I drove to Prospect with a list that would have looked strange to anyone expecting me to leave the mountain.
There were no traveling trunks on it.
No fare for a stagecoach.
No instructions for selling Jericho.
I needed tools.
I needed food.
And I needed enough materials to close the opening Elias had found beneath the ridge.
The town was twelve miles downhill.
The road was rough, but the weather had held long enough for the wagon to pass.
Jericho pulled steadily.
I let him choose his footing where the ground became uneven.
The closer we came to Prospect, the more the air seemed to carry the gray dust of the mine.
The stamp mill could be heard before I reached the main street.
Its repeated pounding had become part of life there.
People depended on that sound for their wages.
I had once been glad to hear it.
After Elias died, I could not hear it without thinking about the company that had sent him into the mountains.
Now the same company wanted our home.
I passed the office where Finch had told me to collect the fifty dollars.
I did not stop.
I knew they would expect me to sign the release.
I had already decided against it.
Instead, I drove to Abernathy's general store.
Mr. Abernathy had known Elias for years.
He was in his sixties, with a worn face and hands marked by the work of handling tools, sacks, and supplies.
He was not a man who spoke unnecessarily.
That suited me.
He came out from behind the counter when I entered.
"Mrs. Thorne."
"Good morning, Mr. Abernathy."
He looked at me for a moment.
"I heard someone from Sterling paid you a visit."
I nodded.
"Yes."
His expression changed slightly.
"I'm sorry."
There was nothing useful I could say to that.
He had known Elias.
He had seen how much work we put into our place.
And he knew what the company was capable of demanding.
I took my list from my coat.
"I need some things, if you have them."
He put on his spectacles.
Then he began reading.
The first item was a heavy shovel.
Not the light one I already owned.
I needed something that could endure digging through hard earth mixed with stone.
The price was three dollars and fifty cents.
Next came a pickaxe with a hickory handle.
Two dollars and seventy-five cents.
Then a six-pound sledgehammer.
Four dollars.
I had hesitated over that hammer while making the list.
It was heavy.
My arms would tire quickly using it.
But there were jobs in the shelter that nothing smaller would manage.
Mr. Abernathy continued reading.
One hundred feet of hemp rope.
A box of ten-penny nails.
Two sets of strong iron hinges.
A square of milled tin, four feet by four feet.
One large canvas tarp suitable for covering an ore wagon.
He looked up.
"Quite a bit of work planned?"
"Yes."
He waited.
I offered no explanation.
I did not yet know whether the shelter would work.
And I did not want word of its location traveling through Prospect before I had secured it.
Mr. Abernathy returned to the list.
The remaining items were food.
One hundred pounds of flour.
Fifty pounds of beans.
Twenty pounds of salt pork.
Ten pounds of lard.
Salt.
Coffee.
Enough staples to give me a chance if the roads closed.
I knew the quantities looked excessive for a woman who was supposedly preparing to move away.
But I could not risk being unable to obtain food in January.
The mountains would not allow another trip simply because my supplies ran low.
Mr. Abernathy folded the list.
"I believe I have everything."
"Good."
He did not ask whether I had found a new house.
He did not ask where I intended to sleep.
He began gathering supplies.
While he worked, I examined the shelves.
I had stood in that store beside Elias many times.
We had purchased nails for the cabin.
Flour for winter.
Lamp oil.
Coffee.
Elias often came in with a list of materials for his surveying work.
Sometimes Mr. Abernathy would ask about the rocks he had been examining.
The two men could speak for half an hour about something I could barely distinguish from an ordinary hillside.
I missed those conversations.
I missed standing beside my husband and knowing we would return home together.
Mr. Abernathy carried the tools out to the wagon.
I helped load the sacks.
The flour alone took effort to lift.
The beans came next.
We placed the food where it would stay dry under the canvas.
He checked the figures in his ledger.
The total was sixty-seven dollars and forty cents.
I had entered the store with one hundred and twelve dollars in savings.
That purchase would leave me with less than forty-five dollars.
I took the money from my purse.
I counted it carefully.
Every coin mattered now.
When I handed him the amount, he did not look surprised by how long I took.
He simply counted it and marked the transaction.
I felt the loss of that money immediately.
If the shelter failed, I would have very little left.
I could no longer afford a journey to Denver without selling possessions.
And I had no reason to believe the company would change its mind.
But money kept in a box would not protect me from a blizzard.
Food might.
A door might.
A properly enclosed shelter might.
I helped secure the last sack.
Then Mr. Abernathy disappeared into the rear of the store.
I assumed he had gone to put away his ledger.
Instead, he returned carrying a narrow wooden box and a small keg.
He set both items in the wagon.
I looked at him.
"Those aren't mine."
He rested one hand on the wagon side.
"Elias still had some credit here."
I frowned.
"I don't remember an account."
"He did business with me for years. There was something left."
He pushed the box closer.
Inside were fifty cartridges for Elias's Winchester rifle.
I had kept the rifle after his death.
I knew how to use it.
Elias had insisted that living in such isolated country required that knowledge.
The ammunition was valuable.
And in winter, it could mean the difference between obtaining food and going hungry.
Then I looked at the keg.
Its markings identified the contents.
Blasting powder.
Twenty-five pounds.
I had seen Elias use such materials in his work.
He understood the danger and treated them carefully.
I knew enough to respect the risks.
I also knew that the mountain shelter had a problem I might not solve with a hammer alone.
The stove required a chimney.
And stone stood between the chamber and the open air.
I looked at Mr. Abernathy.
"This is too much."
He shook his head.
"Your husband paid his way here."
I wanted to protest.
But he had already decided what he intended to do.
He did not offer pity.
He did not tell me how difficult my situation must be.
He simply gave me things that might prove useful.
That was harder to accept than sympathy.
I had spent six months learning to manage without help.
Part of me believed that accepting anything would make me dependent.
Looking back, I can see how foolish that was.
A person could do the work herself and still accept the kindness of someone who wanted her to survive.
"Thank you," I said.
Mr. Abernathy nodded.
"Take care of yourself up there."
I looked toward the mountains beyond the town.
"I intend to."
He gave Jericho a brief pat and stepped away.
I climbed onto the wagon.
Then I drove back toward the ridge.
I did not look toward the company office.
The money I had refused was still there.
Fifty dollars in exchange for a signature.
Mr. Abernathy had given me something better without asking me to sign anything.
I reached the cabin before dark.
I unloaded the food first.
Then I carried the tools inside.
The keg went into a safe, dry place, away from the stove.
I laid the cartridges beside Elias's rifle.
For a while I stood there looking at the supplies.
They represented almost everything I had.
My savings had become sacks, iron, rope, and canvas.
None of them could be returned easily.
I had made my choice.
The next morning, I began moving what I could toward the hidden chamber.
I made the trip with Jericho, carrying the shovel, pickaxe, and smaller supplies.
I left the heavier things for later.
The trail was difficult enough without overloading him.
At the rockfall, I stood in front of the narrow entrance.
I imagined trying to move a cast-iron stove through it.
Then I looked at the loose stones blocking the way.
The first job was obvious.
I had to make a doorway.
I began with the shovel.
When the ground resisted, I used the pickaxe.
When a stone could not be lifted, I worked it loose from underneath.
I carried the smaller rocks aside.
The larger ones remained where I could use them to conceal the entrance from above.
I worked until my shoulders ached.
Then I worked longer.
I stopped only when the light began to fade.
The following day, I returned.
And the day after that.
The opening slowly became wider.
The space that had forced me to crawl was beginning to allow me to stand.
It looked less like an animal burrow.
More like an entrance someone had made deliberately.
That worried me.
The entrance needed to be usable.
But it could not become obvious to anyone passing through the draw.
So I preserved the larger boulders that screened it.
I cleared enough for access without stripping away the cover Elias had described.
On the fourth day of that work, I stood upright in the opening.
I could carry tools through without crawling.
It was a small improvement.
But every part of the work depended on it.
I walked inside and set down the shovel.
The chamber was still cold.
Still empty.
Still unfinished.
Yet it had begun to feel less like a place I had discovered and more like a place I was making.
I returned to the cabin that evening with aching hands.
I washed them in water warmed on the stove.
The skin across my palms had opened in several places.
I wrapped the worst spots with clean cloth.
Then I sat at our pine table and examined Elias's drawing again.
I marked the position of the doorway.
The planned wall.
The stove.
The small window.
I had paid for the materials.
I had improved the entrance.
And there was no longer any way to pretend I could simply pack a bag and choose another life.
I was going to build beneath the mountain.
Whether I had enough strength remained to be seen.
