mine?”
The man turned in his direction and attempted to focus. His effort was interrupted by a sudden spasm of dry coughing. He finally stopped, and took a deep breath, but seemed even weaker than before.
“What about the Blue Hole?” Ross repeated.
“It’ll kill ya,” the man replied, struggling for enough breath to speak.
“Poison gas in the mine? No canaries there to warn you?” Ross prompted.
“No masks, no air, just rock dust,” the man gasped.
“How about if I buy you something to eat?” Ross said. “You hungry?”
The man nodded weakly.
Ross took him around the shoulders and under the arms and helped him up. The stoppered bottle clattered to the boards. Ross put it in his pocket.
“My sign…” The man reached back and clutched it as Ross aided him to the door of the first saloon he saw. Just inside, the man sagged into a chair at an empty table. Ross sat next to him, propping the sign against the wall.
“This here is one o’ them two-bit saloons,” the man objected.
“No matter. I’m paying,” Ross said.
The so-called two-bit saloons were on the uphill side of the street and fancied themselves as higher class than the one-bit saloons below. They sported fancier fixtures, mirrors, better selection of liquors and wines, and a varied menu. Not only did they charge two bits a drink, but everything else was proportionally higher, from cigars to steaks. As a practical matter, a man couldn’t pay just 12 1/2¢ for a drink in the lower-priced saloons since 1/2¢ coppers had long since gone out ofcirculation, so bartenders habitually returned as change for a quarter only a 10¢ piece or two silver half-dimes, making them one-bit saloons in name only.
Ross ordered the man a bowl of beef stew and a pint of beer.
“What’s your name, mister?” Ross asked when the waiter had gone.
“Jacob Sturm,” the man replied, trying to focus. His breath reeked of alcohol. Ross pulled out the half full, square-faced bottle and gently shook it, watching the deep amber contents swirl inside the clear glass. He read the yellow label. Madam Turney’s Mountain Elixir was printed in flowing, ornate script across the top. In smaller lettering below, it professed to be a cure for corns, erysipelas, as well as dyspepsia, the grippe, flatulent colic, and botts. It prevented liver and heart ailments, and would relieve symptoms of mountain fever, colds, congestion, asthma, and shortness of breath. But Ross almost laughed aloud when he read the last line. For botts, it has no equal.
“That’s m’ medicine…for my lungs,” Sturm said breathlessly.
Ross twisted out the cork and took a tentative sniff. “Holy shit!” He jerked back, eyes watering. “Guaranteed to cure or kill,” he agreed.
“Makes me feel better,” Sturm muttered.
“I can believe that.” Ross corked the bottle and set it on the table. This Sturm was stronger than he appeared if he could swig Madam Turney’s Elixir and stay upright.
“What’s this about the Blue Hole Mine?” Ross again asked.
“Avery Tuttle…a cruel man.”
“He’s the owner?”
“Yeah. Rock dust and gas ate up my lungs working at the Blue Hole.”
“All the mines are dangerous like that.”
Sturm shook his head. “Tuttle cuts corners. Men killed when rotten ropes break on the hoist. Foreman orders miners into drifts…where they’re scalded by hot steam. Forces us to work in spaces where gas is leaking…”—he paused to gasp for breath—“beyond the reach of air blowers.”
The waiter arrived with the stew and beer, took a silver dollar from Ross, and left.
Sturm was convulsed with a dry, hacking cough before he could begin eating. “I’m a walking dead man,” he whispered as he took up his spoon.
For several seconds Ross was silent. Mine owners, in general, were not humanitarians. They would pay the cheapest wage they could, work the men as hard as possible, cut their overhead to a minimum, rake in big profits, and undercut or steal
The man turned in his direction and attempted to focus. His effort was interrupted by a sudden spasm of dry coughing. He finally stopped, and took a deep breath, but seemed even weaker than before.
“What about the Blue Hole?” Ross repeated.
“It’ll kill ya,” the man replied, struggling for enough breath to speak.
“Poison gas in the mine? No canaries there to warn you?” Ross prompted.
“No masks, no air, just rock dust,” the man gasped.
“How about if I buy you something to eat?” Ross said. “You hungry?”
The man nodded weakly.
Ross took him around the shoulders and under the arms and helped him up. The stoppered bottle clattered to the boards. Ross put it in his pocket.
“My sign…” The man reached back and clutched it as Ross aided him to the door of the first saloon he saw. Just inside, the man sagged into a chair at an empty table. Ross sat next to him, propping the sign against the wall.
“This here is one o’ them two-bit saloons,” the man objected.
“No matter. I’m paying,” Ross said.
The so-called two-bit saloons were on the uphill side of the street and fancied themselves as higher class than the one-bit saloons below. They sported fancier fixtures, mirrors, better selection of liquors and wines, and a varied menu. Not only did they charge two bits a drink, but everything else was proportionally higher, from cigars to steaks. As a practical matter, a man couldn’t pay just 12 1/2¢ for a drink in the lower-priced saloons since 1/2¢ coppers had long since gone out ofcirculation, so bartenders habitually returned as change for a quarter only a 10¢ piece or two silver half-dimes, making them one-bit saloons in name only.
Ross ordered the man a bowl of beef stew and a pint of beer.
“What’s your name, mister?” Ross asked when the waiter had gone.
“Jacob Sturm,” the man replied, trying to focus. His breath reeked of alcohol. Ross pulled out the half full, square-faced bottle and gently shook it, watching the deep amber contents swirl inside the clear glass. He read the yellow label. Madam Turney’s Mountain Elixir was printed in flowing, ornate script across the top. In smaller lettering below, it professed to be a cure for corns, erysipelas, as well as dyspepsia, the grippe, flatulent colic, and botts. It prevented liver and heart ailments, and would relieve symptoms of mountain fever, colds, congestion, asthma, and shortness of breath. But Ross almost laughed aloud when he read the last line. For botts, it has no equal.
“That’s m’ medicine…for my lungs,” Sturm said breathlessly.
Ross twisted out the cork and took a tentative sniff. “Holy shit!” He jerked back, eyes watering. “Guaranteed to cure or kill,” he agreed.
“Makes me feel better,” Sturm muttered.
“I can believe that.” Ross corked the bottle and set it on the table. This Sturm was stronger than he appeared if he could swig Madam Turney’s Elixir and stay upright.
“What’s this about the Blue Hole Mine?” Ross again asked.
“Avery Tuttle…a cruel man.”
“He’s the owner?”
“Yeah. Rock dust and gas ate up my lungs working at the Blue Hole.”
“All the mines are dangerous like that.”
Sturm shook his head. “Tuttle cuts corners. Men killed when rotten ropes break on the hoist. Foreman orders miners into drifts…where they’re scalded by hot steam. Forces us to work in spaces where gas is leaking…”—he paused to gasp for breath—“beyond the reach of air blowers.”
The waiter arrived with the stew and beer, took a silver dollar from Ross, and left.
Sturm was convulsed with a dry, hacking cough before he could begin eating. “I’m a walking dead man,” he whispered as he took up his spoon.
For several seconds Ross was silent. Mine owners, in general, were not humanitarians. They would pay the cheapest wage they could, work the men as hard as possible, cut their overhead to a minimum, rake in big profits, and undercut or steal
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