and walked in the
forests, quieter than any Indian, they were sure. But then Soren’s father had
been promoted at Kennecott Copper, and the family had moved out of Chihuahua
Hills to the more affluent Black’s Addition. While Soren might be only part
Swede, his Swedish great- grandparents had been among the area’s first
settlers, having worked turquoise in the Tyrone Mountains for the famed Tiffany
Company way back in the 1870s.
“Not lately,
Soren. All my time’s spent prospecting for gold. How about you?”
Soren grinned
ruefully. “No time to fish these days. A British company, Rolistof, keeps me
busy underground mining lead zinc. One thing about my job— the weather’s always
the same down there.”
Jonah’s glance
moved upward from the tassled leather loafers to the tailored suit and the
royal-blue silk tie. “These duds don’t look like rubber boots and a yellow
slicker, good buddy.”
A sheepish smile
tugged at Soren’s mouth. “What can I say? I’m a company man.”
“A company man”
meant a professional geologist: closemouthed types working for the big boys.
Nine-to-fivers. Such a routine made Jonah mentally shudder.
In his book,
there were four other personality types in the mining industry. The
indies—independents— openly hustling small mining companies. The young ones,
fresh out of the Southern School of Mines and inexperienced, but because they
didn’t know any better they sometimes made major strikes where gold and silver
weren’t supposed to be. Then there were the old, self-taught miners, usually
retirees from Ohio or Maine chasing the sun. Last came the young treasure
hunters with no education.
Jonah wasn’t sure
just where he fit. His was a wild¬catter’s dream. And he had lived in Silver
City long enough that he should have known the futility of such dreams.
“How about a
drink at the Border Cowboy?” So ren asked.
“After five?”
Jonah said.
“Don’t needle
me, buddy,” Soren said. “Of course after five.”
After a stop at
his post office box, which contained only a month-old SEALs magazine, Jonah
headed for the Border Cowboy. It was only four-thirty, but he had nothing
better to do. Along with most western mining towns, Silver City had had its
share of modest tent saloons, as well as magnificent booze emporiums where
soft-handed gamblers in wide-brimmed black hats and diamond-studded cravats
presided at the gaming tables, and where cowboys strode up to a long bar, demanding
shots of red-eye or mescal.
These days,
Silver City had only three beer halls that could claim any relation to the
saloons of old. One was a biker bar, Gold Gulch. Another was the Watering Hole,
a hangout for the town’s artsy element.
The Border Cowboy
was something else. Twenty- five years ago the place had been a honky-tonk, but
the two-story clapboard building had since evolved into an atmospheric
gathering place for a wide array of customers: cowboys, of course, but also
Western New Mexico University students, white-collar Kenne cott office workers,
loggers, survey crews and a few local artists who were careful not to sashay
when they entered.
Since it was
Friday afternoon, the booths and bar on the lower floor, where dinner was
served, were filling up rapidly. The lone pool table was surrounded by men who
looked as if they had just come off a three- month trail ride. An electronic keyboard
system provided the music, but a country-and-western band would be arriving
later. In the old days there had been no strobe lights to add glamour to a
place that by daylight had been rather dingy.
There was
another dance floor upstairs. Jonah sought the relative peace of the second
floor and sequestered himself in a comer booth whose plank walls were festooned
with pickaxes and placer mining pans.
Over a
foam-topped beer, he observed the jocular customers beginning to drift up from
below. Several giggling female miners, their occupations betrayed by the hard
hats and yellow rubber boots they
forests, quieter than any Indian, they were sure. But then Soren’s father had
been promoted at Kennecott Copper, and the family had moved out of Chihuahua
Hills to the more affluent Black’s Addition. While Soren might be only part
Swede, his Swedish great- grandparents had been among the area’s first
settlers, having worked turquoise in the Tyrone Mountains for the famed Tiffany
Company way back in the 1870s.
“Not lately,
Soren. All my time’s spent prospecting for gold. How about you?”
Soren grinned
ruefully. “No time to fish these days. A British company, Rolistof, keeps me
busy underground mining lead zinc. One thing about my job— the weather’s always
the same down there.”
Jonah’s glance
moved upward from the tassled leather loafers to the tailored suit and the
royal-blue silk tie. “These duds don’t look like rubber boots and a yellow
slicker, good buddy.”
A sheepish smile
tugged at Soren’s mouth. “What can I say? I’m a company man.”
“A company man”
meant a professional geologist: closemouthed types working for the big boys.
Nine-to-fivers. Such a routine made Jonah mentally shudder.
In his book,
there were four other personality types in the mining industry. The
indies—independents— openly hustling small mining companies. The young ones,
fresh out of the Southern School of Mines and inexperienced, but because they
didn’t know any better they sometimes made major strikes where gold and silver
weren’t supposed to be. Then there were the old, self-taught miners, usually
retirees from Ohio or Maine chasing the sun. Last came the young treasure
hunters with no education.
Jonah wasn’t sure
just where he fit. His was a wild¬catter’s dream. And he had lived in Silver
City long enough that he should have known the futility of such dreams.
“How about a
drink at the Border Cowboy?” So ren asked.
“After five?”
Jonah said.
“Don’t needle
me, buddy,” Soren said. “Of course after five.”
After a stop at
his post office box, which contained only a month-old SEALs magazine, Jonah
headed for the Border Cowboy. It was only four-thirty, but he had nothing
better to do. Along with most western mining towns, Silver City had had its
share of modest tent saloons, as well as magnificent booze emporiums where
soft-handed gamblers in wide-brimmed black hats and diamond-studded cravats
presided at the gaming tables, and where cowboys strode up to a long bar, demanding
shots of red-eye or mescal.
These days,
Silver City had only three beer halls that could claim any relation to the
saloons of old. One was a biker bar, Gold Gulch. Another was the Watering Hole,
a hangout for the town’s artsy element.
The Border Cowboy
was something else. Twenty- five years ago the place had been a honky-tonk, but
the two-story clapboard building had since evolved into an atmospheric
gathering place for a wide array of customers: cowboys, of course, but also
Western New Mexico University students, white-collar Kenne cott office workers,
loggers, survey crews and a few local artists who were careful not to sashay
when they entered.
Since it was
Friday afternoon, the booths and bar on the lower floor, where dinner was
served, were filling up rapidly. The lone pool table was surrounded by men who
looked as if they had just come off a three- month trail ride. An electronic keyboard
system provided the music, but a country-and-western band would be arriving
later. In the old days there had been no strobe lights to add glamour to a
place that by daylight had been rather dingy.
There was
another dance floor upstairs. Jonah sought the relative peace of the second
floor and sequestered himself in a comer booth whose plank walls were festooned
with pickaxes and placer mining pans.
Over a
foam-topped beer, he observed the jocular customers beginning to drift up from
below. Several giggling female miners, their occupations betrayed by the hard
hats and yellow rubber boots they
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