Searching for Silverheels (6 page)

Frank was drawn at once toward the old dance hall. It was the largest and finest building in the abandoned town site, a two-story structure crowning the top of a low hill. With its milled clapboard walls and well-finished door and window frames, it sat like a stately queen overlooking the cluster of log cabins and crooked shacks that made up the rest of the town.

“That's where Silverheels herself danced,” I told Frank, hurrying to keep up as he climbed the hill with long purposeful strides. Willie had stayed behind to secure the brake on the trap and put rocks behind its wheels.

Frank reached the door of the dance hall and stepped through without hesitation. I liked him for that—so many city folks declared the old buildings too dirty or unsafe. That was certainly true of the empty mine shafts and riggings that dotted the mountainsides, but the dance hall was still a fine building and I loved going into it.

“The piano must have stood over in that corner,” Frank said as he looked around the big downstairs room. “And maybe they had a bit of a stage over there.” When he had turned three-fourths of the way around, he was facing me. “And right here where we are standing is where all the men would line up to dance with—what did you call her? Silver Shoes?”

“Silverheels,” I corrected.

“Right. Her.” He suddenly bowed to me and said, “Silverheels, would you do me the honor of this dance?”

Before I could answer, he grabbed me around the waist with one arm and took my hand with the other, and we were off swirling around the room in a lively polka as he hummed accompaniment for us. I couldn't help laughing when my old straw hat flew off and landed where we had imagined the pianist to be.

We had circled the room once when Willie stepped through the door. He watched us make a second circuit, then stepped into our path as we came past him again.

“Excuse me, but I must cut in,” he said. “You dance so charmingly, Silverheels, that I must have the next dance!”

Frank and I stepped apart. To my surprise, Willie grabbed Frank's hand instead of mine and the two of them resumed the crazy polka around the room. Still dizzy from my spin, I fell over laughing. It was like the old, fun Willie had come back as soon as we had gotten away from Como. Frank proved himself a good sport by doubling the tempo once he got over his initial surprise, and they wheeled so crazily around the room that I just knew they would crash into something and hurt themselves. At last they broke apart. Frank spun past me by himself, then collapsed beside me, laughing and breathing hard as he stretched his long legs out on the boards. Willie did one last jig, apparently having now become Silverheels instead of her suitor. He kicked his bulky boot heels up in several silly steps, pranced toward us on his toes, then dropped into a clumsy curtsy, holding imaginary skirts wide with both hands. Frank and I clapped
enthusiastically, and Willie plopped down beside us. We sat in silence in the cool room while they both caught their breath. Then Frank got back to his feet and retrieved my hat from the corner.

“So that's the dance hall,” he said, grinning. He extended a hand and pulled me back up to my feet. “I can't wait to try out the saloon.”

We walked through the rest of the town site, poking our heads through cabin windows or pantomiming the lives of the people who had once lived there. At the saloon, we passed around the canteen and offered toasts to everything we could think of. At the old mercantile I went behind the counter and “sold” Willie and Frank the cheese sandwiches from my pockets, a little worse for the wear from the day's activities. We found a sunny patch beside the creek and sat to eat them.

“What's that over there?” Frank asked, pointing across the water. From where we sat we could see a leaning picket fence amid a grove of young aspen.

“That's the old cemetery,” I said.

“Where the ghost of Silverheels still walks,” Willie said in a low, mysterious way. He was trying to give Frank a shiver, but his mouth was too full of cheese sandwich for his voice to sound ominous.

Frank chewed, considering. “She wouldn't have to be a ghost, you know. She didn't die in the epidemic, right?”

“Right.”

“So say she was eighteen—Annie's age. She'd be about seventy-five now, right?”

Willie laughed. “Well, when people see the veiled woman in the cemetery, they never mention her having a cane.”

“Have either of you ever seen her?” Frank asked.

Neither of us had. The story had always finished with the suggestion that people had seen her, or her ghost, but I'd never put much stock in that part of the legend.

“Let's go over and see if she's there now,” Willie suggested.

We pulled off our shoes and socks and waded across the cold creek. On the other side, we climbed the slope to the cemetery, where the picket fence leaned crazily, first one way, then another. There was no gate, or if there had been it had disappeared years ago, so it was easy to enter the little graveyard. Many of the graves had no markers, consisting only of a rectangular outline of stones nearly hidden among the weeds. Others had simple wood crosses made of two weathered boards nailed together. Names and dates had been carved or painted on the cross boards. Only a handful of graves had actual headstones. I took the paper and pencil from my pocket and began writing down the names I could read.

“What are you doing that for?” Willie asked.

I wasn't sure what Willie would think if he knew I had a bet with Josie, so I just shrugged. “I'm just curious, that's all,” I said.

“Curious about dead people?” Willie scoffed, as if it was
the craziest thing he had ever heard.

“Curious about who might have known Silverheels,” I said. “Maybe some of them still have relations around here.”

Frank's face lit up. “Do you think so? That there might be people around who remember her?”

“Maybe,” I said with another shrug.

“I'll help you,” Frank said. Willie stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched, while Frank began reading names off crosses for me to write down.

Though it was early in the year and the grasses and weeds were not yet tall enough to completely hide the graves, the place looked overgrown and forgotten. In places Frank had to push aside snarls of weeds or thorny raspberry thickets to read the names. Gradually, we worked our way toward the back corner of the cemetery, to the very oldest graves, the names and dates getting harder to make out as we went.

“This is where the victims of the smallpox epidemic are buried,” I said when we reached the very back corner. Frank nodded as we examined the tilting wooden crosses. Few of the names were legible, but here and there the dates still stood out.

“They were all so young,” Frank said in a quiet voice as he moved from grave to grave. His playful mood from earlier had become subdued here in the most overgrown and forgotten part of the cemetery. “Imagine coming here thinking you'd get rich, and dying of smallpox instead.”

“Maybe they would have died of smallpox at home, too,”
Willie said. He was leaning against a tree nearby, watching but refusing to help.

“But if they'd stayed home, they would have had their families around them. Their wives and mothers to take care of them,” Frank said.

“That's why Silverheels was so beloved,” I said. “She gave that feminine comfort to ease their suffering.”

Frank nodded as he moved from cross to cross. “Why do you suppose she stayed?” he asked.

“She knew they were far from home and needed her,” I said.

“Maybe she was hoping for a big reward,” Willie said. “After all, some of those miners must have had a big stash of gold.”

Frank frowned at Willie. “That spoils the story, don't you think?” He squatted down beside the last cross in the row.

“Hey, look at this.”

I bent over his shoulder. The cross had recently been straightened and supported by a fresh pile of dirt at its base, and someone had scratched into the shallowly carved name on the cross slat so that the fading words were once again clearly visible:

BUCK WILSON 1840–1861

Frank looked up at me and our eyes met.

“Why do you think Silverheels stayed?” Willie asked from
his tree across the little graveyard. He couldn't see what we were looking at and was still thinking about Silverheels.

Frank ran his fingers lightly over the name that someone had so carefully preserved. “I think,” he murmured, “that she did it for love.”

W
e were quiet in the trap on the way back to town. I imagined Frank was thinking about Silverheels, and about love that endured all. Willie was probably thinking about going fishing. I was thinking about my first good clue, and how I might use it to convince Josie my version of the story was right. I had to find out more about Buck Wilson and who in Park County remembered him, and I was delighted to have found both an ally and an alibi in Frank. After all, he wanted to know the truth about Silverheels as much as I did. I could enlist his help investigating her and no one would suspect I had a wager with Josie. And I liked Frank, even if he wasn't as handsome or charming as George. Searching for Silverheels with Frank would be fun.

As we arrived back in town, Willie said he wanted to stop in at the mercantile, so we dropped him off. Normally I would have gone into the store too, in case George was there, but I had an idea of how Frank might help me, so I went on alone with him.

“Would you like to come by the café tonight and talk to the old-timers?” I suggested. “They can remember back to the
mining boom days. They might be able to tell us more about Buck Wilson and who tends his grave.”

“Do you think any of them remember Silverheels herself?” Frank asked, his voice eager.

“I asked this morning. They didn't think anyone was still around from back then, but someone must be. Otherwise, who would have tended that grave?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the paper on which I'd written down the names from the grave markers. “Maybe if we show them this list they will recognize the family name of someone still around.”

“Okay, I'll come by after supper. Maybe you could save me a piece of your mother's pie.”

“Sure. Mother makes the best pie in town,” I said.

Frank pulled the horse to a stop at the hitching rail in front of the hotel and we climbed down. I was brushing the dust out of my skirt when Imogene came bursting out of the hotel.

“Hello, Pearl. Hello, Mr. Frank. Did you have a nice buggy ride in the park?”

Frank smiled back. “It was a very pleasant day,” he said politely.

Imogene gave him a little curtsy, then linked her arm through mine and began walking me toward the café. When we were just a few steps from Frank she started talking again, her voice lowered.

“George came by the café looking for you earlier today. I thought he might be coming by to ask you to the picnic, so I didn't tell him you'd gone off on a buggy ride with another
boy. You should be extra sweet to George next time you see him. You don't want to miss your chance because of Frank, do you? He's just going to forget you the minute he gets on the train, you know.”

I pulled my arm out of hers. “Imogene, we dropped Willie off at the mercantile. I bet you could catch him walking back to the café if you hurry,” I said.

Imogene's face lit with a smile so big I thought her teeth might fall out. “Thanks, Pearl!” She hurried off up the street to pester Willie with her feminine charms and left me to continue on into the café. She was my best friend, and I knew she was right—I didn't want to give George Crawford the wrong impression. But I had to keep working with Frank to gather information about Silverheels. I'd rather George had the wrong idea about me and Frank than know the truth about me and Josie. After all, as Imogene had said, Frank would be gone in a few days. Surely George wouldn't think I was doing anything improper. I spent time with tourists every summer, and Willie had accompanied us the whole way.

When Frank arrived in the café later that evening, I took him to the old-timers' table and introduced him all around. “Frank would like to know more about Silverheels and the mining days, and I told him you all remember a few things.”

“That we do, lad. A few things,” Orv said, sliding back an empty chair and inviting Frank to sit down. As soon as he did, they all launched into stories of the glory days, when gold and silver flowed out of Park County like water, and
everyone dreamed of getting rich. As they talked, the nuggets seemed to get bigger and the saloon girls prettier. Frank listened eagerly to everything. Either he was truly interested or a very good sport.

“What about Silverheels? Did anybody stay around who knew her?” Frank prompted after hearing several of their personal stories.

“Most all of the fifty-niners were gone a long time ago,” Russell said.

“But there must still be someone around who knows people buried in that cemetery. Relatives, or old friends? Pearl and I made a list.” Frank retrieved the list from me and started running his finger down it, reading out names:

“John Gordon

Theodore Birchum

Elijah Weldon

Zachariah Stuart

Edwin Carlisle . . .”

Russell snapped his fingers. “Carlisle. That's Mae Nelson's family name. Her father and one uncle are buried up there. She moved down to Fairplay when everything closed down in Buckskin Joe. She'd be the one to talk to.”

“That's right,” Orv said. “She's one of the ones who saw the Veiled Lady in the cemetery.”

A prickle of goose bumps broke out along my arms. “And she's in Fairplay?” I asked.

“Is that far?” Frank asked.

I shook my head. “We could go in the afternoon tomorrow.”

“Does she still go to the cemetery to tend the graves?” Frank asked.

“Don't rightly know,” said Orv. “Old Mrs. Carlisle, her mother, moved on down to Denver a few years back. Couldn't take the mountain winters in her old bones anymore.”