to make up his mind. Shifting back, he pointed and said, “Try Denver House. Blake Street. On the Denver side. Can’t miss it. Biggest building in town. If any one knows about Plockett, they will.”
Lizzy and I started off. As we went along, Lizzy said, “Early, the way that man reacted when you said Jesse’s name—it didn’t seem good.”
I agreed. “Wish he’d said more.”
We walked on, though now and again I paused to look about to see if we were being followed. It didn’t appear so. But the man had spoken so loudly that if Mr. Mawr had been close by, he would know exactly where we were going.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Denver House
W E CROSSED over Cherry Creek on a rough plank bridge and soon discovered the pine-log building we’d been told to look for. D ENVER H OUSE was proclaimed over the doorway. It was hardly more than a hundred feet wide, thirty-something deep, and was a single story with a canvas roof.
Off to one side were some corrals for horses. One had a sign over the gate: THE ELEPHANT , that pulled me up short. Was that what was meant by “seeing the elephant”?
Inside, it was hot and dim, with only a little light seeping through glassless windows. A long serving bar ran the full depth of the building. Behind the bar were shelves crowded with bottles of gin, rum, and whisky. Cigars were also being sold. A water barrel of filthy water was there. The stench of tobacco and liquor was thick.
Behind the bar was a big-stomached fellow with a flat, thickly bearded face, large red nose, and ears large enough to hear anything he wanted. Deep-set eyes were streaked yellow, giving them a sickly cast.
On the wall opposite the bar were six small cubicles, set off by canvas curtains. Over them was a sign:
Bedroom 10 cents a night
I suppose they allowed Denver House its claim of being a hotel.
Set about a dirt floor were rickety tables at which some twenty or so men were drinking and playing cards. The only sounds were the shuffling of cards, murmurs of frustration, and swearing. Midst the gambling, someone would call for more drink, which the man behind the bar poured from a bottle into a dirty glass and served. Off to one side was a billiards table. No one was playing.
A few men had their heads down on tables, buried in sleep or stupor. On the tables were coins and feather quills. The quills—as I was to learn—contained gold dust, the town’s principal currency.
A prospector is offering up his gold dust, which will be weighed in the scales and evaluated. Then he can buy some food.
When no one paid Lizzy or me the slightest attention, I approached the man behind the bar.
“Please, sir, can you help me? I’ve just arrived in town.”
“You have my condolences,” the man replied in a loud voice. “Can I offer you a complimentary glass of Taos Lightning?”
“What’s that?”
“Our special blend of whisky, pepper, tobacco, and gunpowder.”
A look of disgust must have registered on my face.
“Not half bad,” he insisted.
“No, thanks,” I said in haste.
“Just know,” he cautioned, “that from here on in, every drink will cost you a pinch of gold dust.” He held up a hand with large fingers. “And my pinch,” he said with something that might be considered a smile, “is big.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looking for work, then? I can get you a dollar a day plus board. The work is only twelve hours the day.”
“What it is, sir, I’m looking for someone from back home.”
“You’re not the first,” he said, as if to say, You won’t be the last. “Where you from?” he asked. “Who you looking for?”
“Iowa state. A man named Jesse Plockett.”
“Jesse Plockett,” he repeated and gazed at me with what I took to be more than casual interest, not unlike the man we had spoken to on the street. “What’s he to do with you?” he demanded.
“I come from his home—Cass County, Iowa. His family told me to ask about him when I arrived.” That part was true. But I lied
Lizzy and I started off. As we went along, Lizzy said, “Early, the way that man reacted when you said Jesse’s name—it didn’t seem good.”
I agreed. “Wish he’d said more.”
We walked on, though now and again I paused to look about to see if we were being followed. It didn’t appear so. But the man had spoken so loudly that if Mr. Mawr had been close by, he would know exactly where we were going.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Denver House
W E CROSSED over Cherry Creek on a rough plank bridge and soon discovered the pine-log building we’d been told to look for. D ENVER H OUSE was proclaimed over the doorway. It was hardly more than a hundred feet wide, thirty-something deep, and was a single story with a canvas roof.
Off to one side were some corrals for horses. One had a sign over the gate: THE ELEPHANT , that pulled me up short. Was that what was meant by “seeing the elephant”?
Inside, it was hot and dim, with only a little light seeping through glassless windows. A long serving bar ran the full depth of the building. Behind the bar were shelves crowded with bottles of gin, rum, and whisky. Cigars were also being sold. A water barrel of filthy water was there. The stench of tobacco and liquor was thick.
Behind the bar was a big-stomached fellow with a flat, thickly bearded face, large red nose, and ears large enough to hear anything he wanted. Deep-set eyes were streaked yellow, giving them a sickly cast.
On the wall opposite the bar were six small cubicles, set off by canvas curtains. Over them was a sign:
Bedroom 10 cents a night
I suppose they allowed Denver House its claim of being a hotel.
Set about a dirt floor were rickety tables at which some twenty or so men were drinking and playing cards. The only sounds were the shuffling of cards, murmurs of frustration, and swearing. Midst the gambling, someone would call for more drink, which the man behind the bar poured from a bottle into a dirty glass and served. Off to one side was a billiards table. No one was playing.
A few men had their heads down on tables, buried in sleep or stupor. On the tables were coins and feather quills. The quills—as I was to learn—contained gold dust, the town’s principal currency.
A prospector is offering up his gold dust, which will be weighed in the scales and evaluated. Then he can buy some food.
When no one paid Lizzy or me the slightest attention, I approached the man behind the bar.
“Please, sir, can you help me? I’ve just arrived in town.”
“You have my condolences,” the man replied in a loud voice. “Can I offer you a complimentary glass of Taos Lightning?”
“What’s that?”
“Our special blend of whisky, pepper, tobacco, and gunpowder.”
A look of disgust must have registered on my face.
“Not half bad,” he insisted.
“No, thanks,” I said in haste.
“Just know,” he cautioned, “that from here on in, every drink will cost you a pinch of gold dust.” He held up a hand with large fingers. “And my pinch,” he said with something that might be considered a smile, “is big.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looking for work, then? I can get you a dollar a day plus board. The work is only twelve hours the day.”
“What it is, sir, I’m looking for someone from back home.”
“You’re not the first,” he said, as if to say, You won’t be the last. “Where you from?” he asked. “Who you looking for?”
“Iowa state. A man named Jesse Plockett.”
“Jesse Plockett,” he repeated and gazed at me with what I took to be more than casual interest, not unlike the man we had spoken to on the street. “What’s he to do with you?” he demanded.
“I come from his home—Cass County, Iowa. His family told me to ask about him when I arrived.” That part was true. But I lied
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