House of Gold by Bud Macfarlane Page A

one time, more copper had been clawed from beneath its rocky surface than from any other single place on the planet.
    Settled primarily by Irish Catholic immigrants in the late 1800s, it was at one time known for having more "Sullivans than Smiths." It was said thatin its heyday, Butte was more well-known in Ireland than was New York City. By the turn of the century, pollution from the huge smelting factories had killed off most of the trees in the town and surrounding areas. Back then it was rare for a miner to reach the ripe old age of fifty. Environmental regulations and foreign competition eventually drove the smelters out of business.
    In recent times,Butte had become the butt of jokes–the Jersey City of Montana. It had failed to make any trendy magazine's list of Top 100 American Cities. Yet despite the harsh climate, the remoteness, and a Depression-era economy that lasted through the 1980s, its hardy, gut-tough sons had a love for their hometown that was esoteric–inexplicable to those who never lived there, except perhaps citizens of othermaligned outbacks.
    Butte, like the Jersey Citys and Garys and Fargos of the American landscape, was what it was and where it was. Her people held on to her the way you hold on to an old jalopy that served you well in your youth; you behold it as shiny and new as the day you bought it, overlooking its rust and sagging chassis. A view through the eyes of the heart.
    Butte was still there, proud anddefiant–in a world where silicon, not copper, was now the measure of economic value. The story had been told of the immigrant laddie from Butte who returned to the old country to visit his relatives after a lifetime choking and slaving in the mines. He caught ill during the trip. As his brothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles gathered 'round his deathbed, his last words were thus: "When I die, I wantyou to take me home, and bury me in Butte."
    In the early Eighties, with its obsolete copper mines shuttered and unemployment rampant, there had been rumors of Butte becoming a ghost town right up until Our Lady of the Rockies climbed atop its rockiest, tallest mountain. On the very day after her statue was completed, a new company announced the purchase of the mines, along with plans to modernizeand reopen them. Butte had enjoyed relative prosperity and a mild comeback in the years since.
    Buzz and Sam emerged from breakfast at the Denny's next to the hotel to greet the real estate agent as he pulled up in his car. The ground was still covered with snow–not an uncommon sight in April, apparently.
    Hugh Wiggins jumped out of his rusty sedan, then shook their hands. He was a short, portlyman with big hands and a ruddy complexion. He wore a threadbare brown suit, and Buzz noticed that his shoes probably hadn't been shined in months.
    They exchanged the usual pleasantries, then drove off, heading west on I-90. Sam sat in front.
    Occasionally Buzz commented on the beauty of the natural surroundings–the hills, the buttes, the mountains, the occasional clumps of pines.
    There really wasa "big sky" here which gave false impressions of true distances. The mountains always seemed to be close and far away at the same time, especially to the north. It was a stark state–more high plain than either Clevelander had realized.
    It rained on and off, like a shower faucet being turned by an unseen hand. The droplets rolled off the windshield like mercury. Buzz remarked about this effect,and Hugh explained that the air was especially dry in Montana. At one point, Buzz realized that he could see three separate rainstorms on the horizon in three different directions. Hugh called these local-ized storms "squalls." He added that out-of-staters often were impressed by this curious Montana phenomenon of "seeing the weather."
    Buzz fell into a melancholic daydream, staring out the window,imagining the beams on the wooden electric-line poles to be oversized crucifixes, and the sun as laying her golden shrouds on