Auraria: A Novel (15 page)

“I have eight colors in the brim of my hat.”

“Eight colors will buy you about eight beans,” said Emmett. “You got federal money?”

Holtzclaw found two dimes in his breast pocket. He placed one on his own spot and one on Emmett’s.

“What did I just tell you about insulting poverty?” said Emmett. Holtzclaw moved to retract the dime, but Emmett laughed. “You’re a soft touch, Jimmy. If you want to buy me supper, I won’t be upset. Now, Sampson’s real shy, so you don’t want to stare at your money. Otherwise you’ll never get fed. Just turn around and look out in the crowd. Watch Nimrod play the fiddle a bit.”

“What if someone takes my coin off the table when I’m not looking?”

“You’d think that would happen in a place like this?” said Emmett. “Well, you’d be right. So glance back every once and a while. If your money is gone but there’s no food, then yeah, you got robbed. Maybe you’ll just have to steal a little back from the fellow at the next stool over. But most people get fed on the first try.”

Holtzclaw and Emmett turned to watch a dice game that was taking place at a nearby table. Holtzclaw knew that it was chuck-luck, a game that was not unique to Auraria. It was played in every tavern from Lexington to Savannah. Dice were more reputable than playing cards, but the most refined people amused themselves with dominoes.

“What are the shooters dipping their fingers into?” said Holtzclaw.

“Why, Pharaoh’s Flour, of course! Before I started to carry Pharaoh’s Flour, it was cornmeal, but now they all buy from me. Soaks up the sweat, gives a clean release on the dice, imbues you with the spirit of ancient Hittite warriors.”

“Aren’t dice throws supposed to be a matter of chance?”

“No, no! That’s not a game then. No skill, no merit. Chuck-luck isn’t like gold mining. If you keep digging, you’re bound to find a nugget. But unless you’ve got the knack, you’re going to lose that nugget over dice. You’ll lose it to a better player, who uses all the advantages he’s got.”

Holtzclaw turned back to see if his money had been taken. It was gone, but in its place was supper. Three steaming bowls had been placed at each stool. The largest held a creamy soup; another, breaded frogs’ legs; the last, a grayish pudding.

“What’s in the small bowl?” asked Holtzclaw.

“Squirrel brains. Even people that don’t like the taste of squirrel still like the brains.”

First, Holtzclaw gave each bowl a thorough visual inspection. Second, a complete olfactory profile to ascertain the freshness of the ingredients. Third, a vigorous stirring, to investigate the murky depths. Fourth, a hesitant bite, followed by a prolonged pause to sample for fast-acting poisons. And finally, a substantial morsel.

“These are all quite good!” said Holtzclaw, who proceeded to dig into the bowls with delight.

Emmett scraped up the last bite from his bowl of gray pudding. “These squirrels died happy. You can tell because these brains are sweet. Not bitter, like they are when you shoot your own squirrel. I don’t how Sampson does it. The lady would keep him around just for the squirrel brains, even if everything else were blinky.”

Holtzclaw ate until all traces of the soup and the squirrel pudding were gone. The frogs’ legs were also cleaned to the bone. While the Old Rock Falls Inn offered more pleasant company, the Grayson House won on culinary merit. Poor Abigail—she wasn’t even the best cook in this tiny town.

The fiddler struck the opening notes of a new tune, and a whoop made Holtzclaw turn away from his empty bowls. An excited Moss flailed his hat above his head and leapt from one leg to another.

“Chickens are crowing up on Sourwood Mountain!” sang Moss, somewhere near the tune. “Hi-o diddle-um day!”

Moss had imbibed enough to loosen his tongue. A large enough drink might push him past the phase of total candor and into a less talkative mood. It was a trick that Holtzclaw had found in certain French novels, and there it seemed … disreputable. And yet, advantageous and not entirely morally impaired, for it required willing participation. Claret should certainly not be involved—better to use a baser liquor.

“What’s the most powerful thing you serve here?” Holtzclaw asked Emmett.

“That would be moonshine.”

“Wouldn’t that make it too easy for the revenuers to intercept your home brew, if you sell it in your tavern?”

“No, you’re thinking of white lightning. Moonshine doesn’t have liquor in it. You don’t even drink it.”

“And it’s enough to knock a grown man flat?”

“I’ve never seen anyone stay standing,” said Emmett. “That’s the kind of stuff Mother Fresh-Roasted sells. The Grayson House gets it from her.”

Then it would serve his purposes, thought Holtzclaw, whether it was a liquid or powder or unguent. Holtzclaw excused himself from Emmett and approached Moss, who had taken a seat on a long bench.

“Why, hello, stranger! I’m Moss.”

“Yes, pleased to meet you. Your friends tell me you’ve had a piece of good fortune.”

“I should say so! Been digging for ten years, twenty years. I was owed. I was due! Name’s Moss, by way.”

“Can I help you celebrate, then? What would you like? Moonshine, maybe?”

Moss nodded, then continued to nod, then flung his head so wildly back and forth that he fell forward from the bench. Holtzclaw picked him up again. It may not take a full dram of moonshine to finish this man for the evening, but better to overfill than underfill.

A short man with an apron was scurrying around, filling mugs from behind a wooden bar and delivering them to chuck-luckers, dancers, idlers, and spitters. Holtzclaw caught the edge of the bartender’s sleeve.

“Sir, we’d like a mug of moonshine or a cup or shot or however it comes.”

“Bowl, comes in a bowl. Silver bowl,” said the bartender. He returned, bearing a heavy metal bowl and pitcher, which he placed on the table with a thump that was heard above even the noise of the fiddler tuning up. Many heads turned to see the bartender pouring the contents of the pitcher into the bowl. A shimmer of starlight filled the tavern.

Moss, holding on to the edge of the table, peered into the bowl. He started to say something, but his knees gave out. He slumped to the floor, dazed, mouth moving, but no sounds coming out. Two patrons caught Moss by the armpits and lifted him up. Holtzclaw, astounded but pleased with the results, resisted the urge to look himself—if the sight of the contents of the bowl was enough to flatten Moss, he was sure it would do the same to him.

“Now he’s got to sleep it off,” said the bartender to Holtzclaw. “You want to pay for a room too?” Holtzclaw counted out money into the waiter’s waving palm. The bowl of moonshine had cost more than an acre of timber, but buying Moss’s silence for another day could prove far more valuable.

It was a malodorous success, though. It hung around Holtzclaw’s nose in a vapory cloud that smelled damp and dreamy. He wondered if he would have to bait other loose-lipped clients the same way, if he should perhaps open an account at the Grayson House for an unending stream of moonshine. Had Shadburn ever needed to liquor up the natives, or was it only Holtzclaw’s inadequacies that required such dealings?

Bogan sat alone at a corner table, drinking a bottle of Dr. Pep. Without a character like Moss to draw the words out, Bogan wasn’t likely to spill the news of the land sale.

“Who’s got poppy rocks?” called out the fiddler. “I need some.”

“The lady doesn’t like it, Nimrod!” replied a voice from the crowd. “They wake her up from her beauty sleep.”

“She’s not even here!” said the fiddler. “She’s up visiting Daddy.”

“Naw, she’s upstairs,” said someone from the crowd. “She came in the back way a few minutes ago.”

The fiddler whooped and took a crystal from an outstretched hand. He put it into his mouth and bit down. A terrific bang shot from between his lips, complete with sparks and a sulfurous smell. “Why, howdy! That’ll wake you up!” He bit again, and another bang jolted his head to the side. Smoke drifted from his nose. Some of the spectators started to cheer. Others slipped out of the exits.

“Boys, just what is going on down here?” A woman’s voice cut through the hoots, hollers, explosions, and clatter.

The room fell silent, except for one voice that said with a stage whisper, “I told you she was here! I told you she came in the back way.”

Ms. Rathbun appeared from the kitchen. She was wearing an evening dress, narrow-waisted with voluminous skirts, black, trimmed with red ribbons that spiraled up her forearms. Her head was uncovered. Her blonde hair had been taken out of its tight coil, and it rolled in loose waves.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the fiddler. “I didn’t think you were here.”

“It shouldn’t matter if I’m here or not. We have rules at the Grayson House about poppy rocks. It’s not the noise, but the vapors. The place smells like Waterloo. Makes me wrinkle my nose, and if it wrinkles enough, the wrinkles will stay there. Plus that sulfur ruins the aroma of Sampson’s delicious food. You wouldn’t want that to happen to Sampson, would you?”

“No, ma’am,” said the fiddler.

“Let’s have it, then.” Ms. Rathbun held out her handkerchief. The fiddler opened his mouth and extracted the saliva-covered artifact. He placed it into Ms. Rathbun’s hand, and as he withdrew his fingers, she squeezed. A deafening thunderclap tore through the tavern. Men cowered, covering their ears. Mugs tumbled. Furniture shook apart. Beards were curled. Boots came untied.

Ms. Rathbun’s voice rose out of the din. “What song will you play for me as I leave?” she said.

“I can play ‘Liza Jane,’” said the fiddler, tugging on his ear.

“Why, that sounds delightful.”

Accompanied by the strains of fiddle music, Ms. Rathbun glided toward the doorway from whence she had come, into a small alcove out of the bustle. Holtzclaw intercepted her at the foot of the stairs.

“Why, if it isn’t our resident agent of the Standard Company!” she said. “Welcome, Holtzclaw! Did you have any more luck at the Amazon Branch?”

“I didn’t,” said Holtzclaw. “Someone else did. Namely you, mademoiselle.”

“It is not an easy creek for gold,” said Ms. Rathbun. “For you, I mean. But I’m sure you’ll find some purpose. Some higher and better use.”

“You exploited my natural respect of women. I was enamored by your charms and made mistakes.”

“Am I charming? Why Holtzclaw, that’s rather forward of you to say. But I will accept your words in the kindest and gentlest spirit.”

“Now that I know your character, I should not have been surprised to find you the proprietor of a place like the Grayson House. When you were telling me about your dreams of making a new start in Milledgeville, you didn’t tell me about your decadent empire here.”

“How is it decadent? I look after these boys, and I give them rules. No poppy rocks because they rot their teeth. No cards because of paper cuts.”

“But as much food and drink and dice and fiddle music as they can buy?”

“I help them change money, which is cold and heavy, to pleasure, which is warm and light. I hope that our transaction this afternoon has brought you happiness, Holtzclaw.”

“I have a suspicion that the land was not yours to sell.”

“Who told you such lies?” said Ms. Rathbun. Her voice was unchanged, as light as ever.

“Princess Trahlyta,” said Holtzclaw, though as soon as it said it, he recognized it as a strange source of evidence, certainly not a precedent that would hold in court.

“That wet child? Who did she say owned it?”

“She didn’t say, but she implied …” Holtzclaw sputtered.

“You assumed that she was telling you the truth. You believed her ludicrous tales. Why? Because they were ludicrous?”

“I’ve encountered several phenomena here in the valley, Ms. Rathbun, that are not easily explained,” said Holtzclaw. “And it’s been said to me that I should not attempt to understand it all.”

“Those sound like the words of those who are trying to manipulate you. Have you gotten this far in life by believing in folk tales and nonsense?”

Ms. Rathbun turned away from Holtzclaw and climbed a single riser, then stopped. She was taller than Holtzclaw now by half a head.

“My father gave me the Amazon Branch as a birthday present,” she said, half-turned away from him. Her profile caught the lamp light, and line of gold surrounded her head like a nimbus. “He got it from an immigrant named Millan, who had a catarrh that my father cured with spring water. Millan bought it from Bowlin, who won it in the lottery. It’s all in the courthouse, if you care to check when you file your deed. And that is no folk tale.”

She stood in profile, pensive, with a hand on the banister and a graceful arm arcing upward from there to a shoulder angled back toward Holtzclaw. Even this casual pose seemed practiced.

“Now, did you want to cancel our deal?” she said. “Did you want a refund? I will give it to you if you believe that moist maiden over me.”

“No, it’s not that. I just wanted to inquire. My curiosity is satisfied.” Holtzclaw turned to go, with a deferential tip of the hat.

Ms. Rathbun called after him.

“I heard that you bought Moss’s property, and for a lot less than you paid me. I find that flattering.”