Two-Gun & Sun by June Hutton Page B

The wrench lay at the foot of the far wall where it had been sent flying when the bolt gave. Not far from the mirror, the clump of rag I’d used to scrub my knuckles and cheek. The pages of the instruction manual were bent open on the floor and my coveralls were puddled nearby as though I’d just stepped out of them. I grabbed them by the shoulders and gave two sharp snaps, then climbed in and buttoned them up while I walked about the shop, slid the wrench into a lower pocket, put the booklet on the shelf with a tray of metal bits on top to flatten the curling pages, and tossed the filthy rag with others I’d found in a bucket in the back of the shop. Above the sink was a stack of clean rags. I gathered several and headed back to the press where I began rubbing dust from every surface I could reach.
    Up the ladder, next, swinging a leg over the machine to straddle the parts, just as Vincent Cruz had. The dust here was a greasy fuzz that mere rubbing could not remove. I tipped a tin of solvent onto a rag and soaked it, then watched my fingertips turn black as I cleaned. Again, I tried to loosen some bolts with the wrench. I felt the pull between my shoulder blades, then up my neck and into my teeth. Nothing, except that I’d managed to scrape a thick layer of sludge from the bolts and the works surrounding them. I climbed down.
    The sky was lightening now. As I passed by the wall calendar I took up the pencil and stroked through Sunday, September 3.
    A hammering at the door had me dropping the pencil. I stepped back to the metal mirror and called out, Just a minute! Fingers fussing to tuck strands into the knot. At least my eyes had returned to normal. I smoothed my collar and shirt front as I dashed to the door, remembering only as my palms skimmed the rough fabric that I was in my coveralls, not a dress. I wrenched the door open.
    There stood a man in a vest and suit, with slicked hair and a trimmed beard. His shoulders were narrower than his chest, a shape I have always found unattractive in a man.
    He gave his name but in my surprise I didn’t catch it, though I know I introduced myself in return.
    From San Francisco, he said, and then something about mining exploration. Only when he asked about advertising rates did I come to my senses and invite him in.
    There is no paper just yet, I explained, but I can record your order.
    I stood behind the counter and pulled out the ledger. A diamond ring on his baby finger, and, through the window, a man with a walrus mustache rocking on his heels and puffing pipe smoke into the fog.
    As I scribbled I asked, Is he waiting for you?
    My friend and business associate, he explained. Come all the way from Glasgow. Here to see about opening another vein of coal. We’re looking to hire men to stake claims.
    Another vein?
    I stopped writing, interested in this bit of news.
    He said with a wink that there could be more, many more.
    Coal likes company, he explained. All ore does. Miners talk about silverleadzinc like it’s one thing. And it is, to be certain, often found running in ribbons together. Coal with uranium. Copper next to cadmium. Moly in its own vein or mixed with copper and gold.
    Molly?
    Yes, Moly. Molybdenum, Miss Sinclair. It’s like a layer cake down there. And in the streams above, pink quartz with gold nuggets clinging to it like caramel sauce on a sundae.
    You mean there could be gold here?
    I mean there’s everything here if you dig far enough.
    He leaned an elbow on the counter and studied my throat.
    What a few gems wouldn’t do for that neck, he said.
    And dropped his eyes to my coverall-ed chest.
    I let the ledger slam shut and he snatched back his baby finger.
    I told him I would let him know when our first issue was on its way. I said it cheerfully. After all, his impertinence aside, here was my first advertisement, and another story idea.
    The door closed and I took up a sheet of paper and wrote the letter home much as I had