A Claim of Her Own (21 page)

As the night wore on, Mattie’s thoughts kept circling back to Wild Bill’s knowledge of her past. He had to be wondering what she was doing all the way up here. Should she seek him out and explain why she’d run out on Jonas? Or just let the past lie behind the curtain of the present and trust Bill to do the same? Wild Bill never had liked Jonas. In fact, they’d had words one night, and the thin line of tolerance between them had nearly been shattered by gunfire. But on that occasion, Bill had left Jonas’s place instead of drawing his weapon.

No, Mattie finally decided. She would trust Bill. If he stayed in town for long, she might seek him out for a private talk, but even then she’d have to trust him. After all, a person couldn’t go through life never trusting anyone . . . could they?

Aron Gallagher, on the other hand, was a concern. He might have protected Brady Sloan, but Mattie had never known a preacher who could keep his mouth shut. She could almost imagine Gallagher talking to Aunt Lou, suggesting they should pray for Mattie now that her sordid past had come to light. Poor Mattie O’Keefe, a scarlet woman trying to start fresh. The idea made her want to . . .
run. You want to run.
It was true. Running was her first thought. But it had been followed quickly by the realization that a new part of her wanted to put down roots here in Deadwood near Swede and Freddie and Eva and Tom.

Tom.
Would today change his willingness to trust Mattie to work in the store? Would he talk to Swede about it? Mattie gulped. Everything might be different now. And all because of a few words spoken by a blue-eyed gambler.
“Mattie. Good to see you.”

With a sigh, Mattie moistened her fingertip and picked up a flake of gold.
You can go anywhere you want to go.
Except she wasn’t ready to leave her claim. Not yet. There was more gold, and she wanted it.

Returning the flake of gold to the little mound before her, she practiced snatching her Colt pistol off the table and pointing it at the tent flap. When she was satisfied that she could do it and be ready to fire in under a second, she did the same with Bessie II. Tom’s sawed-off shotgun was no longer loaded with salt. Anyone who dared come in her tent uninvited would earn a spot in Ingleside Cemetery.

“You didn’t really think I was going to fund your leaving me, did
you?”
Even now, settled in her tent on her own claim, well defended and enjoying the beginnings of friendships with good people, Mattie was terrified by the memory of Jonas snarling those words. She’d been able to suppress all of that for weeks now, but seeing Bill Hickok changed everything. It might even change her budding friendships with good people.

It was long past midnight before Mattie returned Dillon’s gold to his cache and turned down the lamp. She fell into a fitful sleep with her hand on Bessie II.

When the light inside Mattie’s tent finally went out, Freddie rose from his hiding place behind a boulder. She had refused his offer to walk her up here earlier tonight, and he didn’t want to make her mad, so he’d let her go and then followed at a respectful distance just to make sure no one bothered her. Stretching and rubbing a stiff shoulder, Freddie made his way toward home.

Just as he passed Tom English’s lot, a lone rider came trotting into town. Freddie stopped to watch the horse. It was a beautiful bay, but it had been ridden hard. Its coat was flecked with sweat, and when, just outside of Usher’s Livery, the rider yanked back on the reins, foam flew from the bit. When the man dismounted and banged on the closed livery door, Freddie trotted toward him.

“Mr. Usher closes at sundown,” he said. “Now it’s dark.”

Even in the moonlight Freddie could tell that this was one of those people who would treat him bad. Which made sense from the way he had treated his horse. “I’ll take care of your horse if you want,” he offered. “He’s a pretty horse. I’ll be real good to him. I like horses. He could founder or drink too much. I’ll walk him until he cools down and—” The man didn’t let him finish. Instead, he reached in his pocket, pulled out a wad of paper money, and stuffed a bill in Freddie’s hand.

“Do it,” he said. “And take the bedroll and the saddlebags to . . .” He looked up the street. “A hotel? A
decent
hotel?”

“That’d be the Grand Central,” Freddie said. “It’s just before you get to a big new building going up. You’ll see it. That’s going to be Mr. Jack Langrishe’s new theatre. He’s gonna have plays and music and concerts and—” Freddie paused. “There won’t be girls like the ones . . . like the ones farther on down Main.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll like the Grand Central. It’s real nice. And Aunt Lou—”

The stranger didn’t even wait to hear about Aunt Lou’s cooking. “Grand Central,” he growled. “Take care of it.” And without even waiting for an answer, he marched off up the street.

Freddie looked down at the paper money. He glanced toward the stranger, who was striding toward the swath of golden light spilling out of the nearest saloon. Folks in Deadwood didn’t want paper money. They wanted gold. In fact, things cost more if paid in paper money. But the stranger probably wouldn’t believe him even if Freddie told him. He’d find out soon enough.

“Come on, boy,” he said, speaking gently to the animal, which at first shied away from his uplifted hand, but then submitted to being petted. Freddie walked the horse up and down the street in front of Mor’s store until he was breathing normally. Then he led him over to the Whitewood Creek and let him drink, but only a little. Then he walked him some more. Finally, he took the horse around to the back of the store.

After lighting a lamp and setting it in the storeroom window to help him see, he took the saddle and the soaking wet blanket off and brushed the horse down until all traces of dried sweat and mud were gone. He cleaned his hooves and discovered that, while the horse had been skittish at first, he really was a good old boy and willingly lifted each hoof to be cleaned. He didn’t try to bite or kick at all.

“Good boy,” Freddie said as he worked. “Good boy.” Finally, he let the horse drink again. He had some old hobbles from when he’d owned a roan pony. The pony was long since dead, but Freddie held on to the hobbles in hopes that someday soon he’d come into new wealth and maybe own a horse again. For now, he would use the hobbles on the stranger’s bay.

While he worked, Freddie talked aloud, asking the horse where it had come from and wishing he didn’t belong to a man who treated him this way. “I know,” Freddie said. “He’s just a strange one, isn’t he. I saw him come out of that first saloon when you and me came back from the creek the first time. I thought he would come to check on you, but he just barged across the street and into another place. I guess he didn’t like the first one. What’s he up to? What’s he so mad about? Is he mad at you for making him fall? Is that where he got that scar?”

As the village idiot tended his horse, Jonas took the measure of Deadwood: businesses that were little more than unadorned boxes, most of them without so much as a permanent sign, one long cesspool where there should be a street, and that cursed gumbo everywhere. If Dillon O’Keefe was raping the earth for gold in any of the valleys or gulches near here, if this was where Mattie had run to, she had to be sorry she’d ever left Abilene. Maybe he should rethink his intentions. Convince her he only wanted his money back. She might be ready to beg him to take her back. The idea opened up all kinds of new possibilities for making an example of Mattie O’Keefe that the girls in Abilene would never forget.

From what he’d seen so far, there wasn’t a man in Deadwood who knew the first thing about how to run a gambling hall or a saloon. Not a single one of the places he entered was worth the cost of the lumber it’d been built with. Only one had so much as a piano. Most were furnished with a haphazard arrangement of chairs and beat-up tables Jonas wouldn’t have cut up for firewood, much less used to furnish a place he owned. Some didn’t even have real tables. Rough-cut boards balanced atop barrels served in those hovels. After a while Jonas stopped even going in those. Mattie O’Keefe would starve before she’d work in a place like that.

A person sometimes learned more by listening than by asking questions, and Jonas was a good listener. As the night wore on, he learned a lot about the area just standing at the bar drinking whiskey in several different saloons and dance halls. The lead was southwest of here at a place called Homestake. Bobtail was taking five dollars an hour. Claims in some of the side gulches were averaging five dollars a pan. Everywhere Jonas went he heard about the wealth found in the next gulch, the quartz with a promising vein, the miner who’d struck it rich. Apparently it was not uncommon for a man to own several claims. More than a few seemed eager to sell out, and from what Jonas could see, none were half as eager to work as they were to drink and gamble.

It took most of the night, but Jonas finally admitted that, with all its exposed brutality, Deadwood had its allure. Time after time he saw a prospector toss a bag of gold dust on the bar. Time after time he saw the bartender pinch out fifty cents worth for a drink. It was impressive to see men dressed in rags with bags of gold hanging around their necks. Appearances aside, Deadwood appeared to be primed for a man who knew how to run an entertainment palace.

What they needed was women. Beautiful women, not the aging cow billed as the Fascinating Danseuse, who gyrated through a pathetic series of supposedly seductive moves at the Bella Union. He couldn’t bear to watch for long.

Turning away, he ordered another drink and pondered the idea of how, with his polished veneer and Mattie’s charm, the two of them could have the miners of Deadwood literally throwing money at them every night. He’d only heard one singer tonight and she could hardly carry a tune. Mattie could have anyone in the room eating out of the palm of her sweet little hand after one verse of “Annie Laurie.”

Sweet.
There hadn’t been anything sweet about Mattie’s hand the last time he’d seen her. He touched the scar on his face. Ah well, all cats had claws, didn’t they? He should have known she’d bare them sooner or later. They’d been playing a game of cat and mouse for months with him pushing and her dancing away. He’d let that go too far, letting her think she was far too independent for far too long. All that talk of “keeping accounts” and “planning for the future.” As if she could choose a future. As if she could just up and walk away after all the imported brandy and stunning gowns he’d provided. As if she didn’t owe him for teaching her about the finer things in life.

As he leaned against a bar in one of the older establishments—he couldn’t even remember the name—and looked around him, Jonas could not believe that Mattie O’Keefe would have willingly stayed in Deadwood.
Unless her brother had actually found some gold and bought
her a place of her own.
That was something to ponder.

Turning around, Jonas sipped his drink. Now that he thought about it, he could see Mattie using what she’d learned from him to rejuvenate a place like this. With enough money she could own the jewel of the Black Hills. And she’d left Abilene with his three thousand dollars.

There was a staircase at the back of this place. Was Mattie up there right now, lounging in one of those rooms, waiting to come down later and play the role of the queen of Deadwood? Maybe that was it. Maybe she wasn’t
working
one of these dives. Maybe she
owned
one.

He couldn’t just go from place to place asking about her, though. That would tip his hand. And the brother might be a problem. Again. And even if he didn’t think caution was wise for those reasons, the idea of just showing up had provided endless enjoyment on the way up here. He loved envisioning the surprise in those violet eyes, the barely masked panic. She would go pale. She might even faint. If he couldn’t make her believe he just wanted her back . . . if her worthless brother was working with her . . . he would do whatever it took. First, to get his money back. But almost more important than the money was the need to drag Mattie back to Abilene and show the others what happened to trollops who thought they could run out on Jonas Flynn. If she wouldn’t cooperate, he’d threaten to kill the brother. It had worked once when he needed to keep her in line. It could work again.