Crown of Dust. Mary Volmer

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      ‘I say I was feeling lucky tonight?’ yells Micah, and a groan sounds from the men at his table, David, John Thomas, Harry and Fred among them.

      ‘See there?’ says Limpy, pointing to Micah’s table. ‘David thinks he’s got some sort of talent for cards, but he only ever wins enough to keep him playing. Now what’s that tell you?’

      She’s not sure that tells her anything, but she hears the word boy wafting from the table and smiles because boy means her, Alex, Golden Boy.

      ‘You listening to me, son? Alex? Could be very important to your future. Partners, you understand, but not equal. No. I understand you was the one found the gold, and that’s most important, no doubt. But can’t do much on your own, can you? Wouldn’t know where to begin, would yah? Thirds is what I’m thinking, with you keeping any nugget bigger than a chispa, as should be. Know what a chispa is? No? Anything bigger than your big toenail, in my book. Now, some will tell you big as the whole toe, but I’m a fair man. An honest man. Like you.

      ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy, ‘cause some would have you sell the claim, see. Them over there—’ He waves his hand in the general direction of Micah’s table. ‘Give you pennies for it. Already planning to scoop up all the land on either side, which is yours by right, once you strike gold. And with me and David claiming side by side, sure to keep that gold in the family, you understand. That’s how I think of you: family. David, too. Said himself you reminded him of his brother back in Cornwall.’

      ‘Jed,’ Micah hollers. ‘Jed, you send that boy over with a dram o’ rum. And fill it good, too. Hell! Can you smell the luck, boys?’

      ‘Here now, Alex—look here, Alex,’ says Limpy. ‘Wouldn’t have saved your ass in the clearing if we didn’t think fondly of yah. It’s what’s important. Family. Trust.’

      ‘Come on, boy! Don’t have all night, and no telling when the luck runs out!’ yells Micah. Alex finds the word family lingering between her ears and a fresh cup in her hand.

      ‘You ain’t saying no to it, then?’ Limpy asks as she slips from the stool. She navigates towards Harry, edges between shoulders and around stools with the nugget pulling her down, making her bow-legged. The racket of the room pokes her with individual sticks of conversation, so unlike the solid mass of sound that met her on the stairwell during the rain.

      ‘Likely to be nothing but pyrite from now on,’ says Harry. She stops short of the table to listen, minding the cup.

      ‘Way it goes, sometimes,’ Harry continues. ‘Fate. Now don’t look at me like that, Fred. You know it too. Get all excited for a hundred dollars of poverty and heartache. But, hell, that’s life, right?’

      ‘You done?’ says Micah, and Alex takes a sip of his rum.

      ‘Just an old wives’ tale, Harry,’ says Fred. ‘You can’t kill luck with hopeful talk. Micah and I went back and it looked rich.’

      ‘What you know about it?’ John Thomas asks Fred.

      Fred discards four. David folds.

      ‘Fred here fancies himself an expert in all things natural,’ says Harry. ‘Tell them the name of your book, Fred, tell them.’

      ‘Hydraulicking,’ says Fred, ignoring Harry, ‘would clear more earth in a week than a hundred shovels could in a year. You watch, if we don’t do it, someone else will. I heard they just got a load of hydraulic tubing down there in Marys—’

      ‘That is bull-sheeit,’ says John Thomas. ‘Woulda been up there for yourself if you’d know’d there was gold.’ He discards one, slams all five to the table when he sees his draw. Alex feels her lip curl. ‘Bullshit,’ he says again.

      ‘A Geological and Floral Survey of the Greater Alta California,’ says Harry, holding his cards in front of his laughter, revealing to Alex a pair of sixes. ‘That’s what he calls it, and that’s all he’s got, other than a bunch of weeds smashed between the pages.’

      ‘I never said I could find it,’ admits Fred. ‘Just recognize a find. Was me that told them Empire boys to stick it out, and look at them now.’

      John Thomas slumps back in his chair. ‘Boy don’t deserve it,’ he says to no one in particular.

      ‘Exactly why we need to buy the claim right up. Follow it to the quick,’ says Fred.

      ‘Jed!’ Micah yells. ‘What about my…W’hell—Alex!’ and suddenly the whole lot of them are looking her way.

      ‘Sure!’ booms Limpy behind her, and she nearly spills the drink. His great paw clamps down on her shoulder and she does spill some. ‘Just take the claim, fellas. Boy won’t care, will he? Don’t know jack about mining and can’t work alone. He’ll take his luck to some juanita in Grass Valley and be all the better for it. Am I right? Am I right? Alex?’

      Limpy’s words chatter back through her head. Alex finds the drink in her hand and a mush of words in her mouth and for some reason needs to deliver the drink first. She holds the cup in front of her, too intent on keeping the liquid level to notice that John Thomas has thrust his leg out.

      Alex is falling, flailing her arms to stop herself. Fails. Collides with the card table. She feels her nose crack and blood pour into her mouth, warm and bitter after the rum. She opens her eyes to red splintered wood and whiskydrenched playing cards spinning in a kaleidoscope of colour. She gulps down blood, tries to rise. Fails.

      ‘Clumsy son-of-a—’ John Thomas begins, and Alex feels the strength of rage surge through her. She wants to stop it, the voice, the tone of the voice, the man speaking. She lunges, misjudges the location of the stool, lands hard on the ground. Laughter bounces off the inside of her head. She opens her eyes to silence, a frayed hemline, thick ankles. Emaline’s cool hand on her forehead.

      ‘Out,’ says Emaline. Out of the Victoria, out of Motherlode, Alex thinks. Tries to rise. ‘No, no, now easy,’ says Emaline, tipping Alex’s head back.

      ‘And Jesus came to the temple,’ Preacher yells from somewhere above her. ‘He came and saw the sin of the Farsees and overturned the tables of wickedness…’

      ‘Emaline, I—’ says John Thomas.

      ‘Out,’ Emaline says, ‘before I decide you can’t come back.’

      ‘Out, out. Can’t come back,’ someone parrots in the corner.

      ‘Forty years to build what was demolished in a day, the word of—’

      ‘Preacher! Shut your mouth and get this boy outside ‘fore he bleeds a river on my floor.’

      ‘Your mouth, Preacher. Shut your mouth,’ says the parrot, and the voice recedes into laughter.

      Alex feels herself hefted. Her knees can only bend. Through the haze she sees Emaline float across the wreckage to John Thomas. Men step out of her way. Jed jumps over the bar and stands ready. The room is silent, listening, but Emaline has said all she will. She nods to Jed, and then to David. They hustle over to flank John Thomas. John Thomas opens his mouth to protest, shuts it as if he can think of nothing to say, yanks himself free from Jed.

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