by Sylvia Nobel
“I don’t know. He...or she was sleeping beside me when I woke up.”
“Did you have a nice nap?”
“Oh, yes. It’s really peaceful here.” Her eyes did look a little brighter and two spots of color graced her high cheekbones. “I’m a little disappointed though,” she continued. “I thought when I got here I’d remember something. I mean, if I lived in this house for three years, how come nothing looks familiar?”
“Give it some time. You can never tell what might trigger a memory.” I looked out the window and saw that Orville had backed his car closer to the stone steps. “I’d like to stay and talk but Detective Kemp is waiting to give me a ride downtown.”
“So that’s where you’ve been. Did he tell you anything?”
“A little.”
“What?”
I edged towards the door. “How about we talk later? I really have to get my car off that road before it rains again.”
“Okay,” she sighed, pulling a long flowered skirt from her bag, “but I wanted to tell you that I phoned the lawyer and the accountant while you were outside. I’ve got appointments to see both of them day after tomorrow. Will you be able to drive me to Bisbee?”
“Sure.” It would give me a perfect opportunity to drop by the sheriff’s office and have a look at the Morgan file. “And you might think about making one more call while I’m gone.”
By the look of dread stealing over her face, I knew she was aware of who I meant. “You mean Haston? He’s not going to talk to me.”
“He has no choice. Find out if we can see them some time tomorrow.” She looked decidedly unhappy, but I didn’t have two or three weeks to wait while she mustered the courage to face her obnoxious relatives. “You can’t put it off forever,” I reminded her gently.
“I guess not. When will you be back?”
“Soon as I can,” I called over my shoulder just as a rumble of thunder rattled the windowpanes. By the time I reached the patrol car, the wind had whipped my hair into a tangle. “You can drop me a couple of blocks from the Muleskinner,” I told Orville, climbing in beside him.
He frowned. “You sure about that?”
“I want to get some pictures,” I said, patting my camera. “And I feel the need to walk the streets of Morgan’s Folly before I write about it. You know, to try and soak up the atmosphere of the place.”
His dubious glance let me know that he thought I was completely nuts. “Guess you don’t mind getting good and wet.”
I laughed. “After yesterday, I think I can handle it.” He listened intently while I recapped the events of the day before and his frown deepened. “That’s mighty strange,” was all he said as he eased to a stop beneath a sun-faded sign that would have said Prospector Street if the P hadn’t been missing.
I thanked him and stepped out onto the sidewalk fronting the Huddle Cafe, which according to the sign, closed for the afternoon, then re-opened at five for dinner.
“Oh, one more thing, Miss O’Dell,” Orville called out.
I turned back and leaned in the window. “Yes?”
“Since it appears that we’re going to be partners,” he said with an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes, “I reckon you’ll keep me posted if anything out of the ordinary happens.”
Judging by the events of the last twenty-four hours, nothing in this town seemed even close to being ordinary. I flashed him a conspiratorial smile and signaled a thumbs up. “You can count on it.”
I watched his patrol car cruise out of sight thankful that the driving wind had subsided. The clouds were growing darker so the lull in the storm was probably temporary. There were no other cars, no pedestrians, and with the exception of a few birds twittering and the occasional bark of a dog somewhere in the distance, an eerie silence prevailed.
Morgan’s Folly emitted an aura of decay and neglect. But as I strolled along the uneven sidewalks, peeking through grimy windows at the sad remains of closed businesses, it was easy to envision what it must have looked like a hundred years ago.
Pausing to admire the intricate stone scrollwork above the arched doorway of one building, I laid one hand against the blackened bricks. Tally would claim it was my over-active imagination, but I felt a distinct sensation, almost a vibration of the rich history of this once-bustling boomtown emanating through my fingers.
I closed my eyes and conjured up the image of these dusty streets alive with the rumble of mule-drawn freight wagons, horses and pedestrians. Beyond the rusted piles of mine tailings, the shriek of the whistle would announce the shift change at the mine. And from the closed, shuttered saloons, I could hear the echo of raucous laughter from bone-tired miners quenching their pent-up thirst. Envisioning the words in my article, I pulled out my notepad and jotted down my observations.
Fortunately, Tally had given me a crash course in Arizona history and I knew that the remains of dozens of ghost towns still littered the state. But, I mused, continuing my stroll and snapping pictures, this was a recent death. The insanity of Grady Morgan’s seemingly irresponsible decision to close the mine down struck me again. Of course I knew a little more about his volatile personality since Dr. Orcutt’s and Marta’s disclosures, but still...
Overcome by curiosity, I picked up my pace, anxious to get the ball rolling on my story. These old buildings couldn’t talk but people sure could. And right now my best source of information lay behind the sagging stone walls of the Muleskinner Saloon.
I was only a few feet from the front door when I noticed a late model sedan cruising by. I did a double take when I noticed the driver was none other than Fran Orcutt. She was staring a hole right through me. The unexpected expression of fear and longing reflected in her sunken eyes made me falter.
Puzzled, I lifted my hand and she returned my greeting with the barest glimmer of a smile before accelerating out of sight. What on earth was that all about? I wondered, turning to push open the saloon door.
A sharp clap of thunder mingled with the crack of pool balls as I paused to accustom my eyes to the murky interior. Overhead fans fastened to a burnished copper ceiling whirred softly and from the battered red jukebox, a country singer crooned a sad ballad to the dozen or so people scattered about.
“Hey there, Irish,” shouted Whitey from behind the bar. “I’ll be damned if you don’t clean up real good.”
Of course that caused every guy in the place to turn and gawk at me. Slightly disconcerted at being the center of attention again, I slid onto one of the wobbly barstools and grinned at Whitey. “Being dry is a definite plus.”
He gave me a friendly wink. “I’d say so. Yesterday you looked like you’d been drug through a knothole ass backwards.”
“And I felt like it.”
“Howdy do, ma’am,” called out another man two stools over. He fingered the grimy bill of his ball cap and I nodded in return, noting that he had three chins, several teeth missing, and the overalls he wore looked as though they hadn’t encountered soap in many moons. “I’m Earl. Me ‘n’ Buddy ‘n’ Skeet here,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder, “hauled that there tree off the Boneyard for you.”
“Well, I’m forever in your debt. I hope you’ll let me reimburse all of you for your time and effort.”
There was a chivalrous clamor of refusals from the men and Whitey chimed in, “Skeet here’s even offered to go and bring your car back, if you like.”
I focused on a man Ginger would have dubbed ‘a long tall drink of water’. “That’s awfully nice of you. Are you sure?”
Reddening, he laid his pool cue down and fixed his eyes on the floor. “I’d be right honored to help you out, ma’am. There ain’t no point in you getting yourself all muddied up, what with another storm coming and all.”
Touched by his generosity, I was grateful to be in the company of such affable people. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that these men were obviously out of work. Why else would they be hanging around a bar at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon? I handed him my car key
s and he left with a companion in tow.
“What’s your pleasure, Irish?” Whitey asked, wiping away a non-existent spill in front of me.
I rarely drank this early and was tempted to refuse, but I had the feeling they were all waiting for my answer. Since I’d entered their world, I surmised that my chances of gaining acceptance would improve if I joined them. “Beer would be great.”
Whitey looked pleased. Decked out in a finely-cut, black Western suit with a turquoise bola tie cinched nattily at his throat, I thought him an extraordinarily handsome man, even though he was probably old enough to be my grandfather.
“So then,” he began, drawing down the spigot to fill my mug with foamy brew, “I’m curious to know how it is that you come to be with Miss Morgan? You a family friend?”
As I repeated what I’d told Orville, plus a few pertinent facts from Dr. Orcutt’s conversation, his flushed face bore a look of concentrated speculation as he twirled one end of his snowy mustache.
I held my breath. This was usually the time when people who had something to hide closed up tighter than a clam shell, and those who didn’t, warmed to the opportunity to become instant celebrities. He didn’t disappoint me.
“So, you’re a newspaper reporter,” he boomed loud enough so everyone in the place could hear. “Castle Valley, huh? That’s a real nice little town. You just ask away, Irish, and we’ll see if we can’t give you some grist for the mill, so to speak.”
His expression of we seemed an obvious invitation for the other men to throw in their two cents worth. Most of the men quietly abandoned their pool game and drifted nonchalantly towards the bar. Again, I appeared to be providing a diversion from their monotonous routines.
Seizing the moment, I offered to buy drinks for everyone and was rewarded by a sincere chorus of gratitude. I settled myself more comfortably, pulled out my notepad and fired off the first question. “Let’s start with the present situation. I’m puzzled as to why Grady Morgan at first accepted Haston’s offer of new capital and then changed his mind?”
Whitey shook his head solemnly. “There ain’t no one answer to that. The past and present all kind of mesh together into a pretty complicated story.”
“How so?”
He sucked in a measured breath. “When Haston first came back from being down there in Venezuela for eight years, Grady seemed happy as a fox in a hen house.”
“What was Haston doing in South America?”
“Had him a good job working for some big company. You did know he’s a mining engineer.”
“No.”
“Yep. Real smart kid,” he continued, hitching up his pants. “Anyhow, he was pretty pissed off when he found out Grady had put the mine on caretaker status.”
I took a sip of beer. “And what was his reasoning for that?”
“Grady hated running the mine and besides, he was too busy having a grand old time squandering away most everything the family had built-up for three generations.”
“I see. So, what did Haston do?”
“Grabbed the bull by the horns and brought in a couple of geologist friends,” Whitey replied handing out drinks to the other men. “They pulled the production records and did some studying on the ore reserve and sub surface maps. When they did some test drilling it verified what he suspected. There is one humongous vein of gold down there! Probably a million contained ounces, I hear.”
My pulse shot up. Audrey might be a rich woman after all. Very rich. “I’d wager that got Grady’s attention.”
A bearded man from the end of the bar growled, “Unlessen you get it out of the ground, it don’t do nobody no good. And that ol’ devil never did give a rat’s ass about the mine or us. All he cared about was the cold hard cash.”
“If Grady disliked the business so much, why didn’t he allow Haston to take over?” I asked Whitey.
“He was all set to do just that till he found out the backer was Duncan Claypool. He was pretty burned up to say the least.”
“Burned up?” cackled one old geezer, smacking his hand on the bar. “He ‘bout shit a brick.”
If the man’s rough language was designed to make me flinch it failed. I felt I’d passed the test of being ‘one of the guys’ as I joined in the appreciative laughter.
I looked back at Whitey. “Okay. Who’s Duncan Claypool?”
“I was just about to get to that,” he said, grinning. Every man at the bar hunched closer as he launched into a tale that became so engrossing, I forgot to take notes.
Lured by news of gold, silver, and copper strikes in Arizona, Grady’s grandfather, Seth Morgan, had left his wife and son behind in New York and headed west to seek his fortune. Because the Copper Queen Mine at Bisbee was producing millions, he was crushed to find that most of the surrounding property had already been snatched up by wealthy speculators. Ever the optimist, he wandered miles beyond the Mule Mountains, convinced that there had to be other rich ore bodies in the vicinity.
“Most folks thought he was a mite touched in the head when he filed claims way out here in this godforsaken spot,” offered another man whose deeply grooved face resembled an old work glove.
“Why?” I asked. “I thought there were tons of prospectors in this area?”
“There were,” Whitey replied. “But most of ‘em weren’t as obstinate as Seth. No one else would have stuck it out for ten long, lonesome years with nothing to show for it.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “You mean to tell me he left his family stranded back east for ten years?”
“Well, not the whole time,” Earl spoke up, grinning. “He must’ve gone back a couple a times because he and Hannah managed to rustle up two more kids.”
That elicited more hearty laughter from the men and I said, “I admire her patience.”
“You got to understand something about the 1872 Mining Act,” Earl said. “You can’t just stake a claim and set on it forever. You got to file every year. And then, you got to prove you done at least a smidgen of work on it or you lose it altogether.”
“Poor Seth was the laughing stock of the whole damn mining district,” added the grizzle-faced man, lighting up a cigarette while signaling Whitey for another beer. “But he kept at it. The man had a powerful lot of faith. He told everyone he met that fame and fortune lay just beyond the next shovel full of dirt.”
I nodded. “Thus the name Morgan’s Folly. But wasn’t Seth vindicated in the end?”
“Hold on, you’re getting ahead of me,” Whitey said. “Seth got word that one of his kids was real sick so he had to skedaddle back home. He wasn’t about to just up and abandon the claims, so he contracted with a merchant in Bisbee who’d grubstaked him a couple of times. He asked him to re-register the claims till he could get back. Then he leaned on a buddy of his, a prospector named Henry something-or-other, to witness the agreement. But things didn’t work out quite like he planned.”
I cracked a wry smile. “Let me guess. The merchant’s name was Claypool.”
“Jasper T. Claypool to be exact,” said Whitey, refilling my beer mug. “Anyway, Claypool hired Henry to work the Morgan claims and didn’t pay much attention for a couple of months. Then one day, Henry brought him a chunk of quartz loaded with gold crystals and Jasper’s eyeballs about popped out. It was time to re-up the claims, and Seth was still away so...”
“Claypool registered them in his own name,” I finished, shaking my head. “But what about Henry? I thought you said he witnessed the agreement?”
Earl piped up. “Jasper was a clever ol’ dog. He shipped him off to work in the Alaska gold fields.”
Whitey cut in again. “Claypool told everybody he met that Seth had traded him the claims for passage east, plus money to care for his sick kid. Of course no such thing happened and when Seth got back and found out what Jasper had done, that was the beginning of the bad blood between the families. You see, without Henry, Seth had no way to prove his case to the mining district in Santa Fe. So, he got himself a gun and
went after Jasper.”
Completely caught up in the story, I took a quick gulp of my beer. “Then what?”
“Seth knocked him ass end over tea kettle and pointed the barrel square at his head. But it misfired and that gave Claypool time to dig his piece out and get off the first shot. Unfortunately his aim wasn’t so good, and well...it’s a damn good thing Seth had already sired him a son.”
Whitey’s ruddy face was turning a deep shade of crimson as I arched an inquiring brow. “Are you saying...?”
“Yep. Shot the left one clean off.”
“Jesus,” I whispered, noticing every guy in the place fidgeting squeamishly. “What happened next?”
“He expired,” Earl put in, raising his mug in a silent toast.
“But not from the bullet wound,” Whitey intoned, a faraway look glistening in his eyes. “Jasper finally hit the vein of gold Seth had known in his gut was there all along. And here’s the rub. It wasn’t but ten feet from where Seth quit digging. Poor soul died of a broken heart.”
I frowned. “But I thought the Morgan family still owned the mine.”
Whitey’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Jasper Claypool was a pretty shrewd fellow but he hadn’t reckoned on Seth’s widow, Hannah. She left the kids with her ma and showed up here to challenge his claim. After some detective work, she found out about Seth’s friend Henry and booked passage to Alaska. It took her a whole year moving from camp to camp until she finally located him.”
“Pretty gutsy lady,” I remarked.
“To say the least. Anyhow, she hauled him back to testify on her behalf and then the lawyers hassled over it for a couple of more years till Claypool finally conceded his claim jumping. Of course by that time, he’d already mined enough copper and gold out of the Defiance to bankroll new claims and go on to become a jillionaire.”
“The Defiance?” I inquired, coming back to reality enough to scribble some notes on the still-empty page.
“That’s the name of the mine.” Whitey’s surprised frown indicated he thought I should already know that. Jasper had dubbed it the Devil’s Basement, but Hannah renamed it in honor of Seth’s bulldogged determination. She managed things till young Jeb was old enough to take over. He finally made the Defiance profitable, but it never achieved the likes of the Claypool Empire.”
