Free The Daughter's Walk by Jane Kirkpatrick Page A

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.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œI’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?
    â€œWho’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.
    â€œI 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 a novelty, you know. We can wear the reform dress when we walk but a long skirt and jacket for the events.”
    â€œBut won’t the sponsors think that’s cheating?” I said.
    She actually looked thoughtful. “I believe you’re right, but using a traditional outfit suggests we can make decisions depending on the occasion. We aren’t likely to pick up phthisis on the hemlines in the performance halls. I can mention how much healthier the reform dress is. And we’ll prove it when we arrive healthy in New York.”
    If we ever get to New York for all the side trips Mama chooses
.
    Our escorts returned to point out silver veins. Mama asked questions. I hated the closed-in feeling and earth’s hot breath on our faces.
    After what seemed like hours but was likely only one, we stepped back into the cage, listened as the cables groaned us upward and then stopped with a jerk at a wood landing. Had this sinking into earth’s depths really been necessary to save the family farm?

    A few days later, at Silver Creek Canyon, we attempted to climb down the sides of a nearly perpendicular rock as a way to avoid walking around the land formation the way the railroad did. We had to climb