“You are not a bad influence. At least, I trust you aren’t. Your father’s going to talk to Mr. Moraine and get it all cleared up. How is your work coming?”
“We got the track cleared, but the carpenters haven’t finished the rail yet. Mr. Meyers—he’s the one that’s in charge—says we can come help the carpenters if we’d like.”
“Yes, I imagine he would like the free help. How is your finger today?”
“Sore, but as long as I don’t bump it too hard, it’s alright.” Little Frank grabbed a cold biscuit and crammed half of it into his mouth. “The big race is set for Sunday!” he mumbled.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, young man. You’re spraying biscuit crumbs like they were chicken feed out by the henhouse. Now, the girls and I are going over to Aunt Abby’s. They’re trying on some more clothes. Would you like to come?”
“I’d rather get run over by a train than have to listen to them fuss about clothes.” Little Frank grabbed another biscuit. “Can I go down to the hardware and play cribbage with Grandpa Brazos?”
“Yes, and come by Aunt Abby’s before you come home. We might have some packages for you to carry.”
“I think Daddy had a good idea. ’Nica and Tricia should have sewn dresses out of that fake money. Then they could march in the Fourth of July parade.” Little Frank crammed more biscuit in his mouth.
“It’s not fake exactly. It’s just worthless at this point,” Jamie Sue added. “Someone spent money to engrave the plates and print all of that up.”
Little Frank’s eyes lit up. “I wish that lady photographer, Miss Fontenot, had been in town. We could have had our pictures taken sprawled across all that money.”
Jamie Sue retrieved a broom and began sweeping the gray wooden floor of the kitchen. “Aunt Rebekah said that Miss Fontenot is now Mrs. Kaid Darrant.”
Little Frank paused at the back door. “No foolin’? She got married? It don’t seem fair. All the good ones are either married or related to me.”
Guthrie Holter’s hat was pushed back. His dark hair drooped across his forehead, parallel to his mustache. His chair leaned back against the wall and he was reading an illustrated Police Gazette when Robert entered his office above the depot.
“You about to head out?” Guthrie asked.
Robert shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Yes. I wanted to talk to Mr. Moraine before I left, but he’s working days. I can’t seem to find him at home.”
“If you need to stay and talk, I’ll take the run,” Holter offered.
“It’s my turn,” Robert insisted. “It’s your day off.”
“It’s not like I have a lot to do. Let me take the run.”
“Holter, you’re a good man. And I don’t intend to abuse your enthusiasm. It will be best if we stick to our schedule, unless it’s an emergency. Now, if you told me your wife and boys were waitin’ for you in Rapid City, and you wanted to go get them and bring them to Deadwood, that would be …”
Holter leaned the chair forward, then stared down at his boots. His voice was so soft, Robert could barely hear it. “She made up her mind she don’t want to live up here.”
Robert pulled a box of .45 cartridges out of his top right drawer and dropped them in his pocket.
“You going to need that many bullets?” Holter said.
Fortune laughed as he strolled toward the door. “No, I suppose I’ll wear the writing off this box before I ever have to use them. But we just have to be prepared.”
Robert shuffled down the wooden steps, through the depot, and out to the platform among a half-dozen waiting passengers. He heard someone shout his name.
It was a man’s voice.
An angry man’s voice.
A tall man with a small bowler and a thick, drooping mustache stalked toward him carrying a short, double-barreled shotgun.
“Did you need to talk to me?” Robert called out.
The man stopped about twenty feet away. “If you’re lookin’ for a fight, it might as well be right here!” the man declared.
Passengers waiting to board the train scurried back into the depot. Those onboard peered out from the temporary safety of glass windows.
Robert strolled toward the man with the square jaw and angry eyes. “Mister, I don’t even know you. What’s this all about?”
“I’m Riagan Moraine, and I don’t take lightly to Irish-hating. You said you were goin’ to settle this matter once and for all. Well you’re totin’ a gun and so am I. Let’s settle it right here and now.”
“Mr. Moraine, I have never, in any way, insulted the Irish. The finest men I served with in the army were all Irish. This is so ludicrous, it’s almost funny. Put your gun away and go home.”
“Go home, you say?” The man’s voice was loud enough for all the platform to hear. “That’s because you didn’t think I’d show up armed, did you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That letter you sent me. You think I’d come begging? You Fortunes ain’t nearly as important as you think you are.”
Robert rubbed the bridge of his nose, then the wrinkles in his forehead with calloused fingers. “I didn’t send you a letter.”
The shotgun in his right hand, Moraine whipped out a piece of paper with his left. “I suppose this ain’t your stationery?”
Robert leaned close enough to see his name on the top of the Fremont, Elkhorn, and Missouri Valley Railroad stationery.
“That’s my letterhead, but it isn’t my letter.”
Moraine crammed the paper back in his pocket. “Are you callin’ me a liar?”
“Mr. Moraine, you’ve told the truth. You do have some kind of letter. And I told the truth; I didn’t send it. I don’t even know what’s on it.”
Moraine leaned forward until he was only a couple of feet away. “You said it would be a cold day in Hades when you couldn’t do away with an Irishman.”
Robert tugged on an earlobe, then scratched the back of his neck. “I do not believe that way. That is not my letter.”
“You sayin’ that ain’t your signature?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Robert insisted.
“It’s printed on a typewriting machine, and I know you got one in your office.”
“If you know that much about my office, you’d know I’ve never used it—ever.”
Moraine shook the gun barrel at Robert. “Well, you called me out. I’m here. You’re here. We both have guns. Let’s settle it.”
“Mr. Fortune? We have to get the last passengers loaded,” the conductor hollered.
“Moraine, let’s talk about this in a more private place.”
“We’ll do it right out here in the open. I don’t intend to get back-shot or bushwhacked.”
Guthrie Holter sauntered up next to Robert. “You need help, Mr. Fortune?”
“You stay out of this. This ain’t your fight,” Moraine yelled at Holter.
“Mr. Moraine …” Robert walked to the side of the platform. “Let me see the letter again. Perhaps I can tell who forged my name to it.”
A few passengers scurried from the depot to the waiting train cars.
Moraine scooted to the edge of the platform. “You ain’t goin’ to take this and rip it up. I got the evidence that will hold up in court.”
“Then sue me.”
“For what?” Moraine grumbled.
“Precisely my point,” Robert added. “I haven’t committed any crime, Mr. Moraine. Neither have any of my family.”
“I read it in a book.”
“The book is full of lies. It’s make-believe. To believe it’s true is as absurd as … as believing in the tooth fairy.”
The shotgun went to Moraine’s shoulder. “There are fairies, you know!”
Robert took a deep breath and pushed back his hat. “Mr. Moraine, I apologize to you for any misconceptions that might have been perpetuated about the Fortune family being anti-Irish. We are frontier people. Do you know what that means?”
> “What?”
“It means we don’t care who you were, good or bad, before you got here. It’s what you are right now that counts. It has nothing to do with color of skin or nationality.”
Guthrie Holter tapped on Robert’s shoulder. “Mr. Fortune, the train’s pullin’ out. I’ll take this one. You wait for the next.”
“No!” Robert barked. “We are not changing plans. Mr. Moraine, I have apologized for a letter I did not send. My office is not locked. Anyone who knows how to use a typing machine could have walked in there and done that. When I return, I will find out who did and see that justice is carried out. Now I have to go to work. I’m getting on that train.”
Robert Fortune turned and trotted toward the slow-moving train.
“I could shoot you in the back!” Moraine shouted.
“And just what would that prove about the Irish?” Robert replied. He caught the black iron railing and pulled himself into the car.
Jamie Sue watched her twin daughters fidget in front of the mirror. “You will only get one more ready-made dress and that’s final,” she declared.
“But Mama.” Veronica twirled around so the hem of the navy blue dress would spin out from the toes of her shoes. “Grandpa Brazos said he’d buy us all the dresses we want.”
“Your Grandpa Brazos would buy you two the moon, if I’d let him. However, this is our purchase. We will buy yardage and make you two sets of identical dresses. That will give you both two nice dresses, two new everyday dresses, and one old one for doing chores. That’s five dresses each, and no girl in the world needs more than five dresses.” Jamie Sue’s shoulders sagged a little forward as she stood and crossed her arms.
Veronica tugged her mother’s hand free and put hers into it. “Amber says a girl needs seven dresses, a different one for every day of the week.”
Jamie Sue squeezed Veronica’s hand, then released it. “But Amber’s mother owns a dress shop. I don’t even have seven dresses. At least, not seven that fit.”
Patricia chewed on her tongue, still staring at the dress in the mirror. “It was nice of Aunt Abby to order us identical dresses.”
Jamie Sue straightened the shoulders of Patricia’s dress, then smoothed the lace yoke. “It does seem to keep the peace around our house a bit better.”
“It’s my turn to wear the yellow dress to church,” Patricia declared.
Veronica strolled between her sister and the mirror. “No it isn’t. You wore it to Fern Troop’s recital.”
“But no one was there, but family … and the Troops,” Patricia insisted.
Veronica curtseyed to herself in the mirror. “Quint Troop is not just family.”
“Wait a minute,” Jamie Sue insisted. “I thought the argument was over who wore the rose-colored dress? When did you start arguing over the yellow one?”
“Ever since we saw Curly Mac at the drugstore and he said the yellow dress Veronica had on was the prettiest dress he had ever seen in his entire life!” Patricia admitted.
Sam Fortune burst through the front door of the dress shop and uttered muffled words to Abigail. Immediately, Abby waved for her to join them.
“Girls, I’m going up front to talk to Aunt Abby. You put on your old dresses and put the new ones in the box so we can carry them home.”
Sam spoke as she approached. “Jamie Sue, is Bobby taking the morning or afternoon train?”
“I believe it was the morning train. But he won’t be home until tomorrow. Why?” Jamie Sue pressed.
Sam spun on the heels of his polished stovetop boots. “Maybe it’s late pullin’ out. I’ll try to catch him.”
Jamie Sue felt her heart start to race. “What is it?”
“Abby will fill you in,” Sammy called back.
Jamie Sue’s sister-in-law wore dangling emerald earrings that matched her seasoned eyes. She studied them as Sam Fortune hurried out the front door. “What is it, Abby?”
“Sammy has a telephone line to install, and what with Pinch-Nose Pete gone, he talked to Keary Nolan about forming a crew. Keary would hardly speak to him. Said no Irish would work for him again.”
“It’s all over that novel?” Jamie Sue asked.
“No. That’s why Sammy’s so upset. They’re mad because they were promised extra pay for stringing a line through Death Song Canyon. He paid the bonus to Pinch-Nose Pete to give to the men, but they never received it.”
“What?” Her throat and neck were so tight the word shot out like a cork on a bottle of vinegar.
Abby paced behind the front counter. “Pete kept the bonus and took off to Cheyenne.”
Jamie Sue followed Abby’s bustle. “And none of the crew ever complained to Sammy?”
“Pete told the crew that Fortunes hated the Irish and they had better not approach one of them without a gun in their hand.”
“I can’t believe it!”
Abby spun around and faced Jamie Sue. “Neither can Sammy.”
“Did he explain it to Keary Nolan?”
“Yes,” Abby said, “but Keary didn’t believe it until he showed him his books, and Pete’s signature on the receipt of the bonuses.”
“That’s horrible. Pete should be arrested.”
“Pete’s dead. He died in Cheyenne spending the crew’s bonuses.” Abby slapped her hand over her mouth, then murmured, “Sometimes, it is much more difficult being a Christian. There are many things I want to say right now, but none are allowed.”
“I’ve often wished I had a deep cave to go into every once in a while to yell and scream,” Jamie Sue admitted.
Abby took a deep breath, then smiled. “You could make a fortune renting it out.”
“What’s Sammy going to do now?” Jamie Sue asked.
“He asked Keary to call a meeting of the Irish. Sammy will explain the situation and give the men their overdue bonuses.”
“Does Sammy have the extra money?”
“We’ll borrow it if we have to. But those men deserve the bonuses they were promised,” Abby insisted.
“Mr. Moraine said it was Hawthorne Miller’s awful book that got him riled.”
“That must have added to the misconception.”
“Or the conspiracy,” Jamie Sue replied.
“Mama!” Little Frank sprinted into the dress shop with Quintin Troop a step behind. “Did you hear about Daddy?”
“What happened?” she gasped.
“Mr. Moraine met him at the depot and called him out!”
“He did what?”
The dark-headed Quintin Troop stared down at his dusty black boots. Quint was a year older than Little Frank but a good four inches shorter. “He tried to provoke him into a gunfight.”
“When?”
“Mr. Landusky at the depot told Daddy that Moraine showed up just as the train pulled out. He wanted Mr. Fortune to face him in a gunfight.”
“Has it gone that far?” Abby gasped.
“What happened?” She felt Abby’s arm slip into hers.
Little Frank pulled off his hat and rocked back on his heels. “Daddy told Mr. Moraine that it was all a lie about Fortunes hating the Irish, and he refused to draw his gun.”
Jamie Sue tried to take a deep breath, but it turned out to be so shallow she coughed. “Then Robert didn’t get hurt?”
“No, ma’am. That’s what Mr. Landusky told Quiet Jim who told Quint who told me,” Little Frank explained.
“What happened after that?” Jamie Sue inquired.
“Daddy walked away from Mr. Moraine and boarded the train.”
“Moraine threatened to shoot him in the back,” Quint added.
“But he didn’t,” Little Frank consoled.
Jamie Sue clutched Abby’s arm. “This whole thing is thundering out of control. It’s almost demonic.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Abby replied. She peered out the window, then shouted, “Be gone with you, Satan! In the name of Jesus, be gone with your lies and deceit.”
Jamie Sue flinched.
/> Quint and Little Frank jumped back.
Veronica and Patricia scurried up front, wearing their old dresses and carrying their new ones.
“What happened?” Patricia called out. “Aunt Abby, what are you yelling about?”
Veronica headed for the two boys. “Hello, Quint,” she drawled. “Did you come by to see me in my new dress?”
Jamie Sue sat on the sofa, facing Lincoln Street. She counted the stitches in the half-done, ecru-colored dresser scarf that lay in her lap. She held a small number 9 crochet hook in her right hand.
Now Lord, this is such a peaceful scene. There is no wind blowing down the gulch. The sky is a beautiful Dakota light blue. The temperature’s so mild. I don’t need gloves outdoors or a wood fire in here.
… single crochet in 2nd chain from hook in back loop only …
Robert is at work with a job that fits him perfectly. Little Frank is helping build a racetrack. His broken finger is healing nicely. I have a lovely home, … dear friends and family nearby, a sense of place and permanency.
… single crochet in next five stitches in back loop only. Work three single crochets in next stitch in back loop only …
So why on earth am I so anxious and nervous?
Besides the fact that my twelve-year-old daughters went on a carriage ride with their cousin, Amber, who loves to racehorses, on a trip up the gulch to Central City and Lead? Which, of course, should cause everyone in all three towns sincere worry.
… single crochet in back loop of next six stitches. Skip next two stitches …
It is like putting on a very comfortable pair of old shoes … and having a stone in one shoe. Deadwood is the old shoe. It fits us well. We are at home. But something keeps causing me pain and keeping me away from contentment.
… single crochet in next six stitches backloop only …
Part of it’s the animosity with the Irish.
Not just Irish in general, but the Moraines. I can’t believe that we just arrived in town and we already have someone who hates us so.
… three single stitches in back loop of next stitch …
It doesn’t seem fair. It should take time to make enemies. Why is it that it takes years to make new friends and only seconds to make enemies?
Friends and Enemies Page 19
