Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy)

by Bergren, Lisa T.

  Everett glanced down at his hands. His nails were black with dirt and a cut on the back of his hand had scabbed over. The boy needed a mother. Attention. Care. “Everett?”

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t have any. My mother died when I was born. She had kin in Missouri.”

  “Which city?”

  Everett shrugged his shoulders.

  Nic swallowed hard. “And your dad?”

  “He had no one.”

  “No brothers? No sisters?”

  “Nah. He came across when he was just a little one, with his father from Germany. Dad always said we were just like him and his own dad, all alone in the world, just the two of us.” He looked away, toward the stove, his eyes round with sorrow.

  “So that grandfather. He’s gone too?”

  Everett nodded once.

  Nic blew out his cheeks and let out another long breath. “Well, there has to be someone, someplace.”

  But a fear rose in him that this boy had no one left in the world. No one but him.

  o

  Nic led Daisy down the dusty street, Everett sitting on her back. Summer had been long and dry here—even the crusted ruts from the wagon wheels of spring had been ground down to an even layer, several inches deep, that clouded up with each footfall. Once it started raining, this place would be a mud pit, Nic thought. He grimaced as he thought about wagons stuck in the muck, men and horses with caked dirt up their legs.

  They pulled up outside the sheriff’s office, a tiny five-by-eight-foot room with a jail cell in back. No one was in either the office or the cell. “C’mon, Everett,” Nic said, leading him out. They went next door to the St. Elmo Mercantile, leaving Daisy tied to the post in front of the sheriff’s office.

  The door opened with the jangle of a bell, and a middle-aged man he assumed was the proprietor climbed down a stepladder. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Name’s Dominic St. Clair,” he said, reaching across the counter. “Friends call me Nic.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Nic,” he said. “I’m Claude O’Connor.” The man was about Nic’s height, with a handlebar mustache and crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves. He looked down at the boy. “Why, Everett, what are you doing in town?”

  “He’s with me,” Nic put in. “We’re needing to see the sheriff. Do you know where he is?”

  Claude looked from Nic to the boy and back again. “This time of day he’s likely up at the stables, yammering with Jed, sharing a cup of coffee.” He paused. “Everything all right?”

  “No, it’s not,” Nic said simply, guiding the boy out the door again. They walked the two blocks to the stables. Jed watched his approach, then nodded in their direction. A thin, pale-skinned man with red hair—far too elegant in appearance to be a sheriff—turned their way and straightened. “So you’re the newcomer,” he said, reaching out a hand. “I’m the sheriff, Drew Nelson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” Nic said. He introduced himself and watched as the man recognized Everett. “Everett and I have something to tell you. Care to step on over to your office?”

  “Sure, sure,” said the man, who nodded farewell to the stable keeper.

  They walked across the graying boards of the walk to his office, entered, then sat down in two chairs, across the desk from the sheriff.

  There was a long, awkward silence. Nic looked to the boy, saw he was on the verge of tears, and told the sheriff what had happened to Peter Vaughn.

  The sheriff’s red eyebrows dropped lower and lower as Nic went on. He swallowed hard and then looked to Everett. “I’m sorry, son. Your dad was a fine man. A friend I’ll miss.”

  Everett nodded, tears washing down his face. “Me too.”

  “I bet, I bet. Tell me, boy, do you think you would recognize these men if you saw them again?”

  “I–I think so.”

  Sheriff Nelson rose and went to the corner filing cabinet and pulled a stack of posters from on top. “Look through those, would you? See if any of them are the men you saw.”

  Everett did as he bade, shuffling through the first ten in rapid succession. On the eleventh he paused, and seemed to hold his breath.

  “Everett?” Sheriff Nelson asked.

  “Him. He was there.” The sheriff looked from the boy over to Nic, then back again. “See if there are any others in that stack.”

  Nic took the poster from the boy as he continued to look through the remaining stack. The picture was of a tall brown-haired man with a long chin and handlebar mustache, somewhat similar to the mercantile man’s. Chandler Robinson, wanted in Fort Collins and Denver for robbery and murder. Three-hundred-dollar reward, dead or alive. Dead or alive. Everett reached the end of the stack and shook his head. “No more.” He sniffed, handing the rest back across the desk.

  “Well, it’s something, son,” Sheriff Nelson said. “If we find this man, we can find his companion. They’ll come to justice. I’ll see to it myself.”

  Everett nodded. Justice was precious little comfort for a grieving son, Nic decided. But it was something.

  “I promised Everett we’d get him to kin,” Nic said. “Do you know of any family?”

  The sheriff sat back in his chair and considered. After a long moment, he shook his head. “The Vaughns have been here since Everett was just a baby. I don’t remember hearing Peter talk about any kin—at least not in Colorado.”

  “No visitors? No letters? Some cousin Everett’s too young to remember?”

  “I don’t think so. But we could check with the postmaster.” He paused a moment, fiddling with a sheet on his desk, before looking Nic in the eye. “How did you come to meet up with the Vaughns, Mr. St. Clair?”

  Was that a note of suspicion in his voice, heavy in the pause of his sentence? Nic didn’t blame the sheriff, with him turning up at the same time Peter turned up dead. “Peter came down to Gunnison looking for help at his mine. Said he’d hit some quality ore, but he was laid up from the accident. Felt he couldn’t carry on without a partner. Offered me half of the earnings.”

  Sheriff Nelson studied him as he spoke, then looked to Everett. “That the truth, son, the best you know it?”

  Everett nodded, wiping more tears from his cheek. “Yeah.”

  Sheriff Nelson nodded slowly and then looked to Nic. “Sorry, friend. Can’t be too careful when there’s a gold mine involved.”

  “I understand. Listen, I’m not much of a miner. I think I’ll be shoving off since Peter’s not here to work it with me.”

  Everett’s head came up, and he stared at Nic in obvious alarm.

  Nic ignored him. “Is there someone in town who can take the boy? A woman who can properly see to his care? A clergyman?”

  “No!” Everett shouted, rising to his feet, his small hands in fists at his side. “No! My dad asked you to work the mine with him. He’s not here. But I’m here! I’ll help you. You promised. You promised.”

  Nic sighed. “I didn’t promise, Everett. You said yourself you didn’t think I was coming. And I’m not the father type—”

  “I don’t need a father. Or a mother!” The boy looked over to the sheriff and back to Nic. “My dad’s dead. That means I have to man up. I’ll work the mine with you. I will. Please, Nic, don’t leave. Not now! My dad … all he wanted was to strike gold, and then he did, but then there was the cave-in. You gotta help me. We gotta see it through.”

  Nic frowned. “Everett, listen. I came to your place against my better judgment. I was counting on your dad to teach me what it meant to be a miner. Promising vein or not, I’ve never dug, not a day in my life. I’m not going in there without another full-grown man. I’d be a fool.”

  “My dad chose you. We talked to lots of men in Gunnison. But you were the only one he asked. So you might not have thought it was a good idea. But my dad did.”

  He was the only one Peter had asked?

  Nic clamped his lips shut. To argue against the child was like arguing with the dead. Futile. Dishonoring Peter’s memory, th
e last thing Everett needed.

  “By rights, you could claim the mine,” the sheriff said casually to Nic. “There aren’t many claims producing quality ore that a man can get to on his own. Most are the big operations, with manpower and machinery that can go thousands of feet. I wouldn’t walk away from it. Why not give it a week and see how it goes?”

  “That’s crazy,” Nic said, shaking his head. “The mine should go to Everett. Then he could sell it to someone else, use the funds for a college education or something.”

  “Everett’s too young to inherit the claim.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Only way around it is if you pull out that ore, sell it, or claim it and sell interest in it. Give a portion to Everett, here, in exchange for his help. That’d honor his daddy.”

  “So I can get myself injured or killed like Peter?”

  Both the sheriff and the boy stilled. Once more, Nic wished he could take back his words.

  “It doesn’t belong to me,” Nic said in a conciliatory tone. “It’d feel like stealing.”

  “Peter offered you half the claim. Gambler’s luck, arriving to find you might get more.” The sheriff stared at him, hard, as if he were crazy even to think of leaving, but then shrugged his shoulders. “As for folks who could take Everett in, I’m afraid there aren’t any. The preacher has a brood of his own. They’re bursting at the seams over at the parsonage. Any other women are—” his voice dropped—“not who you’d want the child to be living with.”

  “Except Sabine,” Everett said.

  The sheriff looked to him. “Think she’d take you?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “And you’d want to stay with her?”

  “Maybe,” the boy repeated.

  The sheriff cocked a brow and glanced at Nic. “It’s Sabine,” he said, tilting his head to one side, “or I’m afraid it’s the orphanage down in Buena Vista.”

  “Orphanage!” Everett blurted. “No, no, no.” He looked over at Nic with pleading eyes. “Give it a week. Please. Let me show you what I know. See what you think of the work. Please. In honor of my dad.”

  Nic stared at the child, then closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. What had he gotten himself into?

  He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled sharply, and said, “You know enough? To show me the ropes?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Gold mining isn’t hard to figure out,” the sheriff said. “Just hard work.”

  Nic knew he couldn’t leave, not without giving Everett at least this. “One week.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up.

  Nic put up a hand. “Calm yourself. You understand that after a week, I might be taking you down to Buena Vista? And I don’t want to be dragging you along, kicking and screaming. I give it a shot. But that’s all I’m promising. Deal?”

  Everett took his hand and pumped it.

  “I’d stop at the county assessor’s office on your way out, Nic,” the sheriff said. “Tell him you’re laying claim to the Vaughn mine.” He paused to put up his hands in defense. “However temporary it may be. Tell him to talk to me if he has any questions. But do make it official before you leave.” He cocked his head to one side. “Town this size, news will travel fast. And Peter—he was onto something special up in the Gulch. There are folks who won’t hesitate to move on it if you don’t.”

  Nic stood and shook his hand. “I’ll do it, but I still don’t feel right about it.”

  The sheriff dropped his hand and hooked it around his gun belt. “You, it seems, are the only way Everett here will ever see any portion of the profits that come out of that mine. Peter set out looking for an honest partner. I hope he found one.”

  o

  “May I help you find something?” Claude O’Connor asked at the mercantile.

  Nic gave him a single nod and looked down at Everett. “Outfitting for a week’s work, up at our claim.”

  Claude looked from him to the boy.

  “My dad’s passed on,” Everett put in, answering the unspoken question.

  Claude’s mouth dropped open and then he abruptly shut it. “I’m sorry, boy. He was a fine man, a fine man.” He didn’t ask for details; Nic didn’t choose to give them to him.

  Everett nodded and looked to the floor.

  “I can outfit most miners with anything they need,” Claude said, returning his attention to Nic.

  “Bet you can,” Nic said, picking up a pail and glancing at the tag, then him. “Especially at these prices.”

  “You know how it goes,” Claude said, ignoring his jibe. “I have to pay to get it shipped from the East and then up here via railroad.”

  “I know how it goes when you’re one of the few games in town,” Nic said with a small smile. He didn’t begrudge the man his good fortune, but he suddenly wished he had won the deed to the St. Elmo Merc—even if he had sworn off retail work forever and ever, amen—rather than falling into a mine claim. Outfitting the mine would cost a fair fortune up here. Not that he had much choice. A trip to Gunnison would take the week he’d promised Everett. “I need sacks of flour, sugar, coffee, baking powder, soda, and salt,” he said.

  Claude came around the corner and began fetching the items, then stacking them on the counter. “What else?”

  “Oil, wicking cloth, a new pick, shovel, and this here triple-priced pail.” He moved to one of the display bins as the proprietor gathered the rest of his list. To the pile, Nic added a jar of preserves, four jars of applesauce, a cured ham covered in netting, a tin of sardines, two tins of biscuits, a box of shotgun bullets, and after a moment’s consideration, peppercorns. His time in South America had left him with a taste for heat in his food. “Do you have any eggs?”

  “Came in this morning,” Claude said. “Old man Grover brings them to me every other day or so.”

  Nic perused the eggs, nestled in dried prairie grass. “I’ll take four. Haven’t had eggs in … some time.”

  “Got a pan up there to fry them in?”

  “Think so,” Nic said, remembering the inside of the spare cabin. He looked over at Everett, and the boy nodded. “I’ll take another blanket too.” He ran his hands over the thick wool of a Hudson’s Bay striped blanket and then over a less expensive one next to it. “I don’t know how Everett and Peter have made it so long with what they have,” he said, handing the more expensive one to the merchant. Even in summer, these mountains could be cold. Snow often fell atop the highest peaks, given a good storm.

  “Dad bought a couple more, down in Gunnison,” Everett defended.

  Nic considered him, and nodded. He’d have to watch himself. Not say anything disparaging about the boy’s dad.

  “That’ll do it?” Claude asked.

  “Better stop there, or I’ll owe you my horse too, and I need her to get all this stuff up to the claim.”

  Claude smiled and began ringing up the purchase on his cast-brass register. Nic leaned over and studied the keys. “Didn’t have anything so fancy when I ran a shop a few years ago.”

  “Ah, so you were a merchant once, eh?”

  “For a short time. Didn’t suit me.”

  “What sort of store? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “A book shop. My father was a publisher.”

  “Oh? Which one? We carry some books in back—”

  “St. Clair Press. It was sold a few years ago.”

  “I remember St. Clair Press. Fine operation, fine publications.”

  Nic nodded, not really caring to get into a lengthy conversation about the place. It had been his father’s business, not his.

  “So a publisher’s son, once a merchant, now a miner?”

  “And a few things in between,” Nic said with a small smile. “What do I owe you?” he asked, cutting off Claude’s next question.

  “Thirty-nine dollars and twenty-five cents,” he said, looking at his register.

  Nic coughed. Thirty-nine dollars. He was worried about arriving at Odessa’s with nothing in
his pockets. But he was about to spend most of what he had left.

  Claude, seeming to note his hesitation, said, “You know, I do a good deal of grubstaking around here. In exchange for a portion of the mine’s profits, you can take all this out of here now, without paying me a cent.”

  Nic glanced at Everett. The boy gave him a tiny shake of the head. Claude was making an offer because he knew it was a reasonable risk.

  Nic shrugged. “We’d better be pulling gold out of your dad’s mine soon if we care to eat anything but venison, eh?” Or earn back enough money to pay me back.

  Claude raised a brow as he collected Nic’s carefully counted cash. “And most of the deer and elk are pretty well hunted out ’round here. Don’t go counting on those. Rabbits, squirrel, we still have a fair number of those.” He studied him a moment. “But you won’t be hunting much, with a mine to dig.”

  “Probably right,” Nic said. He gathered an armful of goods, went to put them on the horse, and stood back. “We’ll have to lead her up,” he said to Everett. “No room for us.” He glanced at the sky, filling with dark gray billowing thunderheads. “We’d better hurry if we want to beat that. I’ll be right back.”

  Claude handed the egg basket to Nic, but he held onto one handle when Nic reached for it. “Nic, these hills have given a fair number of boys some serious trouble. You watch yourself now, you hear me?”

  Nic gave him a smile, and he finally released the egg basket. “Hopefully I’m up for the task.”

  Claude shook his head and began wiping the counter again. “You just watch yourself. I can’t afford to lose a good new customer like you.” He smiled then, but his eyes were on Everett, who waited on the front porch. The smile quickly faded. “That boy out there’s counting on you, now.”

  Nic stifled a sigh. “I’ll watch myself,” he said gruffly. He turned and left the mercantile then, a shroud of worry covering him. It felt heavier than a wet blanket in a rainstorm. Which, he thought grimly, staring at the sky and then his new Hudson’s Bay, he might soon be wearing.

  The claim was a good hour’s hike up the narrow, serpentine trail that wove in and out of low-lying scrub oak and groves of aspen and fir—what the locals referred to as the Gulch. In about an hour they reached the creek, Nic ever conscious of the rumbling thunder that drew nearer and nearer. He looked over his shoulder once and saw a fierce bolt of lightning cascade down from the sky. It was followed by a crack of thunder that rumbled in his chest. Had anyone been struck by lightning up here?