Emma introduced herself and Jeremy with a tongue dry enough to rattle in her mouth. “Do you mind if we get a drink from your well?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t mind—if I had a well. Found one half-dug when we got here, and never got around to finishing the job. But I’ve got a bucket of water hauled up fresh from the creek.”
Emma gulped the contents of the tin cup thrust into her hand. Then she explained about the newspaper and brought out a copy of the prospectus. “You’re welcome to look at it.” Her cheeks grew hot—did Tildy even know how to read?
But Tildy snatched it from her hand. “A newspaper!” she breathed, as if Emma had offered something holy. “I’ve been so yearning for something to read!” She scanned the page, then looked at Emma and Jeremy with delight. “Can you come inside? I’ll show you something.”
The only light in the cabin trickled through the stovepipe hole, which was too large for the stovepipe itself.
The room smelled of rancid pork. As Emma’s eyes adjusted, she made out a reddish-colored, rickety bed banged together from skinny logs and pieces of a packing box. A rocking chair had been fashioned from a barrel. An oiled wagon cover served as carpet, and wide strips of muslin were tacked along the pole ceiling—obviously to keep dirt from sifting down.
Tildy noted Emma’s stare. “I hope to do better by fall,” she said apologetically, gesturing toward the filthy muslin. “Critters get in there and nest. I’m trying to save enough money to order me some good boards. But look here.” She pointed at the bed. “I fixed that up myself. Looks like cherry, don’t it? I had a bit of brick dust left—I brought it for scouring—and mixed it with linseed oil to make the stain. I think it looks pretty.”
“Yes.” Emma swallowed. “It does. Tildy, are you here all by yourself?” She didn’t see evidence of anyone else.
“Well, just after me and my husband settled here, he got gold fever and headed up into the hills. Said he’d be gone a day or two, just scouting things out. But he hasn’t been back.”
“I’m so sorry.” Emma didn’t know what else to say.
“I’m making on all right. He weren’t the best husband anyway. I guess I’d be handling most of the work one way or the other.” Tildy reached to a high shelf behind the stove. “Here’s what I wanted to show you. I’ve been reading this book every evening I can, after chores are done. It’s a blessing to have it, but I surely would covet getting an honest newspaper every now and again.” Glowing with pride, she handed Emma the book.
Webster’s Elementary Speller. Emma stared at the worn book, imagining Tildy Pearce huddled by her stove in the evening, straining to read the only thing she had for company—a spelling book. Emma tried to smile as she handed it back. Tildy put her treasured book on its shelf and led the way back into the sunshine.
Emma chewed her lip. “Tildy—I’ll make sure you get a subscription to the newspaper.” Would a free subscription offend Tildy? But surely Tildy couldn’t afford it herself! Emma thought Mother would understand.
But Tildy already had things figured out. “You get my name on the list, or whatever. I can get the money. I walk into town some evenings, if I’m not too worn out. At The Raven, there’s always men who’ll pay for a dance. Oh, wait!”
Tildy darted inside and came out again with a piece of paper in her hand. “I’ve been puzzling over something. Maybe you or your mother could help me out.” She pushed the paper into Emma’s hand. “My husband bought this land proper from Mr. Spaulding. I saw the money pass hands. And Mr. Spaulding gave us this.”
Emma skimmed the writing. “It’s your receipt for the land payment. It proves that you paid Mr. Spaulding.”
Tildy nodded. “Yes. But shouldn’t we also have gotten another piece of paper—the deed to the land?”
“Um … I don’t know exactly how that works.” Emma glanced at Jeremy, who didn’t seem to know either. “But I can ask my mother. She knows a lot about business.” She handed the receipt back to Tildy.
“I’d surely appreciate that.” Tildy stepped back from the wagon. “And tell her I’ll be waiting to get the first full issue of her newspaper! I can see myself getting through the winter, even, with a fresh newspaper to read every week or so.”
As she and Jeremy headed back to town, Emma tried to imagine how tired she would feel if she spent the day doing farm labor, then walked several miles to town and danced with a bunch of boisterous miners, then walked home again.
The newspaper was more than a way to share information. Even more than a way to “boom the town,” as the men called it, and attract new settlers. For the first time, Emma realized what the newspaper would mean to people like Tildy, or to lonely miners trying to earn enough money to fetch their families from the East, cut off from companionship and books.
And she thought again of The Whistler—or whoever was trying so hard to frighten her and Mother into quitting.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Jeremy,” she said, as they rounded a hill and the forlorn roofline of Twin Pines came into sight. “The Twin Pines Herald is not going to fail.”
CHAPTER 8
THE RAVEN
Little Josephine Ellis narrowly avoided heartbreak when she dropped a penny on the boardwalk on Thursday in front of Mr. Boggs’s store and it fell through a crack. Mr. Boggs pulled up a board and fetched it for her.
“That’s a good start,” Mother said, leaning over Emma’s shoulder late that afternoon. “But see if you can write the same story using fewer words—Oh! Mule Tom, let me see how that looks.” Mother hurried to the print shop’s worktable to check Mr. Boggs’s advertising broadsides.
Emma scowled at her notebook. Her children’s news column was boring. Besides, she couldn’t concentrate. Suppose The Whistler was planning his next attack on the newspaper—right this moment? Would he set the office on fire? Shoot through a window? Emma fought off a wave of panic. Mule Tom’s low murmur was reassuring. Thank heavens for Mule Tom!
Emma turned to her notes about possible troublemakers. Waiting for The Whistler to appear last night hadn’t gotten her anywhere. It was time to take the next step, a good reporter step: ask questions.
But nerves curled in the pit of her belly. She couldn’t very well sit at the breakfast table and interview Blackjack and Dixie John, could she? She needed to talk to each man separately. And that meant going into The Raven, where each man seemed to spend most of his waking hours.
Emma sighed. She wished Jeremy hadn’t headed home for chores. Maybe—
“Mrs. Henderson!” Miss Amaretta Holly stood in the doorway, clutching a copy of the prospectus. Two bright spots of red burned in her cheeks.
“Miss Holly?” Mother edged around the bulky press. “What can I do—”
“You can explain this!” Miss Amaretta advanced and slapped the brown paper on the table. One slender finger jabbed a column on the back page. “As editor, you’re expected to—to share news! Not persuade others to adopt your own peculiar habits!”
Emma knew what Miss Amaretta was unhappy about. Mother had included a short notice:
Ladies: Womanly manners do not demand a skirt trailing in the filth. Skirts hemmed to a reasonable length are no more than a sensible health precaution. And for women working on farms or ranches or in the goldfields, a Reform Dress is beyond value in comfort and convenience. For particulars, visit the editor.
“I think I’ll check on that paper shipment now,” Mule Tom muttered. He touched his hat politely to each of the women, then escaped the shack.
“Why don’t we sit down,” Mother said calmly, indicating two chairs by the worktable. “And Emma, would you please make some tea?”
Emma crouched by the tiny cast-iron stove. After lighting a new blaze, she fiddled with the stove dampers, filled the tin coffeepot with water, and set it over the firebox. All the while, she listened to Mother and Miss Amaretta.
“ … and I am making progress!” Miss Amaretta was saying. “When I arrived, Mr. Spaulding—our town father—spent his e
venings at The Raven, gambling and drinking. He hasn’t set foot in the saloon in weeks. I’ve helped him see the value of setting a decent example for the rest of our citizens.”
“But what has that to do with me?” Mother asked.
“It’s bad enough that you choose to dress in an—an unconventional manner. But I never dreamed that you would use your newspaper to encourage other women to do the same!” Miss Amaretta pressed her fingertips to her temples. “You are urging women to abandon their womanly callings—”
“I’m doing no such thing,” Mother interrupted, kindly but firmly. “I also printed a recipe for mutton stew and advice for cleaning grease from linen. And my editorial called for a proper town dump, so that we won’t have to wade through filth and rubbish in the streets. Surely you don’t find fault with those things.” Mother’s eyes flashed as she made her points, but she punctuated her sentences with smiles. She’s enjoying this, Emma realized with a start. Mother wasn’t nervous anymore.
“Let me tell you about something that happened to me,” Mother said. Her gaze darted to her copy of Father’s daguerreotype, which watched over the print shop from a high shelf. “About a month after Emma and I learned that my husband had been killed, I received a letter from a soldier who had served with him. Miss Holly, the letter contained a proposal of marriage. I’d never even met this man!”
What? Emma had never heard that before!
“It was a very respectful letter,” Mother continued. “He was most sincere. Fortunately, my husband left us a little money, and I knew that I could provide for Emma and myself with my ability as a newspaperwoman, so I wrote the man back and very gently declined his most kind offer. But don’t you see, many women wouldn’t have had that option! It made me terribly sad to think that such a letter would have been the answer to many a desperate widow’s prayers. Our society forces women to depend on men for almost everything. All I’m trying to do is help women understand that they do indeed have choices in life.”
“But I support myself as well,” Miss Amaretta objected. “And I haven’t set aside my womanliness to do so.”
Mother’s eyes sparked. “With all due respect, most women haven’t the luxury of your occupation! How many dressmakers does Twin Pines need? Most of the women hereabouts are doing hard work on ranches or working themselves to nubs over laundry kettles. Why should they be hampered by tight corsets and hems they trip over?”
Emma stared at her fingers, thinking about Tildy Pearce. Maybe if Tildy had a Reform Dress, just to wear when she was doing carpentry work or plowing a field … well, maybe that wouldn’t be such a horrible thing.
Miss Amaretta had leaned closer to Mother, as if about to share a secret. “Mrs. Henderson, you and Emma haven’t been here very long. Let me give you some advice. I’ve found that holding myself as a lady offers me protection from the roughest men. I’m afraid that the women most likely to receive insults are those who somehow invite them. I know that you’ve had some troubles with the newspaper. Perhaps—”
“Are you suggesting that I’ve brought those troubles upon myself?” Mother demanded. “Why—”
“Water’s hot!” Emma announced. She used a thick square of wool to pull the pot from the stove and set it on the table. She snatched mugs and tea from the little shelf where Mother had secured the fixings for snacks, and plunked them by the pot. Then she smiled with forced cheer at both women. “Mother, I’m going to … to … talk to some more people about subscriptions.” She grabbed her notebook and fled.
Outside, she paused to draw a deep breath. Crackers! She hated these arguments. She felt slammed in the middle.
Well. She set her shoulders, considering. Clouds cloaked the sun, and a late-afternoon shower was threatening. Not a good time to range too far afield. With a sigh, she turned toward the saloon. Time to get on with business.
Emma paused in front of The Raven, trying to scrape up the nerve to enter the saloon. She stood beneath the overhanging roof, watching raindrops splatter the street. The grating scratch of an ill-played fiddle drifted through the opening above the swinging doors, punctuated by bursts of laughter. She glanced down the street toward the newspaper office. No sign of Miss Amaretta yet. Emma surely didn’t want Miss Amaretta to see her enter the saloon. Taking a deep breath, she plunged inside.
Emma half expected to be shouted back outside where she belonged, but no one seemed to notice her. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she looked around the big room and saw perhaps a dozen men sitting at round wooden tables with cards in their hands and piles of little porcelain disks in front of them. They’re gambling, Emma realized with horrified fascination. She’d once heard her minister in Chicago call gambling the devil’s business. It didn’t look like much, actually, and she felt a little let down.
A bar stretched along the right wall, holding plates of roast beef and crackers and hard-boiled eggs. A shelf of tin cups and glasses and bottles ran behind the bar. Signs tacked to the wall said PAY AS YOU GO and NO TRUST and 25 CENTS A DRINK. Half a dozen men lounged along the bar, and a man behind it was pouring someone a drink.
Emma jumped when someone tugged her sleeve. “Beg pardon, miss,” a young man asked eagerly. He held his felt hat politely in his hands. “Are you here to dance?” He nodded toward the fiddle player mangling another tune. “Fifty cents?”
“No! I—that is, no thank you,” Emma stammered. “I was looking for Mr. Blackjack.” Dixie John would do, too, but she wanted to start with the more civil of the two men.
“Oh.” The man’s face fell, but he pointed. “There he is.”
Emma turned and saw Blackjack emerging from a door she hadn’t noticed before, near the back of the saloon. He surveyed the room and, for the briefest moment, looked startled to see Emma. His habitual small smile slid back into place as he approached. “Why, Miss Henderson! What brings you here? Come to solicit a subscription, perhaps?”
Emma wished she could guess what he was thinking. “Do you want to subscribe to The Herald?” she asked, slipping her notebook and pencil from her pocket.
“Why, of course! Please put me down for an annual subscription. Have your mother send me a bill.”
“I will.” She made the note. Mother preferred payment in advance, but Emma didn’t want to argue with Blackjack—not when her stomach was already fluttering. “I’m glad to hear that you want to subscribe. I had thought—that is, I wondered …” He raised one eyebrow. Stop yammering! Emma ordered herself. She forced the words out. “Mr. Blackjack, is there a quiet place where I could ask you a couple of questions?”
“Why, certainly. My back room is free.” If he was surprised by her request, he made no sign. Instead he led her through the door she’d noticed earlier, into a small room. A round gaming table stood in the center, but unlike those in the main saloon, this one was covered by an elegant paisley cloth edged with fringe. Curtains of the same fabric adorned the single, rain-streaked window. Next to the window, a door in the back wall led outside. Several tidy decks of cards and stacks of the round porcelain gambling disks waited on a sideboard beside two glass decanters and crystal glasses.
Emma sat in the chair Blackjack offered and poised her pencil, trying to sound businesslike. “Sir, we like to collect news from all the businesses in town. Is there anything you’d like to share?”
Blackjack spread his hands. “Can’t say I have a story for you. Business is good.”
Emma took a deep breath and screwed up her courage. “Mr. Blackjack, on our first morning here, Dixie John accused you of cheating. Do you … that is …”
“Why, Miss Henderson, are you asking me if I run an honest business?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Just put it this way. My enterprise would collapse if my customers didn’t want to return.”
“That’s not really an answer,” Emma muttered, scribbling furiously.
Blackjack leaned on his elbows. “My dear Emma. May I call you Emma? I’m starting to understand what you’re getting at. I have, of course, h
eard about the … difficulties you and your mother have encountered. And you are no doubt wondering if whoever is behind the attacks on your newspaper is someone with something to hide.”
His smile made Emma’s skin crawl. Coming into this private room with him hadn’t been wise. Her gaze darted to the open door. The sound of laughter was welcome.
“Let me put your mind at ease, Emma. I have no reason to fear your little newspaper.”
That little grated Emma’s nerves. “This may be a joke to you,” Emma said. “But a lot of people believe the whole town will fail without a newspaper to attract new settlers.”
Blackjack shook his head. “The truth is, it doesn’t matter to me. Don’t you see? This saloon—it’s just a building. I’d lose money if I had to abandon it, but not enough to cause me serious harm. My business skills can go anywhere—if not Twin Pines, then the next town. So, my dear, I’m afraid you’re looking in the wrong place. I have nothing to hide from a journalist, and no reason to care if your newspaper lives or dies.”
Well! What a nasty man!
Blackjack leaned forward. “Emma, let me give you some advice. This is a rough town. Many men would not look … kindly on a young woman poking her nose into their business. I suggest you stop now, before you find yourself in real trouble.”
Was that truly advice? Or a threat? The air felt suddenly cold. “Thank you for your time,” Emma said stiffly, jumping to her feet. Blackjack made a formal bow.
As Emma emerged into the main saloon, someone called her name. At least, she thought it was her name. “Miz—Hendershun. Hender—Hendershun.” Dixie John was slumped at a table near the door to the back room, his hat pulled low on his forehead. Emma had been so eager to escape from Blackjack’s smug smile and veiled threats that she’d forgotten she’d meant to interview Dixie John, too! She hesitated.
“Come ’ere.” He beckoned.
Emma stepped closer. Whatever was in the big tin cup on the table in front of him smelled bad. He smelled bad.
Whistler in the Dark Page 7
