Rudolph Wurlitzer - The Drop Edge of Yonder

"How's your pause been treatin' you?" Zebulon asked.

"Abominably: This is our third hotel. Each one more frustrating than the last. Sullen service. Worse food. Mosquitoes. Flies. Bed bugs. But despite the inconveniences, the city is not without its sultry charms; although, as we have learned only too well, it's a city given to unexpected vapors and violence."

The Count sighed, grateful for the opportunity of talking to a stranger that he would never see again. In pedantic detail, he described their voyage from Venice to New York, including the side streets and mercenary shops of Algiers, the restaurants of Malaga and Lisbon, and finally, the physical hardships of traveling overland to Denver — a journey that saw them nearly drowned crossing the Mississippi, attacked by Comanches, and almost killed in New Mexico in a barroom brawl.

The Count hesitated, not sure how much he should reveal. "An occasion, I might add, that you seemed willing to provoke."

"I don't recall what went down," Zebulon said. "I was trapped inside a nest of snakes."

"When you sat down at the table, obviously you were asking for trouble. Of course, I was well lubricated. And then we rode out on the stagecoach, so we never did find out what happened."

"You call her Delilah?" Zebulon asked.

"A biblical name; her actual name is too difficult to pronounce, some sort of East African jibber jabber. I met her in Paris, where she had the misfortune to be handmaiden to a French officer. She's part French, the rest Abyssinian, with a dollop of Babylonian and Egyptian and god knows what else. I would be lost without her. Fortunately I was able to free her owner from certain financial difficulties."

"You mean you bought her."

The Count laughed, delighted to be face to face with an authentic man of the West who was not afraid to say what was on his mind. "It wasn't commerce that dictated my involvement. More an impulsive demand of the heart."

Delilah glided towards them, waiting patiently until Zebulon pulled back her chair, a courtesy that he had never performed before, much less observed.

Without looking at the menu, the Count ordered a variety of hors d'oeuvres, followed by plates of burritos and chicken mole.

The Count's probing questions about the rituals and hardships of life in the mountains made Zebulon realize that he was being given an opportunity to sing for his supper, if not a way out of town, and he enthusiastically launched into a description of his adventures in California — all of which he invented, not having been there. Absorbed, they listened with fascinated attention as he created and embellished his own history. In florid, often longwinded detail, he described Indian raids and encounters with grizzlies; rabid wolverines and drunken mountain rendezvous, where the lies of lunatic trappers became truth, and the truth became lies; spring celebrations of their winter hauls that often lasted for a month or more, until everyone was talked out or dead or broke.

"Well now," he continued as they started in on plates of sugared apples wrapped in corn fritters. "Let me tell you, this coon's tasted his share of Californie and the Far West. Yessir. Been shot on the Oregonian Trail, scalped and left for dead in the high Sierras, froze my belly in more than one tailrace ditch, trapped the Gila and the Green, near drowned on the Columbia, raised more hair'n any coon you'll ever meet, was a barkeep in Hangtown, keel boatman on the Sacramenty, road agent, pit boss, company buster, buffalo skinner, teamster, logger, rail spiker; I done it all and then some. Been all the way to Alasky and the putrified forest, heard the opry in San Fran, scouted for renegade red niggers all the way to old Mex and on south to free Nicaragua with General Walker, parlayed my share of Chinee, Irish, and German bohunks, to name a few"

They stared at him, stunned by this compulsive torrent of strange, exotic words, hardly any of which they understood.

"But surely," the Count asked, "given the range of your extraordinary adventures, you must have searched for gold?"

"Gold, you say?" Zebulon wiped his face with the back of his hand and downed two quick shots, then one more. "Gold? This coon has picked more oro and Sonoma Lightning than you can shake a stick at. Made and lost more than one fortune. Even placed gold nuggets on the dead eyes of a Mex girl gutshot in Sonora fer givin' a poke to the wrong customer at the wrong time. Gold was my music, my fiddle and my piana, all seranadin' the clink of pick-axes and the grind of shovels, washin' pans, and rockers — all shakin' for pay dirt. This coon gambled away more gold in three days than most pilgrims make in a lifetime. Yessir. I been on the Feather and South Fork and down to the Agua Fria, went bust on the Mariposa, struck pay dirt on Sullivan's Creek, bought me a saloon and lost it the next week in Placerville, struck a fat vein north of Virginia City and was robbed down to my boots by my partner; took me a year before I nailed his scalp to the church door in Sutterville. Spent every haul faster'n I made it. Call it what you want: greasin' the trail for salvation, or any damn thing. Now you take Tucker's Bend or Hangtown or any one of them half-assed shanty towns of blue-belly pilgrims not knowin' a pick or a shovel from a wagon wheel — all of 'em are bottomed out and gone back to where they come from. Good riddance, I say."

He looked at Delilah. "If you dream of gold, chances are you'll wake up and all that's left will be the dream. And then not even that."

She nodded, as if she knew all about dreams.

Gaslights were turned on as the dining room began to fill up with customers, all of them stunned and excited from the day's events. On the street there was a sudden volley of shots that sounded like a firing squad. A dog barked and a lonely drunk sang a love song about a two-timing lover. Then silence.

Delilah pointed to the nugget hanging around Zebulon's neck, the same one he had ripped off a clerk's neck in Broken Elbow

"Is that from California?"

"I picked if off the ground," he replied. "Go ahead. Take it. There are plenty more where that came from."

When he handed her the nugget, she hesitated, then gave it back.

"I prefer to gather my own," she said.

"Delilah, for god's sake," the Count said. "The man gave it to you from his heart. It's bad form not to accept such a spontaneous gift."

"Bad luck, too," Zebulon added.

Modestly, she bent her head, allowing him to slip the nugget around her neck.

"Then you're headed for California?" the Count asked.

"One way or the other," he said. "As soon as I gopher up enough chink for a passage. It ain't that easy for a gringo to find wages down here."

"Then you're not a guest at the hotel?" the Count asked.

Suddenly Zebulon wanted to get shut of this Count and his strange consort, or whoever she was. He was singing for his supper and waiting for a bone to be thrown his way, but hustling dumb foreigners wasn't a trick he favored, even though he had managed it more times than he cared to admit.

"Where on earth have you been?" asked a strident English voice behind him. "I've been searching everywhere for you."

A tall emaciated man wearing a bright red serape, yellow sombrero, and brand new polished turquoise belt buckle stumbled towards them, accompanied by a local whore who was having trouble walking on one shoe.

"Don't you know there's a bloody revolution on?" the man asked. "Apparently some local politician was blown up in a park. Never mind! The ship is sailing on the tide, compadres! Mu_y pronto!

Zebulon knew the whore; she was an experienced and obliging professional that he had spent a few nights with before he had tied in with Miranda.

"Who's the dumb gringo, Lupita?" he asked in Spanish.

She shook her head, forcing a smile as she took off her shoe. "Muy loco hombre. Many bad habits. You don't want to know As a favor to me, for all that I have given to you from my heart to yours, I am asking that you kill him. Or at least get him to pay what he owes me."