A Claim of
Her Own
Books by
Stephanie Grace Whitson
A Claim of Her Own
Jacob’s List
Unbridled Dreams
Watchers on the Hill
Secrets on the Wind (3 books in 1)
Walks the Fire
Soaring Eagle
Red Bird
How to Help a Grieving Friend
A Claim of
Her Own
STEPHANIE GRACE
WHITSON
A Claim of Her Own
Copyright © 2009
Stephanie Grace Whitson
Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota
Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations identified NASB are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE,® Copyright © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by International Bible Society. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Whitson, Stephanie Grace.
A claim of her own / Stephanie Grace Whitson.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0512-5 (pbk.)
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. South Dakota—Gold discoveries—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.H555C63 2009
813’.54—dc22
2008051047
DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF
GOD’S EXTRAORDINARY WOMEN
IN EVERY PLACE
IN EVERY TIME.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
MY SINCERE THANKS TO …
MR. MICHAEL RUNGE,
City Archivist, Deadwood, South Dakota, for providing maps
that enabled me to envision nineteenth-century Deadwood.
MS. ARLETTE HANSON,
Curator, Adams Museum, Deadwood, South Dakota, for timely
answers and for putting me in touch with people
who knew the answers when you didn’t.
MS. ROSE SPIERS,
Communications Director, Adams Museum, Deadwood,
South Dakota, for your kind replies and guidance.
MR. DAN GEORGE,
aka Wild Bill Blackerby, for explaining the “how” of
Wild Bill Hickok’s cavalry twist.
AUTHOR STEPHEN BLY,
for unselfishly sharing your expertise in all things Old West,
AND
ANN PARRISH:
You always make the stories so much better.
What a blessing you are!
BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS:
It remains a great privilege to work for you.
THE KANSAS EIGHT:
You know who you are … and what you do.
RANDY ALCORN,
brother in Christ and one of the most godly men I know,
thank you for allowing me to put your words in my fictional
preacher’s mouth. Thank you for your humility as you walk the
talk and for consistently challenging me to live in light of eternity.
(Readers are encouraged to seek out The Treasure Principle
by Randy Alcorn, which, in this author’s opinion, should be
required reading for every Christian living on planet Earth.)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of southern Illinois, Stephanie Grace Whitson has resided in Nebraska since 1975. She began what she calls “playing with imaginary friends” (writing fiction) when, as a result of teaching her four homeschooled children Nebraska history, she was personally encouraged and challenged by the lives of pioneer women in the West. Since her first book, Walks the Fire, was published in 1995, Stephanie’s fiction titles have appeared on the ECPA bestseller list and have been finalists for the Christy Award and the Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award, and ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year. Her nonfiction work, How to Help a Grieving Friend, was released in 2005. Widowed in 2001, Stephanie remarried in 2003 and now pursues full-time writing and a speaking ministry from her studio in Lincoln, Nebraska. In addition to her involvement in her local church and keeping up with her five grown children and two grandchildren, Stephanie enjoys motorcycle trips with her blended family and church friends and volunteering at the International Quilt Study Center in Lincoln, Nebraska. Her passionate interests in women’s history, antique quilts, and French, Italian, and Hawaiian language and culture provide endless storytelling possibilities. Learn more at www.stephaniewhitson.com or write stephanie@stephaniewhitson .com. U.S. mail can be directed to Stephanie Grace Whitson at P.O. Box 6905, Lincoln, Nebraska 68506.
CHAPTER 1
And in Your book were all written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there was not one of them.
Psalm 139:16 (NASB)
Walking down the main street in Deadwood is like stepping onto hell’s front porch. It’s frenzied and filthy, and it’s the last place on earth a man would want to bring any woman he cared about. Be patient. I know it’s hard, but you have to trust me about the timing.
Mattie had thought Dillon was just trying to scare her when he wrote that. She thought he was just making sure she didn’t take a notion to follow him up here before he was ready for her. But ready or not, she was here now, slogging into town alongside a freighter’s wagon piled high with goods. It didn’t take long to realize Dillon wasn’t exaggerating one bit when he wrote about Deadwood. “Main Street” was little more than a churning river of slops and garbage and manure. The common language seemed to be cursing, and the population 100 percent vile men who spat tobacco and smelled as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks. There wasn’t a real storefront for as far as she could see. At least not by her standards. Hand-painted signs improvised from old lumber or dirty sheets touted the location of laundries and stores, saloons and hotels, but most businesses were little more than large canvas tents.
Frenzied and filthy. Mattie glanced down at the mud-caked hem of her skirt. Even before arriving in Deadwood she’d encountered plenty of filth—just as predicted by the reluctant freighter she’d convinced to let her travel with the supply train. As for frenzy … two men across the way were screaming at each other over a promised order and a failure to supply. Saws and hammers, jangling harnesses, and rattling wagons added to the cacophony, and if that weren’t enough noise, the bullwhackers were having their share of trouble getting their teams to haul through
the mire.
The freighter called Swede cracked a fearsome bullwhip and called out, “Get along dere, you good-for-nuttin’ flea-bitten mireddown cayoose! Almost to home now! Gee-haw!”
All up and down the long line of wagons, freighters screamed and hollered and swore and cracked their whips. Finally, with bellowed protest and lowing complaint, the teams surged ahead.
Mattie continued to take the measure of Deadwood. The business calling itself Grand Central Hotel looked like someone newly acquainted with saw and hammer had knocked it together in a few hours. She stifled a laugh. Grand, indeed. Giving a place—or a person for that matter—a fancy name was little more than whitewashing a rotted board as far as she was concerned, and there was obviously plenty of rot beneath the scrawled signs and piles of fresh-cut lumber lining the muddy trail called Main.
Glancing back at the towering loads of freight in Swede’s three wagons, Mattie wondered who would ever want floral printed calico in a place like this. And what was the point of jet buttons and ivory combs? She stifled a cough and wished for a scented hanky. The stench of the place was getting to her. In fact—she glanced down— the stench of the place was getting on her in the form of more than mud clinging to the hem of her skirt and the soles of her boots.
At the sound of shrill laughter, Mattie glanced up the street just in time to see a woman clad in a rainbow of satin ruffles stumble and land on her knees in the mire. While the men around her roared with laughter, the painted creature looked up to the sky and began to bawl like a weanling calf separated from its momma. Mattie clutched at her paisley shawl and pulled it tighter around her shoulders. As the woman wailed and the men jeered, a bearded stranger exited the hotel and crossed the street to help the drunken woman get up. When she wobbled uncertainly, he put his arm around her and together they began to head up the street toward the part of town Swede had already warned Mattie to avoid.
“Dey named it after de real Badlands beyond Deadvood,” Swede had explained. “It’s a rough land of gulches and gorges and danger. And just like ven he is in dose Badlands, a man can get lost in dat part of town and ve never hear from him again.” Swede paused. “Be sure you stay avay from dere.”
The sporting girl stumbled. Finally, the stranger realized she was too drunk to navigate the mess in the street, and picking her up in his arms, he hauled her off. Mattie remembered something else Swede had said about Deadwood. “Vimmen? Yah, sure. Dere’s plenty of vimmen. Yoost no ladies.”
No wonder Dillon had told her to wait in Kansas until he sent for her. She glanced behind her toward the spot where Deadwood Creek flowed into the Whitewood. If she understood his letters correctly, Dillon’s claim was off up that narrow gulch somewhere. At least she wouldn’t have to venture in the direction of the Badlands to find him. Again, she shivered. If she never came near a dance hall again it would be too soon.
How far would she have to climb before she found the claim? Swede had never heard the name Dillon O’Keefe. But then Swede said there were some ten thousand men swarming these hills in search of mother lodes. Mattie didn’t quite believe that number. People were always exaggerating things: their wins at the faro table, the richness of their gold discoveries, the number of people rushing into a boomtown. She hoped Dillon hadn’t exaggerated the richness of his placer claim.
Dillon. He wasn’t going to be happy to see her. She could imagine the line between his eyebrows deepening and his dark eyes glowering with an unspoken scolding. Ah well. He’d never been able to stay mad at her for long. Today would be no exception. She’d do his laundry and polish his boots until they gleamed, and in time he’d decide he was glad she’d come. She might not even have to tell him what Jonas had done and why she’d had to run away.
An odd silence interrupted her imaginings. Mattie glanced across the backs of the oxen toward the two men who’d been arguing only a moment ago. They’d stopped now and were staring openmouthed at her. She looked away and began to walk faster. But it wasn’t only those two men reacting to her presence. Pauses in hammering and sawing continued to mark her progress up the street.
Swede had warned her about this, too. “Ven dey see you, it vill cause such a stir.”
Seeing Swede’s prediction come true made Mattie think back to the day she’d convinced the freighter to let her come north on the Sidney-Deadwood trail. It hadn’t been easy. In fact, Swede had almost refused.
“A little ting like you?” Swede laughed aloud. “You cannot mean it. No lady such as you has any business going to Deadvood.” And with that, Swede turned to walk away.
“My brother’s there,” Mattie called out, “and if you won’t take me I’ll find someone who will. There’s at least a dozen more bullwhackers I can ask.”
Swede turned back then and with a sweep of one arm indicated the line of freight wagons waiting to pull out. “You see any seats on any of dose vagons? Ve haul freight. Tons and tons of freight. Ve don’t haul people.”
Mattie refused to be discouraged. “I don’t expect to be hauled. I’ll walk alongside, just like you.” Digging into her bag she held out a roll of bills. “I can pay.”
Swede pushed the money away. “And vat about if dere is trouble from de Indians? You might not have heard, but dey don’t like us settling in dose Black Hills.”
Mattie would rather face Indians than Jonas Flynn. Men like Jonas didn’t just let girls like her go. He’d be searching trains and stagecoaches, and she’d avoided both so far, stowing away in a farm wagon headed north out of Abilene at first and finally making her way to Sidney, Nebraska, where dozens of freighters left daily headed north to supply the mining boomtowns in Dakota.
Mattie glared at Swede, doing her best to look determined instead of desperate. “And there might be plague and blizzards and any one of a thousand other things.” She lifted her chin. “And as I said, if you won’t let me come with you, I’ll find someone who will—but I’d feel safer with you.”
Swede took a long draw from the ever-present pipe, then released the smoke in a string of staccato puffs. Finally, the rough hands took the proffered roll of bills, counted out a few, and handed the rest back. “You vill need de rest for keeping body and soul until you find your brother. I von’t vait for you. You must keep up.”
That had been over a month and almost three hundred miles ago. Mattie walked without complaint, learning as she traveled that Swede’s blustering was just that—bluster.
The sheer physical strength required to keep oxen moving along the trail was the first thing Mattie learned to admire about Swede. The tool of every freighter’s trade was called a bullwhip, and Swede’s sported a two-foot-long hickory handle and a fifteen-foot lash of braided rawhide. At the end of the lash, what Swede called a “popper” of thonged rawhide made a sharp cracking sound every time it was wielded by Swede’s calloused hands. Even on a good day, when the freighters made eight or ten miles, the whip must be kept snapping above the oxen’s heads, for as soon as it stopped, the great beasts slowed almost to a stop.
How Swede kept cracking that whip hour after hour was amazing. Mattie had tried it once. Mastering the maneuver that produced the “crack” took longer than she expected, and after only a short stint as a bullwhackeress, her back and shoulders, arms and wrists ached for hours. Swede kept it up, hour after hour, seemingly unfazed.
But there was more than physical strength to admire about Swede.
While the other bullwhackers rained down a constant barrage of foul language, Swede never swore. And though it wasn’t unusual to see teams streaming with blood from whip lashes across their shoulders and flanks, Swede’s whip never touched flesh.
“I paid too much for dese beasts to misuse dem in such a vay,”
Swede said when Mattie asked about it. “Dey are stupid and stubborn, but dey are all I have, and I vill take care of dem. I vant my own store vorse dan anyting, and if I am good to Lars and Leif and de rest, I vill have it.”
Swede rested the great beasts frequently and applied a
vilesmelling black ointment to even the slightest knick on leg or back. Today, as they pulled into Deadwood, Mattie could see that Swede’s way of handling oxen was indeed the best. While other teams appeared to be on their last legs, Swede’s twenty were in good condition. After a few days’ rest they would be ready to head out again. Mattie knew that Swede hoped for three more runs between Deadwood and Sidney, Nebraska, before the next winter set in.
A cold gust of wind rattled through the gulch. Mattie glanced up at the sky, dismayed to see a bank of dark clouds moving in. Rain would make it harder to find Dillon. Swede had said Deadwood Gulch was narrow, with steep canyon walls. Every foot of it for nearly a mile had already been divided rimrock to rimrock into hundred-foot gold claims. “Dat’s vere you should look first. Yah sure, dey are finding much placer gold up dere.”
“Placer gold?”
Swede nodded. “Flakes and tiny bits and sometimes a nugget, all of it yoost vaiting for someone to come and scoop it up.”
Mattie imagined Dillon crouched beside the fast-flowing creek as he panned in the frigid water. She was supposed to be back in Kansas, working hard and saving her money until he sent for her. It won’t be long now, he’d written just last month. Where do you want to go? Dream big, Mattie. We’ll have a home of our own before too much longer.
Thinking about Dillon wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight filled her with such peace. He’d point to the Colt revolver tucked into her waist—the very gun he’d taught her how to use— and tell her she could put it away. “I’ll protect you now,” he’d say. And he would.
“Ho!” Swede hollered, and with a bellow, the oxen halted. Mattie’s hand went to her midsection, where a little knot of anticipation and joy was collecting. A string of curses drew her attention back up the street toward the Big Horn Store, where two men seemed about to come to blows over the price of a pair of boots. Mattie ducked closer to one of the freight wagons. We’ll have a home of our own before too much longer. That’s what Dillon had written, and now that she’d stepped onto hell’s front porch herself, Mattie decided it couldn’t happen soon enough.
A Claim of Her Own Page 1
