Players:
NPCs:
* Mercantile Owner-Cripple Creek Sheriff Byron Marx
Summary: Marlowe reopens his mine, does some shopping, stops claim-jumpers
Date: February 5-8,1884
Settling In?
Cripple Creek, CO
February 5, 1884
He had gone down to Cripple Creek the next day, leading the black over the
narrow, icy trail. They needed supplies, man, horse and wolf, and he was
headed down to get them.
The Mercantile was dark and dusty..Winter was not the height of the
season, and the dour keeper didn't keep a lot of excess stock on hand.
Recognizing the 'breed from his infrequent trips to Cripple Creek, the sour
keeper checked his books, and grunted in disgust seeing nothing owed.
Marlowe moved up and down the aisles making a list; frying pan, dutch oven,
half a dozen new drills, a gold pan..a file and a whetstone. He added a
dozen cans of peaches, tinned beef, a large ham and a side of bacon to the
list, then scrawled in almost as an afterthought, a fifty pound bag of beans.
Also noted was a case of dynamite, blasting caps and a roll of 1-1 fuse..one
inch in one second. Scanning the list, the shopkeeper asked, "Opening your
mine again?" His only reply was a cold look and a grunt, as the 'breed
counted out a stack of coins, some new, some worn. Looking over the stock
of ammunition, he reached for two boxes of waxed paper shells for the big
ten gauge, adding them beside the coins. "next time I come down," he growls
in a sandpapery voice, "I'll be wantin' five boxes of fourfifty boxer
cartridges." The order raised the clerk's eyebrow as he gathered the
supplies, bagging them in burlap expertly..
Shopping done, Marlowe fixes the bags to the stallion with a rope harness,
balancing the weight, and the pair headed back up the trail.
February 6, 1884
Nothing today..He had opened the shaft another six feet, mucking out the
fall in the morning. There was not that much, after all the shaft was small,
barely four feet high and wide. He had had to work on his knees, and bent
over besides, or on his stomach in the cold, damp muck. Water was seeping
from someplace and the 'breed was drilling towards that.
A final blow with the single jack didn't sound right to his numbed ear, and
Marlowe frowned. Striking the drill again, it slipped from cold fingers and
right through the wall of rock. "Damn it," he cursed.. the first words he had
spoken aloud that day. Well, tomorrrow would be time enough to find the
drill, probably just a pocket in the rock. Setting his charges, the 'breed
spliced the web of short fuses to a longer one, rolling it towards the ehd of
the tunnel. He lit the fuse with his candle, and headed for the rude cabin to
await the explosion and have dinner.
February 7, 1884
Clearing out the muck from the previous days' blasting, Marlowe found a
crack in the way, opened perhaps a handsbreadth in the hard granite.
Sticking his candle through, he peered through the opening to a natural
grotto, the dark granite thickly veined with quartz. The quartz was
spiderwebbed with gold, running back at a tangent, and on the floor a small
spring bubbled, seeping perhaps a cup of water an hour. Here then was the
source for the nuggets that had led his partnerr and he to this place..and
what could be an offshoot of the Mother Lode.
A days worth of hard labor netted the 'breed three large ore sacks of raw
ore, put aside for another trip to Cripple Creek the following day.
February 8, 1884
"Two thousand a ton," the Assayist said with rising excitement, "best we've
had in a long time!" Impassively, the 'breed nodded, paid his assay fee, and
left to add to his supplies. While he was making his purchases, the Assayist
was yammering excitedly in the Ophir Saloon about this find, and the
'breed's seeming indifference to his sudden wealth. One pair of hard looking
men looked at each other and slipped out of the door.
Perhaps an hour later, this pair approached the 'breed as he was loading
supplies. 'Howdy," one said, frowning when his greeting was rebuffed with an
icy look. The second man muttered under his breath, and shoved an official
looking paper at Marlowe, "We're taking your mine under Article Six, Section
Eight of the federal Code." he states, stepping back and putting his hand on
his holstered Colt.
The 'breed just lets the paper fall to the icy street, stepping away from
the stallion. "The hell you say." he growled raspily, "You ain't taking
nothing." The Colt's were starting to clear their leather when the big ten
boomed, the first shot nearly decapitating the second man. The second deep
roar came on the heels of the first, doubling the first man over before
exiting his back, taking several vertabrae with it.
With no trace of emotion on his scarred face, the 'breed was calmly
reloading when Sheriff Marx pounded up, gun in hand. But, he put it away
when the shopkeeper stuck his head out of the door, "Them two was trying
to jump the 'breed's claim, Sheriff."
Marx narrows his eyes at the 'breed in question, "That right boy?" he
growls. Marlowe just bent to retrieve the paper, handing it over without a
word, and turned to lead the stallion back to the cabin. 'Now see here!" the
Sheriff bellowed after, his voice choking off as Marlowe turned back to fix
him with that glacial stare, "Never mind..I know where to find you," the
Sheriff mumbles, backing off from that look.
