Searching for Silverheels (2 page)

“In the meantime, you surely do put the sufferin' in suffragette,” Harry said.

Russell fought down a smile and slid the cup toward her. “Drink your coffee and let's talk about the weather, like decent folks. I think we're in for a dry summer.”

I hurried back to the kitchen to see if Mother had breakfast ready for the tourists. I carried their food carefully, smiling as I set each plate before the correct person, hoping to make up for any offense Josie might have caused.

“The man at the hotel said someone here named Pearl
could give us good advice about where to go on our outing. Is that your mother?” the lady asked.

“No, ma'am, that's me,” I said eagerly. I could tell by the way her eyebrows raised that she wasn't sure about taking advice from a thirteen-year-old kid.

“Annie here would like a picnic,” said the slick man. “And Frank probably wants an adventure, don't you, Frank.”

The boy shrugged, but I could tell he did.

“I have maps, a penny a piece, that show all the sights in the valley, and I'd be happy to take you to any of them.” If, of course, Mother would let me go without Father.

“Sounds like a penny well spent,” Frank said. “Do you have a penny, Robert?”

Robert pulled a coin out of his vest pocket and handed it to me.

I scurried to the kitchen to retrieve one of my maps. In the winter months, when trains were few and far between and the stationmaster was glad for the company, I traced the old railroad land office map at the depot. Now that the tourist season was starting, I had a good supply of them.

“Let's see,” Annie said, flattening the map on the table beside her plate. “What do you recommend? We have all day.”

“If you want to try your hand at fishing, I'd recommend the Tarryall,” I said, running my finger along the line of the river leading upstream from town.

“The only way I want to see a trout is sizzling on my plate,” Robert said. Annie giggled and he looked pleased with himself.

“Where's a good spot for our picnic?” asked Frank.

“Good old Frank, always thinking with his stomach,” Robert said. Frank looked embarrassed and I felt sorry for him, the odd wheel at the table.

“You might try Buckskin Creek,” I said, pointing along another route. “There's a good buggy track as far as Buckskin Joe, if you like ghost towns.”

“Are there real ghosts?” Frank asked, perking up. I smiled at his enthusiasm.

“It's what we call the empty mining camps,” I explained. He looked mildly disappointed, so I added, “There is a cemetery at Buckskin Joe, though.”

I was going to tell him more, but Robert interrupted. He was looking at the white-capped peak I'd drawn behind the town, his finger on the label
Mount Silverheels
.

“So did you name your café after the mountain? Or is this such a fine culinary establishment that they named a whole mountain after your café?” he said with a grin.

Annie smiled at Robert. Frank scowled at him. I liked Frank.

“The mountain is named for the most beautiful woman ever to set foot in Park County. She saved the town of Buckskin Joe, and some say she still walks its cemetery.”

“Really?” Frank said, brightening again. “That sounds promising. Go on.”

So I began.

S
ilverheels was a beautiful dancer who came in 1860 to the town of Buckskin Joe to perform in the dance hall. She was the most beautiful woman ever seen in Park County, and her dancing enchanted everyone who watched her. She was supposed to stay only a day or two, but the miners in Buckskin Joe fell desperately in love with her. They built her a cabin and begged her to stay, so Silverheels danced every night for them.

“But in the bitter winter of 1861, a smallpox epidemic hit the town. Most folks fled. The doctor telegraphed Denver for help, but none came. Only Silverheels stayed to tend the sick and dying—feeding them, nursing them, going tirelessly from bedside to bedside to ease their suffering. Some say she even wrote home to their families, or carried their bodies to the cemetery when they died.”

“A real angel of mercy,” Josie muttered from the next table, her voice thick with sarcasm. I ignored her and continued the story.

“Finally, when everyone thought the worst of the epidemic was behind them, Silverheels herself caught the sickness.
Covered with pox and burning with fever, she suffered terribly.”

“Did she die?” the lady said breathlessly.

“No. But her lovely face was scarred and pitted and her legendary beauty was ruined forever! In shame, she shut herself in her cabin. But the miners loved her so much that they collected five thousand dollars in nuggets and gold dust for her.”

Frank whistled. “That set her up pretty well for life.”

“It could have. But when they took it to her cabin to profess their undying love, she had disappeared. They searched the mountains and roads and all the neighboring towns, but found not a trace. So they named the mountain after her, in hopes that wherever she was, she'd know they still loved her and she'd come back.”

“Did she?” asked Frank.

“Years later, a veiled woman appeared in the cemetery, leaving flowers on the graves of the men who had died in the epidemic, but she fled when approached, and to this day, no one knows for sure what became of Silverheels.”

“What a sad, romantic story,” said Annie.

From behind me, Josie snorted again. “It's a load of cockamamie is what it is,” she said. “Now where's my order of flapjacks, girl?”

I ignored her and smiled at the city folks. “If you are interested, I could show you around Buckskin Joe. The old dance hall where she used to dance is still there, and the saloon.” I
glanced at Frank. “And there's the cemetery, where some say the ghost of Silverheels still walks.”

“We'll think about it,” Robert said, before leaning toward me and whispering, “You better get granny her hotcakes before she gets any crazier, don't you think?”

I nodded and went back to the kitchen. The hotcakes were ready, and, as no one else seemed to be coming in for breakfast, Mother was rolling out the crusts for pies. I gathered the butter, jam, and syrup for Josie, but I wasn't quick enough. When I returned to the front she had pounced again. She was standing at the tourists' table, complaining about women only being remembered if they served men. Which led, of course, to her usual rant about the women's vote. I couldn't get a word in edgewise to suggest an excursion to the visitors. Not that they would have listened at that point. They were shoveling their food into their mouths, eager to get away. Without a glance my way, Robert dropped his money on the table, shot Josie a disgusted look, and offered his arm to his wife. She wiped her mouth daintily and rose to her feet. Only Frank met my eye and smiled when I called “have a nice day” after them as they left. Josie snorted and sat down at the old-timers' table where I had set her hotcakes.

“I don't see why a woman's worth has to be measured in her looks,” she said.

“You wouldn't, you old boot,” Orv muttered.

“It wasn't Silverheels's looks—it was her kindness,” Russell pointed out.

Josie snorted again, sounding like an old pack mule. “Ah yes, womanly virtues.”

“Ain't nothin' wrong with womanly virtues, Josie,” Russell said.

“Well if you ask me,” Josie said loudly, “it's not much of a story.”

“No one is asking you, you old crank. The girl likes to tell it and the city folks like to hear it, so let it be,” Harry said as he got stiffly to his feet. “Put it on my tab, Pearl,” he called. The others followed suit and soon the whole crowd had shuffled out into the street, leaving only Josie, frowning as she ate her hotcakes.

I got my own breakfast and sat down at the counter beside Imogene.

“I told you that city boy was handsome, didn't I, Pearl?” Imogene said, glancing sidelong again at Willie. He still showed no sign of jealousy.

He pushed his empty plate back on the counter and got to his feet. “I'm going fishing,” he announced. “Bye, Imogene. See you later, kid,” he said, ruffling my hair. Then he headed out the door. Off for a day in the sunshine while I washed dishes.

Imogene sighed and watched him go. “Only a month until the Fourth of July picnic. When do you think Willie will get around to asking me to go with him?”

I didn't think he would, but there was no point in telling Imogene that. She was determined to catch him.

“Is George Crawford going to ask you to the picnic, Pearl?”

My heart sped up a little, but I only shrugged. Sure, I had spent hours dreaming of going to the picnic with George, dancing at a Christmas ball with George, strolling along the creek under a parasol with George. Not that anyone in Como ever had Christmas balls—or parasols for that matter. But that didn't stop me from dreaming.

“Come on, Pearl. You've got to start planning. You only have a month!”

“I can't plan anything until he asks me. It's the boy's job to ask the girl.”

“You'll never get George to ask you with that attitude,” Imogene said. “You don't think boys know what to do on their own, do you? You have to let them know you'll say yes before they're willing to ask.”

I pretended there was a spot on the counter and scrubbed hard at it so I didn't have to look at her. “I'd rather wait for a boy to court me proper. I don't want to be forward.”

There was an indignant huff from across the room, and I reddened. I had forgotten about Josie. Of course she was eavesdropping on our conversation.

“Honestly, until girls stop worrying themselves over boys and start thinking sensibly, we'll never make any progress in this country. Start thinking about making something of yourselves, why don't you?” she said.

Imogene tossed her curls over her shoulder and stuck her nose in the air. “My pa says the only women who care about
politics are the ones who can't catch a man for themselves,” she said. Then she flounced out of the café, leaving me alone with Josie.

I couldn't believe Imogene could speak so rudely! I expected Josie to explode, but she didn't. She just watched me over the edge of her cup, her black eyes cold and hard.

“Your head's full of drivel, girl. Waiting for a boy to court you and telling that mushy, cockamamie story to the tourists? Drivel and more drivel!”

“I think Silverheels was very heroic,” I said.

“So a woman who stands up for her rights is a nuisance, while one who coddles a bunch of helpless men is a hero?”

“I suppose you think Silverheels ought to have just let the miners die?” I said.

“I think if the story's true the way folks tell it, she was a mighty stupid girl.”

“Kindness isn't stupid,” I said under my breath. She gave a little “hrmf” and my face flushed as I realized she had heard me. I knew better than to talk back to my elders, and if there was one thing Josie was, it was elder.

“I'll tell you what I think. I think the real reason she stayed was that she figured those dying miners would tell her where they had hidden their gold. Maybe they did, and that's why she lit out in the end. Why else would she risk everything and stay?”

“Because those men needed her. They were her friends,” I said.

“Were they?” she said, her eyes more challenging than ever. “Her friends?”

“They loved her.”

Josie drained her cup and got to her feet. “Then why, if they were her friends who
loved
her, didn't a single one of them know her real name?”

I
stared at Josie, my mouth hanging open. I couldn't think of a single answer. The truth was, I had never thought of it that way before. Josie's lips stretched in a grin of victory. I snapped my mouth shut and gritted my teeth, angry that she had gotten the better of me. As I gathered dirty dishes from the other tables, my mind kept turning the question over. There had to be a logical explanation. I was sure the men had loved her, but if they had, wouldn't they have known her name?

I carried the dishes to the kitchen, where Mother had a kettle steaming on the back of the stove. Willie had brought in a bucket of cold water from the pump before he left, so I filled the sink with a mixture of the two and began washing dishes. When I returned to the front with a tray of clean coffee cups, Josie was gone, but her question and her infuriating smile of victory lingered behind her. As soon as I thought of that smile, anger jumbled my thoughts all over again. There had to be a good reason—an answer to her question. There just had to be!

I wiped down the tables and swept the floor and was done
for the morning. I would have an hour to myself before the lunch train rolled through. Though tourists weren't coming to the mountains, the new zinc boom brought on by the war meant enough passengers on the trains to keep me rushed off my feet at lunchtime. Usually, I went outside, but today I climbed the back stairs to my bedroom above the café.

I pulled the handful of dime novels and penny dreadfuls from my shelf and spread them across the bed. There were a few that told tales of fur trappers, explorers, or sea captains, and I set those aside. The rest were tales of beautiful heroines, threatened by cruel men or dangerous animals. In their darkest hour, they were always rescued by a brave and handsome hero, and they would swoon into his strong, protective arms. I imagined what George's arms would feel like if I were to swoon into them. “Oh, George,” I would say. “Oh, Pearl.”

The fantasy slipped away and I frowned. The heroes always knew their heroines' names when they went to profess their undying love. Always.

Still, that didn't mean the miners didn't love Silverheels. But what did it mean? I picked up my favorite book and paged through it. The heroine had been an orphan who had fled a cruel orphanage. Only at the end, after being rescued, she learned who she really was—an heiress stolen at birth from her loving parents. She herself had not known her real name.