A Claim of Her Own (6 page)

English nodded. “I’ve seen claims where the bedrock is further down than it is here and they start to dig tunnels between the holes. Without bothering to shore anything up.”

“That’s insane,” Mattie said. “If it caved in . . .” She shuddered.

“Och, see here now, me fine buckos, ’tis a hummin’bird come doon to alight in the gulch!” The voice belonged to a man with hair so red it was almost orange. He was standing just above them, his hat in his hand. “Hugh McKay, miss,” he said, and with a dip of his head gave a little bow by way of greeting. He gestured at the two young men working a sluice box on his claim. “And these be me sons, Fergus and Finn. Soon as I saw ye my heart lep in me throat, knowin’ it must be herself, the sister of our dear departed Dillon.”

“And if I’m not mistaken,” Mattie answered with a smile, “you’d be the McKays my brother wrote about.”
Three Scotsmen crazy as
loons and drunk most of the time, but I like them.
Happily, the McKays didn’t seem drunk now, Mattie thought, but then who knew. She’d seen men play an expert hand of poker only to fall flat when they stood up to leave.

“Now, don’t be believin’ everything ye’ve been told,” Mr. McKay said, then shouted for his boys to come near. “Here she is, boys, the verra picture of loveliness, just as Dillon described.” When the boys only stared, their father shook his head. “You’ll have to excuse me boys, miss. Hummin’birds be rare things hereabouts.” He cleared his throat. “We loved your brother, Miss O’Keefe, and we mourn him sincerely.” He put his hat over his heart.

Mattie felt tears gathering. She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I-I’ve come to see the claim,” she said, nodding at Tom English as she did. “Mr. English has been describing the finer points of mining on our way up here.” She looked around. “Dillon’s letters make so much more sense to me now.”

“Have you seen a rocker in use, miss?” Fergus McKay piped up.

“No,” Mattie said with a shake of her head. She glanced at Mr. English. “Although Mr. English was kind enough to describe it on the way up here.” She smiled at the young Mr. McKay. “Would you have time to explain how it works?” Now that she’d met someone who’d known Dillon, she felt inclined to delay the moment when she’d actually step onto his claim . . . face his empty tent . . . see his unused tools . . . the cot where he slept . . . the little stove that kept him warm. It was all just a few hundred feet above her now, but she didn’t want to look. Not yet.

“ ’Tis only another way to wash the gold out of the gravel,” the brother named Finn said as they walked over to it. “One man shovels gravel in—”

“—that one bein’ myself,” Fergus McKay broke in, “since me brother does-nah care for the back-breakin’ part of the work.”

The brother in question glowered. “As I was sayin’, one shovels it in here,” he explained, pointing to the upper end of the rocker, which really did look a bit like a cradle, “and then chases it with water.” He mimicked emptying a bucket of water into the rocker. “Then,” he said, grasping the pole attached to one side, “I rock while me brother—”

“—while I pick out the treasure.” Fergus motioned for Mattie to come closer. “See those iron plates in the bottom? And the holes? As Finn is rockin’—which even a little thing like you could do if a man was to refrain from dumpin’ a ton of gravel in—the gold falls through the holes and the rest gets washed out—”

“And then while Fergus keeps to the easy task of picking out the gold,” Finn said, “I repeat the back-breakin’ part.”

“All right, you two,” the elder Mr. McKay said. “See here now, boys, the bonny lass is after larnin’, not hearin’ you complain.”

“So the rocker does the same thing as panning—only it handles more gravel faster,” Mattie said. When the McKay men all nodded, she pointed back down the gulch toward another claim. “And the next step up from the rocker is those sluice boxes, and once you’ve gleaned all the gold from the surface, you start digging down to bedrock.” Again, the McKays nodded. “Mining is hard work,” she said. “A lot of hard work.”

“Sure, and many there is that don’t take t’ it,” Mr. McKay said. “But Dillon was a fine one in that regard. A fine one in the sunny lust of life,” he sighed. “We miss him, lass.”

Once again, Mattie barely managed the emotions roiling inside her. Mr. English intervened and, touching her arm, wished the McKays a good day and led the way toward Dillon’s claim. As they climbed, Mattie regained her composure. Finally, she said, “Dillon wrote about using a toothpick. Does that mean anything to you?”

Mr. English pointed to the tent pitched atop a log frame. “If there’s still a gold pan on your brother’s claim, I’ll show you what he was talking about.”

Dillon.
Mattie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to fight off the threatening flood of tears.

“There now,” Mr. English said quietly, and led her to a stump beside what had obviously been Dillon’s campfire. “Sit for a moment,” he said gently. He pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it over.

Mattie looked around her, at the scraggly pine trees along one edge of the claim, at the brook rushing through, and up toward the rim of the gulch. Miners had cleared away most of the timber down below, but high above them pine and spruce, birch and cedar grew at strange angles out of clefts in the rock. A bird of some kind soared into view and then out again. She stared back down the gulch toward town. There was plenty of beauty here if you looked past the mining debris.

Taking a deep breath, she stood up and went to Dillon’s tent. With trembling hands, she untied the canvas strips holding the flap closed, lifted the flap, and peered inside. A narrow cot to the right, a small black stove in the middle, a large coffee box to the left—larger than the one Swede was using for Eva’s cradle—and that was all, save for a Dutch oven and a few other cooking utensils sitting in front of the supply box. A pile of mining equipment occupied the far back corner. Mattie motioned for Mr. English to step closer. “I think there’s a pan over there,” she said.

Mr. English glanced inside and nodded. “I’ve never seen such a well-kept claim.”

“Dillon was always careful with his things. When he was a little boy he never broke a toy, never tore a page in a book.” She stepped back and pointed at the log frame atop which the tent was pitched. “Why’d he do that?”

English pointed out a spike driven into one log near the corner. “If there’s color to be followed, this makes it simpler to move the tent. It also helps keep the canvas dry.” He gestured toward the open tent flap. “You take your time with this. I won’t be far off when you’re ready to talk—or leave.”

Mattie watched him climb the gulch.
What a thoughtful man.
Taking a deep breath, she ducked back inside. Dillon’s cot was little more than a pallet on the earthen floor. No wonder he’d ended up with pneumonia. She opened the supply box. Work pants and a worn pair of boots, two shirts, two blankets—why hadn’t he used them?—some matches, and finally, at the very bottom, a cracker tin alongside a Bible and another familiar book. Mattie held the book up to the light, tracing the title with her fingertips. Dillon had read this book to her so many times when she was little she’d memorized it. But still, she begged him to read it to her again and again, simply because the sound of his voice was a comfort. A reassurance. A reminder that however harsh the world, someone loved her. Someone strong. Someone . . . gone. How could he be gone?

Oh . . . Dillon. What am I going to do now?

Closing the lid of the supply box, she sat down on the cot.
Well,
here it is. All you have in the world. There’s no gold. Whether Dillon was
fabricating good news or someone stole what he had, you’ll never know.
There’s no gold . . . no money . . . nothing but this tent and a claim that
could very well be completely worthless.

She was so tired. Weary to the bone. Weary from climbing the mile and a half up here, from trying to keep her footing secure in scuffed thin-soled boots, from trying to be brave and keep her composure . . . She felt worn out by life. She could bear it if Dillon were here. But facing all of this alone . . . sitting here in a dusty skirt with a tattered hem . . . with poverty just a few days away . . . with Dillon gone . . . it was all too much.

Mattie put her head in her hands and cried.

When Mattie finally went back outside, Mr. English had crossed the creek and was standing with his back to her, staring down at something in his hand. “We can go back now,” she called. He dropped the rock he’d been inspecting and, splashing through the creek, came to her side. “There’s no gold,” she said. “There’s . . .” She looked behind her. “There’s nothing for me here.” Her voice broke.

“I am so sorry. It’s obvious you were very close to your brother.”

Mattie nodded. “We were going to buy a place with his earning from this . . .” She gestured around her. “A farm or maybe a ranch or—” She broke off. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Blinking away the last of her tears, Mattie tried to imagine Dillon sitting by a campfire writing to her of his promise to send for her soon. It just didn’t make any sense. If he was sending for her soon, then where was the gold?

“I said I’d show you what your brother meant by mining with a toothpick,” Mr. English said. “Shall I do it now?”

Mattie shook her head. Tying the tent flap closed as she spoke, she said, “No. Thank you, but it doesn’t matter.”

Mattie and Mr. English had barely reached the first building at the edge of town when Ellis Gates came wheezing his way toward them. “I have pressing business in regard to the claim,” he said to Mr. English, with barely a glance in Mattie’s direction.

“Then you’d best be talking to the woman who owns it,” English said, pressing Mattie forward even as he stepped back as if to leave.

“Please,” Mattie said, touching his sleeve. She turned away from Gates and lowered her voice. “Please. You’re the only person in Deadwood with knowledge of mining. I trust you.” And just like that, she realized that she did trust him. But instead of agreeing to help her further, English was glancing up the street toward his fledgling business.

She couldn’t blame the man for hesitating. After all, she’d seen the unfinished shelving and crates of merchandise waiting to be unpacked when Freddie took her over to meet him. How much business had he already missed because of her? She said quickly, “I’ll help you set up your store. We can light lamps and I’ll work all night if necessary. But please—” She glanced back at Gates.

English nodded. “All right.”

“Thank you.” Mattie squeezed his arm before addressing Mr. Gates. “What is it?”

“To my office,” he blustered. “It’s a matter of some importance—” he leaned close and glanced around him like a conspirator “—and requires the utmost discretion.”

Nothing about the next few moments changed Mattie’s initial opinion of Ellis Gates. The moment she and Mr. English were seated across from the battered desk in his minuscule office, he began to once again address English.

“Knowing of Miss O’Keefe’s situation, I took the liberty of making a few inquiries on her behalf while you escorted her up to the claim.” He laced his fingers together in a gesture designed to make him look relaxed, but Mattie noted his trembling hands and the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

Grief and depression retreated in the face of the revolting little man’s obvious assumptions that she was not only weak and defenseless, but also brainless. “How kind of you.” She forced a smile. “My appreciation could only increase if you were to actually talk to
me
about
my
claim.”

Gates squirmed in his chair. “Yes. Well.” With a clearing of his throat, he unlaced his fingers, leaned back, and, opening the center drawer of his desk, withdrew two pieces of paper and slid them across the desktop. “What you have here, Miss O’Keefe, are two competing offers for your claim. This one,” he said, tapping the one on the right with a grimy finger, “is probably the best of the two.” He looked at Mr. English. “I believe you will agree, Tom, that cash is more desirable than unpredictable percentages of unknowable future findings.” He raced ahead. “The cash offer is from Mr. Hardin—” he looked at Mattie—“who Mr. English will undoubtedly agree is one of the better-known miners in the area.”

Gates tapped the other paper. “This one asks that Miss O’Keefe— you—accept less in cash, but it promises four percent of everything taken off the claim over the next two years. This is offered by Brady Sloan, who has an interest in the claim just above hers—” he quickly looked at Mattie—“yours, that is.” When Mattie didn’t react, Gates smiled. “And I have also just spoken with another interested party who is willing to match any other offer and add a five-hundred-dollar bonus upon transfer of ownership.”

Mattie reached for the cash offer. Mr. Arthur Hardin was offering two thousand dollars for Dillon’s claim. Two
thousand
. And if she sold to Gates’s unnamed “other party,” she would have five hundred more. She pondered. How much did a nice tombstone cost? How much would Swede charge for hauling it? More important, how far from Abilene, Kansas, would what was left take her?