Denver Read Free Page B

slipping and splashing until he gazed down at Dan’s find, and his hopeful expression faded. He bit on the stone.
    “Sorry. Pyrite. Fool’s gold, my friend. Look at it. It winks in the sunlight. Gold always looks the same from any angle; this doesn’t. Bite on it. Gold doesn’t feel the same, and gold won’t break. Go back to work.”

2
Denver, Colorado Territory, April 1866
    East of the Rockies, a growing town lay nestled at the junction of Cherry Creek and the Platte River. Patches of snow dotted the roofs and streets, smoke spiraled from chimneys, and lights burned brightly in the windows. Music drifted out from the city hall, where a town celebration was under way. Inside, banners draped from the walls, festooned with red bunting, proclaimed: “Denver City and Auraria United; Denver born April 1860” and “Happy Sixth Anniversary, Denver!”
    On a platform made by planks on blocks of wood, fiddlers tapped their booted toes while they spun out a song. Dancers swirled around the floor as older couples sat watching. Women congregated in clusters at the south end of the room, and men gathered beside the serving tables at the north end. Heat came from two glowing potbellied stoves.
    Dressed in blue gingham, Mary Katherine O’Malley gazed over her dance partner’s shoulder while his brow furrowed in concentration. He stepped on her toe.
    “Sorry, Miss O’Malley. I ain’t very good at dancing,” Leonard Wilson said, blushing deeply, his freckled face turning crimson.
    “That’s all right, Mr. Wilson,” she answered politely, smiling encouragement at him, grateful that he had asked her to dance. “I’m not so good either,” she added softly.
    Stumbling his way through the dance until the end,he escorted her to a bench along the wall and thanked her politely.
    “Thank you,” she answered. “I enjoyed it.”
    “I don’t see how you could have, I stepped on your toes so many times,” he said, shuffling his feet and pushing a stray lock of brown hair off his forehead.
    “I did enjoy it,” she answered with sincerity.
    “Would you like some punch, Miss O’Malley?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    “You sit right here. I’ll bring you some.”
    He left and she was alone, aware she had danced only once the whole evening. Yet she knew that at sixteen she was younger and plainer than most, with her simple gingham dress and her red hair in a braid wrapped around her head. The fact that she had a slight limp seemed to make some men hesitate to ask her to dance. She looked at the other girls. Her friend, sixteen-year-old Bessie, whose golden curls shone, wore a fancy blue faille dress, an achievement of hours of sewing by both Bessie and her mother. Louisa Shumacher danced past. She was the belle who had men lined up to dance with her, her blue eyes sparkling, her black curls caught up behind her head and fastened with a sprig of holly. Only seventeen, Louisa had been educated back east until this year. She had a figure and enough charm to attract any man she wanted. Mary watched her dance past. Her coral grosgrain dress with a cluster of silk roses at the neck was the fanciest dress in the room.
    The dance finished and Mary stood up, leaning forward to see what was keeping Leonard. He was in a line congregated at the punch table, probably too shy to move ahead.
    Music commenced and she glanced around to see Dewar Logan heading toward her, a gleam in his black eyes. His bulky shoulders strained his rough woolen coat, and he towered over her.
    “Evening, Miss O’Malley,” he said, the fumes of strong whiskey assailing her, and she was surprised he was going to ask her to dance.
    “Getting lonesome?”
    “I’m fine,” she said quietly.
    “Guess you miss Eustice.”
    “Yes, I do,” she admitted, surprised Dewar would pay her any attention. He was darkly handsome, and usually danced with the older girls.
    He stepped closer, taking hold of her wrist. “I can show a lonesome little gal like you a good time.