A Claim of Her Own (9 page)
Freddie spoke up. “I got something.” He held out the stick he’d been whittling. It was about two inches in diameter, and before hollowing it out he’d smoothed one end so it would sit flat on a rock. “I bet it’ll hold at least an ounce,” he said. “And while you do the panning I’ll make a lid for it.” He settled back on the rock ledge and went back to work.
Tom reached for the gold pan with his hook, then pulled back and extended his left hand. “Sorry.”
Mattie touched his sleeve above the hook. “Please,” she said. “It’s not you. It’s—someone else. Someone I knew who—” She couldn’t stifle the shudder. She took a deep breath. “But you’re nothing like him. It’s just hard to forget sometimes.”
Tom nodded. “I understand.”
Looking up at him, she saw palpable hurt in his dark eyes. A thread of understanding passed between them before Mattie said, “Thank you.” She gestured around them. “For doing this.”
Tom grinned. “We’ll see if you still feel like thanking me tonight when your legs feel like they’re going to fall off and your pretty little hands are red and chapped.” He led the way over to the creek bed. “All right,” he said and held up the pan. “First, the pan.”
“It’s a rusty mess,” Mattie said. “I’ll get a new one if that nice storekeeper who’s going to extend credit for a hat and boots will allow it.”
“Why would you want a new pan?”
“Because this one’s all rusty.”
“It’s supposed to be rusty,” Tom explained. “Run your fingers over the surface. Feel that? That texture will grab a lot more gold flecks than a smooth one. And since we’re talking about that, don’t
ever
use a gold pan for cooking. Obviously you wouldn’t do that anyway with this one, but even if you had a new one, you wouldn’t want it doing double-duty over the campfire. Grease would make the surface even slicker, and that would allow the gold to slip away.”
“Understood,” Mattie said. “Rust is good.”
Tom nodded even as he crouched down by the stream. “Now take your shovel and put about a peck of gravel here,” he said, pointing at the pan with his hook. Once Mattie had done that, he submerged the pan. The current in the stream stirred the gravel. “See how the dirt and silt is washing away?” Mattie nodded, and Tom brought the pan back to the surface. “Pick out the large pebbles, making sure you’ve rinsed them so any gold clinging to them stays in your pan.” By the time Mattie was finished, her fingers were numb with cold.
“Now, this is the only part that takes a little practice.” He dipped the pan back beneath the water so the sand slopped over the edge. “If there
were
any gold nuggets, you’d see them and be able to pick them out now.”
“But there aren’t,” Mattie observed.
“No, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have any gold.” With a flick of his wrist, Tom swirled the remaining contents of the pan in such a way that the fine gravel spread across the bottom, a crescent moon in a rust-colored sky.
“All right.” Tom pointed to the far tip of the moon. “That tip has been carried over there because it’s heaviest.”
“And gold is heaviest,” Mattie murmured, looking excitedly at the tip of the crescent. She sat back on her heels. “But there’s no gold.”
Tom took a toothpick and began to separate the grains of sand. Presently there were three tiny flecks of gold clinging to the side of the pan. “I’m out of practice,” he apologized. “There might have been some we missed. A skilled panner could put a dozen flecks of gold the size of a pinpoint in a pan of gravel, and by the time he was finished, he wouldn’t have missed a single one.” He pointed to the three tiny flecks. “A lot of your gold may come in pieces just about that size.”
He stood back up, grimacing with the effort. “Be forewarned. Miners who do much panning end up with sore backs and weak knees.” He shrugged. “And for that reason alone, although I’m showing you how to do it, I sincerely hope you decide you don’t want any part of it.” Looking down at her he nodded. “And I see that look in your eyes, so just allow me to say it for you: I should mind my own business.” He paused. “And henceforth I shall.”
Mattie called over to Freddie, “You finished with my dust-catcher yet?” He brought it over. She looked at the three minuscule flecks of gold and wondered how to capture them. Tom moistened the end of a toothpick and, using it as a kind of “gold magnet,” transferred the flecks of gold from the edge of the pan to what Mattie called her dust-catcher.
“I’d guess your little dust-catcher there will hold a couple of ounces of flecks this size. Maybe a little more. That’s forty dollars worth.”
Mattie considered. Forty dollars represented a lot of time crouching in that cold stream. Especially when she had routinely made more than that every night back in Abilene.
But you didn’t really make that
money, did you? Because Jonas wasn’t really keeping an account, and he
wasn’t ever going to give it to you.
She forced a smile. “But you can’t say there won’t be any nuggets.”
Tom shook his head. “No one could say that.”
Freddie spoke up. “Finn McKay got a thirty-dollar nugget this morning. That’s why they’re in town instead of on their claim.”
“So,” Mattie asked, “should I follow their example and deposit every day’s find in the bank?” She wasn’t looking forward to the idea of a daily trek down and back.
Tom cleared his throat. “I don’t think the McKays are very investment minded.”
Freddie spoke up. “I saw them and they invited me to go with ’em to that new dance hall.” He shrugged. “Mor would whip me good if I ever went in a dance hall.” He smiled at Mattie. “Besides, I had to help Mattie.” He tucked his whittling knife into his shirt pocket. “But now I gotta go help Mor,” he said. “She and Eva are leaving at first light tomorrow.”
“Let’s get back to town,” Mattie said. “Swede might need our help, too.” Palming her hand-carved dust-catcher, she ducked inside the tent to change back into her town clothes while Tom and Freddie waited.
While she changed, Mattie pondered the alluring idea of finding a thirty-dollar gold nugget. If she was careful, if she was lucky, she could do well here on her claim. If she was
really
lucky, she might even get rich. Tom was right about one thing. She was going to need rubber boots that fit.
Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and
rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But
lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor
rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
Matthew 6:19–21
L
ars! Leif! Gee-ho, you two-bit flea-ridden good-for-nuttin’ grass-eatin’—” Swede cracked her whip and finally, with a bellow of protest, the oxen moved out, the last in a train of ten freighting outfits headed back to Sidney on another supply run. Freddie walked alongside her, Eva perched on his shoulders, laughing and giggling as Freddie did his slow-motion gallop alongside the wagons.
“Now, you mind Mr. English—Tom—and vatever he needs for de new store,” Swede said.
“Yes, Mor. I already told Aunt Lou I might not be able to hunt as much.”
“I put two clean shirts on top of your bedroll. You’re going to be in town more, you need to stay clean.”
“Thank you, Mor.”
“I’m hauling for de Big Horn dis time, too, but after dis I verk just for us. So you remind Mr. English—Tom—I vill need a list ready, since I vill not be spending any time at all in town next time.
I must to hurry to beat de snow on de last run.”
“Yes, Mor.”
They reached the part of the trail that began the ascent toward higher ground. “Be sure to check dose traps we set every day. And if you are off hunting, remind Mr. English. I’m not freighting to feed Dakota mice.”
Freddie nodded.
“And try to keep an eye out for Mattie ven you can.”
“I will, Mor,” Freddie promised. “I’m taking her stew.”
“She von’t like it if she tinks ve are hovering too close.”
“I won’t hover. I’ll just see she’s all right.”
Swede rattled on, reminding Freddie of this, suggesting that, until finally Freddie said, “Lars and Leif are going awful slow.”
Indeed they were. The other freighters had pulled far ahead. Swede cracked the whip again. The oxen lowed in protest, but they stepped out, pulling the wagons—three empty and one full of supplies for the weeks on the trail—ever higher up and out of Whitewood Gulch. Every so often, a snowflake danced out of the sky and lighted on one broad rump or another.
“Snow,” Freddie said.
“It von’t be much,” Swede said.
“How can you tell?”
“My bones don’t ache so much as dey do right before a bad storm.”
“I hate it that your bones hurt,” Freddie said.
“I hate it, too. But in time my freighting days vill be over. Now dat ve have Mr. English—Tom—for a business partner, anyting could happen.”
Maybe even a miracle. Like not having to make the
last run of the season. Or warm weather long into the fall.
Freddie pulled Eva off his shoulders and swooped her around in a circle, tickling her until she giggled so hard she got the hiccups. The family reached the top of the winding trail too soon. Looking back down on the town below, Swede said, “All right, Freddie. Let me have de baby and you get back to town.”
Planting a resounding kiss on Eva’s cheek, Freddie deposited her back in the cradle he had anchored inside Swede’s lead wagon at the first light of dawn. Swede glanced over the wagon’s full complement of supplies.
“You put more shells in for Old Bess?” she asked.
“Of course,” Freddie said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mor. We’re going to be just fine.” He leaned down and put his arms around her, and Swede inhaled his musty scent.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself one moment of being just a mother saying good-bye to her son. Tears threatened. “All right now,” she said abruptly, and pulled away. Freddie blew Eva a kiss and headed back down toward town. Swede didn’t dare let herself look back. If she did, she just might not be able to leave at all, and then what would they do.
A winter of roast oxen followed by
a spring of starvation, that’s what. Now get along, you long-faced,
weak-hearted fool.
“Mor!”
Swede turned around, but she didn’t stop. She kept walking up the trail with tiny backward steps.
“I love you!” Freddie hollered.
Swede waved. She couldn’t trust her voice.
After Mattie said good-bye to Swede and Eva, she turned her attention to helping Tom English build a few more shelves so he could accommodate Swede’s goods as well as his own. While she and Tom wielded hammer and nails, Freddie moved boxes. It was late in the day before the place began to resemble anything besides a haphazard jumble of goods, but finally, things began to take shape.
“There,” Mattie said, wiping her hands on her apron and standing back to survey her work. An assortment of mugs, from shaving to thunder, were now displayed to best advantage. Tom agreed, and when he complimented her display, she blushed with pleasure.
“I wish you’d reconsider and work here instead of mining,” he said.
Mattie shook her head. “I have to at least try.”
Tom set the packing crate in his arms down. “You’re certain I can’t talk you out of it?”
“I’m certain.” Mattie tilted her head and smiled at him. “And you promised to mind your own business, remember?”
Tom reached into the crate Freddie had just carried in and opened it. He took out a gray felt hat with a wide brim and plopped it on Mattie’s head. “All right, then, Miss Miner. I’ll mind my business.” He opened the account book. “I assume you’ve seen one of these.”
She nodded. It was exactly the kind of book Jonas had shown her, pointing to the bottom number on each page to impress her with how well he was paying her and how her savings were growing.
Tom wrote her name at the top of a clean page. On the first line of the “Mattie O’Keefe” page, he entered
1 felt hat.
“Over here,” he said, indicating the right side of the page, “we enter the purchase price. In this case, forty cents. When a customer makes a payment, we weigh their gold.” He pointed at the gold scales Swede had bought for Garth Merchandise. “I’ll show you how the scales work in a minute, but first go pick out your boots.”
“I already took the liberty.” Mattie lifted the hem of her skirt just enough for Tom to see her boot-clad feet. “Does the ground
ever
warm up around here?”
“Of course it does.” Tom entered her boots in the ledger, talking as he wrote. “For a minimum of a week. Then, of course, winter’s back.” With a smile, he opened the small drawer built into the base of the gold scale. “You put the smallest one on this side,” he said, and set a cylindrical weight in the center of the pan suspended on one side of the scale. “And then you take a pinch of gold and weigh it against the standard, which is one troy ounce.”
“Troy?”
“A little heavier than a regular ounce. But the standard measure for weighing gold.” He paused before explaining, “Around here the miners expect twenty dollars in store credit for every ounce of gold they bring us. You’ll quickly learn to get almost exactly an ounce every time you take a pinch of dust.”