A Reckoning

Chapter OneThe moment Dan Stoakes discovered the vein of silver in the bank of a tributary of the South Platte River, he fell down in the dirt of the muddy bank and cried with joy. Careless of the water lapping over his cord pants, when he clambered to his feet, deliriously happy, he slipped and fell head first to the ground. He rolled over and peered towards the sky. “I've died and gone to heaven,” he said aloud, bursting into more tears. For five long years he had toiled in this little known part of the river system, wary of Indians and strangers but never encountering either. He rarely ventured into the nearby town of Twin Buttes, and then only to get supplies. He kept himself to himself and did his best not to make eye contact with anyone. An almost unhealthy belief in what lay beside the river pushed him towards ever greater efforts. Up until now, his precautions seemed to have worked. Nobody knew of his progress. And now, of course, success. Alone in his little camp, made from nothing more than an old piece of tarpaulin, he laboured at the riverbanks, following his instinct and knowledge of rock formations. This one particular cold morning, when his handpick prized away a heavy clump of mud and shale, he paused in disbelief at the silver trail threading its way through the exposed bedrock, and for a moment believed he had slipped into a dream world. To verify the truth of his efforts, he continued chipping away to discover more of the vein. There was no doubting his eyes or any other sense – he had struck silver. For the remainder of the morning, he staked out his claim. The stakes, prepared more than four years before, he fetched from where he'd stacked them in the far corner of his camp, waiting for the day. Well, the day was here and he worked feverishly to finish pounding them into the hard-packed soil. Satisfied, he set to making a monument out of a collection of stones and boulders to identify the location. Finally, he gathered some samples into a leather pouch to take down into the town assay office. He paused, eyeing his work with grim satisfaction, took a long drink from his canteen and packed up his mule ready for the journey. He sang as he rode, a tuneless rendition of something his mother used to hum when he was just a toddler. It helped ease the tedium of the trek down to Twin Buttes. Cutting across a ford in the river, he meandered along the valley, skirting woodland and rocky high ground until he reached the ancient trail which marked the way to town. He did all he could to keep his mind from his discovery, but every now and then the enormity of what had happened hit him and he would emit a high-pitched cackle, giving himself over to uncontained joy at what it might mean for himself and his family. A single daughter, from a marriage long since annulled, lived a quiet life in Kansas City, bringing up her young son alone. A miscreant husband, having realised life with Melody was not one he wished to continue, especially after the boy was born, left her to find his fortune in New York. That was some four years previously, and Bradford Milligan had not been heard of since. Dan felt elation when the news reached him and, with the promises of riches so close, the future seemed bright – for his daughter, grandson and himself. Now, rolling into town, Dan steered his mount towards the lone saloon Twin Buttes possessed and eased his weary body from the saddle. He stretched his back before stepping inside, licking his lips with anticipation, and crossed to the bar. The room was small, cramped, the floor covered with sawdust and a scattering of rushes. The interior decorations, uniformly grey in colour, appeared tired and in need of refurbishment. Cleaning might help, for the place smelled of musty clothes too long in the cupboard edged with traces of urine, human or otherwise. Either way, the aroma stuck in the back of Dan's throat, urging him to want to down the whisky he ordered from the diminutive barman in one. “Don't often see you in here,” the barman said, putting another shot of whisky in front of Dan. Dan gazed at the amber liquid, imagining its taste trickling down into his stomach. “Don't often come in here, that's why.” He lifted the drink, inspecting it closely, savouring the moment. Then, in a sudden movement of his arm, he threw the entire glassful down his throat. Gasping, he bent forward, holding onto the counter edge with his free hand and shaking his head. “Hot dang, that's good.” “Is it your birthday?” Shaking his head again, Dan grinned. “No, a celebration of an altogether different kind.” He patted his shoulder bag containing the silver sample. “Life changing.” He gestured with the glass for a refill, which this time went down with a good deal more care. Snapping a dollar on the counter, when he finished his drink he turned on his heels and went outside. His next stop was at the newly opened telegraph office. He scrawled out a few lines and slid the paper across to the operator, who twisted his mouth, sighed and tapped out the message. Dan leaned on the counter, head filled with something thick and heavy, and thought he was going to be sick. Not waiting for confirmation, he paid his due and quickly went outside. Swaying, he waited until the cold air cleared his head before tramping across to the assayer's office. “Damned whisky,” he muttered to himself and stepped up to the office door. Finding it locked, he craned his neck to survey the building, hoping to find some clue as to when it might open again, but the wooden walls and blacked-out windows gazed back at him in silence. Disappointed, he decided to try the bank in hope of finding some information. Inside the small, cramped confines of the bank, a teller, bent over a large ledger, peered at Ben over the top of his glasses. “I know you.” “You should, I've lived around these parts for more than two years.” “Well, that might be it, but from the look of you and,” he sniffed, “the smell, I think I'd know if you were a regular customer. You ain't.” “I was hoping to find the assay office open.” “Assay office? Don't believe that has been open for quite a while. Years maybe. You have some items to assess?” “You might say that. Where would I find the assay officer?” The teller blew out his cheeks and sat back, contemplating Dan for a moment. “That would be Arnold Schiller, I reckon. Half Moon Street, above the haberdashers there, which his brother and wife own. That would be your best bet. He is retired now, I do believe. Why are you so keen to find him?” “I'm wondering – if I don't find him, or if something else has happened, might I deposit my bag here in the bank?” He brought up the said bag and placed it on the desk front. The teller leaned forward, pressing his lips together. “Well, there's a possibility, I suppose. What's in it?” Dan chuckled and picked up his bag again. “I'll let you know – if Mr Schiller ain't at home.” A hard look, followed by a snappy “I see,” and the teller returned to his ledger, leaving Dan to wander outside and make his way down to Half Moon Street. As things turned out, Dan did find Schiller at home and, after recounting his tale, persuaded the assay officer to cross over to his office and open it up. Dan stood in the dull half-light whilst Schiller strained to open first one, then the other pair of shutters. The light streamed in, revealing a dust-encrusted interior, everything grey, forlorn. Schiller took his time, assembling a set of scales, arranging the collection of weights and then examined the contents of Dan's bag. After much grunting and chewing of his lip, he finally sat back and declared the metal genuine. “You have struck silver, sir,” and presented Dan with the appropriate papers to complete. Emerging from the office some two hours later, Dan did not notice the two men loitering across the road. Nor was he aware of them leading their horses out into Mainstreet to follow him out of town and back to his encampment. If he had noticed them, Dan may have lived.