Credentials didn't count all that much west of the Arkansas in the 1870s; few men in the West were educated for the jobs they tackled. Even the doctor in Leadville had started out life as a carpenter, but after sawing off a few legs in the War Between the States, he'd decided to make surgery his trade because it paid better than carpentry. If you struck it rich, no one ever questioned your right to rule the world.
And there was no denying Chance's natural talents, sometimes the best credentials of all: He was blessed with a golden tongue and a gambler's instinct for which issue to latch on to. When it came to speechifying, he could put Daniel Webster in the shade, or so they said in Leadville.
It didn't take Chance long to figure out where the power was going to be in the Gulch, and which of the men who'd gathered quick riches would have the sand to make a career out of what
Lady Luck had given them. The mines were a stepping stone to power and influence; with his new clothes and old ambitions it wouldn't take Chance long to make his mark in the mushrooming world of silver.
With bonanza came a whole new set of responsibilities for the three owners of the Fancy Penny. Silver mining demanded vastly different skills from prospecting. Shafts had to be dug deep into the mountain, men had to be stratified into bosses and laborers, records must be kept, banking contacts established.
One of the partners would have to learn to be a businessman on a grand scale, that was certain. Bandana understood hard-rock mining, but had a horror of life below ground. Chance was the obvious choice for liaison with the powerful men whose friendship was needed for prosperity. Hart worked easily with people, he was organized, he could draft the drawings needed for the work, but nothing could have depressed him more than being stuck with running a mining operation.
"One year, damn it!" he told Chance and Bandana when they made him the proposition. "As God is my witness, I'll run this place for one year and not a day more. Then I go to Yale!" Hart hated the world beneath the earth; no artist belongs where the sun never shines and nothing of beauty grows, he said. He also hired Caz Castlemaine to be his second-in-command.
The shafts were dug straight down toward hell, hundreds of feet straight into rock and blackness. It was always bone-cold at the top, and hot as Hades as you descended into territory nature never meant man to see. The temperature in a drift could reach 130 degrees and if you worked near an underground hot river, you were in distinct danger of breaking through to water that could parboil a man in the blink of an eye.
The air below the ground was unfit for human consumption; it was too far from the top for any hint of freshness, and too loaded with noxious gases and fractured rock particles to be safely breathable.
Hart learned from the Cousin Jacks, experienced Cornish miners imported to work some of the other shafts, the age-old trick of taking canary birds down into the hole to test the air quality. If the bird keeled over, the air was poisoned and the men had warning to escape. Hart sketched the poignant picture of burly, dirt- encrusted miners ascending from the depths with wispy little filigree cages of songbirds in their toughened hands.
In order to get below, the miners rode a conveyance attached to a cable made of braided steel wire. In the early days, a platform was hung from this cable, then a simple iron "cage" replaced that, but the precariousness of riding either one did not diminish. If a man stuck an elbow or toe out of the cage, his flesh exploded into bloody fragments, smashed on rock and timber as the car descended at impossible speeds.
In the Fancy Penny, the cable halted at a thousand feet, where the main drift, or tunnel, ran east to west along the lode line. All along this drift were cross-cuts, going north to south, and winzes, or short shafts, that connected up to other levels. Narrow-gauge railroad tracks stretched along the floor to carry out the ore once it was dug. There was also an iron pipe that carried water, which was constantly being forced upward from the shaft bottom by a monumental pump in a seemingly fruitless effort to keep ahead of nature's endless seepage.
At the thousand-foot level, rock was painfully hot to the touch. The men were forced to work in breechcloths, with resin-hardened hats on their heads to catch the rockfall, and heavy shoes on their feet to protect them from the jagged floor. Hart installed massive air blowers to force surface air down the shaft to the men, but even that couldn't make the climate bearable. Ice was passed from the mountainside to the miners and the scramble for a handful whenever it arrived was a testament to the infernal heat below ground.
Men sometimes fainted coming out of the depths into the cooler air of the up-shaft—if that happened and they toppled from the cage, their bodies were broken by the rocks and retrieved with grappling hooks. If a man fell into a sump of boiling water, the flesh was flayed from the bone.
Black powder had been replaced in the early seventies by dynamite. A blasting cap, containing fulminate of mercury, could be set off by a spark or by a jolt, causing the dynamite sticks to explode. Sometimes it did the same for the miners, who had a habit of carrying caps loose in their breeches, mixed in with their tobacco.
The men drilled holes for the dynamite and fired them in an orderly sequence; sometimes one of the holes would not go off with the others, and a man needed to show great care in both counting the holes that did go off and in hunting for the "missed shot," as more than one miner died in pieces after finding such a missed shot, by accident, with his sledge.
"An artist was never meant for life below ground, dammit!" Hart told Bandana on more than one occasion.
"I'm not all that sure any man is," McBain replied.
Finding a bonanza and running the empire it builds are two different kettles of fish, some men are born to one, some to the other. The trouble is, Hart realized early on, you never know till you get there, which one you are.
Chapter 52
"What do you really want out of life, Fancy? And spare me the glib answer and fluttering eye-lids that satisfy other men." Jason asked the question in the easy camaraderie that had developed between them during the past months.
The performance had been a good one, and Fancy had gone back to Jason's house, looking forward to the scrunch of fine carpet beneath bare toes, and the psyche-soothing champagne that would help her unwind from the performance. She sat on a chaise, feet curled beneath her, contented as a pet cat.
Trying to decide when to be seduced had given Fancy quite a bit of trouble; she couldn't keep Jason dangling forever. They'd been together a great deal and he'd been patient, but she didn't want to lose him through reticence. She decided to be honest in replying, not coquettish.
"I want to be a great actress, great enough to be remembered. I want to be rich enough never to be fearful. To have absolute power over my own fate... and to have a hell of a lot of fun, before I die."
"Fair enough and entirely achievable." Jason had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie, and was seated with his arms spread out across the back of the couch. He looked expansive, in control, and Fancy envied him.
"And what do you want, Jason? You who appear to have it all. And spare me the vague answers and the manly withdrawal that satisfies other women."
Jason chuckled. Occasionally she got underneath his guard; it was curiously pleasant to be honest once in a while.
"Something more than I have, Fancy. Always something more. I'm greedier for life than other men, that's why I succeed."
"What is the 'something more' of the moment?"
"Would it startle you if I said I am sometimes lonely?" He drew the words out carefully, surprised at his own candor. "My son died, you know. I never told anyone how that devastated me. It's an odd man who doesn't want to found a dynasty."
Fancy didn't answer and after a moment he spoke again. "I would have liked to marry a woman who understands me."
"Surely there have been many applicants for that job."
"I'm a complex man, Fancy. Few women could satisfy my needs."
"What were you like as a little boy, Jason? It's hard to imagine you as other
than you are now."
"I don't know, my dear... serious, studious, driven, I suppose. I was a worrier, too. I admired my father, although he was a cold man. I spent my boyhood longing for his approval... pushing myself to greater and greater feats to please him."
"Didn't you want his love, as well as his approval?"
"I suppose I would have wanted that, too, had there been the slightest chance of attaining it. He wasn't the affectionate sort... never held me or kissed me that I recall. Even on his deathbed, I remember, I tried to kiss my father good-bye, but he wouldn't have it." The man's voice was husky and Fancy paid closer attention.
"Was your mother loving?"
Jason stared past Fancy into memory. "She would have been more so, perhaps, if it hadn't been for my father's coldness. He didn't approve of coddling a boy, you see. He intended that I be strong and independent. Did me a good turn in that, I suspect."
"Didn't anyone ever just love you?" Fancy asked, disturbed by the revelation.
Jason blinked back into the present and looked at his companion. "Perhaps you will, Fancy," he said with a smile that was almost shy.
"What about Tildy?"
"She was too afraid of me to love me. I was a hard man, when I was young."
And not much different now, Fancy thought, but perhaps you have good reason. Impulsively, she left the chaise and moved to his side to kiss his cheek.
"What was that for, my dear?"
"That was just because you've never let me glimpse inside before."
But Jason knew the kiss had been to replace the others he'd never had, and that letting someone inside was the greatest danger of all.
"What do you long for, Jason," she asked suddenly. "Something that money can't buy."
He smiled at her.
"The same thing everyone wants, even you, my dear... to be happy, to feel fulfillment, perhaps even to be loved."
Fancy set down her champagne glass and looked into Jason's eyes searchingly.
"I never knew until this moment that you were vulnerable, too, Jason. What an endearing revelation." He took her into his arms and this time she didn't resist. He'd been very good to her and she was grateful... grateful enough and lonely enough to let whatever would happen, happen.
"You are infinitely more attractive when you're human, Jason," she said, trying hard to want him as she knew he wanted her. "It's very hard to love a man of iron."
Jason made an oddly strangled sound as he folded her close; could it be he'd never let any woman in before? she wondered as she returned his caresses. And what might she encounter beyond the facade? Fancy wound the fingers of one hand in his hair and with the other, she methodically unbuttoned his shirt.
Why had he let Fancy wander into vulnerable places? Jason asked himself the next day. Why did it feel so pleasurable to have let her through his guard? Her responsiveness had been remarkable—for months he'd tried to seduce her, only to be deftly sidestepped again and again. Then, one or two small revelations of weakness had burst the floodgates... how curious that vulnerability should be more seductive than power. How could any man ever understand the workings of a woman's mind?
Christ! she was good in bed. She'd actually undressed him, egged him on, begged for more and matched his lust, desire for desire. She'd opened that perfect body wantonly, yet with exquisite delicacy... touching him, panting to be touched in turn, swollen lips attesting to her fervor, pouting nipples longing to be kissed, pinched, sucked. By God, it had been a night to remember.
Jason handed the florist the hand-scribbled note that would accompany the three dozen roses, and walked to his carriage whistling a tune from Fancy's show. Maybe he'd produce her next show himself, find a vehicle to showcase her particular talents... he certainly didn't intend to leave her in the clutches of that amateur Glick. There was no reason for her to need a manager, when he could simply open whatever doors there were that needed opening. A few well-placed introductions and the knowledge that she was under Jason Madigan's protection would be all that was required.
Chapter 53
Chance thought it best to stay on cozy terms with all five of Leadville's prosperous banks, as it would remain to be seen which one would take the most liberal view of his real estate aspirations. Now that the Fancy Penny was starting to pay off big, land seemed as good a place as any to start an empire. Haw Tabor was president of the Bank of Leadville and a major voice in most of what happened in the town.
Chance checked his new timepiece and watched the doorway of the Clarendon Hotel from his place in its lobby. Most of the important business in Leadville was consummated in the Clarendon's large reception rooms, or at its red-plush bar.
Tabor shook the hands of three or four prosperous-looking men as he made his way across the lobby to the overstuffed armchair Chance occupied. He, too, had his eye on a political future. He pumped Chance's arm firmly before sitting, high-signed to a waiter, and pulled out a cigar before settling in to business.
"Damnedest mess out there you ever saw," he began jovially. "So much building going on you can't stand five minutes on the street corner for fear somebody'll put a roof over your head."
Chance smiled and ordered a drink of his own. He had an agenda in mind for this meeting.
"What do you hear about the Bland-Allison Act, Haw?" he asked casually. Tabor was reputed to have powerful friends in Washington who funneled him information.
"The word is Congress will pass the act whether or not President Hayes vetoes."
Chance raised an eyebrow. The Bland-Allison Act was a compromise, designed to pacify western silver interests by allowing two to four million dollars of silver to be coined each month. The eastern establishment fought for gold; the western financiers fought for silver, but at least this legislation would mean about half of the silver mined each year could be moved from commercial use to government, which would probably result in rising silver prices.
Haw leaned back in his chair as he spoke. "The good old boys on Wall Street are still pushing to keep the gold standard and give silver the boot, but we've got some firepower in our camp too."
"I've been thinking, Haw," Chance replied quietly. "It wouldn't hurt if we considered organizing some sort of 'Silver Alliance' to keep an eye on things."
Tabor's ears perked up. McAllister had a good head on his shoulders and he was making a name for himself in the Republican party locally. He was unschooled in finance, of course, but then who among them wasn't?
"You mean a kind of club for the big silver boys?"
"I mean an organization to watch whatever needs watching. To keep silver interests in the newspapers, maybe to lobby for us in Washington. It might help us keep a consensus among our own, as well. You know miners are an independent lot—they don't work easily in double yoke, just because they suddenly get wealthy. The backers of the gold standard are rich and well organized. We're just rich."
Tabor smiled at Chance's shrewdness. "Good point, McAllister. Maybe a group of similarly minded men could watch out for our best interests better than individuals. You willing to spend some time getting such a project off the ground?"
"If that's the way to get it done, I am." Chance wondered, as he said it, how his taking more time away from the mine office would sit with Hart, then dismissed the thought, certain his brother would understand.
Haw Tabor left the meeting with a cautious interest in Chance McAllister. He'd been watching the young man at town meetings and mine owner gatherings for some time now. He himself intended to be senator of this new state, so he viewed Chance's political ambitions with a keen sense of appraisal. McAllister was young and most likely reckless; yet any man who'd ever played poker with him knew he was a contender. He was damned plausible too—handsome as hell, with a manner that could charm the birds from the bushes. He'd bear considerable watching.
Hart listened to Chance's recounting of his conversation with Tabor with amusement.
"How much do you really know about this silver-versus-gold controversy
you're getting mixed up in?" Hart asked, with his feet propped up on the mine manager's rolltop desk. The shift was over and his own day had ended a few minutes before; he was tired and had been gladder than usual to hear the shift whistle blow.
Chance grinned. "Not a whole hell of a lot, to tell the truth, bro. But I figure I can learn real quick if it'll get me in tight with the power boys."
Hart shook his head. "And you just assume you're supposed to swim with the big fish."
Chance sat forward in his chair and looked earnest. "Listen, bro. We're going to be up to our asses in silver pretty soon now. If the pro-gold men have their way, all U.S. currency will be backed by gold, and silver won't be worth piss-all.
"I'd be the first to tell you that banking isn't my long suit. But dealing with gamblers—and that's all they are, Hart, heavy hitters —why, that's right up my alley. It's plain as the nose on your face, there's no faster way to make a name for yourself than getting in tight with the power brokers. There's a lot of land out there in the Mosquitoes that's got silver in it, and there's a lot more real estate right here in Leadville that can be turned into money if we just get in on the ground floor. The choice of who gets access to that real estate is going to be in the hands of just a few men, and my chance is as good as any to be one of them."
Hart shook his head again, and chuckled. "I guess you've got to aim high if you're ever going to get off the ground. Just don't get so big for your breeches Bandana and I will have to make an appointment with your secretary to see you."
Chance grinned again and Hart laughed aloud. "You sure do have the right smile for politicking. Damned if you couldn't sell corn to Kiowas."
Chance was relieved by his brother's approval. "And that's the very least of my assets, bro. You just wait and see."