Stringer on Pikes Peak

by Lou Cameron

  She giggled and groped for his flaccid privates as she told him, “I’m glad he got us into these unexpected surroundings, too. But I fear I’m as in the dark as you about anyone blowing holes in your dear raincoat. What the lads want from you is a fair hearing, or should I say a printing. Some of them who served in Cuba say you wrote the truth about the dreadful sanitary conditions and the writing of great deeds that never happened, even though you might have wound up ever so much richer than some famous newspapermen who covered the war from Sloppy Joe’s in Havana.”

  He put the rolled smoke to her lips as he mused, half to himself, “Well, maybe it was a splendid little war, as Dick Davis put it, for the boys who sipped all that Bacardi well behind the lines. But the War with Spain and even the last showdown up here in Cripple Creek are stale news, you naughty-fisted little thing.” Then he took back the butt and repeated, “What have I missed, if anything?” So she told him, “Our side of the argument. We’ve spent over ten thousand in hard-earned union dues, trying to get the story out before the public, but so far only the socialist papers nobody else ever reads have printed a word in our favor.”

  He smiled thinly and said, “Why should anyone? Marx said it all in his Manifesto of 1848 and missed a few important points about human nature way back then. My pal and rival, Jack London, came near to dying of starvation trying to improve on Marx before he found out folk would rather read about sled dogs. You’re right about the circulation figures of the left-wing rags, even printed in English. Those English Reds, H.G. Wells and G.B. Shaw, have done a lot better since they wised up and started writing for the general public. Shaw was living off his wife, Fabian Socialist or not, ’til he made a name for himself covering the Jack The Ripper Case for the London Times and as for old Wells

  “Never mind those turncoats!” She cut in, giving his poor dong an almost painful jerk as she continued, “We want you to publish the truth in a mainstream publication the general public reads. It’s not fair of the mine owners to paint us as black-bearded red anarchists when all we demand is decent working conditions at decent pay!”

  He reached his free hand down to help her inspire him to friendlier feelings, toward her, at least, as he just had to observe, “Unless I’ve missed something, not too many people who pay union dues instead of collecting ’em are apt to feel your hard rock lads are abused enough to justify Harry Orchard’s brand of labor negotiations, doll. You got the eight-hour shift at three bucks a shift the last time you busted things up. Most working stiffs in this land of opportunity are still putting in twelve hour days at around a buck a day. Your miners make twice the day wages of a skilled carpenter and thrice the monthly pay of a fair cowhand. Do you really expect a trolley car driver drawing twelve bucks a week to weep bitter tears over a poor exploited miner pulling down eighteen?”

  She let go his treasure to protest in a union hall tone, “It’s not the same! Grubbing for gold in the bowels of the earth is deadly dangerous and beyond human endurance as well!”

  He shrugged his bare shoulders, bobbing her disheveled head gently as he did so, saying, “If it was unendurable, nobody would do it. I grew up in gold mining country, kiddo. So I likely know as much or more as any girl, no offense, about the heat and stale air down yonder. Why did you think I was willing to work cows for less money to begin with? Most folk don’t know what it’s like in mine or, hell, down a well. Most don’t care to find out. That’s why the M.O.A. offers higher than usual day wages to lure common laborers up into these mountains. I don’t see many quitting, and the mine owners seems to be able to replace those who do, even offering less than the wages they agreed to, last strike.”

  She tried, “That was before the turn of the century, look you! The cost of living has risen, since.” But he just told her, “Not really. Things cost more when I was a kid. Mass production and the big business depression of those not-so-gay-nineties drove prices and wages down to where they’ve barely began to recover and, meanwhile, every steamer coming in across the pond brings more greenhorns willing to bust rock or, hell, chop cotton, for less than the second generation American can get by on. I shouldn’t have to tell a lady who talks so Taffy just how many hard rock miners are already out here, fresh from the old countries. I’ll file any story as it takes place, Glynnis, and I’ll call things as I see ’em. But as long as you’re running messages back and forth, you may as well tell your side that this time dynamiting could be a real mistake. You don’t have that much public sympathy, even from the mining folk, this time around. The owners and the state government they own are just dying for the chance to take off the gloves and bust your union with bare knuckles, butt stock and bayonet. If I were Big Bill Heywood I’d send old Harry Orchard and his toughs back under the wet rocks they crawled out from under!”

  She sighed and said, “If only we could, look you! That’s part of our side we’d like you to put in the papers for us, dear heart. Lads of the rank and file never voted for the likes of that dreadful Harry Orchard, or even Big Bill with his dreadful bragging about blood and slaughter. Dear Charley Moyer, more a working man than a Marixst, is the one true head of the W.F.M. You have to get that message out for us. It’s the radical wing of the movement, the ones more interested in destroying Capitalism than improving the lot of the common man, who make all the soap box speeches that cause so much trouble for our cause. Charley Moyer doesn’t want to shut down the gold fields. He just wants the M.O.A. to agree to an all-union work force up here in the Rockies. Can you deny that some mine owners, if not all, pay less than the going rate agreed to back in ’93?”

  He told her, gently, “I don’t have to agree to anything. I’ve never owned a coal mine. Your Charley Moyer’s not going to own his union, either, if he doesn’t get his own soap box, soon. For, no matter where Big Bill Hey wood really stands on your union ladder, he’s making all the noise and, as far as I can see, calling all the shots. I did spy Harry Orchard slithering into one of your union meetings the other night, whether Moyer knows he’s out this way or not. Whether the law can prove it or not, we all know Orchard’s killed more poor souls than Wild Bill and Billy The Kid combined, although, come to study on it, back-shooting women and children might not count on such scorecards.”

  She insisted, “That dreadful Orchard brute is not on the payroll of the W.F.M., look you!” as she took fond hold of him again, as if to reassure him of her good faith. He didn’t want to argue about the sins of an ugly union thug half as much as he wanted to kiss one of their female members some more, so he snubbed out the Bull Durham, took her in his arms again, and just said, “He’s on some damned body’s payroll and leave us not forget my poor old yellow slicker got shot full of holes the night he blew into town. But as long as you say he’s not with your bunch, I won’t hold any hard feelings against you.” Which made her laugh like hell for some reason, and then he had to laugh, too, as he followed her drift. For whilst he wasn’t exactly holding it against her, it felt hard enough inside her for both of them to forget about other unrest for quite a spell.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cocks crowed, wagons rolled, and the next morning Glynnis was up and out of there before the sun got high enough to matter. Stringer was already beginning to miss her by the time he’d showered, shaved and stuffed his gut downstairs. He missed her more when he got over to the Western Union office. The pretty blonde was on duty again and her eyes were sort of red-rimmed, too, which inspired him to wonder how much sleep she’d had herself, doing what with that other lucky cuss between times. But he was too polite to ask about her own personal problems and his just seemed to be beginning as she handed over two Western Union money orders, but not one dime of cash he could wager or waste some other way. She repeated what the night man had said about the infernal bank, but since it was just across the way and the money orders were made out in his name to begin with, Stringer offered to do his own fetching and carrying.

  That turned out to be more of a chore than he’d bargained for. First, he had to convin
ce the prune-faced, four-eyed branch manager he was exactly who he said he was, which was only easy whilst dealing with sensible human beings, and then the cruel-smiling old fart shot a Chessie-cat grin at the big clock on the wall above the bank of teller’s cages to say, “We can’t get into the vault for that kind of cash before that clock over there reads nine A.M.”

  That only sounded reasonable until Stringer recalled what the old fashioned Regulator clock at Western Union had read, hauled out his own pocket watch to confirm it, and said, “Hold on. According to my Ingersol here and Western Union yonder, it’s already going on quarter to ten and my pony and me have us a train to catch this morning!”

  The banker nodded agreeably enough but explained, “That’s an electric clock. The power was off a while in the wee small hours, I fear. For as you can see, the dial only reads eight thirty-five.”

  Stringer nodded and said, “I just as much as said your fool clock is running slow, fancy as it may look. What’s wrong with the clocks we’ve always had? The Seth Thomas my Granddaddy brought west back in ’49 still ticks off the right time, day and night, on the mantle of my Uncle Don back to Calaveras County.”

  The banker pursed his lips and said something about having to keep up to date, even though he looked too old to have known Queen Victoria in the Biblical sense. Stringer grimaced and said, “I must be missing something, here. What has a slow electricated clock to do with this damn bank sitting on my money this damned late in the damned old day?”

  The banker said, “Nothing, directly. But the time lock on our vault downstairs is regulated by an electric clock as well. Naturally, it’s running just as slow this morning, due to the same power failure late last night. You’ll just have to be patient with us for a few more minutes, Mister MacKail.’

  Stringer grunted, “I can see I have to, but I sure wish modern science would either slow down or get as wonderful as the tabloids keep saying it is.” Then he brightened and asked, “Say, wouldn’t a vault kept locked by electric power just sort of spring open, all by itself, if someone was to shut said power off?”

  The banker shot him a superior smile and answered, “Give us credit for some common sense, sir. What possible use could even a tobacco shop have for a lock any kid could open just by cutting a wire or, pulling a plug? Our time lock’s electrical timer is connected to a circle of bolts that are moved quite simply by electromagnets. The idea is to make it simply impossible to open the vault, even with the proper combination, during the hours our armed guards are not on duty. When the timer has been set to let us or anyone else into the vault, the magnets switch on to draw the bolts. They’re not on when the vault’s supposed to be locked, so naturally …”

  “I follow your drift,” sighed Stringer, unable to resist adding, “It still sounds more complicated than it needs to be. I’d already have my damned money if you boys weren’t so all-fired modern, no offense.”

  The banker glanced up at the slow clock again, saying, “None taken. The Wild Bunch may or may not be hitting banks and stopping trains all over the Rockies this summer, but suffice it to say they won’t get into our vault, even if they shoot us all down like dogs. Did you hear how dumb Butch Cassidy looked that time he tried to blow the up-to-date strongbox on the U.P. Flier a year or so back?”

  Stringer grinned despite himself and said, “Yep, and when you’re right you’re right. You have to admit he finally got it open, with all that extra dynamite, but I’ll allow shredded money floated down out of the sky for hours afterwards. So I’d best just go have me a beer whilst my own money and modern science catches up with us.”

  He actually had two at the saloon across the way, keeping one eye on yet another old-fashioned clock, this one even possessing a swell cuckoo, that told the damned time close enough without any infernal electric bills to worry about.

  Then, still having a few minutes to spare and not wanting to waste any more of his life talking to that musty old banker, he strolled over to the livery, had them saddle and bridle his bay cow pony, and rode it back to the bank around ten thirty, real time, or quarter past nine the way electrical clocks seemed to run in these parts. He tethered the pony out front, went in, and this time they gave him his money, grudgingly, after making him sign what amounted to an application for a damned job with their damned bank.

  Stringer knew better than to carry that much dinero where anyone else could get at it without risking mutual destruction. So he had his side bet in the lining of his right boot as he mounted up out front and rode for the railroad yards, where Murdstone was supposed to meet up with him this side of eleven, so he might have shown up a mite late in any case. Then a female scream made him turn in the saddle just in time to see a pony cart full of little kids tear past him lickety split, drawn by what he took for a large mad dog until, on second glance, he saw it looked more like a shaggy chestnut pony, frothing even worse at the mouth as it ignored the attempts of the young gal at the reins to control it. Stringer spurred his own mount in pursuit, shaking out a loop of grass rope without thinking as he considered the railroad yards and tailing tips the way the fool brute was running with the bit in its teeth and Lord only knew what in its jug head.

  If it didn’t stop or somebody didn’t stop it this side of the mounds of wildly eroded mine waste, or tailings, on the far side of the yards, that overloaded cart was never going to make it through on its own two wheels. But what the hell, the tracks would likely turn the fool cart over after shaking the poor little rascals dishrag-limp, first. So Stringer commenced swinging a community loop above his Stetson as he lit out after the runaway, knowing that he’d have no more than one throw before the problem became grimly academic. A little girl in the back saw him coming after them and called out, “Oh, help us, mister!” which inspired the grown redhead at the reins to shoot him a terrified glance over one calico-clad shoulder. He called out, “Don’t look at me! Watch where you’re going and, while you’re at it, duck!”

  She did, and he threw; it seemed to take a million years, and he was sure he’d blown it as his big loop floated out ahead of him like a lazy giant smoke ring over the bouncing cart, and then his loop settled prize money perfect around the front end of that shaggy brown son of a bitch and Stringer reined in hard, hoping to bust the brute good as his own pony, bless its mispent youth, dug all four hooves into the dusty gravel, braced for the shock.

  It was a good one, rougher on the runaway than Stringer and his semiretired cow pony, for while the grass rope twanged taut with a report that would have busted any reata ever braided by Anglo or Mex, Stringer’s bay kept its balance while the runaway had the pony cart slammed into its shaggy rump harder than hell. So, like most brats, it responded to a good slap on the ass by bawling, in horse, and just standing there docile as a stuffed toy while Stringer swung out of the saddle and hand over hand up the rope to administer a good punch on the muzzle and a savage yank on the runaway’s bridle while the brute went on bawling and the gal up in the cart called out, “Don’t punish him, sir! He didn’t know what he was doing!”

  Stringer unbuckled the bridle’s cheek strap on his side to run the bit up past the brute’s rear molars, where it damned well belonged, as he called back, “I’m not punishing anybody, ma’am, albeit the fool who last fastened this bridle sure deserves a good boot in the never-mind.”

  She blushed pretty as a rose as she asked what was wrong with the way their pony had been bridled. He suspected he knew who’d done the dumb deed, but he contented himself with, “You can get away with a loose bit in the mouth of a halfway sane critter, ma’am. But let a mean one with neither mercy nor brains take the bit in its teeth and, well, you just found out what can happen. So let’s say no more about it for now.”

  She still told him she and the children were ever so grateful as he tightened the far strap, socked the brute in the muzzle another time to remind it this was a man’s world, damn it, and removed his thrown rope, saying, “Let’s not get all mushy about it. You ought not to have any more trouble
with this homicidal maniac. So forgive me if I get my own fool self on down the road, ma’am. I’d be more than proud to see you all safe to your destination, under ordinary circumstances, but right now I’m destined to catch me a train.”

  Then he headed back to his own patient mount, coiling the rope up again as he strode. Behind him the gal with all the kids said something about trains. He just kept going and, when he got there, he was glad he had. For he found T.S. Murdstone doing a sort of war dance on the freight platform and when Stringer dismounted and joined him there, more calmly, Murdstone said, “You just made it. The Panard’s already in yon boxcar and how come you brung along that damned horse?”

  Stringer said, “I had to. You weren’t figuring on giving me that motor car to get back in if I win that race with it, were you?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  If Stringer had passed the place before, he hadn’t missed much by paying more attention to the gold camp road he was following for the first time. The junction where one changed to the cog railroad up to the summit of Pikes Peak was little more than a cluster of small frame business opportunities clustered around the dinky railroad depot.

  Stringer concentrated on the comfort of his livery bay and the safety of his few belongings in its saddle bags while the others saw to getting their own gear, including the two motor cars, off the CS&CCRR. The sweet-talking but mean-looking old lady who sold post cards, Coca Cola and stuffed horned toads across from the loading platform of the cog train told him he could leave the bay in her barn out back for two bits a day. By the time he’d attended that chore and rejoined the others nearer the tracks, the combination bound for Colorado Springs was chugging off for the big city, and T.S. Murdstone was kicking the red tires of his Panard and cussing fit to bust while most of the others, the others being around two dozen members of the local sporting fraternity, were either offering T.S. condolances or laughing outright. Stringer didn’t laugh as he joined them, even though a horseless carriage with four flat tires did look sort of comical, unless you had money riding on the dumb-looking machine. Stringer did. Everyone with money to wager had handed it to the respected, armed and dangerous Bert Carlton for safe keeping and redistribution, pending the outcome of the race. Carlton wasn’t betting, himself. He’d said the Panard and Buick fixing to race each other up the skinny dirt road to Summit Lodge looked evenly matched to him, and that he didn’t see much future in the horseless carriage to begin with. That had been before the Panard’s tires had all gone mysteriously flat while both machines had been carried this far in unguarded box cars. Through a gap in the crowd, Stringer spied Dutch Ritter, part of his big blue Buick, and all of the little squirt he’d hired to beat Murdstone’s Panard up the mountain, whether it could climb mountains on flat tires or not. Neither Ritter nor the rat-faced little shit who’d likely let all the air out of those tires seemed to notice Stringer staring at them so severely. Ritter was waving a pocket watch about and mouthing off about icy conditions near the top of the mountain after dark. But the firmer-jawed and apparently fairer-minded head of the M.O.A. announced for all to hear, “There will be no race until and unless we can hold one fair and square.”