"Third Stool from the Rear": Part IV

Third Stool from the Rear

"You know that little guy they called Hap who was always whistling along with Peggy when she played the piano in the Rainbow? Sure you do, he trammed for Howard on 7 level for a month or two then worked with Ball in 57 Raise. Well, he won't be whistling through his teeth for a long time.

"George and Big Jack were arguing over the bar about something and Jack let him have it then come around before he could get to his feet and flopped on him...Jack's too fat to fight but they wrestled from the bar to the can and George never did get to his feet...they called it a draw after awhile and Jack popped for the house. Hap and his wife were in a booth with another couple...you ever see his wife?...she looks 40 years older than him...that gal's really been through the mill...anyway, while George and Jack were wrestling George's wrist watch flew off and landed near one of the booths...Hap scooped it up, quick like, and stuck it in his pocket but Dolly was watching him...next day George come in looking for his watch and Dolly told him where he could find it...he had Zero drive him down to where Hap was living...right across from Snuffy's place and nearly knocked the door down...told the old gal to send Hap out with his watch...soon as he got out he told George he was going to get it back to him...George says 'like hell you were' and fed him a knuckle sandwich...only hit him once but he knocked him ass over teacup...Zero said he spit out two teeth when he was on his hands and knees and a couple more were so loose his wife ended up pulling them. Sort of felt sorry for him...never heard anyone that could whistle like him...he'll think twice before he pockets anything again."

Printed page 31.

"Better Knock the Next Time You Drop In"

Vernon "Whitey" Miller and I were driving parallel drifts on the Robinson claim, 500 level. We worked the same shift and blasted at the same time so there was never any real danger of rattling rocks on one another but it appeared that my vein was making a gentle turn toward Whitey's drift.

One day, as I was waiting for empty cars to finish mucking out, I thought I could hear cars running on rail through a fracture between our working places. This worried me. Sound travels a long way in hard rock and the sound of a drill bit chattering in siliceous rhyolite will travel well over a hundred feet if a person listens carefully. The sounds I heard from the fracture were much closer.

In total darkness a person can orient himself in a mine by sounds alone. In 1948 I was working by myself on 7 level of the Amethyst and lost my carbide lamp when it slipped off my hardboil hat as I was dumping a load of ore in a hoist pocket. I went on hands and knees to my jacket where I had a few matches and tried to find a candle, kept for such emergencies, on a makeshift shelf.

I used up the matches trying to find the candle and had no choice but to try to find my way out. Our minds memorize a lot we are unaware of. I was able to walk upright for much of the way by the feel of the ties before dripping water alerted me to the nearness of 3 shaft where I found the ladder and climbed to 5 level. Once on 5 level and past the pillar supporting 3 shaft I could see light at the end of the tunnel and knew John Nelson would have a spare lamp for me.

When I was certain I could hear sounds from Whitey's drift through the fracture I told the foreman we were getting too close for comfort. He didn't believe me but consented to come in with a Brunton compass and see if the vein I was on was changing course. He fiddled around for a few minutes with the compass and assured me the veins were diverging, not converging.

Two days later I walked back to scale down before mucking and a voice resounded from the face. "Jackson, you gawdam bastard." There was Whitey, shaking his head over a gawdawful pile of rock between us. "If you had told me you were lonesome I'd have come to visit," he cried. "You didn't have to make this damned mess."

We ran my mucker around and cleaned up his drift with a word or two about the surveying techniques of the foreman.

Printed page 32. This "Whitey," given here as Vernon "Whitey" Miller, is not identified with the unnamed miner called "Whitey" whose fatal fall was described in the barroom vignette following "Mine Is Not to Question Why" in Part III; the book does not say whether they are the same person, and its stories are not told in strict chronological order.

Third Stool from the Rear

"You get to meet the bird that bought the Silver Dollar? He seems likable enough and his wife is a real looker...she'll draw some trade for him.

"He got his initiation the first week he opened...someone warned him about Woody so he bought a baseball bat and hid it in a cubby hole at the end of the bar...Thursday night Woody comes in, has a beer and goes home...Friday night he comes in again, has a beer and goes home...Willie's thinking he's home safe and stops worrying then on Saturday night he comes in already loaded, orders a boilermaker and shoves Smitty off the stool he wants to set on.

"Willie didn't like it but he sees that Smitty took it good natured so he gets his drink and tries to make small talk...by midnight the big bastard has run everybody off and Willie was afraid to use the bat after seeing how long his arms are and how everybody backed off from him.

"Two o'clock Willie tells him he has to close...Woody says to pour him another and he'll go home...turns three o'clock and Willie's so damn tired he doesn't give a shit if Woody tromps his butt in a mudhole...tells him that's all, he ain't gonna serve him another drink. Old Woody rears up, throws his glass at the light over the sink and staggers out.

"Another night like that for Willie and we'll probably see a for sale sign in the window."

Printed page 33. Neither Willie nor Woody is given a surname.

Third Stool from the Rear

"Bob won't be flirting with the blond waitress in the Miner's Diner again. Ma Chelsey ran him out last night and told him if he ever came back she'd have the law on him.

"Remember when he got his finger cut off in that Kanawah stope? Both him and Hoot got their index fingers cut off the same way...lookin' down at the skip bucket and guiding the cable with their left hands so the buckets wouldn't hang up...those cables get ragged and jerked their hands right into the sheave wheel...Bob thought he'd just mashed his good 'til he took his glove off and saw most of the finger was hangin' by some skin...he's a tough little bugger...pulled the drill steel and powder out and set 'em up on the bulkhead before he went down the manway and showed it to his partner...healed up real good but the stub is kinda pointed.

"We've been stopping for coffee nearly every day after shift so he can make a play for 'Blondie', as he calls her, likes to sit in a booth so she can scoot in beside him when she has a minute...about a week ago the booths were full...hell, they only got three of 'em...so Bob was sittin' on one of the stools gettin' madder by the minute at a bunch of high school kids...they weren't buying anything, just giggling and taking up space so he put that stub of a finger up one nostril and I'll tell you, that got their attention...looked like his damn finger was clear up in his brains...you've never seen such a commotion as they crawled over each other gettin' out.

"Worked so good that time he tried it again last night but one of the kids threw up before she could get outside...Ma Chelsey come out from behind the counter with fire in her eyes, jerked his hand away from his nose and shoved him out the door with a full head of steam. They should hire that old girl as a bouncer at Weeping Willies."

Printed page 34.

Third Stool from the Rear

"Lester and Jaxon will have short checks this month. Yeah, they dumped two shifts last week...it was gassy as hell in their stope Wednesday so they come off the hill and got hooked up with that old gal that used to model for some magazine...she's still pretty well stacked but wilder than a March hare and drinks like a fish...they ended up drunk in the hotel bar and Chet says he's never seen such a party in his life.

"Tobacco salesman was in by the cash register giving Eddie his bill when Lester told him to grab a seat and a drink 'cause he and Connie was going to put on a show right down by the piano...she was nodding her head and had ahold of Lester near his private parts...that poor bugger couldn't believe his eyes or ears...started backing out with his eyes as big as saucers an' when he got into the dining room he picked up his sample case and tore out without his money Eddie had just counted out.

"They were still trying to get an audience for 'the screwin' match of the century', as they called it, when some loggers come in the bar. Jaxon was mad 'cause Lester and Connie had left him out of their act so he started to make trouble with the loggers and was just about to get a free-for-all going when Eddie shoved a ball bat right up to his nose and says, 'Take a good smell of this. The next thing you smell on it is going to be your blood'...Chet said it got pretty peaceful after that...you get those two drinkin' together and you got nothin' but trouble but Eddie knows how to handle 'em...he don't have to take any of their bullshit...he's got a pistol to back up that ball bat and they know it."

Printed page 35.

Third Stool from the Rear

"A double on the rocks, Ed, gotta wash some of that dust down before it sticks to the tubes...that geologist hit the road yet? What'd yuh think of that wife of his? I did some work for him at Sunnyside and he said he'd be back and bring his wife 'cause she'd read some history on Creede and couldn't wait to see the town.

"Old Puffy was in the Rainbow when they come in to see the bar Bob Ford was supposed to have been behind when he was killed...I remember when they had Glen blow some buckshot in one end an' Puffy said she like to wet her drawers when she saw the little holes with the lead shot still showin'...hell, O'Kelly didn't waste any lead in the bar accordin' to Oscar...he said the blast damn near blowed Ford in two.

"They got to visitin' over a drink and she told Puffy she had even got to see where the cribs used to be and the madam's parlor...he thought if she got such a kick out of seeing a whorehouse she should go talk to Jerry Loughran, he was born in one...he didn't tell her that though...I don't think he was actually born in one but one of the madames was a midwife an' pulled him out.

"She was soakin' up the flavor of the town, in her words, when that little cocker spaniel of Bud's come howlin' by their stools with Louella's monkey on his back, holdin' tight to his ears an' tryin' to booger him...Bud got them separated and got the monkey back on its chain but Puffy said the old gal was pretty well unnerved and asked to use the bathroom...he took her around the end of the bar and showed her where to go...said he'd no more than got back to his stool when she screamed bloody murder...she'd run head-on into Louella's pet skunk an' it stood its ground stampin' its paws like it was ready to fire. Puffy said it looked like she lost control of everything right there an' her husband hustled her out...I figgered they'd be headin' back to New Mexico today.

"Remember when the Great White Ape...that's what Puffy calls Louella and it ain't far wrong...anyway, the time she got her monkey drunk and it damned near tore the dress off Cookie? Scratched hell out of her and bit one of her boobs...old Bud slapped her off her stool and told her to never give the monkey any whiskey again...she got right up and had Bud pour her another...next thing Bud knew she had the monkey cradled like a baby as it downed her drink so he cuffed her a good one again...that was when she went back to their bedroom and got his pistol...comes staggerin' out blasting hell out of things and parted the hair on poor old Mary...she was so drunk she didn't know she'd been shot until Andy saw the blood running' down her neck...it just lifted her scalp a little but Cookie saw some fat oozing out and thought it was her brain...Mel came out of his fog about then an' tells them, 'It can't be her brains, she ain't got any.'"

Printed page 36. Louella and Bud, and the bystander Mary who is grazed by the pistol shot, are given no surnames; Cookie, Andy, and Mel likewise. This vignette is left exactly as printed, including Bud striking Louella twice.

"Fire in the Hole and Marmot Burgers"

They called him "Johnny Mac" at the camp where we were searching for gold and the name fit. He looked like a Scotsman, talked like a Scotsman and drank scotch whiskey. He operated a Caterpillar D-8 bulldozer in rough terrain and his mood matched the weather when winter hit.

Friday nights we ate t-bone steaks and unwound. Our cook was a little Italian gal who served fabulous meals for four days then left us on our own on Friday which was also her day to unwind. The exploration company bought both food and liquor in ample supplies and we had a large outside grill where each one broiled a steak to his or her own taste.

Johnny was moody. Those who had known him longest said he was still suffering from a broken marriage so we visited when he wanted to visit and left him alone when he didn't.

On this Friday night he was full of steak, full of whiskey and talkative. His folks had a ranch when he was a kid. A couple of horses, some cows, chickens and all the buildings necessary for ranching. His dad had been a miner before he became a rancher and kept explosives for blowing out beaver dams and rocks that plagued his mower. One day, in late summer his parents left on a shopping trip leaving the two boys and a large sheep dog in charge of operations.

They went fishing in a creek that meandered down a hay meadow as the dog chased squirrels and marmots that had burrows along a bank on the north side. The dog explored further downstream and the boys returned to the house. Marmots had always been a problem for them. They dug holes under the rock foundation of the barn and tore into grain sacks that were stored inside. As they were resting a groundhog sprinted to the barn and promptly disappeared.

Johnny couldn't remember which one hatched the plan but it sounded better than fixing fence or cleaning irrigation ditches. They would fix a live trap in the barn, borrow a few sticks of dynamite and primers from their Dad's cache and do away with the marmots once and for all.

First one they caught was a fair sized male. They used heavy leather gloves to back him out of the trap, friction taped a half stick of dynamite with fuse and cap to his back and lit the fuse. The groundhog took off like a rocket for the hillside with the fuse hissing sparks and smoke as he slid into a burrow. A pause of nearly a minute then the ground erupted with parts of groundhog mixed in rocks and dirt followed by a dull "ker-whoom".

It was an hour before they saw any activity by the burrows. Time enough to fix a sandwich, pinch a blasting cap on a shorter length of fuse and set the trap. They were rewarded with a nose scarred old warrior this time and it required considerable effort to hold him while they secured a full stick of dynamite along with the half stick left over from the first blast.

Again, the marmot raced for the hillside with smoke following his trail and hot tar from the burning fuse stinging his hide urging him even faster. About this time the old sheep dog appeared in the lower meadow and was attracted to the first smoking critter he had ever seen. He gave chase whereupon the groundhog reversed directions and headed straight for the barn. The boys had been laughing up a storm at their ingenuity until they saw a smoking ball of fur heading their way followed by 85 pounds of barking dog. "Jeezuscrist," Johnny yelled, "stop you crazy sonuvabitch!"

He was too late. The walls bulged, two doors flew off their hinges, window glass peppered the yard, grain mixed with years of accumulated dust formed a cloud over the remains of the barn and two boys left for Jiggs, Nevada to spend the winter with their uncle.

Printed pages 37–38.

"We Remember Christie"

I had stopped at the ranchhouse to let him know I was going to Bondholder and would be prospecting the Cascade drainage so he'd know where to look for me if anyone got worried. Billie, his wife, was hanging out sheets on sagging clotheslines and told me Forest was ahead of me with a tractor pulling a trailer. "You'll probably catch him at the second gate, he left only a few minutes ago."

I caught him before the second gate but he was walking. I rolled a window down and asked if he had forgot to put gas in the tractor. I kid him a lot about being absent minded at his age and he tells me he remembers only what is worth remembering. I can see by the set of his jaw he isn't just out of gas.

"I ran over my dog, John, damn fool always has to reach out and strip leaves off the branches, hung on to one and it drug her off. I have to go back to the house and get a gun."

I backed into the nearest clearing and drove him back to the ranch without another word exchanged between us. He had a word with Billie, walked in the house and returned with a rifle.

We pulled up to the trailer carrying a disc he was going to use on a meadow in Bondholder that hadn't been too productive with grass. Christie, the female blue heeler, was laying in an awkward position underneath and it was plain to see the little girl was in agony though the friendliness was still in her eyes and she didn't whimper or whine the way a human would with fractured bones and crushed entrails.

Forest got on his hands and knees, aimed, and put an end to her suffering with a controlled pull of a trigger releasing a firing pin that did its part to send a bullet into brain matter that just a few minutes before had instructed her to open her jaws and grab a branch of an aspen tree that brushed the shoulder of her master.

He handed me the rifle. I told him I would bury her, I had tools in the carryall. He crawled back on the John Deere tractor, started it, and was out of sight before I had picked Christie's last resting place. His Christie was a one man dog, who had protected him from friend or foe and had to be in his lap wherever he sat to warn each and everyone of us, "Lay a hand on old Forest Cadwell and you'll pull back a bloody stump." I had been nipped a time or two when she felt I was getting too familiar.

I dug and I cried. I cried in sorrow for Forest and I cried because I liked that damned blue heeler. I cried more when I eased her into the hole, curled her head around her front legs with bones grating so she'd look like she was sleeping, and the tears ran as I covered her and mounded the grave with rocks.

By the time I put the tools away and headed up canyon in his tire tracks I was sure Forest would have his tractor hooked to the disc to break sod where No Name Creek entered Bondholder Meadows, a six cabin community rich in mining history where his cattle summered. His jaw would still be set and there would be no stains from tears on his cheeks. Old ranchers never had time to learn how to cry. Outwardly, at least.

Printed page 39.

"I Just Put a Little Salt on His Tail"

The elk were high this late October season and the quartet of hunters had chased them higher. Ralph Snyder was on a lower route in a wooded basin while the rest took a sheep trail from the north slope of Baldy Chato. He was at least 200 yards ahead of them but they would meet on Spring Creek drainage. Forest was glad to be out of the wind that whistled in from Mineral Mountain. It was warmer on the open trail with the sun now a third of the way in its arc west.

They had reached a dry wash where the trail dropped sharply by a ledge then followed a gentle incline from the gully. It was here they spotted Ralph, right in the bottom with one hand on the outer curl of the left horn of a large mountain sheep and the other hand stroking its neck. He saw them staring down at them and put a finger to his lips so they wouldn't talk or move and spook the ram.

"Well I'll be go to hell," Perky whispered to Forest. "He can't kill an elk but he can walk right up to a mountain sheep."

When they were properly respectful of his daring feat Ralph stepped back and let the ram fall on its right side as stiff and cold as it was when he found it. A poacher had shot off its lower jaw and the poor old monarch had struggled to the bottom of the wash before keeling over to let rigor mortis and freezing temperatures take over.

Printed page 40. The same Forest named in "We Remember Christie," immediately before this story, appears again here.

Third Stool from the Rear

"Yuh see that hole in the end of the ore bin? Fred ran his motor through it...well, actually he wasn't on it at the time...he was layin' flat on his back by the shop hopin' nobody was in the way.

"Old Neerbeer didn't like the way the wheels squealed on daylight curve so he sent Otis in with a bucket of axle grease to coat the ball of the outside rail where it was wearin' most...Otis was strung out as always and figured since he had so much grease and so much time he'd just grease both sides until the bucket went dry.

"Fred was on his way out with a full load and noticed how the motor fishtailed on the corners then, when he set the brake for the outside door, nothing happened...he was really carrying the mail when he come through the portal and passed the first switch so he plugged the motor...hell, that didn't do anything but blow a fuse...when she rounded the curve by the shop and still hadn't begun to slow he jumped ship...Monte Jay was comin' up the stairs to help dump the cars and saw it was a runaway...he told me he thought it would knock the whole ore bin down.

"Guess they were lucky at that...the track hadn't been cleaned by the dump holes and the brakes finally took hold so the motor just jumped the backstop and knocked a hole in the wall...it was teetering half in and half out and two cars had jumped the track but they had it all cleaned up within an hour.

"Fred was so mad he couldn't see straight...went right to the shifter's shed and told old Neerbeer to take his job and shove it where it fit the best. Pete's gonna take Fred a six pack and see if he can talk him into coming back...he's a good motorman but he sure doesn't take to anyone greasing his track...they fired Otis but it wasn't all his fault."

Printed page 41.