Reckoning of Boston Jim by Claire Mulligan Page A

Boots. He is grinning foolishly, is in need, obviously, of some kind of protection from this Oswald, who is waving his arms as if he has just walked into a line of drying petticoats, who won last night’s bet by a hair.
    â€œThey’re horse-shitting, them that says it’s sitting around. It ain’t like the Fraser, wheres any harebrained fucknit can get at it with a pan. It ain’t like California in ’ 49 neither. It’s more hidden than a nun’s twat. You gotta read the land, see. Gotta dig through rock to get the motherlode. Need more than sluices and such shit. Need shafts and a pump to keep the water out. Gotta have money for all that. Gotta have a company. Boys on their own are turning up dead and bear-chewed in the hills. Ain’t no place for a man alone, less you’re a god-blamed Indian. Don’t be listening to them fucknits that tell you otherwise. Listen to me. . . . Yeah, can we do something for you?”
    â€œAh, Mr. Hume,” Herr Boots says. “I happy to see you again. Sitzen . Here. Mr. Oswald he is speaking of mining. He knows much of it. He make big strike in Sierra Nevadas.”
    Eugene smiles. “Truly? Then why the deuce are you here?”
    Oswald stares grimly at his hands. Eugene sits.
    â€œHe here because he have bad partners. Bad men,” Herr Boots says.
    â€œI trusted the wrong ones, see, sons-of-whores and mongrel bitches. I got too goddamned good a nature. Not this time.”
    â€œMr. Oswald is expert at mining. He look for investors.”
    â€œBut what of your boots? Herr . . . what of your venture?”
    â€œOh, I sell boots and then have money. Maybe I look to buy in a mine. I not sure.”
    â€œCall the mine The Jessica Bell, after my fiancée. Won that whoreson bet, didn’t it? There’s a sign for you.”
    â€œHerr . . . ah, Schulmiss.”
    â€œSchultheiss,” the Prussian says, chuckling, always chuckling, as if life were some great joke.
    â€œQuite so, Herr Schultheiss. May I speak with you in private?”
    â€œSay your mind, Pume, don’t be sneaking around like a mongrel with its head up its arse,” Oswald says, grinning.
    â€œHume, the name is Hume, I say, and no. It is just . . .”
    It is just that the Prussian is a fool to trust this swine-tongued Oswald. Oswald is a diminutive powder keg, a not-so-eloquent liar. Good natured? Eugene would have laughed if it had been appropriate. Mongrel? Eugene would have called him out for a duel if Oswald had not been jesting.
    â€œJust that I, too, will be starting a mine and . . .”
    â€œYeah, and how you gonna choose the fuck what spot? I knew a gentleman-sir like you who thought if he horked snot on the ground it’d come up gold.”
    â€œI shall study the lay of the land,” Eugene says with dignity. “I am not a green hand.”
    â€œYou ain’t? What’s a stringer then? What’s the fuck difference ’tween a sluice and a cradle?”
    â€œI am not interested in proving myself to you.”
    Oswald laughs, shows a mouth of chipped, tobacco stained teeth. “Can’t take some jibing, can you? Well, if you don’t know bum squat about mining, maybe you got some capital. Maybe you wanna invest in The Jessica Bell. I might consider it. Christ’s clinkers, but I might.”
    â€œYour confidence is remarkable, Mr. Oswald. And now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
    â€œI ain’t no gentleman looking for a lickfinger. Bumtags are more use ’round here than gentlemen. Most of you got less money than a fucknit shoeshine. Here’s my advice to you, Pume, or Hume, or whatever it is. Don’t be putting on god-blamed airs. Don’t be thinking gold’ll be jumping out at you just cus you got some dandy-ass name for your mine. I’ll tell you this. It’s us that run the show here.”
    Oswald sits back and