The Dragon of Cripple Creek

by Troy Howell

  I thought of Dillon and Dad. I thought of the mess I’d made. Tomorrow we had to move on. Had to, as in do or die.

  San Francisco, eight a.m. this coming Wednesday.

  It had nothing to do with wanderlust. It was a matter of life or impending doom.

  For months, Dad had plodded the résumé trail with no luck. He was overqualified or too old, the wrong gender, or they just weren’t hiring. When nothing panned out, he finally heard from a firm in San Francisco. Invisible, Inc., having to do with communications development. The job was his. All he had to do was get there.

  Wednesday.

  We hated to leave Mom behind. But what else could we do? The plan was to make the move, find a place to live, and come back to get her. How that would be done I didn’t have a clue. Dad was hoping to get his new employer to fund it, or at least advance him the money.

  When the bank had foreclosed on our house, Dad begged the new owners to let us stay in the stable until we could relocate, and we sold all we had but a few essentials and keepsakes. I made sure Mom’s wind chimes were among them, and Grandma Chance’s quilt. When they finally said, get out, the only good thing was the timing, because that was the day Dad got the call. We packed what was left in a U-Haul trailer and headed west. Clear across country from Richmond, Virginia, to San Francisco, California.

  At least we had some place to go.

  Not exactly a place to stay, but a place to go.

  • • •

  Eight a.m. sharp, this Wednesday. Four days away. Our stake in the future depended on it.

  Had I put all that in jeopardy? Most definitely, absolutely, no-brainer. I ached with the thought, and sat back down. Then I saw the mess I’d made for the Mollie Kathleen. The police would be called, a search party organized, all tours canceled. Thanks to my nosy, get-to-the-bottom, kill-the-cat curiosity!

  My calamiting.

  Kat! Kat!

  Keep cool. Snap to. Listen for sounds of rescue.

  Why hadn’t I heard any?

  How much time had passed?

  I bolted upright. When your body’s been battered and your mind’s reacting to one thing alone—survival—you have little sense of time. I figured it had not been ten minutes. Not enough time for anyone to miss me. Or if they did, to take it seriously or send for help. Dillon—he would have noticed. But he’d also be expecting me to show up with a tidbit to tell. Dad—he’d be shuffling along with his mind somewhere else.

  Yeah, the tour could still be in progress, going from one stop to the next, the guide droning on.

  Farther and farther from where I stood.

  “Hey!” I yelled. Why hadn’t I yelled before? “Hey! Help! HELP!”

  I listened.

  Nothing.

  I filled my lungs to capacity, tipped up my head in the direction of the chute, and screamed with every ounce of my being, “Diiil-luuuuuun!”

  Some screamer I was. There was hardly an echo, and my scream ended in a pathetic squeak and a burning throat, which was dry from the dust I’d stirred up. Despite my doubts, I pictured Dillon scrambling back to the place, leaning over the opening. Any second he would be shouting my name, any second. I held my breath and counted: One-thousand-one … one-thousand-two … one-thousand-three …

  Nothing.

  “Dillon!” I gasped. “Dillon! Down HERE!”

  Silence.

  “You were right—it isn’t fun!”

  I started to moan, whimper, shake.

  Kat! Stop! Get hold of yourself. You’ll be OK. Things will turn out in the end. If you have nine lives, which you’ve always claimed you have, you’ve only used up two.

  Make that three.

  I pulled on a finger. One. You survived suffocation when you were an infant. You choked on a pretty penny and Mommy whacked you on the back. You went from blue to gray to white to red; when you went red, you cried. You cried again the next day when the penny came out in your diaper.

  I pulled the next finger. Two. You survived a deadly bee sting. The bee was a common mountain bee, the hike was not strenuous, but you had an allergic response. Your arm swelled like a balloon, your temperature hit fireball hot, you tossed and turned so violently in the grass you struck your mouth on a tent stake and broke your front tooth. Second one from the middle, on your left. You slumped into delirium. It was the Apis that saved you. Apis Mel, a homeopathic remedy made from a minute amount of crushed bees. An old hippie hiker who camped nearby carried some in her backpack.

  I ran my tongue across the gold cap. Nobody liked it but me. I was into pirates at the time and insisted on a gold one, against my parents’ wishes. And Dillon’s. And the dentist’s. Dad had declared I’d taken this gold thing too far. He’d blurted, “No!”

  Of course, he gave in after that.

  The next finger I pulled wore Mom’s ring.

  Would I survive?

  I TURNED HER RING AROUND.

  Mom, what should I do? Curl up and wait? Keep yelling? Whistle? You know, as in whistle in the dark, like you taught me to do so I wouldn’t be afraid? Should I wander a ways and return in a while?

  If I did, I might eventually see light, find a way out.

  OK, I’ll wander, just a little. One toe at a time—I was not going to take another plunge down another chute.

  But first, I must make a mark of some kind, to tell myself where I had begun. Groping along the floor for a sizable rock, I found something smooth. Lightweight. Plastic. My hard hat! It must have flown off when I fell. No doubt it had given me some protection. I placed it in the middle of the path. If I returned, as long as I kept to the middle, I’d hit it and know I was back.

  Right then, or left?

  I slowly turned around, which, being in the dark, was not a smart thing to do. I turned around until I got dizzy, until I saw stars. Funny, seeing stars underground. I stopped, steadied myself, and yelled one more time at the top of my lungs—or from the bottom of them—just in case. It only brought more stars.

  I headed down the tunnel. Which direction I went—right or left—I didn’t even know. What did it matter? I stretched my arms wide to touch the walls on each side. Not only did this help steady me, I’d be able to sense any opening I might pass.

  Then, reminding myself I could fall into another chute if I wasn’t careful, I slowed way down, taking one step at a time.

  OK, I said, I’ll walk fifty steps, return to my hat, and walk fifty steps the other way.

  Of course, had I known what wonder lay in the great deep beyond, glorious and golden, and how it would change my life forever, I would have hurried ahead.

  I COUNTED EACH STEP.

  Once, the walls veered away from my reach, and I had to feel for them. Once, a sharp rock lay in the path, which I nearly stumbled over. Once, I tramped through water and realized how thirsty I was. I stopped to test it on my tongue—bleck!—and spat it out. I prefer water without mud, baking soda, and all the essential and nonessential minerals, thank you very much.

  Fifty steps. If something along the way changed dramatically, I’d decide what to do next.

  • • •

  What to do next hit me abruptly.

  I had counted forty-nine steps and was about to turn back when I thought I heard a sound far ahead. Ever so slight. A muffled sound, but a sound.

  Something.

  What would have made it? It wasn’t a falling rock. It wasn’t a splash. It wasn’t a voice. I don’t think it was a voice. It was like … like …

  It was like a snuffle a creature might make.

  Like a horse, for instance.

  I was kidding myself. A horse wouldn’t be way down here.

  So, what kind of creatures live in caves? All I could think of were bears. But in a cave this deep underground?

  I listened, not moving from my forty-ninth step, not moving a nerve.

  The snuffle did not snuffle again.

  Were my ears playing tricks? Just as my eyes were? Because of the sound I heard, or thought I’d heard, I p
ictured a bear approaching. A big black bear. I shivered. I felt its presence, coming closer, closer, grinning at such luck, such supper. Grinning and licking its chops. I cringed.

  Wait—it wasn’t a bear.

  It was a bloodthirsty ghoul, all mangy and dripping foam …

  I scre-e-e-e-eamed. A good, tunnel-length, tension-burning, uvula-waggling, rock-penetrating scream, with no squeak at the end.

  I sighed, exhausted. OK, that should scare it off! I knew full well, of course, the ghoul-bear had been in my fears. Not real.

  I hoped.

  But hey, with a scream like that, it’s possible somebody heard me. Somebody human, I mean. I turned to go back, and—

  Heard the sound again. Definitely. Identical to the first. My impression of it did not change: a snuffly sort of creature. What could it possibly be?

  Should I continue?

  True to my nature, curiosity said, Yes. Find what made the sound, Kat.

  After feeling around for more rocks to pile up as a marker, and finding none, I groped my way forward.

  AT FIRST, IT DIDN’T REGISTER.

  I’d been wandering in blindness so spongy, the pictures in my mind leaked into it from time to time. The tunnel had taken a sharp turn that narrowed into a passage the width of my shoulders. I felt ripples along the walls and an occasional formation at my feet, stubby enough to step over. But the curious thing was, I had begun to see textures, ever so faint, and didn’t realize it. I was so used to the dark, I thought I saw it in my mind, subconsciously.

  But the farther I went, I noticed I was seeing something. A softening in the black. Midnight turning to slate, slate to pewter, pewter to dreamy gray.

  And the walls were closing in. If it had not been for the growing light, I would have backed out, afraid of becoming wedged till I could move no more. Horrors! I did become wedged, one arm reaching for the light, one reaching behind me in the dark: a frozen pose of despair. Determined to follow the passage to the end, even as it determined to clamp me in its jaws, I pushed and squirmed and weaseled my way through.

  The walls widened and the light increased.

  Something glinted near my feet, reminding me of the sparkle that had lured me at first. I bent down to see a small metal box, and picked it up. I shook it; something rattled inside. I tried the lid; it wouldn’t budge. Squinting with my spectacle-less sight, I saw a circular design, like a bull’s-eye, and made out these words:

  lucky strike

  genuine roll cut tobacco

  Never had I thought a tobacco tin would excite me!

  Then I did a double take. The tin was as old as the hills, yet here was a scratch in it, bright enough to catch my eye. The scratch looked new.

  Had I scraped the tin with my foot before picking it up? No, I was sure I had not.

  Either someone had been here recently …

  Or some thing. Some thing with claws or teeth. Or both.

  I was back to my bear-ghoul beast.

  But now, I could see.

  And that might be worse.

  With tin in hand, hoping its here-ness meant I was closer to civilization, I quickened my pace toward the growing light. My heart raced.

  Deliverance!

  But even as I thought so I knew it couldn’t be. The glow did not seem right. It shone like tarnished gold, not daylight. It wavered. And the air wasn’t clear mountain air; it had a sulfurous, smoky smell.

  I rounded a curve, stumbled through a hazy opening, and instantly forgot the tin for a treasure worth grabbing.

  GRAB IT I DID. JUST LIKE MOLLIE KATHLEEN.

  When she struck gold in Poverty Gulch in 1891, Mollie Kathleen Gortner did something no woman in Cripple Creek had ever done. She staked a claim in her own name.

  Well, pardon me—ahem! That was a man’s business. It was fine to name a dog or donkey or saloon after a woman—like Mattie May or Stubborn Sue or Lucky Lola’s. But a gold claim? Never!

  Too late: Mollie signed on the bottom line before the claims manager could stop her. She knew that Bob Wolmack had been searching the gulch for a dozen years and had come up empty-handed. She sure-as-shootin’ wasn’t going to let this one get away from her, for him to take. In fact, she slipped some of the gold she’d found into her clothes right under Bob’s gold-sniffing nose.

  • • •

  Here I stood, just like her, holding a chunk of gold. Glittering, buttery-as-breakfast, beautiful-as-sunset, buy-the-world gold. Big as my fist!

  I weighed it in my hand, pondering its worth. It must weigh a few pounds, which, for gold, is twelve ounces, not sixteen. How much is gold going for an ounce? Once I got out, I’d check the current prices.

  Slipping the gold into my jacket pocket, I took a step forward. I was in a cavern of sorts—it was hard to tell, for steam or smoke drifted around me, filtering the light beyond. A trickle of turquoise snaked by my feet.

  And here again—Lucky Strike was right!—bigger and brighter than the first, lay another chunk of gold.

  I snatched it up. Oh, Mollie—you and me! I wanted to dance. I’d call it the Mollie Kathleen. It would be all the rage. Kids would do it all over the country.

  I flung out my arm and stuck out a foot. Dance step number one …

  “Drop it,” said a voice.

  It was not a human voice.

  Neither was it a bloodthirsty bear-ghoul voice.

  It was the voice of a dragon with a smoker’s cough.

  SOME THINGS IN LIFE ARE HARD TO BELIEVE, like monster hurricanes and tidal waves and terrorism and winning the lottery and cameras on Mars. Unless you’re one of the few who lives in a backwoods shack and denies we ever set foot on the moon, you stare in disbelief, or shock, dread, or astonishment, trying to accept the unacceptable. After taking it all in, you finally say, OK, this kind of thing happens after all.

  When I first saw the dragon, I stood in stone-cold fear, expecting him to lunge at me, tail lashing, to tear me to bits. Then I thought I must be dreaming. I’d fallen into my own version of Wonderland and met my personal Jabberwocky. The “drop it” was just somebody outside the dream. I’d wake up, rise out of my darkness, and all would be plain.

  But the dream never burst. It kept going.

  The haze had cleared.

  In a glance, I saw a scene as unbelievable as the gold. And there was lots more gold—nuggets lay everywhere, ranging in size from bracelet beads to rocks as big as my head.

  The cave was large, but not vast—cozy for a dragon. The ceiling drifted in and out of an auburn mist, which I later learned was called dragonlight. Studded stones winked like constellations. Rows of stalactites jutting like giant teeth met stalagmites from below in a staggered bite. Flowstones as rich as crystallized syrup ran along the floor among various man-made items: a miner’s pick, an Orange Crush bottle, a metal flask, a theater bill, an old black boot, a jam jar, a wooden crate with explosives stamped on its side and a chessboard set on its top. On the board were a pawn and two kings, one of which had fallen.

  And beyond that, smoldering like a thundercloud at dusk, lay the dragon. He was as tarnished and mythological as ancient history itself. Two gold-leafed wings with silver veins were folded along his back; a scarlet ruffle ran ridgelike between them, into the shadows, where his tail was curled; two silver strands hung from his chin; two filaments of smoke rose from his nostrils; two glowing eyes glared into mine.

  Fire-and-cinnamon eyes.

  They say that dragons can cast a spell with one look—and I believe it. I was stuck in that stare. If I stepped up and peered into it, I’d see myself trapped like an insect in amber.

  I couldn’t run—I was paralyzed.

  I couldn’t faint, for fear of him gobbling me down while I dozed.

  I did the one thing there was to do, under the circumstances. He had told me to drop the gold, so I dropped it.

  It landed on my toe.

  “Ow,” I said.

  Not exactly the best way to start a conversation with a dragon.


  Or with anyone.

  FROM THAT DAY UNTIL NOW, I HAVE PLAYED back our talk in my head, convinced it came out all wrong. It was the most ordinary, run-of-the-mill talk you’ve ever heard. If not muddled.

  Seems to me your usual conversation has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning is for welcomes and greetings, light and cheery. Glad to see you, been a long time—that sort of thing. The middle heads toward serious stuff, more meaningful: How’s the after-school job, your class assignment, your mom. If the conversation is going to get sticky—say, disagreeable or philosophical or painful—it usually occurs toward the end of the middle. Then the end lightens up again, so everyone can be sure they still like one another. No problem, good to see you, we’re cool.

  Of course, conversation with a treasure-hoarding dragon would be an exception. You’d think it would go something like this:

  dragon (spitting flames): How dare you finger my gold!

  I’ll burn you at the stake for this! I’ll roast your gizzard

  and gnaw your bones! I’ll—

  you: I’m sorry, dear dragon. I didn’t see you. I—

  dragon: Didn’t see me? What, are you blind? Behold!

  (rising, spreading his wings) I’m bigger than a boxcar!

  Big as a mountain! See my shining scales! Feel my fire!

  Hear me roar! (Spits more flames, singeing your hair.)

  you: Nice dragon. Nice boy. (Running like fire and brimstone outta there.)

  Anyway. That’s not how it went. Not the usual way, not the dragon way. It was more like taking the bottom end of a down escalator when you’re thinking it’s the up.

  But truth is stranger than fiction.

  • • •

  Maybe it was the “ow” that did it.

  “Did you say ‘how’?” he asked in a rusty, crack-of-dawn voice, a voice that sounded like he’d just pulled it out and dusted it off.

  “No, I said—” I faltered, trying to figure this out. Logic was kicking in, part of the process of going from shock to acceptance. Was it the fall? The lack of air? The mineral water? Here be a dragon. Here be a talking dragon. It wasn’t a crocodile. It wasn’t a horned toad on steroids. He was staring at me at the bottom of a mine.