The Man Who Moiled for Gold

By David G. Rasmussen

The Man Who
Moiled for Gold draws its title from the Robert W. Service poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee. This popular work portrays the lust for
gold, the passion for the search, and the elusive success that brought men and
women to remote areas without laws or justice. The poem also tells of
suffering, loneliness, frustration, and ultimately death.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Charley Martin experienced all of these
emotions along with love and success while becoming the man who moiled for gold.

Charley Martin, in 1912, is found mining the hard
rock of Butte, Montana. Years of breathing the fine quartz dust in the pits
have given Charley silicosis. Discovery of this incurable condition, by the
mine super, brought an abrupt change to the 69-year old miners life. Change
began with the decision to move to his mountain cabin, which involved a weekend
stay with Kathleen, his eldest daughter. Kathleen held a secret hurt and
bitterness, causing an estrangement between father and daughter.

Delighted by his teenaged grandsons insistence to know
the grandfathers pioneer adventures Charley recounts events that began 50
years earlier with the Pikes Peak Gold Rush. Charley realizes that revealing
family history might bring to surface Kathleens resentments so he continues to
tell details past the romantic parts.

Successful mining ventures are overshadowed by the
murder of Charleys cousin Joe during a holdup. Kind and happy Charley becomes obsessed with finding the
roadagent who killed Joe. Other incidents of robbery and murder inflame the
Montana/Idaho mining camps into vigilante actions. Charley joins the Bannack
Vigilance Committee and participates in the historic hangings of the Sheriff
and his deputies he then travels with the Alder Gulch vigilantes to hang most
of the remainder of the Sheriffs roadagent gang including the man Charley
considers to be Joes killer.

Charley had never before revealed to family that he
had been an active vigilante who had ended mens lives.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> The daughters family is amazed but
accepting. Continued recollections helped Kathleen reveal her own bitter secret
and accept her father again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 1, 2002
• ISBN: 9780759679825

David G. Rasmussen

David Rasmussen was born in Missoula, Montana. His career as a geological and mining engineer has taken him to many locations and cultures including Chile and New Mexico. Stories based on his observations of unique places has become his avocation.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Charley Martin felt the normal press of the other miners propel him onto the man-cage at the Steward shaft collar. On this morning, however, Charley's gut argued against dropping the 2,000 feet into Butte Hill and letting the day roll forward. Falls of ground, hung rounds and cave-ins had marred forty years of hardrock mining, but this morning's tight-gut feeling differed—more a sense that something significant was going to happen before he again saw surface light and breathed the cold smoke-filled air of Butte, Montana.

The big-bellied shaft tender put his shoulder into the steel doors of the last man-cage, squeezing the seventh man into the five by five deck. He slammed the heavy safety bar into its notch. Wearing a sardonic grin, Big Belly heard muffled swearing of the miners and comments about legitimacy of his parentage as he turned to grab the signal cord. No man had room to raise an arm to scratch an itch or wipe a nose. Each smelled the others morning tobacco chew or garlic tainted breakfast.

The triple deck man-cage jerked upward with the released hoist brake then began its rattling decent into the veined depths of Butte Hill. All light quickly faded as the warm dank mine air engulfed the accelerating cage leaving Charley Martin to deal with his own gut anomaly.

What was different? The other hardrock miners joked, joshed, and tried to blot out individual feelings, but Charley didn't join in. He preferred private thoughts unless three boilermakers dulled his sensitivity and weakened his walls.

Vulgar talk of whores dominated the speech of some younger miners. To Charley these men lacked the pride and dignity of the old cousin jacks miners from Cornwall. Charley's father, uncle and grandfather had pride in their work and in themselves. Charley dwelled on this thought for a moment then conceded that these course young men were not unlike men he had known in the old gold camps. Maybe, his 69 years were showing.

Charley's tight-gut feeling was momentarily replaced by the real upward push of his gut as the man-cage slowed its drop to the first mining level. Charley

was going to the 1800 Level so his deck-load would hang in the shaft for two more stops while the lower decks discharged miners. Each time the cage stopped at a station, the cage bounded with the stretch in 2,000 feet of wire rope.

Bare electric light bulbs lit the 1800 Station. There the underground shaft tender waited for Charley's deck to quiet its bouncing. The deck stopped two feet above the station floor, causing the shaft tender's mumbled damned greenhorn hoistman as he rang the signal bell to bring the cage on down.

The freed miners burst from the confinement of the cage and relieved from forced embraces, they spread into the station. Each miner either lit his carbide headlamp or his first candle of the day. The candles were stuck it into his wrought iron holders and poked its pointed end into a hole punched into the front of his felt hat, carbide lights into hardhat brackets.

Charley led his partners out of the station crosscut and into the darkness of the drift leading to their stope. The ties were wet between the steel rails of the narrow haulage track and were lit only by the three candles. At sixty-nine, Charley Martin stumbled more than his younger partners, but his skill as a hard-rock miner kept him productive and employed. Forty years of experience and thinking mind had made Charley's stope top the contract board for all mines on the hill. Butte was full of days-pay men looking for jobs and other good contract miners were envious of a stope like Charley's. Lately, however, Charley's strength had started to ebb and a feeling of a weight on his chest bothered him with frequent coughing spells that left him weak and sweating. On this morning, that heavy chest feeling caused him to breathe hard as he led his partners down the drift.

Charley's partners were Ben and Willie. Ben at forty-five was a quiet family man, resigned to spending his life working underground at Butte. Born to hardrock mining, he had few expectations beyond providing for his family—hoping sons might gain education and stay off the Hill. Willie, the nipper of the crew, helped Charley and Ben as he learned mining in the process. He talked about making big money and running the Hill someday, but as nipper, Willie lowered timber, helped collar drill holes, and rustled powder, primers and tools.

Warm humid air still carried the acrid stench of dynamite from the night shift's blast. Charley's lungs had been building congestion so he chose not to talk and risk starting a coughing spell at the stope raise, he casually hanged his slicker and wool coat on a spike and walked on down the drift as if looking for a private place to take a leak. Ben would line out the nipper on the timber to be lowered into the stope. Around a bend in the drift, Charley let his coughing spell happen to rid the choking phlegm from his lungs and throat. He hocked the ugly gray mass into the piss ditch. Even without seeing them, he knew that somewhere in that mass would be a telltale speck of blood. He had been seeing such specks for months. A doctor would tell him what he already knew; Charley Martin had

miners consumption The Con. The doctor would call it silicosis and tell him to get out of the mines, then report the diagnosis to the Company.

Years of dry drilling in the hardrock mines of Butte had pulverized quartz crystals into fine dust that the lungs could then inhale and absorb into their tissue. Hand drilling of blast holes had been bad enough for dusting a mans lungs, but the new compressed air powered drilling machines turned out clouds of silica as they rapidly punched blast holes into the mining face. The column-mounted air drill that Charley and Ben used earned the name, Widow Maker. The Company liked the air drills. High production was made with fewer men underground. The con—well that was just part of hardrock mining.

Charley cleared his throat of the last of the foul-tasting phlegm and straitened up. Sweat beaded his forehead and he was weak. Damn it all to Hell, he muttered to himself, I need to shake this cough. Charley's tight gut returned and with that feeling, the often spoken words, I shouldn't be here in this stinking hole. I should be sitting in the morning sun on the veranda of my West Side Helena mansion sipping tea.

Realizing that he had slipped into an old unproductive thought, Charley wiped his brow with his big red bandanna and turned back toward the stope. I don't have wealth or position but I can still work hard and lead the contract board.

Willie was rigging timber at the top of the raise as Charley approached. He didn't look up as Charley spoke, Give me a few minutes before you lower that post. The old miner then swung into the manway and started down the five floors to the mining level.

Ben was in the stope straightening tools and supplies and cursing the Goddamn other shift. He too avoided looking Charley in the eye. Charley suspected that his partners knew he had the con, but some things were best not talked about.

Grabbing a square point shovel Charley began clearing the ore broken by the night shift's blast. Charley and Ben's place was a square-set timbered stope and stope mining is man's work. Stope mining is where the company gets its pay copper, gold and silver. Stope ore comes from the richest part of the vein whereas shaft sinking and drift driving just provide access so that the stope miner can break the ore.

On the floor of the square-set stope, ore is sorted from waste rock and shoveled into a chute there to drop to the lower drift level and loaded into small rail cars. Charley attacked this pile of broken ore with vengeance. Its ten or twelve tons of sulfur smelling muck was a tangible thing to beat down—proof of strength, health and youth. A stope miner earned his pay and his bonus and the barflies made room for him at any saloon on Butte Hill. Systematically, Charley sorted muck: shovel full by shovel full. Copper ore went in the chute. Waste rock went into a gob set below where it would stay forever. The Company didn't

like to haul and process waste rock and a miner could get tramped for leaving much in the ore. Charley Martin was good at sorting muck and the activity busied his mind. It was his nature to sort his feelings just as cleanly.

Willie had stopped lowering the stope timber. Ben stepped out into the raise to holler up and see what the holdup was. Seeing two carbide hand lanterns swinging as they moved down the manway, Ben recognized that the shift boss and someone else were coming down for a visit. Immediately, he went over to Charley and tapped him on the shoulder to stop the vigorous mucking. A good miner might bust his ass all shift, but always sat down for a smoke or fresh chew when the boss was in his place. A good boss wasn't bothered by this act of independence for a casual slap on a miner's back would tell him if the man had been working or goldbricking.

Murphy, the shift boss, stepped off the ladder into the stope as Charley straightened up from his vindictive attack on the muck pile. The old miner tried to get seated beside Ben on the stack of timber before Murphy could see his face. He pulled out his big red handkerchief just as Dan Leary, the Mine Superintendent, followed the shifter into the stope. Charley tried to hide his hard breathing as he wiped his brow and face. Betrayed by his own lungs, the old miner started to cough so uncontrollably that a disgusting gray glob flew from his mouth despite a try at catching it in his bandanna. It lay on the freshly cleaned stope floor just out of the reach of Charley's foot.

Murphy came up behind the miners doling out his usual back slaps and fending a cheerful, How's she going lads? Leary followed Murphy sternly looking over everything: the stope timber, the muck pile, Ben, Charley, and Charley's spit. The damned blood specks were there in the glob. Charley could see them from where he sat, vividly lit by Leary's carbide lantern.

Leary had known Charley for many years and laid a hand on the old man's shoulder as he passed behind him. How you feeling, Charley? He asked with an attempt at concern in his voice.

Sensing that he better explain the coughing spell, Charley cleared his throat and responded, and Feeling good, but I'm still getting over a damned cold, Dan. Thanks for asking.

How is your wife and family these days? Charley asked, hoping to change the subject to the brood of eight that he knew was Leary's pride.

Leary continued to look Charley over with his cold gray eyes as he responded in his normal flat voice, Two up at the School of Mines now; three in high school; two girls married; all well. He then turned back to the shifter. How's this place doing, Murph?

Doing perty good. He knew that Leary was well aware of the production numbers, but he still went on reciting the cars per shift being made and the cubic feet of ore being mined. "This place has been leading the stope board most

weeks since Charley and Ben started contracting it." Murphy grinned at the two miners still seated on the timber pile.

Leary only nodded, then climbed up on the muck pile to inspect the ore in the fresh face of the sulfide vein. He extracted the sharp pointed hand pick from his belt and began tapping at the vein. Each chip of ore produced a glistening rainbow of colors, like those of a peacock's tail feathers. Leary was pleased with the high-grade ore, but only nodded as he passed the miners on his way back to the manway. He was thinking how good this ore was going to make his production sheets look for the month.

Murphy hurried to tag after the super, but parted with a rock on the box, lads comment to the miners.

Willie had chosen to stay out of sight, as he didn't yet have the self-confidence to sit down under Leary's cold glare. Instead, he had walked down to the water box to fill the water bags and have a smoke. Unobserved, Willie heard Leary and Murphy leaving the manway.

Leary led in his rapid stride. Murphy half trotted to keep up like an obedient dog. Willie crushed out his cigarette and held his candle so that its light was mostly hidden from the drift hoping that he would not be seen even though he wasn't exactly loafing. Just as the bosses were approaching the water box cutout, Willie overheard Leary curtly say, Tramp him Murphy.

Murphy responded, What? Tramp who?

Pink slip old Charley Martin.

In an astonished voice, Murphy whined, But, but, Charley is one of the best miners on the hill.

Charley was, emphasized Leary, turning on the sputtering Murphy. Tramp him. He's got the con. Can't you see it? We don't need any more old men hocking their lungs out—not holding up their own share of the contract. That's too good of a stope to let go days pay. In another month or two Charley won't be able to muck or stand timber without panting and coughing his head off. We've got enough consumptive old men puttering around on surface with goldbrick jobs. They're wrecking our tons-per-manshift. At this mine, if a man can't hold his own, he can damned well go down the hill. Leary paused for a moment and seemed to soften his voice. Old Charley's too proud to clean shiters anyway. Hell, Murph, we would be doing him a favor. Get him out in the sunshine before he dies. Let me know when he's gone; I've got a younger man in mind to put in there.

Murphy made a weak protest and tried to remind his superior that Charley Martin had helped make Butte Hill what it was. He only got a cold look from Leary before they continued down the drift. Murphy knew what he must do and nodded his head.

Willie had remained unseen by the preoccupied bosses. Shocked by what he had overheard, the nipper hurried back to the stope raise. He was just in time to

hear Ben bellowing up to him to get off his ass and send down the rest of the timber.

Fumbling with the timber rope, Willie hastily sent down the floor lagging. He felt an urgency to get down into the stope to warn Charley. As soon as the last piece went down, he threw some 80-penny spikes into his nipper's bag and scrambled down the ladder.

Charley stood muckstick in hand, as Willie breathlessly recounted what he had overheard. The old miner muttered more to himself than to the others, Tramped. So that's it. I'm going to be tramped today. Without voicing his continued thought, that's what has been worrying my gut this morning. I'm going to get fired after all of these years with the company and that lackey son-of-a-bitch; Murphy will do as he was told. Charley looked at his startled partners; I want him to look me in the eye when he hands me the pink slip. Leary, the cold bastard, he could do it. He could look a man in the eye and never blink when he tramped him. But Murphy, he will find some way to slip me the discharge paper without facing me."

Ben's pale face flared scarlet as the impact of the injustice hit him. He raged like Willie had never seen before. That steel eyed bastard and his ass kissing Irish lackey! They come down here, into the best stope on the Hill, and only look at a man's spit. Perty soon the assholes will be checking out the shit car instead of the ore chute to see how we're doing. We'll shut this place down, Charley! That's what we'll do. Tramp you and I'll walk! Others will join us! They'll be no rock in the box tonight.

No, Ben. If you strike, they'll blackball you and put some bull-necked young Irish crew in here to finish out the stope making Murphy and Leary look good, and you'll be out of a job and no chance to get one. You and Willie stay here with the new man. Make high bonus while you can. I should have quit mining forty years ago, when I had it made. This damned hill never made a miner rich—never will. If this is going to be my last shift, I want to make my round and blast going off. With that, Charley went back to sorting the copper ore out of the muck pile.

Hot tears of anger still stung Ben's eyes, but he locked his jaw and with Willie's help, started to stand the lead-set of timber.

As Charley suspected, Murphy didn't stop by the stope on his afternoon rounds. After drilling the full-face round with the widow maker, they loaded each drill hole with dynamite and a primer. The best-damned-miner-on-the-hill wanted his last blast round to be a good one.

Charley took a last searching look around the familiar stope and saw Willie's feet disappearing up the raise ladder. Men familiar with the job didn't need to talk much. Each knew the others actions and possibly their thoughts.

Aware that they had only about eight minutes to be well away from the exploding blast holes, the two partners made every move deliberate, but not

hasty. There was no time for a fall or for a snuffed out candle while climbing the ladders to the drift level.

Collecting slickers and lunch buckets from Willie, the three miners walked in single file between to the intersection with the main haulage drift. There, they stopped to listen for the blast. Ben started to ask Charley what he was going to do if he was fired, but the thunk-thunk sound of blast holes detonating cut him short and gave Charley the opportunity not to answer while counting thunks to assure that there were no missed holes. With the last thunk and quiver of concussion, Charley turned and led the way to the shaft station without speaking.

Charley and Ben found a pile of sill posts to sit on while waiting for the mancage to hoist them to surface. Ben lit up his pipe and Willie went over to join some of the other young greenhorns in joshing, bragging and playing grab-ass.

The older miners mostly sat quietly with only a nod in recognition as each crew came into the lighted station. Many had worked together for years. They knew without counting who should be there. Should a crew not show, the weary men would start glancing at each other until someone became worried enough to growl, Well where are those sons-of-bitches, and get up to go look for the late mining crew.

The 1800 Level shaft station had a small alcove where a drift had once been. The opening became a storage area for the tool nipper justifying the luxury of light from a bare electric bulb. Murphy had been sitting in there waiting for the crews to come in. It was a good place to hear, but not to be seen. The shifter moved, without attracting attention, into the station and glowered from under the brim of his felt hat at the grimy, weary men. He pulled his metal shift boss's book from inside his bib overalls and checked off names with a stub of a pencil. Satisfied that no men were missing, he approached his nearest crew. Making slow crude notes, he asks each mining crew for a report of the day's work. Lastly, and obviously reluctantly, he came to Charley and Ben. Standing, face hidden in the book, he expected to hear an account of the stope crew's accomplishments without having to ask. Charley just stared at the round face of the shifter without speaking. He wanted Murphy to speak first and look at him.

Still without looking away from the book, Murphy asked, OK, Charley, Ben, what did you get?

Ben slowly and deliberately reported, Mucked clean, stood three sets—two corners, one lead—shot a full-face round.

The other crews had turned to listen to the report. They nodded to each other their respect for a good day's work. Murphy's hand shook as he fumbled with his book. A pink slip fell as he tried to hand it off to Charley unobserved by the others. It landed on the steel station floor at Charley's feet.

Murphy, you dropped something. Charley spoke in a calm and deliberate voice.

Murphy's pink face flushed crimson as he leaned over to pick up the paper. He straightened and tried to push the pink slip toward Charley. Again the paper fell to the wet station floor.

Charley continued to calmly stare at Murphy's face trying to get the lackey to look him in the eyes when he again tried handing off the pink slip. By this time, all the other miners were watching the three. Charley refused to raise his hand to take the slip. He coolly searched Murphy's scarlet face. Then with a steady voice asked, What does it say, Murph?

The shifter threw the despised paper into Charley's lap and turned away mumbling, You are discharged.

Charley would not let go of the moment and deliberately asked, What's the reason for discharge, Murph? Murphy shuffled away without ever looking at Charley. Charley glared at the back of the retreating shifter, then picked up the pink slip. He read aloud, Poor productivity. Charley felt no reason to hold back on his rage. He had no job to protect, Murphy, you mealy-mouthed son of an Irish whore. You had that slip made out before you even got our shift report. Murphy hunched his shoulders and continued over to the shaft gate to glare up into the dark rectangle as if glaring would quicken the mancage. The shiftboss felt the force of hostile eyes on his back and the thirst for whiskey in his throat.

Other miners spoke their opinions of shift bosses and the Company to their old friend, as the mancage from the 1800 rattled and jerked its way to the surface. Charley heard every English expletive and several in languages that he didn't understand. The miners knew the deal. The Company didn't fool them. Seeing Charley Martin, the best-damned miner on the Hill, getting tramped brought tears of resentment, along with clenched jaws, clenched fists, and resolution to quit the damned pits.

Ben didn't usually stop in the bars, but on this night, as he and Charley walked down Main Street past the Post Office, he blurted out, Damn it Charley, let's get a drink.

Aw Ben, you know you would rather go home to the wife and younguns.

No, Charley, tonight I want to buy a drink for the best partner I will ever have had.

Ok, but let's go down to the Yellowstone Bar and stay away from these Irish dives that Murphy hangs out in. I've had enough of that bastard today, and the rest of my life.

Ben lasted for two beers then gave in to the urge to go home and know the warmth and security of family. He self-consciously placed his left hand on Charley's shoulder and offered his right for a parting handshake. The warmth and sadness in their eyes would have to say how they would miss each other's friendship. They had been pards for more than eight years. Working so closely, they didn't need to talk whether it was standing timber to saying

goodbye. Ben turned and went out into the growing darkness and Charley Martin turned back to the bar and signaled for another drink, a boilermaker.

Other miners passed in and out of the Yellowstone making their night rounds. Several gave Charley a knowing slap on the back then moved on down the block-long bar to talk in low tones as they passed the news of Charley Martin's firing. Each repeating brought more curses to the Company.

The whiskey and beer of the boilermaker started to take their combined affect on Charley. Memories of the day and of past days started to confuse and fuse into an overall emotion. Charley had never intended to stay in Butte when he moved there in 1882. Working for the company was just a temporary way of providing for the family until the silver market got better. But then he had followed the hearse three times to the cemetery on the Flats. He had then moved out of the little rented house to a boarding house while he continued to work in the mines to pay off the bills. Working became all that Charley thought about after the deaths of his wife and two younger children. Charley had stayed too long, sweating in the Company's mine and boozing in the bars and letting the years slip by without identity.

Loneliness is a cruel master, Charley mused. It enslaves men to their work and to the saloons for company. If a man could be happy alone, then he could do anything and go anywhere, but very few men can live alone and be happy. Saloons, taverns, whorehouses would go broke and disappear if men could be happy alone.

Charley stared at the face reflected in the backbar mirror seeing deep inside—that evening in 1912. Loosing his job on the Richest Hill on Earth and drinking boilermakers had caused Charley to philosophize and drift back into a fuzzy collage of memories and places. Then one particular memory jolted him and impacted his consciousness so hard that he pounded the bar startling the young man standing near him. Charley Martin then pronounced: I was rich once! I was one of the richest men in Montana. Hell, I helped make Helena a city.

The young man grinned with a Yea, we know old-timer. We've heard that story before. This and all the other bars in town are full of once rich old geezers bellied up to the bar looking for a drink and somebody's ear to bend.

So you think I'm a moocher do you, said Charley. Set em up for the house, Pat. Timber this place, he yelled to the bar tender. All around, both miners and barflies drank with Charley Martin.

Charley nodded to the glasses raised to his health as Pat took the twenty dollar gold eagle that was slapped onto the bar. Through the haze of his jumbled thoughts, Charley recognized that in Butte, he who buys drinks has no enemies and he who has not the buy, has few friends. He flipped down the last shot of whiskey with a neat wrist motion, then chased it with the mug of beer.

Charley Martin was done drinking and musing. Although tired from the long day, he was not ready to go back to his room in the Broadway Boardinghouse. He just wanted to leave the saloon.

Stepping out into the cool spring night, Charley's legs tried to take him east on Broadway toward the boardinghouse, but his mind rebelled and made him turn south toward Park Street with its brighter lights.

A stooped and shabby figure shuffled up along the boardwalk checking the gutter as he came. Charley stopped and blinked, trying to clear his vision. The figure recognized Charley before Charley's mind defined the form as Stewart Clarke. Stu Clarke had been Charley's partner before Ben. An injury had put Stu out of the mines long enough for the booze to get a hold on him. Stu had slipped further from respectability until his days were spent bumming old friends for drinks. The charities fed him occasional meals and a flophouse room provided occasional shelter. Stu's glazed eyes glittered in gaslights of the street as he sidled up to Charley. Charley was always good for a touch and Stu was hard up for both a drink and a meal in that order.

Charley, in his strange mood, was somehow glad for Stu's company. He grabbed the old boozer by the arm and said, Stu, old pard, we are going down to the Chinaman's for some supper.

That wasn't entirely what Stu had in mind, but then Charley might buy a round of good whiskey after his noodles. Down Main Street, the two old miners swerved—down to Silver Street where the noodle parlors neighbored the whorehouses.

Stu's shaky hands were barely able to shovel in the vegetables and noodles. He hadn't eaten a full meal in days. Observing his old partner from across the table, Charley saw something ominous jelling into a thought statement within his own mind. If I don't get off this stinking hill, away from the boozehalls, I'll be just like Stu in six months, that is if the con doesn't put me under first. Booze or the con. Con or booze. One or the other will get me.

Seeing that his partner had reached a momentary fill mark, Charley stated, I got tramped today, Stu.

Stu's watery eyes stared back across the table in disbelief. Damn, Charley, why?

The pink slip said, 'Poor Productivity', but really it's because I've got the con.

Son-of-a-bitch, Charley! Son-of-a-Bitch! You, you can get on at one of the other mines, Charley. You're the best-damned miner on the hill. You can get on.

No, Stu, I'm through underground. I'll be blackballed. No body wants another dusted old fart piddling around on surface—not breaking rock.

Stu cursed the Company, wiped his face and eyes with his napkin, then re-addressed his noodles.

Charley's mind twirled his thoughts and emotions around like his fork twirled the noodles. The fork achieved a bite full. His mind still had loose ends to catch. Both men were silent for awhile.

I'm getting off the Hill, Stu, Charley announced to his old friend. I'm not going to ride off in Dugan's hearse either. I probably don't have many years left, but they won't be spent shriveled up and coughing my lungs out in this stinking sulfur smoke. Charley's statement was as much spoken to himself as it was to Stu.

Thoughts of leaving Butte helped to clear from his mind some of the booze haze. Images and scenes from long ago surged forward; places seen many years ago; places where the sun shone brightly and the air didn't turn to acid in your mouth. The Big Hole Valley was such a place. Stu, the Big Hole, that's were I can go. Charley's excited voice startled old Stu out of his noodle bowl and drew the notice of other patrons in the noodle parlor.

Stu, I probably told you at least once about a placer claim I staked years ago on a gold play I discovered on Miner's Creek in the Big Hole Valley. I know there is gold there. The pay streak is thin but it's only a few feet below grass roots. I found it in when I first went to Bannack in 63. Back then, richer gold strikes were everywhere. I kept that claim because the place has a special meaning to me. All these years, I've paid for assessment work and have had the cabin kept up.

Old Stu's bleary eyes livened with excitement for Charley. Do it Charley, get out. You can do it. You can scratch out enough dust to keep yourself. You can stand the loneliness.

Impulsively, Charley grabbed Stu's arm and blurted out, "Come with me, Stu. You and I can be partners again. I'll show you how to placer mine for gold like we did in the old Bannack days. You can leave the booze here in Butte. We'll be too busy digging, fishing, and hunting to think about the bars. You can leave Butte like me. Stu, this could be a chance for you too.

Stu just sat and grinned through his few tobacco-stained teeth.

Charley paid the tab and hurried Stu out the door into the nighttime Butte bustle, as his mind worked through the new idea. Stu and he could catch the noon U.P. train south to Dillon then hire a wagon at the livery stable and head up to Bannack. Then if the snow was off the pass, they could go on to the cabin on Miner's Creek. No sense in wasting time in Butte. The longer it took to leave, the more likely they would stay.

Meet me at the U.P. station at eleven tomorrow morning, Stu. I've got enough money to get us started. Here take this Eagle. Charley pressed the twenty-dollar gold piece into a shaky hand. We can sure as Hell clean up enough gold by freezeup to get us through winter. Then, we can just sit by the stove and tell lies till spring."

Damn, that sounds good, Charley. Charley's enthusiasm had infected Stu. Shit! Shit! Why not? I got nothing here. I'll do it! I'll go. Thanks, Charley. Stu had forgotten the craving for a drink.

Charley headed for his boardinghouse, smiling with thoughts of a new life exciting his pulse. Old Stu headed toward the flophouse there he too could digest Charley's deal.

CHAPTER 2

Mrs. Holman, landlady at the Broadway Boardinghouse, padded into the parlor when she heard Charley come in. Mr. Martin, the boys from the Steward talked at supper that you were let go today.

Charley then got his chance to speak, Don't worry, Mrs. Holman, I'm leaving in the morning. Any that I owe you will be settled then.

The good landlady then changed her tone of voice, Where are you going? This is the finest boardinghouse in Butte.

Yes, I know that, replied Charley. I'm leaving Butte. If I'm going to die, I want to go where grass will grow over my grave. Charley turned his back on Mrs. Holman and climbed, with deliberate steps, the stairs leaving the landlady standing in the parlor in nightgown and slippers.

Boilermakers and food should have made the old miner fall asleep, but remembered scenes of the Big Hole Valley proved stronger. He traveled with his mind to see the deep rich wild grass rolling in the breeze like waves on an emerald lake. Timbered mountains cradled the valley's flanks like folds of a rumpled blanket. It was May so snow still covered the north slopes of those folds, filling lodgepole and aspen stands.

Charley mentally voiced regret over the past forty years, "The ranchers that brought cattle and sheep into the isolated world of the Big Hole are the rich ones now. How wise they were compared to us miners. How did they know how to capture wealth and hold onto it when we didn't? I could have owned that immense valley as my kingdom if I had just seen its wealth. It was there for the taking, but all I