“Let’s cut to it, Mayor.” Rollie looked down at the fleshy fellow. He’d added Mayor to stroke the man’s obvious formidable ego.
“Excellent. I see you are a man of action. Good, good. I like that.”
Rollie sighed.
“Yes, well, I take it from your arrival here in Boar Gulch that you intend to stake a claim and strike it rich, eh?”
“Something like that.”
The mayor chuckled.
“Is that funny to you?”
“No, no, but you’ll excuse me if I say you don’t exactly seem suited to the . . . rigors of the mining life.” Wheeler stepped backward and held up his hands in mock defense. His eyebrows followed suit. “I apologize if I have offended you, but if I am correct, well then, I have a deal for your consideration.”
Rollie regarded the man. He had to admit that his cane, the limp, and the fact he was no young cockerel might have given that impression. But he wasn’t ready for the stewpot yet. Still, none of it added up to him appearing as though he were as spry as he imagined himself. And he did roll into town riding in a wagon, not on horseback.
He was disinclined to like the mayor. He had seen too many of his ilk in the past, and to a man they were annoying ticks feeding off the labors of others. But nonetheless, there was something interesting about Mayor Chauncey Wheeler. Not much, but something. Maybe I’m going soft, Rollie thought. “Go on.”
The mayor smiled, resumed walking and puffing his cigar. “The saloon, such as it is, while in Dawber’s name was, or rather is, my property. You may have noticed on your arrival that the town of Boar Gulch, for it is a town or at least it will be if I have a say in the matter, has already taken on the look of a burg much larger.” He smiled at Rollie, puffed.
When Rollie didn’t answer, the mayor continued. “That is because I platted this town out before another soul arrived.”
“You were here first?” Rollie’s surprise showed.
The mayor chuckled. “Yes, it’s true. Two, no, three years since. Well, there were two of us at the start. Me and my partner, Pete Winklestaff, who has since departed this place.”
Rollie wasn’t certain if that meant the man had died or pulled up stakes and left for richer ground.
The mayor anticipated the question. “All a matter of timing. He did not want to wait. I was willing to. I bought him out, then acquired more claims, eventually amassing most of the land you see hereabouts.” He swept a pudgy hand around them. “Ah, but you’re wondering why? How did I know it was going to prove up?”
Rollie shrugged.
“Because, my good man, I . . . well, I didn’t. But sometimes a hunch is enough in life, eh? Besides, you have to be somewhere. And I like it here. At least for now.” He winked and puffed.
Again, Rollie responded with little more than a nod.
“Let me ask you, sir, how did you happen to hear about Boar Gulch? Nobody shows up here accidentally.”
“It was mentioned in a newspaper.”
“Ah, yes. That would place you in Denver City.”
Rollie looked at the man, not affirming or denying the guess.
“It pays to have a friend who is a journalist in a bright and shiny city such as Denver.”
Rollie was beginning to not like the sound of this. Was it all a smoke game?
“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but the fun of it is .. . there really is gold in these hills! Why else would that saloon fill up each night and folks have to stand outside drinking? Why, these hills are dotted with hardworking miners each on their individual claims, many of which I either sold or leased to them.” The mayor winked again. “And most nights, they make the trip into town not because they don’t have their own libation in their own cabins. Nay, but because they are lonely and in need of conversation with their fellows. They commiserate with each other, you see.”
“Are there women?”
“Ah, a prime question. And one for which I have an answer, as you may have guessed. They are on their way. Of that I have little doubt. You see, it takes time for a mine camp’s reputation to reach the larger world. Already I have had word, by way of our supply wagon’s weekly runs, that a wagonload of divine creatures of the fairer gender may yet be on their way from east of here, from Montana Territory.”
“If this town holds so much promise, why don’t you want the bar?”
“Ah, but I do. I just don’t want to spend my time as a saloon keeper.”
“I see. So you want an employee.”
The man shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Why not get one of them?” Rollie nodded toward the cluster of townsfolk watching them, though they were slowly trailing off, mostly toward the unguarded saloon.
“Ha!” said the mayor. “They have all been bitten by the gold bug. Besides, there isn’t a one of them I could trust. In fact,” he stopped walking and turned to look at the saloon as the last of them walked inside. “I’d say they are thieving from me as we speak.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are new here. You are fresh, as they say. And you are, as we have determined, I believe by mutual consent, not ideally suited to digging a hole in the ground. You, sir, look to me to be a man of action and education. A man of the world, a—”
Rollie held up a hand. “All right, all right. Enough of the grease. I’m flattered, but not interested. I won’t work for another man.” It was something he had decided against and promised himself he’d not ever do again. Especially after dogging for the Pinkerton Agency all those years, only to be handed a pocket watch—which had been useful, he had to admit—and shown the door.
“Ah, but don’t we all work for someone, in some form or another?”
“Nope.”
“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”
Rollie stopped walking, half-turned, and looked at the bar. It wasn’t much to look at. A straight structure, if something half canvas could be called a structure. It wore planking halfway up, and was topped with a canvas wall and peak. It would be simple enough to touch brim, nod, and roll on out of this odd mountain community. And yet . . . it was the type of place that tended to attract the sort of people he’d spent the last twenty years of his life tracking down and hauling in. Now he was here, attracted to it, the same as them. What did that say about him? Was he really nothing more than a snob, someone deluding himself into thinking he was better than folks who were actually his equals?
Rollie looked harder at the place. Despite the broken railing and the fact that the previous owner had been shot by someone apparently still in the place, presumably drinking away the memory of the killing, there was an undeniable appeal in mining the miners. Especially if a boom really was about to begin.
Besides, what the hell else did he have to do? And where could he go? He needed to rest up, finish healing up, and recoup his lost savings. No better place than a potential boomtown. It was a gamble, but it seemed more fun than living in a city and living in fear—same thing, as far as Rollie was concerned.
He looked at the pudgy little mayor. “Sell it to me.”
Judging by the droop in the man’s cigar, that was not the answer the mayor had expected.
“But . . . well, it’s a moneymaker, no doubt, but—”
“But what?”
Wheeler didn’t reply, so Rollie turned and began walking back toward his wagon. He’d taken two steps when the man touched his sleeve. “Hold on there, friend. You caught me unawares, that’s all. Perhaps we could come to some amicable terms.”
And that is what they did, over the course of the next ten minutes, right there in the middle of the main street of Boar Gulch. The only other souls in sight were Cap, the tuckered-out gray gelding, and Dawber, former proprietor of the town’s only saloon and former living man. By the end of the conversation, during which Rollie barely had to speak, they had haggled, then settled on a price that took most of the remainder of Rollie’s meager savings. He learned about the weekly supply runs to Bell
a Springs, some miles down the mountains to the northeast, and that the saloon offered him modest living quarters at the rear. The rest of it he figured he’d learn soon enough.
“Let us retire to my mercantile yonder,” Wheeler nodded, “and we can draw up a contract. Two copies, so we each are happy. I’ll also show you the contract I had with the previous keeper, poor Dawber over there.”
Rollie glanced at the dead man in the street. He hoped someone buried him before the flies brought their friends. Inside the store, he said, “I’d like to see the papers proving your ownership of the property in question.”
“Naturally.”
“And before I sign, I’ll need a couple of clauses inserted into the contract.”
“What sort of clauses?”
“One, that you don’t open a rival establishment in Boar Gulch for a period of one year.”
The mayor’s face actually began to drain of its pink color. Rollie was enjoying himself.
“And the second clause?” said the mayor, his tone colder than before.
“That you don’t back someone in such a venture in Boar Gulch within the next twelve months.”
“Preposterous! Why, I . . . I don’t know a soul who would agree to such terms. I won’t do it.”
“Fine,” said Rollie, stuffing his thick wallet back into his inner coat pocket. “I hope you won’t object to selling me a few supplies for my journey.”
“Now, now, hold on a moment. I only meant that, well, a year’s a long time, especially up here in the mountains.”
“Yep.”
“Six months. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll leave it,” said Rollie, suppressing a grin. He had the mayor backed into an uncomfortable corner.
“Eight months.”
Rollie pooched out his lip, scrunched his eyes as if in deep thought. He hadn’t thought the man would go for either clause, to be honest, so eight months was all bonus time. “Fine,” he said, extending his hand.
The mayor looked at the big hand and gulped, then shook.
The two men fell silent, the mayor jotting down a simple, half-page document while Rollie took in the limited but decent selection of comestibles and hard goods—sacks of cornmeal and beans, shovels, picks, coils of rope, wire, fuse, kegs of nails, canned goods, tobacco, tin dishes, leather boots, canvas trousers, rough-spun cloth shirts, and one woman’s straw hat hanging from a nail overhead. Its blue and yellow false flowers dusty from lack of attention.
“I’m curious, Mayor,” said Rollie. “Your willingness to sell some of this so-called priceless land makes me wonder if you aren’t as confident in the longevity of Boar Gulch as a mining concern as you let on.”
“Not at all, not at all. In fact, I am so confident in its future I feel it incumbent on myself to share in this great, good fortune of which I find myself keeper.”
“Magnanimous of you,” said Rollie.
“To a fault, sir.” The mayor sighed. “It will bite me in the backside one fine day. But that day, God willing, resides in the far distance.”
Once they had each read and signed the contract, they clinked glasses of whiskey from a bottle behind the mercantile counter and sipped.
Decent bourbon, thought Rollie, hoping he’d have some of the same at his own new establishment, which he was eager to actually see. Never had he been so foolhardy in such a large decision. And he had to admit he liked the feeling.
They finished their drinks, shook hands once more—Rollie detected a strengthening in the mayor’s shake, and he wondered if he’d jumped into a small hole with a big snake. In for a penny, as his mother used to say.
As he reached the door, the mayor’s voice stopped him. “I’ll be along shortly, Mr. Finnegan, to make introductions and welcome you to Boar Gulch.” He grinned.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Finnegan. You should have come to town by the northeast road. It’s a longer trip, but it’s a maintained stretch—and decidedly more comfortable.”
“Hmm. Good to know.” With that, Rollie folded his copy of the contract in thirds, tucked it into an inner pocket, and with a nod, turned and heeled it back down the lane toward his new saloon.
CHAPTER NINE
Not wanting to appear insensitive to the death of the previous barkeep, even though the man lay faceup dead in the street out front, Rollie tried to slip in without attracting attention. He lugged his two bulging war bags up the steps and across the narrow front walk, his Winchester lashed across the top of one and used as a handle. Booze-fueled chatter laced through with jags of laughter jerked short when he nudged open the door.
The room’s light was dim, enhanced by two oil lamps turned low. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the stale funk of dried sweat and old beer. It reminded him of the seedier of such establishments he’d been in all over the West, from dugouts with dirt walls where the stink of stacks of green animal skins warred with the grime of men too long alone to the cloying perfume of bawdy women aping for dim-eyed gamblers in Dodge City gaming halls.
Once more he surveyed the assemblage . . . and they him.
His long-held inclination in such situations was to stare them down, one at a time if need be, almost shaming them to turn away as if they had violated his privacy by looking at him. Worked well in the past, he told himself. He directed his thoughts to the now. Now, Rollie Finnegan, you are a publican, a figure who is expected to dole out advice and smiles if you want to make sales. And more to the point, especially if you want to make a home here, however long here might last.
He cleared his throat, smiled, and tipped his head forward. “Howdy.”
A few low mutters of the same drifted back to him. Then, once more, silence. Thankfully, a squat, bearded man with no hair atop his head and bright apple-red cheeks strode forward, a glass of beer in one hand. Even in the poorly lit room Rollie saw the man had vivid blue eyes. The man smiled and in a voice far too deep and large for his demure height, said, “Well, and who might you be?”
Rollie opened his mouth and from behind him the mayor’s voice boomed, “That, Mr. Ogilvie, is your new saloon keeper. Lady . . . and gentlemen of Boar Gulch, meet Mr. Finnegan.”
A ripple of lighter noises of surprise rose into the stale air, then Rollie said, “A round on the house.” They all cheered and then stared at him once again.
The mayor leaned close. “I believe they are waiting on you.”
Rollie’s eyes widened and he understood. He moved behind the bar to his left and set his bags down on a somewhat dry patch of floor. Once more they cheered and lined up, ready for their free libation, which, judging from the wet floor and the tumble of empty bottles, would not be their first of the waning afternoon.
The mayor had sent a man and his son, whom the mayor said he trusted—at that Rollie tamped down the urge to flinch—to unhitch Cap and feed, water, and stable him out back with his own horses behind the mercantile. Rollie knew he had to trust the mayor at least until he knew him better.
The same men would then lug the dead saloon keeper to the back room of the mayor’s mercantile, where he would be laid out properly, boxed up, and buried. For a fee, naturally. Rollie wondered aloud how he would get money from a dead man. The mayor had winked. Was there nothing the man would not do for a dollar?
With the mayor’s help, Rollie discovered where everything was kept, learned how to unbung a beer keg, and served up round after round, taking in money that he hoped was the correct amount. No doubt he lost more than he gained, but he reasoned he had plenty of time to learn the game and make his own rules. Eventually, he would make it all back, and then some.
That first night began with a nervous Rollie, and ended only slightly better. He’d stood everyone to a second free round before it occurred to him that getting booze up to the town could not be a simple endeavor. He also kept a sharp eye on each new face as folks came in to give him the once-over. He wanted to acquaint himself with his new townsmen, and there was the slim chance he mi
ght recognize one of them from some past pursuit. If he knew them, they would no doubt recall him. Likely not favorably.
Never had he offered so much unfelt cheer in his life. Well past midnight, he nodded, smiled his last smile, and finally ushered the last drunk patron out the door, making certain he didn’t tumble off the edge of the porch. He’d have to fix that railing in the morning.
The saloon, much like he’d found the town on his arrival, was not as coarse inside as he’d expected. This was due, no doubt, to his lifelong habit of expecting the worst and ending up surprised that a given situation wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The floor was planked with rough-sawn boards worn smooth where a couple of years’ worth of boot traffic had slid and stomped.
Up to waist height the walls were of the same planking. Thick canvas rose from there and sported a half-dozen unrepaired three-corner tears a few inches in length. He made a note to sew them tight, and to finish the full construction in wood when he had time—and money—to do it.
The bar itself lined much of the left side of the twenty-five-foot room. It was half that in width. A door in the back wall led to his new home, a space the full width of the bar but ten feet in depth. A sag-rope bed in a wooden frame sat tucked into the back left corner. A thin, handmade mattress sack leaked pine duff and tufts of ticking. On top were a couple of balled blankets.
At the foot of the bed, something topped with filthy sheeting filled an entire corner four feet square and man height. He lifted an edge and peered beneath. Stacked wooden crates bearing the words Finest Whiskey gladdened him. He slid the sheeting free and coughed at the puffs of dust as he dropped it to the floor. He lifted down the crates and checked—all full of full bottles. That was something, anyway.
He slid a bottle from its spot in a case and worked the cork free. He’d not had a drink since signing the contract in Wheeler’s mercantile, how many hours before? Too many, he decided, and took a long pull. It burned and stung and scorched and then smoothed its way down his gullet to his belly, where it sat a moment like a bright coal in a campfire before releasing its heat to the rest of him. Bottle in one hand and the bail of an oil lantern in the other, Rollie set about inspecting the rest of his new home.
By the Neck Page 4