Two-Gun & Sun by June Hutton Page A

to read in that gravelly voice of his:
    Announcing the arrival in Black Mountain of Mr. Morris Cohen of Montreal businessman, adventurer, & raconteur here to plumb the depths of these rich soils & who cordially invites interested investors for an evening of cigars & brandy at The Bombay Room
    What do you think? he asked. Here, he added, and he handed the note to me.
    You don’t say when, I pointed out.
    That’s to be decided. We could add a line saying notice of further details will be posted at the
Bombay
. That’ll bring ’em.
    I read over the note again. It was too wordy already but a large advertisement would pay more.
    You are paying for this ad?
    Should I? he asked. I just paid the deposit.
    When you’ve paid in full we can discuss what privileges come with it. The name of your enterprise? I asked.
    Black Diamond—no need to write that . . . well, yes, go ahead.
    It’s a good name. You’ll attract some interest, I’m sure. San Francisco seems to think there’s plenty more below, just waiting for discovery.
    Who?
    Oh, someone who came in to place an ad.
    Just himself digging around, or others?
    Others I’m sure, all with big plans. Coal likes company, as they say.
    A remarkable expression.
    I explained it to him, as San Francisco had explained it to me.
    Morris fidgeted for a moment, rocking on his heels, jangling the coins in his pockets. I’m thinking, he said at last, of the smaller investors. The big ones have their own bigger fish to fry. Why don’t we change that? Pencil?
    He put his hands in his vest pockets and recited while I scribbled:
    cordially invites investors like you & me the humble amongst us seeking their own small share of such riches as already found by my fine neighbours The Black Mountain Coal Company.
    I stopped writing.
    You’re giving free attention to your competition, I noted.
    The length of this note was also threatening to run into the two ads as well as any room I might find on the newssheet for the only news article so far, about the shooting of Mr. George. I had planned a long, splashy piece but was now cutting it before I had even begun to write it. There had been no room for even a small item about those leeches.
    Morris, why not call them small investors and other interested folk? You can explain further at the function itself.
    You’re a treasure, he said. Erase it! Let’s start again.
    He promised payment in a few days.
    *
    The next mail drop included an invitation to the opera, also thick, cream-coloured, but in an envelope sealed with red wax. I picked it up in the morning and tore it open right there on the street, scanned the card from top to bottom, seizing on the most important lines:
    La Fanciulla del West … publisher and guest dinner and dance … followed by the performance
    I slid the envelope into my pocket, and walked slowly back to the shop, my eyes on the ground and the black holes. I’d been invited as a member of the press. Others would have to buy their tickets. While they dined and danced, I would be busy observing and taking notes and writing it up for the newspaper. I stopped and pulled out the invitation again and studied the date. Friday, September 29. I had missed the significance earlier. What marvellous timing. That would be the day before our month was up and the first edition was due. There would be just enough time to include coverage of the performance. The bank would be impressed.
    Even so, I felt my lungs tighten for a moment. Three weeks from now. Today was the eighth. And yet, and yet, so much accomplished already. A printer, plans for newssheets, an investor.
    Publisher and guest
, it said. Who should I take? Someone newsworthy.
    My thoughts roamed about the hotel dining room. Not the dour Scot. Or that fool of a sergeant major. For a moment, they flashed upon that absurd, exposed, man. Mr. George.
    Taxis scooted around me, a high-pitched whine that filled my ears and snapped