Whistler in the Dark (5 page)

Emma balled her napkin in her lap and willed the wave of hate within her to subside. Hate wouldn't bring back Father.

Blackjack dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Well said, Madam Editor. But one wonders. There is not much news worth reporting in this dusty hole.”

“I must disagree,” Mother said evenly. “We've been here less than a day, and several stories have already presented themselves.”

“I'm delighted to hear it. I'd hate to think you would have to dig too far to find material. That could be most … challenging, for ladies in your situation.” Blackjack's smile included them both, but Emma didn't feel reassured. Was Blackjack concerned about their welfare? Or was he hiding some kind of threat behind his polished words and fancy clothes?

Mother met his smile with one of her own. “You'll be relieved to know that my daughter and I are up to the challenge. Every journalist knows how to dig for a story. It's usually a simple matter of asking the right questions—who, what, why.”

“Mrs. Henderson, I see you have matters well in hand.” Blackjack stood. “Good day, ladies.” He nodded at Mother, Emma, and Miss Amaretta in turn before ambling out of the dining room.

Mother pressed her lips together for a moment, then said briskly, “Emma, are you finished? We need to get started as well.”

“Mrs. Henderson.” Miss Amaretta Holly leaned forward. “A moment of your time, if you will.”

“Why, certainly.” Mother settled back in her chair.

Miss Holly flushed a delicate pink. “I must ask … do you truly intend to wear that—that dreadful
costume
—about town?”

Thunderation. Between Dixie John and Blackjack, Emma had almost forgotten the blasted Reform Dress.

“Most certainly,” Mother said coolly.

“I wish you would reconsider.”

Mother raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

Emma's cheeks flamed.
Mother, please don't argue with Miss Amaretta
, she pleaded silently.

“Let me tell you a little story.” Miss Amaretta drew a deep breath. “Over a year ago, my brother left our home in Ohio and traveled west to try his luck at gold mining. When he stopped writing, I came looking for him. Our parents were already dead, you see. We just had each other.”

Emma stared at her lap. Surely this story didn't have a happy ending.

“I traced him here, to Twin Pines, and learned that he had been shot and killed during a brawl in The Raven.” Miss Amaretta's voice trembled a bit, but she firmed it up. “I came very close to heading back to Ohio. But I saw too many other young men getting into trouble—drinking, gambling, heading up to the hills to pan for gold instead of tending to families. I decided to help build a decent community here, so that no other sister or mother would suffer a loss as I did. Men like Dixie John, boys like my brother, even Blackjack … they need a good,
womanly
influence. I've started a small dressmaking business, but much more importantly, I've started holding Sunday school. And I'm organizing a musical evening, with the proceeds to go toward a reading room or school—”

“I'll be happy to promote your efforts in the newspaper!” Mother's smile worried Emma.

Miss Amaretta flushed again. “But Mrs. Henderson … I'm afraid that you wearing that costume will undermine my efforts. Creating a strong,
decent
sense of community is very important to me.”

Miss Amaretta might as well have tossed a lighted firecracker onto the table! “Then we all have a great deal in common,” Emma said brightly. “Mother and I believe a good newspaper will help build that sense of community.” She stood up. “Mother, are you ready to go?”

Mother waited until they were outside before speaking. “Emma, that was very diplomatically said.” She paused. “But it's important for me to discuss dress reform with people like Miss Holly.”

“She seems nice,” Emma mumbled as they started toward the print shop. She ducked her head when she noticed several people stop and stare.

“Yes, she does. And I respect her beliefs. All I ask is that she respect mine as well.”

Remembering the look on Miss Amaretta Holly's face when she saw Mother's Reform Dress, Emma doubted that that would ever happen.

Emma began her first workday by sorting type. Mother had brought three sizes, called fonts: small for news articles and advertisements, larger for article headlines, largest for the newspaper title and major headlines. The hundreds of tiny lead pieces, each bearing the imprint of a single letter or punctuation mark, had become jumbled during the trip. Emma sat before the typecases—open wooden boxes with small compartments designated for each letter—and began organizing the type. The job was tedious, but important. Whoever set type for Mother's articles would need to know exactly where to reach for each letter.

Mother began her first workday by arguing with Mr. Spaulding. He garnered some favor by only nodding at Mother's attire, murmuring “How practical.” But Mother had no intention of compromising her needs. “Mr. Spaulding, you
promised
me two helpers.” Mother's hands were planted on her hips, and the look on her face almost made Emma feel sorry for Mr. Spaulding. “I can't accept anything less. Emma and I have turned our lives inside out based on your hollow promises. We need to get this equipment moved to the new print shop. I need a strong man to manage the press, and—”

“I, um … I expected that finding suitable help would be an easy undertaking. There are always men in Twin Pines looking for work—miners whose claims didn't pan out, or farmers' sons looking for a few extra pinches of gold dust. But I didn't quite account for the—the opposition to, well, that is …”

Emma paused, watching Mr. Spaulding shift his weight miserably from one foot to the other. He was already sweating, even though the morning was still cool. “Mrs. Henderson, no one is willing to work for a woman.”

Mother's eyes narrowed. “I see.”

Impatience surged through Emma. How stupid! She was starting to understand why Mother wanted to encourage what she called “social reform.”

“I will continue to look for the help you need,” Mr. Spaulding assured them. “And in the meantime, I am willing to offer my services, such as they are.”

Mother looked doubtful. Emma considered Mr. Spaulding's thick fingers. His hands looked as if they'd never done more than lift a pen. A “haloo” from outside the tent broke the awkward silence. A moment later Mr. Abbott ducked inside, followed by Jeremy and an older, taller boy.

They stopped cold when they saw Mother's outfit. “Great guns!” Jeremy exclaimed.

“Hush,” his father said, then turned back to Mother with a composed air. “Good morning.” He waved a rough-hewn piece of wood vaguely resembling a press lever. “I started this last night on my shaving bench, but I wanted to check the fit before finishing it off. And this is my oldest boy, Clark. I thought you might need a hand moving your equipment. We can spare a morning away from the farm.”

“Mr. Abbott,
bless
you,” Mother said. “Your arrival couldn't be more timely.”

“I'm delighted—delighted!” Mr. Spaulding pumped Mr. Abbott's hand. “And I have other business to attend to.” He disappeared with rather astonishing speed.

Jeremy's father leaned against one of the worktables, shaking his head. “When I bought my land from Spaulding, he was sure Twin Pines would thrive. He was full of enthusiasm! Now I think he's given up. He even offered to buy my place back. I think he feels guilty. A lot of us believed his promises of a boomtown.”

Mother frowned. “He can't have given up completely. He did bring me out here to start a newspaper.”

“When do you think you'll have a paper ready to distribute?”

“Well, my plan is to start with a prospectus—a single printed sheet, letting local people know that we're here and looking for subscribers and advertisers. If all goes well, I should have the prospectus ready in a few days. Then we'll work on the first real issue. I want a standard four-page newspaper, with one page for national news from the East, one page for local news, one page for notices and editorials, and one for literature and items of family interest. Emma will help with that.”

“Here's the situation.” Mr. Abbott dropped his voice. “My brother is visiting from back home in Indiana. He says about twenty families there are considering emigrating west. They're splitting off from their congregation and want to settle together. And they haven't chosen a final destination yet. Mrs. Henderson, I want them to choose Twin Pines. If they come here, we'll soon have a church. One of the men is a schoolteacher. And that many families could buy up most of the land Mr. Spaulding's still sitting on, so he'd get back his investment and have the capital he needs to invest in further improvements.”

“That sounds lovely!” Mother's face glowed.

“My brother has to leave for Indiana on the next stagecoach. That's six days from today. If he waits any longer, he'll miss the meeting where those folks decide where to settle. I want him to take fifty copies of your four-page newspaper with him. A good newspaper will give them a sign that we're a settled, stable community. Mrs. Henderson, can you get that paper done in time?”

Emma bit her lip, thinking that through. Six days! That didn't give them much time, especially if whoever didn't want them there had any more mischief in mind. But thinking about that steamed Emma up all over again.

“Absolutely,” Mother announced, just as Emma said, “Yes, we can.” They exchanged a startled glance. Then Mother flashed Emma a huge grin.

Mr. Abbott nodded, satisfied. “Emma, Mrs. Henderson,” he said, “it's going to be a pleasure doing business with you.”

C
HAPTER
5

U
P IN
F
LAMES

With the deadline agreed on, the Abbotts manhandled the press equipment into their wagon and transported it to the new print shop on the outskirts of town. The one-room shack had been constructed from broken-down packing crates. Words like
NAILS
and
LAMPBLACK
, faded but still visible, marched sideways or even upside down on some of the boards. The floor was sawdust. But two real windows provided light, and the door could be locked.

Emma spent the morning organizing the typecases while the others assembled the heavy printing press. “Oh, that's wonderful!” Mother exclaimed, when the Washington Press was ready. “I don't know what to do next—start composing articles, or head out to let people know that we're ready to take advertisements and subscriptions.”

“Why don't you let Jeremy and me do that?” Emma suggested. Her eyes were about to cross from squinting at the tiny letters. Besides, if Mother stayed in the print shop, fewer people would see her wearing trousers. And while Emma talked with townspeople about the newspaper, she could listen for suspicious remarks that might signal the troublemaker. “Jeremy can introduce me to people.”

After munching a cold lunch of beef and biscuits, Emma and Jeremy set out. Emma used one hand to keep her hem from trailing in the eggshells, cabbage leaves, and gnawed bones littering the street. In the other hand, she carried a small notebook, a pencil, and an old issue of the paper her mother had published in Chicago.

“Remember,” Mother called after her. “Write down one piece of news about each person.” Emma nodded.

Jeremy led her first toward a cabin labeled
Freight Office,
which fronted a scattering of buildings near the creek. Emma hesitated. She'd seen plenty of freight haulers on the road—both muleskinners, who rode the rearmost mule of a string pulling a wagon, and bullwhackers, who drove a team of oxen from the high seat in their big wagons. Most cursed like blazes, and they all cracked whips above the backs of their animals with nerve-plucking regularity. Rough men, all of them.

Could one of
them
have left the note and stolen the press handle?

Emma eyed the leaning shack proudly labeled
Warehouse
. Near it was a stable, a small corral, and a fleet of heavy wagons and draft animals. “Let's go,” she said. She followed Jeremy into the tiny freight office.

“Mr. Torkelson!” Jeremy greeted a wiry, ragged blond man behind the counter. “This is Emma Henderson. She has some business to discuss.”

“Hello, Emma!” Mr. Torkelson said. “What iss it I can do for you?”

Emma's tongue suddenly froze. She couldn't conduct business with men—especially men with thick accents and tobacco-juice stains on their stubbled chins. It wasn't proper! Why hadn't she let Mother plunge out to face the town herself?

Jeremy frowned, tipping his head toward Mr. Torkelson.

Emma swallowed hard. “Well, sir, I'm … that is … well, you probably wouldn't want to subscribe to a newspaper, would you?”