“It’s a long story,” Hawke said.
Dorchester stared at Hawke for a long moment, as if stupefied by what he had just heard. Then, shaking his head as if to clear it of such distressful information, he sighed.
“Very well, sir. I will respect your privacy.” Abruptly he smiled. “Wait a minute. You want a job playing the piano, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me look around a bit. I may be able to come up with something for you. In the meantime, I would like to invite you to my home on Saturday next. I should have the piano in place by then. You would honor me, greatly, by attending?”
“And playing the piano for you?”
Dorchester chuckled. “Of course I would be thrilled if you would play for us.” He held up his hand. “But the invitation is for you, personally, not for someone to entertain me. Whether you choose to play or not will be up to you.”
“I’m sorry, it was rude of me to suggest that you had that in mind,” Hawke said. “Please forgive me for that insolence. I would be glad to come.”
Dorchester smiled happily. “Good, good. And maybe by then I will have something for you.”
Hawke took a room in the Morning Star Hotel. When he awoke the next morning, he heard the ringing sound of a blacksmith’s hammer. Because the blacksmith’s shop was at the far end of the street, the hammering, though audible, was not particularly intrusive. He could also hear the scrape of a broom as the storekeeper next door swept his front porch.
The blacksmith’s hammer fell in measured blows, so that after each ring of the hammer, he could hear the scratch of the broom.
As a counter melody, the hotel sign, which was suspended from the overhanging porch roof just below Hawke’s window, was squeaking in the morning breeze, while across the street in the wagon yard, someone was using a sledgehammer to set a wheel. The result, in Hawke’s musical mind, was a symphony of sound.
Hawke lay in bed for a full minute until the storekeeper stopped sweeping, thus breaking up the composition. Then he finally got up, stretched, and walked to the window to look out over the street of the town he had thus far seen only at night.
Directly across the street from the hotel was the saloon, advertised by a huge wooden sign. On the left side of the sign was a painted mug of golden beer, over which was a large
A single-story office building was next to the saloon. The sign in front read: MCPHERSON ENTERPRISES. Next to that was the wagon yard. The wheel, now set, was being packed with grease. Beyond the wagon yard he saw an apothecary, a hardware store, and, finally, a Chinese laundry. The depot and railroad were at one end of the street, a church at the other end. On his own side of the street, he couldn’t see all the buildings.
When he’d taken the room last night, he paid an extra quarter to be able to take a bath. Now, he decided to avail himself of that luxury.
Across the street in the McPherson Enterprises’ office, as Hawke was taking his bath, Bailey McPherson was standing in the front room with Addison Ford. In the back room, Ethan Dancer and Jason White were sitting at a large conference table.
“Must Ethan Dancer attend this meeting?” Addison asked quietly.
“Mr. Dancer is my personal bodyguard,” Bailey replied. “He goes everywhere I go.”
“But the way he looks, that terrible scar. He makes me feel uneasy.”
“Good! That is what makes him so effective as a bodyguard.” She laughed. “That, and his skill with a pistol.”
“But surely you don’t think you need a bodyguard with me?”
“He goes where I go, Mr. Ford. If you are going to do business with me, I suggest you get used to that.”
The front door opened then and two men came in. One of them was carrying a bag, and as far as Addison was concerned, that was about the only way to differentiate the two. Both men needed a shave, and the clothes they wore looked as if they had come from an odds and ends charity barrel. The fact that they also needed a bath was immediately apparent to Addison, who had to turn away from the smell. Amazingly, neither their appearance nor the odor they exuded seemed to bother Bailey.
“Ah, Luke, Percy, come in,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” She led them back into the conference room, where she took a seat next to Dancer. Addison sat next to Jason White.
There were no chairs around the table for Luke and Percy, and Bailey made no offer to provide any. Instead, she got right into the purpose of the meeting.
“Gentlemen,” she said, by inference addressing only those who were seated, “this is Luke Rawlings and Percy Sheridan. These two men have been doing some…prospecting of late, and I invited them here this morning to give us their report. Suppose we begin, Luke, by you telling us what you have in the bag?”
Luke, who had blotchy red skin, reached down into the bag and pulled out a fist-sized, irregular-shaped rock. He handed it to Bailey.
“Take a gander at that,” he said, revealing that he had no upper teeth.
Bailey examined the rock for a moment, then looked up. “I don’t see anything.”
“Turn it around and look up in the crevice. Hold it up to the light and you’ll see it.”
Bailey did so, and saw a glitter just where she was told it would be.
“Oh, yes, I see it now,” she said.
“That’s gold,” Luke said, a broad smile spreading across his face.
“Where did this rock come from?”
“The Little Sandy River in the Sweetwater Mountains,” he answered.
“How many rocks like this are there?”
“They’s quite a few of ’em around, ain’t they, Percy?”
His partner, who had been quiet so far, now said, “Yeah. They’s a lot of these here rocks up there.”
“Just lying around on the ground to be picked up?” Bailey asked.
“Oh, no ma’am, they ain’t like that,” Percy said. “You can’t just go up there ’n’ start pickin’ up rocks thinkin’ ever’ one of ’em is goin’ to show color. A fella is goin’ to have to hunt around some.”
Bailey turned her attention back to the rock. “Did you get an assay report?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke said. “It will prove out at eighty dollars per ton.”
“Well, now, gentlemen, what do you think of those numbers?” Bailey asked.
“Eighty dollars a ton is going to start a rush like the one they had in California,” Jason White said.
“Is that good enough for you, Mr. Ford?” Bailey asked.
“It’s more than good enough,” Addison said. “I will telegraph the Secretary of Interior tomorrow that I have approved your application for operational status under the provisions of the Railroad Land Grant Act of 1862.”
“Mr. White, how soon can you start the survey?”
“Right away,” he replied.
“Gentleman,” Bailey said, “the Sweetwater Railroad is in business.
The piano player in the Royal Flush saloon was bad. The only thing worse was the piano he was playing. Though in a way, Hawke thought, the fact that the piano was so badly out of tune might be a blessing in disguise. It made it difficult for the average person to be able to differentiate from a discordant note badly played and the harsh dissonance of the soundboard.
Hawke stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.
“Ain’t seen you around,” the bartender said as he held a mug under the beer spigot.
“I haven’t been around.”
“Well, welcome to the Royal Flush.” The bartender set the beer in front of Hawke. “My name is Jake.”
“Good to meet you, Jake. My name is Hawke.” Hawke put a nickel on the bar, but the bartender slid it back and shook his head.
“No sir, the first beer is on the house. That’s the owner’s rule.”
“Really?”
