Whistler in the Dark

by Kathleen Ernst

  Emma paused, watching Mr. Spaulding shift his weight miserably from one foot to the other. He was already sweating, even though the morning was still cool. “Mrs. Henderson, no one is willing to work for a woman.”

  Mother’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”

  Impatience surged through Emma. How stupid! She was starting to understand why Mother wanted to encourage what she called “social reform.”

  “I will continue to look for the help you need,” Mr. Spaulding assured them. “And in the meantime, I am willing to offer my services, such as they are.”

  Mother looked doubtful. Emma considered Mr. Spaulding’s thick fingers. His hands looked as if they’d never done more than lift a pen. A “haloo” from outside the tent broke the awkward silence. A moment later Mr. Abbott ducked inside, followed by Jeremy and an older, taller boy.

  They stopped cold when they saw Mother’s outfit. “Great guns!” Jeremy exclaimed.

  “Hush,” his father said, then turned back to Mother with a composed air. “Good morning.” He waved a rough-hewn piece of wood vaguely resembling a press lever. “I started this last night on my shaving bench, but I wanted to check the fit before finishing it off. And this is my oldest boy, Clark. I thought you might need a hand moving your equipment. We can spare a morning away from the farm.”

  “Mr. Abbott, bless you,” Mother said. “Your arrival couldn’t be more timely.”

  “I’m delighted—delighted!” Mr. Spaulding pumped Mr. Abbott’s hand. “And I have other business to attend to.” He disappeared with rather astonishing speed.

  Jeremy’s father leaned against one of the worktables, shaking his head. “When I bought my land from Spaulding, he was sure Twin Pines would thrive. He was full of enthusiasm! Now I think he’s given up. He even offered to buy my place back. I think he feels guilty. A lot of us believed his promises of a boomtown.”

  Mother frowned. “He can’t have given up completely. He did bring me out here to start a newspaper.”

  “When do you think you’ll have a paper ready to distribute?”

  “Well, my plan is to start with a prospectus—a single printed sheet, letting local people know that we’re here and looking for subscribers and advertisers. If all goes well, I should have the prospectus ready in a few days. Then we’ll work on the first real issue. I want a standard four-page newspaper, with one page for national news from the East, one page for local news, one page for notices and editorials, and one for literature and items of family interest. Emma will help with that.”

  “Here’s the situation.” Mr. Abbott dropped his voice. “My brother is visiting from back home in Indiana. He says about twenty families there are considering emigrating west. They’re splitting off from their congregation and want to settle together. And they haven’t chosen a final destination yet. Mrs. Henderson, I want them to choose Twin Pines. If they come here, we’ll soon have a church. One of the men is a schoolteacher. And that many families could buy up most of the land Mr. Spaulding’s still sitting on, so he’d get back his investment and have the capital he needs to invest in further improvements.”

  “That sounds lovely!” Mother’s face glowed.

  “My brother has to leave for Indiana on the next stagecoach. That’s six days from today. If he waits any longer, he’ll miss the meeting where those folks decide where to settle. I want him to take fifty copies of your four-page newspaper with him. A good newspaper will give them a sign that we’re a settled, stable community. Mrs. Henderson, can you get that paper done in time?”

  Emma bit her lip, thinking that through. Six days! That didn’t give them much time, especially if whoever didn’t want them there had any more mischief in mind. But thinking about that steamed Emma up all over again.

  “Absolutely,” Mother announced, just as Emma said, “Yes, we can.” They exchanged a startled glance. Then Mother flashed Emma a huge grin.

  Mr. Abbott nodded, satisfied. “Emma, Mrs. Henderson,” he said, “it’s going to be a pleasure doing business with you.”

  CHAPTER 5

  UP IN FLAMES

  With the deadline agreed on, the Abbotts manhandled the press equipment into their wagon and transported it to the new print shop on the outskirts of town. The one-room shack had been constructed from broken-down packing crates. Words like NAILS and LAMPBLACK, faded but still visible, marched sideways or even upside down on some of the boards. The floor was sawdust. But two real windows provided light, and the door could be locked.

  Emma spent the morning organizing the typecases while the others assembled the heavy printing press. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Mother exclaimed, when the Washington Press was ready. “I don’t know what to do next—start composing articles, or head out to let people know that we’re ready to take advertisements and subscriptions.”

  “Why don’t you let Jeremy and me do that?” Emma suggested. Her eyes were about to cross from squinting at the tiny letters. Besides, if Mother stayed in the print shop, fewer people would see her wearing trousers. And while Emma talked with townspeople about the newspaper, she could listen for suspicious remarks that might signal the troublemaker. “Jeremy can introduce me to people.”

  After munching a cold lunch of beef and biscuits, Emma and Jeremy set out. Emma used one hand to keep her hem from trailing in the eggshells, cabbage leaves, and gnawed bones littering the street. In the other hand, she carried a small notebook, a pencil, and an old issue of the paper her mother had published in Chicago.

  “Remember,” Mother called after her. “Write down one piece of news about each person.” Emma nodded.

  Jeremy led her first toward a cabin labeled Freight Office, which fronted a scattering of buildings near the creek. Emma hesitated. She’d seen plenty of freight haulers on the road—both muleskinners, who rode the rearmost mule of a string pulling a wagon, and bullwhackers, who drove a team of oxen from the high seat in their big wagons. Most cursed like blazes, and they all cracked whips above the backs of their animals with nerve-plucking regularity. Rough men, all of them.

  Could one of them have left the note and stolen the press handle?

  Emma eyed the leaning shack proudly labeled Warehouse. Near it was a stable, a small corral, and a fleet of heavy wagons and draft animals. “Let’s go,” she said. She followed Jeremy into the tiny freight office.

  “Mr. Torkelson!” Jeremy greeted a wiry, ragged blond man behind the counter. “This is Emma Henderson. She has some business to discuss.”

  “Hello, Emma!” Mr. Torkelson said. “What iss it I can do for you?”

  Emma’s tongue suddenly froze. She couldn’t conduct business with men—especially men with thick accents and tobacco-juice stains on their stubbled chins. It wasn’t proper! Why hadn’t she let Mother plunge out to face the town herself?

  Jeremy frowned, tipping his head toward Mr. Torkelson.

  Emma swallowed hard. “Well, sir, I’m … that is … well, you probably wouldn’t want to subscribe to a newspaper, would you?”

  Jeremy rolled his eyes, and Emma felt her cheeks burn. You’ll never sell a newspaper like that, she scolded herself. But honestly! English was obviously Mr. Torkelson’s second language, and he needed a bath a great deal more than a newspaper.

  But Mr. Torkelson nodded. “Oh, ya! Mr. Spaulding told me you were coming.”

  “Here’s an example of my mother’s work.” Emma spread the old newspaper carefully on the plank that Mr. Torkelson used for a counter. “The Twin Pines Herald will be a weekly.” Her voice was still skinny, and she tried to flesh it out. “It will have both national and local news.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  “Annual subscriptions, paid in advance, are four dollars. Advertising space is four dollars for six lines for six months.” She opened her notebook and waited with pencil poised.

  He grinned. “Ya, sure, I’ll subscribe.”

  “You will?” Emma released her breath in a whoosh. “Oh, thank you! I’ll write your name down. You can stop by the prin
t shop and pay my mother.”

  “Don’t got time for that. I’ll give you gold dust up front.”

  Crackers! Her mother hadn’t said anything about taking gold dust.

  “That’s fine,” Jeremy said, nudging her—hard—in the ribs.

  Emma’s eyes widened as Mr. Torkelson pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and poured a trickle of gold granules onto a small scale. Some were tiny as grains of sand, some bigger. Squinting, Mr. Torkelson added small round brass weights to the other side of the scale. After removing a pinch of gold dust, so that the scale was balanced, he scooped the tiny pile onto a piece of paper, folded it up, twisted the ends, and handed it to Emma. “Here.”

  Emma tucked the twist into her pocket. “Thank you!” Her first sale—paid in gold dust! She wanted to whoop. Then she remembered the rest of her assignment. “Oh, yes—is there anything new in the freight business?”

  Mr. Torkelson rummaged in his pocket and brought out a pouch of tobacco as he considered. “Well, one of my boys iss bringing in a load of goods this afternoon—the store-keep ordered three new bolts of calico for the store. The ladies might like that, ya? Ah! And I almost forget. The paper shipment iss due this afternoon, too. Mr. Spaulding ordered it for you ladies. I’ll have it hauled to the print shop when it arrives.”

  Emma nodded, scribbling. “Wonderful. Thank you again.” She shook his grimy hand before she and Jeremy headed back outside.

  “Our first subscription!” Emma said happily. Was this how Mother felt when she accomplished something new?

  “You did pretty good,” Jeremy allowed. “Once you got started.”

  “But I needed your help about the payment.”

  “Your mother will need to get a scale. Most folks around here pay up with gold dust. Nuggets are scarcer—they’re worth a lot of money.”

  Emma and Jeremy found more enthusiasm as they made their rounds. The barber, who worked from his wagon, subscribed. So did the hard-muscled woman who took in laundry. The blacksmith and the livery-stable owner both wanted to advertise their businesses in the newspaper. No one acted unfriendly or suspicious.

  “Let’s stop by Mr. Spaulding’s office,” Emma said as they neared the center of town. “I want to tell him how well we’ve been doing.”

  A rock propped open the land-office door. Emma paused in the doorway, admiring Mr. Spaulding’s large, ornate desk and several gleaming chairs upholstered in black horsehair. A table held a row of ledgers, and several large maps hung on the back wall. An oil lamp with a fancy base adorned one corner of the desk, a brass coatrack and matching umbrella stand stood near the door, and a square carpet graced the floor.

  But Mr. Spaulding, at the desk, sat over an open ledger with his head in his hands. Emma could just make out neat columns of figures marching down the ledger page. Suddenly he muttered an oath and snapped the book shut.

  Emma rapped on the door frame. “Mr. Spaulding?”

  His head jerked up. “What? Oh—come in.”

  “We just wanted to tell you that everybody we’ve talked to this afternoon subscribed to the newspaper,” Emma said. “We should have The Herald up and running in no time.”

  He rubbed his temples. “I only hope it’s not too late.”

  Emma glanced at Jeremy Thunderation! Was Mr. Spaulding giving up on Twin Pines before she and Mother even got the newspaper going?

  Mr. Spaulding pushed his pen and inkwell away, closed the ledger, and reached for a large, polished wooden box sitting on the side of his desk. Opening the lid, he slipped the ledger inside on top of a pile of papers. Then he closed the box and snapped a tiny lock in place. The box was made of warm golden wood, with swirls in the grain. It reminded Emma of the box where her father had kept his correspondence tools. Father’s box had those same unusual swirls in the wood. As a child, Emma had loved to trace them with a tiny finger, and to hide little surprises for Father in the box—a flower, a tea cake she’d brought from home …

  Emma drew a deep breath, swiping away a tear. Unexpected reminders of Father still punched like a fist. She avoided Jeremy’s curious gaze by focusing on one of the maps. Unlike the others, it was encased in a frame carved from walnut and gilded with paint. “Mr. Spaulding? What’s that?” Emma pointed.

  Mr. Spaulding led them to the map, which showed a small city. Emma had seen similar maps back in Chicago. Prepared by insurance companies, they were called bird’s-eye maps because they were drawn from the perspective of a bird approaching overhead. Every building and street was clearly visible.

  Mr. Spaulding regarded the map sadly. “This was my vision for Twin Pines.”

  Emma stared. The Twin Pines of the land speculator’s dreams was a bustling town of shops and homes and churches and schools, laid out on a neat grid of clean streets around a pretty town square. The map artist had added carriages and pedestrians, all looking stylish and serene. It was the town Mr. Spaulding had described in his letters.

  “Oh my,” Emma murmured.

  “Oh my, indeed.” The land agent shook his head.

  “Mr. Spaulding, don’t give up yet,” Jeremy begged.

  “We’re picking up lots of subscribers,” Emma reminded him. “Oh, and the freight-wagon man said he expects that the paper shipment you ordered will arrive today! We’ll soon have our prospectus ready to go.”

  Jeremy waited until they were outside before letting out a long breath. “Whoo! He sure seemed down.”

  “Business must really be bad. Maybe he had to borrow money from a bank to buy up all the land around here, and now they want him to pay it back.” Emma sighed. “Where to now?”

  Jeremy led her toward the general store. “Mr. Boggs will be glad to meet you,” he promised.

  Inside the store, Emma recognized Mr. Boggs as the short man she’d seen dispensing the mail the day before. He was busy with a woman who was fingering bolts of cloth, so Emma had a chance to look around. The store offered barrels of crackers and cornmeal, piles of gleaming tin basins and lamp chimneys, boxes of buttons and soap, and shovels and buckets—all the basic necessities. But there wasn’t much variety. And the prices! Fifty cents for a single pickled egg. A dollar for a peach. Common calico, thirty cents a yard.

  “I’ll be right with you two,” Mr. Boggs called. He pulled pieces of brown paper from a huge roll behind the counter, unwound string from a big ball of twine, and wrapped the woman’s goods. “Thank you, Mrs. Barker,” he said, and then he turned to Jeremy and Emma. “Who’s your new friend here, Jeremy?”

  When Jeremy made the introductions, Mr. Boggs beamed. “I’m glad to support the paper. In fact, I’d like to talk with your mother about printing some special broadsides. Notices of sales and new items.”

  “We can do that,” Emma promised. “My mother can tell you what it will cost.”

  Before they left, Jeremy asked for two peppermint sticks. “My father said it was all right to put it on his account,” he said. Once outside, he cocked his head at Emma. “Come on. Let’s take a break.”

  He led Emma down a narrow alley that ran between Mr. Spaulding’s land office and the saloon, away from the noise and filth of the main street. They emerged beside a towering pine tree—or was it two pine trees? Emma looked at the twisted trunk and wasn’t sure if two trees had grown together, or if one tree had produced two trunks.

  Jeremy dropped beneath the overhanging branches. “This here’s the twin pines. Mr. Spaulding had his land office built right in front because he thought it was a good landmark. It’s one of my favorite spots.” Emma hesitated—wearing her best dress hadn’t been a bright idea after all—then sat down beside him. He handed her one of the peppermint sticks and grinned. “Here.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Everybody seems happy about the newspaper,” Jeremy said between licks of his candy.

  “Somebody’s not happy.” Emma gave Jeremy a sideways glance. Surely she could trust him! “My mother wants to believe it was a joke, but I really want to find out who stole the pr
ess handle and left that note. All morning, every time we passed someone, I’d think, ‘Is it him?’”

  “I can’t figure it.”

  Emma’s stomach curled as she remembered seeing that note. “Do you know a man named Dixie John? He stays at the boardinghouse. He wasn’t very nice to me and Mother this morning.”

  “He’s a drifter. Gets gold fever every now and then and heads up to the hills. Comes back every time, either with gold to gamble and drink away at the saloon, or flat busted and looking for work. Ends up digging wells or chopping wood to make ends meet.” Jeremy shook his head. “He’s an ornery sort. Had a hard time in the war, they say. Never got over the Confederacy losing.”

  “My father was in the Union army. I wonder if Dixie John could be so bitter about that that he’d try to cause trouble for Mother and me. But …” She shook her head. “The press lever got stolen before he’d ever met us!”

  Jeremy drew a deep breath and blew it out again, considering. “Well, he might have known your pa was a Union officer. I knew it.”

  Emma stared at him. “How?”

  “Your mother said so in her letter to Mr. Spaulding, and he told my pa.” Jeremy swatted a mosquito. “Your mother getting hired was big news.”

  Emma turned that information over in her mind. “My mother said that a journalist looking to figure out a story asks simple questions—what, who, why. In this case, the ‘what’ is that someone wants the newspaper to fail.” Emma thought for a moment, then pulled out her notebook. She wrote Who across the top of one page, and Why on the facing page. Underneath she penciled Dixie John and Hates Unionists.

  Trying to sort things through sensibly felt better than just wondering and worrying. “What about Blackjack?” she asked. “Something about him made me nervous, and Dixie John accused him of cheating at cards.”

  “Well … Dixie John might just be mad because he lost a few poker games.”