Free Timpanogos by D. J. Butler

Cork.”   And wasn’t it more the pity?   If he’d had the Gift, he might not be
careening through the desert at night in the back of a stolen steam-truck,
trading banter with a consumptive secessionist spy.   He might be sitting in Parliament, or running a
railroad.   But Tamerlane
O’Shaughnessy’s gifts had always lain in a different direction.
    “What about knurled ?”
Poe suggested, going to work on a caterpillar-like set of false eyebrows.   “ Rugose ?   Scabrous ?”   He
coughed hard, but managed not to lose hold of the eyebrows or the spirit gum.
    “Hush,” Roxie said.   Her voice was surprisingly gentle.   Tam wondered what reason she had to show affection to the decrepit
codger.
    “ Cragged ,” Tam
grinned.   “ Bumpy .”
    “ Corrugated ,” Poe
added, “if it isn’t cheating to suggest two different words derived from the
same root.”
    Tam laughed out loud.   “We’re all driving under the same roof now, Brother Edgar!”   If it came down to killing Poe, he
decided, he wanted to think in advance of some good fancy words to describe the
act.   Decapitation , he thought, that was a good one.   He could say it to Poe just as he swung
the blade in for the killing blow, though it’d be better if Poe were tied up.   Then Tam could use the fancy word and
they could both enjoy it for a minute before it had to be over.   Incineration for fire and defenestration if he could find any windows to throw the spy out
of.   Tam eyed the silver chain
around Poe’s neck, dangling something down under his shirt.   What was a nice, fancy word for strangling ?
    “Where are we going?” Burton asked from the front bench.
    “It’s called the Dream Mine,” Roxie told them.
    “That sounds cheerful,” Poe judged.  
    “A man named Koyle had it dug,” Roxie said.   “He told everyone he’d dreamed that if
you dug a shaft where he said, you’d hit an old Nephite mine, all dug out and
just full of precious metal sitting around waiting to be taken away.”
    “What kind of mineral is nephite ?” Burton asked.   “Is it precious?   Like bauxite?   Selenite?”
    “The Nephites were an ancient people,” Roxie informed
him.   “They lived around here a
long time ago.”
    “Hiya, heya, hiya, heya,” Tam chanted, then made his best
Indian war-whoop, slapping his hand against his round O of a mouth.   “I’ll admit I may be disadvantaged
because I got my schooling in Ireland, but the sisters never told me about
Indians digging for bauxite.”
    “The ancient world is as unexplored and mysterious as is the
modern,” Burton growled, and took his eyes off the jittering road to shoot Tam
a gruff, schoolteacherly look.   “Nobody can afford to pat himself on the back for his wisdom just
yet.   Least of all the Irish.”
    “Go to hell.”   Tam took a slug off his bottle.
    “Old Bishop Koyle didn’t dream of bauxite, anyway,” Roxie
continued.   “It was gold.”
    “Ah, well, then,” Tam said, and he felt himself brighten
up.   “That’s worth a little bit of
a drive to see.”
    “Did they find the Nephite mines and the gold?” Poe
asked.   The eyebrows were affixed,
and now he was attaching a long fake scar running up one cheek.
    “Not yet,” Roxie admitted.   “But they’re still looking.”   She frowned.   “You’re putting on a lot of make-up.”
    “Pratt has seen me before, remember.”
    “Not yet!” Tam felt himself almost squeak with
indignation.   “Then what’s the
fookin’ point of all this shenaniganning around?   I thought we were supposed to be going after the Madman
Pratt!   I wouldn’t have minded a
detour for stacks and stacks of gold, especially with one of ours in disguise
and ready for a good bit of thieving, or maybe even bauxite, but I can’t say as
I see the point of a detour for an empty hole in the ground.”
    “It isn’t a detour,” Roxie said.   “It’s a short cut.”
    “Mind you,” Tam added without a break, “I