Friends and Enemies (20 page)

“I certainly don't like the idea of your soliciting anonymous letters and prefer you don't do it again.”

“See, I told you,” Patricia chided as she tugged at the handle of the trunk. “What are we going to do? How can we get the trunk open?”

“Perhaps Daddy does have that key.”

Veronica hopped in front of the trunk. “But we don't want to wait!”

“I'm sorry, girls, there's really not much we can do.”

“We could get the gun and shoot it open,” Veronica said. Veronica tapped the lock with the key. “I read in a Hawthorne Miller book about a man who escaped while being chained to a runaway stagecoach by shooting the lock.”

“That's my point entirely,” Jamie Sue declared. “Fiction is unreal. No one ever shot a lock off a trunk. Meanwhile, you can help me unpack our dishes and other goods.”

The twins huddled by their green steamer trunk.

“But mother!” Veronica cried. “What about our church dresses?”

“And our good shoes,” Patricia added. “They are right in here and we can't get to them! It's not fair.”

“And our scarves.”

“And our dolls!”

“And our diaries!” Veronica blurted out. “We have to get out our diaries before we forget everything.” Suddenly, both girls covered their mouths with their hands.

Jamie Sue sauntered back toward her daughters. “You girls have diaries?”

“'Nica!” Patricia murmured. “We weren't supposed to tell.”

Veronica hung her head. “Amber gave us diaries last Christmas and told us we were supposed to keep them absolutely secret.”

Jamie Sue slipped her hands on her girls' shoulders. “I see . . . well, you have been doing a very good job of it.”

“It's OK, isn't it, Mama? I mean, I don't really have any good secrets, but if I did, it would be alright to write them in my diary, wouldn't it?” Patricia probed.

“I believe every girl needs to cherish a few secrets.”

“See . . . I knew Mama wouldn't mind,” Veronica boasted.

“Let me give you one word of caution. As secret as you want to make them, diaries have a habit of being known . . . sooner or later. So, keep that in mind. Perhaps not in your lifetime, but certainly in your own daughter's.”

Veronica's eyes widened. “Really?”

“Certainly. What do you think your twelve-year-old daughters will do when they stumble across your diary?”

“Oh no!” Veronica gulped. “I really, really need to get this trunk open. When is Daddy coming home?”

“Probably not until dark.”

Veronica danced back and forth on the hardwood floor in front of the massive trunk. “Isn't there anything we can do?”

Jamie Sue circled the baggage. “I believe if we were careful, we could unfasten the screws in the hinges and open it from the back.”

“Really? Can we, Mama?” Veronica pressed.

“If we can find Daddy's screwdriver.”

“Where is it?” Patricia asked.

Jamie Sue surveyed the crates and boxes crammed into their living room. “In one of these other cases.”

Sam Fortune reviewed his notes scribbled across sheets of paper that were weighted with rocks and pebbles on the dirt next to the headworks.

“What do you think, Sammy, can you run a telephone line out here?” Robert asked.

“We can run a line most anywhere. Whether anyone can afford it, and whether it will work, is another matter.”

“Would you follow the road we took?”

“Looks like it. From the top of the headworks you can see down there for miles.”

Augusta Raxton strolled over to where they squatted on their haunches studying the notes. “You boys ready for supper?”

Robert noticed her scrubbed face and hands. There was still dirt on the back of her neck and under her fingernails, but most the rest of the exposed surfaces were scoured pink clean.

“You tidy up mighty fine, Miss Augusta,” Samuel said.

“And you're a handsome liar, Mr. Samuel Fortune. I can't remember when I last had a hot bath and put on clean clothes.”

The Fortune brothers strolled to the long, rustic, outdoor table where the others sat on half-log benches. Sandra Raxton, Tio, and Poco also sported clean hands and faces.

Oscar Puddin remained dirty.

“You know what I like best about the Raxton sisters?” Robert asked, as he sat down.

“It ain't our charming manners or our nobby clothes.” Sandra Raxton's laugh was somewhere between a donkey's bray and a hawk's lament.

“I like your honesty. You just blurt out how you feel and what you're thinking. Sometimes it takes months to find out things from other women. But not you two,” Robert declared.

“There's too much work to do to dally around visitin' about nothin',” Augusta scoffed.

On the table was a huge bowl of thick, dark, brown gravy with elk meat chunks the size of a man's fist. What first looked like potato wedges in the gravy turned out to be turnips. A stack of steaming tortillas, each about two feet in diameter, was piled directly on top of the stained wooden table. Coffee steamed in the pot, and thick-crusted apple pies sat at each end of the table.

“Sorry we're all out of eggs,” Augusta said. “We used the last two in them pie crusts.”

“This is very generous of you ladies,” Robert announced.

Byron Chambers, still wearing his top hat, but not his coat or tie, stared at the tin plate full of gravied meat and turnips. His fork seemed welded to his unmoving hand.

“Well, Byron . . .” Robert quizzed. “What will be your report to the Bank of Ottawa?”

He laid his fork down. “It's very confusing.”

“The records?” Robert questioned. He jabbed a forkful of meat and gravy into his mouth and was surprised that it tasted sweet, yet spicy.

Chambers pushed his plate away and sipped on the steaming coffee in the tin cup. “No, I maintain the Raxtons have most of the receipts in order. I believe I know where the funds went. And I'm convinced from the assay reports that this mine has wonderful potential. But I don't have a set of books to bring back and convince the bank to pump in more money. Without that, my employers will pull out of the project and attempt to sell their part. They weren't happy with this situation before. But now that . . .”

“Now that women are running it?” Miss Sandra asked.

“It might be a sad commentary, but it's true,” Chambers declared.

“We won't get any more financial backing?” Miss Augusta pressed.

“Not from our bank. They would deem that a woman could not run such an operation.”

“You mean two of us ain't even as good as one drunk man like Mac?” Miss Sandra challenged.

“I'm afraid some would see it that way.”

“How about you, Byron?” Robert said. “Do you think they can run it?”

“That's the confusing part. Indeed, I believe they can run it. But the Raxton sisters, in there present splendor . . . eh, nothing personal I assure you . . . make it quite inconceivable to arrange financing.”

“What do you mean by present splendor?” Miss Augusta asked.

Oscar Puddin wiped gravy across the back of his hand. “He means if you two women go marchin' into a banker's office looking dirty and smellin' like a hog, you ain't going to get no loan.” The big man grinned and looked over at the cooks. “This might be the best Mexican gravy I ever et.”

“But, if we sit back and do nothin', we could end up with new partners that want to chase us off our claims?” Miss Augusta speculated.

“Depends on who buys the Bank of Ottawa's shares,” Robert added.

Miss Augusta stabbed a huge bite of elk meat as if it were a rat about to attack her. “I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. We did all the diggin' and blastin', and right before we hit it big, someone comes in and takes it away from us. That ain't right, and you boys know it.”

“But we've got to have partners to get the real riches out of this mountain,” Miss Sandra declared. “How about you Fortunes? You want to buy the bank's shares?”

“I told you, Miss Sandra, I don't have the funds. But we know some who do,” Robert added.

“You could talk to them for us, couldn't you?” she asked. “You could tell them how hard we work and how close we are to the big lead.”

Robert glanced over at his brother. “You two sisters would have to come to Deadwood and make your pitch.”

“We couldn't do that. We can't leave the mine,” Miss Sandra declared.

Sam pointed at the Mexican cooks. “Poco and Tio could watch it.”

Miss Augusta dropped her head and said, “We wouldn't know who to talk to or how to talk to them.”

Robert glanced over at Byron Chambers, who continued to avoid his meal. “Your bookkeeper could go to town and arrange things before you arrived. He could schedule a big dinner at the hotel. You could bring in samples and assay reports, then make your pitch.”

“We ain't got no bookkeeper and no one is goin' to lend us money. Mr. Chambers made that quite clear,” Miss Augusta insisted.

“I've spent my life organizing battles and campaigns that work,” Robert insisted. “I have seen your ore. I can tell you how it would work.”

“Do tell us how, Mr. Fortune,” Miss Sandra said.

Robert rolled up a tortilla and pointed it toward the mine shaft. “You keep a crew diggin' out here as much as you can so you'll have a little spendin' money when you come to town.”

Miss Augusta rubbed the back of her neck. “We're workin' as hard as we can and just breakin' even.”

“No offense, ma'am, but two tired women and two old men are not the healthiest of crews. You'll need some big strong bruiser of a man to do the heavy work,” Robert suggested.

“Someone like Oscar.” Sam slapped the big man on the back.

Oscar Puddin wiped gravy off his chin with a steaming tortilla. “I ain't lookin' for a job, and I ain't goin' to work out here for no women.”

Robert turned to his brother. “Sammy, you were on the wrong side of the law a time or two when you were younger. What kind of jail time do you think Oscar will get for that stunt he pulled back there on the trail?”

“Attempted robbery and murder?”

“I wasn't tryin' to murder nobody,” Puddin insisted.

“You came extremely close to murdering me!” Byron Chambers blurted out.

“With that kind of testimony,” Samuel pondered, “Oscar will get one to two years in jail. They'll send him out to Ft. Pierre. I hear those cells are might tiny for a big man.”

“But,” Robert added, “if none of us press charges, he could work out here for a couple of months and everything would be settled. Right, Mr. Chambers?”

“My word, is that the way justice is done out here?”

“Look, we'd be helpin' Oscar, and he'd be helpin' the Raxton sisters,” Robert explained. “And I wouldn't have to look at his big round face for eight weeks. Everyone would benefit.”

“I ain't no slave,” Puddin muttered.

“Keep track of your hours and they'd pay you as soon as they get the loan. Maybe even let you buy in,” Sammy suggested.

“I ain't goin' to buy into no gold mine.”

“It beats stealing gold,” Robert said.

Puddin's grin revealed yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “What if I jist up and run away?”

“Then one of the Raxton girls just climbs this headworks and shoots you dead. You know they can do it,” Robert cautioned.

“Well, the grub's good,” Oscar replied, gravy dripping down his whiskered chin.

“That still don't get us a loan . . .” Miss Augusta added.

Robert slung his arm around the banker's shoulder. “Now, that's where Mr. Chambers comes in.”

“My word, I'm not staying out here!” he insisted.

“Nope. Byron, you need to telegraph your bosses that the money has been correctly spent. The Raxton sisters, who have no experience in mining, won the claim in a horse race and are now running the outfit.”

“That don't sound very impressive,” Miss Sandra said.

“But they just might be willing to sell cheaper,” Sam offered.

“Exactly,” Robert added. “And then Mr. Chambers can tell them he'll stay in Deadwood to secure buyers for their shares.”

“Why would I want to stay in Deadwood for any reason?” Chambers huffed.

“Because the Raxton sisters will give you a share of the mine if you work with them on it.”

Miss Sandra's eyes squinted, “You're givin' away lots of shares of our mine.”

“But you'd have a fine Englishman chartered accountant for a bookkeeper. You have two of the Fortune boys who have examined the site firsthand. I can guarantee between the three of us we can stir up a room full of backers. Then when you come to town, bring your ore samples and plans on how you will cable the ore off the mountain and mill it in the bottom of Spruce Canyon.”

“We ain't got no plans,” Miss Sandra retorted.

“Draw some up.”

“We ain't no good at draftin'.”

“Sammy is,” Robert said.

Miss Augusta stared at Sam Fortune. “Do we have to give him a share of the mine too?”

“Nope,” Sammy grinned. “Just give me the telephone franchise.”

“There's just one thing.” Robert looked each Raxton sister in the eye. “Oscar is right. You two will have to soak in some hot water, fluff your hair up fancy, and buy yourself new dresses. A successful mine is owned by successful-looking people.”

“We ain't had new dresses in years,” Miss Augusta told them.

“Sammy's wife just happens to own the nicest store in Deadwood for ready-made dresses. When you leave her place, you will feel like the queens of Spruce Ridge.”

“We're the only women on Spruce Ridge,” Miss Sandra said. “We are the queens right now.”

“See . . .” Robert laughed. “My plan's working already.”