The old man shook his head. “She held on to it because Tabor told her. She become that poor, she didn’t have a roof over her head. So she moved out to the mine. Lived alone in a one-room cabin.”
He leaned forward, holding his young listeners.
“Gettin’ enough to eat wasn’t all her trouble. Tax collectors came out to the mine and she held them off with a gun. But she had friends who stuck by her, respected her grit, like that Jacob Sands of Aspen and some others, I forget the names. They spent money to clear her title to Matchless so that she could hold on to it, to the very end. She held it for forty years, but it never paid any.” He sighed deeply.
“They found her one day, her body dressed in rags, her feet covered with newspapers to keep out the cold—found her frozen to death.”
For a while no one spoke. Then as if wishing to break the pall of sadness that engulfed him, Lynne asked, “Do you ever get to Aspen?”
“Sometimes. We have friends over there,” and he pointed in the direction of Toklat.
Looking across the field, they saw Allen coming toward them with great long strides. “Had a wonderful time with Mr. Mace,” he said as soon as they were within earshot. Then coming closer he noticed the old man. Allen’s eyes seemed to ask, “Where did you pick up this ancient?”
“Allen,” Lynne said quickly, “this gentleman is one of the two natives of Ashcroft—and still lives here.”
“I’m happy to know you,” Allen said, shaking his hand.
They repeated the Baby Doe story for Allen’s benefit as they spread their lunch, which they insisted the old man share with them. When they left, he stood there waving, a tall spare figure, framed by the deserted houses and the brooding mountains.