Free Blood Gold by Michael Cadnum

room was too filled with laughter and boasting in several languages for much conversation among the three of us. Every time we tried to shout out some polite comment, Mr. Castleman would smile and cup his ears with his hands, and shake his head. The amount of noise was prodigious, as was the speed with which food was both served up and eaten, forks scraping against dishes, wine glasses clinking.
    Mr. Castleman enjoyed a few oysters along with his champagne, but Ben and I were hungry beyond anything I had ever experienced. My beefsteak was succulent and huge, with potatoes sliced and fried, so much the way Aunt Jane used to fix them that I blinked tears of memory and gratitude.
    After the conclusion of our meal, puffing on fine little cigars, we strode quickly in Mr. Castleman’s wake, down one alley, and up another, until we had reached a back staircase, so recently painted the white surface was tacky.
    It was a rambling house, with unoccupied side rooms right beside chambers fully decorated with furnishings. Each room smelled of freshness. We found ourselves now in one such sunny sitting room, carpeted and featuring the statue of a nymph or other wood maiden in a state of undress. The chairs were upholstered with what I recognized as the finest chintz, and a plush footstool stood beside an elegantly polished cuspidor. Our trunk had arrived before us, and sat there on the fine purple rug.
    â€œI gather, Willie,” said Mr. Castleman, applying a silver-handled clothes brush to the sleeves of his coat, “that you have some experience in handling livestock.”
    I agreed that I could manage a team, up to six horses, and added that I dreamed of running a carriage shop some day.
    â€œAnd you can use a knife,” he added, with a glance at the blade at my belt.
    â€œHe’ll skin a thief alive,” said Ben, “if he has a chance.”
    Mr. Castleman poured a glass of port wine for each of us, and then set to work on his boots with an ivory-chased brush.
    I allowed that I had some experience as a gunsmith, but added, “I would rather work on carriage springs than firearms.”
    â€œYou’re a man of peace, Willie?” said Mr. Castleman.
    â€œGuns don’t work very well, in my view,” I said. “Even most rifles are badly made, with a fixed sight, so you can’t elevate the sight to adjust for distance.” I didn’t want to mention the danger of shooting the wrong person in the dark.
    As he finished brushing his boots, Mr. Castleman explained that California was as yet a bleak but promising place for a man of culture. “But I’m doing all I can to repair that condition.”
    The dark wine stung my lip, which began bleeding again. Mr. Castleman handed me a bit of gun wadding, the sort of soft cloth used to tamp down musket loads. This convinced me further that I was in the presence of a gentleman of potential violence, and I determined to make no foolish remark, or any idle talk of any kind. But at the same time I was fascinated by him.
    He encouraged me to talk about Panama City, and so, warmed by a few sips of port wine, I did.
    I was struck by his combination of manly directness and generosity, and his fussiness over his belongings, his boots now gleaming again. Some people dislike a dandy. It seemed to me, however, that a man who polishes his buckle will also keep a sharp edge on a knife. I felt guarded whenever his eyes met mine, and something about the way he tilted his head, and made a great show of listening to our shabby adventures through the jungle, made me wonder how much of his charm was genuine.
    So after a few remarks about snakes and jungle fever, I kept my silence. Ben conversed easily, as usual, asking, with a glance in my direction, “How hard will it be to find any particular individual up among the mines?”
    Mr. Castleman poured himself another glass of port wine from the heavy crystal decanter. “There are forty thousand men up