Swamp Creek sure was quiet. The mercantile was still open, and the grocer, but they was plainly waiting to see whether the mines would get sold and reopened quick. There was maybe fifty people left, and not even the Miners Exchange was doing much trade. But there was a lot of good ore in them big mines, and the whole place could come back with a roar.
I never saw Carter Scruples. He was sulking up in his Pullman Palace Car on the hill. He’d sent all his thugs to Suicide Gulch to see what kind of trouble they could start, but he kept that big galoot Arnold around Swamp Creek, and once I got a glimpse of The Apocalypse sniffing around town, lookin’ for someone to kill.
Cletus Carboy kept me on at his place, saying he needed me for the safety of himself and Celia Argo, which he did because two of his mine guards quit and went off to Suicide Gulch looking for better pay or maybe more excitement. So I was the main feller to fend off Scruples’ assassins and thugs around there, and I done the best job I could. I got a good chance to visit with Celia, and I think she was enjoyin’ it. I sure was enjoyin’ seeing her all the time around there. But Carboy was right. It wasn’t a good time for her to go back to her rooms in town.
He still had some groundsmen around for that big place, but they wasn’t very handy with a short gun, and even less with a long one, so I was it. I toured Swamp Creek real often, picked up what I could be way of gossip, most of it from Muggsy Pitt. But the stark truth was that nothing was happening.
Until one afternoon, Carboy had a guest. A big homely feller in a dark suit that was cut awkward, like it didn’t belong on him. He had some sort of briefcase with him, and a couple of leather bags. He’d rented a carriage and a pair of trotters in Butte and had driven himself down to visit Carboy. This feller looked me over like a preacher would, seeking out ever’ sin I ever done, which was more than I could remember at once, and then Carboy made the introduction.
“Cotton, this is my friend B.Z. Burt,” he said. B.Z. Burt! The biggest mining man in the West! And visiting Carboy before he even went off to see about Scruples’ offerings.
“Pleased to meet ya, Mr. Burt.”
We shook hands.
“It’s the Reverend Mr. Burt,” said Carboy.
“A preacher?”
Burt shrugged. “Theology is the true road to making a fortune.”
“Well, you some hellfire and damnation man?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Cotton. I belong to the Church of Self-Aggrandizement.”
Big words again. Damned if I knew what he was talkin’ about.
“Never heard of that one,” I said.
“The Church of Make a Buck Fast,” Burt said.
“Well, there’s one I could belong to,” I allowed. “You come to town to look at some mines?”
“Specifically, to see about buying the Swamp Creek Mining District from Mr. Scruples.”
“And Carboy here, he don’t mind?”
“Why should he mind?”
“Because Scruples euchred him outa his mine and mill.”
“I invited him to come over from Nevada,” Carboy said.
“This is getting way over my head,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go back to ranch work.”
Burt glanced at Carboy. “Shall I divulge?”
“He’s more or less reliable,” Carboy said, nodding at me.
“Are you more or less honest?” Burt asked me.
“I got a saloon trick, and I’ve cheated a few pals into buying me drinks,” I said.
“You’ll do,” Burt said. “I don’t trust hundred-percenters.”
He opened up that briefcase and extracted some documents and handed them to me. I sure couldn’t make them out, even though I got half through sixth grade.
He saw me running a finger along each word and trying to mouth it, and decided to help me.
“These are letters of credit on San Francisco and Carson City banking houses,” he said. “They total a million dollars and lack only my signature. If I sign them, they will pay for the Swamp Creek Mining District.”
“Ah,” I said.
“But of course I shall want something in return, the valid claims and mining patents and deeds to the properties I am acquiring,” he said. “In short, Carter Scruples will supply me with the necessary papers of ownership.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Even though his claims and deeds are either forgeries or actual claims obtained by nefarious means.”
“Them is crooked claims all right,” I said.
“And so are these letters of credit.”
“Ah,” I said. “Arrgh. Garumph.”
Celia, she was sort of smirky sitting there. Me, I just stared at B.Z. Burt like he come from under a rock.
He took his letters of credit and stuffed them back into that leather briefcase.
“Time’s a-wasting,” he said. “There is one small favor to ask of you, Mr. Cotton. Just in case, I’d be grateful if you’d shadow me and if need be, protect me if something should not be quite right. I’m heading for the Miners Exchange in a bit.”
“I’ll do her,” I said.
“But be invisible.”
“There’s only a few hoot owls protecting Scruples,” I said. “A heavyweight nutcracker named Arnold and a rotten little killer named The Apocalypse, and his headman, Lugar.”
“Quaint,” said Burt.
He shook hands all around and then returned to his carriage. We stood on the veranda and watched the reverend drive off, the trotters picking up a smart pace as he headed into Swamp Creek.
“This should do it,” Carboy said. “I’ll burn Scruples’ forgeries, recover the valid claims and deeds, and try to return them to their owners.” He eyed Celia. “Such as you.”
“He still got them hooligans,” I said. “And he can get the rest back from Suicide Gulch.”
“We’re thinking he’ll just leave town when he gets those letters of credit.”
I was feelin’ itchy. “We’ll see,” I said.
Carter Scruples was usually a jump or two ahead of everyone else. Take that B. Z. Burt. Was that the real B. Z. Burt, or just some fake? I didn’t know, but Carboy seemed to think it would all work out real good.
“Is that the real Beal Z. Burt? Seems to me he’d come in with half a dozen mining experts, not alone like that.”
“Burt is known as a loner,” Carboy said. “And Scruples knows it.”
I waited a while more, and then went to the pen and curried Critter, who kicked me in the knee by way of thankin’ me for feeding him every night. I got him saddled up, even if his ears was laid back flat, and then rode him toward Swamp Creek. My thinkin’ was to look like I was just going to down a couple of beers at Muggsy’s saloon, while I kept a watch on things.
I seen Burt’s carriage and trotters at the Mountain House, so I knew the tycoon was getting himself settled before going on out to see Scruples. There was hardly anyone in Muggsy’s place, it being before the serious drinkin’ got going, and also there wasn’t so many people in town any more. But he served me up a glass of foam and I was feeling a little angry at that, but he just shrugged.
“It’s the last in that barrel,” he said. “Hard to get any beer outa Butte. All the beer wagons are going to Suicide Gulch.”
“I’ll want about three of these for my dime,” I said.
It sure was lonely in there, with just one lamp lit to save kerosene, and Muggsy polishing glass and staring into space. I downed the suds and he refilled with more foam, and it looked like I was gonna have bubbles for booze that evening. But I was stationed in Swamp Creek, like Burt wanted, and ready for anything.
The first thing that happened was Carter Scruples walking right in there, staring at me a moment, and then settling at a table at the rear. He lit the lamp back there and seemed to be waiting for someone. Then Arnold, he come in, looks me over, and stations himself about three feet down the bar rail from me. He didn’t look ornery, which was good, because he could pound the crap out of me. I guess he was just lookin’ after his boss, parked now at that green-topped poker table back there. I glanced at Scruples, and saw he was pulling papers out of his briefcase, one after another, and soon had them in a neat pile. There was sure a mess of papers, with more words on them than I could ever read in two lifetimes.
I nodded at Muggsy, who filled my glass with foam again.
“This is it, you got your dime’s worth,” he said.
Arnold, he eyed my foam and ordered some red-eye. Then he lifted it, saluted me with a sort of evil smile on his battered mug, and downed her neat. It made me wonder where The Apocalypse was, but I thought I knew: outside, keepin’ watch. And Lugar was back at the railroad car, guardin’ the place.
Scruples didn’t order nothing, but just sat there waiting for life to improve. He wasn’t used to waiting, and once he got up and paced around the saloon, lookin’ it over since he never been in there. He’d hardly gotten out of his railroad car up on the hill the whole time he’d spent in Swamp Creek.
I shoulda known what would come next, but it surprised me even so. In walked B.Z. Burt, also carrying a briefcase. He didn’t pay no attention to me, except to glance my way and study Arnold for a moment, and then headed back there to shake a paw with Scruples, who suddenly was all smiles.
I strained to listen, but they wasn’t exactly shouting. I could get the gist of it. Burt was telling Scruples that he’d looked over the district on his own, gotten out to every mine in the area, taken samples, killed a few rattlers, and looked over the tailings piles, which were always a sign of how the mine was doin’.
Scruples, on his part, was tellin’ Burt how the two big mines produced three quarters of the gold in the district, and the independents had brought their ore into town for custom milling. He said he’d gradually bought out all them independents—he shoulda said shot out all them independents—and now had title to claims and federal patents, them that had come through.
They talked some, and asked for some red-eye, and Muggsy poured a couple and took the glasses back, and left the bottle on the table back there. Muggsy knew what he was doing, all right.
“Where are your most recent assay reports?” Burt asked.
“Assay?” The question had plainly caught Scruples off guard.
“You don’t expect to sell me mines without multiple assays on each property, do you?” Burt asked.
Scruples coughed and hemmed and hawed around. He didn’t know an assay report from a pickax. He was in to make a killing, not to do any mining.
“I couldn’t think of purchasing the properties without comprehensive assays,” Burt said. “I need to know what I’m buying. We’ll just have to wait for these. How soon can they be done? I imagine the samples will need to go to Butte.”
“Ah, Mr. Burt, we’ve neglected to provide them. However, in the larger mines, the assays will be on file. I can send a man to the Fat Tuesday and the Big Mother, and you’ll have reports that will be no more than a few weeks old,” Scruples said.
It sure looked to me like old Burt had Scruples on the ropes.
Burt thought about it. “Sure, send a man. I’m not going to sit around here for a fortnight waiting for reports from all the mines, I assure you. I’ve other fish to fry. I’m surprised you haven’t included assays in your papers here.”
“Just an oversight, sir. If you don’t mind, I’ll find one of my staff and send him over to the mines. We should be ready to talk turkey in just a little while.”
Burt shrugged. “Hard to make a deal on old assays for only two mines. What about the smaller ones?”
“Those were acquired for future exploration,” Scruples said.
“Future?”
“Those were mostly one-or two-man operations, sir, glory holes. Some were mining gold from ledges and pockets. The two big mines and the mill are the important properties, and the ones I’ve decided to sell now that Swamp Creek has been half abandoned by the rush to Suicide Gulch. There’s a future here, of course, good mines and a good mill, but I’m inclined to move on. I’m a restless man, Mr. Burt. You probably knew that the moment you saw my home, a Pullman car, fitted out nicely but ready to drag back to the rails and another life. Yes, I do believe I would welcome a reasonable offer, even knowing that the outlying small mines may or may not yield what you’d hope.”
Sounded to me like old Scruples was backing off a little. He rose, headed out the door, and returned a moment later. “I’ve instructed my security man to pull the assay reports from the offices; he’ll be back in a few minutes,” Scruples said. “That should satisfy your wish to know whatever there is to know.”
“Yes, yes,” Burt said. “And how did you acquire all these properties?”
“Oh, various ways. Put an offer on the table. Acquired some from the estate of the deceased owner.” Scruples was just warming up, I could tell. “But Mr. Burt, my friend, my particular gift is to discover legal and technical flaws in the claims and patents. That’s something I’m sure you well know, with your own successes. Some of these properties were simply there for the plucking because of carelessly wrought claims, bad descriptions, sloppy work all around. You take Augustus Heintze up in Butte, a man who’s making a fortune exploiting poorly done claims, and you can see how I’ve approached the whole business.”
“You don’t say?” Burt said, in a way that sort of gutted Scruples and hung him out to dry.
Burt hung some spectacles on his nose and studied the papers, while Scruples simply sat and waited. Burt took his time, looking at them one by one, sometimes asking a question or two.
“The district secretary named Brashear signed some of these, and you signed others,” Burt said.
“The district secretary left under a cloud, and since I owned the majority of mines in the district, I elected myself the secretary of the Swamp Creek Mining District. Hence, my name’s on some of the claims.”
Burt seemed to absorb that for a long time. “I see,” he said, and once again, I got the feeling old Scruples was twisting in the wind.
Eventually, the double doors opened and The Apocalypse came trotting in, his two popguns bobbing. He dropped some files on the green felt.
“Thank you, my good man,” Scruples said. “Please wait outside.”
The Apocalypse eyed me sitting there, and I knew he itched to perforate me, but he resisted, and stepped into the night.
I sipped more red-eye that Muggsy had conveniently provided, while Arnold sipped his own, looking more and more cheerful.
“Good values here, but these are dated,” Burt said. “The assays for the Fat Tuesday are six months old. But eighty dollars a ton is a good ore.”
“Well, yes, in the rush, we didn’t get new assays, I’m afraid.”
Burt sighed. “I can’t buy a mining district blind, Mr. Scruples. Maybe some other time, eh?”
It sure was a fish-or-cut-bait moment, and old Scruples, he decided to fish.