Crown of Dust (18 page)

The door slams and Jed enters, laboring under the weight of a whiskey barrel. He eyes the circle of listeners. He winks at Alex, and she wishes he'd ignored her, walked by as if she were invisible or just one of the men, which can be the same as invisible in a town full of men.

Mr. James's audience has grown even larger as miners continue to trickle in from the creek. Alex forces herself to relax her grip on her armrests.

“Vigilance committee never would have let Mrs. Minford put so much distance between herself and San Francisco. We, ah, we …” Mr. James pauses as though losing his thought, clicks his teeth and cranes his head to get a look at Jed, who lets the whiskey barrel bump to the ground by the bar. Jed looks up, as though feeling eyes on him.

“And the other story?” Emaline asks, stepping quickly into Mr. James's line of sight, for the first time bestowing upon the reporter the full weight of her nameless appeal. “You had another story.”

His forehead colors. He clicks his teeth. He reaches into his case, pulling out a sheet of newsprint. “Well, read it for yourself.” He hands her the newsprint as his eyes follow Jed behind the counter.

“My eyes ain't so good,” says Emaline, again placing herself directly in Mr. James's line of sight and thrusting the paper back into his hands. “All right?”

At this admission, David leans forward in his chair as if listening harder. Emaline's eyes were one of those things she didn't talk about, as if an unacknowledged weakness was no weakness at all.

A silent exchange passes from Emaline to Jed: a blink, a nod, nothing more. Jed slides quietly through the kitchen door.

“All right,” concedes Mr. James, as Emaline hulks above him. “All right.

“‘
On Thursday, March 4th, at dusk, a Wells Fargo stagecoach en route to Sacramento from San Francisco stopped to offer a ride to a young boy alone on the road. In payment for his generosity, the driver received a Colt revolver at his temple. Within minutes, the stage was surrounded by a hooting gang of bandana-masked bandits who proceeded to relieve the coach of all valuables, including twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of gold coins minted in San Francisco, and a crate of fine French wine. In future, citizens and stage drivers alike are advised, whatever their benevolent inclinations, to aid and assist only persons of intimate acquaintance.'

“Now, I don't know about you folks, but how safe is a place when young boys are turning to crime?” says Mr. James as Micah takes the paper from him, frowning over the headlines. Frowning, Alex realizes, at her, or the Golden Boy. David's gaze follows Micah's and their suspicion heats the base of her neck.

“There's got to be consequences,” Mr. James is saying, but all attention is on Alex, who can't keep her hands from trembling. She makes a fist as Mr. James slams his upon the table, jolting the whiskey glasses. “Consequences,” he persists, looking about for support, his fist now suspended midair in the silence. Alex can't help but look to Emaline, whose eyes are searching the upper right corner of her mind. Emaline's eyes widen, and when she bites her lip Alex has to stand. She catches the corner of the table, hears the glasses fall, doesn't slow down, doesn't look back as she pushes past Klein and out the front door.

David's head swivels from Alex to Mr. James, whose lips have pursed themselves into a question all but swallowed by the sudden frenzy of the saloon.

Emaline storms from Mr. James to the bar and back again with a tumbler in hand.

“Care for a drink, Mr. James?” She lets the tumbler slip and brown liquid douses his crotch. She moves in front of him, places her hand just above the damp patch on his trousers. “Oh, I am so sorry. No—stay put. I've got a towel.” She produces a small embroidered napkin from her bodice.

David can barely watch.

“Ooee! Comedy you printing in this paper, Mr. James!” proclaims Micah, loud for all to hear. “Listen to this, David, listen: ‘Minerva O'Fountain, a young “gentleman,” or some other kind of animal dressed in a boy's suit, was arrested and brought before Justice Rolfe on Wednesday last for violation of the ordinance prohibiting females from appearing in the streets in male attire.' Says here she was fined twenty-five dollars and costs. You make that up, Mr. James?”

“Who was—” James attempts.

“I'll take a drink, sure, Emaline,” declares Limpy, slapping a paw on the reporter's shoulder. “You hear of that fellow over in You Bet, claiming to be the second cousin to the King of England? Turned out he couldn't even spell ‘Edward.'”

“Another drink, Mr. James?” asks Emaline, for the moment done dabbing his crotch.

“Thank you, no,” he says, but Emaline hands him another anyway and stands waiting, hands on hips, toe tapping. Mr. James drinks.

“Not that that proves he was lying,” Limpy concedes. “Might never have learned to spell. What you think?”

“Speaking of hydraulicking,” says Fred, edging his way past David, back into the circle, “wondered what you thought about the use of sheet-metal nozzles over wrought iron.”

“Yes, what about that hydro-licking,” says Limpy, now cradling a whole whiskey jug beneath his arm. He offers David a drink. David shakes his head, no.

Mr. James is speechless.

“Music!?” says Emaline, turning full circle to find Klein already taking his accordion from its case. The first note brings more men from the street. Soon a fiddler joins the jig and a guitarist finds the rhythm. Limpy do-si-dos around the room with the jug, pouring whiskey and cracking jokes.

David sits back in his chair, watching, thinking, tapping his fingers on the table. He stands up and walks to the door, leans a shoulder against the splintered frame, half expecting, perhaps even hoping to find the boy on the porch, just sitting there. The night is moonless and dark. Wind buffets the ridge above. Trees squeal and moan in concert with coyotes, but Victor Lane is deserted. If Alex is gone, then he's gone. Nothing David can do. Better that way. No questions to ask, to answer. He plays with the ends of his mustache, drooping like a pair of inverted question marks. Boy Bandit—the thought is almost humorous. Alex, the Boy Bandit. But David is not smiling.

Behind him in the saloon, elbows brush elbows. Sleeves stain dark with perspiration, foreheads shine and body heat escapes through the door in musty waves. A banjo has made the trio a quartet. Emaline takes a seat by Mr. James, close enough to smell the liquor on his breath. “About them chickens …” she whispers, breathing hot air into his ear. She runs her finger along the seam of his stiff collar. Her hands admire the fabric of his waistcoat, then explore downward. He breathes in sharply as her hand moves to the bulge between his legs.

“Drink.”

David struggles down Victor Lane with Limpy leaning heavily on his shoulder. The big man's sour breath surrounds David in a noisome mist. He can smell nothing else. He opens the door of the cabin, tugs Limpy inside, lets him tumble on to his bed, where he lands too drunk even to snore. Sleeping at that angle, his back will hurt him in the morning. He'll use it as an excuse to get out of work, but David doesn't feel like moving him. Instead, he sits down on the stool, tugs off his boots and lets the air tickle his fetid toes.

He massages the red, tender skin of his arch, then the crusted white calluses of his forefoot. His toenails, yellow from lack of sun, need trimming. His ankles have been rubbed free of the coarse blond hair covering the rest of his body. His shoulders slump, his eyes stare at nothing, his mind slips between topics, resting finally on Alex. No, it's too late. He's too tired. His eyes adjust enough to cross the room where he sits dejected on the bed. A groan of protest rises from his quilt. A small hairless hand slips from beneath its layers.

Alex
?
David mouths the word. Embarrassment warms his earlobes. He can feel the vague impression of body heat, see the quilt rise and fall with each breath. He sinks to his knees by the bed. Slowly, gently, he pulls the quilt aside and reveals Alex's sleeping face, pale blue in the dim light, like a stone saint. Alex's hair is growing long around his ears. David reaches out to trace the crooked angle of Alex's nose, the soft chin, the narrow jaw, the high, rounded cheekbones. Alex stirs. David yanks his hand away. It hovers like a blessing.

“Alex,” David says, this time giving voice to the word. Alex remains motionless. “Alex, what are you doing here?” Alex's breathing grows shallow. His lids open, revealing dilated black eyes like obsidian in granite. David repeats his question.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was tired,” Alex whispers, and closes his eyes.

John Thomas arrived early at the Hughes Ranch arena to examine the beasts before putting money down. He'd lost weight since leaving Motherlode, and on the walk to the ranch decided to save half of the fifty he'd earned that week for food. That changed the moment the bull, a shadowed Brahma—Angus mix with a set of wide, pointed horns, a thick barreled neck and pair of densely defined shank muscles stalked into the ring. It pawed the ground, snorting clouds of dust like the horned devil himself. Sweat foamed at the animal's shoulder hump, and John Thomas stared, intoxicated with the sheer size and strength, two qualities he as a small man had always envied. Even before he saw the challenger, the bull had earned John Thomas's full fifty-dollar wager. The sorry beast they called a grizzly was no match: one ear bitten clean off, a blind white shadow across its left eye, its fur matted and bald in places, revealing dark brown skin, scabbing and flaking. It favored its right front leg and it limped around the arena with a look of tired resignation. Damn thing was better off dead. A sure bet, John Thomas thought. Easy money, the best kind. A hell of a lot easier than working them lumber mills in Grass Valley.

The hillside from Grass Valley to Hughes Ranch was stripped of good lumber and as he'd made his way to the arena, John Thomas couldn't help but feel pride at his part in this drastic change. The rows of stumps, the sweet-and-sour smell of wood rot, even the sight of the white wood larvae boring happily into their feast, had given John Thomas a sense of accomplishment he'd never before experienced. Not back home in Georgia, tilling his daddy's field; not in Auburn, working his cousin's claim; certainly not in Motherlode. The very thought of that town made John Thomas scowl.

Goddamn whelp of a boy, stealing gold from John Thomas's own claim, putting on self-important airs when all he did was get lucky. And Jed? He's whipped niggers in his time. Not his own, of course, but Mr. Johnson's slaves from the plantation that bordered his daddy's farm. Every spring during the planting, and every fall during the harvest, John Thomas went over to Johnson's to help. He felt bad about the whipping at first. The blood oozed through their clothes, welled up from their dark, unnatural skin and leached outward. But pain was the only thing they minded. A word wouldn't do nothing but make 'em look at you, and John Thomas couldn't stand to have them looking. They stared as though they knew you and hated you. Or, worse, knew you and pitied you. Jed had done that a lot, looked down at John Thomas, shaking his head. He'd even smiled. That nigger had no respect. John Thomas didn't blame Emaline. She was obviously under a spell of some sort, making her pliable, as women will be, protective even. Now, with that boy stirring things up, making people gold-crazy, it had probably been a good thing to get out of town. He'd rather live with the Chinamen and the Mexicans, though their chattering gibberish and strange habits seemed to soak the luck right out of a place, or out of John Thomas, at least.

Not today, though. Today he'd woken up feeling different, lucky. Today, when he stepped from his tent on the outskirts of Grass Valley, the sky was a viscous black, and the coyotes sang just to him. He looked before biting into a weevil in his biscuit, he found an extra gold piece stuck with pine pitch to the bottom of his boot, and on the way to town he tripped but didn't fall over a tree root jutting in his way. Luck was with him, for sure.

His gaze traveled the arena, scaling the seven-foot walls from sawdust to seating. The bull was still making his rounds, charging at legs dangled over the arena walls, snorting dust into the air while the grizzly cowered in the corner, licking his tattered rump like a disgruntled kitten. Better be more of a show than this, thought John Thomas, jingling his pouch of gold and imagining added weight. He'd start at the top of Main Street, work his way down saloon by saloon. He held his breath, closed his eyes, anticipating the blessed delirium. He could still feel the rumble of the stamp mills in Grass Valley, three miles away. The mills hadn't stopped, day or night, since John Thomas had arrived six and a half weeks ago; hadn't even stopped during the fire, nine months before that. Three hundred buildings, flattened. Four hundred thousand dollars' worth of damage, and still the stamp mills rumbled on. Some said they would never stop, would continue crushing ore until the mountains themselves caved in upon the hard-rock mines below. John Thomas wouldn't mind seeing that.

Nearly every seat in the arena was taken. An expectant buzz traveled upward to the overcast sky. Directly across from him, overdressed and smug, sat councillors Tompkins, White and Wheeler. Officially, they were against such fights, denouncing them as “brutal amusements.” John Thomas wondered how much Tompkins had wagered. With his straggly beard of gray hair, downcast eyes and shuffling manner, he looked like a close cousin to that bear. John Thomas jittered in his seat, absently kicking the bench in front of him and frowning at the bare toes that peeked through his cracked leather boots. A tall redheaded man turned, annoyed. John Thomas stopped kicking and looked deliberately in the other direction.

“John Thomas? Well, I'll be,” said a familiar voice, and John Thomas returned his gaze.

“McLantry?” John Thomas said, more surprised by the man's tailored waistcoat, gold-tipped walking stick and polished black boots than his presence at the fight. The freckles on McLantry's well-fed face had multiplied, giving him a ruddy, healthy complexion. Time had treated him well.