Value Received
by John J. Beach


Covering their tracks was the hardest part. Even a small wagon such as theirs, laden to overflowing with limestone, would carve deep ruts into the trail. Such furrows were not the work of a lone farmer that the two men pretended to be. Discovery of their true work would mean imprisonment, or worse.

One of these men, Teddy Tedford, did not view himself a criminal. Nor would many others not associated with the Devil’s Own Mining Company. Besides, Teddy was good at justifying things. For instance, he gambled at cards—taking money from others without return value received. Teddy’s departure here from the Mormon teachings was that he believed the excitement of playing Five Card Stud was a “value received,” even if a man should lose everything.

His companion was Tanjakwunu, a Southern Paiute Indian. Teddy, raised to accept the simplest names for things, called him “TenJack.” Two years earlier (and 90 miles to the east) Teddy had won TenJack in a friendly card game near Cripple Creek. During that hand, Teddy had been dealt the ten of hearts face down, the ten of spades up. At that point, he merely matched the bring in price to continue. His second up card: the ten of diamonds. Teddy softly bet “his pair.” His third up card: the two of hearts. With no other deuce yet revealed on the table, Teddy raised the stakes, hoping to feign a lesser hand. The Jack of diamonds as his last card had not improved his hand, but had been a blessing; the two men left facing him each now knew he could beat Teddy’s probable two-pair hand, never suspecting his actual three-of-kind.

Betting grew fierce. The man to Teddy’s right—convinced he had the strongest two pair hand at the table, but short on cash—offered up ownership of TenJack: “I bought him from the Navajos for $20.”

Teddy immediate took issue. “How is he possibly worth that? Why would I want a slave?” He even got up from the table to give the young Indian a once over, and asked him to demonstrate his strength and his ability to understand English. Finally, Teddy relented. “Okay. If that’s all you’ve got.”

Now, much later in the dead of a southeastern Utah night, TenJack and he strained together to heft an iron-bound wooden staved barrel off their wagon. This, and many more like it, they carried down to a stagnant watering hole. From them, they emptied out hundreds of pounds of dirt and shattered crystalline limestone and dolomite. These were the shards and remnants of Teddy’s labor, what he was able to remove without explosives from the ever-deepening mine shaft hidden beneath their shack.

On the return trip, TenJack followed closely behind the wagon on foot, smoothing over the deep wheel tracks with a crude rake. Teddy, mostly exhausted from a week of mining, sat on the buckboard steering Magic Dog, their horse. TenJack felt awkward around horses. Mainly, he wasn’t used to them. His people—food collectors and small game hunters—had never had enough resources to keep large animals.

The sun was breaking as their wagon neared the shack nestled in a lonely, rugged gorge. The homestead was just a salmon red, soft sagebrush and prickly pear cactus-covered speck of the Colorado Plateau. They lived in a weather beater, just enough house to protect them from vivid blue hot days, and emery black cold nights. Adjoining the shack: a small shed for Magic Dog and Lulu, a milk goat. And behind this: a chicken coop for more than a dozen chickens. TenJack tended the animals and “the farm”—a small vegetable garden—prepared meals, and did the washing during the day. Teddy worked the mine at night. It was rare they spent much time together, just meals and their weekly—silent—dumping of mine diggings.

Both men always dressed alike: tough jeans, gray woolen shirts, rabbit-skinned jackets, wide-brimmed hats—to cover their faces from the sun and potential onlookers. Only TenJack would go outside during the day. But, if he saw someone coming, off in the distance, he would go inside and wake Tedford. (TenJack would hide in the hidden shaft beneath their home.) Teddy was their community face—not their daily body. People knew Tedford, knew he owned the shack, believed him a widower just wanting to live a meager existence on his own. What they didn’t know is that Teddy had discovered gold, and he had discovered his lode just as the owners of the Devil’s Own Mining Company had discovered theirs. And, despite owning his land, Teddy did not own the “apex of the vein.” His golden lode, he calculated, would trace back to his neighbor’s claim. The Federal Apex Law of 1866 and 1872 gave claim owners like Devil’s Own the right to pursue all veins “throughout their entire depth.” This meant even if those veins passed under the property of another.

Teddy did not agree with this law. So, instead of filing his own claim, trying to win his case in court, Teddy chipped away at night, slowly removing the circles glittering in the black. Gold in this telluride form typically brought $8 to $640 of gold per ton. Teddy’s yield would be closer to $800. However, to ever cash in required discretion.

After 18 months, what had started off as two men exploring and widening a tight natural cavern was now a productive mine shaft. Part of it also served to store their gold concentrate. Once panned—far away from here—this gold would allow a fresh start, someplace else, with money enough for real equipment and crew.

That was their goal: just enough. And, on the following week, while the two men were down the shaft deciding whether or not they had enough—TenJack stopped short. He gestured to Teddy, and pressed a finger to his lips. A bark or a whinny, Lulu or Magic Dog above had expressed something out of place. And, with both men listening intently, an explosion of dynamite knocked them numbly to the floor of the shaft. Shocked, half buried in rock and gravel, ears resounding, Teddy and TenJack knew they were finished. They pulled and bent themselves free of the rubble, and, best as they could, made room in the shaft.

One of their oiled-fuel glass lanterns had survived lit and unbroken, Thus, they could see their fate clearly: the shaft sealed at the mouth, their oxygen soon exhausted. Eventually, after what seemed an hour, the men again could hear each other speak.

They could not agree upon what had given them away: the roadwork (too good or not good enough), a passerby noticing something amiss, some evidence at the watering hole, or maybe just they owned too many chickens to feed a single man? It hardly mattered now.

Tedford wished to leave this world without regret. His Mormon church had no official doctrine against slaveholding. Its leaders, mostly ambivalent about it. However, Teddy was an admirer of Jacob Hamblin—the Buckskin Apostle—a Mormon leader who promoted friendship between his people and the natives. So, after winning TenJack in the card game, Teddy had immediately “freed him.” Having little prospects, though, TenJack had asked to travel with Tedford, “for a time.” This led to them moving west together, settling here at their secret mining operation close to TenJack’s homeland.

There was little they could do now but wait for asphyxiation. They stopped speaking for awhile, until Teddy spoke up, almost a chuckle: “Should, um, we put out the lamp? Buy ourselves some minutes?”

TenJack shrugged.

Teddy then worked hard to pronounce his friend’s name, “Tanjakwunu...? That card game, remember? I wanted them to believe I was nervous, about your value, that I wasn’t sitting on a solid hand. Even then, I knew you were worth far more than twenty dollars.”

Very nice. I am glad to see a gold story. That was one possibility that I pondered, but I couldn't get a feel for. This is lovely with the arcane law and the gamble and the unlikely buddy story.
Well done!

I like it. I agree with Tuna, I liked the law and the buddy, I also liked the details like wondering what gave them away. I like that the question wasn't resolved, like things in life aren't always.

I like it.. Nice twist at the end.

I just went back and edited a few things. I tried to make the language more direct, shortened the
sentences, and, in general, took away a little of the "exposition feel" to it.

My thought was to combined gold, cards, and Indians—western cliches—into a story. Basing
it near Cripple Creek Colorado in gold country, led me to Mormons and a specific native tribe.
The Apex law I knew about from before, so that gave me a plot mechanic.

Oooh...that's right, I liked the Mormon aspect of it as well.

Thanks, Paulie. That took me about two hours this afternoon to write, a little time later on tonight
to edit, and I worked most of it out during my drive into work yesterday.

If I had to guess what gave them away ( )... Well, I know what it was, but thought it would be
better to just have it go unresolved. What else are you going to do as you're slowly dying? You're
going to think about things like this.

Thanks, Dave. I read Tuna's yesterday morning, and plotted this one out on my
way to work. After reading yours today, I went back and tried to make mine sound
more westerny. I don't think the tale can get there from here, but I do think it's
tighter now that I reworded it.

Just wondering, what specifically would you say WAS the twist?

Like, for instance, I wonder what becomes of Magic Dog and Lulu.

The twist was that they didn't do gay stuff in the mine.

I liked it. Very much. I will ponder what I think gave them away.

I like the idea that it was too many chickens for one man.

I was drunk when I read it... missed the timeframe.. no twist..nothing to see here.

Nice.

You paint a very vivid picture with your choice of words.

I like how despite the fact that all the trappings of a western are there, it doesn't read like a traditional western.

Well done.

Yeah, it definitely doesn't read as a western. (I realized that when I read Dave's.)
Maybe it reads like a Mormon Western, though. It's a new sub genre.

I think it reads like a Western. There are so many different styles and I think we covered quite a few of them. It doesn't all have to be 'ayup' and 'whoa' and 'gosh-darn-it-dag-nab-bit'.

Although, that would be very funny. Hard as nails gunslingers talkin' like a Western matinee for the kiddies.

I really like it. I don't know if it was intentional, but there seemed to be an ironic tone throughout that let the explosion sneak up on me.

I wanted the explosion to sneak up, although I wish that I could give a better sense
of what the explosion must have sounded like to someone who's listening for a squeak
or a subtle movement in the night.

Hmmm. I just changed the line after the explosion from "ears ringing"
to "ears resounding." Not only does thing get away from the cliche,
but it feels more powerful to me.

I like tweaking just a word or two like this.

Likewise, I just changed "an explosion of dynamite rang out, knocking them..."
to just "an explosion of dynamite knocked them...."

No sense in trying to describe the noise. Better to be blunt here with the prose,
and move directly to the results.

I agree. Shave away. My inclination is blunt sentences which I try to merge and streamline leaving some blunt for effect.

I am enjoying seeing your process.

I see myself more of an editor than a writer, which, I don't know if that makes
me a better teacher or not (showing students where to improve their papers).
I think so, since I try to focus on why I want them to change passages, and
not so much the particular changes themselves.

Much harder to edit your own stuff. But, to do so, I recommend:
01) time and distance (come back much later to begin editing)
02) change the font size to something like 18 point. (This forces
you to "see" your prose in different way)
03) always see what words can be cut without losing meaning
04) reduce sentences to clauses, clause to single words, then combine
to what's near them.
05) remove almost every adjective
06) focus on your verbs, and strengthen them
07) make your nouns as specific as possible