Auraria: A Novel (12 page)

“Then I will pay you in gold coins.”

“Again, you are speaking about quantities, not diversities. Show me the coins that you have.”

Holtzclaw opened his satchel and withdrew the bag of coins. He held it out to Walton, who reached in and pulled out one coin at a time. After inspection, he placed the coins in groupings on a higher step.

“These are all Harrison Brothers’ coins!” said Walton. “You know the story, yes?”

Holtzclaw thought it wisest not to answer, but to take another sip of the magnificent claret.

“Thirty years ago, in better times,” said Walton, “the Harrison Brothers minted their own coins, right here in Auraria, from the local gold. They only did it for a few years before the federals came in and confiscated the Harrisons’ stamps. Such a travesty! The brothers would have resisted if they had found a way to profit, but I think they saw the raid as a relief. They could quit without shame.”

“How could they not have profited on gold, of all things?” said Holtzclaw.

“The miners and panners wouldn’t tolerate any metal lost in minting, and they wouldn’t pay any exchange fees. Could you blame them? They’d sweated for every flake. And the folks here in Auraria still cling to those coins in their tight fists. They won’t give them up. I don’t have one here, among my things. How did you get so many?”

Holtzclaw told the truth, seeing no value in a lie. “They came from my employer, who has authorized me to spend them as needed.”

“Here’s a one dollar, two dollar, three dollar, and a five, ten, and twenty—all stamped with the same month! That’s clever. And if you’ll notice, here’s four one dollars, siblings of sequential years. What lovely pictures too! Did you know that the Harrisons stamped a groundhog on their two-dollar piece? The younger Harrison loved groundhog. Who doesn’t? Good and greasy, wipe it off your chin. Lovely. Do you have a groundhog coin in there?”

Holtzclaw inverted the bag of gold coins onto the floor, and both men rummaged through them. After a few minutes, Holtzclaw held up two coins that featured a crude groundhog stamped on the obverse.

“I only need one,” said Walton. “And this is the finer of the two. So these coins then, for the house and lot?” said Walton.

Holtzclaw added up the face value of the coins Walton had selected. It was a fine deal, very fine. If Holtzclaw considered the square footage of the structure, the deal was legendary—how could one put a price on infinity?

“If you are sure, I will draft a deed,” said Holtzclaw.

“It will be an opportunity to get more space for my possessions. A warehouse all on a single floor. Acres and acres under one roof. I could have an indoor railroad that would carry me about to different departments. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Walton’s face radiated pleasure.

Holtzclaw executed a bill of sale; Walton signed with an elaborate flourish.

“Mr. Walton, one more matter. Like you, I am a collector. I have a personal collection of documents. Your Ephraim and Flossie guard some that I should like to have. Maps, land lottery tickets, old surveys, et cetera. As your future plans include relocation, would you see fit to sell me any of those papers, one collector to another?”

Walton mused. “What would Ephraim and Flossie play then? They do so love their trading game.”

“With their bickering over territory, they might like chess. Or they could have a spelling game out of blocks. Flossie has many words to share with Ephraim.”

Walton shook his head. “I cannot do it. I cannot sell any of my possessions.”

“You did sell the house.”

“That is not a possession. It is just a place to keep them. A possession must be movable, because if you leave it behind it is no longer in your possession.”

This rich man had no more sense than Moss raving about taking the luck from the land. Holtzclaw tucked the land deed into his traveling bag, alongside the others. Such papers did not need aphorisms to make them valuable.

#

After leaving the Walton tower, Holtzclaw headed for the town’s druggist. He needed a remedy that would reinforce him through the last two properties that he had to visit before sundown. While Holtzclaw’s feet were accustomed to walking—his occupation compelled him to travel many miles, and not all of them on horseback or stagecoach—his knees were not accustomed to the mountains. A mile on a fifteen-degree slope, whether ascending or descending, required as much strength as a dozen miles in the level Wire-grass or pine barrens. Walton’s steep staircases had only exacerbated his condition, and now he suffered from an acute ache that would slow him down if it weren’t addressed with medicine.

Entering the druggist’s shop, Holtzclaw was further surprised to see that the store contained not an array of frog’s eyes and bat tails and pine bark and other folk remedies, but a fine selection o
f
ars medic
a
in colored bottles and vials, and in front of them was a man in a broad mustache.

“Something for the barking dogs, eh, stranger? Well, you’re no stranger here. My name’s Emmett, and you are?”

“James G. Holtzclaw.”

“Welcome, Jimmy!”

“This is your store?” said Holtzclaw.

“Yes, my very own,” said Emmett.

“Do you own the building?”

“Ah, no, I do not. I would rather put my money and my efforts into the aid of my fellow man. No, the building belongs to the doctor.”

“The doctor? Is that an honorific or an occupation?”

“Doc Rathbun, and he’s a real doctor. Looks at your bones and everything. Sends me patients. We work well together. The barber will look at your aches and pains too, but the doctor and I don’t get on so well with him. And Mother Fresh-Roasted has a passel of cures, but you really have to believe in them.”

“What kind of preposterous name is Mother Fresh-Roasted?”

“If you think her name’s preposterous, you probably oughtn’t go to see her, then. She’s got banjos that play themselves. Victuals that you’d never believe—hens laying ice cream. A singing tree that she books out for parties. ”

“She sounds like just the shaman for Auraria, then. Still, I am glad to see that your connection with an actual man of science is reflected in your selection of wares,” said Holtzclaw. “Given your rural location, I had expected to see some more rustic offerings in your store. Witch hazel or what have you.”

“Some of those are pure and true. A sprig of ginseng will do you good! Smash up some ginger and put it up the backside of a mule, and he’ll run like lightning. Nothing fake about that. Can’t fool a mule!”

Now Emmett leaned in close to the counter, lowering his voice as if to avoid being overheard, although there were no others in the store.

“Jimmy, there’s some pumpkins of good in those cures. But folks around here aren’t going to buy them from me, and why would they? A fellow says, ‘Emmett, I don’t need to buy any ginseng from you. I can go out in the woods and get as much as I like.’ Well, it’s not as easy as that, but I don’t argue with him. I say, ‘Fellow, you’re right! You don’t need that common stuff. You need Dr. Pep’s Double Cure! Two blended medicines for all your complaints. Insomnia, sleepiness, fevers, chills, headache and heartache, ruddy complexion, or paleness in the cheek.’ And that same fellow, he’ll buy that right away. Comes in a pretty bottle that he can put a daisy in for the missus. Nice label on it that proves what I’m saying. I get them printed down in Gainesville. And what are those two medicines that a fellow paid me fifty cents for? Well, Jimmy, I’ll tell you. It’s ginseng and clear liquor. Ginseng to cure ’em and liquor so they like it.”

“So, you’re fooling your customer?”

“What’s fooling? He gets better—he’s happy. I get paid—I’m happy. The missus gets a flower vase—she’s happy.”

“But he could have just found some ginseng in the woods.”

“Ginseng doesn’t cure like Dr. Pep! Ginseng doesn’t have a label.”

“And would Dr. Pep help my pained knees?”

“Dr. Pep would do most anything for you if I told you it did,” said Emmett. “But I think the hog may be out of the sack on that one. For you, friend Jimmy, I would prescribe the scientific cure. I have an excellent and popular substance for which I am the sole local supplier. Effervescent Brain Salts! Good for pained parts, but where it shines is in the mind. Cures mental enervation and excitement, excessive study, mania, and over-brainwork. Says so on the label.” Emmett tapped it in front of Holtzclaw’s nose.

“I suppose I’ll try it.”

“You won’t be disappointed, and if you are, I’ll tell you why you’re wrong. Shall I wrap it up for you, or will you be taking the remedy now?”

“Wrap it up, please. I’ll take it on up the road.”

As Emmett wrapped his purchase, Holtzclaw studied a gorgeous lithograph hanging on the wall, which showed a smiling man in an Egyptian headdress. He held a red tin that depicted the same smiling face. Behind him, three Pyramids rose like mountains from a desert landscape. Golden letters proclaimed the name of the product.

“What’s Pharaoh’s Flour?” said Holtzclaw.

“Why, Pharaoh’s Flour is the best I have, and it has the best speech too. Let me give it, and see if you don’t leave with a tin or a wagon full.” Emmett cleared his throat and began to speak before Holtzclaw could protest. “Pharaoh’s Flour! The laughing face of Amenhotep III promises the highest quality flour, used for millennia by pharaohs and queens and your very own mother. Its natural sweetness is discerned by even the choosiest tongue. Rolls are fuller and crusts are crisper. Of the last ten winners at the Great World Exhibition of Culinary Arts, all ten chose Pharaoh’s Flour. But it’s not only for the kitchen! Pharaoh’s Flour is used in locks to help an old key turn and in door hinges to eliminate creaks. Scatter half a box in front of a heavy chest, and it will slide along the floor, just as the ancients moved the Pyramids’ great stones. Pharaoh’s Flour is most useful in the marriage bed—but you already know that, you clever girl! Mix Pharaoh’s Flour and water into a pure paste that can plug insect holes or even repair a leaky roof or sinking boat. To ward against nighttime thieves, scatter fresh Pharaoh’s Flour around your rooms and in the morning look for footsteps leading to the guilty. Poured onto dirty snow, Pharaoh’s Flour will restore the look of a virgin winter’s night. Pharaoh’s Flour, brushed on to lilies, saves their springtime freshness until summer’s end. Pharaoh’s Flour has a fresh, sharp scent to drive away all evil spirits and malicious ghosts from the corners of your home. Other brands have no command over shadows of the dead. Use Pharaoh’s Flour for divination and fortune-telling—consult the forms designed by scattered grains. Like sand sculpted by the wind, Pharaoh’s Flour holds ancient secrets. Pharaoh’s Flour promises the full fidelity of your husband and the eternal good behavior of your children—not only because the delicacies that you create with it can never be forgotten, but also because Pharaoh’s Flour bakes into every cake and pie the ancient spells and curses with which the pharaohs guarded their undisturbed homes and descendants into Eternity. And the ancient spells and curses, once guarded by the wise and wealthy, are now available in your kitchen. Pharaoh’s Flour! On every grain dances an ancient maiden. Pharaoh’s Flour! At every reputable store.”

Emmett made a little bow, and Holtzclaw conceded that it was an excellent speech. “How much does such a wondrous product cost?”

“What a crass question! I should take offense. How much is purity worth to you, Jim? What price do you put on freshness, taste, and ancient secrets? A thousand men died to preserve these things, Jim, and ten thousand to bring them to the light and put them into tins in my humble shop! If I said a dollar a pound, you would still gladly pay it. But for you, it is fifty cents, and I couldn’t sell it for a penny less, not even to my own mother.”

It was a foolish price for flour, but not all flour comes with ancient maidens or elaborate speeches. After so much effort on Emmett’s part, Holtzclaw would have felt abashed not to buy. “Well, I’ll take a pound then, along with my Effervescent Brain Salts, even though I don’t need it weighing me down.”

“Why, you won’t even feel it. A pound of Pharaoh’s Flour is light as a feather.”

“Spoken like a consummate salesman.”

Chapter Seven

Holtzclaw’s next destination, the next-to-last of the day’s essential properties, was a place called the Amazon Branch, a fork of one of Auraria’s many waterways that all flowed into the Lost Creek. When he arrived on the property, he found it deserted. A stone chimney rose up from a scorched place. The owner’s cabin must have burned recently.

Blast it! thought Holtzclaw. He should have done reconnaissance before hiking out here. Had the owner died in the cabin fire? Nearly everything on Shadburn’s map had been out-of-date—so too was the information about the Amazon Branch. Without giving too much away, he could have asked Abigail or the garrulous Emmett for confirmation, but he’d been in too great a hurry, and now he’d wasted a trip.

Holtzclaw’s head ached, as did his feet. He began to make a circuit around the property, to see if there were some signs as to how he should proceed. The land sloped downward and met a pleasant brook. It was shallow, clear, and fast—all excellent for the thirsty traveler. He remembered the cure he’d bought from the druggist. Holtzclaw took a draught of water, then a capful of Effervescent Brain Salts. The salt crystals hissed and popped inside his mouth. The taste was lively, in a way more literal than is usually meant, and he did not dislike it.