Free Revolver by Marcus Sedgwick Page B

old man called Wells, who worked as the clerk, and a man of Einar’s age called Figges, who was a little slow but big. He seemed to be there to provide muscle in case of trouble.
    The beauty of the relationship among the three of them, Einar soon realized, was that none of them trusted the other. Mr. Wells would scrutinize his record books, scratching away with a brass nib pen, but all the while
he’d keep one eye twisted toward Einar. Einar went about his work methodically, and all the while kept his eye on Figges, who looked like a murderer who just hadn’t found anyone to murder yet.
    Figges sat at his desk, eating most of the day, his lazy eyes sloping from one of them to the other, and then back again.
    But it was Einar who did all the testing and weighing. It was Mr. Salisbury himself who’d taught Einar how to use the fierce little crucible to smelt the gold, and the aqua fortis to remove impurities. Einar’s table was a miniature laboratory, with a pair of balance scales, burners, and bottles of acid and other chemicals.
    Wolff held out his tiny paper wrap containing some grains of gold to Einar.
    â€œTest it.”
    â€œWould you like to come back? It can take a little—”
    â€œI’ll wait,” Wolff said, and pulled over a chair to sit within a few feet of Einar.
    Figges sat more upright in his chair, sensing trouble at last, and Wells kept scribbling and watching, all at once.
    Unsettled, Einar set to work on Wolff’s samples and prayed they were of high quality, not wanting to have to tell him his find was worthless.
    His hands trembled as he got the burners going underneath the crucible, and Wolff saw.

    â€œCold?” he sneered. It was as hot a day outside as Nome had ever seen.
    Einar ignored him and, dropping the small grains into the crucible, waited for the heat to do its work, running his hands nervously through his hair as he did, smoothing it till it was as sleek and black as a raven’s wing.
    While he waited, Einar began to prepare his acid, but his hands began to shake even worse as he saw Figges fingering a gun underneath his desk, eager for something to start.
    Einar poured the aqua fortis and his hands betrayed him. He felt the nitric acid trickle onto his skin, and without thinking, he dropped the lot and ran to the sink.
    â€œThank God they built that pipe from the creek,” he said over his shoulder, washing the acid off his hand, and washing it again until he was sure it was all gone. He’d moved fast and the burn wasn’t too deep. With luck he might get away with no scarring, in time.
    Wells peered over his rickety desk, Figges sat down again, but Einar saw that Wolff had seen the gun in Figges’s paw.
    Well, that might help in a way. Let Figges get killed. Einar had no interest in dying.
    Einar dried his hands and, returning to his desk, picked up the bottle of acid and the funnel and
cleaned everything twice. Fortunately his acid spill had missed the crucible, which was nearly done smelting the gold.
    Einar prepared the acid, taking extra care, and dropped the remains from the crucible into it.
    After a short wait, he drained and washed the tiny button of gold, then placed it on the scales.
    His heart sank, and his eyes raised to Wolff as he gave the verdict.
    â€œI’m sorry to say your sample is of ten percent purity at best. No more. Probably not worth the effort of digging it up.”
    He held Wolff’s eyes, waiting for him to explode, but he didn’t.
    â€œDo you want cash for this?” Einar asked, proffering the tiny nugget toward Wolff.
    â€œNo,” Wolff said, taking the gold back. “Not if it’s worth so little. I’ll keep it as a reminder.”
    Einar had no idea what he meant, but he breathed a sigh of relief that it was over.
    Except it wasn’t quite over.
    Wolff stared at him for a long time, stared at him, absorbing every detail of his clothes and hair and face, his eyes