“Oh, sure an’ ’tis easy for you to say.” Though not as impetuous, McLaughlin was no less upset than his partner. “Do you know what hard rock mining entails, Mr. Malone?”
“Tough work. Dedication. Drive.” The mountain man paused. “Or I reckon you could sell out t’ someone who has those qualities you seem to find so elusive.”
“Right.” A despondent O’Riley laughed. “Who’d be fool enough to buy a claim from which the easy gold has been taken and the rest o’ which is a mess of rocker-ruining blue-black muck? He’d have to be half-crazy.”
“Got just the man for you.” Malone mounted up. “Old Pancake.”
McLaughlin frowned. “T.P.? You’re right, he is half crazy.” He shook his head. “Buy out this gutted claim? What a load!”
“Couldn’t’ve put it better myself, Mr. McLaughlin. Work it yourself or sell out. ’Tis up to you, as life is to any man. Meanwhile you might have a closer look at your blue-black glar.”
“Huh!” O’Riley spat. But sideways, careful to lead with the liquid well away from the mountain man. “Reckon we might as well entertain offers, if anyone’s loony enough to actually be interested.”
“A man’s life teeters on such choices.” Once again Malone did nothing to the reins yet his animal began to move as if he had been clearly instructed. Or perhaps had decided to start off on his own. The two miners watched as the enigmatic mountain man disappeared over a ridge, his departure silhouetted by the moon as he passed in front of it. Or maybe over it.
To the end of their days they could never decide which.
Holy Jingle
Here’s another tall tale about an immigrant to the American West. A story that also takes place in a real town, in a real building. Not a farmer, this particular immigrant, nor a hardscrabble miner, nor a railroad worker, nor a thief. An individual you’d probably greet warmly, just as you yourself would be greeted. Made to feel welcome, you would be. Made to feel important, and powerful, and sky-screamingly triumphant. From this immigrant you would sense the power of something special at work.
Just be sure you understand who you’re dealing with. And if things don’t go well, you’d best retain enough of your wits about you so that you can explain, as much as you’re able, what transpired. That is, if you’re not too embarrassed to do so. Or too weakened. Or too dead.
As in “Claim Blame,” a fair number of the locations and personalities in this story actually existed, as did the problems described herein. Just not always in the way the history texts relate them. Where history is concerned, certain details always seem to get left out of the final telling. Perhaps because, sometimes, they don’t seem sufficiently real to qualify as fact. Not unlike Amos Malone himself.
It’s true Malone had a distinctive manner of speech and that sometimes he scrambled his language. But at least he didn’t suffer a scrambling like the poor fella in this story.
CARSON CITY, NEVADA TERRITORY, 1863
San Francisco was beautiful in the spring, Malone reflected as he and his horse, Worthless, ambled toward town. Unfortunately, the town was Carson City, Nevada. Wild, seductive San Francisco still lay many days’ ride to the west, over the imposing crest of the Sierra Nevada. Malone didn’t brood over the time required, however. He would get there soon enough. He always got there, wherever there happened to be.
Heading down the last bit of forested hill into the city proper, they were closely watched by a pack of gray wolves. Lying in wait for something small, opportune, and filling, the wolves instead glimpsed Malone and Worthless and, so glimpsing, held their peace. Wolves are intelligent critters, and this pack no less so than the average. Or maybe it was the wolf’s-head cap that Malone wore that caused them to shy off, or the fact that the cap turned to look at them with glowing eyes. Instead of the howls of outrage that might have been expected to resound from the pack upon encountering such a sight, there arose from the cluster of predators little more than a few intimidated whimpers. Also, one or two peed themselves.
It had to be admitted that there wasn’t much there to Carson City, but its civilized surrounds were a considerable improvement over the vast desert wilderness Malone had just crossed. He was tired and thirsty and hungry and thirsty and sleepy and thirsty. Leaning forward, he gave his mount an encouraging pat on the side of its massive neck.
“Oats a-comin’, Worthless. Oats and a soft straw bed. Enough o’ the former so’s you won’t be tempted t’ eat the latter, like you did that time in St. Louis.”
As the steed of impressive size and indecipherable breed turned its head to look back at Malone, the mountain man noted that the leather strap across the animal’s snout was bulging again. Have to attend to that, he told himself. Wouldn’t do to get the locals gossipin’.
Room and stable stall arranged, Malone repaired to the bar in the front of the hotel, sequestering his odiferous enormity at the dimly lit far end of the counter so as not to unduly panic the other patrons. The husky mustachioed bartender with the wide impressionist apron waited upon him with good cheer, which the mountain man downed steadily and in copious quantities.
That was where Hank Monk found him. The stagecoach driver noted the impressive number of empty bottles arrayed like so many tenpins on the wooden bar in front of the slumped-over giant, carefully appraised the looming imbiber’s degree of sobriety, and determined to embark on the potentially risky business of conversation. While the whip was somewhat smaller than the average man and Malone a bit larger than the average bear, the driver was possessed of the surety of someone who made his living guiding rickety, rattling coaches pell-mell down ungraded mountainsides. He was cautious but not intimidated as he cleared his throat.
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Amos Malone?”
Thundercloud brows drew together and eyes like mouths of Dahlgren cannons swiveled round to regard the supplicant. “Don’t know as how many folks regard it as a pleasure, but unless there be another hereabouts sportin’ the same nameplate, I’m him.”
Monk smiled politely. “I have heard it tell that you are a bit mad.” The man seemed fully prepared to chuckle or bolt for the front door, depending on the response.
The giant shrugged, the action jostling his expansive salt-and-pepper beard. “So have I.”
“But not to your face.” Monk stroked his own, far more neatly trimmed, beard. “It would take a brave man to say that.”
“More usual-like they’re addled. I ignore all thet they say. Actually, the entire species is crazy. Mr. Darwin failed to note that observation in his book. I called him on it but have yet to receive the courtesy of a reply.”
This response, like the name Darwin, held no especial meaning to the stage driver, so Monk continued with his petition. “I would beg your assistance in a small matter of considerable urgency, Mr. Malone.”
Turning away, the mountain man picked up a bottle with a particularly garish label rich with Spanish words of false promise, and proceeded to down the remaining quarter liter. This explained, Monk now understood, the absence of glasses on the bar.
“I don’t much cotton to beggin’.”
Monk pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well then, I’ll pay you.”
Malone set down the empty bottle. “Better.”
“I’m presently a bit low on ready cash.” Monk dug into a vest pocket. “But I’ll give you this.”