Gold Out West (closed)

Sparks flew from the pick as it struck the rock, and he could smell the burn of the flint in the dirt floor. He swung again, and again sparks flew. He slid his hands down the wooden shaft of the pick, raised it above his head just below the lip of the hole, and dropped it down onto the rock. Sparks. The pick had worn so much that he was more bludgeoning the stone than he was fracturing it. It didn’t stop him from trying to break the rock. Swing after swing. Expecting it to break to manageable dust. Seeing it remain intact. Again and again.

Even when he breaks the rock, he will have to dig it out, drop the tailings outside the hole. Then the rock behind this one needs to be broken. Then if this is a good wall, it will only be a couple more rocks or buckets of dirt until he locates the vein again. Then more stone to break to open it. Then, nuggets.

Then all of this will be worth it.

All Stig had done would have worth.

A year ago, Stig Jorgensen arrived from the farms of Minnesota to the Black Hills in Dakota chasing the stories of gold in the west. From the time he was old enough to hold a tool, his father put him to work in the fields. Farming, like generations of Jorgensons before him, made him strong and hardy. Yet his older brother would inherit the farm, and Stig had dreams of something else. Dreams are what brings someone to a place like the frontier; but they don’t stay around long. It took most of what he brought with him to buy what he needed to work a claim. It took the rest to make him survive as he learned from his panning mistakes. What he found were never nuggets. He never seen more than dust. At first, he used what he could find to help invest more, to get better at finding the gold. Then winter hit, and papa got sick. What he doesn’t send home is just enough to survive. He has a mine claim now, a hole dug into a hill not even deep enough to say he is below ground. How he got this claim is all the evidence he needs to remember his dreams are dead. Dead dreams, but he is alive. Survival isn’t something one dreams of.

But none of this was.

Another swing, and the pick made a noise he didn’t want to hear. Not the smooth chime of metal on rock, but a blunting chink. The tall, broad shouldered man shifted the metal towards the daylight, and he could see the crack forming. Stig would have to go back to town tonight. Maybe last year, it would be an exciting thing, maybe he would get his ragged brown hair cut, or shave the scruff beard, or pay for a bath. Maybe he would have a whisky at the saloon. Maybe he would let one of the ladies talk him into spending some money on them. Those became things that just helped him ignore that his dreams were gone. You can’t hide from that for too long. That’s why it’s hard for him to go into town anymore.

But the pick had to be dealt with. It couldn’t be fixed, it’s too far broke to be fixed. There wasn’t anyone who could fix it. It had worked too hard, and now isn’t the same. No more sparks. Just broken beyond repair.

And no one was gonna fix it.

Emma pulled down the small curtain that kept out the never-ending dust enough that she could breathe. She hurt all over. Especially her sitting area. If she had been allowed to sit for a short period of time instead of constantly bouncing on the seat cushion, layered over well-worn springs, perhaps she might have found a moment of comfort.

She was crammed into a small stage coach with five other people all of whom, including herself, needed a bath. They had been traveling for several days through the summer heat. Stops had been few and amenities the most basic. Emma had done her best to at least wash her hands and face at the stops, but sometimes even that was hard to achieve. She longed for a real bath, in a real tub, with real hot water and real soap.

As difficult as the trip was turning out to be, Emma never once considered returning to Minnesota. Her family, the Zieglers, were from a long line of brickmakers and farriers. Her grandfather, Otto Ziegler had trained at the world famous Wienerberger brick factory in Austria. Her mother's people, the Schumanns had been working as farriers as far back as anyone could remember. Both trades were useful in Minnesota, but Emma had ideas of grandeur. She wanted to own her own hat making shop. She loved taking bits of ribbon, feathers, and beads and creating masterpieces. Emma had only two small issues holding her back from reaching her dream: money to purchase the materials, and customers. Fancy headpieces seen in those fashion books from France and London were not exactly what the normal Minnesota farmer's wife wore. Even when the women got dressed up for a dance at the school house or a special church event, they wore simple bonnets with large brims to keep the hot sun off their faces. They had no use for small hats that were not useful, only decorative. The people of Minnesota didn't have much use for anything that didn't help them farm. Emma considered them to be lacking in any imagination whatsoever.

So, being the stubborn female that she was, she decided the only way to reach her goal was to leave Minnesota and literally seek her fortune. Word about the gold strikes in the Black Hills of South Dakota had been filling the newspapers for almost 18 months. People were just picking up the gold nuggets off the ground or from the river streams. There were rumors that several of the young men, that had left their farms, had become rich overnight. No one could quite explain why these suddenly rich young men had not sent home money to their families, many of them struggling to keep their families fed, but Emma didn't let that worry her. Everyone knew that young men were selfish.

Emma's brother, Adolph, didn't have any interest in seeking his fortune in the gold fields, he was quite set in his position as the heir of their parents' large factory where bricks were made in the back and horses shod out front. But, Emma had no place in the factory. Despite her love for horses, her father, and by extension, her brother, did not believe a woman was capable of doing the hard work of a farrier. Of course, they didn't believe she could design hats or run a business either.

One of Adoph's friends, Stig Jorgensen, had gone off to the gold fields about a year ago. Emma didn't know him well, she just knew that if Stig could do it so could she. She was determined that she would go to the gold fields, pick up some pieces of gold, purchase a small shop and some materials, and make hats for the rich miners' wives that surely must have better taste than the women of Minnesota. Emma was not a dainty, little girl, she came from hardy stock. Her tall, angular body was designed for hard work. She wasn't as flighty or immature as one would imagine from her future goals. She was a down-to-earth, hard-working Minnesotan who was stubborn enough to believe that with hard work she could achieve her American dream. Well, hard work and some of that Black Hills gold.

The cart was tiny compared to many, and bare at the moment. Stig looked like a giant sitting on the buckboard as the rotting thing rolled into town. He pieced most of it together from remnants of mine carts and a broken coach he found down river. Sometimes the back wheel dragged because it weren’t straight. Sometimes, he needed extra rope wrapped around it to hold the sideboard on place. Sta didn’t make it much better. Sta was a stupid mule Stig bought for ten cents when he first arrived. Sta wasn’t his original name, but the Norwegian word for stubborn just became fitting. Pulling the cart at a snails pace through town, he almost could hear the laughs of the more arrogant tenants of town. Laughing at the stupid man for buying such a pointless animal to pull an slapped together cart. Because if he does all this, he surely bought some washed up claim too. One only had to look at his cart and know he was a failure. But his claim were two miles down from town, and riding was a hell of a lot better than walking.


First stop he had to make was at the gold smith. Nuggets to sell. Not much, but enough. Some say you do that last when you come to town, people see you sell what you have in your pouch and you become the most popular one around. Every bit of evil looking for a reason to release you of the coins you now have. Stig believed that it was better to carry the cash than to lose the nuggets. He once saw a well dressed man slide a pouch off a drunk bastard right in the middle of the saloon. At least if you hit the goldsmith first, you can feel that you accomplished something. It wasn’t much this time, just a little over four dollars, but he has spent much of his time digging into that new claim and not much panning.


So many eyes seemed to fall on him as he exited the small shop. So few followed when he moved direct to the general store. A new pick, a bolt of canvas, nails, flour, dried beef, back, and most of what he earned was gone. It was growing late, so he knew to have them hold the goods until the morning, choosing to spend the night here in town rather than risking the ride after dark.


There would be a dollar to send home this time. Now that it was summer, the need for money wasn’t as much. His brother surely would be selling early harvest. Yet, his duty remained. When Stig turned over the addressed envelope at the post, the old woman running it recognized the name.


“Jorgenson, Minnesota. That wouldn’t be Stig Jorgenson, would it?”


“Yahup,” he blankly replied.


“I have a letter for you.” She slide slowly from her stool, and grabbed a box. Shifting around different notes, out came one that was yellowed and stained. “Came in yesterday, but seen a better day or two.”


Sitting in the saloon, Stig looked down at the unopened letter. There was no rush to read it, yet he knew he had to. He just was not ready to do so. The stale beer he ordered was only half finished, and would need to be more empty before he would be ready. There were no name on the envelope besides his own, but he recognized the handwriting of his mother, the woman who helped him to read when he was schooling. She was the only who wrote him since he moved out to the Black Hills, but each time it came with more bad news and more that was impressed on him to help with.


The sun had not set outside yet, so the saloon still had much of it’s life to come alive to. No music played, no more than a couple of folk wandered in for a drink, and only but a couple of the ladies worked them men. Maybe that was good as well. If this letter gets him in some way, better to not let these town folk see him wrecked even more.


Another swig of the beer and the letter was opened. It read mostly of news of home. Ma was one to learn the gossip, and tell it as if he were interested. Whom had done what. Whom had seen what. The Olsens had themselves twins. John Schneider got himself killed by a spooked horse. Papa was better, but not much. Then the three parts that started to eat at him.


First was her normal plea for news. Stig could write, but didn’t. There was nothing to say. Nothing that he wanted his Ma to know. Not of what he has become.


Next was troubling but not so straightforward. Emma Zeigler, the little tomboy who used to pester her brother (and Stig’s friend) Adoph, or so did Adoph say. Stig didn’t know much about her otherwise. Ma said she was coming out his way. To the Black Hills. At first, it was just new. But it stood there in his mind, someone from back home, seeing him like this. That seed then planted, that which told him that he could not hide here.


Maybe it would not have bothered him that Emma would be out this way, there was little need for him to hold onto what was his past except to take care of his family really. Yet it was that third item that cut, and reminded him how much he was still attached to home. It was only three words, seeming lost in the mass of the rest of the gossip and news. It simply said:
Josephine Muller married.
Stig saw those words, stood up immediately and walked to the bar. He laid down a coin and took a full bottle of whisky back to the table. Pooring a heavy glass, he swallowed it quickly and looked upon those words once more.
Josephine Muller married.
His head swirled. He tilted it to the side. He closed his eyes.


Somewhere there was a cornfield, high and thick on the cusp of harvest. Amongst the grasses that grew between the stalks, glimpses of yellow and blue fabric flashed like glimpses of heaven. There was a bit of laughter. A bit of singing. Rain had started to fall, but it was not so much that would chase them from this game. Finally breaking to a small boulder breaking the field open, she emerged in Stig’s memory in full. Long dark hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that begged him to kiss her. She leaned back against that rock, waiting for the boy that found him in this game ready to be claimed as a prize.


“Hey there, Stig. Looking for some company?”


Stig woke himself from his vision to find Juanita, the slightly older mexican woman whom worked the floor. Somewhere in his mind he find the mannerisms of his upbringing and gave her a kindly smile. “Sorry, Ma’am. I wouldn’t be too good of company this evening. If you don’t mind, I would like to spend a while by myself.”

“Alright, maybe later,” she replied and wandered on finding another customer to ask quickly.


Maybe later, Stig thought. Maybe he would need company to help him forget that he was alone.

It had been a long, hot, horribly crowded ride and Emma was grateful to finally reach Hill City. As she stepped down from the stage and looked around her first impression was not positive. It looked like someone had carved a ramshackle group of buildings and plopped them down in the middle of a forest of pine trees. The buildings seemed to be slightly tilted as if the mud beneath was constantly shifting. The street was ankle deep in mud as Emma's traveling boots could attest. She doubted there would be anyway to get them clean again.

With the help of one of the passengers, she managed to suck her feet free and make her way with her small carpetbag to the stairs that led up to the walkway fronting the buildings. It was easy to assume that the muddy road was a permanent fixture as all the walkways were at least 24 inches above the road. Once on the walkway, Emma could look down the stretch and see that the boards were uneven with small staircases at odd stretches. She looked east and saw a few men standing in front of what was probably a saloon. They looked rough. Long straggly hair, unshaven faces, shirts half tucked in to overalls. She shivered.

Looking west wasn't much better. Again, there was a small group of slovenly males standing in the muddy street around an old mule. From the looks of things, the mule belonged to a miner who was in the process of loading some supplies on its back. Across the road in front of what seemed to be the general store was an old buckboard that could barely be called a wagon. The mule in front of it looked like it would fall over if someone breathed on it.

What Emma didn't see were two very important things. One, she didn't see a hotel and, two, she didn't see any women. Surely there must be women? Turning to the other passengers that had joined her on the walkway, she asked, "Does anyone know where the hotel is located?" The other woman and two of the men began to slowly look up and down the street, shaking their heads.

The other woman, Sarah, was married to Zeke who was a traveling salesman. Both were new to Hill City and were just here to visit Zeke's brother who owned the general store before they continued on to Cheyenne where they were planning to visit Sarah's sister. "Seems there isn't one," grumbled Zeke. "Maybe there is a boarding house. You two wait here. I am gonna go across to Jake's store and see if he knows a respectable place to stay. No sense in you two trying to slog through all that mud and then find out the place is on this side of the street. Hang on, I will be right back."

The two women watched as he went back down the steps and sank into the mud. Struggling to move, he slowly made his way across the road and went up a similar set of steps in front of the store. He turned, gave a quick wave and disappeared into the building. Realizing that they were blocking the staircase, the ladies moved away and stood against the wall. They watched as the other passengers, all men, slowly dispersed in the direction of the saloon.

"Where do you think the women are?"

"Hard to say. Maybe at home watching their youngsters. Sure reasonable to say that there isn't a school in this little place," replied Sarah. "Doesn't look like you will have any competition for your little hat store."

"At this moment I am more concerned about a lack of customers. This place sure doesn't look like I pictured a gold mining town to look. Somehow, I expected the place to be bigger and," Emma paused, "cleaner."

Sarah laughed. "It does seem a bit tawdry, doesn't it? Well, once all the miner's wives start buying up your hats, I am sure they will dress the place up."

"I hope so. Oh, look, here comes Zeke."

"Well, ladies, there is some bad news. There is no hotel or boarding house anywhere in the area. Jake says that he will ask around, maybe one of the miner's has some space in his house for you, Emma. He says that Sarah and I can stay in his place, but all he has is the one bed at the back of the store. He suggested that we head to a small diner run by a Indian man and his wife. We can sit down there, eat and wait until Jake gets back to us. I sure was expecting a bigger place, I thought Jake was just understating when he said it was a little hole in the woods. But he wasn't exaggerating one bit. Let's go get us some food and coffee."

The three of them headed down the walkway. Emma carrying her carpetbag and Zeke carrying a small trunk on his shoulder.

“You shoulda stuck to panning, like I told ya to,” the old man complained.

Stig rolled his eyes, shook his head, and leaned over the table to pour the man another drink.

“Only two types buy a digging claim. Richmen lookin’ to not be so rich anymores, and …”

“... and fools,” Stig finished. “You say that like I not heard it before. Over and Over.”

“But you don’t listen. That be the problem with you young folks. You don’t listen to the men know know.”

Stig laughed, the ripple of whisky in his head doing it’s part to keep him on the brink of seriousness. “I listen to you, old timer. But I also listen to everyone else.”

“Listen to me!!” He chastised, grabbing the glass and taking down the drink in a flash. He snapped his lips, enjoying the boozy burn, and slide the glass back over to Stig’s bottle.

“Did I not say I listen to you, Jackie Boy?” Stig poured the man another, but smaller, glass from his own bottle. “The way I recon it, I need to hit a greater load if I am going to filling your glass for you.”

“You ain’t gonna find it in a hole,” Jackie replied.

Stig leaned forward in his chair to get closer to a whisper for the old man. “Where do you think the dust you pan for comes from? Magically appears in the water? That’s just what the earth spits out of itself in the rain. There’s veins of gold all throughout these hills, I just got to hit one.” Stig grabbed for the table as he finished his little speech. Maybe the whisky was taking him a little further than clarity at this moment.

“You ain’t gonna get rich off them holes though. I seen it a hundred times. Ya dig and ya dig and ya dig, and ya die from not getting enough to be rich.”

Stig leaned back into his chair and slouched. “I ain’t looking to get rich. Not anymore.”
The old man was finishing his glass, and pressed his luck by sliding it back over to Stig. “Ain’t looking to get rich? They why even bother.”

Stig let out a long breath, leaned his head back, and scratched at his neck where his scruffy beard fought to keep itself management on his skin. “Can’t a guy just want to make enough to be happy?”

“You think being rich won’t make you happy.”

Stig laughed, and shrugged. “I just want enough to not need to work so hard. So when pa gets sick back home they don’t have to worry none. So I can buy one of them houses that are in the hills, and I can just spend my days.”

“Spend your days doin’ what?”

Stig shrugged again. “I don’t know, growing a few crops, raising some sheep.”

Jackie was tapping his withered fingers on the table, anxiously waiting for his glass to be refilled, and starting to realize it wouldn’t be. “Maybe what you need is a good woman. Spend your days raising little ones.”

Stig put a splash of whisky in the glass, the last of it from the bottle. Instead of returning it to the old man, he picked it up himself and downed it quickly. “I recon none would marry me unless I was rich anymore.”

Jackie slid his chair back and awkwardly got to his feet. “Then you better hope that hole in the ground is better than ya think it will be.”

Jackie shifted away slowly, started looking for someone else to talk to, maybe get another drink or two. He was a nice old man, prospector from the times when there weren’t nobody here by the natives. Stig did listen to Jackie too, probably learned as much about panning and prospecting from him than anyone else. So, Stig never has much issue letting him drink off of him. Though Jackie is really good at turning that drink into a few of them.

But now comes the real question. Bottle empty, does he get another. Does he try to get himself back to the claim. Does he get himself a room. Does he get himself a girl for the room. Or does he just sit here and stare at this empty bottle a little longer.

While he gave that question some thought, he started to realize, staring at an empty bottle is what he just about found himself doing.

The three of them sat down at the diner's. A thin, small woman with black hair in a long braid came over to them. "All we got is mutton stew and fried bread. Two bits for three." Zeke nodded at the woman and she left.

"I hope it is edible," he said.

"I hope it is mutton," Emma replied.

They all laughed softly. It was obvious that the woman was an Indian, they had seen a few in different places on their long trip. It hadn't been that long since Custer had been in the area, but this area seemed pretty safe.

After a short while, during which time they had talked about the lack of housing for women, the woman brought back three plates with steaming hot stew and left. She returned with three mugs of ale and a plate with fried bread on it.

"What is your name?" asked Emma curiously.

My white name is Martha Long Feather."

"Thank you, Martha, for the food. It smells delicious." Martha appeared surprised that anyone would thank her or mention the food. Perhaps, thought Emma, the rough miners didn't do that. "Do you know of anywhere we could get a room for the night? Zeke and Sarah can stay with his brother at the store, but we need to find somewhere for me. Do you know of anyone that might have a room or a bed that I can use?"

Martha was quiet for a few minutes. It was obvious that she was thinking but not having much luck. Finally, she said,"My sister got some space. I see if she take you."

"Thank you. Tell her I can pay a little for it."

Martha disappeared behind a blanket hanging across a doorway. The three began to eat. "Oh, my," said Sarah, "this is delicious. I don't even care if it is mutton or not."

"And this fry bread practically melts in the mouth. I wonder how she makes it?" wondered Emma. "I would like to learn."

"I just hope she can find you a bed," muttered Zeke busily eating. "It will be dark in a couple of hours and I want you ladies inside and off the streets by then." Remembering that group of men staring at them when they got off the stage, Emma was in complete agreement with that statement.

In a couple of hours, it was dark. Black and moonless, the kind that makes the real thieves want to move around easy enough. There weren’t no stars either, the threat of clouds and rain tomorrow for sure. Just a gloom that over hung the town, begging it to turn from a dusty hell to a muddy shit stain.

Stig slumped on the street, like he had been for quite some time. Stumbling out of the the saloon, he turned a corner and relieved himself best he could on the side of a building. The Indian Woman Martha was making some kind of stew down the street. Stig didn’t want to spend money on it, it but the smell was incredible, and he ached for the the day when he was rich enough to not care about what he spent.

He ached for the day where he could not even care.

Now he just sat his backside against het wall of the saloon, listening to the music play, and the people talking and laughing inside. He wanted to go back in, but his head still spun some. Too much of the drink too early in the night. That’s why he stopped to rest. Outside. Like some fool that Jackie Boy warned of, who couldn’t make it and had to live on the street.

In a couple of hours, it was dark. He had his rest. His head stopped spinning. He weren’t sober either. But he was ready for a little more.

Stig crawled up on his feet, shifted softly across the wood plank stoop, and entered into the bright saloon. One of them girls, named of Bathsheba, was dancing on the bar top letting her frilly undergarments spin about with each kick and spin. Most the cowboys laughed and cheered her on, and likely one of them was going to get a chance at taking off them frilling undergarments if they had the coins. Sure, Stig has some, but not worth competing for the girl the cowboys will want.

His table was open, all four chairs of them, and he slumped back down and settled back. Soon enough Juanita came back over for a visit. “It’s later on Stig, you wanna have some fun?”

He smirked and tried to shrug innocently. He almost felt too drunk to speak, but definately too drunk to screw. “You know … do they got more bread still?”

“Ahh, you having one of those nights,” she laughed. “I’ll see lover, then if they do, I come back later.”

Maybe later Stig thought. Maybe not. He shoved his hand into his pocket and felt around for the coins that were there.

Maybe not.

Pretty soon if he kept drinking, it wouldn’t just be the bedding girls that would be beyond his means, but a bed itself. But the bread arrived, and another bottle. And he hoped that would not break him.

Not like much else.

Emma pulled the worn blanket up over her shoulders. She had left on her clothing and only removed her traveling boots. She was glad she wasn't sleeping outside in the chilly air. Had anyone told her that she would end up spending her first night in Hill City sleeping in a shack that belonged to a old Indian, she would have thought them insane. But here she was lying on a pallet of straw under an old horse blanket trying to sleep. It certainly beat any alternative. She began to list the things she wanted to accomplish tomorrow and was soon sound asleep.

A rough hand shook her awake. "It morning, you drink this and go. No want trouble."

The drink smelled much worse than it tasted and it was warm. Emma tried to figure out what it was but the only thing she recognized was chicory. She laced up her boots and shook out her clothes.

"Thank you for letting me stay here." She realized she didn't know the woman's name and that the woman was wanting her out of the house. She handed the woman a few coins and stepped out of the shack. The sun had not shown yet but it was light enough to see. Emma shivered as she looked around. She wasn't sure why there had been such a rush to get out of the place but she found an old rickety outhouse and used it. It was too early to start looking for a job, but she made her way down the wooden boardwalk. It was too early for most people, the drunks were sleeping it off and the others were still in their beds or feeding their stock. She sat down on a bench outside the diner where she had met Martha Long Feather. She hoped it would open soon as the chill in the air was biting through her clothing.

Stig awoke feeling cold and wet, gripped in a fetal position lying on something that felt like hard dull ice. He shivered, pulled his jacket tighter to his body, but even in the dull haze of a growing headache knew it was fruitless. There was light, but not bright enough to wake him. His back was sore, his nose filled with mess, and it felt like the skin across his scalp were pulled tight to the point of splitting. But it was the cold that woke him, the cold that brought him to life this morn.

Lifting up, his senses came to him, and he realized where he was at. The street out back the saloon. Shameland they call it. When the joint closes, and the drunks are too drunk to go home, they push them out the back door. Heartless maybe, but the owner ain’t one for charity, and you don’t get a free room by drinking the shit out of yourself. He weren’t alone; there were four of them. One of them smelt like piss. One was sick across his shirt. The third took the two’s problems, did it himself, then added a pile of shit to his trousers. Somehow, Stig saved himself that level of embarrassment. No, his only embarrassment was getting so wrecked that he had to have himself kicked out of a saloon to sleep on the street.

This had never happened before.

This was a new low.

The one positive was that he didn’t pay for a room, and he had more coins left in his pockets than he expected. And only a few folks in the morning sun seemed to be up and around.

And from the smell of it, one of those was Martha Long Feather.

Stig drew his feet up underneath him. Staggered slowly to get his wits, and realized the drink that so rotted his good judgement still ran through his blood. He kept a hold of the buildings as he slowly guided himself towards a stable where at least his stupid mule Sta looked dumbly about. There enough, Stig was able to wash his face in a trough, drink some water, try to keep it down, then drink so more. To say he was presentable would be a lie. Surely he still smelt of the night, and his bones ached with the poor sleep. But his stomach needed more than water.

Martha seemed to be just opening her doors as he shuffled in slow steps to her door. Only one else was some girl, to clean looking to have shared the street with him, or for that matter too fresh to be begging for food from Martha Long Feather. But wasn’t any of his business. He just gave Martha a coin, and found his seat.

"Whatcha doing here, girl?"

"Waiting on you." Emma smiled at Martha Long Feather. "It is chilly out here and I knew it would be warmer inside." Emma followed her into the small building. "Can I get something to eat or is it too early?"

"Eggs and beans."

"That would be great. I really appreciated your sister letting me stay with her last night, but I need to find somewhere more permanent. Outside of your sister and you, I haven't seen any women in town. There are women here, aren't there?"

Martha hesitated. "Hm, couple at the saloon. Miner, maybe. They don't come in here, so..." Martha left it there as she went to the small cooking area.

Emma leaned back in her chair and tried not to panic. How could a town not have women? If there weren't any women, what would she do? She needed a place to stay. Martha's sister sure didn't seem to want her back again.

When the plate was set down in front of her, she thanked Martha who grunted as she walked away. Emma began to eat slowly, her mind racing as she tried to work out a solution to her problems. She glanced up when the door opened and noticed a tall man enter. He looked dirty and hungover and was probably drunk. She didn't want him to notice her and begin to bother her so she kept her eyes down and focused on her food. The last thing she needed was some drunk all over her.

She still needed to figure out a place to stay.