Angle of Repose - Wallace Stegner [147]
They were both pressing drivers, unsparing of the team. They said they didn’t trust the weather not to get worse, and so they aimed themselves toward Leadville through the notch of a horse’s ears, and whenever there was a choice between a smooth ride and a fast one, they chose the fast one. The whip was in hand more often than in its socket. Every half hour or so the one driving passed the reins across her to the other, and sat on his cold hands. Between them, sheltered by one and then by the other as the road turned them in the wind, Susan did not at first feel cold. Her feet were on the warm iron, her hands in her muff. Snuggled down behind the seat in his robe and quilt between the two lashed trunks, Ollie showed his nose like a seal at a blowhole.
It was such a day as she had left the mountains on months before. The wind was pebbled with dry snow, the valley was black and white, without a rumor of spring, the peaks were blotted out. Milton and its opening apple blossoms were part of another, gentler creation.
The questions she asked got laconic answers.
The winter had been bad, one blizzard after another.
No ladies back yet.
The town not so much on the boom as last year–troubles underground, the price of silver down to $1.15. Some mines had been stripping highgrade to boost the price of their stock. As a stunt, the Robert E. Lee had produced $118,000 in silver in one seventeen-hour day. The principal stockholders of the Little Pittsburgh, who had paid themselves $100,000 in dividends every month for half a year, had just unloaded 85,000 shares at an enormous price and left the new owners with a gutted mine. The Chrysolite had labor trouble, had locked out its miners and was standing twenty-four-hour armed guard against possible dynamiters.
“Did Ferd Ward pay back what his son stole?”
“What he took from the payroll. Not what he borrowed from Frank and me.”
“Did you make a claim?”
“I mentioned it twice.”
“But he never paid you.”
“Not yet.”
“He never will!” she cried into the wind. “Oh, Oliver, why must it always be you who gets cheated?”
He seemed amused. “Your guess is as good as mine. You have any idea, Frank?”
“Can’t imagine.”
“You’re as bad as he is,” Susan said.
“Worse,” Oliver said. “Sneaks up and kisses the boss’s wife.”
“I thought it was nice,” Susan said. “There! At least he doesn’t borrow money and not pay it back, or rob the payroll.”
“Just waiting my chance,” Frank said.
“Matter of fact,” Oliver said, “if it wasn’t for the Staten Island Kid we wouldn’t have a mine.”
“Who?”
“The hired man there.”
“Really? What did you do, Frank?
“Foiled the wicked claim jumpers. Just like Diamond Dick.”
“No, tell me.”
“I told you about the trouble we were having with the Argentina,” Oliver said. “Also the Highland Chief.”
“You never tell me about anything. Honestly, if I had to depend on your letters to know anything, I’d be . . . uninformed.”
“Well, that sure wouldn’t do.” He heaved back, creaking with clothes, and pulled aside the buffalo robe and looked down in. “Asleep,” he said. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t smother, down in that hotbox. You warm enough?”
For answer she raised her hands in their muff above the blanket. He touched the fur with a gloved finger. “Beaver?”
“Yes, those you sent me from Deadwood.”
“Good,” he said, pleased. He looked across her at Frank, who was driving. “Aren’t you going to tell her?”
“Not much to tell. They tried to come in, we shut ’em out.”
“He’s modest,” Oliver said. His nose was leaking, his eyes were ice blue and teary, he touched the back of his glove under his nose. “They’ve been claiming for months we’re running over the line. I made that survey, I know we’re not. But our best ore body is close to the Argentina’s claim. While I was in Denver a couple weeks ago they thought they could sneak in and take over our drift. They had a tunnel driven right up close to ours,