“Say your name was?”
“Metoxen. Henry.” Hod has recognized two or three other jacks on the job from his Butte days, men also digging under bogus handles. They usually don’t much care who you are if the ore keeps rolling out.
The mine dick steps up to look him in the eye. He can feel Grimes’s breath on his neck.
“There’s somebody got you pegged as a fella name Brackenridge. Officer in the Federation.”
There’d been a riot in Leadville in ’96, and the Federation led a strike just last year, shut most of the works down and had the owners worried some till the Colorado Guard was brought in to keep the workers starving and away from the driftmouths. One hothead had snuck through the sentries and sabotaged the pumps up on Carbonate Hill, flooding some of the mines beyond repair.
“That aint me,” says Hod.
“Somebody says it is.”
“Who would that be?”
They keep a blacklist, he knows, but he’s never been kodaked by the bulls or sat for a police artist. Not yet.
“Don’t matter who it is.”
“Well it’s not true.”
“That don’t matter neither,” says the mine dick. “You’re done.”
The nervous kid puts his hand on the butt of his gun. “That means out of company lodgings. Tonight.”
“He knows what it means.”
This is where you always have to be careful, Hod thinks, not admit to anything but not give them an excuse to unload on you.
“I worked three days already this week,” he says.
Grimes speaks up behind him. “That’s your lookout.” Grimes who a year ago was just another rock donkey like Hod, Grimes who for another fifty cents a day drives them and curses them, hollers cause they’re going through drill bits like green corn through a goose then hollers louder cause the jacking is going too slow, Grimes who missed his lunch because the day shift left their opinion of him steaming in it.
“We don’t pay off no Reds,” he says.
Hod smells apricots, acid and thick in the air, the separation plant upwind running their cyanide process, and the ball mill rumbling louder than thunder even a half mile away, and everywhere around them smoke, black smoke hanging over the tailing dumps and the smelters and the ore trains and over the hodgepodge shitpile of a town itself, hanging like a bad mood from Ball Mountain to Pawnee Gulch.
“Sure will miss it,” says Hod and steps quickly past the mine thugs.
He wanted to greet her with a job and a bankroll. He has twenty-five dollars hid in his street shoes but that won’t last long here, nothing but a man’s labor cheap in Leadville.
The boys in the washhouse are careful to avoid him, not sure who might be a spy scrubbing under the steaming water, sympathetic but living from payday to payday themselves. Hod sniffs shower spray into his nose and blows out gray clots, swishes the grit out of his mouth and works the carbolic soap deep into his hide, feeling it burn a little before he lets the cold water blast it off. The smelters pay only two dollars a day, two and a half tops, but they haven’t been struck so often and are less vigilant. In town there are only pimps, faro dealers, and respectable folks, the doctors and lawyers and assayers for the big outfits, and then a lot of former rock donkeys missing arms or legs who are living, more like slowly dying, on the bum. The clothes shed is empty but for Hod by the time he laces his shoes up and is ready to leave, hair wetly combed, shoe tops polished on the backs of his legs. He wishes he’d shaved this morning.
They take one look and say they aren’t hiring at the Thespian, or the Irene Number Two or the Julia Fiske or the Eclipse or the Forsaken or any of the other diggings and by the time he gets to Harrison Reduction it is dark.
It takes a while for the floor boss upstairs to understand what Hod is yelling in his ear, bulk ore thundering down the chute onto crushers and the crushers spinning, cannonballs inside tumbling to smash the biggest chunks into smaller ones that rattle walnut-sized to the shaker screens then tip into the grinders, iron ore-cart wheels screeching over the thrum of the conveyor belts and the roaring furnaces below, but finally he points down through the floor and hollers back “See van Pelt!”
The smelting works is not allowed to cool, men feeding the furnaces day and night, and Hod has to pause halfway down, air searing his lungs, till the heat of the metal steps prods his feet into movement. A bare-chested worker jams his lance into the mouth of the nearest furnace, which erupts with blue-green flame before the glowing red tongue oozes out, bubbling and smoking as it fills the sluice and rolls forward, the heavier matte beneath channeled off to the side as the molten surface waste spills over the front edge to splash, hissing viciously, into the conical slag pot below. Another sweat-drenched worker rushes forward pushing a cart frame, jacking the pot up off its stubby legs and rolling it, still sizzling, out through the low opening to the tip. Cones of just-dumped waste glow on the spoil bank, their light fading as they cool to ash, piles flickering here and there, dying, smoke wisping up toward the moon. Van Pelt is a balding man scribbling on a production log steadied against his assistant’s back. Both men wear flannel jackets and appear not to perspire.
“Worked in a smelter before?” Van Pelt gives Hod the briefest of glances and continues to write in the log.
Hod nods at a worker rolling a slag cart past, head turned away from the trailing fumes. “I can do that.”
“But you just come from a mine, didn’t you?”
Hod’s hair feels like it’s on fire, each breath scorching, and his high-mountain headache sits right behind his eyeballs, sharp as a fresh drill bit. He is in no shape to invent a plausible lie.
“Yes sir, I have.”
“Fired.”
“They didn’t have no complaint with my work.”
When the supervisor turns to look at him again there is the reflection from the angry furnace in his eyes. “Agitator.”
“No sir,” says Hod, cap held twisted in his hands. “Just a working man needs a job.”
Van Pelt lifts the production log and the assistant straightens his back. “Won’t find one in Leadville, not in the mines, not in the mills. Word’s gone out on you, son.”
The man was a colonel in Horace Tabor’s light cavalry, Hod remembers, the vigilante outfit that tried to boot the union out of town before the militia came in. The man is on the list Cap showed him once in the company dormitory before lights out, high up among the ones to be dealt with if the class war ever really boils over into something serious, something final. Hod is wasting his time here.
When he gets back to the dormitory he finds his lower bunk stripped bare, his few belongings piled on the mattress. Mrs. Mapes sits scowling and rocking and smoking her pipe in the entryway, snorting once when he passes with his roll to go out the back stairs.
There is a burro standing in the path down the hill, a slat-ribbed jenny with scabs on her rump, staring at nothing and still as a painting. Most of the wild pack wandering around the gulches are too old or too ornery to work anymore, no longer worth a prospector’s handful of feed, but this is a loner with a mad gleam.
“Look like you had your fill of it,” says Hod softly, making a careful arc around the animal. “Don’t spose I blame you.”
There is not the slightest movement in the creature’s eye as he passes, only the stare, angry and infinite.
There are men in tailored suits and ladies not for hire outside of the Delaware and at Tabor’s Grand Hotel on Seventh. Hod fights the notion that he should go inside and search out someone higher up the pyramid than Burt Grimes, maybe surprise old J. J. Brown or John Campion or any of the top-hatted, champagne-swilling bonanza kings who own the town and suggest where they might stick the Little Johnny and the rest of the Ibex works, but they are probably forted up in their Denver mansions and unavailable to entertain his opinions. Instead he drifts down slag-paved Harrison to Chestnut Street, already bustling with miners determined to throw their hard-earned money away, and begins to search the thirst parlors and love shops for Addie Lee.