The Legend of Silver Heels

Kimberly Burns

Buckskin Joe, Colorado
Summer 1905

Buckskin Joe was full of ghosts, heck, the whole town was a ghost. Billy wasn’t scared, but it was just common sense to take care when walking past a cemetery. He quickened his steps and tried to whistle, but the ever-present South Park wind carried the tune away as soon as it left his lips.

For millennia, wind rushed through Kenosha Pass and across the broad expanse of the old Indian hunting grounds of South Park. It ruffled the shaggy manes of massive buffalo and whistled through the antlers of grazing elk. In the winter, it drove snow into drifts as high as men’s heads and in summer it danced across swaying gamma grass. The wind howled. It shrieked. It moaned. This afternoon, as it tousled Billy’s hair, he thought it sounded like weeping.

Checking over his shoulder as he hustled along the wrought iron fence, Billy saw a figure. In the graveyard, the wind tugged at the long black skirts of a veiled woman. She moved slowly between the headstones, pausing at those made of granite and marble as well as the humbler resting places marked with a crude wooden cross. A gust lifted the thin gauze of her veil. Fear grabbed Billy. There was no face behind the veil.

He ran all the way through Buckskin Joe, past the abandoned houses, shuttered storefronts, and empty saloons to Grandpa Tobias’ cabin. The old man liked to spend his summers in the high country, prospecting, and recalling his younger days when both he and the town were full of life. Billy found him sitting in the sunshine whittling.

“Grandpa Tobias!” Billy was breathless from running in the thin mountain air. “There was a woman in the cemetery,” he gasped.

“Well,” the old man drawled, never looking up from the knife blade. “Folks like to visit their loved ones who’ve passed and laid to rest here. What better place than in the shadows of that beautiful peak?” He pointed at the thirteen-thousand-foot mountain in the distance, still topped with sparkling snow.

The boy was rattled. “But Grandpa, she wore old-timey clothes and a veil like she was at a funeral.” He shivered. “It was a ghost, I’m sure of it. Grandpa…I couldn’t see her face.”

Grandpa Tobias hesitated before he shaved another sliver from the wood. “It was probably just the sunlight playing tricks on your eyes.”

“Her shoes,” Billy gulped and said, “they were shiny.”

Grandpa stopped whittling mid stroke. “Like silver?”

***

November 1861

Although winter in the high country started weeks ago, it was a beautiful day, and Buckskin Joe bustled with optimist energy. Last year’s gold strike drew thousands of hopeful fortune hunters to the area. The town now boasted of three hotels, two banks, fourteen stores, several saloons, and a post office. However, there had been no time to build a school and hire a teacher. The few youngsters in town kept busy with chores and odd jobs until they were big enough to work in the mines.

Ten-year-old Toby Henry hadn’t felt the need for a coat when Mother shooed him from the cabin. She wanted to take advantage of the warm turn to do some washing and air out the mattress tics. Further down the gulch, Father worked his placer, trying to wash sand and grit from the next golden mother lode. While his younger brother and sister stayed close to Mother, Toby was left to his own devices. Perhaps Tabor’s General Store needed sweeping. Mister Horace paid in penny candy.

As Toby made his way through the rutted streets of town, there among the chaos of wagons, stagecoaches and grimy prospectors leading shaggy burros. he spotted the sweetheart of Buckskin Joe—Silver Heels.

Everyone agreed she was the best-looking gal in the whole town, the whole territory. Honey-colored curls cascaded down her back. Her flawless skin was the color of fresh milk, and her eyes were as blue as a cloudless Colorado sky. The heart of her beauty—the feature that drew even the most cantankerous old coots to her—was her ever-present smile. The rose petal lips that framed straight white teeth cast happiness to all who met her. It was as if her gaiety was contagious.

The only name people knew her by was Silver Heels. Her past remained mysterious, and she never mentioned any family. But it seemed most people in the Colorado Territory were escaping from secret past or running to an unknown destiny, so the miners did not question her. The handful of respectable wives were less accepting, and the soiled doves were openly jealous, for every man in town was in love with Silver Heels. But her affection could not be purchased like a common upstairs girl. She was the premier act at the Johnson Variety Theatre. She roused the audiences with lively tunes and enchanted them with lithe twists, graceful jumps, high kicks, and energetic toe tapping. The silver heels of her specially made dancing shoes flashed in the stage lights.

Although Toby’s mother disapproved of dancing girls with their display of bare arms and ankles, he planned to ask Silver Heels to marry him when he grew up. Today, however, she seemed preoccupied and failed to notice Toby and his eager grin.

“Good morning, Ma’am.” Toby tipped his cap.

“Oh, hello Tobias.”

The boy puffed with small pride; she remembered his name.

“How is your family? Is everyone at home feeling well?” Her beautiful smile faltered as concern wrinkled her forehead.

“Yes, ma’am. We’re all fit as fiddles.”

“Good, good.” She nodded distractedly, then took hold of Toby arm and firmly said, “You run home now and stay there. Tell your mother to keep the little ones away from town.”

A few hours later, Father burst into the cabin with the horrifying news—smallpox!

Within days the disease had spread like wildfire. The mayor sent an urgent plea to Denver for nurses to tend the ailing miners. None ever came.

***

“Climb aboard Silver Heels,” Mrs. Tabor ordered. “We have room in the wagon.”

Toby scooted over, hoping she’d sit next to him. The handful of women and children living in Buckskin Joe were heading to Denver to escape the raging epidemic, but the miners refused to leave. Some were lonesome bachelors with no reason to go. Most believed they were close to hitting the mother lode and couldn’t bear to be away from their claims. Toby’s father was among those that would stick it out.

“Thank you, but I’m staying,” Silver Heels said. “I have nowhere to go. Besides, these fellas are as dear to me as brothers. They’re the only family I have.”

She and a handful of men waved goodbye to the little group as the wagon rolled away.

“Well, time to get busy,” Silver Heels said with a determined bob of her head. “I’m off to check on those that are ailing. Mr. Tabor, I’ll be by the store later to pick up supplies.”

Silver Heels traded her flouncy dance dresses for a plain calico and an apron. In the following days she visited every house, cabin, shanty, and lean-to. She fed and nursed the sick miners. She chopped wood and hauled water to clean vomit and excrement from the helpless men, their faces burning with fever and shame.

“Mr. Wilson, I’ve brought you some broth. You must eat in order to regain your strength.”

“There, there Benny. Let me put a cool cloth on your forehead.”

“Mr. Smythe, you cannot lay in the snow bare chested. Come inside. Oh, you are burning up.”

“Mr. Tabor generously gave me all the headache powder in the store. Let me fix you a draft Mr. Davies.”

“Oh Jack, I know it’s painful, but you must not touch the blisters. I’ll get you some salve.”

She would hum I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair to calm those agitated with fever. She’d sing Camptown Races and Oh, Suzanna to cheer those in the long last days of recovery. Wayfaring Stranger was the last melody some men heard.

“There is no sickness, no toil, no danger; In that bright land to which I go.

I’m going there to see my father; And all my loved ones who’ve gone on.”

“I’m afraid your brother has passed, Raymond. Help me carry him to the cemetery road. Old James will lay him to rest with the others.”

By Christmas, it appeared the epidemic had run its course. There was talk of families returning to celebrate the holiday. But the men decided to error on the side of caution. The women and children would come home after the first of the year. Unfortunately, several fools celebrated the New Year drinking and singing in the saloons. Within a week the pox had taken hold again.

***

Mother’s hand shook as she opened the letter from Buckskin Joe. She hadn’t received a letter from Father in nearly three weeks. The writing on the envelope was unfamiliar.

Toby leaned over Mother’s shoulder as she read from the single lamp in the small boardinghouse room the family shared.

Mrs. Henry,

I am writing to put your mind at ease. Your husband came down with the pox around the start of the month. Do not fear, his fever has passed, and he is recovering. I see him daily. He can sit up in bed and take broth. Mr. Henry remains as weak as a kitten but appears to have few scars. His greatest concern is for you and his children—he knows you will be worried having received no communications these many days.

He misses you terribly, but please do not return yet. Smallpox remains a grim resident of this town. I estimate a full third of our little hamlet has perished. Bodies lie stacked like cord wood along the cemetery road. I wrap them in simple shrouds made of their own bedding as coffins cannot be made quickly enough. As men regain their health, they take turns burying the dead.

Wishing you well,

Silver Heels

***

It was April before the snow and the disease relented, allowing the women and children to return to Buckskin Joe.

Toby felt as proud as a returning hero riding on top of the stagecoach as it rolled into town. His little brother and sister had to ride inside the bouncing coach with Mother.

“Father,” Toby called and waved from his high perch. Only his father and one other man were at Tabor’s General Store, which served as the stagecoach station, post office, and bank.

Horace Tabor stepped out of the store and gave Toby a hardy wave. His wife was the first person off the stage, pulling along their son Maxie who she did not allow to ride atop the coach. “I want to see the ledgers,” Mrs. Tabor said as she swept into the store. “You have been recording deliveries and sales, haven’t you?” Tabor grinned and shrugged as he followed his wife into the establishment she had built.

“It is so good to see you,” Father said with a catch in his voice. He hugged Mother in a rare display of public affection. He helped Toby down and exclaimed, “You’ve grown! Why I hardly knew.” He patted little brother’s head and swung little sister into his arms.

Mother laid a hand on Father’s face, gently caressing the few pox marks that dotted his cheeks and forehead. He pulled away from her touch and turned his head. Tears filled her eyes. “You’re still the most handsome man I know, my darling Mr. Henry.” She rose to her tip toes to lightly kiss him.

Toby had imagined a grander reception for the returning women and children. An unusual hush settled like fine dust on the streets of Buckskin Joe. The men were hollowed-eyed shadows with slumped shoulders as if their backs and spirits had both been broken. Pox scars marred faces that had shone with vitality only a few months before. Gone was not only the confidence that good fortune was within reach, but also the vigor to find that fortune.

“I’d like very much to see Silver Heels,” Mother said. “I want to thank her for caring for you while you were sick and her thoughtful letters when you were too weak to write.” Mother ducked her head in shame. “I was less hospitable to her than I should have been. I’d like to apologize for that.”

Father slowly shook his head.

Fear rose in Toby’s chest. “Did she catch the pox?” he blurted out.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh no.” Mother clutched at the embordered hankie she held. “Did she … pass?”

“No.” Father let out a long sigh. “I don’t know how the Catholic Church appoints their saints, but if given the chance the citizens of Buckskin Joe would nominate that little gal for sainthood. She ran from cabin to cabin nursing the sick, preparing meals, and washing sheets. She even helped bury the dead.”

“Where is she?” Toby needed to know.

“It’s a strange tale. Let’s go home and I tell you after supper.”

Later that evening, Father lit his pipe and began.

“A few weeks ago, about the time everyone started feeling better, Silver stopped making her rounds. Fellas were asking around when was the last time anyone had seen her? Several of us went to check on her.”

***

“Silver Heels, we’re here to see you,” called the assembled men.

No answer came from the little cabin, but a curtain in the window moved slightly.

“Are you all right? We’re worried about you. Let us in.”

“No, no go away,” came the weak voice. “I have the pox. Go. Go.” The curtain fell back, and the men reluctantly turned and left.

“We need to care for her as she cared for us,” said an old prospector.

“She brought me broth and headache powder,” said another.

“She boiled my bedding and wash my clothes in strong lye soap.”

“She bathed my fevered head and chest with cool water.”

No one knew much about doing laundry and it would be highly improper for a gentleman to wash her chest. So, it was decided they would bring her what food they could quickly scrape together—venison jerky and hardtack—along with a bar of lilac soap from Tabor’s store.

The next day the men visited the dancing girl’s cabin again. When they called to her, a weak wave appeared in the window. They left their package at her door.

Young Simon made a hearty soup of ham and dried peas scrounged from various larders and a crock was placed on her step. The next day, when the crock was set out empty and washed, the miners took it as a good sign that she was up and eating.

The men cared for their beloved Silver Heels through a shut door for ten cloudy days. Even the sun seemed to miss her.

“Silver Heels, it’s us,” they called. “We brought some sweet cider. Why don’t you let us in?”

“Oh no, I can’t let you in.” Her voice wavered with tears. “Please go away.”

“Are you feverish?”

“The fever is gone. I’m feeling better. But you must go. Leave me.”

“But why? What is wrong?”

A sob came from behind the door. “The pox has scarred me. My face is so hideous that I can never show it again. I can no longer dance, my appearance would be too offensive to any audience. I am ruined.”

The rough old miners began to sniffle and wipe their eyes. “Don’t you fret about that. You’ll always be the prettiest gal to us.” They could not convince her that her beauty was deeper than the scars.

The next morning the men of Buckskin Joe assembled and went en mass to Silver Heels’ cabin. A young fella had made a rose of red crape paper, since the mountain wildflowers would not bloom until June. They would make her understand she’d won their hearts, their everlasting loyalty with her kindness.

“Silver Heels,” they called, knocking at the door. There was no answer. “Silver.” The curtain remained still in the window. They pounded at the door. “Silver!”

Panic gripped the men, and they forced open the door. The tiny cabin was spotless. Dishes had been washed and stacked on the shelf. The floor was swept. No dresses hung on the hooks. The room was empty. The most beautiful woman they had ever seen was never seen again.

***

Billy pulled Grandpa Tobias’ hand, hurrying him along. When they arrived at the iron gates of the Buckskin Joe cemetery, only unattended grave markers silently stood in the tall grass. The woman was not there.

“She was here, I swear it, Grandpa.” Billy didn’t understand where the woman in black could have gone.

“I don’t doubt she was,” Grandpa Tobias replied. He turned and tipped his cowboy hat to the snow-covered peak in the distance. The wind that blew down from Mount Silverheels sounded like a song.

Author’s Note

Historians believe the story of Silver Heels is a myth as there is no record of her existence. Her given name is unknown so birth or death records can be found. She is not mentioned in any census. However, old timers swore she was a real person. They named a peak in her honor with gratitude for her selflessness.