Forgiving

by LaVyrle Spencer

  On his way out he slammed the door so hard the clock door drifted open.

  “He must’ve read your editorial,” Patrick said.

  “Good!” she said, and threw down a woodblock with enough force to send two others jumping out of the case. With steps as aggravated as Campbell’s she strode past the clock, closed its door, continued to her desk, collected what she needed and whisked toward the door.

  “I have some errands to do. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  She was sick and tired of the men in this town!

  At Tatum’s Store she marched in and found herself ogled by a half-dozen more of them as she advanced toward the hats along the right. The store owner approached. He resembled a beaver, with prominent teeth, a rather receding, flat nose and thick hair that grew very low on his brow and was slicked straight back with pomade. His smile was broad and ingratiating.

  “Miss Merritt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Andrew Tatum. Much obliged for the newspaper.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Tatum. I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “Most certainly did and we’re happy to have you in town.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you interested in a hat?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m sorry to say we don’t carry hats for ladies.”

  “No, not for myself. It’s for a man.”

  “A man’s hat?” he repeated, surprised.

  “That’s right.”

  “What color?”

  “Black... no, brown.” She’d be damned if she’d buy him the color he preferred.

  “What size?”

  “Size?” She hadn’t given size a thought. Something for a bullhead, she supposed, considering the man’s insufferable attitude.

  “It’s for Marshal Campbell.” Six pairs of ears pointed her direction from all around the store.

  “Ahhhh...” Tatum elongated the sound and rubbed the underside of his nose. “I’d guess Noah wears about a seven and a half.”

  “Fine.”

  “Now this one...” He took one off a block and donned it on his knuckles, pointing out its features with his free hand. “This one’s called The Boss of the Plains, and there isn’t a man alive wouldn’t be proud to own this hat. It came clear from Philadelphia It’s a J. B. Stetson, made of one hundred percent nutria fur, with a silk band and lining. Crown is four and a half inches and the brim, four. But look here—it weighs only six ounces...” Holding it by the brim, he bounced it in both hands. “Yet it’ll hold off the sun and the rain, and it’s tough enough to be used as a whip if need be, or a pillow, or for watering your horse, or for fanning a campfire.” Again, he demonstrated. “I believe Noah would be more than happy with this hat.”

  “Fine. I’ll take it.” Everyone in the store was gawping by now. Sarah wished Tatum would pipe down and get to his gold scale.

  “Don’t you want to know how much?” he inquired, loud enough to be heard by J. B. Stetson himself, clear out in Philadelphia.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  Twenty dollars! She swallowed her surprise and went with Tatum to the scale, where he weighed out the full ounce of gold while speculative mumurings began among his other customers. When the purchase was complete, she inquired, “Can you deliver it, Mr. Tatum?”

  Tatum appeared nonplussed. “Well, I guess I can, though I suspect Noah is in his office right now, and it’s only a few doors down.”

  “Thank you so much. I’d appreciate it if you would do that for me. Tomorrow will be time enough.”

  “And what should I say about who’s sending it to him?”

  “Tell him Miss Merritt always pays her debts.”

  “You bet I will, Miss Merritt. You bet I will.”

  Leaving Tatum’s store, she was certain she was blushing, which left her displeased with herself. She wished she were a man. Only those of the spear side could hope for any degree of anonymity in this male-dominated town. Not only was she a woman, but a newspaper publisher as well, and both virtues magnified her visibility. She had no doubt the news would spread faster than spilled water that the editor of the Chronicle had bought a new hat for the marshal, who had locked her in an abandoned mine the day before. Certainly there would be speculation about why. Well, let them wonder! She herself knew why. Because she wanted the books cleared between them so he’d have nothing to come back at her with. Her debt to Noah Campbell was paid in full. No further byplay need pass between them ever again.

  Her temper had scarcely dimmed by the time she reached Rose’s. This time the door was locked and she had to knock. Flossie answered.

  “What you want?”

  “I want to see my sister.”

  Flossie took a long, disparaging look at Sarah’s pinched mouth and proper clothes, then thumbed over her shoulder. “Out back.”

  Sarah went down the center hall, passed the kitchen and found Addie collecting dry underwear from a clothesline in a tiny square of space behind it. The area was enclosed by a crude bark fence and held some water barrels and a huge woodpile that rested against the rear of the building. Addie’s hair was wet and she wore a faded green dressing robe. Sarah watched for a moment and went down four wooden steps before speaking.

  “Hello, Addie.”

  Addie glanced back over her shoulder before resuming her work. “What do you want?” she asked crossly.

  “I brought you a copy of my first newspaper.”

  “I heard about it.”

  “It looks much the same as Father’s. The same type and layout. I thought it might bring back some happy memories for you.”

  Addie plucked the last garment and dropped it into a wicker basket. She propped the basket on her hip and brushed past Sarah on her way up the steps. “You can keep your memories and keep your paper.”

  “Addie, please, why are you so bitter?”

  Addie paused in the doorway, looking down on Sarah. “I’m surprised you come around here, a hoity-toity newspaperwoman like you. Don’t you care about your reputation?”

  “It’s your reputation I care about.”

  “So I heard. You’ve been writing editorials.”

  “One, yes. I want you to read it.” Sarah held out the paper.

  “Leave me alone,” Addie said and went inside, closing the door behind her.

  Sarah studied the entrance for some time, then glanced down at the copy of the Chronicle in her hands. This made two times in as many days that she’d been told to keep her newspaper. She released a sigh and her shoulders sagged. What was she fighting for? For a sister who wanted to remain a harlot? For a dumpy, dirty town she didn’t even like? To be accepted as a decent woman by a bunch of men who didn’t have the faintest notion how to treat a lady?

  She was sorry she’d come here. Sorry she’d found Addie. Sony she’d left St. Louis. Disillusioned and very, very tired, Sarah reentered the brothel, left the newspaper on one of the tables in the reception room and quietly went away.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Noah Campbell had read Sarah’s editorial, all right. Read it and wanted to go over to that newspaper office of hers and run her through her own press a few times. The damned woman was a pain in the ass... and the eye and the lip and the ear, for that matter. One was black and blue, one was swollen and the other had a hole in it, all because of Sarah Merritt. To top it off, she wasn’t content to get him mauled in the street, now she was mauling him in print. A hundred and fifty men probably went through one of those whorehouses in a night and she singled out him, Noah Campbell, the marshal of Deadwood, to hold up as an example of tarnished virtue!

  For two cents he’d use her rag to light a fire in his office stove, but he’d be in trouble with his mother if he did. If Carrie Campbell found out the town had its own newspaper and Noah went out there without a copy—look out! And he was going out to the Spearfish, probably tomorrow.

  Meanwhile, Noah had to find someone to fill in for
him while he was gone. It was only an eighteen-mile drive, but he’d decided to stay overnight and get in a visit with his family while he was there.

  On the morning following his starring role in Sarah Mer-ritt’s muck column, he was interviewing young Freeman Block with an eye to deputizing him when Andy Tatum came into his office wearing one hat and carrying another.

  “Noah... Freeman,” Andy greeted. “Mighty pretty weather we’ve been having, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is,” Noah replied. “So pretty I’m fixing to take a ride out to the Spearfish and leave Freeman here in charge.”

  Freeman grinned and pointed at the brown Stetson. “You worried there’s going to be a hat shortage, Andy?”

  Andy chortled and needlessly brushed at the crown of the hat with his knuckles. “No. This is a delivery for Noah. From the new lady in town.” Andy extended the hat.

  Noah went stone-still. His expression turned dyspeptic.

  “For you,” Andy said. “Take it.”

  Noah leaned forward in his desk chair and reluctantly took the hat. “Do I understand you correctly? It’s from that Merritt woman?”

  “That’s right. She said to tell you she always pays her debts.”

  Noah looked at it as if it might bite him.

  “It’s a damned good hat, too.” Andy tugged up his pants.

  “I can see that.”

  “Twenty dollars’ worth.”

  Freeman whistled.

  Andy was enjoying himself. “She didn’t bat an eye when I told her how much it cost. Well, aren’t you going to try it on?”

  Noah settled the hat on his head very gingerly, using two hands.

  “It fits,” Freeman noted.

  “Looks good, too,” Andy said.

  “Spiffy,” Freeman added. “I wish I had some woman giving me hats.”

  “Aw, now, just a minute. There’s no love lost between that bean pole and me.”

  Freeman’s expression turned to one of lascivious speculation. “Any woman ever give you a hat, Andy?”

  “Nope. The most any woman ever give me was a bad case of the crabs. ‘Course, Noah ain’t gonna have any of those from now on since he’s gonna be staying away from the badlands.”

  While Freeman and Andy hooted and slapped their thighs, Noah glowered. “Now listen, you two, don’t you go spreading any rumors about Sarah Merritt and me. Why, we can hardly be in the same room together without a pair of whips.”

  “Spreading any rumors! Hell, there were half a dozen men in my store when she walked in and picked out that hat and said plain as the sky for me to deliver it to you. Who’s spreading rumors? My guess is she’s got an eye for you, Noah. I’d put money on it. Why, hell, how many men do you figure there are up and down these gulches? Ten thousand? Twenty? And about two dozen women, which gives that little newslady a few to pick from. So who does she buy a new hat for? Noah Campbell, that’s who.”

  “Must be his shiny tin badge,” Freeman put in, smirking.

  Noah took the hat off and flung it on the desk. “Now, Freeman, goddammit, watch yourself!”

  Andy winked at Freeman. “I think it’s that hairy mustache, myself. Some women like those things, you know. Me, I never could see why a man would want to hang a scrub mop beneath his nose, but it takes all kinds.”

  Freeman considered the marshal’s upper lip with mock seriousness. “You think it’s the mustache, huh? I heard a rumor about something that happened up at Rose’s the first night that newspaper gal came to town and—”

  Noah jumped to his feet and pointed at the door. “Freeman, goddammit! Do you want the job as deputy or not? ‘Cause I can find plenty who do!”

  “I sure do, Noah. I sure do.” Freeman puckered, still chuckling silently.

  “Then shut the hell up!”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “And, Andy, I don’t give a damn what your customers heard at the store. That woman and me get along like hot grease and water.”

  “As you say, Marshal. I’ll do my best to stifle the rumors.”

  When the two were gone, Noah stomped around his office, kicked a chair and glared at the hat, still lying on his desk. If it were any other woman, in any other occupation, with any other kind of temperament, he might be interested. Lord knew, it was lonely enough out here. But not that tall, gangly four-eyes, with her forked tongue and her pointed editorials! He’d continue at Rose’s, thank you. But he’d wear the hat. Why shouldn’t he? He’d earned it, by God.

  He picked it up, creased the crown to his liking and plunked it on his head. On the floor in the corner lay a saddlebag. From it he took a small mirror and checked his reflection. Looked good. Looked damned good, if he did say so himself. His eyes dropped from the hat to his black eye, down his very Scottish nose to his bushy mustache, which he smoothed with his free hand.

  All right, so what the hell was wrong with mustaches!

  The next day Noah rented an American Beauty runabout with tufted, sprung seats and plenty of legroom—the most comfortable buggy available at Flecek’s livery barn. In it he and True Blevins set out for the Spearfish Valley.

  They’d ridden for some time, talked about the wonderful fall weather, the peace treaty the Indians had finally signed, the high market value of animal feed in the gulches and the relative merit of chewing tobacco. True helped himself to a fresh twist and offered some to Noah.

  “No, thanks.”

  They rode on companionably, enjoying the balmy day, the blue sky, the peace. Their route followed Deadwood Creek northeast out of the gulch, then swung northwest, following the outer rim of the Hills through tranquil pine-and-spruce-covered mountains where quick streams flowed over shiny brown rocks. Beside these, peach-leaved willows flourished. Wild currants and serviceberries gleamed ripe in the autumn sun with black-billed magpies flying among them in sudden flashes of white.

  After a long stretch of silence, Noah said thoughtfully, “Hey, True?”

  “What?”

  “What do you think about mustaches?”

  “Mustaches?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell, I got one, ain’t I? What do you think I think of ‘em!”

  “No, I mean, do you think women like them?”

  “Women! What brought this on?”

  “Aw, hell, forget it.”

  True spit over the side of the buggy, then wiped his soup strainer.

  “You got something stuck in your craw? Like that newspaperwoman maybe?”

  “Ha.”

  “I told you to look out for her.”

  “She’s the last female I’d cotton to. Why, hell, did you read that editorial she put in her paper? She might as well have come right out and said it was the marshal of Deadwood she ran into up at Rose’s her first night in town.”

  “What do you care? Ain’t a single man in the gulch don’t use the badlands.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me, I was plannin’ on gettin’ a little myself soon as I had my train unloaded, but after Doc got done puncturin’ me a little bigger I wasn’t sure my system could stand it.”

  They rode awhile longer, then True asked, “So what about her sister, the one named Eve—you done it with her?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Man, them two don’t look atall alike, do they? That Eve, she’s soft where a woman’s got to be soft. And her face ain’t too bad either.”

  Noah tossed a partial grin True’s way. True had something there.

  “I’ve been thinking...” Dropping the thought, Noah remained silent for so long True had to ask, “About what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Women. You know—the other kind. You ever done it with one that you cared about?”

  True stretched his legs out and caught one wrist on the backrest behind Noah. He studied the ridge ahead and got a faraway look in his blue eyes.

  “Yeah, I sure did. I was eighteen at the time. Had me a little gal that wanted to marry me in the worst way—Francie was her name. I was hauling freight for t
he Army then between Kansas and Utah, while they were trying to subdue those stubborn Mormons. She was one of them, a Mormon. I swear, for a while there, I was thinking about taking up the religion.”

  “What happened?”

  “Her family had already promised her to one of her own. When she married him he already had two other wives. I swear, Noah, I never got over that. Hell, she loved me. She said she loved me. And I loved her, too, then she went and did a thing like that, married a man as old as Methuselah who already had more than his share of wives. I tell you, it soured me on honest women forever.”

  “How old are you now, True?”

  “Forty.”

  “And you never met another one you cared for?”

  “Nope, and I didn’t want to neither.”

  “What about kids? You ever want kids?”

  “A man like me’s got no business wanting kids... never in one place, hauling freight and cussing at oxen. Hell, what would I do with a family? Nothing but a hobble on a man’s leg.”

  If Noah detected a wistful note in True’s words he refrained from saying so.

  Shortly before ten A.M. they entered the Spearfish Valley. A natural amphitheater, it stretched out below them like an amethyst in a ring of jade. No wonder the Indians fought to prevent the white men from obtaining a foothold here. Not only was it beautiful, but fertile, with fast-running streams of pure cold water fed by melted snows and crystal springs. These streams coursed down from rockbound canyons in roaring torrents flecked with foam, a living, leaping source of health, wealth and happiness.

  Noah’s father, Kirk Campbell, had taken one look and decided the Spearfish Valley was destined to become the cradle of agriculture of western Dakota. Not for him the quick, fickle wealth of a mining claim, but the surer source of permanent prosperity to be found in a well-tilled farm.

  Upon his arrival in the Black Hills in early May, Kirk had visited the valley’s first white settler, James Butcher, who had already been forced by the hostile Indians from his original cabin and had built his second dwelling three miles east, near the spot where False Bottom Creek left the hills. Later in May, a large party of additional settlers arrived from Bozeman, Montana. Seasoned mountaineers, they were inured to hardship and Indian wars, fully capable of whipping any number of Indians daring to attack them. Along with them, Kirk Campbell settled in the Spearfish Valley. Immediately they had begun operations for securing ranches and water rights. They built a common stockade where they stored their provisions and ammunition and into which they drove their livestock at the close of each day. Through the summer Indian raids had continued sporadically, but the settlers—fully mindful of the shortage of arable, flat lands in this mountainous region, and of the insatiable demand for stock feed due to the influx of prospectors—posted guards and set about seeding their outlying fields.