Skin Medicine by Tim Curran Page B

he’d waded through…but, damn if he hadn’t asked for it. It was food for thought. So Cabe took a bite, swallowed, found it didn’t lay so bad in his belly after all. He didn’t hate Yankees like some. Maybe the rich easterners pulling the strings, but not your common man or soldier. Just cogs was what they were, he figured. Hell, up in Dakota Territory he’d struck up a friendship with a Union vet who’d lost a leg at Gettysburg. And the bottom line there was that, old enemies or not, sometimes only vets could understand other vets and what they’d been through.
    “ I’ll keep that in mind,” Cabe told the bartender in all sincerity.
    Carny served a few beers, poured a few shots, came back. He clipped the end off a cigar and fired it up, lighting Cabe’s cigarette for him. Watching each other, maybe understanding each other, they did not speak for a time.
    “ Tell me about Whisper Lake,” Cabe finally said.
    “ It’s a mining town, Tyler. Not a company town per se, more of a three-company town—the Southview, the Arcadian, Horn Silver. They don’t own everything here, but most of it. They’re always trying to buy one another out and steal away each other’s workers and the like. The strings they pull are big ones. Caught in-between are the miners and prospectors and some of ‘em are pretty tough types. They come from back east or across the sea, just about everywhere. Then you got the usual assortment of prostitutes, gamblers, shootists, outlaws, petty criminals, you name it. Stuck in the mess are the business owners. Just one big human soup simmering away and, as you might figure, the worst possible things can and do happen here.”
    “ Sounds like every mining town I’ve ever known.”
    “ Sure. World’s full of places like Whisper Lake, Tyler. Once they strike ore, it’s all over but the dying and the scheming. Once the paint’s dry, the people show and the garbage starts piling up and said garbage collects flies.”
    Cabe listened and didn’t hear anything he hadn’t heard before…yet, he had the oddest feeling that Carny was trying to say something without saying it. He finished his beer. “And?” he said.
    “ And what?”
    Cabe studied him long and hard, his green eyes refusing to blink. “There’s something else. I can hear it in your voice.”
    Carny set his cigar in the ashtray, put his elbows on the bar again. “This place is a cauldron like I was saying. Only it’s about to boil over. See, there’s trouble here. We’ve got hardrock miners vanishing out in the hills and people saying it’s Mormon militias that are responsible.”
    “ You believe that?”
    Carny shook his head. “No, I don’t. I mean, hell Utah Territory is mostly Mormons. But mining towns like this one or Frisco are mostly gentile. Mormons don’t care for places like this—bastions of sin, they call ‘em—but I can’t see them murdering folks on account of it. They have some blood on their hands after that Mountain Meadow Massacre and the rest, but I found them to be generally peaceful folk. Clannish, but always willing to help a stranger in need. You can understand how they might not like places like this, places that might corrupt their sons and daughters.”
    Cabe understood that. Mormons were no different from ordinary Christians in that respect. Places like Whisper Lake had a way of expanding their boundaries, drawing in the worst sort of people and practices. He said, “But you don’t think they had anything to do with these disappearances?”
    “ No, sir, I do not.” Carny re-lit his cigar. “But get folks around here to believe it. Shit. I’ve heard there’s vigilantes that have formed, are planning revenge against the Mormon camps.”
    “ Sounds like Dirker’s got his hands full.”
    “ In more ways than you can guess, friend.” Carny’s voice dropped down to a whisper and he continued. “See…there’s been not just disappearances, but murders. And I’m not talking shootings