“Some of them haven’t seen a pretty lady in months. Maybe a year. Maybe more. They don’t mean anything by it.”
“I’d like to get a tombstone,” Mattie said abruptly.
“A—what?”
“For my brother. The first thing I’ll buy is a tombstone.”
English nodded. “That’s nice. You’re a good sister, Miss O’Keefe.” He pointed his hook toward a building up ahead. “That’s Jim Woods’s.” And then he asked, “Where will you go—after the tombstone’s in place?”
Where, indeed, Mattie thought. Where would she finally be able to stop looking over her shoulder for Jonas—where could she finally stop being afraid? Enough to get her to that place would be all the wealth she would ever need. “I have no idea,” she said.
Before long it was clear that making plans about tombstones and travel was pointless. The men at both banks offered their condolences. They agreed that her brother’s claim was rumored to be a good one. But neither bank was holding so much as an ounce of gold dust belonging to Dillon O’Keefe.
CHAPTER 3
The getting of treasures by a lying tongue
is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death.
Proverbs 21:6
You would have thought the miners working Deadwood Gulch had seen a ghost.
You Well, maybe not a ghost. Men probably wouldn’t respond to a ghost by taking off their hats and nodding as it glided by. But that’s what they were all doing this Wednesday afternoon in May as Mattie followed Mr. English up Deadwood Gulch. He knew some of the men by name. Others he simply nodded at as he and Mattie picked their way along the edge of the creek that joined up with the Whitewood down below.
Yesterday she’d been too distracted by the wretched conditions in Deadwood to pay much attention to the gulch. Dillon hadn’t really described the landscape in detail, and somehow, from his mention of trees and rushing water, she’d created a pleasing mental image of a babbling brook, the scent of pine, and well-ordered campsites arranged along rocky walls soaring upward toward a blue sky.
Now Mattie could see that, while the gulch had undoubtedly had a wild appeal before the first white man noticed the glint of gold in the creek bed, mining had destroyed it. The place was a maze of brush shanties and stained canvas tents in various states of disrepair surrounded by piles of gravel and holes in the ground, all of it punctuated by strange-looking wooden contraptions Mr. English called rockers and sluice boxes.
“Mining requires water and lots of it,” he explained as they paused for Mattie to catch her breath. “We had deep snow this past winter, so the creek’s running fast, but once the surface gold has all been panned out, a prospector builds those.” He pointed to the shallow open-ended sluice boxes on the claim above them. “See how the water’s been directed to rush through? That washes the lighter gravel away while gold drops onto the baffles at the bottom—” He paused. “When you’ve caught your breath I’ll show you.”
Mattie gulped air. Finally, she nodded and followed him up toward the deserted claim he’d been pointing at. “I can’t imagine Dillon doing this by himself.”
“If you find sluice boxes on the claim, he definitely had help. As you’ve already noticed down in town, there’s plenty of men hanging around allegedly looking for work.”
“He never mentioned hiring help in his letters.”
“Then maybe he was still getting good color from panning. Someone told me that Number 14 above Discovery has yielded $35,000 so far, and I don’t think they have any special equipment up there yet.”
Thirty-five THOUSAND dollars? It was more money than Mattie could imagine earning in a lifetime. She began to pepper Mr. English with questions as they climbed ever higher. From time to time he introduced her to miners. Some were half drunk and most were dirty, but all removed their hats, nodded, and gave a polite “Pleased to meet ya, ma’am.” One old codger even bowed. When Mattie curtsied they shared a laugh.
Mr. English pointed out the stakes marking off the boundaries of each claim. “Those papers you see nailed to the stakes are the owner’s claim papers. And miners can show some amazing creativity when it comes to naming their claims.”
Mattie laughed aloud as they continued to climb and she read names like Whizzers and Deadbroke, Wasp and Safe Investment. At the latter, looking over the haphazard arrangement of sluice boxes, she observed, “I don’t think Safe Investment really is.
”Mr. English agreed. “A gully washer of a rain would probably carry it all to the bottom of the gulch—along with everything in its path—and woe to the man who’s asleep in his tent when that happens.”
Mattie pointed to a stake. “It’s good the boundaries are marked so clearly. I imagine there’d be horrible fights otherwise.”
“It certainly helps, but once a man’s grubbing underground to follow promising color, it becomes extremely easy to forget about the imaginary lines on the surface.”
“Then what happens?”
“Broken jaws. Gunfire.” Mr. English paused. “Mining’s a violent business, Miss O’Keefe.”
“Is that why you quit?” She could see the corners of his mouth turn up in a sad smile as he shook his head and answered with a simple no. She tilted her head and ventured another guess. “Claim ran out?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Instead of giving her an answer, English pointed to the claim they were just passing through. There was barely room for a lean-to shelter among the honeycomb of holes. “Once a claim is panned out, it’s time to start digging. Since gold is much heavier than most dirt or gravel or rock, it’s usually at the bottom of everything on what is called the bedrock. Here around Deadwood, bedrock tends to be within just a few feet of the surface, so after a prospector has panned it out of the creek bed and worked the sides of his claim, he can still keep mining without expensive equipment by digging holes down to the bedrock.” He paused. “Which is what will make your brother’s claim desirable to anyone really wanting to prospect. The gulch has been claimed rimrock to rimrock, so the only way to get in on the strike is to buy a claim from someone else.”
“So Mr. Gates wasn’t trying to take advantage of me by saying I should expect offers to buy?”
Mr. English shrugged. “Not necessarily. I imagine you’ll be able to sell it without difficulty. Although he did seem a bit eager to manage things for you.”
Eager is such a nice to way to put it, Mattie thought. But then, Mr. English seemed to be the kind of man who chose words carefully. Such things usually made her wary. She was surprised to realize that this man’s reticence seemed more gentlemanly than anything. Realizing that her internal musings had created a rather awkward pause, she walked to the edge of one of the holes being dug on the claim at hand and peered down. “It looks dangerous.”
English nodded. “I’ve seen claims where the bedrock is further down than it is here and they start to dig tunnels between the holes. Without bothering to shore anything up.”
“That’s insane,” Mattie said. “If it caved in …” She shuddered.
“Och, see here now, me fine buckos, ’tis a hummin’bird come doon to alight in the gulch!” The voice belonged to a man with hair so red it was almost orange. He was standing just above them, his hat in his hand. “Hugh McKay, miss,” he said, and with a dip of his head gave a little bow by way of greeting. He gestured at the two young men working a sluice box on his claim. “And these be me sons, Fergus and Finn. Soon as I saw ye my heart lep in me throat, knowin’ it must be herself, the sister of our dear departed Dillon.”
“And if I’m not mistaken,” Mattie answered with a smile, “you’d be the McKays my brother wrote about.” Three Scotsmen crazy as loons and drunk most of the time, but I like them. Happily, the McKays didn’t seem drunk now, Mattie thought, but then who knew. She’d seen men play an expert hand of poker only to fall flat when they stood up to leave.
“Now, don’t be believin’ everything ye’ve been told
,” Mr. McKay said, then shouted for his boys to come near. “Here she is, boys, the verra picture of loveliness, just as Dillon described.” When the boys only stared, their father shook his head. “You’ll have to excuse me boys, miss. Hummin’birds be rare things hereabouts.” He cleared his throat. “We loved your brother, Miss O’Keefe, and we mourn him sincerely.” He put his hat over his heart.
Mattie felt tears gathering. She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I-I’ve come to see the claim,” she said, nodding at Tom English as she did. “Mr. English has been describing the finer points of mining on our way up here.” She looked around. “Dillon’s letters make so much more sense to me now.”
“Have you seen a rocker in use, miss?” Fergus McKay piped up.
“No,” Mattie said with a shake of her head. She glanced at Mr. English. “Although Mr. English was kind enough to describe it on the way up here.” She smiled at the young Mr. McKay. “Would you have time to explain how it works?” Now that she’d met someone who’d known Dillon, she felt inclined to delay the moment when she’d actually step onto his claim … face his empty tent … see his unused tools … the cot where he slept … the little stove that kept him warm. It was all just a few hundred feet above her now, but she didn’t want to look. Not yet.
“ ’Tis only another way to wash the gold out of the gravel,” the brother named Finn said as they walked over to it. “One man shovels gravel in—”
“—that one bein’ myself,” Fergus McKay broke in, “since me brother does-nah care for the backbreakin’ part of the work.”
The brother in question glowered. “As I was sayin’, one shovels it in here,” he explained, pointing to the upper end of the rocker, which really did look a bit like a cradle, “and then chases it with water.” He mimicked emptying a bucket of water into the rocker. “Then,” he said, grasping the pole attached to one side, “I rock while me brother—”
“—while I pick out the treasure.” Fergus motioned for Mattie to come closer. “See those iron plates in the bottom? And the holes? As Finn is rockin’—which even a little thing like you could do if a man was to refrain from dumpin’ a ton of gravel in—the gold falls through the holes and the rest gets washed out—”
“And then while Fergus keeps to the easy task of picking out the gold,” Finn said, “I repeat the backbreakin’ part.”
“All right, you two,” the elder Mr. McKay said. “See here now, boys, the bonny lass is after larnin’, not hearin’ you complain.”
“So the rocker does the same thing as panning—only it handles more gravel faster,” Mattie said. When the McKay men all nodded, she pointed back down the gulch toward another claim. “And the next step up from the rocker is those sluice boxes, and once you’ve gleaned all the gold from the surface, you start digging down to bedrock.” Again, the McKays nodded. “Mining is hard work,” she said. “A lot of hard work.”
“Sure, and many there is that don’t take t’ it,” Mr. McKay said. “But Dillon was a fine one in that regard. A fine one in the sunny lust of life,” he sighed. “We miss him, lass.”
Once again, Mattie barely managed the emotions roiling inside her. Mr. English intervened and, touching her arm, wished the McKays a good day and led the way toward Dillon’s claim. As they climbed, Mattie regained her composure. Finally, she said, “Dillon wrote about using a toothpick. Does that mean anything to you?”
Mr. English pointed to the tent pitched atop a log frame. “If there’s still a gold pan on your brother’s claim, I’ll show you what he was talking about.”
Dillon. Mattie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to fight off the threatening flood of tears.
“There now,” Mr. English said quietly, and led her to a stump beside what had obviously been Dillon’s campfire. “Sit for a moment,” he said gently. He pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it over.
Mattie looked around her, at the scraggly pine trees along one edge of the claim, at the brook rushing through, and up toward the rim of the gulch. Miners had cleared away most of the timber down below, but high above them pine and spruce, birch and cedar grew at strange angles out of clefts in the rock. A bird of some kind soared into view and then out again. She stared back down the gulch toward town. There was plenty of beauty here if you looked past the mining debris.
Taking a deep breath, she stood up and went to Dillon’s tent. With trembling hands, she untied the canvas strips holding the flap closed, lifted the flap, and peered inside. A narrow cot to the right, a small black stove in the middle, a large coffee box to the left—larger than the one Swede was using for Eva’s cradle—and that was all, save for a Dutch oven and a few other cooking utensils sitting in front of the supply box. A pile of mining equipment occupied the far back corner. Mattie motioned for Mr. English to step closer. “I think there’s a pan over there,” she said.
Mr. English glanced inside and nodded. “I’ve never seen such a well-kept claim.”
“Dillon was always careful with his things. When he was a little boy he never broke a toy, never tore a page in a book.” She stepped back and pointed at the log frame atop which the tent was pitched. “Why’d he do that?”
English pointed out a spike driven into one log near the corner. “If there’s color to be followed, this makes it simpler to move the tent. It also helps keep the canvas dry.” He gestured toward the open tent flap. “You take your time with this. I won’t be far off when you’re ready to talk—or leave.”
Mattie watched him climb the gulch. What a thoughtful man. Taking a deep breath, she ducked back inside. Dillon’s cot was little more than a pallet on the earthen floor. No wonder he’d ended up with pneumonia. She opened the supply box. Work pants and a worn pair of boots, two shirts, two blankets—why hadn’t he used them?—some matches, and finally, at the very bottom, a cracker tin alongside a Bible and another familiar book. Mattie held the book up to the light, tracing the title with her fingertips. Dillon had read this book to her so many times when she was little she’d memorized it. But still, she begged him to read it to her again and again, simply because the sound of his voice was a comfort. A reassurance. A reminder that however harsh the world, someone loved her. Someone strong. Someone … gone. How could he be gone?
Oh … Dillon. What am I going to do now?
Closing the lid of the supply box, she sat down on the cot. Well, here it is. All you have in the world. There’s no gold. Whether Dillon was fabricating good news or someone stole what he had, you’ll never know. There’s no gold … no money … nothing but this tent and a claim that could very well be completely worthless.
She was so tired. Weary to the bone. Weary from climbing the mile and a half up here, from trying to keep her footing secure in scuffed thin-soled boots, from trying to be brave and keep her composure … She felt worn out by life. She could bear it if Dillon were here. But facing all of this alone … sitting here in a dusty skirt with a tattered hem … with poverty just a few days away … with Dillon gone … it was all too much.
Mattie put her head in her hands and cried.
When Mattie finally went back outside, Mr. English had crossed the creek and was standing with his back to her, staring down at something in his hand. “We can go back now,” she called. He dropped the rock he’d been inspecting and, splashing through the creek, came to her side. “There’s no gold,” she said. “There’s …” She looked behind her. “There’s nothing for me here.” Her voice broke.
“I am so sorry. It’s obvious you were very close to your brother.”
Mattie nodded. “We were going to buy a place with his earning from this …” She gestured around her. “A farm or maybe a ranch or—” She broke off. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Blinking away the last of her tears, Mattie tried to imagine Dillon sitting by a campfire writing to her of his promise to send for her soon. It just didn’t make any sense. If he was sending for her soon, then where was the gold?
“I said I’d show yo
u what your brother meant by mining with a toothpick,” Mr. English said. “Shall I do it now?”
Mattie shook her head. Tying the tent flap closed as she spoke, she said, “No. Thank you, but it doesn’t matter.”
Mattie and Mr. English had barely reached the first building at the edge of town when Ellis Gates came wheezing his way toward them. “I have pressing business in regard to the claim,” he said to Mr. English, with barely a glance in Mattie’s direction.
“Then you’d best be talking to the woman who owns it,” English said, pressing Mattie forward even as he stepped back as if to leave.
“Please,” Mattie said, touching his sleeve. She turned away from Gates and lowered her voice. “Please. You’re the only person in Deadwood with knowledge of mining. I trust you.” And just like that, she realized that she did trust him. But instead of agreeing to help her further, English was glancing up the street toward his fledgling business.
She couldn’t blame the man for hesitating. After all, she’d seen the unfinished shelving and crates of merchandise waiting to be unpacked when Freddie took her over to meet him. How much business had he already missed because of her? She said quickly, “I’ll help you set up your store. We can light lamps and I’ll work all night if necessary. But please—” She glanced back at Gates.
English nodded. “All right.”
“Thank you.” Mattie squeezed his arm before addressing Mr. Gates. “What is it?”
“To my office,” he blustered. “It’s a matter of some importance—” he leaned close and glanced around him like a conspirator “—and requires the utmost discretion.”
Nothing about the next few moments changed Mattie’s initial opinion of Ellis Gates. The moment she and Mr. English were seated across from the battered desk in his minuscule office, he began to once again address English.
“Knowing of Miss O’Keefe’s situation, I took the liberty of making a few inquiries on her behalf while you escorted her up to the claim.” He laced his fingers together in a gesture designed to make him look relaxed, but Mattie noted his trembling hands and the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
A Claim of Her Own Page 4