Whistler in the Dark (8 page)

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good. Second, someone has decided that Twin Pines doesn't need a newspaper run by a woman.” Mother gestured to the mess of type. “We've been having … incidents. Someone broke in last night and caused more mischief.”

The big man looked around the shop. “I could sleep here, if you like. Ain't nobody likely to get past me.”

“Do you live in Twin Pines?” Mother asked.

“I'm just in from Big Gulch. Haven't had much luck prospecting, but I ain't giving up till I earn me enough to buy a good piece of farmland. I need a job so I can fix me up another grubstake and head back to the goldfields.”

“If I can't scare up a shipment of newsprint, this job won't last long,” Mother said. “By coming to work for us, you're taking what some may see as an unpopular position.”

Again, that ghost of a smile. “I figure I've been in that hole before.” He didn't seem particularly worried. Emma smiled encouragingly.

“Do you have references?” Mother asked.

“I done some odd jobs last time I passed through town. You could ask at the freight office, or Miz Sloane's place. Can't nobody say my word or my work ain't good.”

“Fine. Just one more thing.” Mother looked up at him, square in the eye. “I won't call a man ‘Mule.'”

His silence grew so long that Emma's nerves began to flutter. She didn't want him to walk away now. The curses and whip-snaps of a teamster prodding his string of oxen down the street drifted into the little shack.

Then the big man nodded. “A long time ago, my mama called me Thomas. ‘Mule Tom' might suit.”

Mother smiled. “That will do.”

Phew! They were back in business.

Emma left her mother and Mule Tom to work out the details. As she headed down the street, she found herself looking over her shoulder. Was
that
man The Whistler? Or that one, in the red shirt? It felt horrid to know that some stranger was working so hard to frighten her and Mother. Why?
Why?

She found Mr. Spaulding in his office. “We had more trouble,” she reported grimly. “Someone broke into the newspaper office last night. Dumped over the typecase. The lock was hanging open when we got there this morning.” Emma plopped into a chair. “Mother wants to know if you kept a spare key to the padlock.”

“Why—ahem! Yes, I did. I have keys for most of the buildings that sit on lots I still own. I learned the hard way to do that. Too often men up and leave for the goldfields without letting me know, and I'm left to dispose of their belongings.”

“Could someone have stolen your key to the newspaper office?”

“Well … I suppose so.” Mr. Spaulding opened a desk drawer, then shook his head. “Oh, Lord. Yes. It's gone.” He pressed his fingers to his forehead. His skin had a pasty look. “This whole venture is turning into a disaster.”

His air of defeat annoyed Emma. Thunderation, didn't she have enough to worry about? “Mr. Spaulding, is there a—a sheriff in town? Someone who can help us?”

He shook his head. “No. Closest one's in Denver City. A dying little place like this—we're on our own.”

On our own
. Emma didn't like the sound of that, and her voice came out sharper than she'd intended. “Well, we'll have to take care of things ourselves, then. Mother just hired a big Negro man named Mule Tom to help with the press and to guard the shop at night. But we'll still need a new padlock.”

“Of course.” Mr. Spaulding stared dully at his desk. “Stop at the store and tell Mr. Boggs to put it on my account.”

Emma found Mr. Boggs unpacking a crate of skillets. “Every man heading to the goldfields needs a good fry pan,” he said cheerfully. “What can I do for you, Emma?”

“We've had trouble at the print shop, and we need a new padlock.” She told him what had happened.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “And I heard about the fire yesterday. You ladies have had a string of bad luck, that's for certain sure.”

It's more than bad luck
, Emma thought. She leaned on the counter as he fetched a new padlock. Two keys were tied to it with a twist of wire.

“Want me to wrap this up for you?” Mr. Boggs asked.

“No, I—” Emma caught her breath. “Why, that's it!”

“Begging your pardon?”

Emma pointed at the big roll of brown wrapping paper behind the counter. “Can we have some of your wrapping paper? To print the prospectus on? There's no other paper in town. I'm sure Mother or Mr. Spaulding will be able to replace whatever we use.”

“But—it's brown. And heavier than newsprint. And in one big roll—”

“None of that matters!” Excitement bubbled inside Emma. “We can cut the paper down to size, and the black ink will still show up. Can we use it?”

Mr. Boggs folded his arms, looking baffled but pleased. “Well, sure! I'd be tickled to think I helped get
The Twin Pines Herald
off the ground.”

Emma smacked the counter. One more problem solved.

At the edge of town, Emma found the freight yard bustling. One of Mr. Torkelson's big blond sons was hitching a team of oxen to a massive wagon. A farmer pulled his own wagon into the yard. “I got thirty pounds of fleece I need carted to Golden,” he shouted. “Where you want it unloaded?” Mr. Torkelson hurried from the office with a notebook in hand.

“May I bother you for a moment?” Emma asked, after the farmer had left. “I've got some good news. We're going to borrow some wrapping paper from the store. That will tide us over until the shipment of real newsprint arrives.”

“Ya? That iss good news!” Mr. Torkelson grinned. “And your ink iss here.”

“Wonderful!” Emma pulled her notebook and pencil from her pocket. “But I still have a couple more questions, for my article. Do you remember seeing anyone in the yard right before the fire?”

“Nobody in particular. I had joost gone inside. My boys did not see anything. My other hauler left for one of the ranches before the fire started.”

“Can I talk to that man anyway?”

Mr. Torkelson shrugged. “When he gets back. He headed out on an overnight run this morning.”

Crackers. No help there. “Nobody else was around?”

“Well … a few. People waiting for Lars to unload something of theirs, ya?”

“Was Dixie John one of them?” Emma dared, trying to sound casual.

“Nah. He hass never hired me. Got nothing to haul, I'd say.”

Emma sighed. This was getting her nowhere. “Well, the fire might have been an accident. Or someone might have started it deliberately. Can you think of anyone who might want to cause trouble?”

Mr. Torkelson looked bewildered. “But who would want that?”

“I don't know, Mr. Torkelson.” Emma put her notebook away and managed a smile. “I was just asking.”

Mr. Torkelson chuckled. “Miss Emma, you are going to be one good reporter. But this time, I think there iss joost no story.”

Disappointed, Emma nodded and waved good-bye. What else could she do to find the troublemaker? She chewed that over as she headed back to the print shop. The attacks against the newspaper still made no sense.

Someone hollered behind her, and she stepped out of the way of a man leading a pack-mule train out of town. In addition to kegs and crates and even a tin coffeepot, each mule was hauling two planks of sawn lumber, the ends dragging in the dirt. Emma wondered if some mining-camp shack would be built from the lumber. Until arriving in Twin Pines, she'd never thought about everything that people living far from cities had to give up. Things like sawmills. And sheriffs. Mr. Spaulding's words echoed in her memory:
We're on our own
.

Emma pulled her notebook from her pocket and looked at her list of suspects: Dixie John, Blackjack, and Miss Amaretta. Emma couldn't imagine Miss Amaretta whistling outside her window! But … how could any of them be The Whistler? The Whistler had first appeared in Chicago. Emma didn't think any of her suspects had left Twin Pines long enough to make that trip. Besides, according to their stagecoach driver, the strange man asking about Emma and Mother along the trail had a limp. Neither Dixie John nor Blackjack limped. Had The Whistler been
sent
by one of them? The whistling had begun the day Mother received Mr. Spaulding's job offer.

Below her list of suspects, Emma wrote,
Who is The Whistler?

Emma swallowed hard, tapping the page with her pencil, as a cold breath slid down her collar. She knew what she needed to do. Tonight, if The Whistler made another appearance, she would be waiting.

C
HAPTER
7

N
EW
R
ESOLVE

“I think I'll keep both of these,” Mother said, pocketing the two keys to their new padlock. “Mr. Spaulding means well, but I honestly don't know how that man thought he could ever build a town. He doesn't have the sense of a goose.”

Remembering how dejected Mr. Spaulding had looked, Emma changed the subject. “Mother, I have good news. I found some paper! Mr. Boggs said we could use his big roll of wrapping paper!”

Mother paused, a finger on her chin. “Wrapping paper. Yes, that could work. Our prospectus will look odd, but that's no matter. Yes.” She nodded with more enthusiasm. “Yes, indeed! Emma, you're brilliant!”

A glow spread like warm honey through Emma. But she didn't have much time to enjoy it, for Mother went to work like a whirlwind. She and Mule Tom had carefully retrieved all of the jumbled type from the sawdust, and Emma went back to work—
again
—sorting it by letters and sizes. Mother sent Mule Tom to retrieve the heavy roll of paper, and then to the freight office for the waiting keg of ink. When Jeremy arrived, Mother set him to work measuring and cutting the wrapping paper into press-sized pieces.

Once the typecases were finally organized, Mother set the type herself, snatching each needed letter from the typecase and shaping the pieces into words and sentences. Her speed was astonishing, especially since the type had to be inserted into the tray backward so that it would print correctly when applied to the paper! She used a type stick to make straight lines and kept her articles handy for reference. “You'll catch on,” Mother said when she noticed Emma staring. “It just takes practice.”

By late afternoon they were ready to begin printing. Mother showed Jeremy how to moisten each piece of paper with a sponge and how to ink the waiting type. Mule Tom claimed the exhausting job of tugging the lever Mr. Abbott had carved, which brought the paper and inked type together. Emma strung thin cord back and forth above their heads and draped each printed piece of paper over it to dry. They repeated the entire process for the reverse side of the paper.

“I never knew printing a newspaper was such hard work,” Jeremy sighed as the sun began to slip behind the mountains.

“Be glad this is just a single sheet,” Emma muttered. “When we print the full newspapers, each sheet has to be hand-folded and the crease pressed in with a whalebone.”

He shrugged. “Well, it's better than digging fence-post holes for my father. Mrs. Henderson, sorry, but I gotta go. I've got evening chores waiting.”

Mother looked startled. “My goodness, is it suppertime already? Emma, would you run and ask Mrs. Sloane if she'd be so kind as to let you bring supper over in a pail?”

Jeremy and Emma walked together as far as the boardinghouse. “I never met anyone like your mother before,” Jeremy said.

“She loved helping at my father's newspaper office. And during the war, she worked for the Sanitary Commission. She likes having a job to do.” Emma tried to keep any hint of resentment from her voice.

“She sure works hard.” Jeremy's tone was admiring.

“Well, she wanted to print three hundred copies of the prospectus. She won't stop until she gets it done.”

Emma's prediction came true. After she, Mother, and Mule Tom split a dubious dinner of fried doughnuts and cold beef stew, Mother hung two lanterns from the rafters and they went back to work. Emma helped until her eyes felt sandy and the muscles between her shoulder blades ached. “Mother,” she said finally, “I need to go to bed.”

“Oh, Emma!” Mother darted from the press and gave her a quick hug. “Of course, dear. You've been simply wonderful today.” Then she hesitated. “I
would like
to finish up here, though. Would you mind horribly going back by yourself?”

Emma sighed. She'd spent the day watching Mother stride back and forth in her ridiculous trousers, overseeing her inexperienced workers, greeting the occasional patron who stopped by to ask questions or pay for a subscription. Mother's hair had straggled down from its bun, and her left cheek was streaked with ink. And she was happy.

“No, Mother,” Emma said. “I don't mind going on alone.”

She walked back to the boardinghouse as the last blues of twilight shadowed the garbage in the streets. Emma was fiercely proud that they'd managed to print the prospectus. Still, loneliness nibbled. Emma couldn't help remembering all the times when Mother's war work had consumed all else: “Emma dear, we want to get the hall decorated for the donation party tonight. Would you mind horribly having dinner with the Littletons again?” Or, “I'd love to look at your sketchbook, darling, but can it wait? I'm scheduled to meet with the contractor about the floral pavilion for the Sanitary Fair.”