On the Road Again Flint MurdockChapter 11 Cat Mouse
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On The Road Again: Flint MurdockChapter 5: Hither & Yon free porn video
While Autry was based in Helena, he was a Territorial Marshal responsible for Lewis and Clark County and several surrounding ones. One of his current concerns was a prospective new gold mine a few miles north of Helena. It was a recent claim, not too far from the already successful Gregory Consolidated Mine and Works.
The site was an early summer discovery that was still generating some excitement around Helena. Supposedly some big-time bankers from Chicago were considering investing in what the owner of the claim was calling the Miracle Mine.
Some folks in town were looking to hire on, to work the mine if the money came through. Hardware stores and lumberyards and other businesses would be eager to outfit the operation. And of course, the three madams and their sporting ladies would be looking forward to new customers. To more money circulating around town.
Autry told Cayuse and me, “Gregory Consolidated is under Jewish ownership and there’s never been a peep of trouble there. But this new mine ... well, a prospector from California filed a claim on land that no one else has taken a second look at for over twenty years.”
I said, “Who is he?”
“Name of Gil Olbaum. Hard-looking man; says he was one of the first to find gold in California.” Autry shrugged, “Could be, he might be a true sourdough.”
“What’s involved in filing a mining claim?”
“It’s better regulated than it was during the ‘49 gold rush. There weren’t any laws covering mining claims back then. So people just made up their own rules. The way I understand it, in California they ended up with some version of the Mexican mining law. Which meant if you found it, and mined it, you owned it.”
“What about now?”
“Congress passed a law — they called it the Mining Act of 1872. It basically says that if you’re the first one to put public land to a beneficial use, the property becomes yours.”
He frowned, trying to remember something. “I think the legal term is ‘prior appropriation’ which is sort of like the Homestead Act except for mineral rights.”
“And this Olbaum filed a claim for the Miracle Mine?”
“Yes.”
“What’s bothering you?”
“Well, he came out of nowhere. Brought his own mining engineer to run the tests. On land that no one else has been interested in for years and years. And those investors are in Chicago. What brings a California mining operation and Chicago bankers to Lewis and Clark County?”
“You don’t see any connection between the axe murders and the Miracle Mine do you?”
“Oh no. The claim was filed months ago. No, I don’t see some vast conspiracy. Two unrelated events — one tragic, one puzzling.”
“How big a claim is it?”
“Fairly good-sized. Over 200 feet wide and more than a 1,000 feet long. It’s a Hill claim which means just what it sounds like.”
I could sympathize with Autry’s uneasiness. Sometimes in our business a gut feeling was all there was to go on.
Cayuse and I continued our visible patrols in the three saloons — upstairs and down. The three owners seemed to appreciate our diligence. Chicago Joe and Crazy Belle in their full-length dresses. Chicago Joe’s with jewelry pinned all over. Patcheye Osgood always wearing what looked to me like a man’s suit, but Molly told me it was tailored for a woman. A jacket and vest and pants.
Back in Laramie, back when I first signed up for the Cavalry, I paid a local gunsmith to reconfigure the trigger guards on all three of my weapons. My Parker side-by-side 8-gauge. The 1873 lever-action Winchester, and my Peacemaker — a 1873 Colt Single-Action Army revolver.
The plain fact was that my fingers were just too big, too thick. I could certainly reach the trigger, but it just took too long to squeeze my index finger into position.
I still remember the specialist — he was an elderly gent from Sweden named Emil Svensson. Liked to nip at his aquavit pretty steady, but I never saw him drunk. The last day, when he had finished reworking my weapons, and I had made the final payment, he poured me a small glass.
Can’t say as I liked the taste all that much — it sort of reminded me of rye bread in a way — but I appreciated the gesture. A sort of civilized way of conducting business.
And, before he started working on my gear, he made one suggestion that I hadn’t thought of. “Wyoming has a lot of mountains. The elevation is pretty high in some places.”
I frowned, not sure where he was going.
He said, “Gloves.”
Ah, of course. I would be wearing winter gloves and circumstances might not allow time for me to take them off before some gunplay erupted. Although then, as I do now, I much preferred to avoid a fight in the first place.
But I agreed with Emil and told him to make the modifications large enough to accommodate winter wear.
Our first week in Helena, Emma had somehow managed to acquire a dog, a stray. We’d almost always had one or two back in Indianapolis, so it didn’t surprise me. This guy looked like he had some wolf in him. Maybe coyote, but I’d guess a not too distant ancestor had been a wolf. He’d been living rough; his coat was a little mangy and his ribs were showing. But, knowing Emma, she’d fatten him up, groom him, re-domesticate him.
Molly said, “What’s his name, honey?”
“Smokey Lonesome.”
“Of course it is.”
“And Smokey already told me he’s looking forward to California.”
When we were still in Little River, back when Rebecca had first started managing the sporting ladies for Mrs. Chambers, she gradually got to know them. Became fond of them, friends even, and pretty close with a couple of them.
Rosie followed suit and the process was now repeating itself in Helena.
One morning when all of us were at breakfast in the Lenoir, the ladies were discussing the prostitutes, their lives, their struggles.
And how some of the customers, mostly the younger ones were too shy to express their desires. To say what they wanted to do upstairs. But the policy was firm — explain your needs or go elsewhere.
Then Rosie said, “Helena men don’t got any more imagination than them back in Little River.”
Rebecca nodded, “They just want a standard poke, nothing fancy.”
“Wet their carrot.”
“Set their post.”
“Wiggle their bean.”
“Squirt their squirt.”
“Prod their pizzle.”
The Gilmore Girls laughed. So true.
Then Rebecca said something that she had told me back in Little River, “These Helena sporting ladies all got a story, but it’s all pretty much the same story.”
Riles sat back and clapped her hands together, “Rebecca, that is so true! And profound too.”
I had known two dwarfs, a brother and sister, back in Indianapolis. They were in sixth grade when I met them — Woodrow and Linda Guthrie. I was a third grader and already a lot taller than them. Of course, I was taller than most of their classmates too.
One morning at breakfast, Molly said, “It’s a shame how cruel some kids are. Tormenting those poor Guthrie kids.”
Riles and Emma looked at me, but didn’t say anything. Even back then as an eight-year old, I understood that I’d been given a message. Maybe not an assignment; but that particular conversation hadn’t been just idle mealtime chatter.
That morning, I fell into step with the Guthries on the way to school. I had to shorten my stride and I tried not to make it noticeable. Linda smiled up at me, “You’re a big one.”
Her brother nodded, then reached for her hand as three sixth grade boys trotted to catch up with us.
Ron Lape was the leader; everyone in school knew he was nasty. A bully. He was big, but fat, sort of blubbery. He struck me between the shoulder blades with the heels of both hands, “Beat it, kid. I wanna talk to my little girlfriend.”
I guess I had known it was coming the second Woodrow grabbed his sister’s hand. My grandfather, Clive Gilmore, had told me, “Don’t get in fights. You’re bigger and stronger and quicker than most other kids. But if you can’t back down, hit ‘em first and hit ‘em hard.”
I was carrying three books with an old leather belt wrapped around them. I dropped them on the sidewalk and smashed my fist into Lape’s nose all in one motion. He sailed through the air and landed on his fat butt. But I was already slapping Mike Rietz in the face, once, twice, back and forth, back and forth.
Lape started yelling at me; Rietz was crying now and I faced the third guy, whose name I didn’t know. He turned and ran off without a word.
I walked the Guthries to school every morning for about a week. And they didn’t have any more troubles with those three punks. Not that their lives were any easier, but at least there was that one problem I could resolve. And I did.
The Gilmore Girls never did mention anything, but I realized later that they had to have heard about it. And a couple of years after that I figured out that they had approved of my actions, but didn’t see any need to comment on the subject. Even at eight years old ... well, it was all part of the life lessons they were teaching me — try to figure out the right thing to do. And then do it.
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