by Al Lacy
“And that is?”
“I won’t deny that she’s good-looking, but she thinks she’s the most beautiful female that God ever made. You know…God’s gift to men. She’s a real flirt, and I just don’t cotton to a woman who ignores the man she’s supposed to be with in order to catch the eyes of all the other men. So it’s all off with Harriet.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear it, son. Your mother and I were really looking forward to being in-laws with the Scotts. We weren’t aware, of course, of some of the things you just brought up.”
Peter remained silent.
“Son, before you started getting serious with Harriet, you were dating other girls from our part of town. What about Lucinda Weatherby?”
“She’s engaged to some guy from New York.”
“Oh. Well, what about Margaret Laughlin?”
“She’s getting married in Philadelphia next month.”
“Okay. Lavonne Parker?”
“Don’t know for sure if she’s got a steady beau right now. I’ll find out.”
“And Muriel Kincaid?”
“Might be a possibility there, too. I’ll have to look into it.”
“Good. Lavonne or Muriel, either one would make us a good daughter-in-law. And if they don’t work out, there are other young ladies in our part of town.”
“Sure, Dad. I promise. I won’t be a bachelor too long.”
When the Stallworths sat down to the dinner table, Peter said, “Sure smells and looks good, Mom.”
“It’ll get better by Saturday,” Maria said, passing her son the meat plate.
Peter eyed her questioningly.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I said I wouldn’t do it, but I hired a cook about twenty minutes ago.”
John nodded his approval. “Honey, I’m glad. As long as she’s not live-in.”
“No. She was Cliff and Pat Bowen’s cook. Cliff doesn’t need a cook anymore since he’s traveling so much. He knew we didn’t have a cook, so he came by with her and asked if we’d be interested in hiring her. She’s twenty-six and married, but childless. She and her husband live near downtown on the east side.”
“What’s her name, Mom?” Peter asked.
“Carlene Simms. Sweet girl.”
“I’ll miss your cooking, Mom, but it’s good that you won’t have to slave in the kitchen anymore.”
Maria waved him off. “It’s not slavery, Peter. I enjoy it, but it is time consuming.”
“Hey!” said John. “Something to tell you about Peter!”
Maria lifted a palm toward him. “Maybe I should tell you about someone else I hired today, too. Then you can tell me about our boy.”
John smiled. “You hired a cleaning lady!”
“Sure did.”
“Not live-in. We agreed not to—”
“She’s not live-in.”
“Good. Tell me more.”
“Her name is Kathleen O’Malley.”
“Married?”
“No. Single.”
“So she’s for sure got Irish blood,” Peter said.
“Mm-hmm. And she looks it, too. Beautiful deep red hair…lovely complexion.”
“So how’d this happen?” John asked.
“She knocked on the door and said she was looking for a cleaning job or general housework, or both. Her family died in the fire. Lived over on the west side. She’s all alone. Had to drop out of school and find work to survive.”
“Drop out of school,” Peter echoed. “How old is she?”
“Almost eighteen. She lives in a boardinghouse near downtown.”
John shifted his position on the chair. “Should you have hired a girl so young, honey?”
“I really don’t think her youth will be a problem. The girl impressed me. I have no doubt Kathleen will do a good job. She’s going to work Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. We’re paying both young ladies a dollar a day, but of course Carlene will work seven days a week. And I sent Kathleen to the Masseys. LuAnn hired her for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She came over this afternoon and thanked me for sending Kathleen to her. She really likes the girl, too.”
“Sounds like your mother’s had a busy day hiring help, Peter,” John said with a chuckle.
Maria noted that both her men’s coffee cups were empty. When she shoved back her chair, Peter jumped up.
“Stay put, Mom. I’ll get the coffeepot.” He hurried to the kitchen, took the coffeepot from the stove, and when he returned to the dining room, his father was telling his mother all about their son’s solution to the delinquent accounts problem, and that he had garnered himself a raise in salary because of it.
Maria smiled as Peter poured coffee all around. “I’m proud of you, Peter. If your father doesn’t look out, he’s liable to lose his job to you!”
Peter snickered. “Sure, Mom. Dad’ll lose his job to me when elephants climb trees.”
When Peter sat down again, Maria said, “You must tell Harriet about this accomplishment, and about your raise. She’ll be excited, I’m sure.”
Peter flicked a glance at his father, and John looked at Maria.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, Mom. Its just that…well, Harriet isn’t interested in what goes on in my life.”
Marias head bobbed. Eyes wide, she said, “What do you mean?”
“When Harriet and I went to the opera the other night…we had a long discussion and agreed that we’re not for each other.”
“Oh. I…I’m sorry to hear that. From the look you two just exchanged, I assume you’ve already told your father about it.”
“Yes. On the way home. He asked how things were going between Harriet and me, so I told him it was all off.”
“I was so hoping it would work out,” Maria said.
“We don’t have a lot in common,” Peter said. “She just isn’t the girl for me.”
Maria perked up. “Well, I’m sure when the right one comes along, you’ll know it’s her, and your father and I will know it, too. Main thing is that she’s suitable for your station.”
“Sure, Mom,” Peter said, chuckling. “Would I dare bring home a girl from the—pardon the railroader’s pun—wrong side of the tracks?”
The October afternoon was bright, dry, and a bit cool as Storey County Commissioner Dale Horne mounted his horse and rode west out of Virginia City, Nevada.
Horne had lived in Virginia City since it was incorporated in 1859 and had watched it boom shortly thereafter as a result of the silver found in the hills to the west. People had come from all over the country to stake their claims. The most famous and best-producing mine was the Comstock Lode at nearby Mount Davidson, where the commissioner was headed.
Dale Home loved Nevada. Especially Virginia City. As he trotted his mount westward, he glanced to the southeast and drank in the beauty of the rolling desert hills painted varying hues of deep violet, pale orange, and sand brown by their Creator. Ahead of him, beyond Mount Davidson, was the majestic Sierra Nevada mountain range, streaked with ever-changing sinuous shadows as the sun ran its brilliant arc across the azure sky. He enjoyed the sweetness of the fragrant desert wind upon his face.
The ride to Mount Davidson was brief, and soon Horne was reining in at the log cabin that served as office for the Comstock Lode. As he dismounted he glanced toward the mouth of the main mine, which faced east, and saw men and mules moving full carts of silver ore out of the bowels of the mountain on narrow gauge tracks.
As he looped the reins over a hitching post, two miners came out of the office. One of them said, “Howdy, Mr. Horne. I understand Mr. Comstock is gonna give you the cooks tour’ this afternoon.”
“Yes, and I’m looking forward to it,” replied the commissioner, smiling amiably.
The door opened again, and Henry T. P. Comstock stepped out. He was a man in his late fifties, tall, slender, with a full beard. He had become wealthy over the years since staking his claim.
“Welcome, Mr. Home,” said Comstock. �
��Ready for your tour of the mine?”
“Sure am. But right off I want to thank you for the generous gift you gave Storey County to help build the new courthouse.”
“My pleasure. We can’t have a courthouse that’s coming apart at the seams now, can we?”
Home laughed. “It’d be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
“A little embarrassing, too, since this place is known for its affluence. Well, let’s get started.”
As the two men headed toward the mouth of the mine, Home said, “How many men do you employ, sir?”
“Exactly sixty at the moment. And they’re all staying busy.”
“Good!”
A tall, rawboned young miner had just come out of the mine and was squinting because of the brilliant sunlight. When he caught sight of Mr. Comstock and his guest, he headed toward them.
“Pardon me, Mr. Comstock,” he said. “I know you’re about to give Mr. Horne his promised tour, but it might be best if you wait a few minutes. And hello, Mr. Home.”
The commissioner had seen the young man’s face around town but had never met him. “Hello,” said Home, extending his hand.
The miner gripped his hand firmly. “I’m Tom Harned, sir.”
“Glad to meet you, Harned. Is there a problem?”
“Only a slight one, sir.” Then to Comstock: “An axle broke on one of the carts, and were having to transfer a full load of ore from that cart to another one. It’s right where you gentlemen will walk, and at the moment there’s a lot of dust in the air. Should be taken care of in about twenty to twenty-five minutes.”
“Fine,” said Comstock. “I hope that broken axle is on one of the old carts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Comstock snapped his fingers. “Say, Tom, didn’t your little boy have a birthday recently?”
Tom’s face beamed at the mention of his son. “Yes, sir. Caleb was one year old on September 30.”
Comstock pulled out his wallet from an inside coat pocket, slipped out a twenty-dollar bill, and stuffed it in Tom’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to give Caleb a little birthday present. Buy him something he needs.”
Tom’s blue eyes sparkled. “Why, thank you, Mr. Comstock! Thank you very much! I’m sure Loretta will put the money to good use for Caleb.”
“Mothers have a way of doing that.”
“I’ll get back to my job now, gentlemen,” said Harned. “If you want to go sit down in the office, I’ll come and let you know when the tour can start.”
“Thanks for thinking of our lungs, Tom,” said the commissioner.
“Actually, sir, it was our foreman who asked me to come and advise Mr. Comstock of the problem.”
“Well, thank him for us.”
“Will do.” Tom gave the men a nod and headed back for the mine.
“Tom Harned seems like a sharp young man.”
“He is,” agreed Comstock. “He’s foreman material, but he’s only twenty-two, so hell have to get a few more years on him before I can put him in a position of authority. That is, if he sticks around that long.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like some of the other men here, Tom has a hankering to go out on his own and stake a claim. He’s talked to me about it. But he wants to go for gold. Only thing that’s holding him back is the kind of money it takes to do it. If he ever gets his hands on a sufficient amount, he’ll be gone.”
“Can’t blame him for that.”
“Sure can’t. But he’s a hard worker. I’d hate to lose him.”
The sun was lowering over the jagged peaks of the Sierras as the miners emerged from the mountain and headed for their homes in Virginia City.
Tom Harned, Hank Mitchell, Ed Carstairs, Harold Sheetz, and Nick Tobias usually walked into town together at the close of each workday. As the five of them walked along the side of the road, Nick Tobias said, “So, Tom, have you got an idea when you might strike out on your own and stake a gold claim?”
“Sure don’t. Loretta and I try to put a little money aside every payday, but sometimes it just isn’t possible. At the rate we’re going, all the gold in Nevada and California will be dug up before we have enough money to stake a claim.”
“Well, at least you and your family have a roof over your heads and food on the table,” said Ed Carstairs. “Gotta be thankful for that.”
“We are. Very thankful. But we’re not satisfied. Loretta and I were talking about it last night. Mr. Comstock hit it good here at Mount Davidson on a claim that cost him comparatively little. If he can do it, we figure we can, too. Only, as I’ve told you guys before, were going to shoot for a gold claim when our day comes.”
“Might as well,” said Hank Mitchell. “Doesn’t take any more work to dig gold out of ‘them thar hills’ than it does silver.”
“That’s the way I look at it, Hank,” Tom said. “But until then, I plan to keep on working for Mr. Comstock. He pays us better than a lot of silver mine owners pay their men.”
“Yes, he does,” spoke up Harold Sheetz. “He’s been plenty fair with me.”
“We can all say that,” said Hank.
The quintet reached the edge of town, and Carstairs, Sheetz, and Tobias veered off and headed toward their humble shanties. Soon the two friends were on Main Street on their way to the other side of town. As they drew near the Silver Plume Hotel they noticed a crowd gathered in front of the newspaper office next door.
Chuck Ramsey, the editor of the Virginia City Sentinel, was standing on the boardwalk, talking to the crowd, as his assistant sold papers.
Two of Comstock’s miners were in the crowd. They each purchased a copy of the day’s edition and headed up the street toward Harned and Mitchell.
“Hey, guys,” Hank called, “what’s all the excitement about?”
“Big fire in Chicago,” one of the men replied, holding up his folded newspaper. “Chuck was just telling us that a third of the city has been destroyed. About three hundred people burned to death. Bad. Real bad.”
Moving on, Tom said, “Guess I’d better buy a paper, Hank. Loretta’s got two cousins who live in Chicago. She’ll want to know about this.”
LORETTA HARNED WAS AT HER KITCHEN cupboard preparing supper when she looked out the window and saw Tom and his friend Hank Mitchell. They were walking down the alley from the main street, their usual route to and from the mine.
The two men paused to finish their conversation when they reached Toms place, then Hank moved on and Tom angled across the backyard toward the porch.
Loretta smiled to herself as she peered out the kitchen window with the white starched curtain and watched Toms approach.
The small shanty where she and Tom lived with their little son was typical of other miner’s shacks. Loretta kept it spotlessly clean, but it was drafty, with ill-fitting doors and windows.
There was a rough-hewn table and two chairs in the tiny kitchen area, and a handmade high chair that Hank Mitchell had made for Caleb when the boy was about nine months old. Loretta had put a cloth with embroidered blue flowers on the table and matching blue cushions on both chairs.
In the parlor there were two old rocking chairs in front of the fireplace and a rag rug of many colors on the uneven floor. Loretta had made a cozy home for her family, though she had very little to work with.
Behind a curtained doorway off the parlor was a double bed in the corner, covered with a calico quilt. A large trunk sat at the foot. Caleb’s crib was on Loretta’s side of the bed piled high with a mound of small blankets to keep Caleb warm on cold nights at the 4,600-foot altitude.
Loretta glanced into the parlor where her little son was playing on the rug and said, “Caleb, Daddy’s home.”
The one-year-old, with golden blond hair like his mother’s, looked up and smiled. His blue eyes glinted with excitement.
Caleb had been walking only a short time, and it took him a few seconds to get on his feet. In the meantime, Loretta opened the door at the same moment Tom stepped up on the back p
orch. “Well, who’s this man with the dust all over his face?” she said. “He sort of resembles my husband!”
Tom folded her in his arms. “Do I get a kiss before I wash off the dust, or do I have to wait?”
When they heard the pitter-patter of feet on the kitchen floor and a tiny voice cry, “Da-Da! Da-Da!” Loretta laughed.
“Go ahead and pick up your son, Da-Da, and I’ll kiss you in a minute!”
Tom laid the newspaper on the table and grabbed the baby, who was lifting up his arms. Tom hugged Caleb, then nibbled on his ear, saying, “Mm-mm-mm, Mommy! Caleb’s ears sure are good! Mm-mm-mm!”
While the fun was going on, Loretta opened the folded newspaper and read the headlines. “Oh, how awful!” she gasped.
Tom shifted Caleb to one arm and put his other arm around Loretta’s waist. “Can you imagine, honey? A third of Chicago burned to the ground, and three hundred people dead!”
“Oh, Tom! I hope Marianne and Samantha and their families are all right!”
“I read just a little of it. Seems the fire started in a barn on the west side. A cow kicked over a lantern. Since your cousins live on the north side, maybe their homes weren’t burned.”
“I’ll write to them tomorrow and hope for the best.”
Tom nodded. “Now can I have that kiss?”
Loretta turned within the crook of his arm and raised up on tiptoe, kissing him soundly.
“Thank you,” Tom said, gazing into her eyes.
“You’re entirely welcome,” she replied softly. “Now you get washed up.”
Tom set Caleb on his feet and the little boy followed his father to the washbasin and watched carefully while Tom washed the dust from his face, neck, and hands.
When Tom had finished and Loretta was still working at the stove and cupboard, he sat down at the table and lifted Caleb to his lap, then read the entire story of the Chicago fire aloud while Loretta finished preparing supper.
When she was ready to sit down for the meal, Tom put Caleb in his high chair and kept him close at hand. Their food wasn’t fancy, but it was filling and plentiful.
Tom fed Caleb bites from his own plate, and Caleb smacked his lips with relish. He would say “Da-Da” when he wanted more food, and both parents found themselves laughing at the little boy’s antics. When Caleb caught on that what he did was making them laugh, he did it all the more.
