AHMM, January-February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  The sign for Digby had been posted little over a mile back down the trail, and the group paused to catch their breath around it. The flat board had broken where the nails had been driven into it, leaving only the first two letters of the name still posted. A brief search produced the other half of the board with the letters GBY still clearly visible upon them.

  After a couple of minutes, Corey hefted the axle beam back to his shoulder and led the way up the new road. Butler had already admitted he hadn't traveled this route, so Corey saw no reason to wait for him to lead. The road was steeper but easily followed, with deep wheel ruts scoring the ground to guide them.

  Patrick began to breathe harder; Mrs. Clifford to pray louder; but other than that the seven travelers climbed in relative silence until the sun was sinking over the hill above them and the shadows were stretching far across the ground.

  Despite the fact that Miss Parson was walking behind Corey, she was the first to spot the buildings.

  "There it is,” Corey heard her say, breath rasping from the climb.

  Corey turned back to look at her, rather than focusing his eyes ahead, failing in the first moment to grasp what she had discovered. Only Butler was still visible on the road. The rest of the travelers had straggled out behind them, raising the possibility that the others might lose their way in the growing dark.

  As Corey watched, Patrick appeared around the bend, walking slowly but steadily, the coach wheel hung on the axe handle and slung over his shoulder.

  Corey called out to the older man: “Patrick, can you see the Cliffords or Dr. Fulton?"

  Patrick stopped, dropped his duffle, and wearily turned to look back the way he had come. “I see Dr. Fulton,” he shouted up to Corey. Then he set the axe and wheel down to wait for the doctor.

  "You set a good pace, Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Parson said. She was still breathing heavily, but was clearly proud of herself for keeping up with him. “Why don't we set these things down here and help the others. The town is only a couple of hundred yards ahead of us, and it's getting dark."

  Corey turned back around again, surprised that he had been so lost in his thoughts he had missed the first buildings. But there they were, looming out of the shadows ahead of him, half stone and half wood, and not particularly strong looking despite the combination. In Corey's experience, the bulk of a new mining town was composed of tents, so if Digby had collected a few permanent structures, it had likely survived for several years before failing.

  Corey dropped Miss Parson's carpetbag and lowered the axle to the ground, trying to conceal both how winded he felt and how much his ribs twinged from the effort of lowering the wood without dropping it. “That's a fine idea,” he agreed, “but there's no reason for you to have to walk back down there. I'll go help the doctor and the Cliffords."

  Miss Parson set down Corey's duffle beside her carpetbag. “Mr. Butler,” she asked, “would you mind waiting here while we go help the others catch up?"

  "Yes, ma'am,” Mr. Butler replied, leading his horse over by the small pile of bags and sitting down.

  Miss Parson turned to Corey. “Shall we?"

  He conceded gracefully and strolled with her back down to the bend in the road where Patrick waited.

  "Not feeling winded are you?” Corey asked the old man, as if he couldn't see that Patrick's shirt, like his own, was drenched with sweat.

  "Of course not,” Patrick lied. “This little hike? I hardly noticed we were walking—although to help you with your training I'm willing to let you take this wheel the rest of the way up to town."

  Corey grinned. “Just leave it right there if it's too much for you. We're going to help the doctor and Mr. Clifford first."

  "Now what are you talking about?” Patrick sputtered. “Who said anything about this wheel being too much for me?"

  Patrick hefted the axe and wheel back onto his shoulder, snatched up his duffle, and started up the road toward Butler.

  Corey and Miss Parson watched him go. “Do you think that was wise to goad him?” Miss Parson asked. “He isn't young anymore."

  "Goad him?” The accusation, slight as it had been, surprised Corey. “Oh, Patrick's in no danger. He's fit as a fiddle and will probably outlast us all. He just likes to make up excuses for me to do all the work."

  "I know he does,” Miss Parson agreed, “but it seems to me that he was almost asking you to help him. I wish you hadn't made finishing the trek a matter of pride."

  Corey thought about that for a moment, then dismissed Miss Parson's concerns. It wasn't that he was convinced she was wrong, but since he had made finishing a matter of pride, nothing he could say now would make the old man relinquish the load. “We might as well help Dr. Fulton and the Cliffords,” he suggested.

  Dr. Fulton was only thirty feet away as they started walking toward him. He stopped as they approached and rubbed at the sweat dripping down his nose. “I'm afraid I'm not fit for walking these old roads,” he told them. “Too much easy town living, I guess."

  "You're doing just fine,” Miss Parson assured him. “Digby is just a few hundred feet around the next bend."

  The news did not appear to reassure Dr. Fulton. He wiped his face again and then started to pick up his valise and medical bag. “I guess I'd best be on then,” he said. He seemed too exhausted to indulge in his customary nervous glances.

  "Why don't you leave your bags here,” Corey suggested. “We're going to head on down the trail to help Mr. Clifford, but we can pick them up on the way back."

  Dr. Fulton hesitated, a cautious look of hope blossoming on his features. “That would be awfully kind of you."

  He began to put the two bags back on the ground, then changed his mind, tucking the medical bag under his arm. “I think I'd better keep this one with me,” he said, “but I'll be beholden to you if you help me with the other one. I don't know why I didn't just leave it behind with the coach."

  As Dr. Fulton began to trudge up the trail, Corey and Miss Parson ambled in the opposite direction. They rounded the next bend without seeing any sign of the Cliffords and were almost to the next bend after that when Miss Parson came to a sudden halt.

  "Did you hear that?"

  "Hear what?” Corey asked her. He was more tired from carrying the axle beam than he wanted to admit and wasn't aware of much of anything save the growing darkness and the pleasant feeling of having Miss Parson walk down the road beside him.

  "I thought I heard a horse whimper."

  Corey slowly looked around him, straining his eyes and ears against the rapidly darkening wilderness. He didn't hear a horse, but there were voices.

  "Honestly, John, you are so slow we've lost touch with the lot of them and they're so mean and jealous they probably won't wait for us, much less come back to help."

  "Mabel, I'm walking as fast as I can. I'm a scholar, not a workman. I just can't keep up with those men—especially not while carrying this load of your clothing."

  "I don't hear a horse,” Corey noted. “Could it have been Mr. Butler's animal?"

  Miss Parson considered that possibility. “I guess that must be it.” Corey didn't think she looked convinced.

  "Shall we help the Cliffords?” he asked.

  "If we must."

  The last rays of sunlight touched her face as she spoke, making her red hair shine like bronze. She really was too beautiful to be traveling around the West with Patrick and him. He wanted to take her hand as they walked toward the Cliffords but knew that it was inappropriate. Corey Callaghan was a destitute bare-knuckle boxer with nothing at all to offer a refined and intelligent woman such as Miss Parson. Trying to take her hand might be the liberty that drove her off.

  "Who's there?” Mrs. Clifford demanded as they came into view.

  "It's just us,” Miss Parson assured her, “Mr. Callaghan and Pandora Parson."

  "Alone?” Mrs. Clifford gasped.

  "Oh, Mabel, do be quiet,” her husband admonished her. “Can't you see they've
come back to help us."

  "But they're not married!” Mrs. Clifford reminded him.

  "Please hush,” he said again, setting the suitcase with his wife's clothing on the ground. “Thank heaven, Mr. Callaghan. I know you warned us about carrying too much, and I really wish I had listened. I can't remember when my arms were more tired."

  "That's all right,” Corey assured him. “I'll take it now. You're almost there. Just a quarter mile or so and you can rest."

  The sun finished slipping beneath the mountain. It was so dark he could not see either of the Cliffords’ faces.

  "Goodness,” Mrs. Clifford asked, “how will we see to walk up the road?"

  "The stars and the moon will be out soon,” Miss Parson told her. “They're not street lamps, but as our eyes adjust to the darkness we'll get by."

  "In the meantime,” Corey suggested, “why don't we take it very slow. It's not far and we'll feel better when we make it to town."

  "I certainly am thirsty,” Mr. Clifford informed them.

  "They wouldn't have built the town without a well or a creek nearby,” Miss Parson assured him.

  Corey picked up the Cliffords’ bag and grunted with surprise. It was twice the weight he had expected. “I thought it was clothes you had in here, not lead."

  Mr. Clifford cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I'm afraid I may have added one or two books to the bag before we left the stage."

  "Only one or two?"

  "Well, maybe a few more than that. You see, you indicated that it may take you some time to craft a new piece to serve as our axle, and I wanted to make certain I had enough to read."

  "How on earth did you fit them in?” his wife asked. “I thought I had packed this bag quite full."

  Mr. Clifford was probably blushing, but in the darkness, Corey couldn't see well enough to be certain. “I may have been forced to remove one or two of your dresses,” he confessed.

  "My dresses?” Mrs. Clifford shouted.

  Corey grinned and began lugging the suitcase up the road. Miss Parson fell into step beside him.

  * * * *

  "I thought it was right around here,” Miss Parson said.

  Corey put the Cliffords’ suitcase down to help her search for Dr. Fulton's valise. The Cliffords had fallen behind again, but Corey could clearly hear them continuing to argue over the books and dresses.

  "Are you certain he left it?” Corey asked. “I mean, I thought he did, but maybe I'm just not remembering correctly. He kept his medical bag, didn't he?"

  "He left it right around here,” Miss Parson insisted.

  Corey walked around in a fairly tight circle looking for the missing bag. “I just don't see it."

  "Neither do I,” Miss Parson said, an edge of frustration sharpening her voice.

  The Cliffords loomed out of the darkness, breaking off their argument when they saw Corey and Miss Parson searching the dark road. For the moment, at least, Mrs. Clifford's voice lost its sting. “What is wrong now, Mr. Callaghan?"

  Corey continued to scan the dark path. “We thought Dr. Fulton was leaving his valise for us to carry the rest of the way, but we can't find it."

  Both of the Cliffords looked around them.

  "I don't see it,” Mrs. Clifford announced.

  "Perhaps,” Mr. Clifford suggested, “Dr. Fulton changed his mind and retrieved the bag himself."

  Miss Parson dubiously admitted that that was a possibility.

  "Then may we please finish walking to town?” Mrs. Clifford asked in the most genuinely civil tone she had used since meeting Corey and Miss Parson that morning. “I am mortally tired and would dearly love to sit in a comfortable chair and rest."

  * * * *

  "Dr. Fulton,” Corey called, as the Cliffords, Miss Parson, and he caught up with the others. “Did you come back down the trail for your bag? We looked, but we couldn't find it."

  Dr. Fulton was clearly surprised by the suggestion. “Why, no, I've been sitting here discussing our situation with these gentlemen. You must have missed it in the dark."

  Corey set down the Cliffords’ suitcase. “Oh, sorry. I guess I'll go back down and take another look."

  Dr. Fulton began to nervously look about him again. “I ... don't think that's necessary. There's nothing truly important in that bag. I don't know why I didn't just leave it behind in the stagecoach. Why don't you let it wait until morning?"

  Corey was tired enough to truly appreciate that suggestion, but he didn't like failing in a responsibility. “I really don't mind walking back down there."

  "No, no, I insist,” Dr. Fulton said. “Let it wait until morning. Frankly, it's much more important that we get some shelter over our heads."

  "All right then,” Corey said. “If no one objects, let's walk into town.” He bent down and hefted the broken axle beam back on to his shoulder, grunting with the effort and the pain.

  Patrick and Miss Parson resumed their loads fairly quickly, but Mr. Clifford was noticeably slower in picking up his burden.

  Corey started into town with Miss Parson staying close beside him. The final shades of sunset had disappeared and the moon and stars were sharing their luminescence with the night sky. The first building rose quickly out of the darkness, and Corey steered Miss Parson well to the left of it. “Hello,” he called out, his voice echoing about them. “Is anyone here?"

  He waited with faint hope that the town might not actually be deserted, but no one chose to answer him. The scattered dark buildings looked particularly unwelcoming.

  "I think,” Miss Parson said, “we should start with the town's saloon."

  Mrs. Clifford harrumphed, evidently too tired to state her opinion more clearly.

  "It will have large windows and at least one sizeable room. We'll need the space and whatever light we can gather, at least until we start a fire,” Miss Parson explained.

  "Good thinking,” Corey told her. And then to the rest of the group asked: “Do any of you gentlemen smoke? Matches would be a real help in starting a fire."

  "I might have a couple left over from my last victory cigar,” Patrick volunteered.

  "I smoke a pipe now and again,” Butler added.

  "Then let's make that fire now in the middle of the street,” Corey suggested. “I don't fancy exploring buildings without being able to see where I'm stepping."

  It didn't take long to gather brush and wood and make the shavings. Within fifteen minutes a cheery little fire was burning, and Corey was wrapping strips torn from an old shirt around a larger branch to make a torch. Before lighting it, he quickly surveyed the rest of the town: a motley collection of mostly small buildings leading up to a dark hole in the side of the mountain.

  "We'll go in there tomorrow to look for timber,” Corey announced, indicating the entrance to the mine. “With any luck, we'll find unused beams waiting to be used to shore up the tunnel. If not, we'll figure out how to free one of the timbers already bracing the roof without pulling the mountain down on top of us."

  "We can also scavenge the buildings,” Butler said. “I've never seen a deserted town that didn't leave at least a few useful things behind. I doubt we'll find a saw, but there ought to at least be candles."

  "What about tonight?” Mr. Clifford asked.

  "Well, Miss Parson got that right,” Corey said. “It's best if we all stick together until we know what we're dealing with here. I'll look over the saloon now and see if it will shelter us until morning.” He stared at the largest building in town, trying to read the sign by the moonlight. It loomed above them, dark and foreboding. He really didn't want to go in there with only a poorly fashioned light.

  "The Golden Nugget,” Miss Parson read, “how original. If I had a dollar for every saloon called the Golden Nugget that I've played cards in I could give up gambling."

  "Who are you trying to fool?” Patrick asked her, mirth bolstering his tired voice. “You'll never give up gambling no matter how rich you are."

  Despite the darkness, Corey was cer
tain Miss Parson was smiling.

  Mrs. Clifford groaned but did not comment.

  Corey struck his makeshift torch into the fire and ignited it. “I'd better take a look inside."

  Miss Parson hurriedly gathered up some brush and kindling. “There's a chimney on the far side of the building. If we make a fire there, it should light the whole inside."

  "You're coming?” Corey asked.

  "Of course, you didn't think we'd let you go in there alone, did you?"

  Patrick gathered up some more brush and a few larger sticks and followed after them.

  * * * *

  The interior of the Golden Nugget redefined darkness. It wasn't technically pitch black because Corey had his makeshift torch and the large, mostly glassless windows let in some light from the campfire and the moon. But those light sources didn't spread very far. Instead, they seemed to forge even deeper shadows, doing more to destroy Corey's night vision than to illuminate the hall.

  "I can't see anything!” Patrick complained as he finished pushing through the batwing doors.

  Corey stepped deeper inside, carefully making his way through the darkness. His shins bumped against a stool or a chair, forcing him to alter course. Patrick grabbed hold of the back of Corey's shirt to use as a guide rope. Presumably Miss Parson was doing the same at the end of the line.

  "I wonder if we could use these tables for our new axle beam,” Patrick said.

  "It depends on how thick and warped the wood is,” Corey said. “I'll take a look at them when it's daylight."

  They were halfway across the room now, shuffling slowly forward, carefully avoiding mishap. The scant light of the torch was already fading, raising the very real prospect that they would finish this journey in utter darkness. “Patrick,” Corey said, “will you give me a handful of that brush?"

  Patrick complied, and Corey touched the sputtering torch to the dry wood. Immediately, the dying fire flared to new life.

  "Careful, me lad,” Patrick said, stepping back away from the blaze.

  Corey quickly scanned the saloon, then darted across the floor to thrust the burning branches into the fireplace. Miss Parson pushed past Patrick and placed the brush she was carrying on top of Corey's. The flames leapt even higher, sending a fan of sparks up the chimney. A sudden rustle of wings announced that the bats inside did not appreciate the intrusion. Yellow light radiated out with the heat, illuminating in that first burst of passion nearly half of the saloon's main hall.