“Mining districts get born pretty casual, long before the government moves in and surveys a place and makes it legal. Miners themselves set up districts, adopt some rules about the size of a claim, stuff like that, and this gets put in a ledger, and usually the government gets around to recognizing this stuff years later. But bribe a clerk or two, and you pretty much turn it all cattywumpus.”
“Your claim’s valid?”
“Bet your ass, sonny boy.”
I didn’t cotton to being called sonny boy, but it was better than being called Cotton, so I just glared at him a bit.
“So them in that Palace Car, they’re not up and up?”
Agnes Cork, he began wheezing so hard I thought he’d choke.
“How come no one’s fighting ’em?”
“It’s that woman,” Agnes said.
I couldn’t make sense of that, but it sure did make me curious about her. She was just about the first woman I’d seen in a long time that made my britches go tight. I didn’t know they made women like that. She was some better than Sarah Bernhardt. I seen a picture of her once, and thought there sure is some world out there I ain’t never seen.
“Boy, you go back to pushing cows around until you’re growed up enough to walk into a mining camp. Now, it’s getting dark, and I kill anything wandering around my mine in the dark, and I don’t ask questions neither.”
I think that was a message aimed my way, so I loaded up Critter and climbed aboard, wanting enough light so he could pick his way down that slope without busting a leg. Leastwise, I got out of there without getting shot, and Critter didn’t bust nothing.
And I wandered toward Swamp Creek wondering whether to hire on. If all sides was as crooked as it sounded, it wouldn’t matter none which one paid me wages.
Chapter Three
I was scrapin’ the bottom of my purse in that mining town, and I was wonderin’ where my next chow would be coming from. This wasn’t no cow town where I could hook up with most any cow outfit, move into a bunkhouse, and fill my belly. No, this here Swamp Creek high in the mountains was different.
It rose up mighty fast, first canvas buildings, then log, and now some sawn wood was showing up here and there and the place was looking like it might stick around a while. There was false-front stores doing a trade. They was a saloon ever’ few yards, a few whorehouses with them red lanterns rocking in the breeze, a few flophouses where a miner could lie on a bedbug pallet for two bits a night, and a few little whitewashed cottages where folks lived pretty decent.
Now there’s plenty of work available in a mining town, and sometimes for two or three dollars a day, too, king’s wages, but the stuff you got to do is plain disgusting. If it’s hard-rock mines, like in the Swamp Creek district, you’ve got to go down in some black hole for ten hours, choke on fumes, hope the whole thing doesn’t cave in, and spend the whole time hammering and shoveling. The noise is so bad that you’re half deaf time you get out of that hole and breathe some real air and see some night sky.
Most of them miners, they’re big and tough. Even the little ones are big and tough. They come from all over the world, places I can’t even pronounce, and half of them got names I never heard of. Soon as the shift ends, they head for their favorite saloon and toss down boilermakers, or some such. Like most cowboys, I learned the hard way to treat ’em good. Now most cowboys, me included, we think we’re pretty tough. Sometimes we work hard, like brandin’ time. But truth is, mostly we’re just getting carried around on our nags and hardly use our muscles. But miners, they shovel sixteen tons of rock a shift into ore cars, year after year.
So the first time I got into a little punching match with a miner, he just about hammered me down a posthole. It was an education. Once, while sitting in a twoholer, I read about the Seven Wonders of the World and the Colossus of Rhodes. I ain’t got much schooling, and most of it was sittin’ in one crapper or another. Most cowboys got educated that way. There was always something to read in there, right next to the corncobs.
This here miner I took a lick at one foolish night in a saloon, he was that Colossus of Rhodes in the flesh, and for certain the Seventh Wonder of the World, eight feet tall and five feet wide. I was laid up for a week and black and blue for a month. It might not have been so bad if I’d been alone, but there were a dozen cowboys watching me and hooting me on, and they got to see the whole show. We all thought we was tougher than a bunch of rock grubbers, but boy, did we learn fast.
Since then, I’ve been mighty smiley around them miners, because I don’t want to mop up buckets of my own blood. But now I was plumb out of money in a mining burg, and the options weren’t good. I could muck rock for two dollars a day, or I could leave town and hope to eat rabbits and squirrels on my way somewhere else. It was depressin’ to think about. I’ve been down in one of them little holes once, and that was enough. I looked at that rock above me, and wondered when a thousand tons of it would land on my head. You sort of get to appreciate daylight down there. Even a cloudy day seems mighty nice when you get out of one of them holes.
Maybe I could find something else for a while. I stared up and down that muddy street, wonderin’ how to feed my face, and not coming up with much. Well, it was then that a job found me. Some tough gunslick with greased-down black hair, he stops me outside the Eagle Saloon and asks me if my name is Cotton.
I owned to it reluctantly. I can’t seem to keep anything quiet, includin’ that name.
“Mr. Scruples, he wants to talk with you,” this lantern-jawed gent said.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” says I.
“Unfinished business, Mr. Scruples says. You can meet him at the Palace Car. But don’t delay. If he doesn’t hear from you, he’ll make other plans.”
Unfinished business would be that job offer, and I wasn’t of a mind, not after seeing all those bodies scattered around and Agnes Cork tellin’ me what Scruples was up to. But I overcame my reluctance, mostly because I wanted another glimpse of that ice blonde. That would be worth the whole trip. Just one little look. Just a few words. Just thinkin’ about her made me itch in the britches.
I wasn’t too keen about this whole thing, and thought maybe to have a drink first, a little liquid courage, so I headed into the Mint Saloon, and laid my last dime on the plank bar and got a mug of tap beer. The stuff tasted like creosote, and I thought maybe the Saints had brewed it. They didn’t drink it, but they wasn’t opposed to making money any way they could, so they cranked up their distilleries and pumped out Valley Tan, and beer, too. Their teamsters delivered it regular to mining camps, and without drinking half their load.
I sat real quiet on a stool and listened to the gab around me, and it turned out that the Mint was the place to pick up word about all them little mines. This wasn’t a miners’ bar at all, but one where prospectors and small-time operators and loners gathered. These gents, they mostly had beards and weathered faces the color of an old saddle and battered slouch hats. Now you take a miner, he’s white as a fish belly, and that’s because he hardly sees daylight.
Somehow or other, word had leaked out about Agnes Cork’s fight, and those bearded fellows, they were listening hard, and I listened hard, too.
“That Scruples, he sent a regular army after old Agnes, and they got whupped,” one said.
“I don’t know how long
