The Dragon of Cripple Creek

by Troy Howell

“Then sit.”

  “I’m in pain.”

  “Sit.”

  “We won’t bite,” said Rex.

  I glared at him.

  “Well, maybe one lick,” he said, trying to soften me up.

  I glared at them both. Dad’s eyes, normally hazel, were dollar-bill green.

  “Katlin,” he said. He hit the cushion hard, and a cloud of dust escaped.

  Dillon said, “Dad—we’ve just been through an Ordeal, with a capital O.” To me, he said, “Why don’t you get a drink, take a breather…”

  “Dillon.” Dad was losing the sale along with his temper.

  Dillon said, “Dad, can I talk to you?”

  “I’m all ears.” But not all smiles—those had vanished.

  Dillon glanced at Rex. “In private, please.”

  Rex threw up his hands. “All right, all right! I know when I ain’t wanted.” He got up and went to the deck door. “Howard”—it was first name basis now—”call if you need me.” He went out.

  After disfiguring his typically John Doe face with sternness, impatience, and parental authority, Dad said, “OK. What?”

  “Kat’s not well.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “What else?”

  “I’ll get right to the point.”

  “Please.”

  “It’s a sharp one.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Dillon sighed as if he was trying to clean a spot on a kettle, to see if was worth shining, and knowing it wasn’t. “She wants to give the gold back.”

  You could have heard a grain of sand drop.

  Dad sat stone-stiff. He would be needing a chisel. “Why?” It was the only word in his vocabulary, and he had pulled it out like an impacted molar.

  I had not moved. “Dad,” I said, “You don’t believe in get-rich-quick schemes. Remember?”

  REX RUSHED IN, SLAMMED THE DOOR, AND shot the bolt. “The green coats are comin’!” he said. “The green caps, the picketeers, and who knows whose brother’s uncle’s niece!” He added a few dashes of French Canadian.

  “Why?” said Dad, using his newly acquired one-track line.

  A knock on the door.

  Pounding on the door.

  Yells.

  Something peppered the front windows. Dillon went over and peered through the curtains. “They’re throwing gravel,” he said.

  Something thudded on the glass.

  “And a cucumber.”

  Something thumped.

  “That looks like a buffalo wing.”

  Suddenly, he ducked, saying, “Watch it!” A hard crack on the glass. “That was a rock,” he said in sad wonder. “Left a ding.”

  Meanwhile, back at the deck door, where Rex bobbed with agitation, a note came shooting through the mail slot. He snatched it up, took one look, wadded it, and tossed it behind him.

  I retrieved the paper and smoothed out the wrinkles.

  Dad’s face was back to its customary blankness.

  Rex was back in the saddle, spurs a-jingle. “Pardon my admiration,” he said to Dillon and me, “but what’d you two do?”

  Dillon looked around the room for a moment, searching for suggestions. “Nothing really. We ran.”

  I looked at Rex. “You said yourself it was getting bigger.”

  He nodded solemnly. “So I did, sister.” Gravel hit the front windows again. “It’s well into the third half.”

  Dad woke up from his other self. “I think we should call the police. Chief Huffman.”

  “No!” I said. “I mean—”

  The shouting and pounding increased. There were sirens.

  Rex said, “I got me a better think.”

  “What’s that?” said Dad.

  “She could use a breather.” He turned a thumb at me. “Save us all some trouble.” He knuckled the top of his head and said apologetically, “I can handle ’em if she ain’t around.”

  Taking me politely by the shoulder, he led me to the bedroom and to the paneled wall. He hooked his finger into the same knothole I had explored in the night, and pulled. A door that was cut into the paneling swung open. I peered in and saw stairs going up.

  “That way, darlin’.”

  A DOOR AT THE TOP OPENED ONTO THE roof, where the scene took me totally by surprise. It was a garden. It had a potted tree and planters of flowers. A small fountain rose from a water-filled trough where goldfish flashed. A satellite dish stood next to a sundial.

  Gazing at the scene, I realized how Rex’s little kingdom had all these little secrets. How many rooms were in his place? How many doorways, stairways, hidden panels? A main room, a bedroom, a bath. A stairway to an antique shop, a stairway to the roof. Simple. Why did it unfold like a Chinese puzzle?

  I sat down in a lawn chair and turned my gaze beyond the roof. A townscape of chimneys, antennae, wires, pipes, signs, air-conditioning units, pigeons. The topside, backside of things; the complex with the plain.

  In the distance blazed a bright spot of color like a butterfly on the grill of a car. It was the paper dragon, caught and flapping forlornly in a network of power lines.

  I wished better things for Ye.

  Yet seeing this view of Cripple Creek removed me from the fears and frets I lived with at ground level. It was like looking in on a sleeping, naughty child. From this perspective, it was easy to be forgiving.

  I forgave Harold the Younger, who was just trying to do his duty, overkill though it was. I forgave the mob below, even as they groped toward me with their gold-greedy hands. I had done no better, down in Ye’s cavern. I forgave Rose Robbins for her rude, intruding way. If I pursued journalism, that could be me in twenty years. I forgave Rex for wanting his due at my expense. He had also been helpful and generous. I forgave Dillon for his momentary madness, wanting the gold like everyone else. I forgave Dad for his lapse of respect for what he knew was right. He was under a lot of pressure to provide for those he loved.

  I looked up at the deep, deep sky.

  In that moment, I saw my deepest mind. Like a shaft of light that burns a hole in the clouds before they close up again, I saw it.

  There was one person I couldn’t forgive for all the trouble she had caused.

  Calamity Cat.

  I WAS DREAMING. IN MY DREAM, I WAS walking along a path and dropping little gold nuggets from a bag. Ye was following, gently murmuring as he went, but I couldn’t hear his words. He seemed pleased with something, nodding his head as if he had come to a decision. I kept dropping the nuggets and looking back at him until, out of the gloom above me, blackbirds came. They began pecking up the gold as though it was crumbs or seeds. I ran after them, screaming, and they beat their wings against my face. I swung the bag at them, but it was empty. I let the bag go, and it blew away down the path. The birds were gone.

  Ye was gone.

  • • •

  I opened my eyes to a tangerine sky. Pikes Peak shone sunset-stained. And all that lay beneath it, below the reach of light, slumbered in blue. A haze blanketed the east.

  My belly hurt with hunger. I got up and saw Dillon sitting in the stairwell, his head on his arms. He had brought me dinner. I lifted the napkin on the plate to find cheese and crackers, and under the plate was a big bowl of soup. I didn’t see a spoon, but I had one already.

  Dillon woke when I spoke his name.

  “Hi, Kat,” he said lazily. “You’ve been asleep.”

  “So have you.” I started eating.

  “How is it?” he asked.

  “Did you make it?”

  He nodded. “Sort of.”

  “It’s good. Soup’s a little cold, but I’m hungry.” I wiped my mouth on the napkin. “Did you eat?”

  “Yeah. We all did.”

  We talked. He told me that when more cops showed up the crowds thinned out. He never saw Harold or Huffman, and no cops had come to the door.

  “It’s on every news channel, Kat.”

  “The riot?”

  “No, the g
old. Your gold. Everybody’s gold.”

  “It’s not my gold. It’s not everybody’s gold.”

  “People are coming from all over,” he said, ignoring my words. “As far away as Florida. One guy flew in from England, enamored with the American West, he said.”

  “What!”

  “Denver airport is packed. Flights are overbooked. It’s a mess. So are the roads.”

  The low drone I heard in the background—was that traffic, rolling in from all corners of the country, and beyond? For what?

  The dream I’d had appeared behind my eyes. But I couldn’t see the gold. All I could see were the birds. I watched the fountain for a moment, until my gaze shifted to the poor dragon kite. My hand trembled as I set down the dishes.

  “Kat, are you OK?”

  I sighed. “Dillon, I don’t think I gave Ye the pearl willingly. I was under a trance. I wasn’t thinking anything, or feeling anything. I just … gave it to him. The way you’d give a cashier your money.”

  “In other words,” he said, “you don’t think he’ll live forever.”

  “I just don’t know. I want him to live forever.”

  “Then if you want that for him, he probably will.”

  I turned to him, wanting him to prove my worries wrong. “I bet Ye can be killed. Like the elves in Tolkien. They’ll live forever as long as they’re not killed.”

  “Kat—”

  “What if they cage him? What if they put him in a zoo? I can’t bear the thought of some snotty-nosed kid smacking on a snow cone and gawking through the bars at him. Ye’s too precious.” I knew Dillon couldn’t relieve my mind—that was asking too much. I headed toward the stairs.

  “Kat, wait.” He picked up the dishes and stood, gazing at the sunset. He breathed in the air. “Sure is beautiful.” He turned to me. “Dad’s not budging.”

  I was listening.

  “He’s given Rex his word. Kat will show Rex the way in, he said, and take him to the gold. Tonight.”

  I was stone silent.

  “Rex is flying him to San Francisco. And he’s flying us home, at Dad’s request. Tomorrow.”

  “What?” I blurted. “That’s … that’s—”

  “Crazy,” agreed Dillon. “It is.”

  “Where will we stay?”

  “The Home has a vacant room right now. Someone apparently—”

  “Not Mom!”

  “Not Mom.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s part of their deal. Dad thinks he’ll lose his chance. We keep getting in his way.”

  “You mean me.”

  “He said …” Dillon paused, obviously hesitant to tell.

  “What did he say, Dillon?”

  “He said, he’s beginning to think you’re bad luck.”

  DESPERADO WAS TOO GOOD A WORD. I searched my heavy head for something that described the way I felt, and came up empty.

  Dad and Rex were on all fours behind the couch, calling out numbers and rolling dice. My dice, the pair Dad had taken from me.

  The shades were drawn at each window. A small desk lamp and the TV, which was on with no sound, were the only sources of light.

  As we entered the room, Rex was saying, “You owe me, brother. Big-time.” When he saw me, he jumped up. “Here she is.”

  Dad got up slowly and guiltily—by the look on his face I knew he’d been losing. By the look on Rex’s face, I knew he hadn’t.

  But the stakes were a lot higher than a petty game of dice.

  Dad picked up the TV remote and turned the volume up. He must have been waiting for this.

  “Thank you for joining us.”

  An interview was on. A woman was talking to a man in a cushy studio setting, where a glass wall displayed the same evening sky I had seen from the roof, with the Rockies in silhouette.

  “We have Professor Chester Lowe, senior scientist at the Division of Mining and Geology in Boulder, Colorado,” the woman was saying.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Professor Lowe, you’re a leading authority on mineralogy.” A nod from Professor Lowe.

  A nod from Dad.

  “Tell us, is there just cause for all this excitement? Is there really more gold, lots of it, to be unearthed?”

  Professor Lowe smiled as if he wasn’t feeling well. “One gold nugget was found. Perhaps the largest ever seen in the Rocky Mountain region. It has not been classified or even identified, except by sight alone. Naturally, a nugget of that size—”

  “Can we rely on that? Sight alone?”

  “A nugget that size can be identified by sight alone, yes.” His eyebrows went up.

  Dad’s eyebrows went up.

  “Is it true that where one nugget is, there are more?”

  “Any geologist would expect to find more.”

  “And that’s what folks are counting on.”

  “Literally.” Professor Lowe smiled broadly.

  Dad smiled broadly.

  “Tell us, if you will—is there enough to go around? Or will this be a repeat of the first gold rush in … when was it … nineteen—”

  “Eighteen. Eighteen forty-nine.” His smile faded.

  Dad’s smile remained.

  “Thousands headed west at that time—”

  “Hundreds of thousands.”

  “—enduring great hardships, only to return with nothing.”

  Dad’s smile faded.

  “Right. The early birds got the gold. I’m not an economic geologist, but it’s my guess that more gold will be collected, whether by mining or—”

  “Professor Lowe, our time is up, thank you for coming in.” Turning to the TV audience, she said, “You heard it! All that glitters is gold!”

  Dad’s smile returned, and he looked boldly at me as if to say, See? There’s more gold, and you, my daughter, know where it is.

  I went to the kitchen for a drink. A bouquet of daisies stood on the counter, rising cheerily from a foil container—out of place in the gloom. The florist’s card said, To the gold-tooth girl, from an admirer. Don’t ever change.

  Dillon came to my side. “We had a couple of visitors after the mob left,” he explained, and he placed his hand over something that lay beside the flowers.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s a rock, isn’t it?”

  He removed his hand. “It flew in when Rex opened the door for the florist.”

  It was a smooth gray rock that had words written on it with a black marker.

  “MIDNIGHT,” I WHISPERED.

  Dillon gave me one slight nod.

  I was ready. The blood in my veins rushed with readiness. Godzillion wild horses wouldn’t hold me back. And if that wasn’t enough, all the forgiving I’d done on Rex’s rooftop wouldn’t. I wanted to be rid of this monstrous gold rock that clung to me magnetized, that circled the world for everyone to crave.

  I was sick of the gold.

  I was sick of greed more. I’d go barefoot in the snow, live in a wigwam, eat radishes. I’d be the poorest of the poor before I’d hold onto that gold. I’d have my tooth pulled first chance I got. Even if we couldn’t afford enamel.

  My disgust sweetened my love for Ye. I’d be seeing him soon. In just a few hours. At last.

  Ahead of Dad and Rex.

  Dad had given me my marching orders as I sat sullen on the buckboard bed. “We are going to the mine,” he said with finality. “Before dawn. Rex is coming. You will show him the way. Ahead of the masses.”

  Staring at him was like staring at a beloved pet that got hit by a car: Suddenly, it’s a useless lump of fur. The life is gone and the raw law of nature has replaced it. Dad wasn’t breathing anymore. He wasn’t my father.

  Seeing something that must have looked like repulsion in my face, he said, “I’m your father.”

  Dillon, who had been listening, came in close. “I’ll say it this time without an ounce of guilt, Dad: I thought you were the child protection service.”

>   A wrinkle of regret scurried across Dad’s face and dissolved just as quickly. His mind was set in cement, his eyes were the color of future wealth. “Three a.m., Miss Katlin Graham. I’ll come wake you.” He went to the door and added, “You will obey.”

  Nobody said good night.

  “KAT!” SOMEONE WAS SHAKING MY FOOT.

  “Kat!”

  I rolled over and blinked through the spokes of a wheel. The cactus in the corner was leaking light.

  “Kat!” Dillon stuck his head inside the wheel.

  “Meow,” I said, and threw off the bearskin blanket. I was fully dressed, ready to prowl. Ready to enact my new plan.

  This time, it would have the right name. We had named the others all wrong: Forward, Backup, Sideways.

  This was Plan Downward, because that’s the direction we needed to go.

  “The bathroom window,” I said.

  “Right.”

  Earlier in the night, I had crept around, checking on things. Rex was bagged down on the living room floor, not outside. Dad was dead on the dead horse couch. Originally, we were going to use the fire escape, which I had noticed on the rooftop, but this was better: The window was right off the deck.

  I climbed out of bed. “You have everything?”

  He patted his pockets. A small flashlight in one—he had found it in a kitchen drawer—and the street map in the other. “Everything but string.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need it,” I said, pulling the pillowcase off my pillow.

  “What’s that for?” asked Dillon.

  “You’ll see.” I stuffed it into my sweatshirt.

  “It’s not … you’re not … that’s not for …” He suddenly looked like a child, hugging himself with a chill. “… gold?”

  “Dillon, you’re still an idiot—but I forgive you.”

  Recovering his valiant self, he reached into the fishbowl and pulled out a fortune.

  “What’s it say?” I asked.

  “Outhouse or bust.”

  • • •

  The night was silent for a town overrun with newcomers. We kept to the darkness when we could, against all streetwise codes; it was that or risk being seen. With every passing car, we hunkered down. A police patrol cruised by, raising a surge inside me. Was it Harold? What would he do this time? Would he clap handcuffs on and give us the third degree? Would he at last win his promotion, have Chief Huffman dub him “Sir Harold the Younger” with his nightstick?