Free Auraria: A Novel by Tim Westover Page A

springhouse. As he neared, he was struck by a chill. The weather had turned cold; Holtzclaw wished he had brought an overcoat to guard against the wind. Strange, that an eastern exposure site should be cooler than its neighbors! The suddenness of the chill reminded him of the bathers from the previous night, but the air felt different. The teeth of the wind gnawed at his fingertips, and he shoved his free hand into his pocket. The other hand gripped the walking stick.
    Holtzclaw reached a break in a split-rail fence that marked the property; the fence was rimed with frost, a remnant of cold dew. The ground was crisp, and a hundred paces onto the property, Holtzclaw slipped on snow.
    The farm resembled a Currier and Ives winter scene, but without the human comforts. No roaring fires or sleds or roasting chestnuts. The roof of the farmhouse was layered with snow several feet thick, and its walls groaned under the weight. Only a few of the thickest tree branches remained intact, and even these bore a load of ice. A drift of snow had piled against the sides of the barn so high that one could have walked up on to the roof; a few chickens had done so, but now they were frozen ornaments. A lean mule roamed the farmyard, digging holes in the snow with a scrawny hoof.
    Holtzclaw was dumbstruck. He pushed his gold-panning hat low down over his ears, which were already complaining of frost. He tried to turn up the collar of his traveling cloak, but it wouldn’t stay. Nothing in his wardrobe was suited to tundra in the Georgia mountains.
    But he should have been prepared for it. A good traveler is prepared for anything, including the unseasonable weather that one may find in the higher elevations, sheltered coves, more northerly latitudes, and complex terrain of the mountains, which might conduct Arctic air this far south. This seemed an extreme example of such phenomena—and one nearly beyond belief—and yet Holtzclaw still should have been prepared.
    Holtzclaw knocked at the farmhouse, but there was no answer. He braved the icy blasts and continued across the property, searching for the owner. The source of the cold was a small structure in a grove of ice pillars that had once been trees. He recognized this as a springhouse. Rural people, lacking iceboxes, dig down several feet around a spring, then build a small hut over their diggings. Inside are shelves filled with turnips, potatoes, apples, peaches, and other produce. Some even pack up winter ice in layers of straw. As long as the door of the springhouse is shut, the dark and damp conditions keep the food cool.
    The door of this springhouse had a gaping hole in it. Holtzclaw could not approach to investigate. Looking at the springhouse was like turning toward the storm. A well-equipped polar expedition could come nearer, but Holtzclaw could not. He pressed on to find the owner.
    The creek in the rear of the property flowed at a trickle among the ice-covered rocks. A reedy figure dipped a pan into the feeble flow, swirled its contents, and then tipped them out with disgust.
    “It’s terrible weather we’re having, isn’t it?” said the man. “Name’s Moss.”
    “Holtzclaw, delighted to meet you. The weather is peculiar to your property, Mr. Moss. Down in the valley, it’s a pleasant day.”
    “Well, don’t that beat all. Seems like it’s been snowing hard ever since I can remember. It’s that springhouse, I reckon. Always cold in there, and I know I let it out. It’s that door. I’ll fix it someday, but I’m always too busy.” He held up the pan.
    Realizing that the conversation was turning against him, Holtzclaw changed tactics, hoping to make a deal; the explanation and solution to this bizarre weather would have to wait. Holtzclaw gestured to Moss’s pan. “How’s your luck today?”
    “Not so good right now. The funny thing about luck is that it likes to change on you. The more bad luck you get, that’s just the more certain you’ll get some good luck