Malone nodded understandingly. “This ’ere is dryish country, fer sure. Rough geology fer findin’ a well.”
The bartender did not blink in surprise, nor otherwise. In Colorado, a country that had been raised up on mines and mining, one heard the word “geology” and its related terms often enough. It was the current source that the mixologist found surprising.
“Can’t drill for water hereabouts, mister. Anybody tries to get a well in comes up dry. But the town’s got a natural spring. A great spring she is, too. Strong flow, water sweet and clear, no arsenic or mercury. The spring’s pretty much the reason the town is here, in what you rightly call rough country for a well.” His expression darkened. “Trouble is, we haven’t been able to draw from it for weeks now.”
Brows hard and sharp as Vermont granite drew together, and the barkeep could’ve sworn he heard a grinding noise. “Mind my askin’ why not?”
The younger man sighed. “There’s someone sittin’ on it. Funny old coot rode his wagon into town weeks ago. Did no harm at first. Even ate here once or twice. Then one day he unlimbered this old chair he had tied to his wagon, dragged it through town, set himself down atop the spring cap, closed the main valve, and wouldn’t move. Can’t no one get past his feet or that chair to open it back up.”
Malone considered. “This,” he murmured, “strikes me as passing strange.”
“Ain’t the half of it.” The bartender refilled the mountain man’s empty glass without having to be asked. “We tried polite at first. He wouldn’t budge. So a couple of our local miners decided to take matters into their own hands, so to speak. Tried to pull him out of his chair. Went easy, at first. Then hard. Big fellers, they both were, but they couldn’t shift the old fart an inch. Got some more help, until there were altogether five of them workin’ on him. Still wouldn’t move.” He shook his head at the memory of it.
“Tied chains to the legs of that chair and hooked ’em to a team. Four dray mares, big and strong from hauling mining equipment. Those horses did strain until I thought they would fall over, mister, and through it all that chair and that old man did not so much as give out with a creak. Pretty much exasperated by then, the sheriff, he pulled out his Colt and pointed it at the old man and said—I heard him for myself—he said, ‘You git your sorry skinny trespassin’ old ass off the town water source right now or by the rights invested in me by the State of Colorado and in full sight of the Good Lord himself, I will put a bullet in you, sir, right where you squat!’”
Malone’s face was impassive. “What happened?”
The bartender took a deep breath. “Well, mister, that old man, he just looked up at the sheriff with this funny glint in his eye and said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just continue to set a spell.’ So the sheriff, he fired once. Nothing happened. The old man, he stayed a-sittin’. And that bullet, near as anyone can reckon, it traveled about two feet, stopped deader than an Apache confronted by a naked Norwegian, and fell to the ground.” He nodded to his left, in the direction of the swinging doors. “Far as I know, it’s still there. Ain’t nobody in town dared to touch it.”
“The sheriff?” Malone inquired.
“Ain’t nobody seen him since. Still runnin’, I reckon. His eyes got as big as an owl’s, they did. Pretty much everybody else who was around at the time took off and ran, too. Can’t say as I blame ’em. So that’s why we ain’t got no water in town. Old man says he’ll move hisself and his damn chair off the spring valve for a thousand dollars. In gold. The mayor and the town’s leading business folk, they’re talkin’ about it. Drillin’ sideways into the spring to bypass the existing underground plumbing might work. Miners contend it might also ruin the natural flow permanent-like. But a thousand dollars…” His voice trailed away as he shook his head sadly. “He doesn’t get up to eat, doesn’t get up to drink, doesn’t get up for anything. Just sits there and rocks, back and forth, back and forth, smilin’ at nothing in particular.”
Silence lay middlin’ in the saloon for several minutes. This was due to a combination of the solemnity that had infected the town like typhoid, a current dearth of patrons, and the fact that those customers who were present found themselves uncharacteristically subdued in the presence of the human mountain ensconced at the bar.
Eventually Malone leaned forward slightly. To his credit the bartender did not shy from this increased proximity, not to mention the actual eclipse, though the bouquet that emanated from the well-traveled mountain man did cause the young man’s nostrils to clench involuntarily.
“Now then, son, what I’m about to ask you is pretty important. This old coot o’ yours: Did he say, ‘I think I’ll just continue to set a spell’? Or did he say, ‘I think I’ll just continue to set a spell’?”
The barkeep frowned. “Don’t rightly know. I wasn’t close enough to hear what he actually said. Was repeated to me by them that were.”
Malone straightened. Across the room, a quartet of hardened miners abruptly abandoned their card game and departed the premises as expeditiously as possible.
“Got some time afore dinner. Reckon I’ll go have a chat with this mulish visitant o’ yours. Might be I can persuade him t’ set himself somewhere else, and forgo the gold he’s attemptin’ to wrest from you folks.”
“You can try all you want, mister. Lord knows you’re the biggest thing I’ve seen this side of Pikes Peak, but I guarantee even you can’t pull him out of that old chair of his.”
Halfway to the door, Malone looked back. Eyes black as a six-year-old’s pudding-induced nightmare regarded the bartender. “Who said anythin’ about pulling?”
Outside the Double Eagle, a man was standing in the street just off the raised boardwalk and screaming. Or maybe he was crying. Probably both, Malone reflected as he paused to take in the scene. Certainly the second man lying on the ground and clutching himself was crying. Most likely, the prone one did not have the wherewithal remaining to scream. There was also a boy of about ten, who was standing on the boardwalk quietly observing the prospect before him. Malone leaned toward him. Unlike the denizens of the saloon, the lad was too young to exhibit the instinctive fear that someone of Malone’s size and appearance usually engendered.
“What happened here, son?”
The boy considered the man-mountain. “This here your horse, mister?”
“It be. His name’s Worthless.”
The youth turned back to squint at Malone’s mount. Worthless squinted back out of the eye located within a circular white patch. A leather bandage covered the stallion’s forehead. Beneath the leather, something indeterminate bulged intriguingly.
“Never seen a horse like this, mister.”
“He’s part Shire, part Appaloosa, part mistral, part—”
“What a ‘mistral’?”
Malone grinned slightly. “French breed.” He nodded toward the man who was screaming and crying.
“For God’s sake, make him move! Git ’im off me!”
Malone ignored the man’s pleas. “These two fellers been botherin’ Worthless?”
“I think they were trying to steal him, mister.”
The mountain man nodded. “That would explain why he’s standin’ on that poor feller’s right foot. Wouldn’t want Worthless standin’ on my foot, that’s fer sure.” He nodded at the man lying on the ground who was holding himself and moaning. “What happened to thet one?”
“I think he was trying to pull off your saddlebags when your horse kicked him. Right in the collywobbles.” The boy looked confused. “I swear, sir, your horse, he kicked out straight sideways. But cain’t no horse do that. A horse’s leg just goes pretty much forward and back. Ain’t never heard of a horse that could kick out straight sideways. Kinda surprised me.”