Eventually, he realized he needed to move camp, for he had explored the mountains all around him and found a few mines with NO TRESPASSING signs posted. Some had a few friendly notes.
BACK COME JUNE
HELP YOURSELF TO CRACKERS
IN THE LINE SHACK
BUT TAKE ANY SILVER
& IT’LL BE
R. I. P.
Others weren’t so friendly.
CLAIM JUMPERS
WILL BE SHOT
ON SIGHT
He even found a few graves. He also saw the markings some people had posted as a site of a claim, and Dooley did not want to be mistaken for a claim jumper. He was honest.
Down Halfmoon Creek, he passed a few other mines, some still working but left during the winter, a few with actual miners, some boarded up and left. One of these he decided might as well serve him as his home for the next few weeks. Even the mule would fit inside it.
A wet storm dumped two feet of snow on the mountains one night, and Dooley wondered if somebody had given him a bum calendar. According to his X’s, it was March 29, but it sure felt like January 2. Still, he had enough kindling and enough matches and plenty of coffee and beans, plus grain for his horse and mule.
A week or two later, after the snow had melted mostly, or at least turned to ice, he moved on to where Halfmoon Creek split. South Halfmoon Creek went down like a straight line, and Dooley wondered about that, but decided that “Off Halfmoon Creek” meant the real creek, not that cold, mean-looking tributary or whatever it was.
On the sixth week, maybe eighth, he met a miner whose eyes were so sunk back in his head and whose beard was crawling with lice that Dooley did not want to get too close to the old man. But the fellow asked for jerky, and Dooley had plenty, so he brought some out of the saddlebag and tossed a good-sized one to the man whose mule looked as bony and decrepit as the old man did.
General Grant lowered his head to drink the cold water from Halfmoon Creek, and Dooley kicked one boot out of the stirrup, lifted his leg, and hooked it over the saddle horn.
“Obliged,” the man said in a voice as dead as he looked. “Nice horse.”
“Good-looking mule,” Dooley lied.
“I et the other mule,” the man said. “Was a hard winter.”
“Find anything?” Dooley asked after digesting the dirty old-timer’s statement. He wondered if it was proper to ask a miner if he had found anything. Would that be like asking a man his name in this country? And what did mule meat taste like? Chicken? Marmot?
“Just enough,” the man said, “to get me a ticket on Chester Motz’s stage and get my bones down to Georgetown where I can see my ma.”
Dooley lacked the heart to tell the old-timer about Chester Motz, but sure hoped Butch Sweeney would give the man a ride down to Georgetown—and that no passengers, or even Butch, would get bitten by the bugs crawling all over this guy.
It had warmed up. Thirty degrees would feel like sixty these days, and Dooley felt like it was hotter. That’s why the bugs had thawed out.
The man worked the jerky with what few teeth remained in his mouth. “Where you camped?” he asked.
Dooley hooked his thumb down the creek. “Spot abandoned about half a mile yonder.” He wanted to sound like he was a friendly miner. “There’s some beans. Little coffee in the pot that’ll be cold by now. But you’re welcome to it. Only I got a dog. And he can be touchy with strangers. But I’ll go back with you if you want. I’m kind of played out. This mining . . . it’s . . . well . . .” He laughed. “It sure ain’t cowboying.”
“Course it’s hard, youngster. Real hard. Unless you’re one of them silver barons who just sits in his mansion countin’ his dollars. But you’re a smart one. Comin’ up before most folks figure it’s warm enough to look for silver. You might find some, but I figure most of the stuff’s already claimed.”
Well, Dooley thought, at least he had tried mining. He thought maybe he would drift to Texas. Or even Mexico. Cowboy down there. Thaw out. It would only take him about three or four summers in that country and he might feel warm again.
“I thank ya fer the jerky, an’ fer the offerin’ of what you gots in that mine. That’d be Ol’ Ole Finkle’s claim. Not that Ol’ Ole ever claimed nothin’.”
“I thought it was abandoned,” Dooley said, suddenly terrified that for all his caution he had actually jumped some honest miner’s claim, even if he had not even looked for silver or even overturned a stone inside that miserable pit.
“It is. Ol’ Ole got hisself kilt ’bout a year ago. Or . . .” He stopped chewing. Stopped moving, except for the critters on his person. “What year is it, youngster?”
Dooley told him.
The chewing resumed. “Yep. ’Bout a year ago. Harley Boone shot him dead on Hemlock and Seventh. That’s about as abandoned as a mine can get.”
Dooley paled even more. “Harley Boone doesn’t think he has claim to that hole, does he?”
The man snorted. “Harley Boone wouldn’t work a claim for nothin’. He don’t work nothin’ ’cept his trigger finger. Nah. Ever’body in Colorado, Wyoming, and Utah knowed Ol’ Ole Finkle never struck nothin’ but a hard time. And he never filed no papers on that miserable hole, neither. No point. Ol’ Ole never struck nothin’. His luck was lousier than mine. Especially once he got kilt by Harley Boone.”
“Oh.” Dooley thought, turned his head this way, then asked, “Old Old Finkle? How old was he?”
“Not Old Old, boy. Ol’ Ole. He was a Swede. Or Finnish. Norwegian. Somethin’ ’long those lines. Ol’ as in Old. Ole as in . . . hell . . . I ain’t from no frozen tundra. I’ve just tried to mine in one. You know.”
“I know,” Dooley said. “I understand.”
“Thirty-two years,” the old-timer said. “That’d be my best guess at his age. Yes, sir. He’d lived a long life in these mountains. Poor Ol’ Ole. Thirty-two and struck dead by a bullet from Harley Boone’s pistol. A year older than I am. Be seein’ you, youngster.”
The old, decrepit miner—who, if he wasn’t touched in his head and indeed was thirty-one years old, was a good many years younger than Dooley—went on down Halfmoon Creek.
Dooley reached up and scratched his beard. Maybe he would wash tonight.
Another thought hit him: Maybe I’ll just head back to Leadville and quit this blame foolishness.
But he trudged on, sweating now, for indeed the sun had come out. The creeks flowed faster now, more turbulent, and finally he came to another branch. One went southeast, the other northward. He pulled his makeshift map from his pocket and realized he had come to the end of his map. Halfmoon Creek flowed southeast, and as far as he knew, the other branch did not have a name. That tempted him, but he knew it was too late in the day to start up that creek. So he turned around and rode back down Halfmoon Creek toward Ol’ Ole Finkle’s old claim.
“Well.” Dooley smiled.
Right before Dooley had pulled out to find his fortune in these mountains, Buffalo Bill had told him that mining was a lot like poker and that he doubted he would see anything from the grubstake he had handed Dooley, but that was how mining went.
So Cody would not be surprised when Dooley returned to Leadville with no silver, nothing but stinking clothes and a beard that needed shaving off and hair that needed a good washing and trimming. It was time, he knew, to quit this folly and get back to punching cows. Or he could always go home to his farm near Des Moines.
Oddly enough, he felt content, satisfied, happy. So what if he had not found any riches, even any traces of silver? He had lived his dream. Since discovering that old, old clipping from some newspaper about a gold strike in Alaska, Dooley had dreamed of finding his fortune, panning for gold or digging for silver. Doing something that did not involve branding steers with a hot iron, roping an ornery longhorn, riding line camps in the loneliest of winters, or planting taters in Iowa. And he had done it. He had lived out his dream. Sure, he had nothing to show for it but calloused hands, an itchy beard,
worn-out clothes, and a belly button that was just about to rub up against his backbone. But, by thunder, he had done it. He had lived his dream. My, what stories he could tell . . .
He frowned. He was about to say Julia.
Well, Butch might enjoy a story or two. Like the avalanche that had almost buried Dooley. Maybe he would take that job offer, ride shotgun for Butch’s wagon. Maybe . . . or he’d just do what most cowboys did.
Drift.
That’s what he did now. Drifted. Back along Halfmoon Creek toward his temporary digs of Ol’ Ole Finkle’s hole in the ground. He came to the spot, saw Blue standing in the opening, wagging his tail. He saw the mule grazing on grain Dooley had spread out before he had saddled General Grant and ridden off on one last adventure, one last look for a fortune in silver.
He crossed Halfmoon Creek, and Blue barked with excitement, as if he knew he would be leaving these dark woods for sunlight and Leadville and maybe something different.
Apparently, the ancient thirty-one-year-old prospector had not stopped for food or water. Dooley dismounted and led General Grant to the mine. He removed the saddle and blanket, set both out to dry in what little sunlight made it through the forest, slipped off the bridle, and rubbed the horse’s neck.
Next, he fetched a piece of jerky and tossed it to Blue, who swallowed it without tasting or doing much chewing.
Dooley found his washbasin and splashed frigid water across his face, drying off with his dingy bandanna. He told Blue, “Let’s get a good night’s sleep, Blue, and we’ll see what civilization looks like tomorrow.”
He stared at Halfmoon Creek, shook his head, and turned around to look at the mine.
He blinked.
He turned back and looked again at the rapidly swelling stream.
He wet his lips and slowly craned his neck, moved his body, and gazed at the worthless hole in the ground.
Back he looked at the creek.
Back he studied the mine.
Creek.
Mine.
Creek.
Mine.
Creek.
Mine.
Creek.
Mine.
Then he swore.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Oof Halfmoon Creek,” Dooley said, as he lighted the lantern and turned it up.
He remembered what Cheater Norris, the county clerk, had said when Horatio Whitman had come into the office and almost filed a claim.
“Oof Halfmoon Creek?” the now recently deceased clerk had said he had admonished Whitman. “You mean Off Halfmoon Creek.” Dooley remembered it clearly now. Norris saying that he had corrected the crude map Whitman had brought in. The old messenger had gotten angry, taken the map back—rendering Norris with one wicked paper cut—and left the office.
Dooley thought things out. When Whitman had made up his own deed, he had kept Cheater Norris’s spelling. OFF Halfmoon Creek. Not OOF. But OOF was right.
Halfmoon Creek.
OOF.
O.O.F.
Ol’ Ole Finkle.
He moved deeper into the hole, with Blue following nervously. He came past mounds of guano, but saw no sleeping bats, no flying bats, no bats at all. He remembered the grizzly that had almost done in Buffalo Bill Cody, Dooley, and Blue, and hoped nothing was hibernating now. He wondered why he had not thought about bears before.
The hole went deeper than he figured, but eventually he came to a dead end. He held the lantern high and looked but saw dark, damp rocks. He studied the ground, but found not footprints left by Ol’ Ole Finkle or Horatio Whitman. He moved back and, suddenly exhausted from the altitude, the stress, the excitement, the grueling weeks he had spent in these mountains, he rested on a boulder.
He was warm, but a cool breeze prickled his neck.
It soothed Dooley. Then he turned, lowered the lantern, and lifted his hand. He could feel the soft blowing of wind. It was coming from the wall. He rose, grabbed the lantern, and held it higher. He moved back, almost tripping over Blue, who skedaddled and moved out of the way.
Once the lantern was set down opposite the wall, Dooley came back and grabbed a stone. He moved it. He looked, studying the wall closely, realizing that this was no natural rock formation, no rockslide. His heart pounded and he moved back, grabbed another stone. He moved back and forth, working up a sweat, straining his muscles. Eventually, he shed his coat. Then his vest. Then his shirt and bandanna. He moved until he could not work anymore, and curled up into a ball, and slept with Blue beside him, guarding the wall.
He did not bother cooking breakfast, just drank the cold coffee, although he did make sure Blue had something to eat, and the horse and mule were grained. He also remembered something else and stepped outside, still in his long-handle underwear and woolen pants. It did not feel so cold this morning. He drank water and wished he had not burned J. K. L. O’Brien’s Silver Mining: A Primer. But he could remember his meeting with the late county clerk, Cheater Norris.
He found a piece of wood, sat down, carved a point, measured it against his Colt revolver, and moved off.
The words of the late Cheater Norris rang through his brain:
“Once you stake your claim—you stake it by setting up a monument at least three inches in diameter and six inches out of the ground. This has to be in the northeastern corner of your land.”
Northeast. He found the sun, just now appearing. He thought about the direction the mine went, the shaft that Dooley was convinced Horatio Whitman had sealed off by moving boulders to hide the entrance. That made sense. It had to be.
Horatio Whitman was not like that old thirty-one-year-old coot Dooley had met coming out of the mountains yesterday. Whitman was like most miners. He would get out of these hills in the winter, ride shotgun for Chester Motz. And he was somewhere between the miners whose properties Dooley had passed during his mining misadventures this spring.
Horatio Whitman would not invite any passersby in to help themselves to crackers whilst Horatio Whitman was maybe better than a hundred miles away in Denver. He wouldn’t threaten to shoot anyone on sight, either, but Horatio Whitman was smart enough to hide what he had found. Horatio Whitman had sealed the entrance to the tunnel or trap or room he had found in the late Ol’ Ole Finkle’s claim that had never been claimed.
The hidden entrance would go off that way, Dooley said to himself, and he took off that way. He did not pace off too much, though, but enough to cover the hole. Besides, he could always go back and move the claim marker if the tunnel appeared to stretch deeper.
He used the Colt’s butt to hammer the stake into the ground, and measured again, making sure it was three inches in diameter and at least six inches above the ground.
The county clerk’s voice whispered again in the morning wind:
“Once you’ve staked your claim, you have thirty days to file your claim with me.”
Thirty days. Dooley wrote his name on a piece of paper and set it beside the marker, covering it with a good-sized stone.
Then he ran back to Ol’ Ole Finkle’s far-from-worthless worthless mine.
It took him half that day to get the top of the makeshift wall down, but that was all he needed. He climbed up, and through the hole, bringing the lantern with him. Blue barked, the noise bouncing off the walls, and then the dog sprang up the makeshift stairway of rocks and boulders and entered the room with Dooley.
At first he didn’t see much of anything, just more rocks. Silver, he remembered somebody once telling him, can be black. Black as coal. It might fool a person.
He moved back, loving the steadiness of the temperature, how relaxing it felt. Despite being bottled up from Horatio Whitman’s wall of rocks, it did not feel or smell stuffy or stagnant. He still felt the breeze, and knew there had to be shafts sending fresh air into this chamber. He also knew that this chamber went deeper and deeper than he had figured.
“I might,” he told Blue, “have to move that stake back a few hundred yards.”
Blue barked, which ech
oed across the dark room, and wagged his tail.
They went on. In the darkness where the glow from the lantern did not reach, he saw the beams of light shining from the ceiling. Air holes. Natural or otherwise. But a good sign. A man could breathe here. He stopped and looked back, glad to see a light from the opening he had managed. He sighed with relief, knowing that the light there would provide a beacon, so he would not get lost in this chamber. He recalled all those stories he had read in the Police Gazette and Frank Leslie’s Illustrated about men getting lost in mines, eating candles until they died.
Just don’t go too far, he told himself. Don’t stay in here till the sun goes down.
His boots and Blue’s paws splashed through puddles of water, and now Dooley heard, above his own pounding heart and heavy breathing, water dripping.
He passed the sunbeams, past a little trickle of water coming from the roof and puddling on the floor. He came to a division in the mine, one chamber going off to the northeast, the other going northwest.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” he asked Blue. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure of his directions. He moved to the left, northeast, but quickly stopped. That way was blocked by another wall of boulders.
Dooley cursed Horatio Whitman for being that untrusting. He didn’t have the time or energy to move another mountain of rocks. Something peppered the brim of his hat, and he stepped back. More soft pebbles fell from the ceiling onto the floor. Now Dooley was certain that he did not want to be moving any rocks. He waited until the drizzle—a far cry from a cave-in—passed, and afterward he moved back into the closet, held the lantern as high as he could, and breathed a little easier.
This wasn’t the act of a paranoid miner hiding his treasure. It was solid stone. Just what he had called it in his mind, a closet. So he backed up and took the other opening.
It was much larger than a closet, and, thankfully, no drizzle of dirt or rocks or even water fell from the ceiling. Ahead of him, he saw other beams of light, revealing openings that would provide air, fresh air, and life. He turned to his right and held the lantern upward.
Hang Him Twice Page 11