Mr. Monk in Trouble (10 page)

I’ll admit I peeked through my curtains and watched him as he walked slowly back to the center of Trouble. He probably knew I was watching him, too. I found myself wondering where he lived and what his home looked like.

I was too keyed up from the nice date and all that sugar to go right to sleep. So I got into bed and read a little more about Artemis Monk until the excitement gradually wore off, the sugar finally metabolized in my system, and my long, trying day of travel and assisting finally caught up with me.

The Extraordinary Mr. Monk

The Case of the Snake in the Grass

(From the journal of Abigail Guthrie)

TROUBLE, CALIFORNIA, 1856

I
t wasn’t just his job as assayer or his cleanliness that drew attention to Artemis Monk. He had strong, peculiar opinions about the way things ought to be done and he expressed them at every opportunity.

For instance, he believed it should be illegal for prospectors to eat from the same pans that they used to pan gold.

He believed that horses should be prohibited from the streets and tied to hitching posts outside of town so they couldn’t make a mess on a public thoroughfare.

He believed that all the planks in the sidewalks should be evenly spaced from one another and kept dirt free.

He believed people should be required to bathe each day and wear clean clothes.

He believed that spittoons, and spitting of any kind, should be outlawed.

He believed that the buildings should all be the same height and perfectly symmetrical or face immediate demolition.

Unfortunately for Monk, nobody else shared those beliefs. But because he was an important man in town, over time some compromises were reluctantly reached between him and the citizenry.

Sheriff Wheeler made everybody clean up after their horses, shoveling the droppings into buckets that had to be emptied in a specified patch outside of town. It was terribly inconvenient, but as much as the townsfolk grumbled about it, the truth was that people, especially the womenfolk with their long skirts, appreciated the clean streets.

Merchants were asked to keep the portion of sidewalk in front of their businesses dirt free and in good repair. If they didn’t, Monk would soon be out there doing it himself, which was never good for business, since he tended to shoo away customers who didn’t meet his standards of cleanliness.

Tobacco spitting was restricted to the spittoons in the saloons and gambling halls, where Monk was unwelcome anyway, since he abhorred drunkenness and could instantly spot shaved dice, a crooked roulette wheel, or marked cards. Neither the management nor the clientele wanted him around to spoil things for them.

Nobody liked abiding by even those rules, but they were afraid that Monk, the most accurate, honest, and incorruptible assayer they’d ever met, might leave Trouble if he got too annoyed, and that would have been much harder to live with than the compromises they’d struck.

So people in Trouble were well aware of Monk’s often-infuriating peculiarities and made accommodations for them. Some people, though, tried to take advantage of them, which brings me to a case in point.

Roger Ewing, a prosperous hotel owner from San Francisco, wanted to invest some of his profits in a gold-mining operation and had his eye on one in Trouble.

The easiest way to get gold is placer mining, which is sifting through a deposit of gravel, dirt, or clay in an old or active streambed for particles of color. All you needed for that was a pan, a strong back, and plenty of luck. It was a poor man’s mine.

But once you’ve scraped up all the easy pickings, then you have to go after the gold that’s sunk down through the sediment to the bedrock, where it accumulates to create what prospectors called a pay streak. To get to the pay streak, if it’s even there at all, takes some heavy work and, if you need to dam up or divert a stream to do it, considerable financial resources, which is where a well-to-do man like Roger Ewing comes in.

Lute Asper had been working a wide stretch of placer not far from Trouble for a few months. It yielded steady if unspectacular color. The talk was that he’d reached the point where, if he really wanted to exploit the potential of his claim, he’d have to put in far more effort than he already had. Problem was, his gold fever had broken and he was pining for his abandoned law practice and the wife he’d left behind in Philadelphia.

Asper spread the word that he wanted to sell out and soon Ewing came to Trouble to check out the claim for himself.

Ewing was nobody’s fool, as he was quick to tell anyone that he met, which told me that his biggest fear was being seen as one.

So he wasn’t going to take Asper’s word on anything. He decided to show up unannounced to survey Asper’s gold claim. Ewing also brought along his own prospectors to sample the placer in random spots to avoid any possibility of Asper engaging in chicanery to artificially inflate the yield.

And he hired Monk to do an on-site assay.

Ewing, prosperously rotund with a handlebar mustache and a top hat, kindly offered us a ride to Asper’s claim in his rented buggy, but Monk insisted on walking, which I could see surprised and offended our client.

As smart as Ewing said he was, his research on Monk clearly hadn’t extended beyond confirming his reputation for honesty, accuracy, and objectivity or he wouldn’t have been taken aback by the refusal. It was common knowledge that Monk didn’t ride on, or behind, horses or any other animals. His preferred forms of conveyance were his own two feet and locomotives, which traveled a predetermined and level course. He also loved bicycles, and the perfect balance that was required to ride them, but they were very impractical in most situations.

We stuck to well-worn trails as much as possible on our way out to Asper’s claim, so it wasn’t a hard trek, just a long one, especially in the dry heat. But despite the discomforts, I was glad to be out in the countryside and away from town for a change.

Monk was miserable. He chose each step carefully and kept his arms close to his body for fear of brushing up against something.

“I hate nature,” he grumbled.

“How could anybody hate nature?”

“Because there’s too much nature in nature,” Monk said. “There’s nature everywhere. It’s completely out of control.”

“God’s got his eye on it.”

“Then he must be easily distracted,” Monk said, pointing to some bushes and trees. “Look over there. The ground is covered with all kinds of leaves mixed together. It’s intolerable. Someone should clean that up.”

“God does, in his own way,” I said. “Eventually the leaves rot and become part of the soil.”

“Eventually is a very long time and it involves rotting,” Monk said. “Rot is bad.”

“What is bad about rot?”

“Rot rots,” he said. “Would you eat something that was rotten?”

“No,” I said.

“So there you have it: Nature is a rotten mess. But that’s only the beginning. If you take your eyes off of it for one second, it will kill you. Thorns, insects, fungus, worms, birds, reptiles, wild animals, raging rivers, bottomless ravines, dry deserts, snow, quicksand, tumbleweeds, sap, and mud. Rot, poison, and death. That’s nature.”

“It’s a wonder you even step outside of your cabin,” I said.

“My bravery exceeds my good sense,” he said.

“That must be it,” I said.

Asper’s claim was in a wide wash of what was once a streambed with high banks on either side. There were lots of rocks and patches of dry brush where the ground hadn’t already been dug up and scoured for gold. A half dozen prospectors were crouched in a creek that meandered through the property. They were panning the dirt that was shoveled into their pans from various spots on the claim.

Ewing watched them, chewing on a cigar, his face already burned from the sun. It was clear he wasn’t used to being outside for long periods. He was an office man.

The same couldn’t be said of Lute Asper, who was waiting for us on the trail as we approached, a shotgun cradled in his arm. He had a hard, angular face, flinty eyes, and the dark skin of a man who’d spent more time in the sun than in the shade. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, probably to make a better impression on Ewing.

Asper touched the brim of his hat and smiled at me as we approached.

“ ’Morning, Mrs. Guthrie. You and Mr. Monk watch your step. It’s crawling with rattlers out here.”

Monk looked at me. He was ashen-faced. “You didn’t tell me anything about rattlesnakes.”

“Why do you think they call this Rattlesnake Ridge?” Asper said.

“They do?” Monk said.

I knew it, of course, but I had decided it was best not to share that bit of information with Monk before our trek.

“Those colorful names usually don’t mean anything,” I said. “I thought they were referring to the way the stream snakes through the landscape.”

“We’re going to die,” Monk said.

“Not on my watch,” Asper said. “I know you’re afraid of snakes and the like, Mr. Monk. That’s why I’m carrying this shotgun. I’ll keep you safe.”

Ewing marched over to us. “I’m glad you’re finally here.”

“I want to go home,” Monk said.

Ewing held out his hand to us to show us a vial that, in my estimation, held about five pinches of gold. “This is all we’ve come up with so far out of all those pans.”

Monk studied the dust. “That’s gold and not much of it. Glad to be of service.”

He turned and started to go, but I stopped him.

“I’m sure there’s more that Mr. Ewing would like us to see,” I said.

“Mr. Monk might as well go,” Ewing said. “It’s not a very promising patch of dirt.”

“That’s because you’re looking in all the wrong places,” Asper said.

“These are professional prospectors,” Ewing said.

“They’re drifters and no-accounts who couldn’t find water if they were standing in a stream or they’d be working their own rich claims now instead of working for you,” Asper said. “The best pickings are obviously over there.”

Asper motioned to the rock and brush to his left.

“An area that I’m sure you’ve salted liberally in expectation of our arrival,” Ewing said and turned to Monk. “You’re the expert. What area looks good to you?”

Monk took a few steps forward, cocked his head, held his hands out in front of him, circled here and there, stopping every so often to roll his shoulders, crouch, stand again, and sway from side to side.

“What is he doing?” Ewing asked.

“Studying the landscape for telling geological and metallurgical features,” I said.

“I figured that,” Ewing said. “But why’s he doing some kind of Indian rain dance?”

“He’s stretching,” I said. It was a bald-faced lie. I didn’t know what he was doing. “He’s tormented by muscle spasms in his back from all the hours he spends sitting in his laboratory.”

“Is that why he walks everywhere?” Ewing asked.

I nodded. “That’s right. It loosens him up.”

Monk spun around, squatted, and peered into some dry brush and rocks at the base of the ridge. He turned to us.

“I think this would be a good spot.” Monk started towards the brush. “Right here you—”

Asper rushed forward, pushed Monk aside, and fired into the brush, the sound of the gunshot echoing loudly off the bluffs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ewing said.

Asper shoved his shotgun into the brush and, when he pulled it out again, a dead rattlesnake was draped over his barrel. It was the largest rattler I’d ever seen.

“Saving Mr. Monk from a nasty surprise,” he said. “If there were any more rattlers in there, they’re gone now.”

Ewing called his men over and they began shoveling dirt into their pans in the area Monk had picked out and going back to the stream.

Monk was shaken. He staggered over to Ewing’s buggy and climbed up on the rear, as far from the horses as possible.

“Are you going to be all right, Mr. Monk?” I asked.

“I just want to sit here,” he said. “Safely away from nature for a while.”

Asper admired the dead snake. “That’s gonna make a mighty fine belt.”

After a time, Ewing came over with a big smile on his face, holding one of the wet pans.

“Look at that,” Ewing said, keeping his voice low so Asper, leaning against a tree about ten yards away, couldn’t hear him.

Monk peered into the pan and so did I. My Hank had dreamed of coming up with a pan full of color like that. There must have been fifty dollars worth of dust at the bottom of the pan.

“What does this tell you?” Ewing said. “You think there’s more where that came from?”

Monk slipped off the buggy, glanced back at the bluff and, after regarding it for a moment, cocked his head and rolled his shoulders. “I’m sure there is.”

Ewing nodded with satisfaction, swallowed his smile, and walked over to Asper. We joined them.

“I’ve been conferring with Mr. Monk. This claim isn’t measuring up to your boasting,” Ewing said. “But I might take a chance on it if the asking price wasn’t so outrageously steep.”

Asper grinned and set his shotgun down against the tree. “Are you a poker player, Mr. Ewing?”

“I abstain from liquor and games of chance,” he said.

“Good thing you do, because you’d lose your shirt. I can see all your cards on your face,” Asper said. “That must have been some pan you took over to Mr. Monk.”

“It showed more promise than the others,” Ewing said.

“This whole patch is nothing but promise waiting to be fulfilled. If I had your wealth, Mr. Ewing, and didn’t dream of Philadelphia every time I closed my eyes, I’d hold on to this claim and not let go until I’d taken every last flake of gold out of it. I’m selling it to you for a price far below what you are going to pull out of the ground once I’m gone just so I can go home. You’d best settle for that or I’ll find somebody else who will.”

Monk screamed, shoved Asper aside, grabbed his shotgun, and fired at the tree, the three of us scrambling away an instant before we would have been riddled with buckshot ourselves.

Asper, furious, yanked the shotgun out of Monk’s hand. “Are you crazy? We could have been killed!”

“That’s why I did it,” Monk said. “To save you.”