The Long Trail Home (17 page)

“I'll give you a couple of weeks exposure to the business here,” Cyrus promised. “At least you'd learn enough to know if this is a good deal.”

“You'll have to eat all your meals with us during those two weeks,” Amanda insisted.

“Now, that is a convincin' argument, providin' I get to hold little dumplin' on my knee,” Sam said. “But I might be a big flop at this. I'm not a suit and tie man. I lived most of my life on the ground next to a campfire and a horse saddled and ready to ride.”

“But you scrub up good,” Amanda added. “You told me that yourself.”

“Look, folks. You don't know me. A man wanted to kill me just last night.”

“Did he have a good reason?” she asked.

“No, ma'am, he didn't.”

“Sam, do you believe Jesus died for your sins?” she asked.

“I suppose so . . . ,” he mumbled. “Why do you ask me that?”

“Because I believe you ought to start living like you believe it. Of course you've had failures in the past. Sinners are the only kind of folks the Lord has to work with. Leave your sins at the cross, and get on with your life.”

Fortune shook his head at Cyrus Edgington. “Your wife is quiet an exhorter.”

A wide grin crept across Edgington's face. “Actually, she's rather subdued today. I suppose she's a little tired from yesterday's ordeal.”

Rocklin rested against Sam's chest, and he leaned over and kissed her forehead before looking up. “Let me get this straight: I ride into some town, get the mayor and city government to sell us telephone rights, and gather people to start takin' subscriptions?”

Cyrus Edgington's arms waved like an orchestra conductor's. “Yes, and once you have fifty subscribers, we can install the equipment. I can contract that work out, but you would need to supervise it. Once you have a hundred signed up, I guarantee you, we will make money. We'll put up the capital, you'll run the business, and we'll split the profits. It's hard work, but it'll be worth it, Sam.”

Fortune shook his head. “This might be like tryin' to teach a cat to swim. I don't know if I can pull it off.”

“All you would be out is your time. I'm going to expand my business. This two thousand two hundred and forty dollars is the seed money to do that. If you don't want the partnership, I'll have to find someone else up there who does. But it's not just a business, Sam—it's a public service. We're helping people: helping people telephone the doctor, the sheriff, their sick mothers. It's a good business, Sam.”

Fortune looked at Amanda and then at Cyrus. “You two could get arrested for ambushin' a man like this. But up where? Did you have a target city in mind?”

“I've got the perfect place in mind: the northern Black Hills of Dakota Territory. I want to establish a telephone exchange in Deadwood and Lead. It will be one company. Then we'll move down to Rapid City, Hill City, and Custer City. Eventually we'll tie them together, all the way down here to Cheyenne. Can you imagine that? Someday we'll pick up our telephone and talk to folks in the Black Hills.”

Fortune stared at Cyrus Edgington.
Lord, you're doin' this to me, aren't you? You've been pushin' and proddin' me for weeks to go up there and see what happened to Daddy.

“Sam? Is everything all right?” Amanda pressed.

Ever since I got Daddy's carbine, you've been pushin' me. You just won't let up, will you?

“Did I say something wrong?” Cyrus Edgington asked.

“I just can't believe you said Deadwood,” Sam mumbled.

“Oh, my!” Amanda exclaimed. “Do you have friends or enemies there?”

“I don't know, Amanda . . . I really don't know. I've never been there, and I've spent most of the past ten years avoidin' goin' there.”

“That sounds like Jonah avoiding Nineveh, doesn't it?” Amanda said.

“So what do you think of the idea?” Cyrus challenged.

“I think it's got me by the throat and won't turn me loose unless I agree.”

“Splendid. That means you'll give it a try?”

Sam leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “I reckon I'll have to. But I have no idea if it will turn out to be heaven . . . or hell.”

CHAPTER SIX

The northern Black Hills of Dakota Territory,

289 miles north of Cheyenne City

Samuel Fortune paused at the top of Whitewood Gulch. Traffic on the road had increased as he approached Deadwood, so he rode his buckskin, Picket, up the hill to the east to a thick grove of new-growth ponderosa pines. The sun hid behind a thin veneer of gray clouds, but he knew it was about noon.

He tied up the horses then pulled a brown leather satchel off the red roan mare. The dark gray suit was still neatly folded inside. He set it gingerly on a flat rock and began to pull off his boiled white shirt, leather vest, and ducking trousers.

To the west he could hear the giant stamp mills of the Homestake Mine pound out their rhythm of success. He watched the roadway as he tied his black tie tight under the crisp collar of his laundered, white shirt.

Three more miles.

I still want to turn around and ride back to Indian Territory.

Lord, you and me settled up along the trail. At least, I stopped runnin' long enough for you to catch up and give me a good shakin'. But this is different. I don't know how to do this. I don't even know what to say. “Excuse me, I'm Samuel Fortune, the son that didn't show up for his father's funeral. I'm lookin' for a twenty-one-year-old lady, my little sister whom I haven't seen in twelve or thirteen years.”

He pulled on the light wool suit trousers and buttoned the matching vest.

I don't even know if she's still here. And Todd? What happened to my brother?

With his suit coat still lying on the rock he walked over to the saddled buckskin and pulled the Sharps carbine from the scabbard. He fingered the receiver and stock, raised it to his shoulder, then followed an imaginary target across the cloudy sky.

Why didn't this go to Todd? Lord, I don't know what scares me more: ridin' into Deadwood and findin' all my family . . . or ridin' into Deadwood and findin' none of them.

Of course, I could just swing around to Spearfish, send the money back to Cyrus and Amanda Edgington, then keep ridin' up to Montana . . . or Idaho. Idaho's the place! No one goes to Idaho except old Californian outlaws and saints from Salt Lake City.

Sam slipped the gun back into the basket-stamped, leather scabbard and pulled on his suit coat. He straightened the collar and adjusted a silver watch chain. He tried to whack road dust off his gray Stetson, before he shoved it on the back of his head. He brushed his sandy blond and gray, freshly trimmed mustache with his fingertips.

Sam Fortune, businessman, future partner of the Edgington and Fortune Telephone Exchange. This scene is like a dream—like someone else's dream, not mine. I don't know what I'm doin' here, Lord. I got a feelin' this was your idea, not mine. I surmise it's a way to chastise me. Heaven knows I need it.

Sam pulled a small journal out of his saddle bags and studied his recent entries.
Chugwater . . . Eagles Nest . . . Bracken­ridge . . . Government Farms . . . Rawhide Buttes . . . Alum Springs . . . Red Cañon . . . Custer City . . . Twelve Mile . . . Mountain City . . . Rapid Creek . . . I've got three more miles to go. Have mercy on me, Lord.

Sam yanked the cinch tight on Picket then climbed up into the saddle.

I spent two weeks tryin' to learn all about a business I'd never heard of until a month ago. I'll make you a deal, Lord. If this whole telephone idea is as crazy as I think it is, laugh me out of town in the first couple of days.

“Well, ponies, let's see what's three miles down the gulch. You two will never know what great lives you live. You eat, drink, pack a saddle, and watch out for spooky demons that hide behind every sage. That's about all you have to worry about. Enjoy it.”

Cabins were scattered haphazardly along the tiny creek as he rode deeper into the gulch. The hillsides stretched out and were littered with dig holes and tailing piles. When he reached a bend in Whitewood Creek, the hillside leveled. Several blocks of houses stretched before him. He stopped to watch the activity in the yards of two Victorian homes.

What if one of those was Todd's? What if that's his Rebekah in the yard? What if those are his children? Does he have children? They've been married six . . . no, eight years, I think. There's got to be kids.

Fortune followed the creek into Deadwood, but avoided Main Street. Instead, he rode straight to the Montana Livery.

A teenage boy with a floppy, felt hat that drooped to his big ears greeted him as he dismounted. “Howdy, mister, can I board your horses for you?”

There was very little air movement, and Sam felt sweat soaking into the tight shirt collar. “Thanks, son. Grain them at night and in the mornin' with whole oats, not rolled. The buckskin gets two tablespoons of molasses straight on his tongue at night.”

“Molasses?”

Fortune climbed down and stretched his arms. “It helps him sleep better. Have you ever tried it?”

The teenager stared at Sam. “Are you joshin' me?”

“About sleepin'? Yep. But not about the molasses.” He handed the boy the leather reins.

“You come to town for the convention or the weddin'?”

He walked with the lad toward the huge, unpainted barn. There was a strong aroma of horse sweat, fresh hay, and stale manure. “None of them, but it sounds like a busy weekend.”

“Yes, sir, it surely is. There's that big weddin' up at the church, plus the Dakota Stockman's Convention. Say, what name you want me to board these horses under?”

“List them as C.T.E. for Cheyenne Telephone Exchange.”

“I heard about them telephones.” The boy rubbed his dirty, hairless chin. “You goin' to start a company here in Deadwood?”

Sam wiped the dirt and grime out of the corner of the horses' eyes with his thumbs. “I just might.”

“Well, I'll be. Ain't that something? We need one right here at the livery. Say a man's stayin' at the hotel and wants a carriage to go sparkin' in. He can telephone us, and we'll have it ready to roll before he and his little darlin' ever show up to fetch it. Wouldn't that be somethin'?”

“It's an amazin' device, all right.” Sam asked Picket for a foot and inspected the horse's left hock.

“How does it work, mister? Someone said that if you climb a pole and put your ear to the wire, you can hear all them voices just a jabberin' about. It that true?” The boy slipped off Picket's bridle and bit then replaced them with a braided headstall and lead rope.

“Nope. You can't 'cipher a thing without a receiver.” Sam released Picket's leg and untied his saddlebags.

The boy turned his attention to the red roan. “How do they get a man's voice to go down a wire like that?”

“I have no idea in the world . . . ,” Sam replied, pulling the Sharps carbine from the scabbard.

“You work for the telephone company, and you don't know how it works?” The boy grabbed the roan's lips and forced her mouth open, surveying her teeth.

Sam reached into his bedroll and pulled out his holster and revolver. “Son, did you ever turn a switch and have one of those electricity bulbs come on?”

“Yes, sir . . . ,” the boy seemed distracted by Sam's well-worn holster, “one time in Cheyenne City.”

Sam strapped the gun under his suit coat. “Did you enjoy the light?”

“Yep.” The boy nodded at the gun, “You expectin' trouble?”

“Nope. Just a habit, son.” Sam straightened his coat over the holster. “Do you know what electricity is and how it lights that bulb?”

“No, sir, I don't.”

“You see, it's possible to enjoy somethin' without being able to explain everything about it.”

“I guess you're right.”

“It's like knowin' the Lord, ain't it? We can enjoy the benefits without understandin' everythin' about him.”

The boy shrugged. “I, eh, never thought of it that way. Now you're beginnin' to sound like a sky pilot.”

“That's somethin' I've never been accused of,” Sam grinned. “Do I look like a preacher?”

“Nope, but you don't look like a businessman, neither. I figured you for one of the stock growers. I mean no offense.” The boy tugged off Sam's saddle and looped it over the top rail of the corral.

“Son, I consider that a compliment.”

“Where are you stayin'?” The boy pointed to Main Street, “I'll deliver your bags.”

Sam peered inside his saddlebags but didn't remove anything. “I haven't decided on a place. Where would you recommend?”

The boy pulled off his hat and fanned his forehead, which sported a tan line straight across it. “You ain't got a room yet?”

“No, is that a problem?” Sam looked down at the dirt and dried mud on his boots and tried stomping them clean.

The boy pointed to the barn. “We've four men sleepin' in the loft already. There ain't a room in town this week. I bet you'd have to ride clear to Spearfish to find a room.”

Sam glanced out at the dirt road where a stagecoach, drawn by six white horses, rumbled north. “I'll just leave my things here, for now. If nothing turns up, I'll check back later.”

The boy plucked up a large brush with black bristles worn to the nubs. “There might be a chance you can catch a room at Miss Abby's.”

Sam looped the leather saddlebags over his shoulder and clutched the carbine in his right hand. “Is that a rooming house?”

“No, it's a dress shop.” The boy's blue eyes danced. “One of the finest in town. You ever heard of Miss Abby O'Neill, the actress?”

“No, I can't say I have.”

The boy rocked forward on his toes, making him only a couple of inches shorter than Sam. “She retired right here in Deadwood and opened a dress shop. Only, she goes by the name Mrs. Abigail Gordon. She's got a room or two above the store. She usually rents them by the week or the month, but you could check and see.”

Abby's Paris Fashion Shoppe was a narrow, two-story brick building between a drugstore and a tiny Italian cafe. A brick propped open the eight-foot-tall, green and gold front door. Inside, among bolts of cloth and racks of ready-made clothing, Sam could smell a cinnamon candle burning. A young girl about ten or eleven strolled straight up to him.

She's about the size of Dacee June, the last time I saw her.

“Welcome to Abby's Fine Paris Fashions. May I assist you, mister?” the young girl announced, eyeing his Sharps carbine.

Sam shifted the gun, then held out his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Gordon. I just rode into town from Cheyenne City. You have a very fine shop.”

The curly, light brown-haired girl wrinkled her nose and giggled. “I am not Mrs. Gordon.”

Sam surveyed the room in mock surprise. “You aren't?”

“No. I'm Amber Gordon, her daughter.”

Sam rubbed his chin to conceal his grin. “No!”

“Yes, really—I'm the daughter,” Amber lectured like a school teacher needing to repeat an assignment.

Sam squatted down on his haunches and looked the girl in the eye. “Amber, you mean you aren't married yet?”

The girl's eyes widened. “To a boy?” she gasped.

“That's usually the way it works.”

“I'm definitely not married.”

Suddenly, an attractive woman with long, black hair stacked on her head, wide mouth, and full, dark lips strolled down the aisle toward them. Her deep purple dress with delicate, black lace trim on the collar, cuffs, and hem swayed gracefully. Her polished leather, lace-up boots tapped on the wooden floor. Her green eyes left no question as to who was boss.

“This man thought I was you, Mama,” young Amber giggled.

He stood up as the lady closely examined him, as if inspecting a watermelon or a new pair of boots. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“Don't tell me this is your mother?” Sam grinned. “Why, I thought she was your sister.”

“You see this man, Amber?” Mrs. Gordon pointed at Sam. “This is the type I warned you to watch out for: smooth-talking and good-looking. You just can't believe a word they say.”

Amber grinned at Sam. “My mother's very good at chastising.”

“I can see that,” he concurred.

Amber folded her dress sleeve-covered arms across her chest. “Some say she might be the best chastiser in town.”

“I hope there aren't too many others,” Sam laughed. Then he turned to Mrs. Gordon. “I trust I didn't offend you, ma'am. I didn't mean to say anything improper. Your daughter is as precocious as she is pretty.”

“Does precocious mean bright, gifted, and intelligent?” Amber asked.

Mrs. Gordon raised her eyebrows. They, along with all her other facial features were strong, dramatic. “I think it also means a bit arrogant and prideful.”