Brighter than Gold (Western Rebels Book 1)

by Cynthia Wright

  “It is, Father,” Madeleine confirmed as Susan Hampshire O’Hara’s wizened face peeped out. “Gramma Susan came with us.”

  “Impossible!” he cried.

  “But true,” his mother-in-law declared, arranging her skirts before surrendering bravely to Hugo’s waiting embrace. When she was standing before Stephen, she favored him with a winsome smile. “I think you’ll find me helpful. My world travels with Patrick helped me adapt to all sorts of conditions!” Turning pensive, she reached up to smooth back his side-whiskers. “You are going gray, dear boy. I hadn’t noticed before.”

  He swallowed audibly. “Colleen began to count them just before—”

  “Stephen,” Susan said as her grandchildren politely looked elsewhere, “it’s been a hard year for me, too. Colleen was my only daughter... and I found that I couldn’t bear to let the children go so far away.”

  “Gramma Susan was wonderful during our long journey West,” Maddie offered. “I can’t imagine how we should have managed alone.”

  “Then I am deeply grateful to you, madame,” Stephen said, bowing slightly before the diminutive old woman. “Now, I propose that we go immediately to our new home.” He snapped his fingers and a Chinese man scurried out of the grocery, carrying a bag. “Meet Wang Chee, my cook and helper. He’s seen to it that I have hot meals and clean clothes. I’ll venture that you are all famished, but Chee will soon take care of that!”

  Even as Madeleine gave Wang Chee a gracious smile, her heart sank. It had never occurred to her to wonder how her father had been coping thus far, whether he could cook or wash his own shirts or keep house. As they’d traveled west, the romance of creating a home for them had excited her imagination. But, perhaps that would be Wang Chee’s domain.

  As an open wagon was loaded with the trunks from Hugo’s prairie schooner, they all climbed up and found places.

  “I know, I know,” Stephen Avery said in tones of apology as his mules struggled to pull the wagon forward through the mud, “you’re wondering why I’ve brought you to such a godforsaken town, but I hope that you’ll be patient and reserve judgment for a bit.”

  “Mama told me towns like this were only in books!” Benjamin exclaimed, unable to repress his enthusiasm a moment longer. “I bet if she’d known a place as tremendous as Deadwood could be real, she’d’ve come, too! Right, Papa?”

  “Well, Benjamin,” his father began, aware of Susan’s warning glance, “as it happens, Deadwood was not real until this past spring, so your dear mama was quite right. However, I have a notion that she might not have liked such a town as much as we men do. I can only pray that Madeleine will be more broadminded.”

  Maddie put on her bravest smile. “I must own that the town is beginning to look a trifle more respectable,” she murmured, gazing around at more tents and cabins which appeared to be occupied by relatively normal-looking people. At least here there were no more half-naked women watching from windows, or gamblers and rowdies cursing loudly between swigs of whiskey.

  With a nervous chuckle, Stephen said, “How remiss of me... I should have explained that the part of town you saw when you entered is known as the ‘badlands.’ Part of the reason I bought the land I did was so you children wouldn’t have to be near Deadwood’s seedier side.”

  “Oh, Stephen, you always were the most conscientious father,” Susan said, with just enough irony to secure his attention.

  Madeleine, meanwhile, was beset by waves of anxiety. She had seen no young people might be deemed appropriate for her acquaintance. Was her house far from town, a shack surrounded by a wide moat of mud? Where would she shop, and what could she buy? Half of the “stores” were merely tents with barrels stuck out in front to display the owner’s wares.

  “There it is.” They had turned a corner and Stephen was pointing toward the gently sloping hillsides above Sherman Street, but all his family could see were more miners, burned logs, mud, and tents.

  Even Benjamin wasn’t enthusiastic enough about the West to live in a tent. “Papa...?”

  “I own five claims, three hundred feet each, on that hillside. Those men work for me. On good days, my claims pay one thousand dollars.”

  The wagon had rolled farther south and now turned up a lane that slanted sideways up the hill. Looking carefully, Madeleine made out the shape of a house behind a stand of pine trees. She sat up a little straighter, and Stephen caught her eye, smiling. When they reached the top of the drive, he guided the mules past the trees and brought them to a standstill in front of the new house.

  “Golly!” cried Benjamin. “It’s the finest house in Deadwood!”

  “A singular honor,” Susan murmured dryly as she climbed down from the wagon unassisted.

  Madeleine let her father lift her to the ground. The house had a tired-looking dirt yard. Pine boards had been laid out end to end from the door, forming a makeshift walkway.

  The house itself was grand indeed, for Deadwood. A little porch extended in front of the two-story whitewashed dwelling. Stephen said that as soon as the paint he had ordered arrived, Madeleine could choose proper colors. They entered into a little parlor with a plain drop-leaf table, some battered chairs, and a settee against one wall. Stephen walked across the raw pine floor and proudly touched the back of the settee, which was on old rococo revival piece trimmed in scarred mahogany. The original maroon velvet upholstery peeped out from under a cover of flowered Chinese silk.

  “You’ve no idea how difficult it still is to obtain real furniture here,” he said proudly. “The army and the Indians make it hard for any transportation company to get supplies into the Hills. I’ve been begging and bribing to furnish the house, Madeleine. Soon we’ll have a nice stove to heat the parlor. I know it’s nothing compared to what you’re used to, but I’m counting on you to transform this shell into a proper home.”

  Susan tottered over and sat down on the hideous sofa, raising a cloud of dust. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, Stephen,” she said, and sneezed.

  Maddie touched her father’s arm. “I can see that you’ve worked very hard, Father, and nothing would please me more than to keep house for us—that is, unless Wang Chee would feel that I was interfering....”

  “Good Lord, no! He’s been hoping daily that you’d arrive so that he can go to work on the claim I’ve given him to manage.” Nestling his daughter’s hand in the crook of his arm, Stephen led her back into the kitchen. “Chee will be happy to assist you in any way he can. He’s suggested that we send our washing to his wife. They operate a small laundry in Chinatown.”

  Madeleine was pleased that the house was her nest to feather. Yet, looking around at the rather frightening wood-burning stove and the meager assortment of crude cooking implements, she felt hopelessly out of her element. Nothing in her background had prepared her for such conditions. Three wooden planks stretched across two carpenter’s horses passed for a table, while an assortment of crates and camp stools served as chairs.

  Seeing her dismay, Stephen said, “My dear, as new shipments arrive, you may choose whatever strikes your fancy.”

  “At least... we are all together,” Maddie whispered. “That’s what matters.”

  Benjamin bounded through the house while Maddie made a quieter tour. In the downstairs bedroom she saw a water-stained bureau and a high full-size bed with one leg missing, now replaced by a stack of yellowed copies of Harper’s Weekly.

  Upstairs, under the eaves, a rough woolen blanket had been hung to divide the two sleeping areas. The narrow beds were nearly identical, each with its own dressing table, which consisted of a packing box with shelves nailed inside. A kerosene lamp, tin pitcher, basin, and cracked mirror completed the supplied necessities. Maddie knew which bed was meant for her and which for Benjamin: a little toy soldier wearing a chipped Union uniform was propped on her brother’s muslin-sheathed pillow; on her own rested a little china doll with golden curls of real hair. Slowly Madeleine picked up the long-forgotten toy, given to her father when he’
d come home from Nevada to fight in the Civil War. Although she’d only been six at the time, Maddie remembered now what she had said in her earnest little presentation speech:

  “Papa, you should take my dolly with you because she’s the prettiest one I have. She has hair like Mama’s... She might remind you of Mama while you are away again, and then maybe you’ll come home sooner.”

  It never would have occurred to Maddie to give her father a doll that looked like her.

  “I’ve convinced your father to let me sleep upstairs with you, darling,” Gramma Susan said from the doorway. Though slow-moving, she remained agile enough on steps. “Ah, there’s your doll. Do you know that I gave you that for your sixth birthday? I wanted to buy you a little doll with red hair and freckles, but you’d have no part of that.”

  “I thought she looked like Mama,” Madeleine whispered.

  “I know, love. Your mother was beautiful, but certainly no more than you. And she was quite human.”

  “I miss her—” Maddie’s voice broke on a sob. It was comforting to press her cheek against her grandmother’s white hair, freed now of its bonnet. Gramma Susan always smelled faintly of violets; it was a scent that reminded Madeleine, sharply, pleasantly, of her childhood.

  “I know you miss her, darling. We all do.”

  Lifting her head, Maddie looked out the narrow window that brought light in under the pitch of the roof. Deadwood’s Main Street was dimly visible from their hillside home, and she could hear the curses and laughter of the miners from the other side of the pine trees. Her father’s men. “Mama would be horrified by this place,” she murmured, relieved to say the words aloud. “Every detail of our new life would repulse her... even this house.”

  “Madeleine, your mother isn’t with us any longer, and you are free to form your own opinions.” Susan’s blue eyes gleamed behind her spectacles. “What’s important, I think, is that all of us who loved Colleen, and miss her, are here together, endeavoring to begin anew.”

  Maddie stepped to the window, surveying the muddy, ramshackle, vice-ridden town below with a rueful smile. “I ought to be safe from people’s expectations here. Everyone in Philadelphia pressed me about becoming active in society... and marrying, of course.” Glancing back over her shoulder, Maddie laughed. “I shan’t have to suffer any attempts at wooing me here! There would appear to be sufficient numbers of... women to attend to the needs of the sort of men swarming through Deadwood. I have yet to glimpse one of them, save Father, who looks as if he’s bathed since Easter! I’m certainly not their type, and I couldn’t be more pleased....”

  Chapter 2

  July 7, 1876

  Daniel Matthews rode into Deadwood from the south, downhill into the crazy zig-zagging gulch. It was hot and the town stank, revealing its character before he could take a visual inventory.

  The Black Hills themselves, one hundred miles long and sixty miles wide, were still nearly as enchanting as they had been when he’d first visited them with Lakota people half a dozen years ago. A lush, forested, game-rich island rising miraculously out of an endless sea of grass, the Hills possessed a unique beauty that far surpassed any grander mountains he’d ever seen. Even now, the land was still breathtakingly beautiful... until Deadwood’s assault on the eyes.

  Most of Main Street was blocked by two newly arrived bull trains. The oxen, mooing plaintively, were slumped in the mud in front of supply wagons now being unloaded by surging crowds of men. People were everywhere, scurrying in and out of tents, shouting at one another in the street, leaning out of windows in various states of undress. The town was pure, unbridled chaos.

  Matthews pushed back his brown slouch hat and slowed his roan, whom he’d christened Watson during one particularly endless day in Wyoming. It made him feel sad and frustrated to see what his own people had done to this pristine haven. On the other hand, Deadwood was exactly the kind of town he needed. Disreputable characters of every sort wandered in and out of gold towns virtually unnoticed; scoundrels, outlaws, and others running from something or someone were the rule rather than the exception. Right now, Dan welcomed the prospect of blending in among them, unnoticed and unknown. He was grateful to have planned for an extended stay in the West; he had brought plenty of money.

  His emotions had been intense following the final scene with Custer and his departure from the Seventh Cavalry. Now, however, Dan mainly felt fed up. He’d considered returning immediately to Washington, but he didn’t much feel like facing the president. Custer had been right on one count—Grant was the person responsible for setting in motion the chain of events that led to the insanity at Little Bighorn.

  Lying awake these past nights under the starry Wyoming sky, Dan had gone over the scenes between Custer and himself. He felt faintly sick about the whole business, since it was clear that his arguments had only incited Custer further. Perhaps if he had taken a different tack, less true to his own beliefs but tailored to appeal to Custer, he might have had more success.

  The hell with it, Dan thought now. Deadwood was just the place to lie low for a while and wait for the dust he’d raised with Custer to settle.

  Smiling grimly, Dan reflected that he’d be a bit difficult to recognize these days. He was scruffy and much leaner, having barely eaten during much of his ride through the unceded territory, where there were no forts or white settlements. He’d bought some of his clothes off friendly Cheyenne Indians near the border of Wyoming Territory. Snug buckskin trousers were stuffed into well-worn boots, and he wore a shirt of faded blue chambray with a brick red kerchief knotted loosely around his neck to soak up excess sweat. A holster and a Smith & Wesson Schofield .45 single-action revolver completed the picture. It wasn’t showy, just extremely effective.

  When it became nearly impossible to guide Watson through the dense crowds, Dan tied up the horse in front of a false-fronted building bearing a sign that read “Pioneer Printing Office”. As he dismounted he was met by a man wearing a paper collar and a worn brown suit.

  “New here, aren’t you?” He thrust a newspaper into Dan’s hands. “Permit me to introduce myself, pilgrim. I’m C. V. Gardner, publisher of the Black Hills Pioneer. We’ve only been printing a month.”

  Gardner wore a beard and his deep-set eyes made Dan think of a mournful hound. “Pleased to meet you, Gardner,” he said, shaking his hand. “My name’s Fox, and I’ve just ridden in from the southern Hills.” Glancing down at the newspaper, Dan saw stories on Deadwood’s celebration of the centennial Fourth of July. “Where can I get a bed and a decent meal?”

  Gardner winked almost imperceptibly. “Depends on what sort of bed you had in mind. North of Wall Street, you can get yourself plenty of whiskey, a warm little chippie, and probably a bed, too. Try the Gem Theatre first, if you’re interested.”

  Sensing that his eyebrows were about to fly up at this information, Dan nodded soberly and went on his way. He’d encountered his share of hard drinkers and soiled doves over the years, particularly during the war, but such pastimes were indulged in with a measure of discretion. Clearly Deadwood was a different sort of place.

  The prospect of a bed warmed by a willing woman was tempting, but first he needed food. Salvation appeared in the form of the Grand Central Hotel, which, with just one story constructed thus far, served only meals. Dan went in and consumed huge quantities of mutton, beans, mashed potatoes, and apple dumplings with cream, all for fifty cents. While he ate, he read most of the Black Hills Pioneer and drank three mugs of coffee. Finally, his hunger appeased and many of his questions about Deadwood answered, he found himself dreaming of a whiskey, some leisurely conversation at a bar, and perhaps some female companionship.

  He swung into the saddle again, bound for the makeshift livery stable down Main Street. They called this part of Deadwood the “badlands,” he’d read in the Pioneer and it was wilder than any place he’d ever seen. The freight wagons were unloaded now, and bullwhackers cracked their long whips as they moved the protesting oxen down Main Str
eet. Crates containing everything from store fixtures to caskets were stacked in front of buildings. Now that the excitement was dying down, the gamblers and serious drinkers were wandering back into the saloons.

  The Gem Theatre had a balcony that was currently crowded with fancy ladies, rouged and scantily clad. They’d come out to investigate the latest shipments of goods, calling out questions about lace, perfume, and other hoped-for finery. Now, the sight of Dan riding slowly in their direction caused the girls to linger.

  “Hey, handsome!” called one. Blessed with long black curls, she wore a flowered silk wrapper sliding off her plump shoulders. “Come on in! Tell Al you want Victoria!”

  “No!” countered a slimmer blonde, laughing. “Tell him Bessie! What’s your name?”

  “Fox.” It was a pleasure to be in a town where surnames and past histories were cumbersome details easier left unspoken.

  Now they all began calling to him at once, leaning over the balcony railing to display their charms. Pushing back his hat, he flashed a grin.

  “I just have to stable my horse,” he told the girls. “Pour me a whiskey and I’ll be straight up.”

  “I’ll just bet you will!” one of them answered in a naughtily suggestive tone, then they all scurried back inside, giggling.

  Dan looked around, noticing the strong smell of incense that wafted south from Chinatown. Drawing on the reins, he began to guide Watson across the still-crowded thoroughfare, heading toward the livery.

  Then he saw the boy.

  He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, with brown eyes the size of saucers. First he crept around the corner of the neighboring Green Front Theatre and paused in the narrow alleyway. Since all the rooms weren’t finished upstairs, there were a couple of curtained booths that opened off the alley. It was supposed to be a convenience; men in a hurry could have a girl standing up, without going upstairs or even bothering to remove their trousers.