[W. Fay Boericke, The Goldfield Way, Sunset, November 1907]

 

The Goldfield Way

By W. FAY BOERICKE

            RHYOLITE in midwinter, with the snow five feet deep on Bonanza mountain, with an icy wind howling across the flat, with every road well nigh impassable, was not an attractive place. Add to this the alarmingly low ebb of my pocketbook and the meagre possibilities for replenishing it, and you have a situation that would test the courage of the most venturesome free lance. I sat down mournfully in a corner of the Golden saloon, and strove to find a ray of hope. A slap on my back straightened me up suddenly, and a big voice said: "Well, kid, how are you stacking up?"

            I looked into the fat, good-natured face of "Big Tony," faro dealer at the Golden, off shift at present. I had noticed him before—in fact we had eaten our "bacon and" together the other morning. He was a big man, broad-faced, broad-shouldered, broad-waisted—who smiled amiably at you when he dealt "bank," whether you won or lost, and seemed to take a positive delight in cashing in chips. It seemed quite natural that he should call anyone smaller than he was "kid"—he robbed it of all offense.

            "I'm using white checks and playing cases only," I answered in the vernacular. "They got me pretty low. Anything to suggest?"

            "Broke?"

            I nodded. "Next to it."

            "What's your line ?"

            "Newspaper man, mostly. Thought there was a chance here, but nothing doing. Wish I could get up to Goldfield, but I can't walk through this snow, and in this weather."

            "Say," said Tony, softly, "I made a killing this afternoon, off shift, and cleaned up the "bank" at Riley's for a thousand. I noticed you 'round here, and say, there's nothin' doing here for you. Nothin' at all." He wagged his big head emphatically. "And say, you gotter get out of it. I'm going to stake you to a hundred. Bet you can make good in Goldfield."

            "Tony," I said simply, "I'll take you up."

            Tony dug down into an enormous pocket and brought up a handful of twenties. "Better make it two hundred," he remarked, "You might need it. Stage

THE GOLDFIELD WAY       41

is trying to get through—leaves in an hour. Now beat it. All right, Bill, coming right over," and with one huge handshake he was gone to his professional duties. I did not have a chance to thank him.

            I reached Goldfield the next night, and immediately snapped up a job as reporter on the daily paper, which embraced along with it services as advertising manager, typesetter and errand boy. But it was worth while. I got wind of a little stock transaction behind the scenes, and by taking advantage of it made a neat turn; consequently two months later I wrote a letter to Tony enclosing my check. It was returned, marked "Unclaimed," with the notation, "Gone to Goldfield," and that night I met him at "The Mizpah."

            "Tony," said I gleefully, on seeing him, "let's have one."

            "I'll go you one," he replied. Over the bar I told him of my success and passed him over the loan. It was soon drawing near nine o'clock, and the saloon was crowded. Tony glanced fondly at the gambling tables. "Kid," he said suddenly—"I believe your money's lucky. I'm going to make a big bet before we quit."

            He wandered aimlessly over to the roulette table, and spoke gently to the lad behind the wheel. "Son, what's your limit ?"

            "Two hundred, and ten," replied the youth, meaning two hundred on the colors and ten on the numbers.

            "Oh say," said Tony protestingly, "I ain't no piker. I want a white man's game. Throw her open."

            "You'll have to see the boss," returned the youth, giving the wheel a turn. Here he comes now."

            "I heard you, brother," said the latter, coming up. He was a little sallow-faced fellow, with eyes as keen as a hawk's. He was now busy rolling a cigarette. "And I want to tell you"—here he looked squarely at Tom—"we ain't no crowd of welchers. We're always ready to fix out any gent that wants to be accommodated. Pile your chips up to the ceiling, and I'll get a carpenter to knock a hole through if that ain't enough. Now bet," he said sharply.

            "I like your company, son," said Tony admiringly. "I'll just bet you two hundred on 17. Turn her, you tinhorn," he roared, placing ten gold pieces on the 17.

            Whirr, whirr, whirr—a click as the little white ball struck the brass bar on the rim, and then swift as a bullet into the black pocket of 17.

            "You win," said the little proprietor, still puffing at his cigarette, as he opened the cash drawer. "Gold or paper ?"

            But Tony gave a great bellow and roared, "Drinks for the house ! Everyone in it !"

            I was so busy taking notes for my story that I quite missed the rest. I wrote it up in snappy style, heading it "The Long Shot Comes Home at the Mizpah." Seven Thousand Dollars on the Turn," and gave a graphic and lurid account of the whole proceedings for the front page of The Miner. It made a good story. Tony was well known, and I had not spared names. My story was copied in all the state papers, only the $7,000 had grown to $70,000 before it had traveled a hundred miles. Our business manager tried to charge "The Mizpah" management advertising rates on it, but all he got was a box of cigars and the promise of a case of beer for the staff.

            Three days later I met Tony. "Kid," he said reproachfully, "you've done it now." He hauled forth a vast bundle of letters. "Read 'em," he said, as if pronouncing my death sentence, "they're your work."

            Utterly mystified, I glanced through the first, and found that the writer had read of Mr. Tony's good fortune, and trusted she might rely on him for a check to build a dog hospital in which she was interested. The next was the alluring prospectus of an oil company, offering remarkable returns for surplus funds. Then came a needy youth who wished to complete his college course. Then more prospectuses, more appeals, more stories, covering the whole gamut of tragedy and comedy.

            "You see," explained Tony, "they see your story in the papers when it come out about my win, and naturally think I'm a mark. What am I goin' to do?"

42        SUNSET MAGAZINE

            "Why, nothing," I returned. "Ninety per cent of them are trying to get to you, and as for the rest, well, you're not a charitable institution."

            "See here, though," said Tony, reddening somewhat, "here's one that come and seems some different from the rest. I ain't goin' to copper this one. Take a peek."

            I opened it and read:

ELY, NEVADA.

MR. TONY MARTIN,

            Dear Sir: I have read the story of your recent good fortune, and take the liberty of asking you to assist me in my case, if you see fit. I am a widow; my husband died a few months ago, and I have very little money. I believe I could make a very good living by supplying this town with eggs and chickens, for which there is a great demand. If I had an incubator I could go about it on a big scale. To get this I need $500 more, and I thought I might interest you in it. I don't know anyone else.

            Hoping to hear from you and make some arrangement, yours truly,

KATE M. CHILDS.

            "I believe it's a straight game," said Tony thoughtfully. "Anyhow, I'm goin' to play it to win. Here's five hundred in paper. Send her off a money order for it. You got me into it, and you got to take the trouble."

            It was no use to reason with Tony. I shrugged my shoulders, making some entirely unheeded remarks about it being his funeral, bought the order, and sent it off in Tony's name. Back came a letter of thanks and a note made out in a businesslike fashion for the amount. I thought no more about it until five weeks later, when Tony, who was working on the graveyard shift at "The Montana" stopped me one evening, and held up a letter that bore a registration mark.

            "Kid," he said, "this beats me. The gambling business ain't moral, but it pays big. But here's something 'legit' that you and me has passed up like a white check, and blame if it don't beat the whole gambling layout to a fare-you-well. Peruse the latest from the incubator lady."

            I read:

ELY, NEVADA.

MY DEAR MR. MARTIN:

            My business has been very good lately, and I think it will continue so. I take great pleasure in sending you herewith my check for the $500 you so kindly advanced me, plus interest to date. With thanks, I am, yours truly,

KATE M. CHILDS.

            "Eggs," said Tony slowly, "are wonderful things. Somewhere I read that all life comes from the egg. But mighty few of us finds life is five hundred in five weeks, plus interest. Though I have read of some big money bein' made out of eggs and ostrich farms, and such. But doublin' your capital, by a lone widder woman, in a month and ten days, on a single fly-bitten, moss-backed old incubator, Kid, the idea is allurin'. I think I'd like a look at this extraordinary business enterprise, and see if I can't invest a little more capital judicious. It beats any single-out system at "bank." "Yes"—this suddenly—"I'm goin' to Ely. Come along with me."

            "I'd like to, Tony," I replied, "but I can't leave the paper—it looks too good, even compared to the incubator. But write me how you make out."

            A few weeks later I received the following epistle:

ELY, NEVADA.

DEAR KID:    

            I found the Incubator lady and introduced myself according to Hoyle. In regard to the incubator. Seems there ain't any. She was goin' to buy one, but got a new hunch just after you sent her the money. Took a lease on a restaurant here instead, having a saloon attachment with regular appurtenances. Some tinhorn took charge of the latter, while she ran the eating house. Made it the best place in Ely and it paid her like a nitre bed. She was going to write and explain, but was so busy frying T-bones and making real coffee that she didn't have time. She still has hopes of the incubator, however. The town looks good to me, and I bought out the lad that was running the saloon and games, and am putting same on a proper and up-to-date basis. They're paying a hundred per cent a month right along.

            This Mrs. Childs is dead square, a hustler from the ground up, and for looks has anything beat in this little old state. Yours as ever,

TONY.

            P. S.—I am going to marry her next week.