Golden Touch

Light streamed in from the slatted windows, exclaiming every mote in the dust-ridden air of the bar. One soul sat at the rugged counter, nursing his obvious hangover with a hair-of-the-dog and trying to keep the creak of the saloon doors out of his ears. He leans back in the stool, seeming to exhale for the first time in about a week, until he’s alerted to a metallic sound in the open air. That breath is sucked back in as he reaches for his hip and kicks his stool out into the lonely room. Heart racing and sweat beading, he draws and brings his sights up to meet the door. As it slowly swings in the late summer breeze, stillness sets in again when he remembered the windmill on the old fire-tower had needed greasing for a year or more, and malaise falls over the man once again. He pulls the stool back to the bar, his revolver finding its way back home as he tries to lose that breath again. He reached in his pocket, producing a handful of bills and change. Counting out the 3 cents needed, the clinking of the coins masked the jingle of spurs approaching. The man left the change, took a deep breath, and realized just how quiet it was. Recognizing the new silence of the groaning old doors, he turned to them and now faced down the barrel of a lawman’s rifle.

“Russel Wilcox”, the Marshall boasted, “you’re a tough fella to track down.” he breathed, taking a few half steps in his direction. “The State of Arizona has a number ‘a warrants out on you. Take that six-gun and toss it on over”. A story of a grin crawled across the Marshall’s face, spinning a tale of hunger and exhilaration at the prospect of bringing in such a famed bounty.

Russel slowly takes the gun out of its holster, keeping the barrel pointed toward the ground, his eyes trained on his impending doom. Tossing it under a table, Russel’s hands made their way to the ceiling, a pose they were more than familiar with.

“That’s good, very good, now why don’t you turn ‘em pockets out?”

Russel complied, knowing this was always the next step, he knew not to draw too much attention to the pocket in his coat liner. Coins clanging and bills shuffling, the Marshall’s eyes grew like a cougar’s spying on a helpless antelope. He approached Russel, pulling the rope from his knapsack and leaning his quarry over the bar, restraining him in the process. "There's gotta be $20,000 here, that'd be an Arizona record theft if anybody would ever hear about it." Quickly sweeping his winnings into the knapsack, the Marshall chided “Well Mr. Wilcox, it’s a long walk to Prescott and I’m guessing you ain’t the most popular man round these parts. Best get you on your way.”

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Russel’s knees hit the ground hard as he shoved his face into the cool, clear water of the stream. Lapping up each mouthful, nearly gagging on this life-giving gift of the desert.

Once his thirst was abated, he returned to some semblance of humanity, his tied wrists kept him from the rest of it.

"Come on", the Marshall called "You've had quite enough 'a that now, let's head back to camp."

Sat next to the fire, Russel kept his eye trained on a colony of ants making off with a couple lost beans from the Marshall's supper. They had carried it around the simple camp, keeping their distance from the men and the heat of the fire. Moving back and forth from their mound to the food, bringing back what they found to help their kin brought a slight grin to Russel's cracked lips. It reminded him of the farm he had grown up on. The Kellers were about a half-mile down the road, and they had a pretty daughter, Eve that Russel had gotten to know quite well over the years. The Kellers had a crop go bad one year. Russel's family was hesitant to help out, but Russel won them over the course of Autumn. Sweet Eve and the Kellers lived that winter on the leftovers from the Wilcox's plates. That kind of compassion was hard to come by out West. Funny, he thought, that what little he did find was in an ant hill when he was being hauled off to a cell.

"So Wilcox, seems like you've got more on your record than you've got up there, huh?" Marshall pontificated. "Come on, we been hoofin' it a day or two already an' you ain't said a word. How's an outlaw like you not got a mouth runnin' like a river?"

Russel looked up at the man in front of him, staring at the man's badge glow in the firelight. "Funny what a little bit of gold can do. That bit got beat on an anvil and now it tells the world you're in charge. Some lady back in Prescott probably wears a bit with a pretty rock in it to show she landed herself a man that'll give her anything she wants."

"Gold fever, is that it then? You stole a piece a' gold for yourself?"

"Gold has a funny way with people. Never knew it'd send people into a tizzy like it did in Bisbee." Russel said as the Marshall's eyes widened, "You'd think giving people what they want would make them stop fighting."

With bated breath, the Marshall asked "What did an outlaw like you have to offer 'em?"

Russel saw the Marshall inching closer to him, and the Marshall noticed, for the first time all day, the imprint of something in the criminals front pocket.

"When a man tells you 'If I had another nugget in my pan, I'd make sure nobody at camp went hungry tonight' or 'The church needs fixing, if only I had a few dollars more', you take him at his word, right?" Russel asked.

"Well, I ain't had the funds to give, only barely enough to put food on the table back home." the Marshall stated, keeping his eyes trained on that front pocket. "If you had anything of value, you'd have offered it to me already, wouldn't ya? Just to safe yourself the trouble the law can bring?"

"Marshall, it seems like you're not getting my point. That value doesn't mean a thing unless it's in the right hands-"

"Well", the Marshall interjected, "seein' as how your hands are bound, I'm guessin' my hands are right-er for the job." He reached out to grab at Russel's pocket, ripping the seams of the coat. Russel fell backwards in a vain attempt to tear away from the officer, only to leave the important half of his coat torn off into the Marshall's hands.

"Let's see whatcha got here," the Marshall chided, reaching into the pocket and finding a small, black leather-bound book. He opened it to find some small maps, scribbles about some sort of deposits and yields, some places marked off and some circled. "The hell's this, Wilcox?"

"That book's the source of this damn trouble," Russel spoke, eyes wandering back to the ants marching forth. "It's the reason men have called me a thief, its the reason I've got to keep running. It's my blessing turned curse. We aren't made for wealth, you know. Or even for getting what we want. We're made to work for-"

"Tell me what this is or I'll tell 'em I found you cold." the Marshall barked.

"All the gold mines worth working. Holes full of gold and how to find them." Russel muttered, "The book shows you all the mines with gold, exactly how much they've got, and where in the mine to find it. The book even crosses out the ones that get mined for you. All you've got to do is sign your name on the first page."

Looking indignant at first, the Marshall began flipping through the book, now knowing what he got his hands on. The Marshall's jaw dropped when he found a town near his home town of Tuscon that had found its fair share of gold, with a bright red line through it.

The Marshall leapt up in the air, dancing and singing and celebrating his newfound wealth. "Ain't nobody gonna tell me what to do nomore!" He shouted as he traipsed around the fire, stamping his feet and howling at the moon.

Russel kept his eyes on the now flattened ants, and remembered what he had done to get this book. "Marshall. If you're making off with that book, you've got to know one thing," Russel strained himself to bring it up, "If you want something, that notebook won't help you get it."

"Well if this book'll get me all the gold these arms can carry, then I'll just have to buy whatever I want." the Marshall said, as he finished signing his name, sealing the sentiment with a kiss on the spine.

"Do you recognize the name next to yours?"

The Marshall looked down at the page, reading;

'Russel Wilcox - Eve Keller'

'Marshall William Waters - Amelia Waters'

Perplexed, the Marshall asked "What's my wife's name doing there?"

"That'd be your payment, was it worth it?"