She was looking for a building or office that might house a manager, but the structures were all raw wood, grayed by weather, not even coated with whitewash. No one in this place was spending a spare nickel on any amenity. She kept working upslope, finding nothing resembling an office, and finally worked down to the base, and there she did find a long gray structure, plain as a warehouse, and an unmarked door that seemed the likely place. She entered. It was indeed an office, a big bullpen with some clerks, and a private office to the left.
The clerks were startled by a female presence, but in due course they steered her to the office of the manager, a muttonchopped man named Burroughs.
“Madam?” he asked, plainly wanting to get it over with.
“I am March McPhee. I own the McPhee Mine. I have the patent right here.”
She brandished it. He read it swiftly.
“My mine has been commandeered. It was taken, not sold, after my husband died. I’ve demanded that the occupants leave at once and cease mining. Now, sir, I am requiring you not to mill any McPhee ore, and to pay me for whatever gold or other minerals have been extracted from my ore at the mill. And pay me from the beginning. From the first load they brought you for custom milling.”
The man’s muttonchops seemed to ripple as he shifted chewing tobacco about in his cavernous mouth.
“You have proof of ownership, I suppose?” he asked.
“I have just shown it to you. And if you continue to refine my ore without paying me, or shipping the ore to me, you will find yourself in court.”
“They own it now, I’m sure.”
“Ask them for a bill of sale signed by me. Ask to see their ownership papers.”
He smiled at last. “There’s nothing I can do, madam,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
Eighteen
Stubborn, that’s what she was. She needed to talk to the district judge in Helena, Samuel Roach was his name, and set the record straight. Maybe it would do no good. But she had her patent, and she could tell him about the summons that his cousin, the constable, failed to deliver to her in a timely way, and see what that would do.
The trouble was, she hadn’t a dime to go there. Helena, the county seat as well as the new Territorial capital, lay about thirty miles distant, on a hogleg route. A Northern Pacific spur served the mining town. It plugged into the mainline near Helena.
There must be a way.
The next day she visited the tiny station; it stood near the Drumlummon Mine. The station master was present only an hour before the daily run. She entered the depot, studied the wicket of the master, found the time of the arrival and departure chalked on a blackboard, and also noted a price. A dollar and twenty cents round-trip; seventy-five cents one way. There wasn’t a soul in the little structure.
But on a gravel platform outside, she discovered an old man on a bench, soaking up summer sun.
“One train a day? For passengers?” she asked him.
He eyed her with watery blue eyes, from behind a scraggly beard. “If that,” he said. “Mixed lot; one old coach behind a string of boxcars or gondolas. You go to Helena, you stay over for the night, or walk home.”
“What’s in the freight cars, sir?”
Heavy equipment, mining stuff, coming in; certain ores that can better be reduced at the smelter east of Helena, going out. A few carloads of foodstuffs, hardware, mercantile whatnots. Once in a while, a stock car, usually with hogs. We got enough ranchers around to run beef in.”
“Hogs?”
“Yep, Marysville miners eat hogs like we was born to it. A hog car announces itself on the wind, if it’s blowing toward town.”
“And the hog cars go back empty?”
“You can’t put anything into a hog car. They don’t smell like a good Smithfield Ham, I’ll tell you.” He eyed her. “You’re mighty curious about it.”
“I don’t have the price of a ticket,” she said.
The geezer broke into a gap-toothed smile. “Just find yourself a boxcar and enjoy the ride. And don’t wear skirts. They’ll likely get caught and pull you under.”
“Who checks the cars?”
“Anyone. Brakeman, railroad dicks, who knows? You’d not be the first to slick it over on the old Northern Pacific.”
“How do I get on, with the station right here?”
“Opposite side, and make sure no fireman or engineer’s looking back.”
“And if I hop a freight coming back here, is it the same thing in Helena?”
“Play it by ear, old gal. It’s one long walk from there to here. Take it from an old bindlestiff.”
“What’s that?”
“Tramp, lady. You’re talking to a retired tramp.”
She studied the layout. The tracks dead-ended at the mine, not far away. There was not a single structure or tree that might conceal her if she were to hop the freight. The whole idea was daunting. Not only hop the freight here, but also in Helena. And make sure it was the Marysville local, and not some mainline train. And know when it left. And dodge the railroad dicks.
The old codger spat, a fine brown stream of well-used tobacco, and wiped his dirty beard.
“Here’s what you do,” he said. “You dress fancy, maybe add a hat, and climb right up the steps and into the caboose. The coach’s up front, right behind the engine. Stubby little six-wheeler. Then there’s a string of freight, and the caboose. There’ll be a brakeman around there, maybe right at the steps. You just say something like, ‘You taking me to Helena?’ Like that. He will or he won’t. Pretty lady like you, he just might.”
She phrased it delicately. “And will I owe him anything? An obligation?”
“Beats me,” he said. “Never knew much about women.”
That didn’t exactly answer her question. His gap-toothed grin didn’t either.
“The next train out leave in the morning? At seven?”
“Before I’m up and stirring,” he said. “Stay clear of the station.”
She resolved to be on it. Scots were thrifty.
But she’d still have to find the courthouse, hope court wasn’t in session, locate his chamber, and try to talk her way in. And whatever the result, figure out how to get back into the mountains again.
She spent that day assembling something to eat on her trip. She scarcely knew how, given how little she had, but eventually baked some oatmeal cakes, and those would have to do. But she lacked a handbag; nothing in that barren washerwoman house helped her. Well then, she would go hungry.
Early the next morning she garbed herself in borrowed skirts, not a bit satisfied with any of it, and headed for the little station. A dozen people stood patiently on the gravel platform, so she stood well away, the sightseer. She knew she was conspicuous but there was no help for it. In time, a stubby engine chuffed in, raining cinders and belching smoke from a diamond stack. There was a battered wine-colored coach, three boxcars, two gondolas filled with some sort of ore, and a gray caboose. The train shielded her from the station, so she stepped across the creosoted tracks, fragrant in the morning sun, and eased toward the caboose. There was a small stair at the rear, with handrails, and she would have to step high to board.
She didn’t hesitate. But the moment she stepped up, a brakeman in blue yelled.
“Hey! Off of there.”
The young man materialized from somewhere forward, maybe between the caboose and the last gondola.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m Scots,” she said.
He stared. “Scots is it? That answers it. I do not see you.”
“And yourself?”
“Half Swede, half bobcat,” he said.
She stepped in, fascinated by the compact comfort she found there, including a small table, benches, potbellied stove with a cooktop, and even a bunk. But most of the space was given to equipment, especially lamps, flares, and tools. The open window was letting in soot, even while the train was boarding passengers up ahead. She settled in a seat, heard som
e shouts and clanging, a whistle, a jolt as the couplings pulled tight, and then the caboose rolled slowly forward, even as the brakeman swung onboard.
He sat down, stared a moment, and settled the matter in his mind. “I don’t see you. When we reach the Helena yards, I will step down ahead of you, and yell when it’s okay.”
“Scots are invisible,” she said.
“I suppose it’s none of my business,” he said.
“I’m going to ask a judge to give me my gold mine back.”
He plainly didn’t know how to respond to that. “I earn a dollar fifty a day,” he muttered.
“That’s a dollar fifty more than I do.”
“Good luck,” he said.
“Don’t wish you could trade positions or fates with me,” she said. “My mine was stolen.”
“I could use a gold mine.”
The train wove downslope on shoddy roadbed, never getting up speed as slopes rose and fell, and forests crowded the right of way. She wondered why a spark hadn’t ignited the thick-clad alpine slopes any hot summer. It was glorious country, still somehow virgin even if miners were burrowing into every likely outcrop.
They reached a relatively flat area, and then switched onto the NP mainline, whose silvery rails stretched straight into the Territorial capital.
“Do you know where the county courthouse is?” she asked.
“Yeah, they fined me there once, five clams for getting into a fight. It’s on Broadway.”
“Wherever that is,” she said.
Helena was a mongrel place, half gold-mining camp, half emerging capital of Montana. Last Chance Gulch had yielded a torrent of placer gold, and the city’s commercial buildings had risen right beside the twisting bonanza gulch. Its natural beauty had drawn the newly rich, and these people had built stately brick homes on one side of the gulch, while the less fortunate crowded helterskelter into chaotic neighborhoods on the other. All the other mining districts in the area, including Marysville, were satellites of the fabulous Last Chance Gulch, where placer gold was discovered by four Georgians fleeing the Civil War.
The brakeman proved to be a lively conspirator, and at the right moment he summoned March from the caboose, nodded, and headed up the line of cars. She studied the sidings, saw nothing to stop her, and stepped delicately across steel rails, to a platform mostly empty, and then headed into the city, which was a long walk away. She was hungry, but that couldn’t be helped.
Helena struck her as a city divided. Workingmen in dungarees toiled everywhere, but along the streets she discovered clerical sorts, men in suits and cravats and bowlers, some with elaborate mustachios or muttonchops, the hirsute gentlemen of Helena plainly the upper class.
Somehow, Helena was different. Here people wrestled for power and fame; she could see it in the mansions rising on one side of town. It didn’t seem friendly, the way Marysville did. But what did it matter? She found Broadway, turned there where the street climbed away from the gulch, passed the redbrick federal assay office, and found the Lewis and Clark County Courthouse easily enough. She marveled. The city had existed only a few years, but here was a substantial stone building surrounded by landscaped lawn. Gold had profited the county.
It was late in the morning. She entered the building, walked on waxed hardwood floors, her steps echoing in the high hall, found the courtroom, which was empty, and found the chambers. She was in luck. She entered, and the door closed behind her with a soft snap. A clerk in shirtsleeves, with a garter on one arm, eyed her.
“I wish to see Judge Roach,” she said.
“He’s busy. But you could try tomorrow. He’s got a session this afternoon.”
“Tell him it’s March McPhee, and I own the McPhee Mine, and I’ve come from Marysville.”
“I tell you, he’s busy and won’t see anyone.”
“Tell him.”
Something in her tone must have changed his mind. He eyed her, rose reluctantly, and vanished into the chambers, separated from the anteroom by a pebbled glass door.
She didn’t know what she would say. She would show him the patent, and show him the summons that were never delivered. And ask for a reconsideration.
The clerk returned. “Be brief,” he said.
March McPhee entered, found that the judge bore a family resemblance to the constable, but had a full black beard and agate eyes.
“It is unlawful to attempt to influence or bribe a judge,” he said, in a voice so quiet that March strained to hear it. “Watch what you say, and if you transgress, I’ll call the bailiff.”
“Thank you for the warm welcome,” she said.
His coal eyes bore into her.
“Here is a fair copy of the patent on the McPhee Mine, listing me as one of the owners. Here are two court papers that Constable Roach carefully neglected to give me in time, leaving me in the dark about what happened here.”
“And what happened here, madam?”
“A sham proceedings that took my mine from me.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because the whole event was staged to steal my mine from me after my husband died.”
“Contempt of court,” he said. “I’ll summon the bailiff, and you may cool your heels in my hospitality parlor and stay there for as long as I deem you in contempt. Which may be some little while.”
He rang a bell, and a burly bailiff swiftly arrived.
“Lock her up,” the judge said.
The bailiff grinned.
March McPhee refused to march, and the bailiff had to drag her away.
Nineteen
The cell was small, cold, and dark. Iron bars pinned her in. A small window high up let in sunlight, hope, and dreams of liberty. A sheet-iron platform served as a bunk and seat. An open bucket served as a chamber pot. The iron-barred door clanged shut behind her, and the bailiff turned away. The silence that followed was the quietness of a tomb. Jail was all about silence; being taken away from busy commerce and human voice.
She surveyed this dour and odorous place with a great sadness. She was helpless now. Her fate rested entirely with the judge. She knew that contempt of court meant that the judge could keep her there as long as he chose, without trial, bail, recourse. He could do with her as he would, for she was no more than a rag doll now.
She peered out, onto a bleak corridor, painted brown, seeing and hearing nothing. She appeared to be the sole prisoner in the county lockup. There would be no one next door, or down the corridor, to talk to, share misery with.
She paced the cell, three steps in any direction, and felt it close down upon her. She ached suddenly for exercise. Walking seemed like the ultimate comfort, or even luxury. Walking to somewhere.
She swiftly realized the dilemma. Time. How could she fill it? What could she do? Were there exercises of the mind she might pursue? She saw not a thing to read. There was no one to talk to. The tick of an imaginary clock sliced her life away, minute by minute.
Finally she lay down on the hard bench, its boards cruel against her flesh. This would be her bed, her sole comfort, for as long as Judge Roach chose to keep her penned. She thought of her Kermit, and of her lost baby, but that only deepened her sadness. She thought of Scotland, her parents’ cottage, her girlhood, her mother, and that worsened the ache within her. Finally she drifted into a passive state of emptiness, and let the hours tick by.
When the light in the window darkened, a warden came at last, bearing a bowl of gruel and a spoon. She eyed him, an elderly big-bellied man, probably a political appointee.
But at least he was cheery. “Brought you some chowder, courtesy Lewis and Clark County. I guess you riled up the judge, eh?”
“I asked for a proper hearing.”
He laughed, and she suspected he had heard it all before. He handed her the bowl through an iron service door. The slop was cold. She lifted it, took the spoon, tasted it, and then threw it all in his face.
He laughed. “That’s what he said, crazy as a loon,” he said. “
Guess you’ll start to lose a few pounds. Oh, that will add a little to your time here.”
He wandered off, and she wondered what had gotten into her. She had always prided herself on her serenity and self-control. It had all exploded like a fulminate of mercury cap, snap, over before she’d warned herself against foolishness.
It was worse than that. The old man hadn’t said one word that could be considered offensive. A cynical laugh, perhaps, but not anything that justified a bowl of stew on his head.
She was hungry, but the remains of the meal lay sprayed across a filthy cement floor, mixed with whatever body fluids were embedded there. The silence returned, and she slipped to the bench and let its hard surface offend her soft body.
A deep sense of helplessness becomes, in the end, an ally, and now she lay through a black night on her iron bed, the absence of hope easing the hours away. Once she made use of the terrible bucket, and then swiftly slid into an estate somewhere between wakefulness and stupor.
Dawn came, quietness without food or drink, and her body was telling her about it. But lying quietly was better than pacing the cage, or yelling for help that would not come.
She lay back, unable to better her condition, and then she did hear a clang, and the pad of footsteps, and found herself staring through bars at the judge. He wore a black suit. For a moment they simply gazed, she upward, and he downward.
“I have some papers for you to sign,” he said.
“And then what?”
“I’ll decide after you sign them.”
She sat up, brushed her soiled skirts, and waited.
“There’s a small problem. I hear you like to throw things. Like this ink bottle in my hand. Or this pen. That would be most unfortunate. So the best I can manage is to hand you the pen, fresh from the bottle, which will remain in my hand, and you can put your John Henry, or maybe I should call it your Joan of Arc, on these.”
Easy Pickings Page 12
