Free Blood Gold by Michael Cadnum Page B

. As it happened, there was a blizzard on November 30, and you could crawl most of the way out over the pond.
    â€œIs it usual in California,” I asked, interrupting Mr. Castleman’s description of the theater-going public, “for actors to carry pistols?”
    â€œOh, I’m not an actor,” said our host, perhaps a little sadly. “But this is, there is no question, a pistol. I am a producer, manager, and artistic director of—” He gestured artfully.
    â€œIt is very grand,” I admitted, remembering my manners.
    I envied Mr. Castleman, despite my misgivings. In an era of scarce entertainment, both educated and uneducated folk thronged to the theater, especially here in the West. I had heard that everything from Dr. Faustus to the most thrill-ridden melodrama would be welcome here, and I knew why. For the price of a ticket, a traveler could view handsome women, enjoy the flights of poetry—and for a short time cure that nagging homesickness each of us felt.
    â€œI intend to construct a portable stage,” he was saying, “of pine boards and canvas, and take our show to the distant reaches of—”
    â€œâ€”the gold country,” said Ben.
    Castleman gave a nod.
    â€œFather,” interrupted a young woman’s voice, “I can’t get my trunk open to save my soul.”
    A young lady in what I took to be a dressing gown—a whispering, silken mantle—swept across the bare boards of the stage, and stopped when she caught full sight of me and my companion.
    â€œYou’ve found the two brutes we need,” she said. “Two well-proportioned young men,” she corrected herself.
    I hitched at my belt and wished I had glanced in a mirror at some point earlier in the day.
    Her father performed the necessary introductions. Her name was Constance, a young woman about my age and, as Mr. Castleman put it, “both Ophelia and Portia in our Feminine Portraits from William Shakespeare , just completing its run. My daughter,” he concluded, “is gifted.”
    Elizabeth would have demurred, compliments making her blush.
    But Constance took this praise without a change of expression. “It’s my mother the audiences come to see,” she said. “She performs as Sarah Encard—you may have read of her performance in Fortune’s Frolic in New York last year.”
    â€œWe’re two ignorant travelers,” said Ben.
    Constance stepped forward, and put her hand on Ben’s arm. “Two gentlemen of the world, I would suspect,” she said.
    Ben replied smoothly, “I have been studying the fauna and flora of the American tropics.”
    â€œSnakes and bugs,” I interjected.
    â€œAre you a naturalist, then?” Constance asked smoothly, looking at Ben appraisingly.
    â€œPerhaps I am one, in the making,” responded Ben, with a quiet little laugh. Then he added, barely glancing my way, “William here wants to fix carriage springs for a living.”
    â€œOne of these capable gentlemen,” added Mr. Castleman, “survived an accidental attack from me. I believe I kicked you, Mr. Dwinelle, and then I fell on you.”
    â€œIt was a rough introduction,” I said with what I hoped was good humor. Ben and Constance stood very close to each other.
    â€œWilliam fell down,” Ben added, I thought unnecessarily. “And your father—” Ben made an amusing imitation of a comical collapse.
    Constance laughed, a musical and, I think, much practiced sound, a trill of notes from high octave to low. I didn’t like her, and I didn’t like the way she was laughing again at something Ben was saying, how everyone in the street had size fourteen boots and it was a wonder they didn’t all stumble and fall flat.
    â€œI’d like to offer you a job, the two of you,” said Mr. Castleman. “But first you’ll need to endure an employment interview with Lady Macbeth