A Claim of Her Own (30 page)

“What’s to be done but ride it out?”

“Well, if it’s really smallpox, we’ll put up a pest tent. Quarantine the sick. Try to keep it from spreading.”

“A pest tent? For how long?”

He shrugged. “The doc doesn’t know. He says no one can. It runs its course, and until it does—”

“But Tom trusted me to take care of things. And Swede needs the money.”

“Folks can be contagious before they even know they have it,” Aron said, “and you can catch it just by taking a breath within ten feet of a victim.” He paused. “Swede wouldn’t want you doing business when any customer could end up giving you a life-threatening disease.” His voice was gentle as he pleaded, “Please, Mattie. Just stay up here and work your claim. I’ll see that you get supplies.”

“But what about you? If it’s so contagious—”

“I’ve been around it before. Apparently I have an immunity.”

“You don’t have any scars.”

“I don’t know why. I just didn’t get it.” He reached over and touched the back of her hand. “I know Bill meant a lot to you. It’s a terrible thing to have him go this way. I’ll make it a good service. I promise.”

She stood up. “I know you will. And I’ll sing.”

At least he didn’t try to order her to stay put. Instead, he tried a different argument. “You want
everyone
to know he was your friend? That’s going to cause folks to talk.”

“Then they’ll talk. It can’t be helped.” She forced a smile. “Besides, Bill said you had my back, remember?”

“I can’t protect you from smallpox.”

“Then help me protect the store. You can’t just put a Closed sign on the door and expect people to honor it. Especially if things get really bad. Someone has to make sure no one breaks in.” She was making sense and Aron knew it. She could see it in his eyes. “I’ll stay off the streets if that’ll make you feel better. As soon as I sing for Bill.” She paused. “He was my friend once at a time when no one else had the guts to—” She shook her head. Tears threatened as she said, “I’m coming to show my respects. Please don’t fight me on this.”

Aron’s expression softened. He nodded. “All right. I won’t fight you. But I
will
walk you there, and I
will
expect you to stay behind closed doors at the store for at least a few days after that. You may not realize it, but you have friends who care about you now. And they’d never forgive me if I didn’t do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

As she changed for the trip into town, Mattie considered Aron’s words. She wasn’t used to having people tell her what to do because they
cared
about her. She wasn’t used to it . . . but she could learn to like it.

Died in Deadwood, Black Hills, August 2, 1876, from the effects of a pistol shot, J. B. Hickok (Wild Bill) formerly of Cheyenne, Wyoming. Funeral services will be held at Charlie Utter’s camp, on Thursday afternoon, August 3, 1876, at 3 o’clock P.M. All are respectfully invited to attend.

Charlie Utter’s notice in the newspaper had invited “all,” and as far as Mattie could tell, “all” had come, from sporting girls and gamblers to business owners and their families. Hundreds of miners turned out, and as they filed by Bill’s open coffin with their hats in their hands, Mattie saw more than one swipe tears away. Even the Underwoods were there, although it was obvious Mrs. Underwood did not approve. She walked past Bill’s coffin without a glance at the famous man’s body. When her daughter Kitty paused to stare, her mother positively yanked on her arm, forcing her to keep moving.

Mr. Utter began the service by thanking everyone for coming. And then he nodded at Aron, who began, “If there is anything we can learn from this tragic event, it is that none of us knows the hour when we will find ourselves on the other side of the thin veil that separates this life from the next. Who among us would have expected such an end for such a man?” Aron paused for a moment. “When a man named John wrote his version of the life of Jesus, he said that he was writing so that folks who read it could know that they would have eternal life.

“I think it’s fair to assume that a lot of us here today have been shaken by what’s happened to our friend Bill Hickok. But among all the feelings of anger and shock, if we just listen to what John said, this horrible event can result in a lot of good for a lot of people.”

He looked down at the coffin. “The Bible says that ‘it is appointed unto men once to die and after this the judgment.’ And when it comes right down to it, the only question we really have to know the answer to is this: what happens when
we
stand before the Judge?” He looked over the crowd. “You can
know
. God promises eternal life to all who believe in His Son. He promises eternal death to all who refuse to believe.” He held up his Bible. “ ‘These things have I written unto you that believe on the name of the Son of God; that ye may know that ye have eternal life, and that ye may believe on the name of the Son of God.’ If my friend Bill Hickok could talk to us right now, I’m pretty sure he’d have one thing to say to us all, and that would be to get things settled right now about where we’ll be when it’s
us
in that box and it’s
our
friends and family gathered to say good-bye.”

Abruptly, Aron closed his eyes and began to pray. “Father God. Thank you for my friend Bill and for the way you are using him on this day to give us all a moment to reflect on our own situation. May we all do just that. Thank you for sending Jesus to make a way for us to get to heaven. Thank you for having John write it down so we could know it. Help us to pay attention. Amen.”

Six men stepped forward. The coffin was closed and the men hoisted it to their shoulders and began the trek to Ingleside Cemetery. At the grave, Mattie began to sing as they lowered Bill’s coffin into the earth. She only knew one hymn, and she didn’t know all the words to that one, but she did her best. “ ‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved someone like me. I once was lost, but then got found. Once blind, I now can see.’ ”

It didn’t seem enough, somehow. One verse of one song for such a famous man. Dillon’s grave was only a few feet away. Mattie hesitated, but then she thought,
Why not?
Bill had known Dillon, too. Had even stood between him and Jonas once and saved Dillon a beating. And so while hundreds filed past, some scooping up a handful of earth and scattering it across the coffin, Mattie launched into “Mist Covered Mountains,” barely making it through the line that went, “they’ll give me a welcome the warmest on earth . . . in the sweet-sounding language of home.” When her voice wavered, Aron took her hand and squeezed it. She held on until she’d finished the song.

When the crowd was finally gone and Mr. Utter and the pallbearers were shoveling the last of the earth atop the grave, Mattie said to Aron, “I hope there was someone over there saying welcome home to him.” She gazed over at Dillon’s grave. “To
them
.”

“So do I, Mattie. So do I.” Aron dropped her hand. Together, they made their way back into town. Justice was waiting inside the back door of the store, tail wagging, puppy kisses abounding. Mattie declined Aron’s invitation to join him in Aunt Lou’s kitchen for a meal. Croaking a hasty good-bye, she closed the door behind her, sat down on the floor, scooped Justice into her lap, and let the tears fall.

Angels
. Jonas listened carefully to the singing. Not something he would have expected to hear when he crossed over. Likely he was hallucinating as they carried him toward the pest house. He wasn’t the only one suffering. At least half a dozen lay moaning around him. Did they hear the angel, too? He opened his eyes.

The man next to him had already broken out with the rash. It didn’t look that bad. He didn’t seem to feel all that bad, either. He was just lying there, waiting. Pale. Eyes closed. At one point he opened his eyes and turned to look at Jonas. “Beautiful music, isn’t it,” he said. “Sounds like an angel.”

Jonas was hurting too much to talk. Hurting . . . angry . . . and afraid. He’d always been considered handsome. But now—the specter of the scarred face of a regular customer down in Abilene would not fade.

The fever returned. And the pain . . . oh . . . the pain.

Red Tallent laughed. “You mean you still want to do this?”

Swede glowered as she hung the sign on the side of one freight wagon that read
Wanted: Cats. All kinds. Paying 25 cents each.
“I am doing it” was all she said to the wagon master as they stood on Sidney’s main street.

A boy stopped to read the sign. He pointed at it. “You mean that?”

“I do,” Swede said.

“How many you want?”

“How many can you bring?”

The boy thought for a moment, then extended the fingers of one hand. “Five?”

“Den you vill have earned over one dollar.”

“Cash?”

“Yah, sure,” Swede nodded. The boy tore off up the street as if chased by a mad dog. She turned to Red. “Now vill you help me build dis cage I am needing or should I ask elsevare?”

Red chucked Eva under the chin. “Your mother,” he said, “has gone plumb crazy.”

“Yah,” Swede agreed. “Crazy from fighting to keep de mice and rats from eating vat I vork so hard to bring to Deadvood. Crazy to find a solution.” She paused. “Every voman in Deadvood vill vant one. You vill see. Next trip
you
vill be buying up cats.”

“But what if they don’t sell? You will have taken up all that space in a wagon—and earned nothing.”

Swede planted her feet and put her hands on her hips. “Dey vill sell.”

Tallent shook his head. “It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of.” He sighed. “But I guess that’s to be expected. Who ever heard of a woman bullwhacker to begin with?” When Swede opened her mouth to defend herself, Tallent raised both hands in the air. “All right, all right. I’ll help.” He walked away muttering to himself. Presently he stopped and called back to her, “How big does this cage need to be?”

“Vat do you advise?”

“How would I know? I’m not a cat-hauler.”

Swede pondered. “Pretend it is chickens. Big ones.”

“So how many big chickens are you hauling to Deadwood?”

“Forty.” When she said the number aloud, even Swede was tempted to laugh. But if she could sell them for ten dollars each . . . “Four hundred dollars and ve paid only ten, baby girl,” she muttered to Eva as she smoothed the baby’s downy hair into place. “So much vould build a good church. Or maybe a school. Vich do you tink is most important?” Eva babbled a response. Swede laughed.

How she loved this child. How she longed to be the kind of mother Eva needed. A storekeeper, not someone who wielded a whip and shouted at oxen.
Or a storekeeper’s wife, even.
The thought came uninvited and Swede apologized to God at once.

Forgive me. I am grateful for vat you have done. For vat you have
given. And I am content.
She paused and looked up at the sky. Feeling guilty, she corrected her prayer.
All right. Maybe not so much content.
But I am trying. And I vill see to the building of a church if you vill
help me to sell some cats.