Whistler in the Dark (12 page)

Emma was startled by a sudden revelation. In the heat of a good discussion, Miss Amaretta looked just like Mother. Some people might think arguing was unwomanly, but neither Mother nor Miss Amaretta backed off from a debate. Ha! Who'd have thought Miss Amaretta and Mother had anything in common?

The only person not engaged in discussion that morning was Dixie John. Emma eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup. His eyes looked bloodshot, and he winced whenever one of the arguments got too loud. Served him right for getting drunk yesterday! Still, Emma was glad when, amid the scrape of chairs and the din of closing conversations marking the end of the meal, she had the opportunity to sidle close to him. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I've been thinking over what you said yesterday, and I was hoping you could explain things better.”

Dixie John looked startled. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Emma cocked her head, considering. Was he lying? No, she didn't think so. He had been trying to tell her something in the saloon, before Blackjack interrupted them. But clearly he didn't remember that now. “I was trying to find some answers about our trouble with the newspaper,” she pressed. “And you told me …”

Something—panic?—flared in Dixie John's bloodshot eyes. He shifted his weight warily. “I don't know what you're going on about,” he muttered. Then he turned and shoved out the door.

“I want you to set type for me today,” Mother told Emma as they left the boardinghouse that morning. “I did it for the prospectus because time was so short. But you need to learn.”

“But I have some … some other things to do.” Seeing Dixie John so nervous that morning had heightened Emma's suspicions, and she'd decided to pursue this bird's-eye idea further. Unfortunately, she'd have to do it by herself. Jeremy was needed at home today.

“You need to learn the newspaper business from the ground up. You'll never make a good editor and publisher if you don't know—”

“But I don't want to be an editor!” Emma knew she was fraying her mother's patience, but her own patience was frayed, too.

Mother stepped over a pile of ox droppings. “Emma Henderson! Don't you realize how lucky you are? I'm trying to teach you skills that will serve you for the rest of your life!”

Emma swallowed hard. “Mother,” she said, in as docile a tone as she could manage, “may I just go see Mr. Torkelson before I meet you at the newspaper office? I have one more question to ask him about the fire. For my article.” Mother hesitated, then nodded. Emma veered in the direction she had taken the evening before when following The Whistler.

When The Whistler had disappeared into the darkness, he'd been near a few enterprises at the edge of town. One was a makeshift store of sorts in a big canvas tent, where a man sold merchandise left behind by “go-backers”—folks who had wearied of life in the goldfields or the frontier town and headed back east. Another was a three-sided shack where a huge German with a turnip-shaped nose hammered horseshoes and gate hinges on his portable forge. And beyond those were the cabin, stable, corral, and storage sheds where Mr. Torkelson operated his freight business. Emma wanted to start with him. He was friendly and wouldn't mind answering questions.

When Emma surveyed the commotion in the freight yard, she saw only Mr. Torkelson's sons unloading goods from a wagon train. No sign of a slight man with a limp. She found the wiry proprietor in the office with a customer. “Three cents a pound, firm,” he was saying.

“Two and a half!”

Mr. Torkelson shook his head. “No, three. I got to transfer everything from the wagons to pack-jacks to get up to the mines, ya? Three cents!”

Emma waited until Mr. Torkelson was finished before approaching. “Excuse me. I have a question. Does a man with a limp work for you?”

Mr. Torkelson frowned, rubbing his chin. “Ya. Why? Hass he caused some trouble?”

Emma hesitated. What could she say that wouldn't sound ridiculous? “I heard him whistling my father's favorite song. It gave me a start. What's the man's name?”

“George Troxwell.”

The name meant nothing to her. “Has he worked for you long?”

“Oh—joost a week or so. I needed an extra hand, and he iss good with the animals.”

“Is he here now?” Emma's heart began to skitter.

But Mr. Torkelson shook his head. “He left early on a run. Won't be back till tonight, I don't think.”

“Mr. Torkelson …” Emma hesitated. “Is Mr. Troxwell the hauler who was here the day of the fire? You said one of your men had been here just before the fire started.”

Mr. Torkelson's eyes narrowed. “Ya. He iss the one. But he left before that paper burned.”

I don't believe it
, Emma thought, but since she had no proof, she couldn't speak her mind. Instead, she forced a smile. “I'll probably stop back later to meet Mr. Troxwell.” She turned to go, then paused. “Oh—one more thing. Night before last, was Mr. Troxwell making a late delivery?”

Mr. Torkelson eyed her dubiously but reached for an account book. He traced down a list of entries with a dirty finger. “Ya. Here it iss. He wass gone overnight, hauling a cookstove out to a ranch.”

“Um, can you see if he was in town the two nights before that?”

Mr. Torkelson frowned again. “Ya. Joost that one night he was gone. But why—”

“Thank you!” Emma hurried into the morning sunshine before he could ask
her
questions. Nothing made sense yet, but she was making progress. The Whistler had appeared outside the Hendersons' window every night but one: the first night Emma had sat up to wait for him—the night Troxwell was gone on a freight run.

George Troxwell had to be The Whistler. But how did he know about Father's favorite song? And why was he taunting them with it? Why would he do such a hateful thing? This Troxwell must have set their paper shipment on fire, too—he'd had the perfect opportunity. Had he also stolen their press handle and dumped over the type-case? If not, who was he working with?

And what else did they have planned?

Emma's stomach turned over and her palms felt sweaty. George Troxwell had followed the Hendersons all the way from Chicago to this forlorn town in Colorado Territory. And that night, when he got back to Twin Pines, Emma intended to meet Mr. Troxwell and find out why.

C
HAPTER
11

W
ITH A
B
IRD'S
E
YE

Mother kept Emma busy for the rest of the day. Emma learned how to position type sticks and measure margins and set type. She was ready to shriek with frustration by the time Mother released her. “You did well,” Mother said. “You may run along now. It looks like the rain is ending, and Mrs. Sloane won't serve supper for an hour. I'll get a few more things done here.”

Emma bolted for the door. Time was wasting, and she had some investigating to do!

Clouds scudded across the sky as she emerged from the print shack.
First stop: Mr. Spaulding's office
, she decided. She found the land office empty but the door unlocked. Hadn't Mr. Spaulding learned his lesson when their key was stolen? She stepped inside. Surely he wouldn't mind if she examined his map.

She stood before the bird's-eye map with her hands clasped behind her back, studying again the slanted aerial view of the pretty town Mr. Spaulding had envisioned sprouting up among the foothills. If only she knew what she was looking for! She squinted at the tidy grid of streets, waiting for inspiration. Nothing came. What on earth—

“Emma? May I help you?” Mr. Spaulding's voice behind her was sharp. Emma almost jumped from her skin.

“Oh—Mr. Spaulding! I didn't hear you come in. I was just—ah—admiring your map. I hope you don't mind.”

Mr. Spaulding walked to his desk and sat down. “I don't mind. But I do have business to attend to just now.” He shuffled quickly through some papers, then sat back and regarded her. A drop of perspiration rolled down his forehead, and he rubbed it away impatiently.

“I beg your pardon,” Emma sighed. She turned to go, then paused. She'd learned nothing from the bird's-eye map, but perhaps she could clear up another question. “Mr. Spaulding? I visited Tildy Pearce yesterday, and she mentioned that she'd never gotten her land deed. All she has is her receipt for the payment to you.”

Mr. Spaulding frowned. “I must have tucked it away with my other papers by mistake. I'll take care of it.”

“Excuse me, then,” Emma murmured. She slipped back outside. Crackers! All she'd accomplished was annoying Mr. Spaulding. As to Dixie John's garbled advice—nothing! She pulled out her notebook and drew a heavy line through the words
Bird's-eye map?

She glared at the second line:
The Raven?
The last thing she wanted to do was visit Blackjack's saloon again! But she had to try to unravel Dixie John's advice, crazy as it seemed. Stiffing up her spine, she marched down the boardwalk to the saloon and stepped inside.

The Raven smelled of tobacco and strong drink. Emma paused. The fiddler was nowhere in sight. A lively card game against the far wall was attracting the most attention. One young man in dirty miner's clothing sat hunched near a sputtering candle, reading a letter and wiping away homesick tears. The bartender plunked a glass and a spoon on the bar beside another miner, who crumbled soda crackers into the whiskey and began spooning the odd mixture into his mouth. “I promised my wife I wouldn't drink,” he explained to Emma when he caught her staring.

Good glory. No wonder Miss Amaretta railed against drink! What was Emma doing here? Looking in the bird's eye? Thunderation! It was a fool's errand.

She was about to leave when Blackjack came down the staircase at the back of the room and saw her. “Why, Miss Emma!” he said, joining her. “What brings you back to The Raven? Come to solicit an advertisement to print in your newspaper, or to ask more questions?”

His smile didn't reach his eyes. A sudden thought stilled Emma's tongue. Had Blackjack interrupted Dixie John the day before to spare her a conversation with a drunkard—or had he done it to keep Dixie John from saying too much? If so, did he know that Emma was trying to figure out the meaning behind Dixie John's slurred words? Was Blackjack working with The Whistler?

She plastered a smile on her face. “I was looking for Tildy Pearce,” she managed. That wasn't a complete lie. She needed to tell Tildy what she'd learned about the missing land deed.

“Tildy's not here. If she comes in this evening, shall I tell her to call at the boardinghouse?”

“Yes, please.” Emma turned to leave with the distinct impression that Blackjack wanted her to go.

Outside, she sat down on the boardwalk to consider her options. Visiting The Raven hadn't helped her understand Dixie John's ramblings any more than studying Mr. Spaulding's map had. The only other idea she'd come up with involved climbing the twin pines behind the land office. “This is ridiculous!” she muttered. She wished she had a better idea. She wished she could talk things over with Jeremy. But she didn't, and she couldn't. Mr. Torkelson had said that George Troxwell—The Whistler—wouldn't be back until evening, so she had time on her hands. With an enormous sigh, she pushed to her feet.

The twin ponderosa pines towered behind Mr. Spaulding's land office. The shady ground beneath was littered with prickly pine cones. Emma put a hand on the tree's rough bark. It smelled of vanilla. Could she do this?
Climbs easy as a ladder
, Jeremy had said. Emma stared at the lower branches doubtfully. They were stumpy and dead, so she wouldn't have boughs and needles to climb through for the first few feet. But the branches most definitely were not spaced as evenly as rungs on a ladder. Emma wasn't even sure how to begin. How was she supposed to get her feet up to the lowest branch? It was at least waist-high.

Finally she wedged her right foot in the V where the two trunks separated. That gained her some height. She reached above her head, grasped a sturdy dead branch with both hands, and tried to position her left foot on the lowest branch. But her foot disappeared in the tent of her long petticoats and skirt.

“Oh!” she fumed, stepping back down. Drat Jeremy for working at home today! After looking carefully in both directions, she heaved her skirts above her left knee, exposing a white pantalette. With her left foot now free, she managed to lodge it on the branch and heave herself up.

There! She was actually climbing the tree! But three feet off the ground, she realized that she'd trapped herself. She'd reached a higher handhold, but when she tried to move her right foot higher, it too got tangled in her skirts. She couldn't let go without losing her balance, and she couldn't find a safe foothold for her right shoe.

She froze in the tree, stuck. A magpie landed on a branch above her head and began to scold. “Oh, hush!” Emma snapped. The skin on her palms began to ache. When she tried again to find the foothold she needed, her shoe landed on a fold of cotton and skidded off. She heard the sound of ripping cloth, and the branch slipped from her hands. Then she hit the ground. Hard.