K Mart that had been in town for twenty years pulled out seven springs back, its space taken by a discount drugstore that stayed only long enough to learn it couldn’t break even.
Back then, and before, Pamosa Springs wasn’t exactly a boom town, but it certainly showed some of the signs. The natural hot springs running out of the Lake San Cristóbal area hadn’t yet dried up, and a fair number of visitors passed through after sampling a bath with purported rejuvenating qualities. Silver veins in the San Juans kept miners busy enough to need a place to sleep, eat, and buy equipment, and the railroad built a freight yard in the town with plans to lay track to connect up with the Durango and Silverton narrow gauge. But then the silver veins went dry, and the railroad went bankrupt even before reaching the nearest reservoir. The population of Pamosa Springs shrank from just over 2,000, and there were soon almost as many vacant houses as occupied ones.
The town’s present residents had stuck things out figuring there was still more good in Pamosa Springs than bad. Many had seasonal jobs at the neighboring ski resorts that kept them away for good parts of the season, which often stretched up to eight months. Others ran mail-order businesses or claimed to be artists. Still more commuted to work in cities up to 150 miles away. You could live like a king for practically nothing in Pamosa Springs as long as you didn’t expect too much. Nobody ever died poor in the town, but nobody ever got rich, either.
Until now maybe, some of the residents might say guardedly.
It had been an especially harsh winter in this part of Colorado, and the runoff that accompanied the spring thaw caused massive erosion and several minor landslides through the San Juans and the accompanying hillsides. A few hills bled their bellies open.
With silver running high in the town’s past, the first thought of the residents was that the shiny stones pulled from the dirt and rocks were more of the blessed mineral. Fact was, there were at least six different kinds of stones pulled from the mountainside and none of them was silver, which was not to say none of them was valuable. On the contrary, several held great promise, including some that looked like pink diamonds, and samples were sent off to the National Assayer’s Office in Washington for identification. The residents of Pamosa Springs sat back patiently to wait for the results.
Nothing had been heard in three weeks now, and life in Pamosa Springs mostly held to its menial normalcy. The local movie house held over a double feature of Rambo and Red Dawn for the ninth consecutive week. The town’s women composed their twentieth letter to Jerry Falwell, pleading with him to appear at their annual luncheon. Gearing up for the coming elections, a newsletter reminded residents that last time out, the Republican presidential candidate had carried Pamosa Springs with ninety-two percent of the vote.
And Hal Taggart continued losing customers. Since he operated the only sit-down restaurant in the Springs, this should have been impossible. But Taggart had detoured into misery and isolation since his son’s death in Beirut four years back, and some would say he’d gone clear around the bend. He’d been gone for three weeks after getting the news and disappeared for another two a few months later. Since then his bar and grill had become strictly a grill, open at sporadic, unreliable hours. And now when it was open, no one showed up. But Taggart washed the dishes regardless and talked up a storm to himself. Some said there were nights when he served up platefuls of the daily special to customers who weren’t there. And lately he had taken to shooting the rats in his storage room with an old .22 hunting rifle that hadn’t fired straight in a decade. The rats survived, and the town grew used to the quick blasts coming from inside the grill.
It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon when Hal Taggart caught a whole
Back then, and before, Pamosa Springs wasn’t exactly a boom town, but it certainly showed some of the signs. The natural hot springs running out of the Lake San Cristóbal area hadn’t yet dried up, and a fair number of visitors passed through after sampling a bath with purported rejuvenating qualities. Silver veins in the San Juans kept miners busy enough to need a place to sleep, eat, and buy equipment, and the railroad built a freight yard in the town with plans to lay track to connect up with the Durango and Silverton narrow gauge. But then the silver veins went dry, and the railroad went bankrupt even before reaching the nearest reservoir. The population of Pamosa Springs shrank from just over 2,000, and there were soon almost as many vacant houses as occupied ones.
The town’s present residents had stuck things out figuring there was still more good in Pamosa Springs than bad. Many had seasonal jobs at the neighboring ski resorts that kept them away for good parts of the season, which often stretched up to eight months. Others ran mail-order businesses or claimed to be artists. Still more commuted to work in cities up to 150 miles away. You could live like a king for practically nothing in Pamosa Springs as long as you didn’t expect too much. Nobody ever died poor in the town, but nobody ever got rich, either.
Until now maybe, some of the residents might say guardedly.
It had been an especially harsh winter in this part of Colorado, and the runoff that accompanied the spring thaw caused massive erosion and several minor landslides through the San Juans and the accompanying hillsides. A few hills bled their bellies open.
With silver running high in the town’s past, the first thought of the residents was that the shiny stones pulled from the dirt and rocks were more of the blessed mineral. Fact was, there were at least six different kinds of stones pulled from the mountainside and none of them was silver, which was not to say none of them was valuable. On the contrary, several held great promise, including some that looked like pink diamonds, and samples were sent off to the National Assayer’s Office in Washington for identification. The residents of Pamosa Springs sat back patiently to wait for the results.
Nothing had been heard in three weeks now, and life in Pamosa Springs mostly held to its menial normalcy. The local movie house held over a double feature of Rambo and Red Dawn for the ninth consecutive week. The town’s women composed their twentieth letter to Jerry Falwell, pleading with him to appear at their annual luncheon. Gearing up for the coming elections, a newsletter reminded residents that last time out, the Republican presidential candidate had carried Pamosa Springs with ninety-two percent of the vote.
And Hal Taggart continued losing customers. Since he operated the only sit-down restaurant in the Springs, this should have been impossible. But Taggart had detoured into misery and isolation since his son’s death in Beirut four years back, and some would say he’d gone clear around the bend. He’d been gone for three weeks after getting the news and disappeared for another two a few months later. Since then his bar and grill had become strictly a grill, open at sporadic, unreliable hours. And now when it was open, no one showed up. But Taggart washed the dishes regardless and talked up a storm to himself. Some said there were nights when he served up platefuls of the daily special to customers who weren’t there. And lately he had taken to shooting the rats in his storage room with an old .22 hunting rifle that hadn’t fired straight in a decade. The rats survived, and the town grew used to the quick blasts coming from inside the grill.
It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon when Hal Taggart caught a whole
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