Shadow of Legends (7 page)

“Apparently. I told her you were going to spend the afternoon working on yours.”

“Actually, I have mine done. I decided to borrow one.” Rebekah scurried off to the bedroom.

Todd buttered a wedge of steaming hot cornbread.
I need to make a poultice out of this and apply it to the back of my leg. A camphor rag . . . I'll have Rebekah warm a camphor rag.

She waltzed out of the back room carrying the silk dress on a thick, wooden hanger. “Isn't this the most absolutely beautiful, raspberry-colored dress you've ever seen?”

“It is beautiful. I presume that wrap is permanently attached to the shoulders?”

“Yes, it is,” she nodded.
At least it will be by Friday night.

“Who did you borrow it from?”

“Mrs. Abigail Gordon,” she said.

“Mrs. Gordon? I don't believe I know them. What's her husband do?”

“He's a doctor, but it's a rather sad story. They're divorced.”

“How long have you known her? I don't recall you mentioning her name. Where does she live? Is she new in town?”

“We just met. I commented on how lovely this dress would look at the church Raspberry Festival.”

“You invited her, I trust?”

“She had a previous engagement but insisted I wear the dress.”

“That was quite generous of her.”

“Yes, that's what I thought.”

“Sounds like you had quite a visit.”

“Well, I did have her up for tea this afternoon.”

“That's good. There are new people moving to town all the time. There might be others you'd enjoy getting to meet.”

“I hope you don't mind, but I agreed to baby-sit for her five-year-old daughter.”

“You'd better watch out, Mrs. Fortune. You start playing with little girls like that and you'll want one for your own,” he chided.

“That thought did occur to me.”

“When is she coming over?” he asked.

“Friday. I thought we'd take her to the festival with us.”

“Being divorced and all, what does Mrs. Gordon do for income? I would imagine she's a seamstress, with a gown like that one.”

“Actually, she's an actress and singer.”

“Oh . . . the Opera House! She's with that new troupe from Philadelphia, no doubt. I hear their Gilbert and Sullivan is quite impressive. Let's invite Dad and Dacee June to go with us.”

“I agree . . .” Rebekah tugged at her diamond earring, then laced her fingers in front of her. “Todd, Mrs. Gordon does not sing at the Opera House. She sings, and acts, at the Gem Theater.”

His eyes locked on hers. “You're baby-sitting for one of the girls at the Gem?”

“What difference does that make? Are their children not worthy of good care?”

“That's not what I meant!” he fumed. “How did you say you met this woman?”

“I was outside on the porch reading, and she stopped by to visit.”

“Stopped by? She had to hike up seventy-two stairs to get here. You're going to wear a theater dress to a church meeting?”

“You said it was a beautiful dress.”

“Of course, it's beautiful . . . it's just . . .”

“Do you assume that all the girls at the Gem are immoral and unworthy of kindness?”

Todd pushed his soup bowl toward the middle of the table. “Which one is she?”

“Abby O'Neill.”

“The star of the show?”

“So I understand. Her real name is Mrs. Gordon, and her former husband is a doctor in Chattanooga. She assured me, her only performances were on the stage, and she did not work the boxes at the Gem.”

“But . . . but . . . when I encouraged you to get more involved in the community I didn't mean with . . .”

“I see. You want me to get involved with activities and people of your choosing only. While you, on the other hand, do business with any reprobate or sneakthief who has a dollar to spend, and see nothing wrong with trading shots with outlaws and stagecoach robbers.” She stood up and marched toward the bedroom.

“Aren't you going to eat supper?” he called out.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Come back in here and sit down.”

She paused at the doorway. “Is that an order?”

Todd Fortune let out a deep sigh. “You're right. It sounded like an order. Please, come on back in here. I'm tired, I don't mean to sound so . . . so . . .”

“Contemptuous?” Rebekah finished. She returned to the kitchen and stood behind her chair.

“Sit down . . . please . . . let's have supper and try this again,” he insisted.

She seated herself, but refused to pick up her spoon.

“Todd, it really is Deadwood. I love you dearly, and here I am getting angry with you. I don't even understand it myself.”

“Listen, you can baby-sit for anyone you choose, and borrow any dress . . . providing it's not risqué . . .” A sly grin spread across his face. “Actually, you can borrow the risqué ones too, but you can't wear them out of the house.”

“There are some dresses I would not even wear for my husband, Todd Fortune. I have no intention of shocking the heavenly hosts. But, I really do like Abigail. I need to find my own place in Deadwood, Todd. I know that's hard to understand, but maybe there are things for me to do that will be different than you.”

“Actually, it's not that difficult to fathom.”

“Really?”

“You are Rebekah Fortune, not Todd Fortune. And I am Todd Fortune, not Henry ‘Brazos' Fortune.”

Rebekah snatched up both soup bowls.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I'll reheat this soup. I like my French onion soup to be steaming.” She poured the rich brown broth soup back into the pan on the woodstove.

“And what shall we do while we wait?”

“Let's keep it peaceful,” she suggested.

“I agree, let's don't say anything at all.”

“Oh?”

“Come here.”

“And what do you have in mind, Todd Fortune?”

“You could sit on my lap and we could practice kissing.”

“I've kissed you before, Mr. Fortune, and I can assure you, you don't need any practice.”

“Come here!”

“Is that an order?”

“More like a beg from a needy man.”

“Oh well, in that case,” Rebekah grinned. “It is my Christian duty to help the needy.”

Rebekah perched on his knees and wrapped her arm around his neck. As their lips touched, the back door banged open.

“Oh! I'm sorry,” Dacee June blurted out. “I didn't . . . I mean, I didn't see the shades drawn or anything!”

Rebekah stood up and brushed her skirt down. “That's alright, Dacee June, we were just waiting for the soup to warm up.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Rebekah pointed to the pan on the stove. “The French onion soup. I have some cornbread for you and Daddy Brazos.”

“That's wonderful! I made some biscuits, but I think I used too much salt. They taste sort of like the water in Galveston Bay.”

Rebekah divided the pan of cornbread in two, and placed half on a china plate with tiny violet flowers.

Dacee June grabbed the plate and scooted toward the still open back door. “Now you two can go back to . . . warming the soup.”

“Thank you, Lil' Sis,” Todd grinned.

Dacee June stopped at the doorway. “Don't you two ever do anything but kiss?”

“We argue and fight a lot,” Todd said.

Dacee June whooped, “Oh, sure, and I'm a shy and bashful girl who likes to sit in the house all day and knit doilies.”

CHAPTER THREE

Three men with graying hair under wide-brimmed felt hats and suits, slightly rumpled, sat around the black iron stove at the back of the hardware store when Todd Fortune unlocked the front door. The scene was a Deadwood tradition. Each of the men had their own keys to the store. Each held a tin coffee cup in his hand. And each tipped a hat in Todd's direction.

“Mornin', Son,” Brazos called out from his perch on a wooden packing crate with an upside-down label marked:
Warsaw, Indiana, this side up.
“Did you hear about Carl McRoberts?”

Todd hung his narrow-brimmed, crisp brown hat on a peg and walked toward the men. “Which one is Carl?”

“He came here in November of '75, right after eighteen inches of snow. He and a short little Italian took claim on #23 below Discovery.” Brazos rubbed his drooping gray mustache. “Remember? He was the one with only one thumb.”

Quiet Jim scratched the back of his thin, long neck, then took a slow sip of steaming coffee. “He's missin' a whole lot more than a thumb now.” There was no smile on his face.

Todd adopted a thick blue porcelain mug and approached the coffeepot. The steaming coal-black liquid reflected the lantern light as it bubbled into the mug. He took a sip and felt it singe the tip of his tongue. “What are we drinking today?”

“Your daddy calls it Panama Black.” Yapper Jim swirled a mouthful, then gulped down the swallow. “But I've been to Panama and the only thing that is black is the swamp. It looks like India ink, but my, it does have eye-opening taste.”

Brazos splashed his tin cup full. “Fer years now, I've tried to educate this bunch on coffees of the world, but what do I have to show? They cain't even tell the difference between this and boiled bark.”

“Ever'one knows Brazos makes the best coffee in Dakota,” Quiet Jim offered. “He thinks we show up for gossip and jollification, but it's the coffee that does it.”

“It's a cinch you don't show up for gossip,” Brazos asserted. “Why, there's no gossip around this stove. Nothin' but pure truth, right boys?”

Quiet Jim leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The wool suit trousers couldn't hide the thinness of his legs. “That's a fact. We leave the gossip for the
Daily Times
and the
Pioneer
.”

“Speakin' of which . . .” Yapper Jim strolled over to the coffee- pot. “Did you boys read about the knifin' down at the Gem Theater?”

Todd took another swig of coffee. This time the heat of the swallow trickled a blazing trail down his throat and assaulted his tonsils. “Wait a minute . . . before you get into gossip about a knifing at the Gem, tell me the truth about one-thumbed Carl McRoberts.”

“He's dead,” Yapper Jim reported.

Quiet Jim strolled over to the coffeepot and poured out another dollop. “He was down below in the Esmeralda mine in Blacktail Gulch chargin' a hole. He must of figured the black powder was spoiled or damp, so he was drying it off between his finger when some of it flipped up on his candle. Set off quite an explosion.”

“Yep. They said he might of come out of it only losin' his hearin' and an arm if it weren't fer them steel drilling bits flyin' through the air like Goliath's spear,” Yapper Jim added. “Lived long enough to say his prayers, though. Hate to lose any of the boys of '75.”

Quiet Jim turned his head and wiped an eye. “Ain't many of us left.”

“Most of ‘em dead or gone,” Brazos added. “Don't blame some for leavin'. Ever' gulch in the Black Hills is swarming with miners.”

“Most of 'em ain't got an idea in the world what they're doin',” Yapper Jim offered.

“Which is a whole lot like us when we snuck into the hills in ‘75.” Brazos gazed across the room . . . and the years. “Remember that riffle box we built along French Creek that first day? The whole thing washed four miles below by morning!”

“We didn't do that,” Yapper protested. “That was you, Grass, Big River, and them.”

“We did some dumb things,” Quiet Jim admitted, “like that one time we . . .”

“Wait a minute,” Todd protested. “I'm still worried about McRoberts. Did he have a family here in town?”

“Not in Dakota. But I know he had a daughter down in New Mexico somewhere.” Quiet Jim stared at his coffee as if gazing into the past. “Years ago, when we was all down near Custer City, I wrote letters to her for him. I believe her name was Cynthia. That's a mighty purdy name, ain't it?”

The men at the iron potbellied woodstove all nodded.

Todd tugged on his shirt collar as the coffee flushed his face. “Getting blown up is a mighty rough way to go.”

“You think that's tough?” Yapper Jim leaned back, bracing his arms against the rough wooden bench. “How about when that hundred-ton block of rock fell on that miner at Terraville? By the time they got it moved, they couldn't even identify the victim. Two different women claimed it was her husband that was crushed. The mine settled with both of them, even though only one man died. The other jist disappeared. Never showed up. I reckon he's running around like a soul set free.”

“I never did like bein' underground,” Quiet Jim added. “If I can't wash it in a pan, a tom, a rocker, or a sluice, I ain't interested.”

“Ownin' shares is a lot safer than diggin' it out, that's for sure,” Yapper Jim added.

All four twisted around to gaze at the glass and oak front door when a young woman sauntered into the store.

“Whee—ee, Miss Dacee June, don't you look beautiful?” Yapper Jim called out. “If I was twenty years younger I'd ask you to marry me today.”

“If you were twenty years younger, you'd still be twenty years too old, Uncle Yapper,” Dacee June chided. Her long brown hair was partially contained under her hat.

“That's a fact,” Yapper Jim mumbled. “But it's a mighty fancy dress.”

“Oh, this attire?” She waltzed up to the stove and did a slow pirouette. “It's just a silk lace, with surah lining, profusely trimmed with ribbon and a four-inch black lace gimp.”

“Is this the same lil' sis that was packing a pistol and wearing leathers yesterday?” Todd teased.

“You must have confused me with some other sister of yours,” Dacee June glowered.

“I only have one sis . . . eh, this side of heaven.” Todd refused to glance over at his father.
No, Daddy, I have not forgotten Veronica and Patricia, bless their souls.

“I just felt more mature today,” Dacee June explained. “I will be seventeen in the fall.”

“Well, you certainly look more mature,” Quiet Jim added. “You'll have to pack more than one pistol today.”

Dacee June fiddled with the emerald-colored paste earrings that brushed against her cheeks. “However, I certainly enjoy the discerning eyes of older men.” She stood next to Quiet Jim and rested her hand on the shoulder of his brown leather vest. “How's Columbia?”

Quiet Jim's voice almost became assertive. “Little Sarah kept her up all night with a fever. I hope they're both sleepin' now. She needs to be strong. Doc says that new baby could be along any week now.”

Yapper Jim rubbed coffee drops from fleshy lips that hid behind his full beard. “I keep tellin' him his quiver's about full. You know, for a man of his advanced years.”

“We want one more after this,” Quiet Jim added. “Five is a nice number, don't you think?”

Dacee June strolled by her brother, allowing her elbow to poke him in the ribs. “Yes, I think it's a nice size family. What do you think, Todd?”

He turned his back toward the woodstove, coffee mug in hand. “I think I'm going to get to running a store while you parade around town looking like some Paris fashion model.”

Dacee June put her right hand behind her head and strutted a lap around the stove. Then she traipsed after Todd, catching up with him halfway across the store. “When is Carty coming to work?”

“I told him to wait until ten. He worked late helping me inventory that new freight.” Todd continued toward the wide empty wooden counter at the back. “Why do you want to know?”

Dacee June propped a boot up on a nail keg and rubbed her ankle. “Because these shoes are grieving my feet something horrible. But I don't want to change them until he sees me.”

Todd stooped and yanked a ledger from under the counter. “So, you dressed up in order to impress Carty?” He dipped his pen in the vile of black India ink, then wrote in the ledger without looking up.

“I am not interested in Carty Toluca! There's a young man working at the International Hotel who has a quite fetching smile. Perhaps I dressed this way for him. But I wouldn't mind making Carty regret all those mean things he did to me.” Dacee June glanced down at the ceramic mug on the counter. “Do you need a refill?”

“Might as well, my tongue's calloused now.”

Dacee June carried Todd's mug over to the stove as the conversations continued.

“Hey, what do you hear from ‘Professor' Edwards?” Yapper Jim was asking.

“He wrote to say the
Ambrosia trifida
was abundant this year,” Brazos answered.

“The what?” Dacee June queried.

“Ragweed. Said they'd be home . . .”

Todd squatted down and spun the dial on the safe.
Dad has his pals. Every morning of the year they are here . . . to laugh, tease, plot, plan, dream, and reminisce. Maybe that's what's missing in Deadwood for me. I'm not one of the old-timers. I'm not one of the newcomers. I'm somewhere in the cracks in between. I'm always in the corner of the room, watching the action.

Maybe Rebekah's right. A new town. A new start. Where we'll be the old-timers some day.

Dacee June found Todd in the back storeroom. White shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, gray wool vest unbuttoned, and black tie loosened, Todd Fortune finished cutting the last of twenty-four eight-by-ten-inch replacement glass panes for the International Hotel.

“I don't suppose you'd consider firing Carty Toluca,” Dacee June quizzed, resting her hands on the ruffled folds of her dress waist.

Todd rubbed his light brown goatee. “Did he steal money from the cashbox?”

“No, of course not,” she frowned.

“Did he cheat a customer?”

“No.” Her scowl almost brought her dark brown eyebrows together above her nose.

“Did he talk back to Dub Montgomery?”

“No.”

“Well, I reckon I'll just keep him on.” Todd grinned as he began to crate the small pieces of glass. “He didn't pull your hair or slip a chink of ice down your dress, did he?”

“He hasn't done those things for years!”

“Well, what did he do?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing!”

Todd layered each slice of glass with a piece of heavy brown paper. “You want him fired for doing nothing?”

“Oh, I don't really want him fired. I just wish he'd find a job some other place. He aggravates me every time I come into the store.”

“Aggravates you? I thought you said he did nothing.”

“And he said nothing. Not one word. Look at me, Todd Fortune. Am I ugly? I mean, I know I'm not beautiful like your Rebekah or Robert's Jamie Sue, but I'm not ugly, am I?”

“Dacee June, don't beg for compliments. You know that I think you're the cutest girl in the Black Hills.”

“Perhaps he has poor eyesight,” she blurted out. “Do you think there's anything wrong with his eyes?”

“I take it he didn't say anything about your dress?”

“Not my dress, my hair style, my shoes, my perfume, my lip rouge . . . he said absolutely nothing.”

“Some boys are embarrassed by beautiful girls.”

“They are?”

“Sure. The prettier the girl, the more nervous they get trying to talk to her. The extremely attractive are so striking, some fellas just get tongue-tied.”

Dacee June's eyes widened. “I bet that's it. He's used to my, well, my average daily beauty, but when I'm polished up like this, he's speechless.”

“Could be.”

“Thanks, Todd. It sure is good to have at least one brother around.” Dacee June seemed to float toward the storeroom door, then turned back. “It's going to be fun next week, staying with you and Rebekah. She promised to teach me to . . .”

Todd straightened up. “Staying with us?”

“She's going to teach me to draw people and animals. She sure is good at drawing. Yes, isn't it fun? I get to stay for at least two weeks. Of course, I only live next door, and I'll go home and sleep in my own bed, but I get to eat with you two.”

Todd tacked a wooden lid on the crate of glass panes. “I think I missed something. Why are you staying with us? Where's Daddy going to be?”

“Oh, you know . . .” Dacee June squinted at a cloudy mirror fastened to a post next to the workbench. “He's going on that hunting trip with the Jims.”