Chapter 17

I mean ... even the animals don’t shit where they eat or sleep. Animals routinely cleanse themselves ... almost ritually ... get that spot first and on to the next.

Humans revel in filth ... at least ... the ones I met. Ask a cowboy when their last bath was and they’ll proudly mention the sixteenth of August, two or three years ago. Of course, they’ll mention that it was from falling in the creek ... accidentally.

The past was disgusting. Horses ... the means of transportation not involving feet ... dropped road apples every 45 minutes. In the mining district ... the whole of Nevada ... men ... and women ... rode or traveled by horsepower. And don’t even think about walking down a street after a cattle drive.

Raised boardwalks, a convenience supplied by individual store owners, were far less prevalent than the movies would suggest. Many stores were tents and no store owner was going to waste money on a raised sidewalk when the lumber could be used for shelving or false fronts. Towns moved almost as fast as the miners and lumber was a labor intensive endeavor. Nails were blacksmith made and expensive.

A beer was two cents ... and damned awful ... while a bath in first use hot water was a buck. Fifty beers were more enticing than a bath. Besides ... a buck was an all night fuck. (a two dollar whore was high class.) So ... people stunk ... stank? ... smelled of dirt, incomplete wiping, sweat and bad food. This was before the Saturday night bath ... Cologne and perfume? Hoyt’s Nickel Cologne was two and a half beers ... and thirty years in the future.

However ... Seven and I were walking down a dusty, musty street of a no name town on the eastern slope of Mount Davidson. The Comstock Lode had yet to be discovered. I had a thought and Seven said, “Sure. Why not?”

“What?” I asked.

But she was too busy making plans to answer.

“Lessee, We’ll need horses, a couple of mules, shovels, gold pans, lumber, nails. A couple of picks.”

“Lumber?”

“Rocker box,” and she was off again.

“Got any money?” I asked.

“You bet,” she said.

Serious mistake. Ne’er-do-wells populate the streets in big cities and villages throughout the country ... and ... fer sure ... they weren’t gentlemen. There was always somebody looking for easy living.

It doesn’t have to be a good gun when your intended victim doesn’t have one. Hell, the damn thing doesn’t have to work as long as the person without one thinks it might ... work.

Seven operates under the premiss that leaving pissed off ne’er-do-wells alive and kicking behind one is not only foolish but the height of stupidity.

As small a town ... as towns go ... this one was a booming metropolis and the county seat. The local marshal wanted to know why.

“You killed them two boys. Why?”

“They said they were going to take our money.” she said. “You don’t suppose there’s paper out on them.”

And sure enough ... fifty dollars for the pair. The sheriff gave us a “ticket” for Fifty Dollars in gold to be paid on demand.

“Court house ... county clerk ... he’ll pay.”

He didn’t. “Bring your husband ... women cannot legally transact business.”

“That’s your final word?” I said. “Come on, Seven.” As we left I tuened and watched the asshole slip the two double eagles and the single eagle in his pants pocket. He was smug about it.

The sheriff was in...

I told him I wanted to swear out a warrant for the clerk.

He swallowed his chew.

“Why?”

“Grand Theft, malfeasance in office and general sleaziness. I’ll put up a 25$ bounty ... Dead or Alive.”

“What’d he do?”

“Pocketed the reward ... fifty dollars.”