A Claim of Her Own (15 page)
“He had reason to be.”
“That’s exactly what he said.” The preacher poured the remaining coffee out of his cup into the fire and stood up. “I’d best be getting down to the doc’s and see if Brady Sloan needs praying over.”
“You think he’s hurt that bad?” Mattie’s heart thumped. Now that she’d had time to calm down, she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of mortally wounding a man, even if he was trying to steal from her.
“Not physically. But if his conscience is bothering him, he might be open to a word or two of the gospel. I’ve seen the Lord use things like what just happened to haul a black sheep into the fold.”
“ ‘Repent, sinners, for now is the hour of salvation,’ ” Mattie said in a sonorous voice. When Gallagher looked her way with surprise, she smiled ruefully. “Why yes, Brother Gallagher, I’ve heard it all many times before.”
“Apparently not from anyone who lived the message.”
“Is that what you do, Reverend Gallagher?
Live
the message?”
He shook his head. “As I’ve said before, I don’t qualify for the title of ‘reverend.’ I’ve never been to seminary. And as to living the message, I do try, but sometimes it seems that the harder I try the more I fail.”
Mattie was about to ask him why, if he was a failure, he kept climbing up on that box and telling other people how to live. But just then a skittering of rocks tumbled from right above where they were sitting. Mattie yelped and jumped so high she nearly unseated herself.
“Don’t be a-scared,” Freddie said, gasping for breath as he stepped into the campfire light. He’d been running and could barely talk, but from what he did say Mattie gathered he had heard about her encounter with Brady Sloan and come sneaking up the gulch along the opposite side of the creek—making sure there weren’t any more varmints on the prowl, as he put it. The idea that Freddie had run to her rescue made Mattie want to get up and hug him. But she didn’t. She wasn’t the hugging type.
“You should pray with Aron,” Freddie said. “It will make you feel better. I pray a lot, and it always makes me feel better. Like when I’m worried over Mor and Eva when they are gone.” Freddie sat down on the vacant stump near the fire and, sitting up straight, put one hand on each knee and waited. When Gallagher didn’t speak up, Freddie said, “Okay. We’re ready.”
Gallagher looked at Mattie with an unspoken question. When she shrugged and nodded, he sat down again and bowed his head. “Heavenly Father. Thank you for Mattie’s courage. Thank you for giving her a brother who loved her. Thank you for keeping her safe tonight. Thank you for listening when we talk to you, for loving us, and for promising eternal life. Thank you for Jesus. Amen.”
Freddie spoke up. “I’ll stay and sleep by the campfire tonight, Mattie. If you want me to.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to,” Freddie said. “I
want
to.”
“Then thank you. I appreciate it.”
Freddie looked at Gallagher. “I know what you said in that prayer is right. About God keeping Mattie safe,” he said. “But don’t you think sometimes God likes it when
people
protect people, too?”
“Absolutely.” Gallagher stood up. “And between you and the good Lord, I believe Miss O’Keefe is in good hands.” He moved the coffeepot off the fire, tipped his hat, and headed off down the gulch.
Wagon master Red Tallent had a crooked nose and a thick beard that reached almost his waist. Swede liked him and Eva adored him, at times treating him like her own personal pet to be alternately cuddled and pummeled according to whim. Red seemed to delight in either one, and Swede would have almost allowed herself to like him a great deal if only Red weren’t in the habit of drinking himself into a stupor at the end of every run.
Still, the man insisted that his wagons were loaded properly, so as to make the hauling as easy as possible on the oxen. More than once he’d saved fragile cargo by suggesting a better way to stack things, and he was not above shouldering a crate of goods and working alongside the teamsters. Swede had seen Tallent negotiate between two drivers about to come to blows over something that happened on the trail, and had learned to trust his judgment about campsites. She respected the man and had thought he respected her. Until now.
“Cats?!”
Tallent nearly spit the coffee out of his mouth as he sputtered the word. He stared across the campfire at Swede in disbelief, swallowed his coffee, and leaned forward as he repeated, “Did you just say you’re thinking of hauling
cats
to Deadwood?” He pointed at the black pup cradled in Swede’s arms. “You starting one of them zoological parks?”
Swede stroked the pup’s head even as she glowered at the burly German. “Vat I am starting is a campaign to keep my store free from mice,” she said, “and to make some money in de doing.”
“Well, you’re starting with the wrong critters,” Red said, pointing at the dog.
He was right, of course. There was no good reason for rescuing the half-starved puppy she’d found cowering beside a chicken coop back in Sidney. She didn’t need the extra mouth to feed. She didn’t need the worries. She didn’t need the distraction. And yet, she could no more have left the black-as-coal puppy to the elements than she could let her own oxen suffer. When the man who owned the chickens joked about shooting the black “wolf ” hanging around his hens, Swede asked if the dog was for sale. That man, too, had looked at her as if she were crazy, although he was more than willing to accept the half-dollar she offered for the pup.
Ah well, Swede thought as Red made fun, he would eventually think over what she had said and perhaps be willing to help her. For the moment, though, he didn’t see the potential. He was, in fact, looking around to see who would share the joke. Eva distracted him by crawling too close to the fire. Tallent swept her up and, with a chuckle, said, “Did you hear your mama, little one? She’s talking crazy.”
If she could have somehow given her oxen wings, Swede would have done it right then—first to escape Red’s teasing, but also because she was impatient to see her new store. Other than the unusual addition of a puppy to the freight, life on the trail these past weeks had been uneventful. No one got sick. Everyone kept their wagon wheels greased and in good repair. Each noon and evening they gathered in groups of four around campfires and took turns cooking. The men had even begun to toss scraps the puppy’s way. God had provided unusually good weather, abundant grass, and plenty of fresh water along the way. And yet, it was difficult to be patient with the plodding oxen. Swede wanted to see her new store, to see her cargo arranged on shelves she owned, to see the proof that
Doubt
was mistaken—she
could
provide her family with a home of their own.
She had more calico. Thousands of yards of it. All hideous as far as Swede was concerned, but it was cheap and she would take a chance. Miners and town dwellers alike could use it instead of paper to line walls, and it would help keep the wind, the dust, and the bugs at bay. In addition to the calico piled high against the six-foot sides of the wagons, Swede had bolts of wool shirting, bib overalls and hats, fur-lined boots, long johns, and more than one box of fine cigars. She was reluctant to haul liquor, but tobacco was another matter. Her one vice was enjoying her pipe, and while she knew many who frowned upon the use of tobacco, she did not think the good Lord would begrudge a hardworking woman a small indulgence. Of course it wasn’t exactly feminine, but then how would femininity benefit her? In the world in which she lived and breathed, to be feminine was to be weak and vulnerable to all kinds of evil.
Hundred-pound sacks of flour lined the bottom of another wagon. Thanks to one Joseph Murphy of St. Louis, the man who’d designed freight wagons with seven-foot-high wheels, sixteen-foot beds, and strong axles, she could stockpile hundreds of pounds of flour before winter.
Up front on the light wagon where Eva rode, five chickens squawked in a makeshift cage perched atop the barrels of goods lining the smaller wagon bed. The four hens and one rooster were for Aunt Lou, a thank-you for looking after Freddie while she was gone. The chickens had given her the idea about cats. If she could haul chickens, why not cats, and wouldn’t it be wonderful to have help controlling the mice and rats in Deadwood? She could not think why God would have created creatures whose sole aim in the world seemed to be the destruction of goods she worked so hard to acquire.
Cats.
How much would people pay for one? And would she be able to stand the yowling all the way to Deadwood? Or would they eventually settle down and endure the journey without complaint? These were questions Swede had planned to discuss with Red tonight, now that the other teamsters had turned in and it was only the two of them sitting by the fire. But Red’s reaction changed her mind.
Swede looked away. She set the puppy down and fiddled with her pipe while Red played with Eva. And she decided she would wait to discuss the matter of cats with Tom English, a man with some ability to think beyond what everyone else had always done.
Maybe Tom would want the dog.
“Look at that,” Tallent said. He set Eva on the ground only to have her pull herself up and stand, wobbling as she clung to his knee. “Won’t be long and she’ll be walking.”
Swede nodded. “Yah.” Only yesterday Eva had gripped the edge of her coffee box and pulled herself up on her sturdy little legs. Wobbling and bobbing her head, she’d screeched with joy and called out, “Mor-mor-mor” as she pumped her little legs up-down, up-down, up-down. It wouldn’t be long, Swede realized, and she would have to improvise some way to keep the little doll from tumbling out on her head. So many children were lost beneath the wheels of wagons. Swede did not think she would survive such a horrible thing happening to her Eva.
Drawing on her pipe, Swede pondered the future. Perhaps Tom English could help her devise a way to keep Eva safe. And a way to haul cats. Red Tallent might think the idea cause for laughter, but he’d been a drifter all his life. He knew nothing of making a home. He’d never battled mice in his pantry, never had to fish a dead one out of a crock of sourdough starter, never had a wife to teach him a different view of life. She didn’t know if Tom English had ever made a home or battled mice in a pantry or had a wife, but for some reason she felt that he would understand. And even if he didn’t understand about rescuing starving puppies and hauling cats . . . he wouldn’t laugh at her.
As ye would that men should do to you,
do ye also to them likewise.
Luke 6:31
G
-g-good morning,” Freddie said as he sat beside a roaring campfire clutching a blanket around him.
Mattie stepped out of her tent onto ground that was white with snow. She looked up at the gray sky and two tiny pinpricks of cold bit her face as fresh snowflakes drifted down. “Oh, Freddie,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, “you’re half frozen. I’m glad you stayed that first night, but it’s been a couple of days now and I’m fine. You didn’t have to stay through a snowstorm!”
“Well s-s-sure I did, Mattie,” Freddie said through his shivers. “I s-said I would.”
The boy’s simple sincerity brought tears to her eyes. She’d never met anyone like Freddie Jannike. When he said he would do something, he did it, and whether it was difficult or whether it inconvenienced him just didn’t seem to matter. How ironic that of all the men in Deadwood who swaggered down the street flaunting their six-shooters and bragging about their finds and their conquests, simpleminded Freddie Jannike, the kid they ignored and made fun of, was more of a man than any of them. She patted his shoulder. “Well, come in and warm up.”
Perched atop Mattie's closed supply box, Freddie was soon not only warm, but hungry. Mattie made flapjacks atop the small camp stove. And then made another batch. And then another. “You must have a hollow leg,” she teased.
“No,” Freddie said, holding up one leg. “But Mr. Tuttle at the hotel does. He showed me.”
“What?”
“He has a wooden leg and one time I was bringing in a deer I shot and Mr. Tuttle was sitting on the back stoop with his leg off and when he went to put it back on I saw it was hollow and he had some money hidden in it.” Freddie smiled. “It might be good to have a hollow leg.”
“For money?”
“Naw.” He shook his head. “I don’t need money. Mor takes care of that for me. And gold dust just makes people mean. Besides, gold weighs too much to hide it in a hollow leg.” He thought for a moment. “I know.” He smiled. “
Candy
. That’s what I’d keep in a hollow leg.”
“What kind?”
“All kinds.” He stood up abruptly. “I got to go now, Mattie, but thank you for breakfast.”
“Thank you again for protecting me,” Mattie said. “I think you just might be my hero, Freddie Jannike.”
He turned bright red. Ducking out of the tent, he headed up the gulch.
Mattie called after him. “Aren’t you going back into town?”
Freddie turned around. “Not until I check around,” he replied. “I’ll look for stepping in the snow. If there’s no stepping and Brady Sloan is shot then you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
