by Marian Wells
Amy had turned away when the swinging door of the dance hall threw the sound at her. She stopped. It was the tinny, syncopated sound of a piano, crashing gaily through a tune she didn’t recognize. “A piano,” she murmured, “a real piano. Oh, I would love to see it, to hear—”
The thought was there before her foot slipped on the edge of the incline. She sat down abruptly and watched the gravel cascading down the slope. Her heart began to thump, not from the near tumble, but instead because of the idea. A good hard slide would land her in the backyard of the dance hall.
In the end, Amy strolled casually down the hill instead. Under the cover of night, confident of the length of Methodist Episcopal Church meetings, she had nothing to fear.
Once she reached the street bordering Cherry Creek, Amy quickened her steps, fearful now of all the stories Aunt Maude had told about drunken miners. When she reached the boardwalk, she hesitated just long enough to hear shuffling feet and laughter.
Quickly she scooted around the corner and found herself behind the dance hall. Music came from the open window high above her head.
Backing slowly across the yard, straining to see, Amy collided with something. “Oh!” Whirling around she gasped in relief. The obstacle was not a drunken man; it was a woodpile, a very tall one. After another ragged breath, she scrambled up the logs and peered in the window. She could see a man sitting at the piano; behind him the swirling skirts were a rainbow wrapping around the somber garb of men.
Amy was unmindful of the dancing figures. Her eyes were focused on the fingers flying across the keys, measuring their movement with the sounds coming through the window. “More than anything,” she murmured, “more even than a heap of gold. Oh, how I want—”
“More than gold?” The mocking voice came below her.
Amy caught her breath and leaned forward. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was down there.” She squinted at the figure in the shadows. “You startled me!”
“Well, come down and help me.” Amy slid off her perch and went to stand beside the woman seated on the log. She looked up at Amy. “I’ve ripped the heel off my slipper. If you’ll hold it while I whack it with this piece of wood, I may get it to hold.”
Amy studied the pink chiffon and lace. The woman’s dress wasn’t cut like Aunt Maude’s. Amy blinked at the glorious display of creamy flesh. She reached for the slipper, “I’d expect you to take cold out here after dark.”
“Well, I’ll take something, but it won’t be cold.” She handed the slipper to Amy.
Slowly Amy turned it in her hands. “I’ve never seen a shoe like this. All silver except for the tip of the toe. Is that gold?”
“They said so. But if this flimsy heel is any indication, I have a feeling the gold will rub off by next week.” She turned the slipper in Amy’s hand. “Hold it this way. There, now hang on tight.”
The chunk of firewood crashed against the heel and slipped. “Ouch!”
The woman dropped the wood. “I’ve hit you! Here, let me see. Oh, you poor baby. I’m sorry. I didn’t dream it would slip. Hold this hanky against it. Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. That lousy shoe.” She flung it away and bent over Amy. “Let me see. Come with me and I’ll put some salve on it.”
“Oh, no. It’ll be fine.” Amy pulled back in horror.
“No, I insist. I can’t dance in this shoe anyway. Come on; I’ll just hobble on down to the hotel and get another pair. We’ll fix up that finger. How ridiculous! I should have known better.” She tugged and Amy came.
Hurrying down the street, the woman pulled Amy through the front door of the hotel. “I’ve never been in a place like this,” Amy said with a catch in her voice. She stumbled in the thick carpeting as she followed. The woman’s laugh was low and musical. “It isn’t a bad place. I’ll go apologize to your parents if you wish.” She stopped on the stairs and turned to look at Amy. Touching the curls coming loose from Amy’s braids, the woman said, “You’ve lovely hair. Mine was nearly that color when I was younger.”
She cocked her head and studied Amy. “You are older than I thought. Such a bitty thing. That’s fine. No sense having the fellows tagging you around until you’re grown.” She took Amy’s arm and tugged her along.
The woman’s room was crowded with frocks hanging from every hook and knob in the place. Amy stood like a wooden soldier with her eyes drinking in the loveliness. The woman dropped the ruined slippers and came back carrying a bottle.
“This will sting, but it’ll help. Who knows what lurks in woodpiles.” She smiled at Amy. After the sting was gone and the ointment applied, she touched Amy’s cheek. “Seeing your apple freshness makes me feel like a shabby old lady.”
“Oh, but you aren’t!” Amy gasped, shocked into a burst of words. “You’re beautiful. I suppose if I had a wish to grow up beautiful, I’d want to look like you.”
The woman crossed the room and rummaged through an open valise. Taking up another pair of slippers, she said, “I hope you have higher aspirations than being a dance-hall girl. Why were you looking through the window?”
“It was the piano. I’ve always wanted to learn the piano. I’ve scarcely ever been close to one. My aunt believes they are an invention of the devil.” Amy noticed the shoes. “Why, those are just like the others.”
The woman smiled up at Amy as she fastened the shining straps. “All silver, even the heels. They’ve kind of become a trademark. They call me Silverheels.” She stood up. “Now, if that finger feels okay, I’ll walk with you back to the dance hall.”
“I think I’d better be going home. It’s getting late. I’ll just climb the hill from here.” Amy studied the woman’s face. When the warm, merry eyes met Amy’s, she was filled with strange emotion.
Amy hesitated, wondering and afraid to wonder. One part of those emotions reminded her of all the labels Aunt Maude would place on this woman. But another part of Amy was yearning to reach out to the laughing, smiling woman.
They had started out the door when the woman turned abruptly. The smiles were gone. Even in the dim lamp light, Amy could see her eyes were sad. She touched Amy’s shoulder lightly, and then her fingers pressed hard.
Leaning close the woman whispered, “I saw the hunger in you. You want the pretties, the things you don’t have. Don’t let it lead you astray. Sometimes things are not what they seem. If you repeat this, I’ll deny it. But if I had it to do over again—”
She turned and led the way down the stairs. Amy followed. A touch of the woman’s sadness seemed to seep in, spoiling even the awesome marvel of the thick, soft carpet underfoot. Amy noticed it was marked with the soil from Denver City’s streets.
Amy nearly bumped into the woman when they reached the door. Bending over, peering into the street, the woman muttered, “Those preachers are at it again. Down at the corner, snatching at every fellow passing.” She turned with a bright smile. “I’m slipping out the back door. You’re on your own, sweetie. See you around.”
Amy watched the woman go down the back hall. With a sigh, Amy leaned out the door and considered. If all the exhorters from the Methodist Episcopal Church were in that crowd of singing men, then she could be in trouble. Aunt Maude would be home by now.
Taking a deep breath, Amy straightened her shoulders and stepped out the door. She mingled with the crowd on the street. In front of her a woman in a towering hat clung to the arm of a man who must have been someone important. He was wearing a boiled shirt and string tie.
The slurring speech of the man beside her caught Amy’s attention. He was saying, “Tad, yer meaning right, but I don’t want to go home jest yet. Let’s stop fer refreshment and then I’ll go.”
He swayed, stopped, and peered ahead. “That’s looking like a bunch of preachers. Seems I recall yer ma a singin’ that song. ‘Nothing But the Blood of Jesus.’ Mighty sweet.”
“Pa.” The tall youth paused to take the older man’s arm and Amy nearly trod on their heels. He turned, “Begging your pardon—” He squinted down at h
er. Slowly he added. “I didn’t know there was a tyke in camp. Kinda young to be out after dark. Your folks know?”
“I beg your pardon.” Amy made her voice icy and lifted herself to her toes, pointing her chin at him.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He stepped aside and Amy scooted to catch up with the hat and boiled shirt.
She saw her father among the men. Aunt Maude wasn’t there. The missionaries finished “Nothing But the Blood” and began “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.”
When Brother Fisher began to preach, the drunk and the tall skinny youth stopped beside her. The man was swaying slightly and Amy grinned behind her hand. So the young fellow won.
As Brother Fisher warmed to his message, more of the crowd splintered away. Amy’s restless gaze swept back and forth, studying the faces tilted toward the missionaries.
Brother Fisher pointed his finger and roared. “Look at the dens of iniquity surrounding you. There’s not a man among you who hasn’t come from a church pew back home. Why are you hiding out in the brothels and gambling halls?
“Do you think separation from the loving eyes of your wife will excuse you before the gates of heaven? Have you a guarantee that you will live to repent before you meet your Maker? Why not now?”
The drunken man turned away. The youth hesitated. When he looked beyond Amy to the man shaking his finger, she heard him sigh. But it was the strange uneasiness in his eyes that caught her attention.
For a moment the uneasiness touched a responsive chord in her and she shivered. As he turned to follow his father, the young man’s shoulders were drooping. The light coming through the saloon door illuminated his face. He looks like I feel after Aunt Maude gets through scalding my ears.
Still wondering about that lonesome-looking fellow with the haunted eyes, Amy left the crowd and started for the hill. Father was beside her. “Amy, you ought not be wandering around after dark.”
She looked up, “Would you believe, as of this moment I honestly forgot?” He shook his head as he started up the hill with Amy tagging along behind. When they reached the top, he turned to touch her shoulder.
“For the sake of peace and your aunt’s nerves, say—” He paused. “Amy, I expect you to be more careful in the future.”
Chapter 3
Amy skipped from rock to rock, climbing the side of the gulch. Swinging her water pail, she sang softly, “Lost my partner, what’ll I do?” Halfway up, she stopped and turned to look back.
Gregory Gulch was lined by a tumble of rickety cabins, spindly corrals, and dirty flapping tents. As far as she could see, both up and down the narrow slit of a canyon, the crude dwellings were visible.
Wind tossed strange yellow dust into her face and she rubbed at it. “Central City, ha! Miners’ dump number one. No wonder Aunt Maude can’t do anything except scrub and complain. Fifteen thousand men, but not a one interested in anything except getting his gold—poor Father.”
She turned to hop across the rocks again. Now her voice was mournful as she sang, “What’ll I do… Skip to my lou, my darling…. I’ll get another one, pretty one too. Skip to my lou, my darling.” She jumped sideways, “Oops!”
“You’ll do, you’ll do.” Came the voice nearly under her feet. The miner stood up, shook the water and gravel out of his gold pan and grinned at her. “Hey! you’re not an Indian princess. Golden hair and blue eyes. I declare. They told me I must dig the gold out of the mountain.”
Amy moved carefully away from his dripping pan while she scrambled for something witty to say. Feeling as shy as the little ground squirrels, she scooted to the top of the rock, her bare toes testing each step.
The fellow was still grinning up at her. She watched his brown hair being caught and tossed by the wind. His eyes were just as brown—like a friendly squirrel’s. She guessed he was shy, according to his bashful grin.
Amy began to relax. Aunt Maude’s warned about these miners. Woman hungry, she says. But he’s not cocky like the ones in town.
He squatted down and scooped up another pan of water and gravel. Amy eased forward onto her knees and bent over to watch. There was something nagging at her, something half forgotten. He looked familiar. She shrugged and asked, “Have you found any gold today?”
“Today? No. Pa’s having me try all the streams up high. Has an idea that we’ll be led to a rich strike.”
“Aunt Maude’s not going to like that.” Amy said. Seeing the curious glance she added, “She always tells me to go up high, up where the water springs fresh out of the mountain.” Amy rattled the bucket.
Peering into the stream, she added, “Since coming to the diggings, she’s had me get the water up here. It’s so good even Aunt Maude can’t fault it. Sparkles without a speck of mud. At least it did until you came along.” They were both looking at the trail of cloudy water moving away from his gold pan.
She grinned at his dismay. He reached for the pail, saying, “I’ll fill it upstream. Guess that’s the least I can do.”
She asked, “You’ve just come?”
“I was going to ask about you. We’ve been here since June. Rushed in with all the others.”
June? Could he be the fellow I saw in Denver City, listening to Brother Fisher preach? “We’ve just come from Denver City. Had to stay until the presiding elder assigned a circuit to Father. He’s Eli Randolph.” She could see it all meant nothing to him; still, he seemed familiar.
“I’m Amy Randolph; my father is the preacher with the Methodist Episcopal Church. You know the Nebraska-Kansas Conference sent in missionaries.”
His brown eyes were studying her. “Pleased to meet you. I’d heard there was a preacher in town.” There was a question in his eyes, but she let him talk. “I’m Daniel Gerrett. There’s just my pa and me. We’re kinda footloose, and Pa’s had a hankering to try his hand at mining.”
Amy looked at the stream again, regretfully. “I didn’t think a miner would waste his time messing up this trickle of water with his gold panning. It’s so steep even a mule couldn’t cross that stream without washing downhill. What would you do if you did find gold up here?”
“Well, I’d try to be careful. I’d also look for a mule with short legs on the mountain side of him. You’ll be happy to know I’m moving on tomorrow. Not a fleck of gold dust, so there’s no sense lingering. Here, I’ll go after water for you. It’s time to head down the mountain.”
On the last steep hill, Amy moved ahead, hopping from stone to stone, working her way down the mountainside. He came right behind her, moving cautiously, guarding the precious liquid. Amy dared not take her eyes off the trail until the track ended at the road.
The young miner carefully set the pail of water at the edge of the trail. Still breathing heavily, Amy found a rock and sat down. She glanced at the fellow, seeing his shabby shirt and dusty dungarees. Not much of a Prince Charming.
She sighed and turned to look down the hill. “I’m obliged for the help. I can get it home easy now. I’ve been doing it all along.” He chose a rock and sat down. Trying to think of something to say, Amy concentrated on the view of the mining town scattered out below. She pointed to the sprawl of little shacks in the distance. “I hear they call that Mountain City.” He nodded, watching her curiously.
Then he said, “Have I seen you somewhere?”
She answered quickly, “Was it Denver City? But you said you’d been here since June.”
“Pa and I were down there a month ago.”
“That was it.” Amy rushed on, “I saw you on the street, going down to listen to the preachers, didn’t I?”
He studied her closely and blinked. “In the dark I’d decided—that is, until you pulled yourself up tall, I thought—” He blinked again. Of course, Amy thought. You figured I was a baby. Like everyone else.
She looked off into the distance. “Pikes Peak or bust,” she muttered. She cocked her head to listen to the awesome sounds echoing up the valley—the braying of a mule team, the clatter of a heavy wagon coming up the rocky roa
d. She could hear the strident voice of the wagonmaster cursing at his team. The words made her blush.
A new sound arose—the clang of iron against stone, and above it rose the excited voices of men. She looked toward the narrow neck of the town, down Gregory Gulch way. “Mountain City’s busting with excitement. That means someone’s had a good day at the diggings, and I’m guessing they’ll all be heading for Joe’s place to celebrate. Poor Father. A preacher’s life is hard enough without having to fight gold fever as well as the devil.”
Even as Amy spoke, she realized her words were empty of real pity. She glanced at the fellow and added, “It still seems like a dream, coming across the plains.” She tried to visualize the little Kansas town with its serene, predictable life. As she choked off the half-lonesome sigh, she admitted to herself that even in Lawrence she had been lonesome. “I guess,” she said slowly, “what all womenfolk are wishing for is just a spot where we can find the home feeling.”
“Your mother is having a hard time? If mine were alive, I suppose she’d feel the same.”
Amy felt the loneliness caving in upon her. Right now she didn’t want to talk about mothers. She looked at the knobby wrists hanging out the fellow’s shirt. He was young. Amy asked hesitantly, “Did you go to church back home?”
He was silent a moment. “No. My mother did. Seems none of us young’uns had the heart to after she died.” Then he added, “Everyone’s grown and got his own home now, except for me.”
Shivering slightly in the crisp mountain air, Amy made her way down among the rocks and scrubby juniper. Clusters of mountain sunflowers, no taller than the span of her hand, prickled against her bare feet.
The late afternoon shadows were creeping up the sides of the hill. “Men’ll begin swarming up from the creek. Bending over the sluice boxes since the earliest light of the day—they want gold pretty bad.”
