it, Mindy felt a sharp stab of alarm. In Wood-haven, the appearance of an officer of the law meant trouble. Had Byron been drunk and disorderly contrary to Timmy’s stout defense? Or had something happened to old Pete? Perhaps Tim had an accident?
“Afternoon, ma’am.” He spoke with a soft Texas drawl.
“Good afternoon,” Mindy replied.
“Byron around?”
“No, I’m afraid not, Can I help you?”
“Well, I dunno. Who’s in charge around here?”
Mindy wiped her hands on a greasy cloth and followed his glance around the room. “I guess I am.”
His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as his gaze came back to her. She was amused by the look of doubt and surprise.
“This is about something for the paper—” He looked down at a sheaf of paper he held.
“Let me see what you have. If it’s for the next edition, I’ll have to check to see if we have room for it.”
He hesitated. “Don’t you need Byron’s okay?”
“Well, since he’s not here, and not likely to be until Monday, it looks like it’s up to me. Of course, if it’s not all that important—” She shrugged and started to turn away.
“Oh, yes ma’am, it’s important all right. Doggoned important, I mean, excuse me, miss, what I mean to say is—well, you see, I’m the marshal hereabouts. Taylor Bradford’s the name. These here are Wanted posters.”
With a small frown of annoyance, Mindy turned back to him. “Want me to check, then decide what we can do with them?”
Taylor took a second look at this woman with the assured attitude. She was only a little over five foot and pretty—about the prettiest young woman he had seen in a month of Sundays. She had small, neat features, eyes so bright and blue they reminded him of wild summer berries. But she did not seem to give a fig for her appearance. Her auburn hair was piled up haphazardly with a pencil stuck in its topknot. There was a smudge of ink on her cheek, and she was wearing a printer’s apron. Besides that, she had a high-and-mighty air about her that was off-putting.
Taylor shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. Byron was probably off on a binge and had left this gal running the show! It hadn’t happened in quite a spell, his fallin’ off the wagon. But this had to be the dumbest thing he’d done, leaving the newspaper in the hands of this little slip of a girl.
“Well, I’d say these are as important as anything Byron would put in the paper.” He smiled as he held out a bundle of posters. His attempt at humor fell flat. Mindy’s expression remained distant.
He tried to sound more official. “I just come back from territory headquarters in Boulder. These here are pictures of some outlaws we’re lookin’ for. Some of the meanest fellas you ever’d want to see. I’m sure Byron’d agree that these are . . .” He paused, wondering if he should say any more. This gal was being pretty high-handed as if she might not print them. Taylor cleared his throat “Byron usually puts three or four in the newspaper in case someone recognizes them—”
“I see. Well, I’ll take them, and when Byron comes in he can make the decision. Where are they usually placed?”
“On the back sheet. That’s so folks who can’t read good or don’t care to read the other stuff in the paper can see them, and—”
“I understand.” Mindy cut him off to show her disdain for the opinion that anyone would not find the Gazette compelling reading.
Taylor shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. Then, since there seemed no reason to stay, he took a tentative step backward. “Much obliged, miss—ah, I don’t believe I caught your name?”
“McClaren,” Mindy supplied shortly.
“Well, then . . .” Taylor twisted his hat in his hands. “Thank you, Miss McClaren.” He moved awkwardly back through the newsroom and out the door. “Nice to have made your acquaintance.”
But Mindy had already returned to the composing room.
On the steps, Taylor replaced his hat, thinking what an unusual encounter that had been. That Miss McClaren made a fellow feel downright uncomfortable. He’d always gotten on good with ladies. He’d been raised right by a Texan grandmother and knew how to treat women with gracious courtesy. But Miss McClaren was different. Different from the saloon girls with their bold eyes, painted smiles, and easy banter. There weren’t hardly any decent single women in Coarse Gold—or any of the other towns hereabouts. It was plain she was a lady. But different. Taylor had never run into anyone like her before. She was doggoned sure of herself. Besides, unlike most of the ladies he’d encountered in these parts, she hadn’t seemed impressed by the star he wore so proudly.
Taylor shook his head. Still there was something about her . . . a smile tugged at his mouth. Wonder if she rode? He might ask her to go riding some time. That might be how he’d get to know her some. He had a sweet little mare he’d just broke, perfect for a lady. When Byron got back, he’d amble by, casual like. He and Byron got along just fine. Maybe that would give him a chance to get more acquainted with Miss McClaren.
Chapter 13
Dearest Mama and Farell,
I can’t believe I have been in Coarse Gold nearly four months. I know I have been remiss in writing to you, but I have been so busy and am learning so much about the business of putting out a newspaper. I am so tired at the end of the day, it is all I can do to eat supper and fall into bed.
Now, of course, there are some evening meetings, which Mr. Karr has me attend in order to write a report for the paper. People here depend on the news they read in the Gazette—so it’s important.
I am quite nicely settled here at Mrs. Busby’s boarding house. She is a motherly soul and takes great interest in all her boarders’ lives. I have a feeling she would not hesitate to give advice or a reprimand to anyone she felt needed it. I’ve overheard her lecture some of the miners after a riotous weekend. The curious thing is that these big, hefty men take it like lambs. So far I have not been the recipient of one of her scoldings. But I’m prepared if that time comes.
My room is spacious and comfortable, with many reminders of home: the log cabin quilt Aunt Lu made for me on the bed, the family picture we had taken the last Christmas Pa was alive, my favorite books and my Bible. There are three large windows so that every time I look up, I see the magnificent view.
I wish I could describe what it is all like. I will try anyway. Colorado is so different from the landscape we are used to—and certainly different from where you two are now in North Carolina, where everything is lush and green. This is desert country, but it has its own stark beauty.
Mindy stopped writing. She gazed out the window over the table in her bedroom. She could see the long sloping valley of soft, gray sage stretch to the distant purplish rim of the hills. The sky was a vast azure blue. Even in this short time, she had come to love it here. True, she had not yet known the icy winds, the intense cold, and the heavy snow of the Colorado winters that she had been warned about. Nor had she yet experienced the furnace-like heat of summer when a brassy sun bleached the grass and dried the wells. So far she had only known the mild autumn. Still she felt a deep happiness at having found her place. Almost from the first, she had the strange premonition that, here, all her dreams would come true.
After Taylor Bradford first met Mindy, he often seemed to find a great deal of sheriff’s business to discuss with the editor of the Gazette. Although he would lower his six-foot-three lean body into the chair by Byron’s desk, his gaze was usually fixed on the small auburn-haired lady at the next one. Byron didn’t miss the sheriff’s attraction to his new assistant, and he teased Mindy unmercifully about it.
Taylor always announced his departure in a louder than necessary voice and took his time getting to his feet. If Mindy didn’t look up from her work to acknowledge him, he made a point of stopping by her des
k. One day, when Taylor had failed to engage Mindy in conversation after several attempts, he took a reluctant leave, looking disappointed.
When Taylor exited, Byron leaned back in his chair and laughed long and heartily. “Why don’t you give that poor fella the time of day, Mindy? Anyone can see he’s longing for a kind word from you.”
“Byron, you’re wrong. Wrong about me, and wrong about Sheriff Bradford. He’s just being polite. That’s his Texas style. He’s not interested in me. And I’m certainly not interested in him.”
One thing Mindy didn’t know about the soft-spoken Texan, however, was his tenacity. He didn’t take her indifference as permanent. After all, his reputation was that he got whatever he went after.
Among the many jobs Byron passed on to Mindy was the proper wording and laying out of ads. Late Friday afternoon, the town’s undertaker, Phileas Proctor, brought in the handwritten notice he had composed for his establishment. “I want it in a prominent place. So’s nobody can miss it,” he told Byron.
After he left, Mindy and Byron read the poorly thought-out copy and had a good laugh. “Quite an enterprising entrepreneur, wouldn’t you say?” joked Byron. “I’m grateful for the advertising revenue, but such an ad has a limited clientele. He can’t get testimonies from any satisfied customers, now can he?” He handed the copy to Mindy. “Here, see what you can do with this.”
Mindy put it aside until after the weekly paper had been put to bed, was out, and delivered. She needed more time to think about the most tasteful way of putting all the ideas Mr. Proctor wanted incorporated.
Since Mr. Proctor wanted it to go in the next edition, Mindy went in late Saturday afternoon when everyone else was gone, the building empty and quiet, to work on it.