A Claim of Her Own (20 page)
As the day waned Mattie ducked back inside her tent, propped up the bed frame on a couple of sticks, and inspected the bottles by lamplight. She ran her fingers along the curve of the bases and peered at the contents, reminding herself they were real. It wasn’t a dream anymore. She might be rich. The puzzle was
how
rich. Without weighing what was in those bottles, she couldn’t know. But she couldn’t just sashay into the bank and dump it all onto a scale. Word would spread and she would be a target for every two-legged varmint in the area.
No,
Mattie thought as she returned the bottles to the cache, slid the iron stove lid into place, and lowered the bed frame.
At least for
now, no one must know.
Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man: preserve me from the
violent man; which imagine mischiefs in their heart.
Psalm 140:1–2
S
he could afford a new life now. All the next week after finding Dillon’s cache, Mattie lay awake at night planning just how she would handle it all, how she would have it valued, where she would go, what she would do. It was a challenging week. The rains had apparently washed new placer gold onto several of the claims. Hoots and hollers went up from time to time about pea-sized nuggets and newly discovered color in the quartz. All the while, Mattie crouched in the cold stream and swirled sand into crescents, more often than not finding gold at the tip of the moon in her pan. She smiled to herself even as she thought,
No one must know.
The McKays below her were having the time of their lives, whooping about their good luck and shouting encouragement to Mattie not to give up, that her turn would come. She did nothing to keep them from feeling sorry for her. Poor Mattie O’Keefe, working her brother’s claim, coming to Deadwood expecting Eldorado and finding her brother dead and no gold on deposit in the banks, no gold in the stream, nothing but a tent and a few basic tools.
And so, Mattie decided, it must remain. If anyone found out about Dillon’s bottles, who knew what would happen? A lone woman the only thing standing in the way of a man and—how much?
How much? That was the question. How much was the gold in those bottles worth?
No one must know.
Aunt Lou was too good at reading faces. Mattie would have to wait a few days before visiting her. Tom English was just too smart. He’d figure out something was up. And from what she’d heard him preach about, Aron Gallagher might try to convince her she should give it all away.
And so it was nearly a week after Mattie found Dillon’s cache before she ventured into town, and when she did she carried only the dust-catcher Freddie had made inside the bag around her neck. Instead of going to the bank, Mattie asked Tom to weigh the gold, drumming her fingers on the counter as he set tiny weights on the scale.
“Well,” Tom finally said when the pans were evenly suspended in the air above the base of the small scale. “I see why you’re excited. That’s about three hundred dollars.” He looked up at her, his dark eyes serious. “And please tell me you aren’t going to keep it up on the gulch.”
“I’m not.”
Tom smiled at her. “You’re not?”
Mattie shook her head. “But I don’t want word getting out that Mattie’s Claim is paying well.” She reached across and touched the back of Tom’s hand. “You keep it. And credit my account.”
“That’s—crazy.” Tom frowned. “Even if we did sell everything you’ll ever need, it’s too much money—”
“What could I possibly need that I can’t get at Garth and Company Merchandise?”
Tom rattled off a list that ended with milk, eggs, and butter.
“I’m bartering with Aunt Lou for those things. She said she could use some help getting ready for the crowds on Sundays, so I’m going to come into town on Saturdays and help her and she’ll pay me in eggs and butter. In fact, I’m headed over there just as soon as—” She steered the conversation away from herself and her gold. “Have you considered building a chicken coop out back? And a shelter for livestock? Swede could bring chickens and a couple of milk cows on her next run. I bet you’d sell all the butter and eggs they could produce.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Tom agreed. “Except I don’t see myself milking cows,” he said, holding up his hook, “and it wouldn’t be fair to tie Freddie down to milking twice a day. He’s a hunter at heart and always will be.” He paused. “Actually, I have been thinking about something along those lines, though. There are acres of good grazing on the Belle Fourche north of here. Someone so inclined could start themselves a homestead, and Deadwood merchants would pay premium prices for everything they could raise. Of course that assumes the situation with the Sioux settles down.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll work at all. But I’ve been thinking on it a lot lately. If we could partner with someone who’d supply fresh produce and meat, I think we could turn a very respectable profit—for both parties.”
“I think Swede will love the idea,” Mattie said, “and speaking of her, when do you think she’ll pull back into town?”
Tom gazed toward the street. “Sooner than later, I hope. It seems like she’s been gone for months. We talked about a grand opening on July Fourth. But if it rained south of here like it’s been raining in Deadwood, the entire freight train will be mired down. Who knows when they’ll finally get here.”
“Well, she’s got a wonderful surprise awaiting her,” Mattie said. “You’ve built her a fine place.”
“Couldn’t have done it without Gallagher’s help.”
“Of course you could have. It just would have taken longer.” As if he’d been waiting offstage to hear his name, Gallagher came in through the back door. He greeted Tom with, “Got that wood cut you wanted,” before turning to Mattie. “When I had breakfast this morning Aunt Lou said you’d agreed to help her on Saturdays.”
“She’s seeing that I get paid in eggs and butter. I couldn’t turn that down.”
“I’ll walk you over there if you—” Gallagher stared past Mattie toward the front door.
And just like that, the past Mattie had fled strode into the store.
She would have recognized him anywhere. Even if he’d cut the brown hair that hung in ringlets around his broad shoulders. Even if he’d stopped wearing the long, heavily embroidered buckskin coat or abandoned his gleaming ivory-gripped pistols—always worn butt out. In fact, Mattie would recognize Wild Bill Hickok if all she could see was his hands, because she’d spent more hours than she could count dealing cards to those hands down in Kansas, both before and after Bill’s short stint as the sheriff of Abilene.
She shouldn’t be surprised to see him here. After all, like so many of his kind, Bill was a rolling stone of a man who’d become famous by not putting down roots, by getting involved in startling situations that created fodder for news-hungry reporters fascinated by the breed of men who were part of the legendary and quickly disappearing Wild West. Deadwood was just the kind of place to attract a man like Wild Bill Hickok, and here he was, staring from her to Gallagher and back again, taking the measure of the situation before saying a word. Finally his thin lips curved upward in a smile and his mellow voice called her name. “Mattie.” He nodded. “Good to see you.”
Mattie could feel the blush rising to her cheeks even as she answered. “Hello, Bill.” She glanced to where the woman who’d come in with Bill slouched, her hand resting lightly atop the butt of the gun resting in the holster slung around her narrow hips. Although Mattie had never met her, there was no mystery as to the identity of the trail-worn raggedy buckskin–clad woman the world knew as Calamity Jane. Mattie nodded at her even as Bill addressed the preacher.
“Aron,” he said, “still on the straight and narrow, I presume.”
“Doing my best, Bill,” Gallagher said. And then they all just stood there staring at one another.
The uncomfortable silence was broken when Calamity Jane blustered, “Aron? Did he say
Aron
?” When Gallagher nodded, she continued. “Well, it’s high time this hellhole got itself a man of the cloth. I heard about you from this son-of-a-straight-flush. You preachin’ hereabouts on Sundays?”
“Yes, I—”
“Got yourself a proper church?”
“No, but—”
“Well, get ready to build one, ’cause we’re gonna fix that. I’ll pass the hat a time or two, and if the boys don’t cough up enough, I’ll draw on ’em.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Aw, I was just funnin’ with ya,” Calamity said. “I won’t really force ’em at gunpoint. But I do like a good sermon. What time do you usually preach?”
“It depends,” Gallagher said. “Sometimes midmorning, sometimes—”
“Why so goldurned early?” Calamity interrupted. “Folks that need preachin’ most ain’t up till noon on Sunday.” She slapped him on the back. “You make it after lunch and you’ll get a better crowd.” She winked at Mattie. “You tell him I’m right, ma’am. A man always listens to his wife—at least when she’s as pretty as you.”
Mattie could feel the color creeping back into her cheeks. “I’m not— We’re not married.”
“Well, why in tarnation not?” Calamity squinted up at Gallagher. “You stringing her along? That ain’t gentlemanly.”
Mattie spoke up again. “I’m a miner, Miss . . . Jane . . . uh . . . Calamity.”
“Aw now, honey, nobody calls me ‘Miss’ anything. It’s just Calamity.” She looked Mattie up and down. “A miner, huh?” She slapped Mattie on the shoulder. “Good for you, honey.” She looked at Bill. “I’m thirsty enough to drink the Whitewood dry, Bill.”
“You go on, then,” Hickok said, nodding toward the door. “I’ll find you after I have a word with the storekeeper here.”
With a wave at them all, Calamity headed for the door.
“I’ll walk as far as the hotel with you,” Mattie called after her. She glanced at Tom. “Aunt Lou’s expecting me.” It was as good an excuse as any to get out of there and avoid talking about how it was she and Wild Bill Hickok were on a first-name basis. She needed time to think this through . . . and besides, Aunt Lou
was
expecting her, although maybe not this early in the day.
“All right,” Calamity said. “Maybe you can tell me where the good dealers are—and, more important, where they don’t water the whiskey down.”
Mattie didn’t know how to respond to that. Calamity obviously assumed that if Wild Bill knew her, she would know something about the seamier side of Deadwood. Tom and Gallagher would be thinking the same. She could feel them watching her as she followed Calamity Jane outside. So much for leaving the past behind.
In spite of the lateness of the hour after she finished at Aunt Lou’s, Mattie decided to climb back up to her claim. Whatever Tom and Gallagher decided to do about the earlier scene in the store, she needed time to think things through. Time alone. Time away. Bunking in the wagon on Swede’s lot would threaten both. So here she was, hunching over her makeshift table in the dim glow of her lantern, staring down at the mound of gold she’d just poured out of the first of Dillon’s five bottles, pondering the day’s events.
She’d never forget the look on Tom and Gallagher’s faces when Bill called her by name. Of course, there’d been a bit of a surprise in Bill’s knowing Gallagher, too, but the preacher had never claimed to be anything more than a reformed sinner. And besides, men were given allowances society never extended to women. As she stirred the pile of gold flakes, Mattie wondered if now was the time for her to leave Deadwood. If she headed east, the past would be less likely to catch up to her. How far east was the question.
She wondered anew over Bill’s talking to Aron Gallagher as if they were old friends. Bill associated Gallagher with “the straight and narrow,” but the way he’d said it, it was obvious there was more to their relationship than sermons.
Calamity Jane was certainly a woman cut from an entirely different kind of cloth than Mattie had ever known. Mattie had heard about her, of course. Who in the West hadn’t? But the reality of Calamity Jane was even more fascinating than the legend. She was loud and profane, and yet if a person bothered, they’d see other qualities beneath the rough veneer. Good qualities.