Legend of Yankee Boy Basin

CHAPTER ONE

Cultures live and cultures die. So winds the path of disobedience.

In the Valley of Byn-Nyok near a stand of naked aspens, a huge bonfire burned on a clear, winter’s night. Near the fire pit, four Indian elders knelt in preparation for an ancient and essential ceremony.

In the light off the rolling flames, the elders' hairless chests shone orange through the openings of their heavy moose–skin robes. Around each elder's neck hung an ornament of sharpened bear claws. Attached to each necklace hung a shaker filled with quartz crystals.

A heavy snow had covered Byn-Nyok during daylight, turning the night frigid and relentless. In this new snow, the elders now knelt, each with a pained expression, each with eyes distant and somber.

Somewhere in the forest, a gray wolf howled, sending a lonesome cry over the ancestral home of the Nephretari Tribe.

Indeed, the ceremonial bonfire blazed, never to die away wasted. And from above and afar, a full, gray moon presided amidst an amazing starlit sky.

Soon, the chief elder among the four raised his face to the heavens. Tusami sleeps in murmured anger. We must hasten our appeasement before the Great Spirit awakens and disfavors us all.

The elder who knelt nearest sighed. Yes, Eagles of the Clouds, we must hasten for our judgment draws nigh. Perhaps the Great Spirit awakens and sees our misery. Perhaps Tusami pities us and will spare us our lives.

Eagles of the Clouds stared into the rolling flames. Three moons ago we numbered many hundreds. Now we number fewer than the beavers in Byn-Nyok. Under a cloud of sickness, our brothers and sisters have perished. I fear the Nephretari have trespassed fortunes forbidden. I fear the Great Spirit of the People has judged us unworthy. Yes, for certain, we have transgressed. And yes, for certain, we must heed Tusami's bidding.

From the forest, the gray wolf howled again and Eagles of the Clouds stared into the younger elder's still, dark eyes.

In heavy silence, the younger elder looked down at the melting snow creeping away from the perimeter of the raging fire.

Did you bring the tablet of stone? Eagles of the Clouds asked.

Nodding, the younger elder reached back and dragged the deerskin pouch containing the stone tablet forward.

Eagles of the Clouds blinked and grunted. Tusami never intended it … and our choice has always embattled our sacred will. We should never have entered the high mountain. Tusami forbade it and like children with honey sweet in their noses, we ignored Tusami's warnings and went where we should not have gone.

But the mountain … it gave us gold, the younger elder said. It adorned our huts and fashioned our sacred symbols. It is pure and glimmering and shines with the passion of Tusami's bright, burning eyes. Gold brought the Nephretari much pride and privilege … made us great among the mountain-dwelling people.

Bah, folly, Eagles of the Clouds said. Gold brought us vanity and self-importance … righteousness above matters important. Has gold fed our families? Has it covered our nakedness or protected our stone huts against blowing storms? Sheer foolishness. Our people went astray and the Great Spirit must judge us. We must make amends … and make them as soon as we can.

Eagles of the Clouds stood and walked into the darkness toward his stone hut. Prepare the Ceremony of Redemption, he called over the roar of the bonfire. And pray grace still lives in Tusami's generous and forgiving heart.

Minutes later, he returned dragging a travois fashioned from fresh aspen branches.

The young elder, along with two others, hurried forward and began unwrapping the skins that hid the travois' cargo.

With slumped shoulders, Eagles of the Clouds moved to the center of the clearing as close to the blazing fire as he dared, shrugged his heavy robe away, ignoring its fast topple onto the cold, saturated ground.

Naked save his necklace and his shaker, he turned toward the three younger elders and stared through narrowed eyes. The time has ripened and we must begin now, he said, and he took a long step to lower his body, rattling his shaker high in the smoke–filled air. Inside the shaker's gourd, the hard quartz crystals collided, raising a loud, grinding noise.

The other elders winced, yet faltered not, and dragged the crude travois toward their superior.

Eagles of the Clouds straightened tall and pointed to a spot in front of his feet. Place the awful statue there … and may Tusami forgive our waywardness.

The elders lifted the statue, placed it down and formed a straight line at Eagles of the Clouds’ side. On his signal, they bared their bodies also, took up their shakers and rattled them high above their heads. The firelight spilled over the elders' naked bodies; and soon they began to dance.

Sho-pah-nah-naa. Sho-pah-nah-naa, they chanted in low, pulsating voices.

With the stomping of their bare feet, frigid water splattered upon their nakedness, glistening orange, rippling down to soothe their heated bodies. Scattered droplets flew into the raging bonfire to sizzle away, while the elders circled the fire pit, locked in an overpowering trance.

The ancient Ceremony of Redemption had begun; with the Nephretari's destiny looming ever closer.

Soon, Eagles of the Clouds stepped up to the statue and stopped. Enough of our heedless wanderings. Quick, we must surround this disgraceful beast that misled us.

Moments passed in a hurried rush as the elders assumed their positions.

Praise we the path of the faithful, Eagles of the Clouds uttered, low and rueful.

Mourn we the path of the forlorn, the others uttered in unison.

Then the elders furrowed their brows and began to rattle their shakers in front of their bare chests.

Soon they bent at their waists to chant more strident and desperate: Shem-shu-sha-nee. Shem-shu-sha-nee.

In the orange light, the triboluminescence of the quartz crystals inside the shakers glowed in bright blue sparkles. Stomping and chanting, the tribal elders aimed the sparkles at the golden statue of the bobcat — the icon that had cursed the Nephretari Tribe to near extinction.

Shem-shu-sha-nee. Shem-shu-sha-nee, they chanted over and over again.

At the height of the sacred ceremony, the surviving Nephretari filed out of their stone huts to join their spiritual leaders. The decisive moment had fallen upon them, fierce and determined, formidable and overbearing.

Fear filled each villager's heart. Shall I live? Shall I perish? Tusami must soon decide.

At once, the future of a great Indian culture hung in the balance. Dispirited, 156 souls attended the sacred ceremony — soon to have their fate sealed in fire and in night.

In solemn reverence, the people formed a semi-circle around the ceremonial fire, with their tribal elders standing before them; and when Eagles of the Clouds gauged the moment prime, he signaled the people to lay naked on their chests in front of the snapping flames.

Speak, O Great Tusami, Eagles of the Clouds cried. Speak and spread virtue upon your chosen … your chosen thus gone astray.

A horrible hush fell over the Nephretari, as they lay supplicating.

Above the roaring blaze, the full moon hung in perfect stillness, burnished with bright orange embers amid its shining gray majesty.

In silent dread — yet somehow hopeful and expectant — the Nephretari Tribe lay awaiting Tusami's ultimate will.

Upon this plaintive and cheerless scene, the Nephretari Tribe watched and the Nephretari Tribe listened.

In the swelling tension, some quaked, while others shuddered and wept.

Suddenly an eerie darkness began a slow, unyielding creep along the moon’s lower–left edge.

Eagles of the Clouds raised a rigid arm and pointed, heavy concern drawing upon his stilled, dark eyes.

As more and more of the bright moonlight departed Byn-Nyok, a gut–wrenching moan rose from the Nephretari.

When a looming darkness had crept over half the moon’s surface, Eagles of the Clouds turned to his frightened people and lifted his long, muscular arms. All is right … all is well, my brothers and my sisters, and he motioned the younger elders to lift the golden bobcat off the soppy ground.

Then all four elders raised the heavy statue above their heads and together, lumbered forward toward the ceremonial fire.

To the last, the people followed in a ponderous procession, to march behind their elders into the rolling inferno, to die under Tusami's absolute and ultimate judgment.

Even before the lunar eclipse reached maximum, the Nephretari had risen into the cold night in billowing clouds of black smoke.

Tusami had spoken and His followers had obeyed. All that remained of a thriving Indian society — a proud culture that for centuries inhabited the region later known as the Rocky Mountains — were huts of flat stone, a scorched golden icon and a granite tablet bearing directions to a magnificent gold mine.

Indeed, Tusami had brought judgment; and his people had obeyed without hesitation; and only the future — a time determined by providence and circumstance — remained to complete the Nephretari's sacred Ceremony of Redemption.

Life laughs.

Life cries.

Life dies.

Thus, Tusami decreed.

Thus, the Nephretari abided.

* * * * *

CHAPTER TWO

In June, 1879, far across the mountain from where the Nephretari had perished, another Indian tribe fought their own battle with destiny. Located in southwestern Colorado inside the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains, fate came in the dead of night, when even the village dogs lay fast asleep.

Beside a bark-covered wickiup at the center of the village, a spirit being appeared out of a translucent, gray mist and became a man draped in a thick moose–skin robe. Raising his handsome face to the crescent moon, he closed his eyes and extended his arms to the stars in paused exultation. Then he hurried to the opening in the wickiup, slid through and went to his knees and began admiring with an impassioned expression the Ute maiden who slept before him.

Outside, a dog came awake to bark at the strange scent in its nostrils.

Stirring in the darkness, the maiden asked, Who’s there?

A man come calling.

Do you mean me harm?

I mean you nothing but goodness.

Covering her nakedness with smooth deerskin, the Ute maiden came upright. Are you a man from my village?

Eagles of the Clouds shook his head. I am a past relative come to visit.

Are you a brother to my father or my mother?

I am a brother to all your Ute people, Skywinmoulan.

Skywinmoulan leaned back, frightened. You know my name yet you talk nonsense. A brother to all my Ute people? How can such a thing be true?

How can this night relate to nights past? Relationships exist beyond one's knowing, I assure you.

I can scream for help, you must know.

Scream if you like, Eagles of the Clouds said as he opened Skywinmoulan's wickiup to allow in the moonlight. Do you fear me now?

Skywinmoulan looked at the Indian man who knelt before her. His handsomeness made him alluring and his eyes appeared soft and nonthreatening. I fear you less. Yet you enter a young woman's wickiup alone in the night. A Ute brother should know better of our traditions.

I see strength and duty in your young face, Skywinmoulan.

Yet you defy tradition in your actions.

Eagles of the Clouds touched Skywinmoulan's cheek. Do my actions offend you now?

Skywinmoulan pressed the deerskin hard against the throb of her heart. Have you come to take me as your woman?

I come to make you Keeper of All Truths.

Skywinmoulan grabbed a breath as Eagles of the Clouds dropped his robe. You are rude and insistent. I think you have come to take me without permission.

Eagles of the Clouds moved closer, leaving his robe behind him. I come to fulfill your destiny, Skywinmoulan. I take not, but offer only your future.

Skywinmoulan frowned. Would you take me without permission? I know not even your name.

My name is not important. My presence is what matters. You should think better of rejecting my offer.

Your words take what they should not. Do you think words make bad intentions proper?

You would deny yourself your destiny? Eagles of the Clouds asked, touching Skywinmoulan's hand. Do you not feel this sacred moment in your bosom?

Skywinmoulan blinked her soft eyes and released the deerskin at her breasts. I feel things primitive, like a woman fearing isolation and rejection.

I come to carry you beyond your fears.

Skywinmoulan slid from beneath the deerskin, to kneel naked in the moonlight. You would make me Keeper of All Truths without confessing your dedication?

I confess you are young and beautiful … and have yearned for this moment for a long time.

Skywinmoulan lowered her head and brought her legs forward. You will not leave me shamed and corrupted?

I remain faithful to you until the end of time.

Yet still I know not your name as I yearn to know you in the moonlight. What do you mean by Keeper of All Truths?

Quiet and know only the moment. Time will soon teach you all you need.

Skywinmoulan admired the man's strong body in the soft light; and her yearning pulled her far past her reserve. You are a wicked man, she said as she eased onto her back.

I am your destiny, fair maiden. Nothing more, nothing less.

Yes, my destiny, Skywinmoulan said as she closed her beautiful eyes.

Skywinmoulan felt the touch of a man for the first time.

When finished, the man left Skywinmoulan alone in her wickiup and she cared not, realizing the beauty and sacredness of their encounter. Henceforth, Skywinmoulan’s devotion to her people urged her toward her crucial destiny.

Sho-pah-nah-naa. Shem-shu-sha-nee, Eagles of the Clouds had pled so many centuries in the past. Redeem us from our many travails. Forgive us our imprudent actions.

But the Nephretari’s redemption remained unfulfilled — as well as their supreme forgiveness.

* * *

Early the next morning, a hunter sniffed the air and studied the ground as he rode along the narrows of a fast running creek. When a bumblebee landed on his bearskin cap and inched onto his forehead, Bartholomew Wilcox stared at it with crossed eyes, extended his lower lip and blew upward.

Danged nuisance bug, he said. Leave me be.

Bartholomew Wilcox rode on keeping his horse slow and easy. He had just left the forest at the flank of Teakettle Mountain, where he shot a big brown bear. Wilcox wanted the meat and the skin, but most of all wanted a place to bury his kill, so he could crawl into his buffalo-skin bedroll and get some sleep. Wilcox had trailed the bear for two days before shooting it through the skull with his Sharps long rifle.

Need some cool ground … mushy, not muddy, he said, closing one eye to watch his horse’s hooves sink into the soil. Yep, this is just the place I’m looking for.

Wilcox reined in and swung down to the ground. He glanced over at the creek some 20 feet away. He sniffed the air again for no reason other than habit: A good hunter smells his way through life as much as he sees it. He nodded and ran a big hand under his nose, to drag snot off his scruffy moustache. Then he wagged the goo loose, sucked the rest into his mouth, and spit into the grass to leave his scent.

Confounded wolves best not come round. I’ll shoot them deader than whiskey barrels, if they go digging at my bear.

Wilcox pulled a pickax from his horse’s supply pack and stuck his boot heel into the ground to test the give. He bit his lower lip, took up his pickax, swung it down hard, yanked upward and repeated the moves.

Forty minutes later, Wilcox had dug himself a nice bear-sized hole.

There, he said, as he took one last swing to breakup a clump in the bottom of the pit. The pickax broke through the dirt and glanced off something firm. Wilcox spit again, this time out of disgust. Danged, if my pickax didn’t skip off something, and he yanked at the handle and flared his crooked eyes.

What the…? and he let go of the ax and jumped into the hole. Dangnation, but I think I’ve done struck gold.

Wilcox sank to his knees and wiped dirt off his discovery, to laugh like a drunkard as more golden color came to his eyes. Soon, he had uncovered a sizeable metal object. Grunting, he muscled the heavy thing out of the hole and lumbered over to the creek, where he dropped it into the clear water with a big splash. Plopping down, Wilcox dragged his find closer and began to wash it as fast as he could.

Pure as new snow, he said. But it looks like fire scorched it some. Sure enough, it looks like a statue of a bobcat to me.

Wilcox lugged the golden bobcat out of the creek, grabbed a cloth from his supply pack and began to wipe it dry. Danged if I don’t have me over a hundred pounds of pure gold. Danged if I’m not richer than a big–city banker.

Wilcox looked at the bear carcass tied behind his horse. He sneered, took out his big knife and cut the dragline. After stuffing his knife away, he went to the dead bear, uncovered himself and urinated on it.

Nope, don’t need you no more, bear. But danged if I’ll let the wolves get you. Yep, you just sit in the sun and feed the grass. Bartholomew Wilcox don’t track and kill just to fatten his enemies. Then Wilcox shook himself and stuffed himself away beneath his buffalo skin leggings.

Wilcox didn’t sleep that afternoon or that night — but just rode on toward the small mining town of Ouray, Colorado.

I’ll get my gold assayed and bought there … and head back to Presidio, Texas and start myself a horse ranch. Yep, get me a pretty senorita and settle down before my bones rattle and go dry.

Bartholomew Wilcox would never see Presidio or any pretty senoritas, because he had uncovered a destiny draped in tragedy.

Now the hunter no longer hunted.

Now the hunter became the prey.

* * *

Later that same morning, on a naked bluff above some barren red sandstone, two men met in secrecy. The first man sat an old freight wagon hitched to four broken down horses, while the other man sat a brown pony, with eyes dark as ebony.

Here, take a look. Tell me this ain't what you're wanting, the driver of the wagon said.

The Ute Indian sat his pony with his handsome, tawny face held high. He looked at the wooden crates inside the bed of the wagon. Speaking no English, he nodded and blinked his piercing eyes in agreement.

You bring what I'm after? the wagon driver asked in a rude tone.

The Ute understood the wagon driver's movements — and pursed his thin lips in reply.

Show it now or I drive off, leaving you nothing, the wagon driver said.

The Ute struck a defiant face and slapped the deerskin pouch in his lap.

The wagon driver jumped to the rocky ground and went to unload his cargo — 20 wooden crates, each with a Winchester Model 1866 rifle, each with a box of .44 rimfire ammo.

The Ute toppled the deerskin pouch into a small sagebrush at his horse's left flank.

Whoopee, the wagon driver said as he tipped his tan sombrero and hurried to grab the pouch.

Wasting no time, he lugged the heavy pouch into the floorboard of his freight wagon. Then he withdrew a big knife, sliced through the deerskin and slid his large hand down the stone tablet with an admiring smile.

The bare-chested Ute touched the cougar-bone shank in his black hair and nodded in finality. In his mind, the trade had been consummated, with each party in easy agreement. The Ute took possession of 20 spanking new Yellow Boys with plenty of fresh ammo to kill and to maim; while the wagon driver took possession of the incredible.

Good doing business with you, the wagon driver said with a wide smile.

The Ute grunted, and with a brisk toss of his head, indicated the white man should leave.

The wagon driver firmed his lips, boarded his wagon and yanked the reins to snapping. The horses snorted and lumbered forward, pulling the creaky, old wagon over the rocks behind them.

The Ute swung off his horse and hobbled over to the crates. He kicked the nearest with his right foot, since a birth defect cheated his left of its four smallest toes. A dark thud returned to the Indian’s ears. Only then did the Ute named Four Toes Less smile.

Leaning down, he grabbed a large stone, broke open the crate and caught his breath at the spanking new rifle. After a coarse grunt, he stood while a band of Ute braves rushed from behind the red rocks. Hobbling off, Four Toes Less swung up onto his brown pony and watched with pride as his renegades emptied the wooden crates, piled them high and set them ablaze.

Above the gather of red sandstone, a golden eagle coursed the heavens, to land on the face of Mount Sneffels inside the magnificent Colorado Rockies. Under a bright, blue sky, with a soft wind whispering, both men had struck their deal with complete satisfaction.

The spirit of the Lost Tribe of the Nephretari had once again awakened — to roam the sacred Valley of Byn-Nyok, now known as Yankee Boy Basin.

Life laughs.

And somewhere in the distant ether, Tusami, The Great Spirit of the Nephretari, laughed, too.

* * * * *

CHAPTER THREE

In Ouray, Colorado, 50 men lined the front of AJAX Mining’s office, with only 20 projected to find work.

Jobs were scarce in July 1880 — causing a man to take a bite out of most anything. Tough work by any standards, breaking rock still paid enough to liquor up on — and maybe enough to open a small banking account.

Doubtless the first man in line hoped AJAX would choose him. Yet he deemed himself likely to walk away empty, because riding the Old Spanish Trail had taught him everything he knew.

Age? the old miner asked, glancing up from his field desk.

Not sure, the man said in an even tone.

The old miner looked up, scratched his gray beard, and spit tobacco juice into the dirt. Are you stupid or something?

The man closed one eye and cracked a knuckle. The popping made the old miner grimace. You hiring miners or schoolmarms? he asked.

The old miner glared, showing thick, gray hairs protruding from his nostrils. Then he spit again, just missing the man’s scuffed–up boots. Tussle me more and I’ll kick you to the back of the line. See how much granite gets cracked from back there.

I'm thirty–two, the man guessed, kicking dirt over the nastiness next to his boot.

The old miner yanked at his denims and screwed up his face. Is it too much to ask your name, smart aleck?

The man touched the butt of his Colt .45. Micah William Atwater. Folks just call me Cage.

The old miner grinned, showing red gums and few teeth. Now we're getting somewhere. Okay, Cage Atwater … got any mining experience worth a hoot?

Atwater straightened his tall frame and sucked the stink of mule dung from the street into his chest. Shoveled sluices in California back in 1860. Just a pup then. Foreman never let me inside the mineshaft. Said a kid shouldn't cotton to such danger.

The old miner nodded and a fly buzzed off his greasy scalp. Well you ain't a kid no more. Think you can still pack a shovel ten hours a day? The old miner admired the lean strength of the tall man to his front.

Atwater ran a powerful hand down his narrow face to wipe off the street dust. Rode from Fort Garland in under three days just to get here. Guess I can handle a shovel or a pickax a few hours a day.

The crusty miner touched a stubby pencil to his tongue, dropped his big hand and scribbled something onto a small piece of soiled paper. Good enough, Cage Atwater. Take this inside to the supply clerk. He’ll see you get outfitted for Marston Number Two.

Atwater touched his black flat-brimmed hat and smiled. Marston Number Two won't regret this, he said, accepting the paper.

The old miner smiled, too — a rather revolting affair. Good thing Marston Number Two don’t need more than schoolmarms. Else you'd be busting leather again for your wages. With a snarl, he spit into the dust again, licked ooze off his mustache and said, Next.

Atwater gave a great sigh, glad to have the wait done, glad to have a place he could call work.

At the boardwalk, he paused to hitch up his tan cotton pants and adjust his rumpled blue shirt. A mangy brown hound lay in a heap beside a chair beneath AJAX Mining's front window. A small black spider crawled onto one of the hound's front paws. Opening an eye, the hound twitched and the spider scurried onto the wooden its jowls and nodded off again.

Inside, Atwater went to the front counter and placed his hire-on notice down next to a brass hand bell. Along the sidewall hung some stock certificates of the mining interests managed by AJAX. Atwater read some of the particulars, noticing names like Lady Pearl Eyes, Snow Creek Stakes and Camp Bird's Forever Shaft. For some reason — a fact Atwater deemed curious — Marston Holding Company, and its proprietor at large, Adair G. Marston, owned many of the stock certificates.

Shrugging, Atwater rang the brass bell with a quick shake.

Why you here? came a deep voice off to one side.

Atwater turned to see a clerk, a scrawny man with a large voice, staring up behind thick spectacles. Atwater stifled a laugh and brought forth his shiniest smile. Here to break some rock, he said, a mite more than chirpy.

Dang, you don't look like a miner.

I'm not.

Why you here then?

Because boss man outside said I should see you.

The clerk walked to the counter and gave Atwater the onceover through his heavy glasses. You're a saddle tramp, ain't you? Just off some horse drive across the Sierras to New Mexico Territory.

Atwater shrugged. So?

Got word at Fort Garland we're hiring a new crew, huh?

Yeah. Atwater thought of Montague Bessler, the Army scout he had met at Fort Garland after leaving the Old Spanish Trail for fresh scenery. Dover Monty — Bessler's nickname because of his gaggle of white teeth — had talked Atwater into trying his luck at breaking some rock. Dover Monty had ridden less than a day before his horse came down with colic. Atwater thanked the better graces that his kiln-fired paint, Nickel, waited inside a dry stall down at the Ouray Stables.

The clerk glared and looked down at Atwater's hire-on notice. Think a piece of paper makes you a miner? he asked, pointing.

Nope, just doing what I'm told.

The disagreeable clerk lifted his spectacles and let them drop back. The weight of them slid the centerpiece down to rest on the tip of his broad nose. Talk about the look of a schoolmarm. Atwater couldn’t help laughing, and went so far as to extend an index finger.

Enraged, the clerk grabbed Atwater's hire-on notice and tossed it onto the slatted floor. First thing a novice learns is who to fear. Don't see no hire-on notice for you, mister. Guess you got no reason for being. Now get out right now and quit bothering me.

Overall, Cage Atwater was a man of patience. But the clerk’s nasty humor changed his agreeable disposition; and as the clerk turned, Atwater noticed something crawl up the scrawny man’s left trouser leg. Under different circumstances, Atwater would have obliged and gone off to stew in his juices. But the clerk had riled him more than a mite and he responded..

Snapping up his Colt, Atwater fired a shot without squeezing an eyelid. The bullet tore a clean hole through the bottom of the clerk's trouser leg and slammed through the wooden floor.

The clerk scrambled under a nearby desk, toppling his spectacles and cowered behind trembling hands, as pale, blue smoke settled all around him.

The front door burst open and two men bolted in, one with a drawn gun, the other with a look meant to scare.

Atwater had already holstered his Colt and ambled over closer to the clerk.

He done shot me, Packer, the clerk said. Blast him before he finishes me off.

The man stuck his pistol into Atwater's ribs. He wore a green beanie and denims with large patches at the knees. Atwater thought him a bit squirrely–looking.

Whoa up, Atwater said, raising his hands to soften trouble.

Kill him, Packer, the clerk said from all fours. His spectacles lay not a good spit away, but he couldn’t have spotted them if they had rushed him like a wild bear.

What's going on? Packer asked, pressing his gun harder into Atwater's ribs.

The second man knelt on the floor, intent on helping the terrified clerk regain his vision.

On the instant, Atwater swung his right hand across his chest, knocking Packer's hand away.

Packer's gun exploded, blasting a neat hole through the sidewall.

Atwater grabbed Packer's forearm and pinched a nerve, flinching his hand open.

Packer yelped and grabbed at the pain as his gun went flying.

Atwater drew his Colt and crouched to traverse the room with a steady hand. Everybody relax and nobody regrets nothing, he said.

Packer stumbled back with pain yanking at his face.

The clerk came upon his spectacles, and fumbling still, managed them onto his face.

The third man, the biggest of the three, stared up at Atwater with surprise.

Atwater cleared his throat and set to talking real fast. Kill you, huh? Look at the black spot on the floor next to that knot hole, clerk man. At a high boil, he glared at the little man who had double-crossed him.

The clerk crawled over, adjusted his spectacles and inspected the black smear on the floor. Well, I'll be sheep-dipped, he said. It's a gall-darned black widder … or what's left of it. I can see the red marking plain as day. The clerk sighed and fell back on bent knees and stared up at Atwater in despair.

What you’re seeing there is a western black widow … a female, at that, Atwater said. There's enough poison in that spider to stop a horse for a day or two. Heaven knows she might've killed you, if she'd crawled up to your privates.

Packer sucked on his right wrist like a teat pup, dropped his hand and stared at Atwater. You mean you shot that darned spider to keep it from biting?

Atwater gave a stern nod. Little choice. Either shoot fast or wait for clerk man to start hollering. Could've let him suffer. Guess I should've thought better of saving him.

Packer looked down at his supply clerk — a German named Dieter Ackerman — who stared back shaking like a shorn puppy. Packer noticed the clean hole in Ackerman's trousers. Plum snapped the black death off Dieter without a scrape. Whew, that’s some mighty serious shooting, mister.

Atwater shrugged. Nothing special. Didn't want clerk man dying before he fetched me my gear.

With guilt on his face, Dieter Ackerman looked away, pulled himself up at the corner of the desk and said, Yeah … I intended fetching your duffel when that nightmare spider crawled up my leg. Thanks, mister. Guess I owe you a big one.

Atwater shook his head. Nope, just need my gear. By the way, in all the ruckus my paperwork fell on the floor over there.

Packer rubbed his wrist as the third man walked over to stand next to Atwater.

Name's Big Jim Krieger, he said, offering a handshake. I'm the foreman out at Marston Number Two.

Good to meet you, Big Jim, Atwater said, able now to appreciate the immense size of the man. Thick as a redwood, blond-headed and blue-eyed, Big Jim stood 6-foot-6, and sported a genuine smile and a grip as strong as his body.

Name's Cage Atwater.

Well, Cage Atwater, this here's my boss, Packer Larsen. He's the mine director out at Marston Number Two … the man who answers only to the top boss.

Packer Larsen wiggled his hand to relieve the lingering sting, stuck it out and winced as Atwater reached to take it.

Atwater hurt no man without cause and shook Packer Larsen’s hand just firm enough, while smiling easy.

Sorry about drawing down on you, Packer Larsen said. But it kind of looked like…

I know. Just one of those things.

Then Dieter Ackerman scurried back into the room. Now, don’t you fret none, Mr. Atwater. I've done put your duffel on the freight wagon and will see it gets to the mine day after tomorrow.

No hard feelings? Atwater asked, nodding.

Not even an ounce. And thanks for saving my bacon.

Atwater grinned and raised his eyebrows just enough. I’m sure looking forward to working with you fellas. Expect we're fixing to find us a lot of bright, shiny gold real soon, right?

Packer Larsen laughed. We'd better. Else Marston Number Two shuts down quicker than Marston Number One ever thought on it. Packer Larsen grimaced and shot a quick glance at his big foreman.

Big Jim raised a hopeful expression, but Atwater sensed the gloom, and the time seemed wrong for more questions. Sure enough, the ore won’t jump out of the mountain and dance into our pockets, Atwater said.

Not unless you're some kind of a magician, Mr. Atwater, Packer Larsen said.

Atwater turned up both palms. Nope, no sleight of hand here.

I’ll say, Dieter Ackerman said. When your hands move, what you see is what you get … and quicker than a rip of lightning. Dieter Ackerman looked over at the squashed black widow and sighed just as a loud scratching came at the front door. Excuse me, fellas, he said, rounding the counter. Old Dynamite … he wants in out of the heat.

The three men watched as the small German clerk with the big voice opened the door to let his mangy brown hound into the front office. If speed were enthusiasm, Old Dynamite packed the wallop of a soggy firework. Like a sloth, he meandered over to a crusty food bowl off in the far corner, sniffed at his beef jerky, looked up with sad eyes and woofed without much gusto. Then he cuddled the wall and sank into his ample skin, to fall back asleep in the coolness of the AJAX front office.

Feisty, ain't he, Dieter Ackerman said, meaning it.

Packer Larsen looked at Big Jim; Big Jim looked at Cage Atwater; and the three miners lifted their eyebrows at Old Dynamite's complete lack of concern.

Day after tomorrow, rock would break, and there would be no lounging in any corner. Hard work waited on the steep side of Teakettle Mountain, and sleep would come catch-as-catch-can once the dynamite started blasting.

See you at the mine site, Cage Atwater, Packer Larsen said with a warm smile.

Atwater cracked a knuckle and blasted a great, big grin. Nice to have work, he thought, and he turned to take his leave.

From behind, Dieter Ackerman called out, Ain't no cause for shooting irons up in the high country.

Atwater came to a stop and looked over at Old Dynamite. Just cause for the big stuff like dynamite, I guess.

Big Jim Krieger grinned wide and said, Dynamite with more punch than poop, I’m hoping.

Dieter Ackerman looked askance, while Packer Larsen just chuckled.

As for Old Dynamite, well, he just up and belched, nary twitching an eye.

As for Cage Atwater, well, he just shrugged and walked out into the July heat, an agreeable man with a spanking new job.

* * * * *

CHAPTER FOUR

The morning sun had just brimmed the eastern mountains when Skywinmoulan left her wickiup along with her newborn son and hurried past the central fire pit to wait at the opening to Chief Ouray’s wickiup.

Sitting on a stub of spruce wood, she held her five-month-old in her arms and rocked him