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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Gold Belly
Nathan Oser
Three Foot Flats was a bushel of bad apples. It was the smallest patch of town in the whole blistering desert, and hideaway to a wily round-up of thieves, rogues, and scoundrels thick as prickles on a cactus and meaner’n scorpions in your boots.
My pa had fit in like a cork in a bottle. Wish I could say he was a good man in his day, but then I’d be a liar just like him. Fact was, he was more than a liar--he was a murdering, thieving rascal to shame all others. He was known and wanted in more states and territories than I had digits to count, and I reckon it was due to his widespread notoriety that the folks in Three Foot Flats got to calling me Drake’s Boy.
I was the only twelve-year-old in the whole sin-swimming outfit. With Pa’s temper bad enough to make a bucking bronco blush, there weren’t no use complaining when hooked a dusty hand in my collar and dragged me westward. Ain’t no law in the Flats that didn’t come from a common man's shooting iron--a welcome invite for anyone on the dodge--and I reckoned Pa had more marshals on his tail than a mutt has fleas (and maybe more fleas too).
'Course, in a camp of outlaws, gunfights are as natural as breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That's what garnered the town its name, Three Foot Flats. With as busy as the gravediggers were, there wasn’t much sense in diggin’ a six-foot grave. Thinking strictly in numbers, why, there was practically a year-long waiting list to shoot a man--though it never stopped a fella from jumpin’ line, and especially not the scoundrel who’d got the best of Pa. He was Black Chaw Harry and a timber wolf of a man. Him and his gang were the biggest, baddest hombres this side of the dirt.
One night in the saloon, Black Chaw Harry had gotten tobacco juice on his new buckskins and weren't too happy with the way my old man was eyin' him. Next thing I knew, guns were going off and Black Chaw Harry was obliged to buy him one of those little plots of land, three feet deep. Like I said, we’d had our share of differences, me and Pa; he hadn't exactly been blue-ribbon material, but it was a sad day just the same. And it set Black Chaw Harry forever in my mind as a two-bit, lower-than-snakes varmint.
After all that, don't go thinkin’ I was fool enough to stay in Three Foot Flats 'cause I wanted to. I knew I had to make myself scarce, and the sooner the better. First, though, I needed me a horse.
Horse-thieving weren’t an uncommon practice, but I wasn't about to let myself fit into the same shoes as anyone else in town. I was determined to shoot straight and earn my own as a professional man--that profession being one of my own invention: oddjobberist. I'd scrape up a bit here, two bits there, and eventually pull up stakes and ride so far west I'd need oars to keep on going.
In fact, I'd just put a whole dollar to my cause judging a duel and was on my way to deposit it in my bank--the only un-robbable bank for miles, I reckoned. I made sure no one was watching as I ducked behind the livery stables and dove into a lonely little chaparral. My key was a hand shovel, and I used it to dig up an old cigar box. That was my bank.
Always before going back into town I jumped up to the opera house (the top rail of the horse corral) and said my howdys to the animals. They were a fine lot of thoroughbreds, but I had an eye for one in particular. Far Star was her name, and, boy, was she a beaut! Not to mention the fastest horse in town. In order to afford her, though, I'd probably need six more cigar boxes so packed with money you couldn't hear the coins rattle if you shook 'em with an earthquake. I sighed and ambled back into town. I needed another odd job.
Splittin' wood for the Crowly brothers wasn't so bad, but with the scarcity of trees in the Flats they said I'd have to wait at least a week till they were able to hijack the next timber freight to Santa Fe. I worked my way to the saloon where I could always count on Longhorn Jim to get his signs stolen and have new ones that needed painting. When I pulled up at the shop, though, I saw he'd started hanging the signs over the door where no one could get their hands on 'em. So much for that odd job.
I kicked the dirt and squinted around. Dust was rolling through town like a heavy fog, and tumbleweeds were hopping across the street like jackrabbits. Doing things proper put me at a powerful disadvantage. Three Foot Flats was no place for an honest man trying to save money and wrangle up some grub in the same breath. And my gut was rumbling up a storm. I set my mind on getting some food.
That's when I saw my meal ticket land right under my nose. Those cussed tumbleweeds were as thick as hair on a buffalo's back. I'd gather them up and sell them as kindling for dinner fires.
Bumbling through the crowd of outlaws, taking measures not to get caught underfoot, I hauled in the wily tumbleweeds one after the other. Sometimes they'd catch a gust of wind and shoot up into the air. I wrestled them down and stacked them up nice and neat in a nearby chicken coop. By the time the sun fizzled out and the moon haunted in overhead I had myself a braggin' big pile of kindling.
Cook fires were sprinkled around town like jackstones. Going from one to the next I asked a penny-and-a-half a weed. Some folks shooed me off like a common horse fly while others payed in beans and biscuits. I put a few coins to my name too.
With my stomach full and a jingle in my pockets, I stole back to the chaparral to dig up my cigar box. It weren't safe to carry money around town even for a second and especially after sundown.
I deposited the coins and decided the dirt was too loose to look natural if someone were to stumble upon it. I moved to the other side of the brush and started up another hole. Filling it in, I caught the faintest shimmer of light huddled amongst the dirt. I took a deep breath and leaned in close. I'd heard there was gold out in the hills but didn't expect to find any in the Flats. I'd also heard folks say you can tell genuine gold from fool’s gold by two distinct characteristics: real gold’s heavy, and it’s soft.
The stone was about the size of my thumbnail. I rolled it over my palm and tossed it in the air a few times. Heavy enough. Then I put it between my teeth and gave it a testing bite.
“Drake's Boy! 'S'at you?”
The voice boomed from behind with a hard slap on the shoulder. I about jumped out of my boots and gasped so sudden I sucked in the gold nugget. My eyes lost all focus as I felt the rock push its way down my throat and plop into my stomach.
Ruination!
“Looks like you've seen a ghost, boy.” It was Longhorn Jim with a baffled look in his eyes. “What're ya doin' all the way out here, anyway? This where you keep them tumbleweeds? 'Cause I come to see if you got any more for the boys back there. Stuff burns better'n sinners in Old Splitfoot's drawing room hearth!”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out--words nor gold. I shot a quick glance at the hole in the ground and filled it in with the side of my foot, praying Longhorn Jim hadn't caught sight of it. I shuffled a couple feet off to the side and was finally able to speak. “No, sir.”
“What?”
“Tumbleweeds, I mean. I haven't any left, sir.”
“All the same, come rest a spell by the fire.”
I followed along but couldn't help feeling the lump of gold sitting deep in my belly...
#
I poked my head into the saloon early the next morning when I thought there would be the fewest customers around. 'Course in Three Foot Flats, most folks are swishing whiskey soon as the breakfast plates are stacked. I spotted a group of outlaws at a corner table and a few folks hunched over the bar. Then I met eyes with Longhorn Jim who was wiping down tables. Can't say Longhorn Jim was an honest man (he'd cut the rib-eye out the back of your bovine and grill it up while you were still milkin' her if the proper chance came along) but he'd always been friendly enough to me.
“Drake's Boy!” he called out. “Slept like the dead last night, did ya! I woulda took you for dead, too, if you didn’t start sawing off snores like a lumberjack. Shuffle your butt in here already.”
I mustered up my courage and asked in a hushed voice, “Say, Longhorn, what do you reckon gold's worth 'round here?”
“'Round here? Depends on how much dust ya got.”
“No, I mean a chunk of gold. This big.” I showed him the back of my thumb.
“A nugget! In Three Foot Flats!? In this greed-soaked outfit, I'd say it'd take you quite a long way. Gold's scarce in these parts, ya know. Why ask?”
I cringed. Everyone in the saloon had their heads cricked our way. The last thing I needed was folks thinking I had gold on me. Which was true and it wasn't. It was in me.
“No reason,” I said and darted out of the saloon.
I was sweating like a mule the rest of the morning. I kept glancing over my shoulder to make sure an early death wasn't lurking up behind me. Just spitting the word “gold” 'round here weren't safe. Heck! If I’d had the nugget sitting in my pocket, I still couldn't have used it to buy my horse. The owner would just shoot me in plain daylight and pluck the gold right out of my cold, dead hand. Easy as one plus one plus bang! But I figured it wasn't stealing if I left the nugget in place of the horse. At least then I'd have paid. I just had to make myself scare till I found a way to get the rock out of my system.
There was an old abandoned barn that people had come to pick apart on occasion, mostly when they needed wood for gravestones. When no one was around I slipped in and huddled up in the hayloft.
I snapped awake from a short nap. I had an awful bellyache as if that big gold nugget was trying to sneak its way back up, but that wasn't what woke me. Shovels and pickaxes were clink-clanking and tearing up dirt all around town. The street looked like a dried up honeycomb when I peered out the hayloft window. At first I figured there were just a lot of folks in need of burying and the gravediggers were working overtime, but when I saw the holes were going on six feet deep I realized there could only be one thing to account for so much labor. Everyone had come out searching for gold. Word must have already gotten out that there was color in town.
Now I really started to sweat. I snuck my way to the saloon but caught my breath and froze halfway up the stairs. There was a pistol poking at my back.
“You got the whole town diggin' up bones, Drake's Boy.” The voice sounded like death itself. It was Black Chaw Harry. He had a whiskey-nose like an over-ripe strawberry and dark, saggy eyes that hung like upside down horseshoes. He spit a black stream of tobacco juice and scratched the bald patch of his beard where he'd been cut with a knife. “I hear you got gold and I'm here to collect for what your daddy did to me.” It was just like him to confuse the truth like that. Why, he was so stupid ugly he'd shoot a mirror for staring at him cross-eyed.
“I don't follow, sir.”
“Don't play cute with me, runt! I’m talkin’ gold! The yeller stuff! I know you got it hid somewheres.”
I was shivering scared but chose my words carefully. “I didn't hide any gold, sir.”
“What about all that money you make running 'round town? You do so many odd jobs 'round here, and I ain't never seen you buy nothin'. Probably hordin' the gold in the very same spot. I know yer holdin' out!”
“I've been saving up coins. Look, I'll tell you where it is. Just let me go.”
He took a long moment to think. “Yer gonna lie and run off soon as I set down my gun to pick up a spade. No deal.”
He wrapped an arm like a tree branch around my waist and carried me off the steps. He dragged me all the way to a little shack of a house on the outskirts of town. Kicking open the door he shouted, “Gramma! Gramma! Get out of bed already and come over here. I got me a business venture that needs lookin' after.”
The house was dank and smelled like it hadn't been aired out since the roof was tacked on. Black Chaw Harry's grandma, hunched over and bony, eased her way into the sitting room on a long, metal cane.
“Watch the boy. He's got gold and I don't want him runnin' off nowheres while I'm diggin' it up.”
The old woman nodded and fell into a rocking chair. I explained to Black Chaw Harry where I hid all my money. “It's just coins, though. No gold!” I added as he stomped back outside.
I glanced back and forth between the old lady and the door. “Sit down, sonny,” she said in a quivering voice. I noticed her cane was actually a shotgun and she had it sitting on the arm rest, aimed right for me. “Gold, you say?”
I lowered myself onto an ottoman and kept my mouth shut tight as a steel trap.
“You know, my grandson has always been the most spoiled egg of the dozen. If he don't find no gold, you best have strong runnin' legs.”
I stared at her wrinkled old face for a long time before I finally took a chance and spoke up. “Say I had gold but there's no way to give it to him--even if I wanted to?”
“You ain’t makin’ sense, boy,” she mumbled. “Why? Where is it?”
“In a place I can't even get to.”
“Well, sonny, best find some way of handing it over. If he don't shoot ya, he's going to beat the breath out of ya till he's got gold in his hands. One way or another--that's my grandson.”
Like a crack of thunder, the front door burst open and Black Chaw Harry stormed into the room. He threw the empty cigar box at me and held out a handful of coins. “Ain't no gold in here, runt!”
He reached for my collar, but I jumped from the ottoman and kicked it at his feet.
“He said he's got the gold where you won't find it!” the old woman shouted. And in the excitement she must have squeezed back too hard on the trigger of the shotgun. A swarm of buckshot flew across the room, but luckily her aim was so blistering bad she missed me and blew a hole right through the side of the house. The kickback sent her chair rocking so hard I figured it wouldn't stop till I was her age. It gave me plenty of time to bust through the hole in the wall and kick dust down the street.
I made for the stables in a wild rush. I hated to do it, but I needed that horse now!
I dodged all the folks digging up shallow bones in the street and cussed when I reached the corral. It was empty. I looked around for the horses, but only caught a monstrous huge hand around my throat. Black Chaw Harry had brought his whole gang with him, and they were all on horseback.
I struggled to escape his grip and wheezed, “Fine! I have the gold!”
He dropped me to the ground. I caught my breath and glared at him and the rest of the gang. They were riding the corral horses, and I noticed that one of the outlaws was mounted on Far Star, my light-footed beaut of a horse.
“It's hid in a place where you'll never find it,” I scoffed.
“Where?” he shouted back.
“Why should I tell you?”
Black Chaw Harry bared his teeth and let a black stream of droll roll down his chin as he leaned in close and growled, “Well, if you don’t tell me, reckon I’m gonna have to break some of those twiggy little bones of yours!” That old lady was right. He was stubborn as a mule with a toothache. “You’re choice, Drake’s Boy,” he grinned.
The horsemen were cheering him on, and one of them called out, “Pop him one in the gut, Black Chaw! See if that’ll change his mind!”
I stammered a bit. “It's-- It’s in--” But then I was struck with an idea. I raised my head high and mustered up the biggest voice I had. “Gimme your best shot!”
“You asked for it. Now where’s that gold? Spit it out!” And quick as blink Black Chaw Harry clenched his fist and punched me right square in the stomach. I reeled back and heaved. The gold nugget in my belly shot straight out of my mouth and into the beaming sun. I spat it out, alright!
I watched the glinting stone soar through the air in slow motion. Black Chaw Harry jumped, sweeping his arms high above his head. The horsemen behind him all dove from their saddles. The gold hit the ground, and the whole bunch piled up to get their claws on it first.
I saw my chance.
I dashed to the side and hopped right into the empty saddle on Far Star's back. With a sharp kick and a whoop, we were off and galloping, down the road and straight out of Three Foot Flats.
Far Star was fast as a lightning bolt in a hurry. Before I knew it those outlaws were long behind, and that flea-bitten town too. And as we streaked west over the sunset desert even the wind couldn’t blow the smile from my face. I had my horse and a thousand different roads laid out before me, and I didn’t miss that pesky gold nugget one little bit. It was a fair trade in my eyes.
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