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 fishbelly, 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 he can hold out. Next time, they’ll try something different.”
“Cork told me he filed proper on that pocket, but Scruples don’t let that slow him down. Scruples tried to buy him out for a few clams, but Cork, he didn’t budge. He said he’d sell for ten thousand.”
“Must be a pretty good pocket. Agnes Cork, he don’t lack for anything. He’s paid up at the Mining Supply. I was in there when Cork bought a case of Dupont and some fuse and caps and a new pick, and he just laid down gold coins.”
“Coins? Not ore? He must be makin’ some bucks.”
“You think ten thousand’s a bit high for that pocket?”
“Guess we’ll find out. Scruples, he’s going to try again, I’ll wager. You just gotta wonder what’s up there in that hole.”
Me, I just studied each man, trying to get some handle on him. Mostly, they were loners, I thought. I didn’t hear anything bad about Scruples, except he was lookin’ for a bargain. We all look for bargains.
“How does Cork get his ore out of there? You’d think Scruples would just jump the mine when no one’s around there.”
“He must have some secret way of getting it out. Truth is, I’ve never seen a load leave that mine.”
“Whatever it is, he ain’t going to tell us how he does it,” one of them said. “That’s a hell of a hole he’s got there. Them tailings keep on growing so he’s hauling a lot of rock out of there. He must be in there a quarter of a mile.”
It was funny, because I had the answer, straight from Agnes Cork himself. There wasn’t no ore. But I kept my mouth shut and sipped that rotten beer which tasted like horse piss. I had no idea why Cork’s mine went in so far, if the ore had pinched out and it was just a pocket.
Well, I finished up my mug and took a leak in the alley. I climbed onto Critter and headed up a steep hill toward this here Palace Car, which glowed purple and gold in the late afternoon light. It sure was out of place, with no railroad anywhere near. But there it was, on the crest of a hill, lording over Swamp Creek, as if whoever lived there owned the whole place. And maybe they did.
Well, there wasn’t no hitching post up there, but as soon as I got close, some gunslick with a pair of Colts hanging from his hips butt forward climbs out of the shadows. I watch him close, thinkin’ maybe he’ll pull one of those short-barrel .45-caliber irons on me, but he simply stared up at me. “The man wants to talk with you. I’ll take your horse.”
“That’s Critter, and he don’t like bein’ taken anywhere.”
“I’ll take him.”
“No, I’ll ground-rein him like always.”
“I’ll take him.”
“You tell Scruples I’m not interested,” I said, starting to turn Critter away.
But this dude, who’s got greased-down hair like the one in town, he grabs my bridle. “I’ll take him,” he said.
Critter kicked the hell out of him, and the dude dropped to the ground howling, and when he came up, he was waving that revolver in Critter’s chest.
“Lugar, stop.”
That was Scruples, who was standing on the observation deck at the rear of the Palace Car.
