by David Haynes
Draper changed the subject quickly. He needed Vinson. The man was a first-class mechanic but he didn’t enjoy talking to him for long.
“You sure you’re okay on your own for a day?”
“You can stay for two, boss. It’s not a problem. You’re pushing yourself harder than anyone else here. Take some time. We can’t do anything till the fuel arrives and the plant’s in good shape. I can handle it.”
Draper nodded and pulled the holster out from under his shirt. He pushed it at Vinson. “Here, take this. I’ll feel better if you had some protection.”
Vinson looked at it, then patted the hunting knife on his hip. “Thanks but I wouldn’t know how to hold one of those things, let alone fire it. I’ll be okay with this.”
Draper left the gun hanging. A knife was no protection against a wolf or a bear charging at full speed.
“I’ll leave it in my locker anyway. You have a cell?”
Vinson nodded. It was the fourth cell he’d owned in the last year. It seemed his number kept getting back to the wrong people.
“Well, if you drive about an hour down the track, the signal starts to come back. I’ll give you my number.”
“Johnson had satellite phones. Much better idea. Maybe you should get some.”
Was that another dig? Draper clenched his teeth together. He had to stop thinking everything Vinson said was criticism. He was right though, they should have satellite phones but they didn’t. Cell phones would have to do.
“Next time,” he said, patting Vinson on the shoulder. “If I’m still in business.” He walked out of the kitchen.
“You will be. Guys like you always are.”
Draper let the door close behind him and took a deep, long breath. Mercer’s truck was still hitched under his camper but Meg, Puckett and Flynn had gone. Their campers were propped up on stilts. He felt frustrated. And not just because he forgot to order the fuel in time, or because they hadn’t found the gold he knew was here. No, he felt weary of worrying about how the others would think of him. He was sensitive to any comment that could in any way cast doubt on his morals. Someone had called him thief before, someone had said he was dishonest, and he’d killed them. It wasn’t something he wished ever to repeat.
He needed to get away from Vinson.
“You coming?” Mercer was climbing into his truck.
He dropped off the step and walked toward his own truck. “Give me a minute to grab some stuff and I’ll come with you.”
“Get a move on then, I’m thirsty.” Classic rock filtered out from Mercer’s truck.
Draper filled his duffel with the remaining clean clothes he had and jogged back to Mercer. He climbed inside the truck. Mercer gave a whoop as they sped away.
18
Vinson watched Mercer’s truck disappear. He stood on the porch and listened to the sound of the engine retreat into the distance. Then there was nothing but the sound of the birds, the creek and the steady fall of rain on the dirt. He was alone. More alone than he had ever been in his entire life. For a moment, he felt vulnerable. As if something or someone was going to come charging out of the forest and rip him apart.
It wouldn’t be any of the boys from Carlisle, that was for sure. The dirt might rub some polish off their shiny shoes and that wouldn’t go down well. No, he was safe here, safer and more alone than he could ever remember. It made butterflies in his stomach.
He waited another ten minutes before he walked off the porch and into the rain. He wanted to be sure nobody was coming back. He didn’t want to be disturbed.
He marched toward the row of campers, keeping his eyes trained on one in particular. Draper had forgotten about the nugget again, but Vinson hadn’t. In the week after he’d found it in his trap, it was all he thought about. His hands still remembered the weight of it, the feel of it on his skin and most importantly – its value. He needed to hold it again.
Draper’s camper was first in line. He’d never been inside it, or any of the others. Although they all seemed to go in and out of one another’s like they were their own. None of them stepped inside his. A time or two Puckett, the moron, had stood on the threshold but seemed to get cold feet when he saw inside. No matter, he didn’t want any of them in his space anyway.
He put his hand on the door handle and stopped. If anyone came back now he was still safe, he could just walk toward his own camper, like nothing had happened. In another ten seconds he would be inside. That couldn’t be explained away.
Satisfied by the lack of man-made noise, he lowered the handle and let the door swing open. It took a moment for his eyes to focus but it looked palatial. Compared to his camper, at least. There was no clutter on the floor. No dirty discarded clothes, no grease or grime, just a clean space. There was even a clean upturned coffee cup on the draining board.
He climbed up and stepped inside. It even smelled okay – deodorant and coffee. To his left there was a door which housed the shower and toilet. Vinson looked inside. It was gleaming, as if it were brand new and never been used. Just a little further in was a small table and opposite that was the kitchen. At the back of the camper, raised above the truck’s cab was the bed. Even the bed was made, blankets pulled tightly across. He supposed Draper hadn’t spent much time in here lately. He was working most of the day and night. He wouldn’t even let his pal, Mercer, take some of the weight. More fool him.
Vinson glanced at the maps and charts on the table as he passed. They were well worn and the edges were covered in a greasy brown grime. It was mixture of oil, dirt and sweat. The maps indicated the drill holes and the ounces per yard they might expect to find. They looked simple enough. When he got his own claim he might have to take a closer look, but for now he was happy to leave it to someone else.
There was a book too. A small brown notebook. Vinson opened it up and flicked through the pages. It was filled with all sorts of things. There were contact numbers, dates, gold yields and comments about dirt, geology, vehicles, tools and techniques. It was his bible. His gold miner’s bible. Vinson toyed with the idea of slipping it in his pocket but he had a feeling Draper would know it was missing immediately. He probably had some sort of supernatural link to the damn thing. He dropped it back onto the table.
“Pushed them under the bed.” That’s what Draper said when he finally remembered what Vinson was talking about. He’d pushed his jeans, and with them the nugget, under the bed.
The timing had been perfect. He could have raised the nugget earlier. He could have raised it during the last couple of weeks but there never seemed to be a captive audience. On this occasion, everyone’s attention had been on Draper and then on him.
The look on his face was priceless. The confusion had been profound, especially for a man who normally looked in control, who was in control. Just those few seconds of bewildered staring had been beautiful. He’d had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.
And then the realization. The relief at that moment of recall must have felt wonderful, but then to be almost accused of being a thief had taken the wind from his sails. There was anger then, a bitter anger that came from the implied and not the explicit. Draper didn’t know how to tackle that. He didn’t really know how to react. He’d shot someone for calling him dishonest. He knew how to react to something as straightforward as that. But a little stab here and there, a few carefully chosen words, could prick his sensitivity just enough to draw blood.
Vinson felt his smile widen at the thought of it. It didn’t matter whose side the others were on. For the time being, anyway. Soon they would be turning on each other, he was sure of that. He would make sure of it. He’d seen it in his dreams – the dreams that left the reek of year-old congealed pork fat sitting in his nostrils for an hour or two. It wasn’t such a bad smell once you got used to it.
He dropped to his knees and pulled the catch for the under-bed storage locker. It clicked and opened smoothly. It was dark inside but he could make out a bundle of clothes stuffed toward the back. The
smell that came out to him was of oil. He reached in and dragged them forward, out of the space. There was a pair of jeans and a shirt. He pushed the shirt back inside and pushed his hand inside the pocket. It was cold, damp and sticky with spilled oil but he didn’t care. He had only one thing on his mind – gold.
When his fingers found it, a thrill shuddered through his body. He emitted a whispered groan. It was almost sexual in its intensity.
He pulled it free and felt disappointment. Not at the size, weight or feel of the nugget but at its condition. When he’d last seen it, the moment Draper had stuffed it carelessly into his pocket, it had been clean, washed by the frigid creek water. Under the constant, headache-inducing hum of the floodlights the nugget had shone, light bouncing off its edges like dagger-points. And now it looked filthy; covered in the grime of disrespect shown by a man who thought he was a god.
Vinson felt angry. Why should a man like Draper get to keep this for himself? He didn’t deserve it. None of them did.
He closed the locker door and climbed out of Draper’s camper. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the nugget yet but for now he was content just to have it with him. He had time to decide how he was going to play it later.
The morning seemed brighter somehow. Now everyone was gone, it seemed like the sky had lightened and the ever-present blanket of gray cloud had lifted. It hadn’t of course, it was just his mood, but it was strange to think how his spirits were lifted by such a small piece of metal.
He walked back to his camper smiling, and stepped inside. Night shifts weren’t so bad once you got used to them but he didn’t sleep well during the day, often woken by one of the crew slamming their van doors or yelling at each other by the saloon. He never mentioned it, not to their faces anyway. In his mind he cursed them, each and every one of the noisy bastards.
He reached into his own locker and pulled out the jar. It was filling up nicely. It wouldn’t be long until he needed another, not long at all. Climbing up into his grubby bed, he rolled the jar along the covers. The noise it made was like music. He kept the nugget gripped in his fist as he lay back.
A man everyone called ‘Bluenose’ had once threatened to use a masonry drill to cut holes in Vinson’s temples for owing less money than the nugget was worth. The debt was still outstanding because a bigger fish had trepanned Bluenose’s skull using a screwdriver and a hammer. Vinson didn’t want to think about what someone like that would do to him.
Did he have to, though? Not anymore. He didn’t have to return to Carlisle. He didn’t need to go back to Pennsylvania at all. With what was in the jar, with what was still to come, he was going to stay here and mine gold. Not for anyone else, just for himself. It was a happy thought to fall asleep to.
*
It was late afternoon, perhaps even into the evening when Vinson opened his eyes. He knew that by the light coming in through the small dirty window by his head. He checked his watch and saw it was approaching five o’clock. He did a quick calculation. He’d been asleep for nearly seven hours. It was three more than he’d had for the last few weeks. So why did he feel so crappy?
He smiled. There had been some good dreams. They were neatly stacked along the hours he’d been unconscious. You couldn’t call it sleep, no way could you describe it as sleep.
A thrill went through his body and he realized his cock was stiff. When was the last time he’d woken up like that? A very long time ago. But it wasn’t a sexual thing, at least not entirely. His arousal was there because of the power, because of the energy still flowing through his body, just like the smell of the rotting pork fat was drifting across his nostril hairs. It was ticklish.
He lifted his hand to rub his face and felt the nugget still clamped in his palm. He laughed to himself and looked at it again. Beautiful.
Almost as beautiful as the image of Ray Mercer with his head inside the hydraulic vice he’d had in the workshop back in Carlisle. Slowly tightening... slowly, slowly, slowly. The pressure plates covered in blood as red and vibrant as the color of the eyes that watched him patiently from the shadows. He felt an affinity with the owner of those eyes. He didn’t know why but he did. It was warm.
A door slamming. A camper door being thrown shut.
He squeezed his fist into a tight ball, his eyes suddenly wider than he thought possible. On the verge of pain.
Had they returned? Had Draper come back? He hadn’t heard the sound of an engine or tires grinding across the dirt. But he’d been in a deep sleep. He froze and listened to the sound of boots pounding across the dirt. Long and heavy steps. A big man.
Another door opened and then slammed shut. He should’ve grabbed the gun from Draper’s camper. He sat up slowly but stayed on the raised bed. The knife was still strapped to his waist. He could feel it digging into his hip.
The steps came closer. Whoever it was had reached Flynn’s camper now. They were working their way up. It wouldn’t be Draper doing that. Why would he or any of the others check them? It had to be someone from outside. Someone come to steal the gold?
Flynn’s door banged shut and then the footsteps were outside his own berth. Vinson started to slide down slowly but before his feet touched the floor, the door flew open.
A huge hulking shape stood in the doorway. “I was beginning to think it was a ghost town. Where the hell is Draper?”
Vinson finished his slide but didn’t move forward. He was aware he was still holding the nugget in his right hand. He would have to drop it in order to reach for his knife.
“Who are you?” he asked. He could feel and hear the blood pumping in his body. It was rushing to the places that might need it the most in a few seconds.
The man took the two steps into the camper and looked around. “Nice place.” If it wasn’t for the small, fat-cheeked flesh just visible beneath wild hair and equally wild beard, Vinson might have assumed this was a talking bear.
He was angry though. Uninvited guests always made him nervous. “I said, who are you?”
The man looked him up and down. Vinson could see a pistol’s nose poking out from beneath the man’s shirt. Beneath his vast gut.
“I’m Dave Burgess and this whole place belongs to me. Who the fuck are you? And where’s Draper?”
Vinson stood where he was for a second. This could be interesting. It could be useful. He slipped the nugget into his left hand and stepped forward with his hand out.
“Mike Vinson. I’m the mechanic and I guess... temporary manager.”
Burgess looked at his hand cautiously and then took it. “Well, where’s the other manager? The guy who’s supposed to be digging up gold for me?”
“He took off with the others for a couple of days. Down to Chicken, I think.” He watched Burgess’s face for a reaction. He was pleased with what he saw.
“What? He took off now? There’s only a few weeks left and he’s sunning it up down there? No wonder he’s not answering his cell.”
Vinson shrugged. “Can I get you some coffee? Or...” He opened an overhead cupboard and pulled out a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. The nugget clinked off the bottle and rang out. He looked to Burgess for a reaction. There was none. “You look like you need a drink.”
Burgess’s head almost touched the ceiling and as he nodded his hair disturbed a cobweb, sending it into a whirl. He didn’t notice, sat down at the small table.
“Make it a big one,” he barked. He smelled of stale body odor and stale smoke. Stale cigar smoke.
Under normal circumstances, and despite how huge Burgess was, Vinson might have told him to get out. He didn’t like the man’s attitude but he wanted to talk to him. Sow some seeds, maybe. Make a contact. He poured a generous measure into a mug and a much smaller one for himself. He’d never truly grown to appreciate the taste but the bottle had come free with the camper. He had no idea how old it was, or if it was still palatable.
Either way, it didn’t seem to matter. Burgess took the drink down in one gulp and held the cup out for a
nother. Vinson topped it up, putting the bottle on the table between them.
“Help yourself,” he said, sipping his own measure.
“So you say he took off? How long ago?” Burgess reached over and topped up his cup again.
“This morning. About ten, I think it was.”
“Why?” Burgess winced as he swallowed his drink.
“Needed a rest, I suppose.”
“A rest!” Burgess exploded. His face turned crimson. “They can have a rest in a month’s time when the snow’s waist deep. Nobody has a goddamn rest in the middle of the season!”
Vinson shrugged again. “I think he made a mistake with the fuel order. We can’t run now anyway.”
Burgess went a shade redder. If he got any angrier, he was going to turn purple and have a coronary.
“I should’ve listened to everyone when they said not to touch him. Should’ve listened.”
Vinson sipped his drink. He had to choose his words carefully. “I guess he’s not that interested anymore. Either that or he’s lost it.” He paused and put his cup down. “We’ve not exactly been pulling it out by the handful either. It’s been... slow.” Vinson was starting to enjoy himself now.
“How slow?” Burgess came back.
“I don’t know. Twenty, thirty ounces on a good week.”
Burgess tipped the rest of the bottle into his cup, swallowing it in one gulp again. “I could get more with a shovel.” He pointed in the direction of the wash-plant. “That thing is state of the art. And that ground is at least eighty ounces a week. At least.”
“It’s the best wash-plant I’ve ever seen,” Vinson said. Apart from Johnson’s decrepit monster, it was the only one he’d ever seen. “I’ve made a few adjustments and it purrs. It’s running at one hundred and twenty-five percent efficiency.” It was true and he was proud of it.
Burgess just shook his head, unimpressed. “Scott Draper will be looking elsewhere for a lease next year.” He heaved himself up. “And I’ll tell him that myself.”
