Risk
By Doc
Part Three
The town was bigger and more prosperous than he'd thought last night. 'Course, he was hurting and hungry last night; everything was looking brighter today. Mules pulling wagons clogged the streets. Horses and riders wended their way through the traffic, and men with women on their arms walked down the boardwalks.
When he passed the saloon where he'd lifted the money clip, he peeked inside for a cowboy with red hair. What he would do if he found him he had no idea, but he looked anyway. The place was nearly empty. Johnny spit out a laugh when he saw the name of the bar: "Strike it Rich". He sure had, anyway.
He ended up back at the pawn shop and stepped in to ask directions. There weren't any customers, just two bored clerks in starched aprons. Johnny didn't recognize them from yesterday. One was cleaning the jewelry cases; the other leaned against the ledger stand smoking a cigarillo, knocking his ashes onto the wood plank floor.
Neither one looked up when the bell on the door jingled. Johnny cleared his throat.
The smoker looked at him. "What do you want?" His double chin wobbled when he talked.
"I'm looking for Camino del Este."
"This ain't it."
Oh, a funny man. Johnny smiled even though that flabby face just begged to be punched.
"Yeah, I figured. I'd appreciate it if you could point me in the right direction." He kept the grin on his face and imagined drawing down on the guy.
The man polishing the cases spoke without looking at him. "Take the alley beside the hotel. It'll spit you out right there."
Johnny knew that alley. It was near where he'd counted his money last night. "Thanks."
He lingered a minute at the entrance to the alley; it never hurt to check out a narrow passage before using it. The light from other end was clear and strong. So he picked his way past overflowing trash barrels until he reached Camino del Este.
And he stopped short. He had seen brick roads before, but never like this.
Stretching in front of him were bricks painted in brilliant colors. Yellow and red, green and white, blue and orange…the street shone with them as they reflected the bright sun. He couldn't help staring; he almost hated to walk on them, but everyone else was, so he did, too. He moved slowly, head down, not wanting to miss a thing.
The bricks, irregularly arranged at first, turned into complicated patterns as he went east. When he got close to the square, the patterns exploded into fantastical animals and birds. The pictures were magnificent; the back of his neck prickled in the sun as he walked around admiring the skill of the bricklayers who created such art.
When the colors muted in the coolness of a shadow, he looked up; the offices of Butterick Mining loomed over him.
This had to be the business district of… he still didn't know the name of this place. Adobe buildings painted in hues of orange and pink lined the street; they had names like "Prieto Dry Goods" and "Prieto Assay Offices". He hadn't heard of Prieto before, but here he was.
Next door to the mining offices a wooden "Help Wanted: Loaders and Haulers" sign blocked the boardwalk; its arrow pointed to Sandoval Freight Office. The door was standing open to a small room with a huge desk. The desk dwarfed the little man who sat ;behind a handmade sign that read "Cletus Beauregard". The rest of the desk was empty except for one stack of papers.
"I'm Johnny Madrid. Junior Butterick sent me."
The clerk frowned. "Loaders and haulers, the sign says."
Johnny pursed his lips. "I can read."
The clerk raised his head and took a good look at Johnny. "What happened to your face?"
"Walked into a door."
"Uh huh. How old are you?"
"Eighteen." Johnny had been telling that lie for so long he wondered if he'd gotten to be eighteen and only thought he was lying. No, he was pretty sure he was sixteen. Maybe fifteen. But it was always good to be eighteen.
"Kinda scrawny for a teamster, aren't you?"
"I figured to be security."
"And Junior sent you?"
Johnny nodded.
"Hmph. Ever been a guard before?"
"Yeah."
The man's eyes narrowed. "You lying to me?"
"Exaggerating, maybe." Johnny's palms were suddenly sweaty. He rubbed them on his trousers.
"Hmph." Cletus Beauregard picked up a piece of paper and scratched some words on it. "Are you any good with that side arm?"
"Yes. And that's no lie."
"Can you shoot a rifle?"
"Yes."
"Ever fired a scatter gun before?"
"Yes."
The clerk quirked his mouth to the side for a long second, then made a few more scratches. When he looked up he locked eyes with Johnny. "You willing to shoot to kill?"
"Yep." Johnny returned the man's stare without blinking.
"Shooting game is one thing. Shooting a man is another."
"I've shot men before. I'm a gunfighter."
The clerk raised his eyebrows. "You're a kid."
Johnny scowled. "You need my gun or not?"
The clerk spun the paper around. He tapped a line with his pencil. "Sign here."
Johnny didn't take the pencil. "What's the pay?"
"Two fifty a day when you're guarding a shipment. More if Mr. Butterick needs private security. If you stay in the bunkhouse that'll cost you a buck twenty five a week, room and board."
"Where's that?"
Beauregard pointed his pencil to his left. Johnny figured he meant the bunk house was outside somewhere.
"How do I get to be part of Mr. Butterick's private security?"
"You'd have to ask him."
"How often do shipments go out?"
"Twice a week for sure. Sometimes more."
"Is the cook any good?"
"Beggars can't be choosers, boy." The clerk shoved the paper at Johnny again. This time he signed it.
The bunkhouse was squeezed between the freight office and the loading dock behind it. Johnny avoided bunkhouses as a rule. He hated sleeping around strangers; more than once he'd had to fight to be left alone. But it was dinnertime and he was hungry. He'd check it out, and camp somewhere else if need be.
He stowed his gear under the pad on the first cot to the right. The room held eight beds, three of them had been claimed. It didn't smell too bad as bunkhouses went; once he got to know the other guys—and they got to know him—he'd consider sleeping here.
When he walked into the kitchen, three men at a small table looked up. Nobody said anything. There was no sign of the cook, so Johnny found a skillet on the stove, spooned up what was in it, and pulled up a chair.
One guy moved over a few inches to make more room for him. "I'm Ezekiel." He offered a hand and Johnny shook it. Ezekiel's grip was strong; he seemed likable.
"That's Clint, and that's, uh…" Ezekiel stopped with an embarrassed grin. The third man growled, "Ewell."
"I'm Johnny."
The one called Ewell glared at him. "What happened to your eye?"
Johnny smiled a little. He was real tired of that question, and to his way of thinking his black eye was old news. "What eye?"
No one laughed, but no one asked him again. Johnny nodded his thanks when Ezekiel shoved a tin mug and a pot of coffee his way.
"Guards?" Johnny asked as he poured his coffee.
"Teamsters." Clint wore three layers of jackets with a filthy bandana tied around his neck. The grime on his hands looked permanent. "You?"
"Guard. Guess I'll be riding with one of you."
"If any ore goes out." Ewell burped loudly. "The miners are threatening to strike."
An image of a snake uncoiling, fangs bared, came to Johnny's mind. "What's that mean?"
"It means they're gonna quit working until they get what they want."
Johnny would have asked what the miners wanted, but was glad Ezekiel beat him to it. He always felt better when somebody was as much in the dark as he was.
"The usual, I reckon. More pay, less work, shit like that." Ewell spat on the floor. "Not like they didn't know what they was getting into when they signed on."
Ezekiel looked confused. "But they don't get paid if they don't work. What's the point?"
Clint took over. "The boss don't make any money either. Nothing gets mined so no money comes in."
"So why doesn't Butterick hire other men to work his mines?"
Ewell laughed. "He'll try, but the strikers won't allow it. I expect instead of driving mules, we'll be trying to get those scabs through the strike line while the miners try to stop us."
"Sounds like it could get pretty ugly."
Clint's smile looked mean. "It will. Men have died. Men will die."
Johnny met his eyes, shrugged, and took a bite of his dinner.
The livery stable across the street looked and smelled like a good one. With nothing better to do, Johnny checked out the horses. Gunfighters shouldn't have to catch rides on donkey carts, and he'd wanted a horse for quite a while. A little chestnut in the corral caught his eye. The gelding was underweight, but looked like he had plenty of git up and go. Johnny climbed up on the fence to stroke the horse's nose. He reached in to rub his neck, and found just the right spot on the horse's withers to make him stick out his nose and give a big horse laugh. Feeling like he'd made a friend, Johnny snuck into the back of the barn. A couple armloads of fresh straw as a bed, his rolled up jacket as a pillow, and a slightly used saddle blanket as a cover suited him just fine.
Johnny woke up feeling like a million bucks. He'd slept so well he was almost late for breakfast, and he hardly hurt anywhere. He checked his gear as he walked through the bunkhouse; it was untouched. Clint, Ezekiel, and Ewell were in the kitchen and it tickled him to think they'd been sitting just as he'd left them all night.
He nodded hello but got only a nod from Ezekiel in return. He ate his bacon and eggs and drank his coffee, then headed out to the loading dock hoping for an assignment right away.
No one was in the loading area. The freight office was empty too. He paced around for a few minutes until the little clerk from yesterday appeared.
"Mr. Butterick wants to see you right away, Madrid."
"The other guys are still inside…"
"Just you. He needs personal security and he needs it now."
Johnny sure wouldn't say no to the better pay of Butterick's private security detail. "Yes sir."
TBC