Chapter Thirty-two

  I took to having a beer at the Miners Exchange now that the Mint was shut down. I sure missed Billy Blew, but Muggsy Pitt at the Exchange was a good barkeep, too. I knew I still had a bull’s-eye painted to my chest, and any of Scruples’ thugs might try me some time, but I didn’t much care. I wasn’t gonna let them scare me off.

  So I bought my nightly mug of beer from Muggsy and listened to the talk of all them hard-rock miners, good men who worked hard for their wage and liked a shot or a mug at the end of the shift. With the Mint boarded up, the prospectors and independent men, the few left in Swamp Creek, came in, too, and the Exchange was usually full up.

  Once in a while, one of them Scruples men came in, Lugar once, and some of them other thugs, and I was ready for trouble, but trouble never came. They’d look me over and buy a drink and suck beer at their own table, and leave. Maybe Scruples was just wanting to keep an eye on me since I was the only one left around there who could maybe give him some trouble.

  Swamp Creek looked the same, but it seemed to be waiting for something. The miners still came up at the end of the shift and went down at the start, and still drifted to their cabins after a boilermaker or two, and the mill kept stamping ore, and the woodcutters still drove in with cordwood, but it was different. It was like life had quit moving forward. Over at Carboy’s place out of town, Celia and Carboy were safe enough, with guards keeping an eye on things, but nothing much was happening there neither. Scruples won. He owned Swamp Creek, the mines and mill and all the rest. And he would sit on it until he got himself a buyer.

  Then one day, a stranger rode in on a chestnut saddle horse, a fine-lookin’ animal. And the stranger was no stranger to money, anyone could see that. He wore a gray woolen suit of clothes, with a starched white shirt and black bow tie, and shined-up black boots, and a pearl-gray wide-brimmed hat. He looked like a prosperous businessman, maybe in his forties or early fifties, just a bit of gray beginning. He had him a square face, with a lot of jaw, and observant gray eyes.

  Anyway, he came into the Miners Exchange, and ordered a whiskey neat from Muggsy, and that sort of interested everyone. There wasn’t another man with a suit in there. Everyone wore working duds, not fancy clothing, but there was this stranger, sipping red-eye, observing the rest of us openly. We sure were curious about him, but he seemed just to be passing by, and after a drink or two he’d mount up and ride that fancy chestnut away somewheres and we’d never see him again. The West was like that. Lots of people coming through, minding their own business.

  Only something was different.

  He finished his drink and waited a while, and when the whistle blew over at the mine, he sort of perked up, and when the crowd off shift come tumbling in and ordering up their brews and shots, he studied them all. I sure was curious, but it wasn’t no business of mine, so I just kept an eye out. Once or twice, the stranger eyed me, noting the revolver that I’d gotten from Celia, and then his eyes glanced elsewhere, like he was making notes on just about everyone in the whole saloon.

  Then, when the whole off-shift bunch got settled into some serious drinkin’, he leaned over to Muggsy and asked if the barkeep would quiet the place for a minute.

  So Muggsy, he rapped a spoon against a bottle and pretty soon got the whole Exchange to quiet.

  “This here stranger wants to say something,” Muggsy said. “So I’ll give him thirty seconds.”

  The stranger set down his shot glass and eyed the silent miners.

  “I’m Mike Gilligan from the Four Leaf Clover over at Suicide Gulch. We’ve hit it big. We’ve got two exploration shafts started and a mill’s arrived on wagons. There’s claims being filed daily. The quartz ore’s assaying at five hundred a ton. I just hired your woodcutters at two-fifty a day, and I’d like to hire all of you at three a day. We’ve got a tent city going up, and we’ll have lots and cabins for miners going up by the time you arrive. The sooner you get there, the better your chances of getting a good lot. Any questions?”

  It took no more than thirty seconds, all right. Gilligan, he dropped a few chunks of that quartz ore on the bar, and anyone could see gold threading through it. Them miners took one look and passed it along.

  Suicide Gulch lay about ten miles south, up in a hanging valley. It’d been around for a few years, not doing much, a few halfway profitable little digs, and a store or two. But now they’d hit bonanza gold, and wanted men to work it, and that’s why Gilligan was here. Now there’d be a rush, and Swamp Creek would empty out in a day or two. Even the storekeepers would pull up stakes, head for the new camp, and leave Swamp Creek rotting away like it was yesterday, not tomorrow.

  The miners did have a question or two.

  “You got two shafts going?”

  “We do. There are two quartz seams, and it’s easiest to get at them with two. We’ve got woodcutters bringing us timber.”

  “Three dollars is one more than we’re getting here.”

  “You’re worth it to us.”

  “Who’s us?”

  “The partners who own the Four Leaf Clover.”

  “You hiring only Irish?”

  Gilligan smiled. “If you’re lucky,” he said.

  There was a deal more of that, and I listened real hard. Then I slipped out, got on Critter, and rode out to Carboy with the news.

  Him and Celia were sittin’ in the parlor there when the guard let me in.

  “There’s a rush over to Suicide Gulch. Man named Gilligan come in to the Miners Exchange and hired pretty near the whole town of Swamp Creek,” I said.

  “Good. We need the men,” Carboy said.

  “Now just a minute here, say that again.”

  “I’m one of the partners at the Four Leaf Clover.”

  This here was getting over my head real fast.

  Celia, she just smiled really pretty.

  “As you now know, I’ve been busy, even if Scruples has me cooped up here,” Carboy said. “Everything’s going according to plan.”

  It sure took me some to get that figured out. “You got a piece of that mine?”

  “I have investments in many places.”

  “You gonna move to Suicide Gulch?”

  “This is a beautiful valley, Cotton. I’ve made it home, and soon we’ll have the Big Mother mine producing again. And that railroad car and its occupant will vanish. Now, tomorrow I’d like you to spend time in Swamp Creek and report to me what’s happening.”

  “I’ll do her,” I said.

  Like I was asked, I drifted on in to Swamp Creek in the morning, and sure enough there was a rush. People was packing up, loading wagons and mules, and heading for Suicide Gulch. I watched Arnold try to bully them miners into staying, but it didn’t make no sense to crack heads, bust kneecaps, and break the fingers of the work force, so pretty soon no one paid him attention, or bothered with The Apocalypse, who was hovering around there looking real dangerous but not killing anyone at the moment. Them miners was heading for better pay, along with the woodcutters and some of the town’s merchants. I saw a whole wagonload of scarlet women in furs and feathers take off for the new digs, and then a wagon of pimps following along.

  Of course, not everyone was ditching Swamp Creek. There was them merchants that figured the mines in town were still full of ore and things would settle down pretty quick. The livery barn hostler was staying put, and so was the town blacksmith, at least for now. But some of the saloons looked like they was folding, including the Ponderosa House. Swamp Creek was sure slimming down to a quarter of what it had been, and was getting real quiet.

  And the whole bunch was headed for what was mostly a tent town, but would quick enough throw up buildings. Suicide Gulch was in a hanging valley higher up, and it was sheer suicide to drive a wagon up that last hundred-yard grade, which is how it got its handle. It was nothing more than a huddle of log buildings until now, but that would change real fast.

  I was about to head back to Carboy and tell him that Swamp Creek had mostly died away that morning, but then I watched a black carriage pulled by trotters come rolling into town from up the creek, and it was surrounded by some tough customers. Sure enough, it was Carter Scruples in there, having a look for himself. He had three or four toughs on either side of him, and I recognized Lugar and them thugs who called themselves Arthur and Cleveland and Garfield, and some others I hadn’t seen, but with a pair of revolvers on their hips.

  I just stood there watching. I had six bullets before they’d completely cut me down, but the first two was reserved for Scruples himself. They saw me, all right, but a word from Scruples was enough so they didn’t try anything, just stared at me. He was out looking at the damage, the closed-down gin mills, the shut-down mine and mill, and deserted town. He wanted to see it for himself, and shooting me wasn’t on his list of things needed doing just then.

  So I leaned against a post on the boardwalk and watched his slow progress.

  But then Lugar came trotting over.

  “He says to tell you he’s not forgotten you,” Lugar said. “And that isn’t healthy.”

  “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Counting empty buildings. He’s gonna take title to about fifty for free, and that makes his deal all the better. He’s got two big mines full of ore, a mill, and twenty or so small mines in the district. With the buildings, he’s got a deal no one can refuse.”

  “What happened to that buyer?”

  “As if you didn’t know,” Lugar said.

  “He got any others?”

  “His brokers are looking at prospects all the time. There’ll be several parties arriving here any day now.”

  “What’s he want for the whole district?”

  “Whatever the traffic will bear. He’s holding out for one million even.”

  “What’s he going to do if it don’t sell?”

  Lugar smiled. “We’re on our way to Suicide Gulch.”

  “Take that one over, too. How you gonna get that Pullman Palace Car up Suicide Gulch?”

  “Don’t ask me. But he’s going to do it.”

  “What happens here when Scruples pulls out?”

  “It’ll be sold before he pulls out. But his assistants, meaning us, will be getting ourselves into business in Suicide Gulch.”

  “That’s mighty interestin’,” I allowed.

  Lugar smiled. “He ain’t forgot that you ditched him and broke your contract.”

  “I ain’t forgot it either,” I said. “Tell him I’m remembering it just about once an hour, sometimes on the half hour.”

  Lugar glared at me and stalked off. As for me, I got what I was looking for, a handle on Scruples’ plans, so I headed down the valley for Carboy’s place. I’d give him a mouthful.

  Pretty quick, I told him and Celia everything I found out in Swamp Creek, which was a whole lot.

  “I guess I can go back to my rooms now,” Celia said.

  “I think you’d better stay here a while more, Mrs. Argo,” Carboy said. “The danger’s not past by any means. There’s another buyer coming any day now, and Carter Scruples will not want that buyer to make any contact with you—or me.”

  “You seem to know all about him,” I said.

  “I do. And he’s on his way. And he’s coming at my invitation.”

  “I sure don’t get what you’re up to, Mr. Carboy.”

  “You’ll see soon enough. I can tell you this much. The buyer is the biggest name in mining. A name to remember. It’s Beal Z. Burt, who has made half a dozen fortunes in California, Nevada, Arizona Territory, and here. I assure you, B. Z. Burt is a man to reckon with, a man who’s never bought a bad mining property. And I can also assure you that Carter Scruples will go to any length at all—anything—to keep B. Z. Burt from talking to you or to me. You’ll never forget that name.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Swamp Creek sure was quiet. The mercantile was still open, and the grocer, but they was plainly waiting to see whether the mines would get sold and reopened quick. There was maybe fifty people left, and not even the Miners Exchange was doing much trade. But there was a lot of good ore in them big mines, and the whole place could come back with a roar.

  I never saw Carter Scruples. He was sulking up in his Pullman Palace Car on the hill. He’d sent all his thugs to Suicide Gulch to see what kind of trouble they could start, but he kept that big galoot Arnold around Swamp Creek, and once I got a glimpse of The Apocalypse sniffing around town, lookin’ for someone to kill.

  Cletus Carboy kept me on at his place, saying he needed me for the safety of himself and Celia Argo, which he did because two of his mine guards quit and went off to Suicide Gulch looking for better pay or maybe more excitement. So I was the main feller to fend off Scruples’ assassins and thugs around there, and I done the best job I could. I got a good chance to visit with Celia, and I think she was enjoyin’ it. I sure was enjoyin’ seeing her all the time around there. But Carboy was right. It wasn’t a good time for her to go back to her rooms in town.

  He still had some groundsmen around for that big place, but they wasn’t very handy with a short gun, and even less with a long one, so I was it. I toured Swamp Creek real often, picked up what I could be way of gossip, most of it from Muggsy Pitt. But the stark truth was that nothing was happening.

  Until one afternoon, Carboy had a guest. A big homely feller in a dark suit that was cut awkward, like it didn’t belong on him. He had some sort of briefcase with him, and a couple of leather bags. He’d rented a carriage and a pair of trotters in Butte and had driven himself down to visit Carboy. This feller looked me over like a preacher would, seeking out ever’ sin I ever done, which was more than I could remember at once, and then Carboy made the introduction.

  “Cotton, this is my friend B.Z. Burt,” he said. B.Z. Burt! The biggest mining man in the West! And visiting Carboy before he even went off to see about Scruples’ offerings.

  “Pleased to meet ya, Mr. Burt.”

  We shook hands.

  “It’s the Reverend Mr. Burt,” said Carboy.

  “A preacher?”

  Burt shrugged. “Theology is the true road to making a fortune.”

  “Well, you some hellfire and damnation man?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Cotton. I belong to the Church of Self-Aggrandizement.”

  Big words again. Damned if I knew what he was talkin’ about.

  “Never heard of that one,” I said.

  “The Church of Make a Buck Fast,” Burt said.

  “Well, there’s one I could belong to,” I allowed. “You come to town to look at some mines?”

  “Specifically, to see about buying the Swamp Creek Mining District from Mr. Scruples.”

  “And Carboy here, he don’t mind?”

  “Why should he mind?”

  “Because Scruples euchred him outa his mine and mill.”

  “I invited him to come over from Nevada,” Carboy said.

  “This is getting way over my head,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go back to ranch work.”

  Burt glanced at Carboy. “Shall I divulge?”

  “He’s more or less reliable,” Carboy said, nodding at me.

  “Are you more or less honest?” Burt asked me.

  “I got a saloon trick, and I’ve cheated a few pals into buying me drinks,” I said.

  “You’ll do,” Burt said. “I don’t trust hundred-percenters.”

  He opened up that briefcase and extracted some documents and handed them to me. I sure couldn’t make them out, even though I got half through sixth grade.

  He saw me running a finger along each word and trying to mouth it, and decided to help me.

  “These are letters of credit on San Francisco and Carson City banking houses,” he said. “They total a million dollars and lack only my signature. If I sign them, they will pay for the Swamp Creek Mining District.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “But of course I shall want something in return, the valid claims and mining patents and deeds to the properties I am acquiring,” he said. “In short, Carter Scruples will supply me with the necessary papers of ownership.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Even though his claims and deeds are either forgeries or actual claims obtained by nefarious means.”

  “Them is crooked claims all right,” I said.

  “And so are these letters of credit.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Arrgh. Garumph.”

  Celia, she was sort of smirky sitting there. Me, I just stared at B.Z. Burt like he come from under a rock.

  He took his letters of credit and stuffed them back into that leather briefcase.

  “Time’s a-wasting,” he said. “There is one small favor to ask of you, Mr. Cotton. Just in case, I’d be grateful if you’d shadow me and if need be, protect me if something should not be quite right. I’m heading for the Miners Exchange in a bit.”

  “I’ll do her,” I said.

  “But be invisible.”

  “There’s only a few hoot owls protecting Scruples,” I said. “A heavyweight nutcracker named Arnold and a rotten little killer named The Apocalypse, and his headman, Lugar.”

  “Quaint,” said Burt.

  He shook hands all around and then returned to his carriage. We stood on the veranda and watched the reverend drive off, the trotters picking up a smart pace as he headed into Swamp Creek.

  “This should do it,” Carboy said. “I’ll burn Scruples’ forgeries, recover the valid claims and deeds, and try to return them to their owners.” He eyed Celia. “Such as you.”

  “He still got them hooligans,” I said. “And he can get the rest back from Suicide Gulch.”

  “We’re thinking he’ll just leave town when he gets those letters of credit.”

  I was feelin’ itchy. “We’ll see,” I said.

  Carter Scruples was usually a jump or two ahead of everyone else. Take that B. Z. Burt. Was that the real B. Z. Burt, or just some fake? I didn’t know, but Carboy seemed to think it would all work out real good.