Shadow of Legends

by Stephen A. Bly

  “That would be nice.”

  “Perhaps we should eat first. While I finish up, tell me how it came about that Daddy Brazos had to shoot one of the men.”

  “They were shooting at us, and one of them snuck around behind. Daddy was the first to spot him.”

  “So a man gets killed for sneaking?”

  “No, he was shot because he held a gun to one of our heads and was about to pull the trigger.”

  “I don’t want to know anymore. I feel faint even thinking about it. Let’s change the subject.” She poured him a cup of coffee from a fluted, nickel-plated, long-necked coffeepot.

  Todd flexed his shoulders to keep his back from cramping. “I heard you and Dacee June had quite a discussion.” His large porcelain cup was decorated by a single navy blue border around the rim.

  Rebekah carved the pan of cornbread into three-inch wedges. The steam from the cornbread warmed her fingers. “I believe that girl needs a mother to teach her a few things.”

  “You had one of those girl-to-girl talks?”

  “It was more like a woman-to-woman talk.”

  “She used to talk a lot with Louise Driver, but since she and Mr. Edwards married, I think their conversations have ended.”

  “I don’t suppose Mrs. Speaker is of much help?”

  “Thelma keeps handing her books, but she is much too embarrassed to discuss things with Dacee June. I’m glad she has you to talk to,” Todd added.

  The kitchen was filled with the aroma of sweet onions and spices. She could hear the soup percolate. “Yes, but I’m not her mother. All I can do is tell her what I think I’d tell my own daughter. But that’s not the same.”

  “By the way, how old is your daughter now?” he challenged.

  “Todd Fortune, that is not funny,” she snapped.

  “No ma’am, I reckon it wasn’t.”

  “We will have children someday, and you know it. But I will not raise a child where they can tumble off their front porch and end up fifty feet below on Main Street, or where a stagecoach might drive over the top of them, or they have to be a mountain goat to go see a sunset.”

  He unbuttoned the sleeves of his white shirt and rolled them up two turns. “I think you made your point at lunch.”

  “Are we going to ride down to Rapid City on Sunday?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Raspberry Festival on Friday, ride on Sunday. You have a busy week. That reminds me, Thelma Speaker stopped by the store and bought fifty steel washers.”

  “Washers?”

  “You know, for bolts. They’re about the size of a two-bit piece. Here’s the funny thing. She said they were for the new dress she’s making for the Raspberry Festival.”

  “For a dress? She’s going to have steel washers on her dress?”

  “Apparently. I told her you were going to spend the afternoon working on yours.”

  “Actually, I have mine done. I decided to borrow one.” Rebekah scurried off to the bedroom.

  Todd buttered a wedge of steaming hot cornbread. I need to make a poultice out of this and apply it to the back of my leg. A camphor rag . . . I’ll have Rebekah warm a camphor rag.

  She waltzed out of the back room carrying the silk dress on a thick, wooden hanger. “Isn’t this the most absolutely beautiful, raspberry-colored dress you’ve ever seen?”

  “It is beautiful. I presume that wrap is permanently attached to the shoulders?”

  “Yes, it is,” she nodded. At least it will be by Friday night.

  “Who did you borrow it from?”

  “Mrs. Abigail Gordon,” she said.

  “Mrs. Gordon? I don’t believe I know them. What’s her husband do?”

  “He’s a doctor, but it’s a rather sad story. They’re divorced.”

  “How long have you known her? I don’t recall you mentioning her name. Where does she live? Is she new in town?”

  “We just met. I commented on how lovely this dress would look at the church Raspberry Festival.”

  “You invited her, I trust?”

  “She had a previous engagement but insisted I wear the dress.”

  “That was quite generous of her.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

  “Sounds like you had quite a visit.”

  “Well, I did have her up for tea this afternoon.”

  “That’s good. There are new people moving to town all the time. There might be others you’d enjoy getting to meet.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I agreed to baby-sit for her five-year-old daughter.”

  “You’d better watch out, Mrs. Fortune. You start playing with little girls like that and you’ll want one for your own,” he chided.

  “That thought did occur to me.”

  “When is she coming over?” he asked.

  “Friday. I thought we’d take her to the festival with us.”

  “Being divorced and all, what does Mrs. Gordon do for income? I would imagine she’s a seamstress, with a gown like that one.”

  “Actually, she’s an actress and singer.”

  “Oh . . . the Opera House! She’s with that new troupe from Philadelphia, no doubt. I hear their Gilbert and Sullivan is quite impressive. Let’s invite Dad and Dacee June to go with us.”

  “I agree . . .” Rebekah tugged at her diamond earring, then laced her fingers in front of her. “Todd, Mrs. Gordon does not sing at the Opera House. She sings, and acts, at the Gem Theater.”

  His eyes locked on hers. “You’re baby-sitting for one of the girls at the Gem?”

  “What difference does that make? Are their children not worthy of good care?”

  “That’s not what I meant!” he fumed. “How did you say you met this woman?”

  “I was outside on the porch reading, and she stopped by to visit.”

  “Stopped by? She had to hike up seventy-two stairs to get here. You’re going to wear a theater dress to a church meeting?”

  “You said it was a beautiful dress.”

  “Of course, it’s beautiful . . . it’s just . . .”

  “Do you assume that all the girls at the Gem are immoral and unworthy of kindness?”

  Todd pushed his soup bowl toward the middle of the table. “Which one is she?”

  “Abby O’Neill.”

  “The star of the show?”

  “So I understand. Her real name is Mrs. Gordon, and her former husband is a doctor in Chattanooga. She assured me, her only performances were on the stage, and she did not work the boxes at the Gem.”

  “But . . . but . . . when I encouraged you to get more involved in the community I didn’t mean with . . .”

  “I see. You want me to get involved with activities and people of your choosing only. While you, on the other hand, do business with any reprobate or sneakthief who has a dollar to spend, and see nothing wrong with trading shots with outlaws and stagecoach robbers.” She stood up and marched toward the bedroom.

  “Aren’t you going to eat supper?” he called out.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come back in here and sit down.”

  She paused at the doorway. “Is that an order?”

  Todd Fortune let out a deep sigh. “You’re right. It sounded like an order. Please, come on back in here. I’m tired, I don’t mean to sound so . . . so . . .”

  “Contemptuous?” Rebekah finished. She returned to the kitchen and stood behind her chair.

  “Sit down . . . please . . . let’s have supper and try this again,” he insisted.

  She seated herself, but refused to pick up her spoon.

  “Todd, it really is Deadwood. I love you dearly, and here I am getting angry with you. I don’t even understand it myself.”

  “Listen, you can
baby-sit for anyone you choose, and borrow any dress . . . providing it’s not risqué . . .” A sly grin spread across his face. “Actually, you can borrow the risqué ones too, but you can’t wear them out of the house.”

  “There are some dresses I would not even wear for my husband, Todd Fortune. I have no intention of shocking the heavenly hosts. But, I really do like Abigail. I need to find my own place in Deadwood, Todd. I know that’s hard to understand, but maybe there are things for me to do that will be different than you.”

  “Actually, it’s not that difficult to fathom.”

  “Really?”

  “You are Rebekah Fortune, not Todd Fortune. And I am Todd Fortune, not Henry ‘Brazos’ Fortune.”

  Rebekah snatched up both soup bowls.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’ll reheat this soup. I like my French onion soup to be steaming.” She poured the rich brown broth soup back into the pan on the woodstove.

  “And what shall we do while we wait?”

  “Let’s keep it peaceful,” she suggested.

  “I agree, let’s don’t say anything at all.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come here.”

  “And what do you have in mind, Todd Fortune?”

  “You could sit on my lap and we could practice kissing.”

  “I’ve kissed you before, Mr. Fortune, and I can assure you, you don’t need any practice.”

  “Come here!”

  “Is that an order?”

  “More like a beg from a needy man.”

  “Oh well, in that case,” Rebekah grinned. “It is my Christian duty to help the needy.”

  Rebekah perched on his knees and wrapped her arm around his neck. As their lips touched, the back door banged open.

  “Oh! I’m sorry,” Dacee June blurted out. “I didn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t see the shades drawn or anything!”

  Rebekah stood up and brushed her skirt down. “That’s alright, Dacee June, we were just waiting for the soup to warm up.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  Rebekah pointed to the pan on the stove. “The French onion soup. I have some cornbread for you and Daddy Brazos.”

  “That’s wonderful! I made some biscuits, but I think I used too much salt. They taste sort of like the water in Galveston Bay.”

  Rebekah divided the pan of cornbread in two, and placed half on a china plate with tiny violet flowers.

  Dacee June grabbed the plate and scooted toward the still open back door. “Now you two can go back to . . . warming the soup.”

  “Thank you, Lil’ Sis,” Todd grinned.

  Dacee June stopped at the doorway. “Don’t you two ever do anything but kiss?”

  “We argue and fight a lot,” Todd said.

  Dacee June whooped, “Oh, sure, and I’m a shy and bashful girl who likes to sit in the house all day and knit doilies.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three men with graying hair under wide-brimmed felt hats and suits, slightly rumpled, sat around the black iron stove at the back of the hardware store when Todd Fortune unlocked the front door. The scene was a Deadwood tradition. Each of the men had their own keys to the store. Each held a tin coffee cup in his hand. And each tipped a hat in Todd’s direction.

  “Mornin’, Son,” Brazos called out from his perch on a wooden packing crate with an upside-down label marked: Warsaw, Indiana, this side up. “Did you hear about Carl McRoberts?”

  Todd hung his narrow-brimmed, crisp brown hat on a peg and walked toward the men. “Which one is Carl?”

  “He came here in November of ’75, right after eighteen inches of snow. He and a short little Italian took claim on #23 below Discovery.” Brazos rubbed his drooping gray mustache. “Remember? He was the one with only one thumb.”

  Quiet Jim scratched the back of his thin, long neck, then took a slow sip of steaming coffee. “He’s missin’ a whole lot more than a thumb now.” There was no smile on his face.

  Todd adopted a thick blue porcelain mug and approached the coffeepot. The steaming coal-black liquid reflected the lantern light as it bubbled into the mug. He took a sip and felt it singe the tip of his tongue. “What are we drinking today?”

  “Your daddy calls it Panama Black.” Yapper Jim swirled a mouthful, then gulped down the swallow. “But I’ve been to Panama and the only thing that is black is the swamp. It looks like India ink, but my, it does have eye-opening taste.”

  Brazos splashed his tin cup full. “Fer years now, I’ve tried to educate this bunch on coffees of the world, but what do I have to show? They cain’t even tell the difference between this and boiled bark.”

  “Ever’one knows Brazos makes the best coffee in Dakota,” Quiet Jim offered. “He thinks we show up for gossip and jollification, but it’s the coffee that does it.”

  “It’s a cinch you don’t show up for gossip,” Brazos asserted. “Why, there’s no gossip around this stove. Nothin’ but pure truth, right boys?”

  Quiet Jim leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The wool suit trousers couldn’t hide the thinness of his legs. “That’s a fact. We leave the gossip for the Daily Times and the Pioneer.”

  “Speakin’ of which . . .” Yapper Jim strolled over to the coffee- pot. “Did you boys read about the knifin’ down at the Gem Theater?”

  Todd took another swig of coffee. This time the heat of the swallow trickled a blazing trail down his throat and assaulted his tonsils. “Wait a minute . . . before you get into gossip about a knifing at the Gem, tell me the truth about one-thumbed Carl McRoberts.”

  “He’s dead,” Yapper Jim reported.

  Quiet Jim strolled over to the coffeepot and poured out another dollop. “He was down below in the Esmeralda mine in Blacktail Gulch chargin’ a hole. He must of figured the black powder was spoiled or damp, so he was drying it off between his finger when some of it flipped up on his candle. Set off quite an explosion.”

  “Yep. They said he might of come out of it only losin’ his hearin’ and an arm if it weren’t fer them steel drilling bits flyin’ through the air like Goliath’s spear,” Yapper Jim added. “Lived long enough to say his prayers, though. Hate to lose any of the boys of ’75.”

  Quiet Jim turned his head and wiped an eye. “Ain’t many of us left.”

  “Most of ‘em dead or gone,” Brazos added. “Don’t blame some for leavin’. Ever’ gulch in the Black Hills is swarming with miners.”

  “Most of ’em ain’t got an idea in the world what they’re doin’,” Yapper Jim offered.

  “Which is a whole lot like us when we snuck into the hills in ‘75.” Brazos gazed across the room . . . and the years. “Remember that riffle box we built along French Creek that first day? The whole thing washed four miles below by morning!”

  “We didn’t do that,” Yapper protested. “That was you, Grass, Big River, and them.”

  “We did some dumb things,” Quiet Jim admitted, “like that one time we . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” Todd protested. “I’m still worried about McRoberts. Did he have a family here in town?”

  “Not in Dakota. But I know he had a daughter down in New Mexico somewhere.” Quiet Jim stared at his coffee as if gazing into the past. “Years ago, when we was all down near Custer City, I wrote letters to her for him. I believe her name was Cynthia. That’s a mighty purdy name, ain’t it?”

  The men at the iron potbellied woodstove all nodded.

  Todd tugged on his shirt collar as the coffee flushed his face. “Getting blown up is a mighty rough way to go.”

  “You think that’s tough?” Yapper Jim leaned back, bracing his arms against the rough wooden bench. “How about when that hundred-ton block of rock fell on that miner at Terraville? By the time they got it moved, they co
uldn’t even identify the victim. Two different women claimed it was her husband that was crushed. The mine settled with both of them, even though only one man died. The other jist disappeared. Never showed up. I reckon he’s running around like a soul set free.”

  “I never did like bein’ underground,” Quiet Jim added. “If I can’t wash it in a pan, a tom, a rocker, or a sluice, I ain’t interested.”

  “Ownin’ shares is a lot safer than diggin’ it out, that’s for sure,” Yapper Jim added.

  All four twisted around to gaze at the glass and oak front door when a young woman sauntered into the store.

  “Whee—ee, Miss Dacee June, don’t you look beautiful?” Yapper Jim called out. “If I was twenty years younger I’d ask you to marry me today.”

  “If you were twenty years younger, you’d still be twenty years too old, Uncle Yapper,” Dacee June chided. Her long brown hair was partially contained under her hat.

  “That’s a fact,” Yapper Jim mumbled. “But it’s a mighty fancy dress.”

  “Oh, this attire?” She waltzed up to the stove and did a slow pirouette. “It’s just a silk lace, with surah lining, profusely trimmed with ribbon and a four-inch black lace gimp.”

  “Is this the same lil’ sis that was packing a pistol and wearing leathers yesterday?” Todd teased.

  “You must have confused me with some other sister of yours,” Dacee June glowered.

  “I only have one sis . . . eh, this side of heaven.” Todd refused to glance over at his father. No, Daddy, I have not forgotten Veronica and Patricia, bless their souls.

  “I just felt more mature today,” Dacee June explained. “I will be seventeen in the fall.”

  “Well, you certainly look more mature,” Quiet Jim added. “You’ll have to pack more than one pistol today.”

  Dacee June fiddled with the emerald-colored paste earrings that brushed against her cheeks. “However, I certainly enjoy the discerning eyes of older men.” She stood next to Quiet Jim and rested her hand on the shoulder of his brown leather vest. “How’s Columbia?”

  Quiet Jim’s voice almost became assertive. “Little Sarah kept her up all night with a fever. I hope they’re both sleepin’ now. She needs to be strong. Doc says that new baby could be along any week now.”