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Authors: Richard S. Wheeler
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watched them load the man into a wheelbarrow, ignoring the picks and sledges and shovels they had brought, and slowly wheel the man down the mountain. The three card sharks never looked back.
She sat at the mine head, shaking. She had shot a man. Gold had fevered her, along with the rest. It was hard to swallow, inflicting so much pain upon the man, even if he was robbing her and defying her. If she had been a man would he have ignored her as he had? She didnât know. It didnât matter. She was simply March McPhee, and she would do whatever she must to preserve her property and her life.
But it had been almost as shattering for her as it had been for the one calling himself Three-Card Monte. And yet there was a difference. She would not kill if she could help it. She was not born to womanhood to take life, but to nurture it. If she could defend her property without taking life, she would. That was the difference. She would not stoop to the level her adversaries had reached, reckless of life. She had her pride.
She wondered whose men they were, whether they, too, were part of Laidlowâs clan, doing the first dirtywork. Or whether they were simply opportunists, a threesome who heard all the gossip in one of the saloons, and decided that some bold marauding might get them a gold mine. Maybe it didnât matter. What did matter was what to do next, and how to defend herself.
Maybe Tip Leary could help her. She wanted to talk to him. It was a marvel how much a barkeep knew. He would soon know all about Poker and his friends, and what their fate had been, and what sort of new troubles she faced. There was something tender in Tip Leary, and she saw something in his gaze that he wanted to hide from her, and she knew what it was, and it actually caused her to smile.
The mine shaft was wide open again. She could walk in if she wanted. And so could anyone else. The glint of the thin rails vanished in the gloom. She was afraid to go in there. The working face wasnât far, but it was all too far for her. This tunnel into the mountain drew men of all sorts, men who would do anything to seize the gold threading the vein of milky quartz that kept getting wider and wider. It was a hungry manâs dream. Gold, gold, not far in, easy to tear out of the mountain. A bonanza, fit for a king, and nothing but a widow in the way.
She pushed the ore car into the shaft and let it rest there as a barrier. They would be coming now, wave after wave, and she had only moral suasion and perhaps the courts to stop themâif the judges were upright. She thought they might be. But what good was it? She hadnât a nickel to hire a lawyer.
She spotted the picks and sledgehammers and shovels the three had left behind, and these she collected and hid in a nearby gully, out of sight. There was no point in leaving the tools of robbery around for the next invader to use.
Then, weary, she made her way to her refuge, and there she changed from her borrowed blue dress into her husbandâs flannel shirt and britches. And once again she marveled at the change in her: it was no longer necessary to walk and sit decorously. A man could walk any way he pleased.
There was something she had to do, and she didnât know where she would find the courage. She had to pierce the work face of Kermitâs mine, and chip enough quartz out to take to Marysville now and then for food and necessaries. She hated the thought of it, but without a little cash her determination to stay on the mine property and defend it was nothing but fantasy. The very idea terrified her, but she knew she would do it, make herself walk in there step by step, and chip out the quartz. She returned to the solemn shaft, basking in bright sun, and peered in. She had the tools in hand: a burlap sack, a pry bar, pickhammer, and Kermitâs carbide lamp.
She studied the silent mountains, looking for signs of human beings, but the mine slumbered in the June warmth. She eyed
She sat at the mine head, shaking. She had shot a man. Gold had fevered her, along with the rest. It was hard to swallow, inflicting so much pain upon the man, even if he was robbing her and defying her. If she had been a man would he have ignored her as he had? She didnât know. It didnât matter. She was simply March McPhee, and she would do whatever she must to preserve her property and her life.
But it had been almost as shattering for her as it had been for the one calling himself Three-Card Monte. And yet there was a difference. She would not kill if she could help it. She was not born to womanhood to take life, but to nurture it. If she could defend her property without taking life, she would. That was the difference. She would not stoop to the level her adversaries had reached, reckless of life. She had her pride.
She wondered whose men they were, whether they, too, were part of Laidlowâs clan, doing the first dirtywork. Or whether they were simply opportunists, a threesome who heard all the gossip in one of the saloons, and decided that some bold marauding might get them a gold mine. Maybe it didnât matter. What did matter was what to do next, and how to defend herself.
Maybe Tip Leary could help her. She wanted to talk to him. It was a marvel how much a barkeep knew. He would soon know all about Poker and his friends, and what their fate had been, and what sort of new troubles she faced. There was something tender in Tip Leary, and she saw something in his gaze that he wanted to hide from her, and she knew what it was, and it actually caused her to smile.
The mine shaft was wide open again. She could walk in if she wanted. And so could anyone else. The glint of the thin rails vanished in the gloom. She was afraid to go in there. The working face wasnât far, but it was all too far for her. This tunnel into the mountain drew men of all sorts, men who would do anything to seize the gold threading the vein of milky quartz that kept getting wider and wider. It was a hungry manâs dream. Gold, gold, not far in, easy to tear out of the mountain. A bonanza, fit for a king, and nothing but a widow in the way.
She pushed the ore car into the shaft and let it rest there as a barrier. They would be coming now, wave after wave, and she had only moral suasion and perhaps the courts to stop themâif the judges were upright. She thought they might be. But what good was it? She hadnât a nickel to hire a lawyer.
She spotted the picks and sledgehammers and shovels the three had left behind, and these she collected and hid in a nearby gully, out of sight. There was no point in leaving the tools of robbery around for the next invader to use.
Then, weary, she made her way to her refuge, and there she changed from her borrowed blue dress into her husbandâs flannel shirt and britches. And once again she marveled at the change in her: it was no longer necessary to walk and sit decorously. A man could walk any way he pleased.
There was something she had to do, and she didnât know where she would find the courage. She had to pierce the work face of Kermitâs mine, and chip enough quartz out to take to Marysville now and then for food and necessaries. She hated the thought of it, but without a little cash her determination to stay on the mine property and defend it was nothing but fantasy. The very idea terrified her, but she knew she would do it, make herself walk in there step by step, and chip out the quartz. She returned to the solemn shaft, basking in bright sun, and peered in. She had the tools in hand: a burlap sack, a pry bar, pickhammer, and Kermitâs carbide lamp.
She studied the silent mountains, looking for signs of human beings, but the mine slumbered in the June warmth. She eyed
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