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 nightâs bet by a hair.
âTheyâre horse-shitting, them that says itâs sitting around. It ainât like the Fraser, wheres any harebrained fucknit can get at it with a pan. It ainât like California in â 49 neither. Itâs more hidden than a nunâs 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. Ainât no place for a man alone, less youâre a god-blamed Indian. Donât be listening to them fucknits that tell you otherwise. Listen to me. . . . Yeah, can we do something for you?â
âAh, Mr. Hume,â Herr Boots says. âI 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.â
Eugene smiles. âTruly? Then why the deuce are you here?â
Oswald stares grimly at his hands. Eugene sits.
âHe here because he have bad partners. Bad men,â Herr Boots says.
âI trusted the wrong ones, see, sons-of-whores and mongrel bitches. I got too goddamned good a nature. Not this time.â
âMr. Oswald is expert at mining. He look for investors.â
âBut what of your boots? Herr . . . what of your venture?â
âOh, I sell boots and then have money. Maybe I look to buy in a mine. I not sure.â
âCall the mine The Jessica Bell, after my fiancée. Won that whoreson bet, didnât it? Thereâs a sign for you.â
âHerr . . . ah, Schulmiss.â
âSchultheiss,â the Prussian says, chuckling, always chuckling, as if life were some great joke.
âQuite so, Herr Schultheiss. May I speak with you in private?â
âSay your mind, Pume, donât be sneaking around like a mongrel with its head up its arse,â Oswald says, grinning.
âHume, the name is Hume, I say, and no. It is just . . .â
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.
âJust that I, too, will be starting a mine and . . .â
âYeah, 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 itâd come up gold.â
âI shall study the lay of the land,â Eugene says with dignity. âI am not a green hand.â
âYou ainât? Whatâs a stringer then? Whatâs the fuck difference âtween a sluice and a cradle?â
âI am not interested in proving myself to you.â
Oswald laughs, shows a mouth of chipped, tobacco stained teeth. âCanât take some jibing, can you? Well, if you donât know bum squat about mining, maybe you got some capital. Maybe you wanna invest in The Jessica Bell. I might consider it. Christâs clinkers, but I might.â
âYour confidence is remarkable, Mr. Oswald. And now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.â
âI ainât no gentleman looking for a lickfinger. Bumtags are more use âround here than gentlemen. Most of you got less money than a fucknit shoeshine. Hereâs my advice to you, Pume, or Hume, or whatever it is. Donât be putting on god-blamed airs. Donât be thinking goldâll be jumping out at you just cus you got some dandy-ass name for your mine. Iâll tell you this. Itâs us that run the show here.â
Oswald sits back and
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