Chapter 17 - One Man at a Time
The miners met Sunday afternoon at Dawson’s Hall.
Dorothy was not invited.
That irritated her until she discovered nobody except miners was invited.
She spent the afternoon packing.
Her wages.
Savings.
A reimbursement check from the mining company.
Small profits from breakfast.
She now had enough for a used wagon if she negotiated hard.
Bellamy hovered.
“You should buy one with springs.”
“All wagons have springs.”
“Better springs.”
“I’ve ridden freight wagons.”
“Exactly. Your spine deserves reparations.”
Dorothy folded her knife case.
“You trying to convince me to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Poorly.”
“I’m not emotionally skilled.”
“I noticed.”
Caleb entered.
His sling was gone, though the doctor had told him to wear it another week.
Dorothy pointed.
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Sling.”
“Misplaced.”
“You removed it.”
“Could be both.”
She glared.
He held up his hands.
“Meeting ended.”
“What meeting?”
“Secret.”
“Then why mention it?”
“To create suspense.”
“Caleb.”
“Come outside.”
Dorothy followed.
Half of Copper Jack seemed gathered in the road.
Twenty-eight miners stood in front.
Samuel Price leaned on crutches.
Morgan’s arm remained strapped.
Owen had bruises covering half his face.
Benjamin Rusk smiled beside Tom.
Caleb walked to join them.
Dorothy stopped.
“What is this?”
Owen stepped forward.
“We took vote.”
“About?”
“You.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
A few men laughed.
Owen unfolded paper.
“Twenty-eight men went under Section Four.”
Dorothy’s smile faded.
“Twenty-eight came out.”
He continued.
“Company paid us trapped wages.”
Tom shouted, “After Dorothy threatened Vale.”
Dorothy frowned.
“I did not threaten him.”
Bellamy muttered, “You implied accounting consequences.”
“Same thing,” Tom said.
Owen continued.
“Each man put one day’s trapped wage into this.”
He held out an envelope.
Dorothy did not take it.
“No.”
“Didn’t ask yet.”
“Answer still no.”
Owen sighed.
“Woman, let a man finish.”
She crossed her arms.
“Proceed.”
“Money is for your wagon.”
“No.”
Owen looked at the others.
“I told you.”
Benjamin grinned.
Caleb stepped forward.
“It isn’t charity.”
“I don’t care what you call it.”
“Investment.”
“In what?”
“All of us eating when you pass through town.”
Laughter.
Dorothy shook her head.
“I earned enough.”
“Then buy better wagon.”
“No.”
Caleb’s expression became serious.
“Dorothy.”
She looked at him.
“You spent your own money on food we didn’t order.”
“I made a decision.”
“So did we.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
She opened her mouth.
No answer came.
Caleb continued.
“You keep saying people should know the value of what they have.”
Dorothy stared.
“Your words.”
“Don’t use my words against me.”
“Best available.”
Owen extended the envelope.
“We know what you gave us.”
“You paid for the biscuits.”
“No.”
Owen looked around.
“We’re paying because when every one of us was sitting in black water thinking the mountain might become our grave, something came through that pipe.”
Dorothy swallowed.
“Food.”
“More than food.”
Owen’s voice roughened.
“Proof somebody was thinking about us.”
The room inside Dorothy went quiet.
He continued.
“You know what drilling sounded like down there?”
“Yes.”
“Hope.”
He lifted the envelope.
“Your awful biscuits tasted like hope too.”
Tom said, “Very awful.”
Dorothy laughed through tears.
She took the envelope.
“Thank you.”
The miners cheered.
Later she counted it privately.
More than she expected.
Enough not just for a used wagon.
For a good one.
Monday morning, Dorothy traveled with Caleb to a ranch fifteen miles south where a widow named Martha Greene was selling her husband’s chuck wagon.
It had a solid axle.
Reinforced wheels.
Built-in storage boxes.
Fold-out cooking table.
Canvas cover.
Water barrel.
Coffee grinder.
Dutch ovens.
And excellent springs, which Dorothy refused to admit Bellamy had been right about.
Martha named the price.
Dorothy countered.
Martha countered.
Caleb whispered, “This is frightening.”
Both women told him to be quiet.
Dorothy bought the wagon.
Paid in full.
She stood beside it with the bill of sale.
For a long time she could not speak.
Twelve years.
Cattle camps.
Freight stations.
Hotels.
Boarding houses.
Men telling her to be grateful.
Owners paying less.
Customers laughing.
A doctor announcing her weight like a verdict.
Bellamy staring at narrow aisles.
Ten dollars spent on flour everyone called garbage.
Now she owned the wagon.
Not a husband.
Not an employer.
Not a bank.
Dorothy Vance.
Caleb leaned against the wheel.
“Happy?”
Dorothy touched the wood.
“Yes.”
“Terrifying, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She laughed.
They drove back toward Copper Jack.
Halfway there, Caleb stopped the horses.
“What?”
Dorothy asked.
“Dinner.”
“What?”
“I owe you.”
“Here?”
He pointed toward a meadow beside a creek.
A blanket.
A basket.
Dorothy stared.
“You planned this.”
“Badly.”
“What’s in basket?”
“Food.”
“Who cooked?”
“Bellamy.”
Dorothy became alarmed.
Caleb laughed.
“Maria Ortega.”
“Safer.”
They ate beneath pine trees.
For once Dorothy did not cook.
Caleb poured coffee.
Then became nervous.
She noticed.
“You faced a mine collapse better than whatever you are doing now.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
He looked at her.
“I don’t want you to stay.”
Dorothy blinked.
“Well, that’s unexpectedly rude.”
“No.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I mean I do. But I don’t want to ask you to stay if staying means giving up what you worked for.”
Dorothy became still.
Caleb continued.
“I also don’t want to pretend I’m pleased you’re leaving.”
“Complicated.”
“Very.”
“What are you asking?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is a poor proposal.”
His eyes widened.
“I didn’t say proposal.”
“You looked like you might faint.”
“I’m injured.”
“Convenient.”
Caleb laughed.
Then looked serious.
“I’m asking whether I can write.”
Dorothy’s expression softened.
“Yes.”
“And if your wagon comes back through Copper Jack…”
“It will.”
“You know that?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the mountain.
“Unfinished business.”
They returned at sunset.
Crowley waited outside Bellamy’s store.
He held a document.
“What?”
Dorothy asked.
“Mine safety committee.”
“What about it?”
“We want a civilian supply adviser.”
“No.”
“Meeting once a month.”
“No.”
“Paid.”
Dorothy paused.
Caleb smiled.
Crowley grinned.
“Thought that might help.”
“How much?”
They negotiated.
By dark, Dorothy had a contract requiring her to return to Copper Jack regularly to review emergency food stores.
The woman once denied a twenty-dollar kitchen job had just been hired to advise the entire mine.
But there remained one thing Dorothy had not decided.
The supply company in St. Louis still wanted her ration method.
Their second telegram arrived that night.
This time it included a number.
Bellamy read it.
Sat down.
Read it again.
“Dorothy.”
“Yes?”
“You may want to postpone leaving.”
“Why?”
He handed her the paper.
The offer was enough to buy six chuck wagons.
And beneath it was a condition Dorothy would never accept.
EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS.
She looked at Bellamy.
Then smiled.
“They still think I’m desperate.”
Bellamy smiled back.
May you like
“I almost feel sorry for them.”
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