The first man tipped his hat and said, “Good day to you, miss.”
“A good day to you, sir.”
“Sir. Did you hear that, fel as?” He moved his horse off the trail for me.
I realized that to pass them I would have to move into the midst of
them. They would surround me. I questioned the wisdom of being out
on the trail by myself. But then I straightened my shoulders and clucked at my horse and rode with confidence I barely felt. The other two stepped their animals off the trail.
“Are any of you Moses Walker?” I asked.
They all shook their heads. “He’s close by here, I think. Our claim is
farther up the creek, nearly to Blacktail.”
As they moved off, I wondered that they had frightened me. They
looked a sorry lot, hungry and tired from the damp, cold work they were
doing. Padraic had told me that many did little on their claims in the winter. Only the desperate did much work in this weather. He’d laughed and
said, “The desperate and the crazy like us.”
I rode on easy and found the path leading down to the Reardon claim.
My horse took the turn with little encouragement. I patted her on the side of the neck.
Padraic was shoring up some of the timber on their claim. When he
heard me, he shot up and turned toward me, his hand reaching back for his gun. His face cleared when he saw me, then he shouted, “What brings you
out here, Brigid? Is it news of Seamus?”
I shook my head and reined in my horse next to his. I slid down off the
saddle and tied Gertie up. “It is not Seamus, for good or for bad. I needed
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a ride, and I wanted to question Moses Walker. Also, could you show me
how to use this?” I brought out the derringer.
“You’ve taken to carrying your own firearms, is that it?” He walked
toward me, shaking his head.
“A few bullets went flying by my head today and so Billy gave it to me.
I thought it might come in handy. And if I’m to carry it, I should know how to use it. Don’t you agree?”
“I agree with everything you say.”
“How good of you.”
“Let’s see this pretty little thing.”
I handed over the derringer and the pistol seemed to shrink in his
hand. He flipped it around, examining it from several angles, and then
handed it back to me. He showed me how to hold it in my hand. After
tel ing me to point it down at the ground, he walked over to a stump and set an old bottle on it. Then he walked back and stood behind me and had me raise up my arm.
“You sight down the barrel. Try that a few times before shooting at
anything. Just practice lifting the pistol and sighting at the bottle.”
I worked on this maneuver until he was satisfied.
In his quiet, thorough way, he showed me how to hold it in a good grip
and how to pull the trigger. Then he stepped back to the side of me and
said, “Let her rip. Do it all at once.”
I lifted the pistol, let my eye slide down the barrel, caught the bottle in my gaze, and pulled the trigger. The gun snapped in my hand, twisting off to the side, and a chunk of wood flew off the stump.
“Fairly close,” Padraic said.
“Horridly far away, I’d say.”
“Load her up and try again.”
This time I kept my eye on the bottle as I pulled the trigger. The bullet grazed the top of the stump quite close to the bottle.
“Try again.”
I was determined. I sighted carefully and held steady. I felt like I
moved into the bottle as I pulled the trigger. Immediately, the bottle blew into bits.
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“I would like to stop and ask Mr. Moses Walker some questions on our
way home if we have time.”
Dirt was smeared across Padraic’s cheek. His eyes shone brighter than
I had seen them before. Work agreed with him. He had been digging and
messing around for an hour since I had arrived. I had tended the fire and watched him. The sun had dropped behind the hil s, but that still gave
us another hour of dusk before the light fell away from the sky entirely. I liked being out in the woods with Padraic. He was a very easy man to be
with. We talked and he showed me stones and bits of rock. He asked me
many questions about my life working as a maid in the fine houses. I liked talking about my life. So few people were interested in it.
I thought to myself this would all be perfect if Seamus were waiting
for us when we returned home. But I knew there was only one way to
get him back. As we climbed on the horses, I explained to Padraic what I wanted to ask Moses Walker.
“If you don’t mind, let me do the asking. I think he will answer more
easily to a woman.”
“Who could keep the truth from you?” He gave me a hand up into the
saddle.
Padraic was surprising me. I had seen a new side of him today: a
lighter, more joyful side. He had joked with me, nearly flirting.
We rode up to the main trail, then down another side path to a similar
claim site. Two men were sitting by a fire, drinking a bottle of whiskey. One of them was big as a bear. A huge beard covered his face like a forest, a red cap sat atop his head. The other was a small whip of a man with pegs for teeth and not much hair left on his head at all.
“Just what we were saying we needed— a fine lady,” said the bigger
one, standing up as we approached.
I was glad to be up on my horse and next to Padraic. “Is one of you
Moses Walker?”
“That’s my name,” the big man answered.
“Christmas Eve. Do you remember what you did?”
“Who wants to know?”
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“A pouch of gold dust was found near our house and someone said
you were there close to midnight. Is that true?”
At the news of a pouch of gold, the big man’s eyes lit up, but then he
shook his head. “Blamed luck. No, I was with the missus at home playing
Christmas with the children all night long.”
I wanted to laugh. The man wasn’t even smart enough to lie. How had
he lasted so long in this place? “Thank you, sir.”
“Why would you bother to try to find the owner? I’d pocket it myself
if it were my finding.”
“We might have to do that.”
As we rode up the hill back to the main trail, Padraic said, “Crafty girl.
Remind me to stay on the good side of you.”
I smiled back at him and said, “Partners we are, Paddy. Come what
may.”
“And it will come, I assure you of that.”
16
The Chinatown in Deadwood was called the Badlands. The next
day, I gathered up some laundry and my courage and struck out
on my own to go to Ching Lee’s laundry. I had been warned by Billy and
Padraic not to go down into the Badlands alone. They explained that there were opium dens and unsavory characters, both of which I looked forward
to seeing firsthand. Plus, Ching Lee was one of Lily’s regular men.
The day was gentle. A weak sun shone through the pine trees. I walked
down the hill and turned onto the wooden sidewalks that lined lower Main Street. Wooden two- story buildings stood on either side of the very wide street. Carts with loads of firewood rumbled down the muddy road. Signs
in front of the shops showed the flavor of the place: tin shop, Oyster Bay restaurant and lunch counter, and
then Hong Kee Washing Ironing. There
were many laundries, and it took me a while to see the sign for Ching Lee’s establishment.
Down a side street a door opened and I stopped dead in my tracks,
staring at the interior of the place: small cots with people stretched out in various attitudes of repose as if someone had thrown them down. The
man who walked out was a miner, and he had an air of detachment about
him that made me notice him. Not exactly sleepy, but dreamy in a way. I
wondered about this drug that could make one dream while still awake;
this must have been what Nel ie took to be able to work at the Gem. When he looked up at me, I hurried on.
After my sighting of what I believed was an opium den, when I walked
into the laundry and smelled an unusual smel , I wondered if they smoked opium right out in the open. When my eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness of the interior of the shop, I could see where the scent was coming from.
In a small alcove behind the counter sat a fat round man carved out
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of green stone. In his small green hands he held a burning stick. The smell from this stick circled the room and made it both rich and pleasant. I stood at the counter with my arms full of dirty shirts and sniffed. The man on the other side of the counter did not say anything. He waited for me to speak.
I stared at him for a few moments because I had never seen anyone like
him up close. I had seen him at the funeral, but then he had been hidden in shadows.
Ching Lee looked like the full moon. His face was golden and smooth
and wide. He wore his hair shaved up high on his head and then pulled
back into a braid that hung to the small of his back. Billy told me they were called queues. A small smile sat on his face and his eyes were half- closed as he watched me.
Finally he said, “May I help you?”
Again, I was surprised. The voice that came out of him was an Ameri-
can voice with only the slightest sound of an accent. More American than my own Irish brogue.
“What is that wonderful scent?” I asked.
“That is a joss stick. It is to purify the air and to keep evil spirits away.”
“It reminds me of the incense in the Catholic church.”
He nodded. “Yes, it is similar.”
I hoisted the shirts up onto the counter and said, “You may help me.
I’d like to get these shirts cleaned.”
He sorted through them and told me how much it would be: one dol-
lar for eight shirts and another dol ar for my undergarments. Most of the laundry was Billy and Padraic’s shirts. I had grabbed a few of Seamus’s too.
Also some of my own petticoats and crinolines.
“Would it be possible to have two of them done by tomorrow for New
Year’s Eve?” I asked.
“They will all be ready by tomorrow. But you must pay me now for
them.” He bowed his head and brought it up slowly as if to say, that is the way we work here.
“Wonderful,” I said and smiled.
He returned my smile in full.
“I saw you at Lily’s funeral,” I told him as I paid him for the shirts. I
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had taken some of the gold from the pouch Seamus had given me, and I
watched carefully as Ching Lee weighed it out on his scale.
He tipped his head to the side and continued to look at me. Then his
eyes widened and he touched the side of his nose with a finger. “Ah, yes,”
he said. “You left in the carriage with Mr. Hunt.”
“I did,” I said, surprised that he should remember me. Although once
I thought about it, maybe a young woman climbing into a carriage with
Charlie Hunt would cause comment. Little did I care what people thought
of me in Deadwood.
“You are the sister of Seamus Reardon,” he stated. “So you too are
from the country of Ireland.”
“I am.”
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“The shirts.” I pointed to them.
“No, I mean, why are you in Deadwood?”
I was surprised that he wanted to know. Most people assumed you
were in Deadwood to make money. He was in Deadwood for that reason
alone, I was sure. I knew why I had come and I knew why I was staying, but it was still a good question and one I should ponder more.
“I’m visiting my brother.”
“But we have heard that your brother has left.”
“I’m staying to attend to his business.”
“Yes, that is good.”
It amused me that I had come to his laundry to ask him questions
about his relationship with Lily, and before I could he was quizzing me.
“I was about to sit down to have some tea. Would you join me?”
he asked. He held his hands together in front of his chest in a form of
supplication.
I must have looked surprised. All I managed to say was, “Tea?”
“You are here to talk to me, are you not?” He bent his head.
“I would like to ask you some questions.”
“It is as I have heard. Please take some tea with me.” He waved his
hand toward the back room. A dark silk curtain hung down in the door-
I noticed his clothes as I walked behind him. He was wearing loose
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black silk trousers, blue socks with slippers that had an upturned toe and wooden soles, and over it all a loose black tunic held close with lovely red silk frogs. His dark hair had the sheen of raw silk, reminding me of a lovely dress Mrs. Hunt had had made from a bolt of silk fabric she had bought
from China.
He motioned me into a small room with a desk and two chairs and a
small round lacquered table. Papers covered the desk so completely it was hard to see its hardwood surface. The small table was in contrast all cleared off, and it shone brightly. Ching Lee pulled the two chairs up to it and we sat. I took my shawl off as it was quite warm in the laundry, the steam from all the clothes making the room feel almost tropical.
He had left the door open, which made me more comfortable, and
I could see down the hall to the laundry. Several men were working and
they looked much as Ching Lee did, their dark hair pulled back in a braid, though their dark blue tunics looked more like uniforms. Two of them
were ironing, but I did not see them spitting water out of their mouths as Aggy had told me they did to steam the clothes.
We had only been seated a moment when a woman shuffled up with
a pot of tea. I tried not to stare at her feet. I couldn’t believe any grown woman could fit her feet into the small shoes that encased them. Little
brocade slippers peeked out from under her skirt, the size of an average potato. My feet had been that size when I was seven.
She set down a white and blue teapot and two small cups with no
handles. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.
The woman was dressed very similarly to Ching Lee: instead of trousers
she wore a long black skirt, but she too wore a tunic with exquisite em-
broidery on it. Her eyes were downcast as she served us, so I was unable to give her a smile. She carefully poured out the tea, then backed up and out of the room.
“Who was that?” I asked, wondering that he hadn’t introduced us.
“My wife,” he said, stirring his tea.
“Might I be introduced to her?”
“Why?”
“Is it not the polite thing to do?”
“Maybe
in your culture. In ours, the wife remains in the background.”
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“She will not join us?”
“No,” he waved his hand toward the back of the store. “She has the
children to watch and the laundry to attend.”
My first sip of the tea was so hot I could barely taste it. Unlike the dark tea we drank at the Hunts’ there was a flowery taste to it. As I sipped it again, I could smell a sweet scent.
“This is wonderful tea. What is it?” I asked.
“Jasmine.”
“Very lovely and delicate. I must get some. A nice drink for the after-
noon, isn’t it?” I asked.
He nodded his agreement and sipped his tea, waiting for me to start
my questioning.
Suddenly, I felt that I was showing such bad manners to come and ask
a man like him, a wel - respected businessman, to tell me his whereabouts on a certain night. Especially after he showed me such hospitality. I determined to make pleasant conversation a while longer, so I commented,
“Your English is excellent.”
“I have lived in the United States all my life.”
“So your parents came from China?”
“My father left China after the Opium War in 1845. He lived near Can-
ton and was able to get to the coast and board a ship. He came to this
country, as we called it Gam Saan, the Gold Mountain.”
“And your mother?”
“She was sold into slavery and my father rescued her in San Francisco.
I was born there in 1852. My father went back to China when I was twenty.
I accompanied him and stayed for a year. Then I came back to run our im-
port business in San Francisco. Recently I tried my hand at this laundry.
So you see my English comes naturally.” He paused, then added, “Yours is also quite good, for a foreigner.”
I took another sip and then set down my cup. With that slight insult,
I felt more comfortable asking my questions. I had a sense of us sparring with each other. But first I would tell him a bit of my history. “I am a recent immigrant. I came over from Ireland not long ago.”
“Will you go back?”
“I hope to someday. Not to live but to see my family.”
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