Missing the Mark
Ron Lewis
Missing the Mark
Death might come in a heartbeat
Ron Lewis
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© Copyright 2017/21/24 by Ron Lewis
Published by Lewis and Young
Cover art by Shiloh Young
This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.
Missing the Mark
In the high-country mining camps of the 1860s, death might come in a heartbeat, delivered by a flash of temper from a stranger over a perceived wrong or from a cold, calculating claim jumper. A mini ball fired into a miner’s back, discharged from concealment, killed the man, dropping him facedown into the stream, dead on impact, or drowning him in the freezing water.
Your best friend could murder you over a long, built-up series of disagreements in an angry outburst. I guess in the long run, it didn’t matter much, at least not after you were dead.
Fulford and Nolan’s Creek sat on the side of the mountain, less than 200 yards apart. The gritty mining camps worked hard and played harder, but sometimes the play wasn’t pleasant. The twin towns sprang up overnight when miners panned for gold in the creek, which meandered down the mountain. The lower community, Fulford, was larger, rowdier, and more decadent than the upper.
Nolan’s Creek contained smaller buildings, less refined, and suffered through a tad less violence. Its saloons didn’t have polished brass hand and foot rails nor any fancified décor. There were fewer strumpets and gambling houses, and things moved to the beat of a slower drummer. Nolan’s Creek had the only church, which served the twin communities, a tent building packed in the sinners from both camps for an hour each Sunday.
Harlots, miners, saloon owners, and respectable business owners stood and sat shoulder to shoulder, listening as the preacher rained down fire and brimstone with a zeal John the Baptist would have been proud to deliver.
The congregation of misbegotten prayed, sang praises to the Lord, and swore to be better people. Repentance was rare but sincere. At times, the same inhabitant, week after week, promised his Lord he’d do better but continued to miss the mark.
The worst of the cold of winter had passed, bringing the first signs of spring. But this was the Rocky Mountains, where snow took a long time to clear. Working in the cold made for short hours of digging or panning, long hours cramped in tight cabins or in the saloons, gambling dens, and establishments of ill-repute in the twin towns.
Thick blankets of snow clung to the sides of the mountains. One could barely make out the small cabin, covered as it was with a bank of snow on either side of the log establishment. Thick smoke curled from the stovepipe protruding from the snow-covered timber roof. The creek wound through the steep terrain a short distance from the cabin door. Nearer, a little higher than the humble cabin, a dark opening blemished the mountain.