The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [23]
I didn’t want to contradict Mama, but bad things still happened: I’d been dragged on this trip, for one.
“He can answer in ways we don’t want, though,” I said.
“Yes. But that’s another way of telling us to wait, that He has chosen the path, and at the crossroads we are to look to Him to say right or left, rather than look to ourselves.”
It seemed to me that often Mama didn’t wait to hear the direction; she set off on her own.
“The sponsors were to ship the clothing to the train station. We’ll change there, walk to the nearest newspaper to affirm that we’ve made it this far and are now clothed in what some call our Weary Waggles wear.”
“Leaving behind this skirt won’t cause me any crying,” I said and I meant it. I brushed at the Victorian skirt I’d been wearing since home, a chipped nail catching on the stitching over a tear made by the volcanic rocks. “I’m amazed you were able to stitch up these tears,” I said.
“A needle and thread are a woman’s lifeblood,” Mama said.
But it was my curling iron that satisfied a group of Indians who stopped us outside of Salt Lake City. Sea gulls screamed in the distance. The men, half-clothed, surrounded us and grabbed at the bag I held on to.
“Give it to them,” Mama whispered, what sounded like fear shaking her voice.
There were five of them. They snatched the bag and dumped it out, compass and maps and curling iron falling beside the tracks. Mama had the revolver in her pocket; the pepper-box pistol rested in mine. The apparent leader picked up the curling iron, pressed it open and closed, then held it, curiosity in his eyes. Maybe they thought it was a gun.
“It’s for my hair,” I said. My voice shook. “Here, I’ll show you.” I put my hand out and he gave it to me. Without being heated it wouldn’t do much, but I demonstrated a fire by holding it over the lantern, then removed my hat and rolled my hair around the tube. It left a limp curl.
They chattered to each other, eyes marveling, handing it around. One touched my flat curl, gazed as though it was precious. I motioned to use one of his long strands, and it left just the slightest twist. They laughed together and took it, chattering as they walked away, leaving behind our guns.
It’s surprising what people claim as treasure.
The elevator cage jerked as we rode deeper into the throat of the silver mine outside of Park City, Utah. Cool air rose as we descended, but the lower we went, the more the earth warmed. I could feel it from the open sides of the cage. Danger lurked here. I didn’t think I had prognostication as a talent, but I was positive Mama didn’t; here we were, choosing risky, taking precious walking time to do it.
A male escorted each of us, “Because even some of the men get woozy and could misstep,” our guide said. I didn’t mind the escort; it was the wasted day that mattered. We’d already lost extra days working in Salt Lake City and altering the new clothes we had to wear.
The skirts were shorter than our regular dress, with a two-inch embroidered trim about a foot up from the hem. My waist was much smaller than when we’d left Mica Creek, and Mama wanted pockets, so she sewed a patch for each skirt. We wore wide belts to cover the waistline. Those we had to buy.
“The skirts will be easier to walk in but much more controversial,” she told me. We wore them for our trip into the mines. The men escorting us had frowned, but Mama disarmed them with her charm.
“I’ll tell people about your mining work and the union’s efforts here,” she told him, “when I speak in Denver.”
She has a speaking engagement in Denver?
“Who’s invited you to speak?” I whispered as our escorts talked to the miners, who wore dark hats like ours with little lights to show their way.
“I sent a letter ahead to the Denver paper hoping they’ll buy an article about the journey and perhaps book me into an auditorium. We’re quite