A Claim of Her Own

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “You!” someone shouted. “What d’ you think yer doin’! Is it a dead man’s gold yer after!” Swearing and hollering, redheaded Finn McKay came stomping toward her. When Mattie looked up at him he stopped in mid-obscenity. Again he said, “You!” only this time the tone was surprise laced with wonder. “You were mindin’ the store for Tom.”

  Mattie nodded. “Yes, but most of his goods have already been sold and he’s hired that preacher to help him with the building. He decided he could manage without me, so here I am.” She tugged on the brim of her hat. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet, but from your reaction I must at least look like a miner now.”

  Finn shook his head. “Well, now, I wouldn’t say so. Yer not like any miner I’ve ever seen. ’Tis more like as if an angel has come t’ live among us.”

  “Trust me,” Mattie protested. “I am about the furthest thing from an angel you will ever meet.”

  Fergus McKay was next to show up, belching and scratching his backside as he climbed out of his tent hollering all the while about a terrible headache and that cheating card dealer at the Green Front. Dressed only in a set of filthy long johns—the back door dangling open—Fergus walked up beside his brother. Mattie had trouble not laughing aloud when Fergus recognized her and, with a quick reach behind, closed the gaping flap and with a “beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” backed his way across the claim toward the tent. He bumped into the rocker on his way, stumbled, and nearly fell. In the process he lost hold of his “back door” and Mattie was witness to something she hoped wouldn’t haunt her dreams.

  “I thought you was a claim-jumper,” Finn sputtered.

  “Well, I’m grateful to know you’ve been keeping an eye out.”

  “We can be a foul bunch of bandits, but those of us who’ve been here since the first tend to watch out fer each other.”

  “I may be new to the gulch, but I’ll certainly do my part to keep an eye on your claim when I’m up here.”

  “It’s true then—you intend to work it … with your own lovely hands?”

  “I do, although at the moment the claim is working me. How long does it take to get the hang of panning? Tom made it look so easy.”

  “It depends,” Finn said. “I never could do much with a pan.” He looked back toward the tent. “If Fergus don’t die of embarrassment first, he might could give you a lesson or two.”

  “You’ve got your own claim to work,” Mattie said. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “It’s not imposin’,” Fergus called as he ducked back into view. He was dressed this time, and as he fastened the last button on a ragged flannel shirt, he said, “I’ll do it for the gold in the first pan.”

  “There might not be any.”

  “Well, now, that’s just a chance I’ll have to take.”

  It was late in the afternoon before Mattie finally managed to create a crescent shape of fine sand and gravel in her gold pan. True to his word, Fergus had crouched down beside her and patiently shown her the very same things Tom had demonstrated. He was willing to stay as long as she wanted, but after filtering through two pans and finding a respectable-sized flake of gold with which to thank him, Mattie said she was a slow learner and would do better without her teacher watching her every move.

  Fergus retreated back to the McKay claim and Mattie breathed a sigh of relief. He was a nice enough fellow and not a bad teacher, but he needed a bath. Taking a deep breath of fresh air, she went back to work and by the end of the day had added a dozen tiny flecks of gold to her hand-carved dust-catcher.

  Freddie arrived just at sunset. Mattie watched carefully as he built a fire, grateful she didn’t have to reveal how little she knew about cooking and campfires. She’d managed to hide her ignorance from Swede by tending to Eva on the trail, but she’d need to know about such things if she was going to survive up here on the gulch.

  With two dressed rabbits, an onion, and a few pinches of seasonings he said were “one of Mor’s secrets and he couldn’t tell,” Freddie cooked a succulent stew. Later, as she settled down for her first night on the claim, Mattie wondered how long she could make the stew last … and how often she could count on Freddie’s cooking.

  Tom English was right. Panning for gold was backbreaking work. The water was frigid and the air was cold. Mattie’s hands were chapped, her entire body was sore, and her feet would likely never be warm again. She probably wasn’t going to get rich, either. It was going to be a while before she could pan with any efficiency at all. In her first week of mining full time, she had added only seven flakes of gold to the dozen specks collected on her first day. And yet, on days when the sky was blue and the gulch was relatively quiet, when the rest of the miners were either sleeping off their whiskey or going on a binge in town, when birds swooped across the gulch and the creek sang, Mattie rejoiced in being a free woman.

  When the men working their claims began to turn in and the night grew quiet, Mattie pulled her tired feet out of her rubber boots and lit the lamp inside her tent. As she settled back on her cot and tucked her pistol just beneath the edge of the comforters, she was content. She’d never really had a specific dream of a home, but if she had, it would never have been a canvas tent on a placer claim. And yet, given a choice between this tent and her room back in Abilene, Mattie would gladly call her tent home.

  She’d always loved to watch the pink-tinged Kansas dawns before she turned in. Often she’d managed to slip away from the gaming tables and take a break just around sunset, too, marveling at the way every single one was different and wishing she could somehow preserve them. Here in Dakota it was practically noon before much daylight shone down into the gulch. Mattie saw no pink-tinged dawns and no spectacular sunsets. The sun dropped quickly, shadows gathered, and night fell. It was a quick three-step as opposed to a slow waltz. But she didn’t mind. Her time was her own, and if she wanted to sit by the fire and drink half a pot of coffee, no one was telling her to “get dressed and get downstairs.”

  She didn’t even mind that the cold was hanging on so long people had begun to mutter and wonder if it was “fixin’ to snow right smack in the middle of summer.” Such talk only encouraged her imaginings of frosting on the boulders and pine tree branches. How pretty that would be, and how clean everything would seem when dusted with new-fallen snow.

  There was still plenty to make a person think of Deadwood as a hellish place. And yet, she could already name four people she could almost call her friends. And, she reminded herself with a smile, she’d already had a proposal of marriage.

  Of course, for the few good people Mattie knew, there were dozens of the other kind. But mostly they didn’t bother her. She stayed to herself when she was in town, and up here on the gulch, between Freddie’s frequent visits and the McKays keeping watch, she was beginning to feel less afraid even without Dillon to protect her.

  She was almost happy at times. But then she’d think of Dillon and how she wanted to tell him something or show him something, and missing him would hurt all over again. Sometimes the pain was so sharp it was as if she’d just found out he was gone.

  Grief was ever present, the work was hard, and it would likely be a long time before she stopped looking over her shoulder for Jonas. But, she told herself, she really didn’t have to be afraid anymore. All things considered, Mattie loved her new life.

  When Freddie got too busy helping build his mother’s store to hunt, and her supplies ran low, Mattie realized that if she didn’t figure out how to make flapjacks and biscuits fairly soon, she was going to go to bed hungry on a regular basis. And so, on the Monday that would begin her second week on her claim, Mattie rose early and dressed for town, descending the gulch just as gray light was beginning to filter down toward the creek. She picked her way quietly past claims, smiling to herself at the snores and snorts coming from various tents and claim shacks.

  When the skeleton of the building that was to become Garth Merchandise came into view, Mattie could see that it was going to be a fine st
ore. As soon as he saw her, Freddie insisted that Mattie go with him to view the sign Mr. English was having Judd Morgan paint. Garth & Company Merchandise, it said.

  “Tom says he doesn’t care if his name is on it,” Freddie said. “It’s just like I told Mor and you—he’s a really good man.” He pointed to the stylized outline of a red horse at either end, the noses of the animals pointed toward the lettering like artistic bookends. “That’s a Dala,” Freddie explained. “Mor will like that.” He held his hands apart as he said, “We had one this high on the mantel at home. Mor packed it away after Garth died. When we move in above the store, I bet she brings it out again.”

  “I imagine she will,” Mattie agreed. “And she’s going to be very pleased to see what you’ve done for her with the sign.”

  Freddie reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of wood he’d been carving.

  “I’m making Eva her own Dala,” he said, and then, as Mattie was beginning to realize he often did, Freddie changed the subject, asking Mattie what supplies she needed.

  “Oh, I don’t need anything just yet,” she said. “I was wondering, though … would you mind introducing me to Aunt Lou? I need her advice about something.”

  Peering through the screen door, Mattie saw a willow-thin woman with smooth mahogany skin and snow-white hair at work in the hotel kitchen. She was rolling out dough on the kitchen table, but at Freddie’s knock she glanced up, smiled, and called out a cheerful greeting. “And how is Mr. Jannike today?”

  “I’m fine, Aunt Lou,” Freddie said as he opened the door and motioned for Mattie to step inside. “This is my friend Mattie. The one I’ve been telling you about.”

  Aunt Lou looked Mattie up and down. “Ah yes, the prettiest little lady in the gulch.” She winked. “I heard about you.” She motioned toward a small crock atop the table. “Shove that lard over here to Aunt Lou, won’t you, honey?”

  Mattie scooted the crock within Aunt Lou’s reach and watched, fascinated, as one dark hand made a well in a bowl of flour, added lard and water, along with a little salt, and mixed it all—without any measuring.

  Aunt Lou talked while she worked. “When you gonna bring me some more game, Freddie?”

  “I’ve been helping build Mor’s store. I haven’t had time to hunt very much. And when I got two rabbits I made stew for Mattie.” Freddie paused. “I been helping her some, but she said she needs to talk to a lady about something, and so here she is.”

  Aunt Lou glanced Mattie’s way again, then smiled and nodded. “Well, all right, then. Don’t mind if I say I’ve been lonely for lady-talk myself here lately.” She turned to Freddie. “Don’t you worry, I’ll save you a big slice of this here pie when it comes outta the oven.”

  As soon as Freddie left, Mattie asked, “How do you know that crust will work? I mean, you didn’t measure anything.”

  Aunt Lou shrugged. “Same way I know you ain’t here to talk about pie,” she said. “Practice and experience, honey, practice and experience.” When she looked up Mattie saw nothing but kindness in Aunt Lou’s hazel eyes. “Freddie talks about you all the time, Miss Mattie. Now, what can Aunt Lou do for you today?”

  Mattie blurted it out. “I need to learn how to make flapjacks and biscuits.”

  The rolling pin ceased its progress across the pie dough as Aunt Lou tilted her head and looked up, one eyebrow arched, doubt on her kind face. “You need to learn what?”

  Mattie swallowed. “I’ve never done it before. Tom English loaded me up with supplies, and so of course he assumed—and I wasn’t about to admit it. I thought I could figure it out. How hard could it be? I thought. But I can’t make it work. All I’ve managed is rocks and flat cakes that taste like—well, I don’t know what they taste like, but I’m tired of pretending I know what I’m doing.”

  Aunt Lou was looking at her as if she’d just crawled out from beneath a rock. “Everybody knows how to make biscuits and flapjacks, honey. Now, how ’bout you sit down there at Aunt Lou’s table and tell me what’s really on your mind. You lonely for some beau back home? You feelin’ sad about Dillon?” She went back to rolling out pie crust and in nothing flat had three pie pans lined. She rolled out the leftover crust, sprinkled it with cinnamon and sugar, cut it into strips, and rolling them up, popped them into the oven. “Been a long time since I had a child around to eat the leavings for me.” She smiled. “Freddie just loves my pinwheels. You don’t mind bein’ a child this morning, do ya, Miss Mattie?” She took a towel off a crockery pitcher on the counter and, pouring a mug of milk, set it in front of Mattie.

  Aunt Lou’s kitchen was filled with warmth and the aromas of roast beef and bacon grease, bread dough and cinnamon. Taking a sip of milk, Mattie leaned back in the rickety chair. “No, ma’am. I don’t mind. But I really did come up here to ask you to teach me about biscuits and flapjacks.”

  Aunt Lou gently reached down to cup Mattie’s face in one hand. Lifting her chin, the old woman looked down into her eyes. When she next spoke, her voice was gentle. “I gotta make biscuits for supper and you can help. Flapjacks don’t take near as much fuss. I can tell you how to do that, and long as you got a fryin’ pan you’ll be fine.”

  “Dillon had a frying pan,” Mattie said.

  “You got a Dutch oven?” Aunt Lou asked. Mattie nodded. “All right,” she said. “You’ll be able to bake up a nice batch of biscuits with that. There’s a few tricks to doin’ it over a campfire.” Aunt Lou motioned toward a clean apron hanging on a hook by the door. “Just put that on and we’ll get started. You don’t by chance want to know how to make chess pie, too?”

  Mattie got up to don the apron. “I’d love to,” she said. “What’s chess pie?”

  “Lordy, lordy, what’s the world comin’ to,” Aunt Lou grumbled. “Girls growin’ up into women that don’t know how to make flapjacks or biscuits and never heard of chess pie.” Aunt Lou kept grumbling, but she was smiling.

  “You got a gift, honey,” Aunt Lou said at the end of Mattie’s first day of lessons. “I never saw a gal take to dough and bakin’ as quick as you.”

  “Thank you,” Mattie said. “I’ll keep that in mind if the claim doesn’t pan out.”

  Aunt Lou put her hands on her hips and stared at Mattie. “So what I been hearing is true. You’re workin’ that claim by yourself.”

  “I am.”

  With a shaking of her head, Aunt Lou turned away. Opening the oven door, she removed a batch of cinnamon pinwheels and slid them onto a plate. “You want some coffee?”

  “No thank you,” Mattie said as she took one of the cinnamon pinwheels. The flaky crust, and just the right amount of spice, made for a mouthwatering combination. “You should make these and sell them,” Mattie said. “The miners would buy them by the sacks full.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Aunt Lou said. “But I don’t sell my pinwheels, honey. I give ’em away.”

  “But why?”

  Aunt Lou smiled. “ ’Cause sometimes a body just needs a little morsel of love to encourage ’em, and Aunt Lou’s love ain’t for sale. She gives it free.”

  The proclamation of love produced a warm glow, but at the same time it made Mattie feel uncomfortable. No one except Dillon had ever said they loved her unless they wanted something. This woman didn’t seem to be that kind of person, but you never knew.

  Aunt Lou shoved a bowl across the table at Mattie. “All right, honey,” she said. “Time to see if you can do it without any help from Aunt Lou.”

  It was long after dark when Mattie finally said good-night to Aunt Lou and headed across Main Street to Swede’s lot, thankful that Tom had her set up in the broken-down wagon. It was late, and she was too tired to even think about finding her way up the gulch. She reached into the pocket of her dress and felt the piece of paper where she’d written Aunt Lou’s instructions for both biscuits and flapjacks.

  She would likely still make a few mistakes, but at least now she wouldn’t be gnawing on rocks and trying to swallow leathery discs o
f barely palatable fried dough. She was almost looking forward to having Freddie show up with a rabbit or a squirrel for the stew pot now. Maybe she should get another Dutch oven so she could bake biscuits while he made stew.

  It was a typical night in Deadwood, which meant that drunken men were stumbling along the street and any minute now there would likely be gunfire somewhere. Her hand went to the Colt in her pocket, and just as she crossed the street, someone stepped out of the shadows and called her name. Someone with a gray beard. Her heart lurched. She was pointing the gun at the shadowy figure when a voice called out, “Whoa, don’t shoot! It’s me. Judd Morgan. The sign painter.”

  Aron Gallagher hurried over from the direction of Swede’s lot. “Everything all right?”

  Mattie tucked the pistol back into her pocket. “I’m sorry. I thought—” She broke off. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”

  “Freddie thought you’d want to see the finished sign,” Morgan said. “I was just headed over to the Cricket for a drink and saw you coming out of the hotel. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I’d love to see the sign,” Mattie said. “How about if I stop by on my way back up to my claim tomorrow?”

  “That’d be just fine,” Morgan said. He glanced at Aron Gallagher. “Came darned near needing you to preach at my funeral.” He nodded toward Mattie. “Dangerous woman. Better keep an eye on her.”

  As he tugged on the brim of his hat and said good-night, it was impossible to tell if Morgan was angry, impressed, or a little of both. Gallagher, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his reaction, which was concern. For her. “What are you so afraid of?” he asked once Morgan was out of earshot.

  Mattie snorted. “I’m not afraid of anything,” she said, hoping she sounded convincing. “Any woman would be a fool not to—”

  “—shoot first and ask questions later?”

  “Exactly.”

  Gallagher’s voice was gentle as he said, “That could end badly for you someday.”