Carol Cail

The following short story was first published by Short Stuff Magazine. If you've read The Seeds of Time, you'll recognize the setting.


GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

Say, John, I got something I been wanting to tell you for a long time--about ten years. See, it's a story about you, in a way.

When I first come to the Colorado Territory, I was 16 and still wearing the tattered pants of my Union uniform. It was my intention to strike gold, buy some land with the lode I found and live the rest of my life on a veranda with a whiskey in my hand.

In Central City, I took up with a couple other fellas with similar notions and similar runty success. Jaremy Swope was a cow man who had rode up from Taos in New Mexico with a drive of longhorns that developed big jaw and was destroyed, putting him out of work. Alferd McGinnis was drover, too, only he got fired for having a brand blotter's iron in his boot top, though he allus swore to me he never was a artist at altering brands. Alferd was stocky and fair as Jaremy was lean and dark, and whenever I tagged along with them, I felt like a dude horse compared to them curly wolves. 'Course, part of it was they was older than me.

Well, the three of us was all over the liveliest places--Leadville, Victor, Georgetown, Climax. But it seemed like we was always one hour late or two yards over. Oh, they was a flurry of excitement and hope ever' now and then, but never the gain we was looking for.

Jaremy was our prod pole that wouldn't let us lay down and quit. Ever' time Alferd was feeling daunsy and mean, ever' time I was ready to try some other line of work, old Jaremy would say, "Boys, let's go down to Ouray," or "I hear they's gophering pay dirt around Clear Creek," and off we'd tear again, allus ready to believe good luck was about to ambush us.

And then . . . and then Jaremy come up with a bulger of an idea on how to get rich without striking gold or any other mineral. To put his enterprise to the test, we drifted over to Mount Melissandra. Fifteen years ago it was a boomer. Full of miners and barkeeps and dance hall gals and mule skinners and what-not. Anybody that had been there six months was a native.

First off, him and Alferd staked a claim on the lower south slope of Mel. For a solid week, the three of us picked and pried and gouged at it, but a-course all we come up with was tailings and blisters.

Then Jaremy, he goes into town on a Saturday and brings back a pair of Boston innocents. Green? Them flatlanders was mossy behind the ears.

"Look here, gentlemen," Jaremy says, pointing at the opening to our rock farm. "This is the mine me and my pardners have to sell because we got too many other business ventures at the present."

About then Alferd, he yells, "Snake!"

Quick as a hooking cow, Jaremy yanked up his 12-gauge and fired from the hip, and a rattler at thick as your arm flapped down dead about a foot from those greenhorns' shoes.

Well, you can imagine the commotion that spurred off. In the midst of it, Jaremy says, "Why, looky here where the shot peppered the rock. Gold! Why, gentlemen, there's proof aplenty how rich this mountain is! Alferd, maybe we ought not to sell this particular mine after all."

But naturally they did sell, 'cause the gold that appeared so fortuitously was low-grade dust Jaremy had loaded in his shot gun expressly for this wabash on the greenhorns. And, case you're wondering, there wasn't any gold in the snake, on account of he'd been dispatched earlier in the day. Oh, Jaremy thought of everything.

Since it was his chisel, he got half the cash, Alferd got a third for his snake handling and I got what was left for doing 80 per cent of the rock grubbing. Jaremy figured there was time to sell two or three more mines before we had to move on. Him and Alferd staked another claim and kept their eyes peeled for a fresh rattlesnake.

And then's when Laura Marie Connor sashayed into the picture.

Her daddy owned this mercantile in Mount Mel, and the day we walked in for supplies, we was all three goners. She had eyes the color of rich brown bottomland, skin like bleached-out silk and midnight hair so heavy on her neck it sprung loose in damp little riffles.

Oh, but she had my pardners caught on a snag. If she spoke to Jaremy, Alferd sulked. If she smiled at Alferd, Jaremy stomped around and talked too loud. Me, I wanted to camp somewheres and sit and just watch her.

Sure enough, my two pards commenced to quarreling, even when Laura Marie wasn't nowhere near. They each told me in confidence how the other one was all that barred the way to a lifetime with the angel of his dreams.

Next to Laura Marie, though, the thing they wanted most was to line their pockets, so they tamped down their animosity and rounded up the next couple of tenderfeet to sucker into buying a salted mine.

The setup was same as the first time. I was astride a boulder close to Alferd when he hollers, "Snake!" and throws it off. Jaremy's double-barrel swung up blasting, and Alferd goes flying backwards like he exploded. You don't never want to get used to a sight like that.

Same time, the snake hits Jaremy and hangs on for dear life. To this day, I can't conceive how Alferd kept that live rattler peaceable till he pitched it. Jaremy lingered the better part of a week before he passed away.

So you see, John, it's thanks to old Jaremy and Alferd you're alive today. Say, she's still got them rich brown eyes, don't she?

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