Gold Eaters

GOLD

EATERS

a novel by

R. DeShongh

Dalrymple

Acknowledgment

This book is fictional, but some of it is based on real persons and events. I give thanks to the Pan American Silver Mining engineers who took their time to provide viable information. Corporate spokesman David Rubio gave me an understanding of what a tremendous undertaking it is for such an operation, particularly the permissions and legalities involved. Chris Harrison, PAS manager of Alamo Dorado Mine in Mexico, contributed information on the technical operation of open pit mining. Finally there is Richard Graeme of the Golden Queen Mine who I interviewed while doing a three-part series for a local newspaper. He told me about the historic teenaged schoolteacher who disappeared from the Queen before WW II, becoming the legendary Ghost of Soledad Mountain. I’m grateful to Judy Carroll, a local resident of the Soledad Mountain area and related to actual people used to model some of my characters. Thanks to my technical advisor, novelist Dan Pollock, I’m indebted to my cover artist Susie DePinto, and lastly, to Molly Dalrymple, my sweetheart and editor.

Copyright© 2014 by R. DeShongh Dalrymple

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First printing 2014

ISBN 978-1-312-70293-6

Crooked Stream Press

www.crookedstreampress.com

Dedicated to the Baxters

Chapter One

I woke up in the street with two policemen staring down at me. I’d been drinking in a cantina, talking to the bartender. He told me a guy wearing a ski mask walked in and shot an out-of-town official with a silenced pistol. That was unusual for this pueblo. Most differences were settled with a knife, machete, or large caliber pistol. Anyway, that conversation was the last I remembered.

I hauled myself up and brushed at my clothes. Sorry about that, I said to the cops. They were local police, not state or federal, and smiled tolerantly. Apparently this happened all the time, but not much with gringos. Quiere un taxi? one of them asked.

No thanks, I’ll walk, trying to steady myself. The cops looked at me blankly. No, gracias, puedo caminar, I added.

Que la vaya bien, they responded in unison. Damn, that was nice. If I’d been in the States it would have been jail time, pronto.

It wasn’t all that hot for this time of year, but I was drenched with sweat by the time I got down the several blocks to my rental, a one-room casita. I stumbled in and kicked off my cowboy boots, stepped into the shower stall clothes and all, and turned on the water full blast. Thank God, the town had water today. I hung my wet clothes on a line that stretched across one end of the room and lay down naked on top of the sheets. I’d just dozed off when the phone rang. I reached for it. Bueno.

Mister Gerald Lane? I didn’t answer right away, but the woman on the other end continued. My name is Alice Taylor, and I’m here to offer you a job. Can we meet?

No fooling around, this one. I liked that, and wondered if her appearance matched her voice. I already have a job, I said, making an effort to speak clearly.

Yes. You consult for the Canadian firm trying to dig local silver out of the hills. I’m talking about a better job. In the States.

Uhh. I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

Sounds as though you’re indisposed so I’ll come to the point. We need a special kind of mining engineer and your name came up. Why don’t you call me back when you’re feeling better? I’m at the Casa de Los Santos.  We can talk about it over dinner.

That won’t be necessary. The thought of eating made my stomach turn. You could spring for drinks, though. What time is it?

About noon. Let’s say five at La Paloma on the Plaza.

Better make it seven. Silence. The heat, I added. How will I know you?

I’ll know you. I have your picture in front of me.

I hung up, rolled over, and stared at the ceiling fan that revolved at an easy pace. Intriguing, I thought, as I slapped at a mosquito. She must have gotten my picture from mine security. This one seemed competent, and had clout, so she had to know something about me. Hopefully she didn’t have the total scoop. Sure, I knew my business, but even though I wasn’t all that old I was burned out:  a drunk and troublemaker, causing problems everywhere I went. No respectable company, if they looked closely into my private life, would want me. Well, why not meet? I’d get some free drinks, maybe some cooze. She sounded good and an easy touch. Most of these recruiters were whores who would pawn off any kind of damaged goods for a finder’s fee. At that thought I went back to sleep.

The bar had outside tables on a high portales overlooking the Plaza and I sat watching some kids romp on the gazebo that sat in the center of it. A blonde with shoulder-length hair approached wearing mid-thigh shorts and a plain while blouse tied in a knot, showing a bare midriff. The platform sandals she had on accentuated her long legs. Not flashy, but definitely a knockout. She was followed by a Latino-looking guy larger than most, about my size. He wore a lightweight suit, an off-white tropical linen fare similar to the one in my closet. I was glad now I hadn’t worn mine. It was the only suit I’d brought down with me but still too hot for the climate. So, like the woman, I opted for shorts, topped with a Hawaiian shirt. She extended her hand and seated herself. The escort sat down a few tables away.

I’m sorry, what’s your name, again?

She smiled and her full mouth turned up at the corners, her huge hazel eyes crinkled to slits. Call me Alice.

Jesus, where do I sign? And you can call me Jerry.

Before either one of us could say more, Jose Luis was at my elbow facing the woman. I’ll have a B & B, she said without hesitation.

I’m sorry, Señorita, we do not have that. It was mystifying how Mexicans seem to know the difference between Señoritas and Señoras since age is not necessarily a factor.

How about a pitcher of Margaritas, I suggested. They’re weak but cold.

Fine, and she gave that fetching smile. Her bodyguard—that’s what he seemed to be—eyed me coolly from across the space and I wondered if I could take him. Probably not. He looked fit and I figured I would have to catch him by surprise since I was pretty much out of shape. Then it occurred to me: why would a headhunter need someone like that around? My attention went back to Alice.

Look, let’s cut to it, I said. If you’ve done your homework, like I think you have, I’m probably not your best candidate.

You’re perfect. You know the area, you know the history, and, if you’d behave, you’re the right guy.

Is that so? Where are we talkin’?

Soledad Mountain. Mojave.

Fuck me. I knew it all right.

We need you, Mr. Lane. It couldn’t be better. You would help us and at the same time resolve any issues you have about the past.

So you’ve done some digging.

She ignored the word play. The margaritas arrived and we both took deep sips. Like water. You’ll find no fault with the compensation package, she said lightly.

I’ll have to think about it. What are you doing later?

I’m going to a party. You’re welcome to come along. Reading my mind, she added, I want you to know up front that I’m not one of the perks for you to take the job.

In that case, I’ll pass.

She gave me that smile again. "You are as crude as they say. With that, Alice rose. The bodyguard came over and tossed down some pesos as she rummaged through her purse, extending a card. I’m leaving in the morning. If I miss you at the party or you don’t call me at the hotel, you can reach me at these numbers. Call collect, anytime. I took it and watched her nicely rounded behind sashay away. I looked at the card. Golden Queen Mine. Below, it read, Alice Taylor, CEO, Toronto." In the lower left corner there were two phone numbers: a fax number, and an e-mail address.

Ooh, she wasn’t a headhunter after all. Wrong again, and I reached for the pitcher. The Margaritas weren’t as weak as I thought and after a while someone nudged me. Señor Lane, said Jose Luis. You must not sleep here.

Loud church bells roused me the next morning and I leaned over and phoned the Los Santos. It was early Sunday but Señorita Alice Taylor had already checked out. Just as well, I wasn’t going to take the job anyway. I liked where I was just fine, but would have enjoyed seeing Ms. Taylor again. I showered and shaved and headed to the arroyo for breakfast. Every Sunday tents and stands were erected; a town bazaar if you will, where at one place you could get great fish tacos. I was finishing off my third when I spied Laurie and Chato. They were party animals and my occasional connection for cocaine. It went just as expected; we boogied until four the next the morning. Still, after a catnap, I made it to the office on time. I was examining ore samples when John Calliph’s secretary rang, asking for my presence.

Jerry, Calliph said, we’re not doing so good here, buddy. The head office ordered us to do cutbacks. Bottom line, we can’t afford to keep you. That was bullshit, but I didn’t bother to object. I knew other forces were at work, so just shrugged and walked out. Seems Alice hadn’t wasted any time rearranging the playing field, and that made me curious. When I got home I googled Golden Queen mine. What do you know? It was a subsidiary of Pan American Gold. The same as Alamo Dorado, the company that just fired me.

I pondered this as I cruised my fifteen year-old El Camino along Sierra Highway from Palmdale to Lancaster, then to Rosamond, a little town about seventy miles north of Los Angeles. The old highway ran parallel to the freeway and wasn’t traveled much anymore except by locals. It brought back impressive memories of my youth. It also brought back a fatal event I was the center of and didn’t remember. And not sure I wanted to. I’d been filled in afterward while a defendant in two courtroom actions, one criminal, the other civil. Seems I’d hit a Kenworth tractor-trailer head on, killing all the occupants in the car except me. Since there were no alcohol or drugs involved, or any evidence of misconduct, the criminal court judge kicked the case. I wasn’t as lucky in civil court, the lawyers ruthless in their attempt to get a few bucks. Unfortunately very little was awarded. The victims’ families should have gotten more.

Anyway, the force of the impact had literally knocked the actual incident from my mind. Not the aftermath. Good friends died, along with a very sweet, pretty girl. The mother of the other girl, the one I didn’t know, would somehow find me whenever her birthday came up and would give me an unsuspecting call. Do you know what day this is? she would ask. In time, the calls stopped. I could never have told her that I didn’t care… at least not as much as she thought I should. It was like it happened to someone else.

It started raining as I drove. The windows were down, and there was a strong scent of wet sage thick in the air, a powerful aroma stimulating nostalgia. Both areas, the one I’d come from in Mexico and the Mojave Desert, could reach degree factors into three figures. But the dry heat of the high California desert was far more tolerable.

When I reached the town of Rosamond I intended to drive through. But a country bar adjacent to a rundown motel caught my eye. Half a dozen tricked-out Harleys were parked in front; definitely my kind of place, and the way I was feeling at the moment, decided to stop in for a cold one.

Even with the cloudy weather it was bright outside compared to inside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. A small group sat in chairs toward the back, near a pool table, and a foursome, two guys and two women, was playing Eight Ball. I moseyed up to the bar. Crown Royal with a Bud, I said to the bartender.

No Crown, how ‘bout Canadian Club.

That seemed fitting, and experience told me where this was leading. Make it a double. I turned to study the group. Hanging on the back of one the chairs a jacket announced, SATAN SLAVES, Reseda. The players weren’t paying attention to me but a couple of the men sitting down stared back. I tossed down my whiskey, took a sip of beer, and pointed at the shot glass. I’ll have another, I said, and went back to studying the biker gang. Cute girls, I thought, and wondered what they were doing with this skuzzy lot.

One of the guys at the table spoke to me from across the room. What you lookin’ at, Eyes? It wasn’t said loudly, but loud enough, and the pool players stopped to watch. I winked at the guy and turned back to my empty shot glass. I pointed to it. The bartender raised his eyebrows but poured the drink. I tossed it down as a tall lanky fella got up and swaggered toward me, giving me plenty of time to look him over. He wore a soiled wife beater, black leather pants, and his arms were covered with jail tats. Nice outfit, I told him.

What? Look what you got on, you fuckin’ clown. I was wearing what I usually wore in Mexico, knee-length shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and high-top brogan footwear. But none of that mattered because without getting off the bar stool I slammed my fist into the side of the dude’s neck just below the ear, dropping him like a bag of bolts. That’s when I felt the crack to my head. I pivoted on my seat and saw the bartender holding one of those mini baseball bats. They don’t carry as much juice as the grownup ones but can be effective in close quarters. We stared at each other for a moment as I felt the blood trickle down the side of my face. I smiled, and the bartender decided to hide. The other boys weren’t about to do that. They headed my way and it was on.

It was a pleasant dream. Two biker cuties, both naked, were cooing in my ear while massaging my sore muscles. A booming voice interrupted the scene.

Come on, you’re outa here, said a wall of man as a sheriff’s deputy unlocked the cell door. As we walked down the hall the giant introduced himself. I’m Raul, mine foreman. Your ride is in the lot. His tone was surly; he didn’t seem pleased to be there to collect me.

What time is it? I asked.

About nine. He studied me for a moment. In the morning. You spent the night. Go through that door and pick up your property. I’ll wait here. Once outside, we stopped at my car. Sheriff said you cleaned clock in that bar. Tore it up some. He paused. Why’d you trash those guys’ bikes? I didn’t answer and Raul shook his head. Mr. Samuels isn’t going to be happy about any of this. It isn’t good community relations, and don’t expect the company to pay damages. You’re lucky you aren’t facing charges. Raul turned and headed to a white van with side windows and Golden Queen Mine stenciled on the door.

Who’s Mr. Samuels?

President of the Queen, Raul tossed over his shoulder, and you need to get yourself cleaned up before you meet him. You follow me.

A half-an-hour later we arrived at the mine. I knew what to expect but it was still bleak to look at, the side of a towering mountain skirted with sand, rock and sage, a few junipers, no real trees. The clouds had passed but it was overcast. Or maybe it was dust the wind had picked up. As I recalled it blew most of the time in these parts. The total package carried a dark aura.

Plus it didn’t look much like a current mine operation. There was part of a new crusher still strapped to a shipping pallet, but mostly ancient shaft mining equipment lying around. Up the road there was a good-sized rock house and a newer two-story structure next to it. But before we got there Raul pulled into a flat graded area a little larger than a basketball court and we stopped at a weather-beaten doublewide parked at the far end. I got out but Raul stayed in the van and flipped me keys, telling me this was where I’d be quartered, and to hang around until called. Then he drove off. Even with the wind it was hot outside, but a gush of cool air hit my face when I opened the door. Someone had been considerate enough to turn on the A/C, probably Raul. And, to my surprise, the trailer was far nicer inside than out. It looked newly furnished, with a TV, a desk with a computer on it, and two pricey-looking recliner chairs, all spotless and homey.

The first thing I did was search the cupboards and spied a fully stocked liquor cabinet. Thoughtful, but wondered about that with Alice knowing my history. I dismissed the thought and fixed a drink, got my gear out of the car, then jumped in the shower without looking in the mirror. I washed gingerly, unable to ignore the cuts and bruises. I could feel a knot on my head about the size of a small egg, and my right eye was nearly closed. Although I didn’t smoke I was hesitant to take a deep breath because of the sharp pain that ensued. Ribs. They would heal. At one time I thought about doing some extreme fighting, professionally. It was now out of the question; I was forty-two, way too old, and it wasn’t a sport you played at. I rummaged through my duffle bag and pulled out a copy of Tom Robbins’ Invalids Home From Hot Climates. Besides engineering journals, I liked reading novels.

My snoring woke me. I’d been kicked back in the recliner, my book on the floor. I glanced at my bare wrist. I’d lost my watch in Mexico and hadn’t bothered to buy a new one. Time was not a priority down south. The clock above the stove said four p.m. What the hell? I got up and stepped outside. The whole place seemed deserted. Across an open space on the other side of the road sat a dilapidated house, half of it collapsed on one side. I headed that way and felt something hit the heel of my boot. An adolescent rattlesnake coiled to strike again. Why I thought it was female, I don’t know. Oye, calmate chica, I told her, and let her be.

I studied the house from the outside as I walked around it. It looked like it was the bedroom that had caved in. There was something about the place that tugged on me. The long porch had a great view of the sloping desert floor and the rising peaks of the Tehachapis. I went inside to check it out. As I moved though the house I sensed a woman had lived here, though there was nothing to indicate that, not even a tattered curtain. Part of the ceiling was gone and dusty rays of sunlight beamed down through the damaged roof. I kicked at a pile of rubble and something caught my eye. It was a silver locket about the size of a checker piece. I pried it open with my fingernail and saw faces of a middle-aged couple. The woman smiled back but the man carried a stern look. Opposite the picture was inscribed:  Julia, dear. We love you. Mom and Dad.

I pocketed the piece and headed back to the trailer. A phone message waited. Mr. Samuels had to go out of town and won’t be back until late, Raul’s voice informed me.  He’s got you down for a meet in his office tomorrow, eight a.m. sharp. There should be something to eat in the fridge there. If you need anything, give me a call. He left his number. Sure enough, there were a couple of steaks, some lettuce and tomatoes. Hash browns were in the freezer. Suddenly I was famished, but couldn’t get the thoughts of the old house out of my mind. I pulled the locket out of my pocket and placed it on the small desk by the door. I cracked open a bottle of Crown, splashed some over ice, and pulled out a steak.

The next morning I trudged up the hill to the mining offices located in a newly constructed two-story wood frame building sitting next to the older ranch-style rock house. They were the ones I’d seen driving in. The house looked like a two or three-bedroom affair, and appeared to be well kept, as was the yard, landscaped with an impressive cactus garden. Azaleas growing in planter boxes on the front porch were in full bloom. The office building and house shared a parking lot large enough for a dozen cars. A beige Chevy SUV, an old jeep, and the company van were parked there. Raul was waiting for me in front.

We climbed a broad staircase to a deck that faced double doors, obviously the main entrance, but instead of going through the doors we turned left and walked along a veranda that ended at Samuels’s office. Inside was spartan: a couple of desks, a drawing table and several filing cabinets resting on an asphalt-tiled floor.

It took an effort for me to keep my attention on the conversation, and I shifted restlessly in the wooden chair in front of Samuels’s desk. We’d been talking close to an hour now and I was feeling the result of the bar escapade. When we first walked in, Jeb Samuels rose quickly and extended his hand, introducing himself, then sat down just as quickly as though pressed for time. He was in his mid to late sixties, of medium height and build, with thinning gray hair and ruddy complexion. He wore a khaki suit, a white shirt and no tie. He didn’t say anything about my appearance. Raul must have run it down to him, so no need for comment.

Your experience with Kiewit will be useful, said Samuels. We’re starting construction soon, so we’ll want you to interface with the contractors. It will be balls out so you’ll have to be up to speed. Later we might shift you into quality control. We’re not going to have anything like Summitville happen here. Of course everything, all the machinery, leach pad, will be new. Chemical mix will be scrutinized, the aeration, cyanide-dilute, all in balance. Sulfur content is acceptable. No excess mercury residue. We’ll have experts in the field but we need someone to co-ordinate and oversee it all. Can you handle something like that?

Yep.

Fine, you’ll be held responsible. Did Ms. Taylor talk money?

Over the phone.

Good. When she gets here we’ll draw up a contract. Did you have a chance to look at our website?

Yes, I’m familiar with a lot of the machinery. Gear roller, that’s nice. Using the mineral sizer to cut back the use of a jaw crusher is impressive, but the pipe conveyor is iffy. I haven’t seen one in operation before. I heard they use them a lot in Europe, some in South America. Type of rock, size, and degree slope of the conveyor are critical factors. I like the idea of the regenerative braking to supply extra electrical power, but wonder if it will be able to take the wear with what we’ll be digging up. If the assessments are accurate there are some tough stones out there. Could be a snag if you expect life-of-operation.

Those are our considerations, too.

Also studied the flowchart. Looks like it’s going to be a nice set up. Samuels nodded at Raul who was leaning against a file cabinet. Raul can show you around and should be able to answer any of your questions.

I have one now. I was walking around that broken down house and found a silver locket with a picture of a couple inside it.  It’s old and nicked up a bit but it’s a nice one. I thought if someone lost it they might want it back.

I doubt if it belongs to any of us, said Samuels. He glanced up at Raul who shook his head. There’s no regular personnel on site yet, continued Samuels, and mine security has been strict the last few years. Can’t have locals falling into the vertical shafts hidden here and there, you know. We keep finding new ones all the time.

Funny, I thought. The place was fenced and gated but when Raul and I showed up yesterday there was no one around.

It probably belonged to the girl that was living there years ago, Raul offered.

Was her name Julia?

Raul looked over my head and stared out the window. Before World War Two, he said softly, the mine management brought a teenaged girl out from the Midwest to teach the Basque miners and their children English. They built that house for her. It doubled as living quarters and classroom. She up and disappeared one day, and is somewhat of a folk legend around here.

Maybe the task was too much for her and she got homesick.

Without telling anyone? Nah. They say her dad even showed up trying to find out what happened. More than likely she went out walking and fell down one of the shafts we’re fencing off. There was quite a to-do about it. There probably would have been more to it if we hadn’t gotten into the war right after that. When that happened Roosevelt closed down most of the mines and Golden Queen was one. Precious metals weren’t a priority at the time. But now that we’re resuming operation these rumors are starting to resurface. Some of the old-timers say her ghost is hanging around.

I’m surprised anyone would remember something that happened so long ago. Or care, I thought, bringing to mind my car wreck. Maybe knowing what happened to a loved one was different than not knowing, even if in both instances it involved heartfelt loss.

Old mines are like old ships, said Samuels. Stories abound, particularly when some people don’t want us here. Shaft mining held a certain allure but open pit, something else. In fact the entire process isn’t generally popular with people who aren’t profiting by it.

And especially if we’re tearing up the scenery, I thought, and winced when I stood up. Okay, but I’d like to fix up that old house down there.

Why’s that?

I need a hobby.

Samuels stared at me intently for a moment, and shook his head.

You can take that up with Alice. I doubt if she’ll approve. You’ll be busy enough.

When is she expected?

We’ll let you know.

Chapter Two

Raul and I stepped out into glaring sunlight and donned our hats and sunglasses. We’ll take the van. It looks wimpy but it has all-wheel drive and will go anywhere that thing will go. He pointed a thick finger at the old military-style jeep. We have a lot of ground to cover, but if you see anything that strikes your fancy we’ll stop and take a look.

Soledad was a dome-shaped mountain that rose majestically from the high desert floor. At its base it was more than three miles in diameter. Raul drove for more than an hour, zigzagging back and forth across the northern slope, then around the back or east side. I was surprised at how many mineshaft holes there were. There were a couple of big ones along the western base and numerous smaller ones further up. The mountain must be a catacomb of shafts, I observed.

You bet, said Raul. A lot of them might have collapsed though, probably from the Tehachapi quake in ’52. I’ve been here for a number of years now and haven’t been through them all. Some of them go into the mountain for more than a mile, others twist and turn and come out at another place. There’s a map in the office showing some of the main shafts but it doesn’t begin to show what’s really there. We drove by a small shaft opening and I saw a man standing just inside welding up four-inch wide iron strips.

Bat gates, explained Raul.

Yeah, I’ve heard BLM is big on that now, especially with abandoned mines. Lets the bats and other critters in, keeps the people out. Good idea.   We rode in silence for while, heading around the mountain. This is a good hunk of property, I said. The Queen own it all?

Pretty much. The company out-and-out purchased most of it—all that was owned by the previous mining company. The part controlled by BLM is leased to us. Then there were a few private ownerships, a couple small ranches on this other side of the mountain that the company bought. There’s been only one holdout. We’re comin’ up on it now. I looked up the mountain and saw a small cabin snuggled up against the