Jasper Mountain (19 page)

“Jack!” Sam called. “Here’s a shot. On the house!”

Jack knew something was wrong. Sam never offered up booze unless a gun was pointed in his face. Jack catapulted himself the rest of the way across the room and slammed the rear door open.

Six miners sat around a table in the small back room. There were no cards, no coins stacked. Nothing but grim faces, and the big Swede leaning against the wall.

Rolf pushed off and came at him.

“Hold up, Rolf!” Digger called from the table. The Swede froze, his flat eyes squinting. Noise and music clamored in from the saloon, a backdrop to the silence. Jack closed the door behind him and the din lost its edge.

“Rolf, I thought your party left,” Jack said, distracted by the presence of the huge man.

“Rolf decided to stay on; he signed up,” Digger announced. “We need another on our team to take Tom’s place.”

“Kinda late to still be in church duds,” Rolf said.

“They ain’t for church. He’s all purtied up for Creely,” Pete spat out.

“Go back to your fancy whores, Buchanan,” another miner grumbled.

Jack didn’t answer. He stared pointedly at Digger who returned his look, edged with guilt and defiance all at once.

“What’s this about, Dig?”

“Nothin’ you need to know about,” Rolf said, stepping so close, Jack smelled the sourness of whiskey on the Swede’s breath. Jack had itched for a fight all evening, but not with Rolf. The Swede could probably kill him with one punch.

“Back off, Olsson,” Jack said with false bravery.

“Jack,” Digger finally said, “this is a meetin'. We’re talkin’ on some minin’ business, that’s all.”

“You ain’t invited, Buchanan.”

Jack turned to the man who tossed the comment. “You got something to say to me, Pete? Then say it, plain and simple.”

Pete stood. “I got plenty to say. Jory lost his job thanks to you.”

Jack was a patient man. This was where it ran out. “Jory lost his job because he’s an incompetent drunk.”

“You aimin’ to tell me you got nothin’ to do with him getting fired? ‘Cause I think I smell a liar.”

“Funny, Pete, all I smell is a hypocrite. You constantly complained about his drinking. Well, the problem is fixed. Solved.”

“And you think you’re the answer?” Pete asked.

“I can tell you one thing. I’ll do my best, and I’ll do everything in my power to make the mine safer. More fair to us all.”

Rolf snorted behind him.

“Why should I believe Creely’s pup?” Pete crossed his arms.

Jack stepped forward, close as one man could get to another. “I think it’s about time we drop the nickname. It didn’t make any sense, anyway. I’m no one’s pup.”

“Prove it.” “I will.”

“Pete,” Digger said, trying to wedge between the men, “Jack don’t deserve our anmimosisity.”

“Animosity, Dig,” Jack said softly.

Neither man moved. Digger stepped back.

“Yeah, that. It ain’t his fault Creely likes him. Why shouldn’t he? Jack’s a good man,” Digger said. “You’ve seen him work. Why, his first week he tried like hell to save Eli.”

“Eli died.”

“Yeah, and no one else carried him up to the top. Jack did. He’s right about Jory. We all know that. By the way, congratulations, Jack. When I heard you was promoted, I figured ain’t nobody deserves it better. Come on, let me buy you a drink.” Digger thumped Jack on the back, turning him around and opening the door.

Jack turned back and faced the table of miners. “If you all think I’m some kind of snitch, running back to Creely with anything I hear, it just isn’t the case. I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I wonder if it has something to do with a petition.”

Uneasy silence blanketed the room. Pete broke it.

“Forget that, Buchanan, tell us about the goin’s on down at the Boarding House. I bet it weren’t discussion on a raise in wages for the rest of us.”

Jack opened his mouth to tell him nothing more than fortune-telling happened when Rolf filled his vision. Rolf. His missing wife. Missing Gypsy wife, Laney. Jesus, Milena. Jack froze. The pieces connected.

Avoiding facing the big Swede, Jack looked Pete in the eye. “Nothing at the Boarding House, only fancy ladies and their offerings.”

The faces in the room reflected varying shades of disbelief. This was pointless. He was exhausted, mixed up, embarrassed. Most of all, he was tired. Tired of everything.

“No thanks to the drink offer,” he said to Digger, leaving and slamming the door behind him. He worked his way through the saloon and decided he did need a drink. Maybe a few.

Sam poured the whiskey, and Jack threw it back, enjoying the burn. Maybe several more would burn the whole night out of him. Jesus, Milena was Rolf’s wife. Why didn’t he figure that out? Only one answer. He didn’t want to.

He watched the teeming ruckus of drunken men for a few moments when Sally, the saloon whore, rose above the crowd and led Mouse up the stairs. The boy pulled back and Sally jerked, practically dragging him the rest of the way.

Anger mixed with shame from the past. When Jack was eleven, Buck took him to Boonville to “make a man of his son.” The whore—Nasty Nan, as the saloonkeeper introduced her—was at least three times Jack’s age and had no teeth. She laughed when she saw his “baby diddler,” and afterward announced to the entire saloon she would only charge him half on account of not being able to feel anything.

Sam poured Jack’s shot glass full again, dribbling some across the bar. “You look far the hell away from here. Good for you,” Sam said without humor.

“Yeah, good for me.” Jack threw back his whiskey and plowed through the crowd, following the path taken by Sally and Mouse.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t bother to knock. He kicked open the whore’s door. The dark, stinking room hid many secrets, the least of which was a man lying naked on a bed. He grabbed the sheet to him and scrambled up against the headboard. Mouse stood in the corner and backed into the wall, like he’d disappear if he pushed hard enough.

Sally sauntered forward, hands on hips, fully clothed, thank God. Well, as clothed as a corset and bloomers made her. “What the hell you think you’re doin'? You ain’t invited.”

“That boy’s seven years old.” Mouse scurried behind Jack, head hung low.

“You don’t bother much about using a kid,” Sally answered. “Least this is easy money. Ain’t no black death ‘round here.”

“You leave the boy out of any of your sick, twisted games,” Jack said, surprised at how deadly and calm his voice sounded.

“He’s off limits.”

“Who’ll stop me?”

Jack reached for his gun, but too late, he remembered. The gun hid where it usually did. In the top drawer of his bureau.

Sally laughed. “Missing something? Other than your prick?”

“Let me make sure you don’t miss something. If you so much as look at him, I’ll be the one you have to deal with. And trust me, Sally, you don’t want that.” Jack glared at the man trembling behind a sheet. “And before I deal with her, I’ll come for you.”

“Why don’t you show me what you’re made of now, cowboy?” Sally asked, her voice soft and low. “The boy can go; I didn’t touch him. Some customers like a watcher, and I figure some education’ll do the bugger good.”

“You’re a sick woman,” Jack said.

She smiled. “You wanna free poke?” She gestured to the man on the bed. “'Sides of bein’ watched, he likes to watch, too.” Her words were welcoming, but her eyes were like her skin: dull, slack, and tired. They stood opposite each other, in the same room, in the same town, yet a chasm separated them. Jack hoped he escaped Jasper before he saw a bridge.

“No thanks, Sal. I’m not buying. Ever.”

“You better remember to bring your shooter next time if you plan to play like a big boy.” Sally unbuttoned her corset, and Jack’s eyes drew down to the small derringer nestled inside. He raised his eyes back up and held hers for a moment. Then he turned his back on her and gently pushed Mouse out of the room ahead him, putting himself between Mouse and her gun.

He tried to shut the door behind him. It swayed on a torn, rusty hinge.

Mouse had never felt so much shame.

Jack saw him in Sally’s room. She’d finally caught him and Jack saw it. Mouse didn’t think he could ever look him in the eyes again. He knew going to her room was shameful, but he didn’t have a choice.

Did he?

Head hanging low, he followed Jack and was surprised when they passed the Nugget Hotel and headed up the mountain. Maybe Jack was taking him to his house? But why? Da used to give him a whipping when he’d been bad. He’d tell Mouse it hurt him worse, but Da had to whip him to raise him right. Was Jack going to do this? Even though it would hurt, he hoped Jack would give him a whipping, because right now Mouse had no one to raise him right.

Jack turned and waited until he caught up. Then, Jack walked so fast, Mouse had to run to keep up, hot tears threatening. He couldn’t cry. He didn’t want Jack to see that he was no more than a big old crybaby.

Jack’s house came into view, a black mass in the night. Mouse wondered what Jack would use for the whipping. A switch? A brush? A wooden spoon? There was nothing that hurt like a whack with a wooden spoon.

They entered the house and the big doggie, Ook, bounded up and licked his face. Mouse didn’t laugh. It would not be right, to laugh before his whipping.

He watched Jack build a fire and Ook trotted over to sit at his master’s side. Mouse kept back in the corner, out of Jack’s way. He didn’t want to be any trouble at all. He watched Jack make a bedroll on the floor, but then Jack gestured for Mouse to take the bed.

He didn’t want to, because Jack would have to sleep on the floor and why should he? Besides, more often than not at the Nugget Hotel, someone took Mouse’s cot, and he ended up sleeping on the floor. He was good at sleeping on the floor. Then he had a thought. Was Jack’s bed where he would get his whipping?

Mouse didn’t know what to do. Jack hiked his shoulders and finally gestured to the bedroll. Relieved, Mouse obeyed. He flopped facedown, hoping Jack would see he really was a good boy. Jack was strong and brave and nice and Mouse didn’t want to be trouble for him. In fact, he planned to stay perfectly still for his whipping. And surely, he wouldn’t cry. Only babies cried.

The punishment didn’t come.

Instead, Jack slung the biggest, softest quilt over him. It felt like a warm cloud. The doggie came and stretched out next to him, making him even warmer. He prayed Jack would forgive him. He hated Sally. He hated that she caught him and Jack saw. He hated that Da left him all alone. The big doggie yawned. Mouse buried his face in Ook’s fur.

The doggie’s heart beat and Mouse thought that was about as good as the piano music. Jack got into his own bed and extinguished the light.

Mouse’s tears came after all. Mad at himself, he cried, just like a big baby.

A
new morning. Not a time for questioning, demanding answers, or judging. A time to listen. To clear the mind and heart. Milena held her velvet bag and closed her eyes, determined to summon all at her disposal to find what she sought. Clarity.

She opened her bag and removed her special set of cards. Created more than a century before by her many times great-grandmother who was also
Shuv’hani,
each card a work of art in its own right. Together they possessed the power to reveal a multitude of secrets from the Otherworld. Anyone could look upon the cards, yes, and admire their rich colors, meticulous detail, but for the cards to speak, for Old Magic to reveal itself, the reader must listen.

These were not the cards she used for fortune-telling. Too precious for the touch of
gaujos,
these were for her and her alone. Her mother presented them to Milena on her arrival into womanhood, as her mother’s mother did years before, and so on, and so on. Created and painted in the old times, the cards were proclaimed illegal in ancient days. Legend told of a crusader, a Christian ruler coming into power in their country, determined to destroy all that was labeled “pagan,” which in reality meant anything unlike his own beliefs. The penalty for possession of such cards, crystal balls, or beliefs other than the ones he held, was death. The
Shuv’hani
of her time held to the precious cards while her people fled, but not before many were massacred, those escaping sought out and burned alive in front of screaming crowds of devout and pious followers.

So the legend of the first
MoortYak
was born, to be passed down and retold.

Milena knew of the legend’s horror firsthand, and when she held the cards, the fragile spirits of those who died to protect them swirled around her. Shuffling them with care and reverence, she knew she held the most delicate of treasures.

She spread them before her in the pattern her mother taught, the Path of the Moon, with all the cards facedown. Each one she chose to turn would speak a truth including insight into herself, the forces circling her, a warning of evil to beware, and finally, the outcome to expect.

She fought the urge to go straight to the end and turn over the final card. As important as choosing it might be, she must travel the Path, step by step. The card’s meanings were easy to memorize, but to interpret correctly, one must be open to receive the messages without the clouded veil of hope, the power of desires, or the finality of judgment.