Black Hills (9781101559116)

by Thompson, Rod

  “There are shelves with candles every hundred feet, but always, and I mean always, carry two stubs in your pocket as spares and some matches to get you to the next shelf and more candles. There will also be a box of matches on each shelf. If you smoke, you don’t down here, only outside in the fresh air. Gases can build up and explode. You’ll be working with me today and I will explain the twelve unbreakable safety rules as they apply. I repeat: they are unbreakable. You get no warnings. If you break any of them you are fired on the spot; draw your time and leave.

  “Mining is completely different from punching cows. No horseplay down here. It’s much more serious, and it’s dangerous. There have been some accidents, but nothing serious, and we have had no fatalities. We want to keep it that way. A mine has to be taken seriously and understood. You can’t just walk in and take out a big piece of the hill and walk out. If you try, it’ll all come down on your head.

  “You have to learn how she looks, and how she feels through the soles of your shoe, or when you put your hand on the wall, and you have to learn to recognize the sounds, rather its ground movement, or the Tommy Knockers.”

  “What’re Tommy Knockers? Are you fixin’ to pull my leg? I thought everything down here was supposed to be serious.”

  The flickering candle made shadows flit back and forth on the ceiling and walls as they passed under the equally spaced massive wood beams. Lucas had explained on the ride over that they were part of the timbering that had been learned from Cornish miners coming to America after the turn of the century in ought-two or three, when the minerals in their own mines had petered out.

  “Tommy Knockers are hard to explain. They’re kinda like the little people the Irish like to talk about. They can’t be seen, but can sometimes be heard knocking in the walls or under your feet or up in the ceiling. Some miners have claimed to have been warned of a cave-in or led from one by following the sounds of a Tommy Knocker. Top-siders who aren’t miners say they don’t exist, so believe in them or don’t, but do not ignore them.”

  On the way to the working, they passed several short tunnels that Lucas explained were drifts where they had drifted the tunnel a few feet one way or the other in search of the vein. After a short distance, it was abandoned if it didn’t prove out. Two had been hollowed out into small rooms that had given them some rich ore but petered out, leaving a cave to be used for storage.

  Presently, they rounded a corner into the main drift with a vein of rich silver ore, the value of which was kept secret, but it assayed high. They had been working it for three years. A portion of one wall near where the shaft entered appeared to be damp.

  “It would be easy digging,” Lucas agreed, “but it is just too unstable and too risky when it’s wet, and that’s most of the time. After every rain storm, or when the snow melts in the spring, we have to stay away from that wall for three or four weeks to let it dry out, before we can mine it, and even after that. There is no way of knowing if it’s dried out back into the hill, so we just leave it alone.” There were several ore carts, some sledgehammers, and more picks and shovels. Cormac correctly assumed he was going to become closely acquainted with all.

  The high-topped farmer shoes he had saved came in handy. He wasn’t afraid of hard work, had an eager mind, and learned quickly. He learned how to put his weight behind the swing of a double-jack or a pick for maximum penetration, and how to knock off the mud that built up on the steel. He learned how to set a charge and the correct amount of nitro to control penetration without bringing down the wrath of God.

  But still, Cormac didn’t take to the mining. He didn’t like every part of his body being covered with dust every day and having it creeping into his ears and up his nose. It disturbed him that after carefully washing and scrubbing every part of himself thoroughly in the river, if he sneezed, what he blew out would be part dust.

  For a short time, he tried wearing a full mustache like most of the other miners seemed to favor, but it felt funny, tickled his nose, was always full of dust, and he laughed at himself when he looked in the mirror. He recalled his pa having grown one, only to shave it off again after his mother said she wasn’t going to kiss that thing. The thought made him smile wide.

  Not being able to smoke when he worked in the mine, he took up tobacco chewing and didn’t like that every time he spit, it was half dust. And he did not like being cooped up. He preferred being out under the blue sky as had been promised. And he didn’t like the total darkness when the candle went out . . . total . . . complete . . . all enveloping blackness. When deep in the mine, he yearned for the view over his horses’ heads as they crested a hill, swam a river, or flew across a grass-covered prairie.

  He frequently reviewed his surroundings to place things in his mind, thinking of the possibility of a sudden cave-in that blew out all of the candles and blocked the entrance. What would he do? He had no idea. Lucas said it would depend on the circumstances. Not a fun thought.

  The pick and shovel work and swinging a double-jack sledgehammer or carrying timbers filled out his chest and shoulders, taking him up two shirt sizes and one belt size due to washboard-like stomach muscles. Overall, he had taken on some heft. Laurie had also done some filling out and enjoyed showing it around. When he was given chores to do around the buildings, she always found an excuse to come around and chat. She was right fun to watch and talk with but their meetings always left him with unexplained reactions with which he knew not what to do, but had begun thinking it would be fun to find out.

  Most Saturday nights the hands got cleaned up and went into Virginia City to shop, if they had it to do, but mostly to get liquored up, play poker, spend their money on dance hall girls, or meet up with friends from other ranches and mines. Virginia City was a clean little town with two saloons, a few shops, a church and a school, one red-light house with six girls—two of whom were good looking—a livery, and a bank that was always closed whenever he was in town. He would usually have a few drinks with his friends, but mostly just enough to be sociable; he had never been drunk. After watching his friends sober up every Sunday morning, he allowed as how he would pass on that part.

  Scott’s General Store had a nice saddle that had caught his eye that looked to be about the right size for Horse and Lop Ear. When he had a little more money saved, maybe he would buy it if it hadn’t been sold by then. When his pocket money reached a hundred and fifty dollars, he asked Mr. Haplander if he could take it to the bank for him and have them transfer it to his bank in Denver, and then do the same with fifteen dollars of his pay every month. Mr. Haplander smiled his approval and quickly agreed.

  Every couple of months they let him work the ranch again, but inevitably, he always ended up underground again, two months up and two months down. He asked Josh once if he couldn’t stay on the ranch, but was told the “old man” wanted him to alternate and learn the whole operation.

  Saturday night in a small town was different than in the city. Farmers and ranchers and miners, who had worked all week from sunup to sundown, came to town to kick up their heels, or buy supplies, meet friends, socialize, get drunk, or to chase girls who came to town to be chased. They didn’t want to go home with nobody having flirted with them, or made an outrageous comment to them.

  “Hey, Mack,” yelled a local in the corner. “My sister is still waiting for you to come see her.”

  Cormac just waved and headed for the bar. He remembered the sister. Beatrice. Cute as a button, schooled at an all-girls school in Boston, nineteen years old, looking for a husband, and protected by four older brothers, all as big as a house. Cormac had met her once in the town square for a picnic lunch. Apparently, she had gotten more of an education in Boston than her parents had supposed. She made it abundantly clear that she would rather be having a few drinks with Cormac at a secluded swimming hole outside of town. With four older brothers and an ornery pa, that looked like a sure way to end up married whether he wanted to be or not.

  He ordered a beer at the bar just as
a tall redheaded woman disappeared outside the window into the night. He forgot about his beer and ran out to the street to see a lady twice his age disappearing into a carriage. What was Lainey doing tonight, he wondered. In a foul mood, he returned to the bar as a cowboy from the Slash 7 Ranch entered the swinging doors at the same time. Cormac pushed him aside and stomped through the door. He had just put his foot on the railing and took a drink of his beer when he was yanked backward and thrown across the floor.

  He looked up from the floor to see a muscular, blond, Swedish cowboy. He knew he was a Swede because the swede told him so his own self.

  “Yoouu may tink I’m dumb juust ’cause I am Sveedish, but dat don’t meen I am, and yoouu can push mee around.”

  “Well, you may think I am dumb because somehow you found out I am a farmer but that doesn’t mean you can push me around,” Cormac answered him as he got to his feet, and hit him, or meant to. When his fist got to where the Swede was, the Swede wasn’t.

  Cormac’s second mistake had been when he got up off the floor. While he was getting up, the big fellow of Swedish extraction grabbed his arm and yanked him up across his massive shoulders, carried him out the door, and dropped him in the street.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” Cormac wanted to know.

  “Ever time soamebody vants to take a sving at the big Swede, I end up payin for a vindow or a meirror or some tables and chairs. I don’t do thet enymore. If yoouu have to fight, it vill be outside.” And then he proceeded to teach Cormac something about boxing.

  Cormac got up confidently from the street and swung at the big Swede, and it was all downhill after that. That swing was the closest that he came to making contact. He had never seen so many fists in his life. Cormac finished the fight being pulled out of a horse trough in front of the saloon by his friends.

  Later, Cormac got teased about it pretty good, too. He took the ribbing and let it pass . . . until the next Saturday night. The next Saturday night Cormac was waiting for the Swede, and they went at it again with the same results. It wasn’t until the third fight that he got to hit the Swede, but it was a good one. Cormac had learned about the feint and was watching for it. The Swede was always dancing while jabbing with his left and holding back his right, cocked and loaded. Suddenly, he would feint a left jab and send a hard right cross down the chute that would have Cormac seeing stars and shaking his head, if he wasn’t knocked down, or out. This time, Cormac had practiced and was prepared for it.

  He began the fight with his same awkward footwork as usual, but when the Swede feinted with the left jab, instead of ducking left and leaving himself wide open for the coming right, he quickly changed his stance for more power in his left arm, brushed off the feint with his right hand, ducked right, and introduced the Swede to his left going in over the Swede’s right that found only air. Cormac’s left caught the off-balance Swede on the side of his head and knocked him ass-end over appetite. Cormac welcomed the moment to catch his breath while helping the Swede get back to his feet.

  “Ah! Yooou’ve been practicing,” said the smiling Swede with his accent. “Now ve haf better fight. Yaah, shure.” The fight didn’t last long after that. Cormac managed to duck and weave and block some of the incoming punches while improving his footwork, but the Swede didn’t repeat his previous mistake, nor did he let anymore of Cormac’s punches get through. They sparred for a couple minutes with the Swede enjoying himself, and then Cormac saw the look on his face change. “Uh oh,” he thought, just as the Swede uncorked a left that staggered Cormac, and followed with a right brought up from the ground . . . or from the next county. It didn’t matter where it came from. Either way, it put Cormac upside down into the water trough again. The Swede helped him out of it with an offer to buy him a beer.

  Every Saturday night for the next seven weeks, Cormac was waiting for him, and every Saturday night for the next seven weeks Cormac got upended, but he continued to learn. He studied his opponent and practiced open handed with his friends what he had learned: how to duck and weave and slip punches; he learned footwork from watching his opponent’s feet and went to wearing his flat-bottomed farmer-shoes for the fights after realizing the Swede had begun wearing his flat-bottomed boxer shoes for faster footwork and greater balance. He learned to keep his chin down and his guard up while using his elbows to protect his solar plexus and his fists to protect his face. He also learned how to block punches with his forearms and punch through his opponent.

  The “Swede” turned out to be an ex-boxer from St. Louis working on the Slash 7 Ranch. Oftentimes the fight would last thirty to forty-five minutes: once it was over in three when Cormac got careless and let his guard down, quickly learning the folly therein. It became a joke in town with locals and cowboys coming miles to watch. All of the Flying H ranch hands and miners were there to cheer on Cormac with all of the Slash 7 riders there supporting his opponent. Some were making bets and some had standing bets on the eventual winner overall, and some just wanted to see if Cormac would finally give it up as a bad job, something at which he was just no darn good. It became regular Saturday night fare.

  The saloons and sporting ladies did a booming business and some of the stores stayed open late. Everyone had a good time except the fighters. They tired of getting hit and walking around bruised and battered all week just to start all over again on Saturday night. Cormac’s opponent was named Sven Arnbjorg, big, blond, strong as an ox, and he punched like a locomotive. He had boxed under the name of the “Big Swede.”

  Then one night, Cormac had a plan. He got in the first punch. Prepared for a long fight as usual, Sven led out with a half-hearted jab and Cormac was ready, he had gotten quickly into position, standing flat-footed and loaded for bear. When the Swede jabbed, Cormac put everything he had into a straight-out, right smash to his chin. Sven staggered back and back until finally his feet couldn’t keep up with his body and he tipped over. Feeling proud of himself, Cormac watched the big man fall into the dirt.

  “Come on, big guy. Get up here and take your lickin’ like a man,” Cormac teased. “Yaah, shuur,” Cormac mimicked. “Yoouu ged up her and I knock sum mor stuffin’s outta yoouu.” He was surprised to see the Swede do just that. Sven stumbled a little, but he got to his feet and looked at Cormac wearing a look Cormac had not seen before. The fun was over. The big Swede with years of boxing and many fights to his credit with only two losses, the fighter who had only quit fighting because he had badly hurt another fighter and did not want to do it again was mad to the core.

  Until then, he had been holding back just a bit, taking a little off his punches, not moving in quite as quickly as he would have in a real match, he had just been having fun. No more. All bets were off now. One bystander heard Cormac mumble “Oh, damn!” and they went at it for real. The Big Swede against a big Celt with no holds barred.

  With his chin neatly tucked in behind two huge fists, a newly determined Sven Arnbjorg came in raining punches, hooks, and crosses all over Cormac. The ferocity of the attack took Cormac by surprise, and a well-aimed right blurred his vision.

  With his forearms and shoulders, Cormac managed to cover up, but Sven caught him with a couple of good ones that jumbled his thinking, but he staved off the onslaught long enough to get his wits back and launched a counter-attack. Though the Swede kept his face well protected, Cormac snuck one through from time to time and peppered him with body shots, all the while alternately taking and getting slammed by big Swedish fists coming from every direction. Both fighters sometimes got knocked on their nether ends, and both waited for the other to regain their feet.

  It was a tit for tat slugfest for over an hour; Cormac’s legs were getting wobbly, his arms were feeling like lead weights, and his breath was burning his lungs, but he could see Sven also weakening, and when Sven slipped and went to one knee, Cormac backed away and stood gasping for air, with his fists hanging at his sides, waiting for Sven to get up.

  From those positions, they looked at each other, and
without a word between them, agreed. It was all over but the shoutin’. The crowd had gathered larger than ever. Cowboys, miners, store owners, bartenders, sporting girls, men and women alike all watched in utter silence as Cormac walked unsteadily forward and Sven got to his feet. With their hands and faces a bloody mess, both fighters stood face-to-face with still not a word between them until Cormac asked raggedly with his Swedish impression, “Yoou redy for some beer?”

  “Yah, shuure,” the big Swede answered.

  “Yah, shuure,” Cormac answered.

  And then came the shoutin’ as the crowd came to life whoop-ing and hollering and yelling and hat throwing and even a few guns fired into the air. This fight would long be remembered and long be hashed and re-hashed. Some had heard of professional bare-knuckle fights lasting fifty or sixty rounds, but this had been a no-round fight: no chance for either participant to rest. It had been a slugfest, plain and simple. Holding each other up, but under their own power, they led the crowd into the saloon for the first of many drinks. First a double shot of whiskey from the special bottle like every bartender kept under every bar, washed down with a lot of beer.

  In appreciation for attracting so much business, the saloons gave them free drinks and offered to pay them to make it a regular Saturday night attraction.

  “Either yoouu got ta be nuts or yoouu tink I yam if yoouu tink I fight him again,” Sven told the group of owners that approached them.

  “Even if you offered me a whole saloon,” Cormac agreed, “I wouldn’t fight him again for it.”

  Mooney’s Café gave them free steak suppers; Scott’s General Store offered them discounts on new saddles, and the red-light ladies offered them free samplings of their pleasures. Together they had the drinks and steaks, and Cormac said thank you very much, maybe later, to the other offers. He had heard of the health problems resulting from spending time with some of the sporting girls.