“Gnomes.” A far-off look came into Malone’s eyes. “Don’t much care for ’em myself.” His voice grew faint with reminiscence. “There was thet time in Trondheim…” Towering over the two men, he nodded curtly. “Right, then. I reckon we can go and have a chat with your gnomish interlopers. Ain’t no harm in a friendly powwow, even with gnomes. Beyond that I make no promises.”
“That’d be fine, sor, that’d be just fine of you!” McLaughlin was beaming, his partner still wary. “Now then, Mr. Malone, sor, if you wish to discuss the matter of payment for your services…? In truth we’re just poor hardscrabblers, but I swear we’ll do our best to make this right by you.”
Again Malone flashed the broad smile that showed his teeth were, if naught else, at least as impressive as the rest of him. “Let’s first see what it is exactly we’re dealin’ with here, gentlemen, and then we’ll speak to the doing o’ good by it.” Without another word and displaying a surprising litheness of movement, he swung himself up into the massive saddle. At this his mount looked back at him, let out a disgusted snort, spat something at the ground that for just the barest fraction of an instant lay smoking, and started off into the hills. It occurred to O’Riley that though he had not seen Malone pull on the reins, the horse had headed in the correct direction. A fluke, he thought as he and McLaughlin hurried to where they had secured their own horses to a nearby tree. And no doubt typical of Malone himself. The man seemed a collection of flukes, not all of them necessarily benign.
Which, given the current situation he and his partner were facing, might not be entirely a bad thing.
It was a late afternoon when they finally arrived back at their diggings. To the miners’ great relief, nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Their tent still stood, and the rest of their meager belongings and supplies remained where they had been left. As for the pit itself, that sainted glory-hole-to-be, as near as they could tell it had not been filled in or otherwise damaged. Except for some scattered brush, the slope where they had been working so hard was still barren and unappealing. It mattered not. That which was truly worthwhile lay below ground and out of sight. But not, hopefully, for long.
Dismounting, Malone studied his immediate surroundings. The slope was crusted with gravel and broken rock, like crumbs on a coffee cake. Of the miners’ tiny tormentors there was no sign, a fact which he immediately pointed out to his anxious hosts.
“No need to concern yourself on that score, Mr. Malone, sor.” McLaughlin was solemn in the face of expectation. “We know how to summon them forth.”
With that he and his partner set to work, using bucket and winch to draw water as well as gravel and sand from the pit, dumping it in the big rocker and working it through, cursing all the while. As soon as they finished they presented the rocked batch for Malone’s inspection.
“See the gold, sor!” O’Riley did not try to hide his excitement and enthusiasm. “Almost washes itself out if not for all the blue-black glar that surrounds it. Clogs the rocker that muck does, and just makes for more work.”
Malone nodded sagely. “Gold it is, my friend. You two have struck it fair.”
“Nothing fair about it!” The voice that interrupted was high-pitched but insistent.
The mountain man turned. Where a moment earlier had been only scrub-laden hillside there now stood a mass of small menfolk. Armed with the tools of their trade, they glared ominously at the intruders. Before Malone could respond, O’Riley was replying—while being careful to remain behind the bigger man and keeping his feet well out of shovel range.
“Sure an’ we’re back, you little bugger-mothers! You say this is your mountain. Well, we’ve brought a mountain of our own!”
The leader of the gnomes tilted his head back to gaze up at the hireling. And back, and back, until his small thick neck could abide no further inclination. Malone reacted by kneeling before him. Though appreciative of this courtesy, the chief let out a small but distinct grunt of disapproval.
“Matters not how big you be, sir. There are many of us, and should you choose to interfere in this private matter, we will cut you down to size as quickly as we can dig and shore a cross-tunnel.”
“Now then, hövding, there be no need for threatening here.” Malone gestured back to where the two miners stood watching, at once fascinated and fearful. “Let’s talk this out in the manner of a proper stämma and see if we can’t come to a conclusion that leaves all parties equally satisfied and content.”
The chief’s enormous eyebrows rose in surprise. “You know a little of the truespeak! What manner of man be you?”
“A mannered one, I reckon. These fellers say this ’ere mine is theirs. I don’t expect they need the whole mountain t’ satisfy their claim.” He squinted upslope. “Seems to me there’s plenty o’ room fer all of you. They say they’ve filed right and proper papers to this place.”
“That’s right!” Coming forward, O’Riley pulled from his shirt pocket a sheet of paper that he proceeded to unfold and thrust first at the gnome, then at Malone. “All registered correct, as any fool can plainly see. No matter his size.”
The mountain man smiled thinly. “Perhaps best not to inject matters o’ size into this discussion, Mr. O’Riley.”
“Pagh!” Turning, the gnome made a short, sharp gesture. One of his tribe promptly scurried forth. Slighter in build than the majority of his fellows, he wore a red cap with a bent peak and thick glasses. From within a multitude of pockets in his oversized jacket, he drew forth a scroll. This he proceeded to unroll until it stretched from his ink-stained fingers past his chief, past Malone, past the two startled miners, past the assembled horses, and another ten yards down the mountainside before the end finally came to rest against a creosote bush.
The chieftain of the gnomes punctuated this presentation with a derisive sniff. “Our claim deed.”
“Now wait a minute…!” McLaughlin began. But Malone had already begun to read the extensive document.
How he could discern the tiny print, much less make sense of the lines of gibberish that to O’Riley looked like nothing more than chicken scratches, neither miner could imagine. With a speed that astonished even the gnomes, the mountain man had soon scanned the entire lengthy document. Having concluded his unnaturally swift perusal, he handed the mass of paper back to the care of the gnomish clerk, who, muttering under his breath, entered into the arduous task of rerolling it.
“Their deed,” he informed the two restless miners, “appears to be in order.”
Barely restraining his outrage, O’Riley shook their own deed at the diminutive chieftain. “Sure an’ ’tis enough o’ this! Where’s it registered, huh? Ours comes right and true from the territorial agency in Genoa! Where’s his registered?”
The chief folded his stubby but powerful arms and replied defiantly. “Asgard.”
McLaughlin sniffed disdainfully. “Ain’t never heard o’ no Asgard, Nevada Territory.”
“Nonetheless,” Malone told him, “they have a legitimate claim.” He looked back at the chieftain and his assembled prickly tribe. They were just itching for a fight. You could smell it. Nor were they put off by Malone’s size. Such a reaction was to be expected, he knew, of folk who spent their considerable lives underground while hewing their way through solid rock. Rising from his crouch, he turned and headed in the direction of his mount. Equally anxious, the two miners followed close on his heels, clinging to him like remoras to a shark.
“Sor! Mr. Malone, sor,” McLaughlin exclaimed, “you’re not leavin’ us now, are you? You promised to help.”