A Claim of Her Own (7 page)

Mr. English cleared his throat.

Mattie glanced at him. If she read his expression correctly—and she was very good at reading men’s faces—English didn’t think any of this was a good idea.

“It’s a promising claim,” Gates said. “If these offers don’t suit, you might even consider an auction. Everything decent was snapped up months ago, and plenty of latecomers will be eager to buy.” Gates reached for the two offers. “I could certainly help you with that. My fees are quite reasonable.”

So that’s what was going on. Gates charged a flat fee. He didn’t care what Mattie was paid—as long as he was the agent and as long as she sold right now, before learning any more about mining or the true worth of Dillon’s claim.

Gates appealed to Mr. English. “You know how things work around here, Tom. Tell the little lady these are good offers. We all have the same thing in mind here. We want to help her out of a tough spot. There’s many would say Deadwood is all thieving and whoring—begging your pardon, ma’am.” Gates smoothed his lapels and straightened his string tie. “But there’s plenty of us who look out for them that’s less fortunate, and the truth is, Miss O’Keefe”—he almost managed an expression of sincerity—“the truth is my heart just went out to you the minute I saw you. Poor little thing, coming all this way only to find that your dear brother has passed on, saddled with all the cares of a man’s world. It’s not right, Miss O’Keefe. You shouldn’t have to deal with it. Let Mr. English here—and me—help you out from under the burden.”

The man would not shut up. The longer Mattie was quiet, the more he talked. The more he talked, the angrier she got. Finally, she silenced him with an old trick she’d learned from one of her best customers.
“It’ll hush ’em up every time,”
Bill had said. And it worked. The minute Mattie pulled her gun out and set it on the desktop, Gates clamped his mouth shut. Mr. English snorted, and when Mattie glanced at him, she noted a suppressed smile. She cleared her throat, but still said nothing. Gates shifted in his chair.

“Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. Gates,” Mattie finally said. “For example, you seem to think I am a ‘poor little thing’ in need of rescue. Now, I can see how you’d think that. My brother, Dillon, meant the world to me, and at this moment,” she said, her voice wavering, “I am not at all certain how I am going to face life without him.” She cleared her throat again. “But just because I am grieving does not mean I am helpless. And just because I am a ‘little lady,’ as you put it, does not mean I am stupid.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Gates: Life hasn’t been particularly good to me. I have survived largely because of two things.” She ran her finger along the top of the pistol, caressing the curve of the grip, then placing her hand over it as she said, “My friend Mr. Colt would be the first of those two things.” She flashed a cold smile. “The second is a well-developed manure detector.” She inhaled and, curling her lips with displeasure, looked around the tiny office. “I can usually smell it a mile away, and this office reeks of it.”

Gates blustered a protest. Told her she had misunderstood. His only intention was—

Mattie stood up. Gates hushed. Mr. English rose to his feet beside her. Tucking the Colt back into the waist of her skirt, Mattie said, “Should anyone ask you, Mr. Gates, you can tell them that Number 7 Above Discovery is Mattie’s Claim. When I want to sell it, I’ll sell it. Right now, it pleases me to keep it. And anyone who wants to challenge that decision is welcome to mosey up the gulch and talk to me.” She paused at the door and turned back. “But make sure that anyone who
does
want to discuss this knows to come in the daylight, because after dark I shoot first and ask questions later.”

Just outside Ellis Gates’s office, Mr. English chortled. He adjusted his hat and scratched his beard. “Mind if I ask you something?”

Mattie hoped he couldn’t see how hard she was trembling as she tied her bonnet on. It had been a while since she’d had to bluff her way out of a difficult situation. She was rusty. And so she waited a minute before answering, just to be sure her voice wasn’t shaking as hard as the rest of her. “Yes,” she finally said, “the gun is mine. And yes, I know how to use it.”

Mr. English nodded. “Now can I ask
my
question instead of the one you made up for me?”

Mattie blushed and nodded.

“Why’d you ask me to sit in on that when you already knew you were going to keep the claim?”

“I
didn’t
know. Not until I realized my manure detector wasn’t the only one operating in that room.”

“How could you have known what I was thinking? I never said a word.”

“You didn’t have to say words. I could see you were thinking the same as I was.”

He frowned as he looked down at her. “You could?”

“Um-hmm.”

“How?”

With a sigh, she thought back. “It’s hard to explain. There’s a change in breathing. A slight increase in the tension. The way a man sits. The way he holds his head. You were coiling into yourself. Like a cat getting ready to pounce.”

English shook his head. “If you say so.”

“You do think I did the right thing not to take any of those offers?”

“Absolutely. Something’s not right. You can’t find any gold, and yet your brother wrote that he had had some measure of success—which is consistent with the news about town regarding that part of the gulch. It would have been premature for you to make a decision today.” He paused. “I know you enlisted my help because of my experience with mining—” he glanced down at the hook that had replaced his right hand—“but I can also tell you that one often lives to regret life-changing decisions made when grief is fresh.”

They had reached Mr. English’s lot. He broke off and changed the subject. “I appreciate your offer to help me with the store, Miss O’Keefe, but you needn’t feel obligated if—”

“Miss O’Keefe!”

It was Freddie, hurrying toward them, his face alight with excitement. “I finished it and I wanted to give it to you.” He held up the result of his carving.

Taking it in her hand, Mattie swallowed. This time, she couldn’t keep the tears back. As they trickled out she forced a little laugh and swiped at them. “Happy tears,” she said. “It’s lovely.” She put her hand on Freddie’s arm. “Thank you.”

She cleared her throat and turned to Mr. English. “And I absolutely insist you allow me to help you with that jumbled mess you’re calling a store.”

Together the three stepped into the tent. Mattie paused before taking off her bonnet to inspect the masterfully carved dog. Freddie Jannike couldn’t possibly have known about Justice. As she tucked the little figure into her skirt pocket, she thanked the kind spirit responsible for sending her a sign. She’d made the right decision about the claim.
Mattie’s Claim
. It had a nice ring to it.

C
HAPTER 4

If I have made gold my hope, or have said to the fine gold,
Thou art my confidence . . .
this also were an iniquity. . . .

Job 31:24, 28

I
t was raining and Freddie couldn’t sleep. Freddie could always sleep. But now he was worried. Too many things weren’t right. Mor was back but she wasn’t happy. She worked so hard and she was tired and now there were three other stores open in town and Mor’s couldn’t be first. She might not have a store at all now that Julius Talbot was gone. Julius was supposed to run the store while Mor did the freighting, but Freddie couldn’t find him. His shack up on City Creek was deserted. Someone said Julius had gone to the Cricket Saloon and come stumbling out and that was the last anyone saw of him. If Julius was the kind of man who made promises and then got so drunk he forgot about them, it was better that he wasn’t running Mor’s store. Mor had even said she might just sell the lot. She could keep freighting and things would be fine. That’s what she said but when she said it she sighed. Freddie knew that sigh. He wished he could make things better. Mor was tired of freighting. And besides . . . he missed her and Eva when they were gone.

He listened to the rain clattering against the canvas tent. When it rained hard like this City Creek ran out of its banks. Julius Talbot’s shack might be washing away tonight. His thoughts turned to Tom English. City Creek ran right behind his lot. Freddie thought about the empty shipping boxes Tom had had him stack back there—as if there were already a building on the lot and he was going out the back door. Those boxes just might all wash away tonight, too.

As he worried over Mor and the store she wanted and how Tom’s boxes might be floating away in the dark, Freddie smiled. Maybe he could fix things. Of course even if Mor and Tom liked Freddie’s idea, that still left Miss O’Keefe to worry about.

Mattie.
She’d said for him to call her Mattie tonight when they were working together helping Tom unpack all his crates. Mattie had such pretty eyes. Freddie had never seen eyes that color. He liked the way she smiled and how she was always nice to him. She didn’t treat him like he was stupid. She asked his opinion and more than once she thought he had a good idea and told him so. And she let him build some shelves and put the new oil lamps on them just like he wanted. Even Tom said he did a good job with those lamps. He said folks would probably buy them all faster because of the way Freddie had them “presented.” That was a new word. Stores “presented” things to people. It was a good word. People liked presents.

There was trouble with Mattie, too, though. And it wasn’t because her brother was dead. Freddie was worried about the way men stared at her. He had seen her touch the gun at her side several times tonight. Just making sure it was there. Which probably meant that Mattie noticed the men staring, too. And she didn’t like it, either.

Freddie worried about what Mattie was going to do. She wasn’t selling Dillon’s mine. Was she going to try and work it herself?
Naw.
Ladies don’t prospect. Everybody knows that.
But if Mattie was going to stay in Deadwood she would need a place to stay and some work to do because no one got food if they didn’t work. But Freddie didn’t think Mattie would want to do the only kind of work Deadwood had for women. He didn’t want her to, either.

Lightning flashed. Rain poured from the sky and pounded against the tent. Baby Eva woke up and started to cry. But Freddie still smiled. After thinking really hard, he had come up with answers to all the problems. He was so excited about his answers that he wanted to wake everyone up and tell them. But people got mad when you did that. He would wait until daylight. It would be hard, but he would wait.

The morning after her meeting with Ellis Gates, Mattie knelt on a pallet just inside Swede’s tent trying to change Eva’s wet diaper. How did Swede do it, anyway? Mattie had watched her changing Eva dozens of times on the trail, and this morning when she’d offered to stay with Eva while Swede and Freddie took care of some business at the bank, Mattie hadn’t even thought to ask about diaper changing. After all, how hard could it be? There was no reason to tell Swede she’d never done it. But obviously watching and doing were entirely different things when it came to diapers. She must be doing everything wrong, because Eva’s initial grunted protests had become full-blown screams. And then, just when Mattie was ready to give up, Eva smiled and lay still, focusing on something just over Mattie’s shoulder.

“Having a bit of trouble?” Mr. English’s voice hinted at amusement.

“She’s not much for cooperating this morning,” Mattie said without looking up. “I’m just on duty until Swede gets back from the bank, but this little one—” she chucked Eva under the chin—“has a mind of her own.”

“Let me try.” English knelt beside her. Eva giggled. And then in nothing flat he had the diapering finished.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?!” Mattie ignored the wet diaper and picked Eva up.

“Shiloh,” English said as he hooked the wet diaper and dropped it in the washtub sitting just outside.

“The same Shiloh with the cannonball?”

“The very same.”

Mattie stared up at him. “Mr. English—” she sniffed—“my manure detector is working again.”

“Miss O’Keefe, I have nothing to say.” He grinned. “Except that I wish you’d do me the honor of calling me Tom. After all, we have now shared disdain for Ellis Gates’s tactics . . . and diaper duty.”

Mattie laughed. “All right, Tom. And I’m Mattie.”

Tom nodded. “Mattie. Pleased to meet you.”

Swede and Freddie came into view slogging through the mud from the direction of the bank. As soon as Swede was within earshot, Tom called out, “Freddie tells me his mor wants to talk to me.”

“Yah, sure,” Swede said.

Tom gestured around them. “You’ve sold quite a bit of your goods. I thought you had plans to open a store, too. At this rate, you won’t need one.”

“Vell,” Swede said as she took Eva in her arms, “ve shall see.” She motioned toward the campfire. “May I offer you coffee?”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll get it,” Mattie said, motioning for everyone to sit down.
At least I know how to pour coffee.
Of course
making
it was another subject entirely. While Mattie was rinsing out four tin coffee mugs, Tom was teasing Eva, reciting a rhyme while he tugged on her bare toes. Eva began to reach for him.