A Claim of Her Own (5 page)
English gestured around him. “But as you can see, Miss O’Keefe, I’m no longer prospecting.”
“But you have experience.” Mattie liked the idea that he didn’t seem eager to step into the position she was clearly offering. Overeager men made her wary.
English sighed. “Yes. I’ve probably been here as long as any other white man. I came in with Custer and helped a man named Gordon build a stockade a couple of years back—but then you probably don’t need to hear any of that.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “By the time the army decided to usher us all out of these hills, I’d found enough color to intrigue me, so I managed to get separated from the party and ‘lost.’ I hunkered down and got through the winter on my own, and I imagine you’ve heard all of the rest of that story worth telling from Freddie.”
“Everything you’ve just said only serves as more evidence that Freddie was right to suggest that I come to you for help,” Mattie said, staring at English evenly. She wasn’t above using the violet eyes that seemed to fascinate men to work a little magic on her behalf.
English stared back for a moment, then looked away. He plucked an imaginary thread off the sleeve of his shirt. Scratched his beard. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I had not met your brother, Miss O’Keefe, but if I had the good fortune to have a sister who cared about me, I suppose I would hope that someone honest would be willing to help her out if she needed it.” He nodded. “All right. If I can be of assistance in helping you get your business settled, I’ll be pleased to do what I can.”
He smiled at Freddie. “Do you think you could get your mother to join us for coffee and some of Aunt Lou’s biscuits? She and I have freighting business to discuss. I always like to seal my covenants over food, and I’ve been hankering for Aunt Lou’s biscuits and gravy since I woke up this morning.”
Mattie didn’t like the claims recorder at all. She didn’t like the way he looked her up and down when she came through the door of the oversized closet he called his office. She didn’t like the way he made a show of shaking her hand when Mr. English introduced her and presented her case, and she especially didn’t like the condescending way he waved her into a chair and addressed himself to Mr. English, almost as if she weren’t even in the room.
“He left her the claim, Tom—may I call you Tom? It’s as simple as that. I have it right here.” He opened the middle drawer of his desk and pulled out a document. “Doc Reeves witnessed it.” He pointed to the line where the doctor had testified to hearing Dillon Patrick O’Keefe’s last will and testament, which left his placer gold claim and all his worldly goods to his sister, one Mattie Eileen Clare O’Keefe.
Mattie leaned toward Mr. English and said in a low voice, “How do we know this document is legal when it comes to the claim? Will it stand up in court if someone challenges the idea of a woman owning a placer claim?”
The man still didn’t look at her, although he took it upon himself to answer the question she’d clearly addressed to Mr. English. “It’s as legal as you’re going to get, ma’am—in light of the fact that Deadwood doesn’t really
exist
as far as the United States government is concerned.” He pointed to the unopened envelope lying beneath the affidavit. “This is his claim certificate. Gives the exact location and records the day he filed it.”
When Gates held it out to Mr. English, Mattie grabbed it. Opening it, she read,
Personally appeared before me Dillon Patrick Clare
O’Keefe and recorded the undivided right title and interest to Claim
Number 7, “Above Discovery” of 300 feet for mining purposes. Recorded
this 9th Day of July 1875
. She handed the certificate to Mr. English, and while he read she repeated her question, “Can I be certain no one will challenge my taking ownership?”
Gates shrugged and once again addressed Mr. English. “As you know, Tom, we’re operating in a rather . . . unique situation.” He cast a condescending smile in Mattie’s direction. “This entire territory is officially part of an Indian reservation. Now, we expect that to change in the next few months, but until such time as it does, all I can tell you is we have adopted the same time-honored practices established in California, Montana, and other regions of the country where people are engaged in the mining of precious metals.” He paused. “We are confident that these contracts and practices will be judged lawful, and in the meantime there is widespread acceptance among the mining community.”
“So I own my brother’s claim,” Mattie said.
“As soon as she signs this she does,” Gates said, pointing to the transfer papers.
Mattie signed her name before asking, “And my brother’s gold?”
Gates tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“He was prospecting,” Mattie said. “He wrote of results. I therefore assume there’s gold somewhere with his name on it.”
Gates shrugged. “I know nothing about any gold, Miss O’Keefe.”
“But you know where he might have deposited it,” Mr. English said.
“Check with James Woods. He’s got a safe behind the counter of his fledgling hotel. It’s not much of a bank, but a good number of the boys who came up early made deposits with him. Could be Mr. O’Keefe was among those who chose that route.”
Mr. English nodded. “We can check with Miners and Merchants, too.”
“Yes,” Gates said. “Of course. You’d want to do that.”
The claim’s paying well, Mattie. It’s hard work, but it’s paying off.
I’ve learned to mine with a toothpick. But lately I haven’t needed the
toothpick.
Mattie didn’t know exactly what Dillon meant, but she wasn’t about to ask Ellis Gates about it. Her pulse quickened. She was the owner of a paying gold claim. Was she about to be rich? She told herself not to get her hopes up. Dillon always did paint circumstances in the best light possible. Perhaps he’d exaggerated to give her hope. She stood up. “Thank you.”
“You’ll be wanting to sell, I presume.” Gates didn’t get up.
“I’ll be wanting to speak with the banks now,” Mattie said, and taking Mr. English’s proffered arm, she left.
“Don’t mind them,” Tom English said, referring to the men in the street who stared as she passed by.
“I don’t.”
“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.
The getting of treasures by a lying tongue
is a vanity tossed to and fro of them that seek death.
Proverbs 21:6
Y
ou 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.”