and I got to reading about it. And that was the one I decided I'd find."
Denton had picked up his cup and was pacing back and forth with it, still untasted. He waved his unoccupied hand at the bookshelves along much of the fourth wall. "Collected everything I could find on it, and that's a hell of a lot of stuff." He laughed. "Mostly just baloney. Just fellows rewriting somebody else's rewriting of tall tales." Denton laughed. "One of 'em said if you say a man's a prospector, you don't have to say he's a liar." He put down the cup and sat across from Leaphorn.
"That's sort of what I suspected," Leaphorn said. "Always seemed funny that gold deposits were so easy to lose out here."
Denton didn't like the sound of that.
"They weren't exactly lost," he said, tone defensive. "With the Adams dig, the Apaches wiped out the miners. It was usually something like that. Pretty much the same with the Golden Calf, too."
"Yeah," Leaphorn said. Sooner or later Denton would get to what he'd brought him to talk about. The coffee was good and the chair comfortable, something more important to him now that his back had discovered arthritis. He had intended to drive north today to see Chee at Shiprock, but Chee could wait. After a while Denton would say something interesting and it would give him a chance to ask questions. He had several to ask.
"About fifteen years ago one of the people working on a lease up by the Utah border told me about the Golden Calf. He was part Zuñi, part white, and he said his white granddaddy used to talk about it. Claimed the grandfather had known Theodore Mott, the fellow who found the deposit and was borrowing money to build the sluices he needed to develop it. This half-Zuñi guy showed me a little bit of placer gold. It was supposed to have been sluiced out of an arroyo draining south out of the Zuñi Mountains."
Denton unbuttoned his shirt pocket and extracted a little bottle about the size of shampoo bottles found in hotel bathrooms.
"Here it is," Denton said, and handed the bottle to Leaphorn.
"I had it assayed. A little more than half an ounce, but it is flake gold all right. You'll notice some of those little grains are pinkish and some are almost black. It don't turn shiny gold until it's washed and refined." He laughed. "The son of a bitch charged me for a full ounce, and that was back when we were having that inflation and the gold price was up over six hundred dollars."
Leaphorn shook the bottle and studied it. He noticed the pink and the black, but it looked pretty much like the stuff Jim Chee had showed him from the troublesome Prince Albert tobacco tin.
"Interesting," he said. He handed Denton the bottle and watched him button it back into his pocket.
"The price is way down now. Running below two hundred and fifty an ounce the last time I checked the market." With that said, Denton put down his cup, picked it up again, sipped, and looked across the rim at Leaphorn, waiting. But for what?
Leaphorn gestured around the room. "From the looks of all this, I wouldn't think the price has much to do with you being interested in gold mines. Am I right?"
"Exactly right," Denton said. "It ain't the money. I want to be in the books. The man who solved the mystery. Wiley Denton. The man who found the Golden Calf. I was going to have people paying attention to me." He put down the cup, threw up his hands, and laughed, dismissing the idea. But Leaphorn saw he wasn't laughing at himself. He was watching Leaphorn, waiting again for what Leaphorn would say.
Well, now, Leaphorn thought, we Navajo are good at this waiting game. The Enduring Navajo, as one of the anthropologists had labeled them. He examined the view through the window behind Denton, the sunlight on the cliffs across the interstate and the cloud formation given new shape by the slanting light. But Leaphorn's patience was overcome by his curiosity. Was Denton mentally unstable? Probably. Who wasn't, to one degree or another?
"Mr. Denton,"
Denton had picked up his cup and was pacing back and forth with it, still untasted. He waved his unoccupied hand at the bookshelves along much of the fourth wall. "Collected everything I could find on it, and that's a hell of a lot of stuff." He laughed. "Mostly just baloney. Just fellows rewriting somebody else's rewriting of tall tales." Denton laughed. "One of 'em said if you say a man's a prospector, you don't have to say he's a liar." He put down the cup and sat across from Leaphorn.
"That's sort of what I suspected," Leaphorn said. "Always seemed funny that gold deposits were so easy to lose out here."
Denton didn't like the sound of that.
"They weren't exactly lost," he said, tone defensive. "With the Adams dig, the Apaches wiped out the miners. It was usually something like that. Pretty much the same with the Golden Calf, too."
"Yeah," Leaphorn said. Sooner or later Denton would get to what he'd brought him to talk about. The coffee was good and the chair comfortable, something more important to him now that his back had discovered arthritis. He had intended to drive north today to see Chee at Shiprock, but Chee could wait. After a while Denton would say something interesting and it would give him a chance to ask questions. He had several to ask.
"About fifteen years ago one of the people working on a lease up by the Utah border told me about the Golden Calf. He was part Zuñi, part white, and he said his white granddaddy used to talk about it. Claimed the grandfather had known Theodore Mott, the fellow who found the deposit and was borrowing money to build the sluices he needed to develop it. This half-Zuñi guy showed me a little bit of placer gold. It was supposed to have been sluiced out of an arroyo draining south out of the Zuñi Mountains."
Denton unbuttoned his shirt pocket and extracted a little bottle about the size of shampoo bottles found in hotel bathrooms.
"Here it is," Denton said, and handed the bottle to Leaphorn.
"I had it assayed. A little more than half an ounce, but it is flake gold all right. You'll notice some of those little grains are pinkish and some are almost black. It don't turn shiny gold until it's washed and refined." He laughed. "The son of a bitch charged me for a full ounce, and that was back when we were having that inflation and the gold price was up over six hundred dollars."
Leaphorn shook the bottle and studied it. He noticed the pink and the black, but it looked pretty much like the stuff Jim Chee had showed him from the troublesome Prince Albert tobacco tin.
"Interesting," he said. He handed Denton the bottle and watched him button it back into his pocket.
"The price is way down now. Running below two hundred and fifty an ounce the last time I checked the market." With that said, Denton put down his cup, picked it up again, sipped, and looked across the rim at Leaphorn, waiting. But for what?
Leaphorn gestured around the room. "From the looks of all this, I wouldn't think the price has much to do with you being interested in gold mines. Am I right?"
"Exactly right," Denton said. "It ain't the money. I want to be in the books. The man who solved the mystery. Wiley Denton. The man who found the Golden Calf. I was going to have people paying attention to me." He put down the cup, threw up his hands, and laughed, dismissing the idea. But Leaphorn saw he wasn't laughing at himself. He was watching Leaphorn, waiting again for what Leaphorn would say.
Well, now, Leaphorn thought, we Navajo are good at this waiting game. The Enduring Navajo, as one of the anthropologists had labeled them. He examined the view through the window behind Denton, the sunlight on the cliffs across the interstate and the cloud formation given new shape by the slanting light. But Leaphorn's patience was overcome by his curiosity. Was Denton mentally unstable? Probably. Who wasn't, to one degree or another?
"Mr. Denton,"
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