The Dragon of Cripple Creek by Troy Howell

Author:Troy Howell
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Amulet Books
Published: 2011-03-08T16:00:00+00:00

“C’M’ERE.” REX WAS AT THE WINDOWS, parting the sheer curtains. “Crank your head that way,” he told us. “See them folks?”

Through a space between buildings, we saw several people who appeared to be protesters, carrying signs. I tried to read the signs, but my glasses were fuzzy.

“What do the signs say?” I asked.

Rex handed me some small field binoculars that were lying on the sill. “Have a look-see yourself.”

After focusing the lenses, I read, “‘That’s … far … enough. How … low … can … they … go?’” I turned to Rex. “What’s it all about?”

“See where they are?”

I looked again; they were near the hoist house. “The Mollie Kathleen!”

“That’s right, sister. And what’s the Mollie Kathleen got that they ain’t got?”

The answer was obvious.

“How low can they go?” said Rex, raising an eyebrow. “Seems somebody”—the word came out singsong—“started this fancy talk about the mine not ownin’ the gold ’cause it’s outta their reach—legality-wise, that is, and geographically-wise, too. Bein’ people’s always tryin’ to find a way around things to get what they want, the idea caught like wild fire, and they run with it. How low can they go and That’s far enough, meanin’ if there’s gold way down deep, it’s first come, first served.”

I was stunned. As wide open as my mouth fell, I’m sure my gold tooth was showing up loud and clear. I was that somebody. I had come up with the idea. Just a short while ago.

“Look at it this way: If a juvenile can find a chunk of gold, anybody can. Everybody can.”

“But … but …” I shook my head in a daze.

“Ain’t you heard the news?” Rex asked us.

Our faces told him otherwise.

“I’ll be a paisley-patterned horned toad.” He dropped the curtains, picked up the TV remote, and hit power. A cartoon came up; he scanned the channels, got the weather, a black-and-white western, a few soaps, a hallelujah gold-and-glory sermon, a crime solver, a jewelry commercial, a football game, and three talk shows. Leaving the TV on one of the talk shows, he hit mute and said, “That there’s a local channel. Just missed the top-of-the-clock news. It’ll come back around.”

He straddled an arm on the couch. “Yup. Thanks to that gimme-the-gold flix, the one with all them itchy fingers reachin’ for their golden opportunity. And thanks to Rose Thorn-in-the-Bud Robbins.”

“Her!” I exclaimed. “What’d she do?”

“Not much—yet. She’s been after the big story for years, the one that’ll send her to the broadcasting big top. She’d do anything to get there.” He paused, looked at the time on the microwave, and said, “Y’know, folks, the questions are stackin’ up. What’re you doin’ for dinner?”

Dad said, “You still haven’t explained why you brought us here. It’s getting late—”

“You’ll be needin’ dinner sometime or another, right?”

Dad frowned. “We haven’t even had lunch yet. Really, Rex—”

“It’s on me, then. I’ll call in the order. Take just a minute. You can eat whilst I explain.”

• • •

The Digs, Grub ’n’ Grog, was right next door, due east, as Rex put it.

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