Radiation and Revolvers

The Claim

240 acres. That's the size of the chunk of land the Arizona claims office said belongs to a "Mr. Bret Zimmerman."

That was 3 long years ago. After swinging a pick half a million times into every rock on that claim, and coming up with nothing but dust, it begins to gnaw away at your sanity. You start getting jumpy; maybe this next dynamite blast will reveal a million dollars in pure gold. Maybe this next swing of a pick won't make the same dull thud of hitting lead. Maybe I should open a lead mine and sell bullets instead.

I have to get away from the claim for a bit. See another human face for the first time in a year. Supplies are good, so it's a social stop only.

I hitch up a riding harness to my old steam-powered mule, kick it good and it chugs to life. It's a short ride to the camp on the other side of the mountain. A loud boom heralds my arrival to town, as they blow another side of the mountain off, and I can see the big black veins of coal from 5 miles off. I simply shake my head at my piss-poor luck and wipe the sweat from my brow. It's a hot day for mid-May, so I head to the local bar for a chance at some water, or maybe even a severely overpriced beer. Walking towards the shack with broken windows and a tiny sign full of bullet holes indicating the building was a pub, I stroll inside. Half a dozen blackened, oily faces peer up from their tables. It's not a bad crowd for midday, but the mining company must be working on shutting the mine down the easiest way they know how; put miners out of work. Walking to the bar, nobody pays me any mind. A sign above the bar proclaims beer may not be purchased under company credit, but I have my own money. Pulling up a  stool, I wave the bartender over. He's a quiet man at first, but having been in this watering hole a few times, he's gotten comfortable around me. "Well if it isn't the worlds foremost lead miner! How the hell are you Bret?" he asks. I smile and answer "I'm doing mighty fine, Slim! I thought I had a piece of gold the other day, but it turned out to be some of that damned iron pyrite stuff. I swear, if fools gold were worth a penny a pound, I'd be the richest man in the country with all that stuff I've dug up." Slim brings me a cold beer in a clean glass, rare for this camp. I scope the room and notice a group playing cards in the darkened corner. A sizable pot of chips sits in the middle of the table. One of the men has a clean look to him, so I warrant he's a traveler or such. The other two are black faced miners, but I recognize them even under the soot. Jaimè and Gregory Martino. Two miners who learned you can pay off your company store debt by winning traveler's money in poker. They were notorious cheats, and judging from the sweat this stranger has on his brow, they were plying their trade well. I laid my dollar on the bar, and picked up my drink and walked over to the empty chair at the poker table. The brothers paid me little mind except for a courteous nod in my direction. The stranger, however, can't seem to stop talking. The man is a bit older, 50 or 60, wearing a dusty old coat and top hat like those English fops wear back east, but this guy has seen some miles. "Well hello, hello! I do hope you're here to rescue me from these card sharks... Mr....?"

It took me a moment to realize the man was speaking to me. "Zimmerman, but just call me Bret." I answer the man. "Well Mr. Bret, I am Jonathan Graham, purveyor of tools and surveyor of fools, although this time, it seems I am the fool for being talked into this one... You know the saying: a fool and his money are easily parted." I sit down in the creaking wooden chair and nod. "I see, Mr. Graham. Who's been dealing?" I smile courteously. "I believe it has been this "Jaimè" fellow" he responds. I nod again and settle in. The sound of a steam engine flying overhead announces the departure of the morning shift's coal. A steam whistle blows and the shifts get to go on break for a time until the next airship shows up. I watch the two brothers take this poor fool's money for a bit longer before I take my hat off, and put my money on the table.

I get dealt in and I look at my cards. I got a 10 of spades and a 2 of clubs, or as we call it out here, "jack shit." I push my hand into the center of the table along with my couple of chips for the blind. One of the Martino brothers subdues a chuckle and tries to cover it as a cough. The game continues like this for some time, but I don't even care. I'm not looking at the cards. I'm looking at the way Gregory plays with his mustache when he gets a face card. I'm looking at the way James taps his left foot quietly when he's bluffing. Even Mr. Graham plays with his ear lobe when he thinks he's got it made.