by Jack Tunney
Before I could see her approach in the mirror, she stood outside my door, dark blue trousers, and a light blue shirt. A large brimmed hat hid her creamy skin from the sun and shadowed her face. Long curls of straw colored hair dropped from her hat and lay against her face and neck. Her countenance deterred discussion and settled for neither barter nor trade – she knew what she wanted and would take nothing less.
"Can I help you?" she repeated.
"We, we're, uh," I stammered while she looked at me with hands on hips, indignant her time was being wasted. "We are looking for work."
She sniffed as she looked us over and checked out the car with an aficionado’s eye.
"Looking for work, you say ..." She sounded unconvinced. "Where did you hear about the mine?"
"At the National Hotel,” I said. “In Jamestown."
She looked around and then back to us, drilling us with her eyes before speaking again. "I’m Maggie, and my Pa owns this mine. You’re in luck,” she said finally. “A few guys walked off last night. We pay nine dollars a day, and expect a full day’s work. If you want jobs, park your car and meet me in the office.” She turned with a huff and stomped toward a makeshift box of buildings.
It didn't take us long to learn Maggie was the real muscle and brains running the operation. Her father was Karsten Freeman, a miner from Colorado who made a substantial amount of wealth in silver, but closed up his operation and moved to California after the war. Most if not all the gold mines in California had been closed down due to the war effort, but when the war was over, Karsten felt it was time to strike out for the gold soaked lands. Benson and I were given a tent to share, clean bedding, and fed all for a modest sum deducted from our weekly wages.
When Maggie, needed help getting supplies from town, I quickly jumped up and offered my services. It was apparent that most of the guys in camp thought Maggie was a real looker, but didn’t want to get crosswise with her temper – she had the ability to turn a hard man into a quiet meek little boy that wanted only to get out of her site. But her and I struck a friendly cord and came to a mutual agreement, she wouldn’t belittle me, and I wouldn’t piss her off. Before long our weekly trips into town were something I looked forward to, even if it meant we were not able to search for the lost gold.
On one of those trips to the city for supplies, I reached out and took her hand in mine. She held on tight and strong, her beautiful petite hands, that looked like they belonged on some socialite, were hard weathered and strong. Her eyes looked at me with an unusual glint, a look of concern, and buried somewhere deep inside a little bit of adoration. It was a reflection of my own heart, and I hoped I’d never hurt this girl.
We scouted around in our time off, going through the brush, along dry creek beds, up and down mountains, looking for signs of old lost mines. Most of the workers thought we were crazy to be out traipsing in the woods. Rattlesnakes were ever present, and we killed more than our share. Benson killed one that was just about ready to take a bite out of his hand when he reached for something shiny on the ground. The beast had ten beads for a rattle, and was as thick around as my arm. Bringing that trophy in to camp went a long way to raise our stature, particularly Benson's, amongst the men. However, the incident also woke us up to the fact these damn creatures were not to be trifled with.
After the run in with the snake, Benson and I decided to take a better look at the map and piece together the mystery of where the mine might be based on the clues found in the records. After careful plotting, surveying, and the ever so carefully disguised inquiry with fellow workers, we came to the conclusion the entrance to the mine was under our noses.
"You have dynamite duty tomorrow?" asked Benson, as he arranged his meager supply of personal effects on the makeshift nightstand, in our tent.
"Yep," I said, "I'll check out the mine shafts off the main one and see if I can find out which one it is."
"It's amazing," said Benson, shaking his head. "We been looking for this blasted mine entrance for the past two weeks and it was the old abandoned mine they've been using as an explosives locker. We've been going in and out of it the whole time we've been here."
"You mind if I use the Dodge again this weekend?" I asked.
Benson laughed, "Are you taking Maggie out again?"
"It's not a date," I said, putting on my toughest face. "Maggie wants to go to Sonora and do some shopping and I offered to take her."
Benson gave a big smile. "It's all yours, Conall, and have a great time."
"Well, it certainly beats that old truck she has to get around in," I said. "I'm surprised she doesn't have arms like me from how hard it is to steer."
My day of dynamite duty got shifted and I had to go down into the shaft and chip away at quartz instead. The work was hard, hot, and dangerous. Luckily, no one had been seriously hurt since the operation had been going on, as the scuttlebutt was if anything happened old man Freeman wouldn't be able to pay the hospital bill.
***
Saturday arrived like a punch drunk palooka stepping into the ring, happy to be there, but boxing out of his class. I put on my best clothes and drove out of the yard with Maggie sitting next to me in the Dodge. She was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my life, and I couldn't bring myself to call her a dame or a skirt. It had something to do with her straw colored hair whipping in the breeze as we shot down the highway. Her gentle face and blue, languid eyes hid a storm. She was a tough lady, but a heart any bigger I had never seen.
Maggie was the second toughest person I have ever met in my life. Father Tim at St. Vincent’s Asylum For Boys in Chicago was the first. He taught me and the other boys how to be men, how to fight, not just with our fists, but with our hearts and souls. That was how Maggie was tough. She had a heart and soul that couldn't be bought, broken, or tempered. As we rode toward Sonora, the glint of a silver pendant caught my eye.
“You’re going to blind me with that thing,” I said as I tried to shield my eye from the bouncing light that focused the bright sun on me. “Where did you get it from?”
“An old friend,” said Maggie, as she played with it between her fingers and looked at it.
I looked at her, my heart skipping a beat at the possibilities that lurked behind the medallion of perhaps an old lover.
“An old boyfriend?” I asked tentatively.
Maggie laughed out loud, as she looked at me with a bright smile. “An old soldier gave it to me after my mom died. My dad didn’t take her passing very well at all, and I being only ten was left to fend for my own. General Stewart we called him, although he was never a General, took me under his wing and cared for me when my father couldn’t. He gave me this silver medallion and told me it was his lucky charm that kept him alive during the war.”
“World War Two?” I asked.
“No. Don’t be silly,” she said as she put her hand casually on my arm, “World war one. No old boyfriends, just an old guy who taught me how to stand up for myself, and not take any guff from crusty old miners.”
***
The streets of Sonora were a river of people and slow moving traffic. Vacationers heading to the mountains passed through the choke point of Main Street on their way to camp or fish among the pine trees. It had taken me only a week to know the ways of avoiding the steady stream of cars, so I slid onto Bradford, turned on Green, and parked. Walking, we fell in with the slow moving flow of tourist on our way to the restaurant.
My grin was a beacon in the sun for all to see, with Maggie clutching my arm and walking closely beside me. The day could last forever for all I cared, and settling up in the nether reaches of California was becoming a much more enticing prospect.
Maggie's gentle squeeze suddenly turned into a grip shutting off the flow of blood to my arm. I felt as if she was trying to scratch the bone in my arm, and I had to pry her fingers out of the indentations she'd left. Her face had lost its radiant shine, replaced with a pasty gray, as she starred wide-eyed at the crowd walking toward u
s.
"What's the matter?" I asked, as I continued my attempt to remove her fingers from my arm.
She didn't answer just stared straight ahead, at the big lumberjack walking down the sidewalk. His arms swung low and his hands looked like frying pans. He was tall and big, thick strong legs held up a body chiseled from solid oak. His brown hair was slick with hair cream and sculptured like a wave rolling on the beach.
"Well if it isn't Miss Maggie Freeman," said his booming deep thunder of a voice.
"Hello, Buoy," said Maggie. Her manner had turned halting, her eyes darting between him and me.
"Looks like you’re scrapping the bottom of the barrel," said Buoy, throwing back his shoulder to gain a little height and farther look down at me. "I guess this one hasn't heard you belong to me."
The smoldering anger always lurking within the heart of Maggie let loose like a match coming to flame, a quick burst, then a quiet calm as it slowly burned. "I don't belong," she shouted. "Not to anyone! And least of all to you."
Buoy laughed in a great roar. "Tell your pa he's only got a week to find a challenger for the match. Mr. Parsons is eager to take possession of that mine, and after he gets the mine, I suspect you will be more eager to accept me as your future husband."
"Never!" said Maggie, her head thrust out and hands on hips. "I’ll never marry you for any reason."
Buoy pushed me aside and strode down the sidewalk with his small retinue in tow behind him. The man was of formidable size. Tall, well over six foot four and close to three hundred pounds. He looked like a young Paul Bunyan, minus the beard.
Maggie walked, actually she rushed forward, and I was pressed to keep pace with her, until we came to a crossing.
“Pa’s, going to lose the mine,” said Maggie in a tempered state, as if telling me, next week’s meal would be chipped beef.
“What do you mean he’s going to lose the mine?” I asked as I pulled us off the street and found a bench for us to sit on.
“The gold just isn’t there, we haven’t found a profitable vein since we opened up operation. And all the money we held in reserve has been eaten up with the promise of something better on the horizon, that and my Pa got suckered into gambling again.”
“How much longer we got?” I asked as I used my handkerchief to damp my forehead and neck.
“A few weeks,” she said as her shoulders had shrugged with the burden. “Maybe a month, if we stretch things.”
Karsten Freeman had a fatal flaw, while working the mines in Colorado, he became obsessed with boxing. Normally a man who abstained from drink or gambling, he put all his lack of vice into one – boxing. He loved the sport, it was his obsession. He realized he was in trouble and left Colorado before losing everything he had. However, shortly after arriving in Jamestown he’d learned a lumber mill town named Standard had a guy who had never been beat. Karsten spent weeks looking for a guy to put against him, and he found one, an ex-professional boxer from Sacramento. The guy got knocked out in the first round. But the damage had been done and the addiction had set its teeth into Karsten again.
"My father found another fighter from Los Angeles," said Maggie, continuing as we found a bench in the park to sit. "This guy is almost as big as Buoy, and has fought professionally."
"What’s his name?" I asked.
"Gill Smith," said Maggie. "He goes by the nickname of Buffalo."
"Can't say I ever heard of him," I said, picking through my memory for the nickname. "Where has your father been keeping him?"
"In a warehouse a little ways from here," said Maggie. "They put together a gym and brought in a trainer to work with him."
Maggie took me in hand and led me through small back alleys of Sonora, until we came to an empty looking building. Once inside, the familiar sounds of leather slapping a heavy bag filled me with a bout of homesickness.
This was where I belonged, in a musty, sweat soaked hole in the wall gym. Free weights lined the wall, mats were strewn about. Medicine balls and jump ropes waited for a fighter to call them into action. I fought the urge to pull off my jacket and take a couple of punches at the heavy bag hanging from a lonely hook, but this wasn't my place and the center of attention was a compact bulldog of a man beating the bag with every ounce of power he had.
"Maggie," said the man on the other side of the heavy bag, a well groomed individual, with sandy colored hair perfectly combed that just didn’t fit in a boxing gym, maybe a manager of a baseball club, but not here. He wore slacks and button up dress shirt, which accented his slender build. His eyes darted about the gym like he were following the path of a fly, but measuring and accounting for everybody and everything that came into his gym. "What brings you here?"
"I was in town with Conall, and we ran into Buoy," she replied. She turned to introduce me. "Mr. Crimb, this is Conall O'Quinn."
The guy held out his hand and I took it. He had a strong grip, like he had been splitting stone with those paws his entire life.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. O'Quinn," he said. "I'm Martin Crimb. Karsten hired me to get this guy in shape for his bout against Buoy."
Buffalo had stopped hitting the bag to listen in on the conversation. Martin introduced me to the fighter, and I tapped his glove in the manner boxers do prior to a fight.
"You box?" asked Buffalo.
"I've stepped in the ring a time or two."
"What do you say, Mr. Crimb? Can I spar a few rounds with O'Quinn? It’s been weeks since I mixed it up with a real fighter."
"Are you up to it, Conall?" asked Martin.
So, within a few minutes, I was standing in the ring in a borrowed pair of trunks, head gear, and a pair of well-worn gloves. I felt strong and hard from my time working in the mines, but I was apprehensive. Buffalo was a big guy, an inch shorter than my five eleven, but he weighed in at two hundred and ten pounds – twenty pounds of solid muscle over my one-ninety.
His close cropped black hair and black skin glistened in the light. The whites of his eyes were uncannily clear, emphasizing the deep concentration and focus he had on the task at hand.
I had stepped in the ring with professionals before and they all shared one thing in common, something that was above and beyond, a little stronger here, a little quicker with the hands, able to see moves and reactions to moves in the future like some boxing prophet. Each time I stepped in, I felt like a school kid who’d never put on gloves before.
Buffalo was quick. His jabs hit my protecting gloves and were back before I even knew what happened. His combinations were fast, jabs to the face, a left to my ribs, and a right to the head. I let the left hit my ribs and blocked the right while I sent out my own jab, and followed up with a flurry of jabs, and pushed him back.
The mass of muscle stepped back and hopped on his toes. "All right," he said through a mouthpiece. "Now you’ve got the moths out of your head, let’s mix it up."
He came back at me like a truck with bad brakes, hankering to take out whatever was in its way. I shuffled back, trading punches and moved around the ring like a nimble-footed tap-dancer. His punches were hard, even though he was holding back all the power he could've put in them. I'd heard him hit the bag, and knew what kind of dynamite he held in his mitts. I would have been on the canvas if he truly unloaded. But this was just sparring, getting timing and footwork down – feeling the rhythm of the ring.
I was starting to work up a good sweat when he stepped in close. He held his chin in and covered up. All I could do was hit him with body blows. A jab shot out like a snake strike and knocked my head back, most of the power was taking up by the head gear, but he still got a good piece of me.
"Come on them. Put some power in those punches, O'Quinn," shouted Martin. "Get him ready for that lumberjack."
Buffalo hissed through his mouthpiece. "Come on, make me work for it."
I came inside and got nailed by another shot to the chin. This guy was great inside, he was a brawler – built to take lots of punishment, wear down the opponents, and the
n knock them out. But he also had a boatload of technique I could stand to learn.
Martin called time and we went over to the ropes to get a drink of water. Maggie came up to help me, while Martin took care of Buffalo.
"What’s your plan with fighting that lumbering oak tree?" I slurred through my mouthpiece.
"Same as always," said Buffalo. "Get in close and let him wear himself down. When he starts getting tired from hauling that huge mass of his around the ring, I'll knock him out."
***
After the sparring session, Maggie and I left. I was starving, so we hit a restaurant on Main Street. Maggie looked just as beautiful as ever. She made my soul melt when she looked at me with her eyes if and smiled. Suddenly I felt like the only guy on the surface of the planet.
"You've come clean with me," I said suddenly nervous. "And now I need to do the same. Benson and I are here to find a lost treasure hidden somewhere in an old abandoned gold mine."
She sat back and her smile was replaced by pursed lips. I felt as if my heart was beating a tattoo on my toes, and life was being sucked from me.
When she burst out laughing, I didn't know what to think.
"Do you mean the gold of the three miners?"
"I don't know, I guess so," I said, trying to think clearly. "It's supposed to be buried in a mine shaft off the main one. We think we it may be in the mine shaft we're using as a dynamite locker."
Maggie just smiled at me and looked amused while she took a drink of water. "That rumor has been going on around here since the gold rush. It's one of the reasons my father came out here. And we thoroughly explored the old mine – in fact, we found the treasure."
For a moment my heart sank to think that wondrous treasure was found by another.
"What did you find?" I asked.
"The old miners," she started slowly, "didn't bury gold. They buried something they thought was more valuable. Shares in a gold mining company – a company that never existed other than on paper, with the sole purpose of stealing money from unsuspecting investors. The paper was worthless."
