The Tale of August Hayling

  THE TALE OF AUGUST HAYLING

  KIM FIELDING

  Published by

  Kim Fielding

  KFieldingWrites.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Tale of August Hayling Copyright ©2016 by Kim Fielding

  Cover art by Lex Chase.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact the author: kfieldingwrites.com.

  This story originally appeared in the anthology Once Upon a Time in the Weird West, published by Dreamspinner Press.

  The fellow at the end of the bar kept eyeing him.

  Now, if the eyeing had been hostile, August Hayling would have put his whiskey down and let his hand hover near his holster instead. He didn’t much like to battle, but he’d do it when he had to. On account of his size—nine-tenths of the way to an ogre, they used to say at the orphanage, and he hadn’t even reached his full growth then—a surprising number of men wanted to picks fights with him. But they wouldn’t take him on without weapons, which wasn’t fair. So he practiced often with his six-shooter. He didn’t want to end up buzzard food just because he was big.

  In any case, this fellow didn’t look like he wanted to fight. His gaze was more considering, as if he was sizing August up for something besides a tussle. Back in Ohio, where August came from, men didn’t look at each other like that, at least not where anyone else could see. But things were different out here in California, where women were rarer than gold and twice as expensive. If some men looked to rub up against the nearest alternative, well, most folks agreed: better another man than nothing at all. Not that there was anything remotely girly about August, but he wasn’t ugly, and maybe he had a reputation for being a willing partaker in amorous congress. He’d always preferred stallions to mares anyhow.

  Speaking of which, this fellow was dreadful pretty, if a bit too citified for August’s tastes. His light brown hair curled around his hatless head like the halo on a storybook angel, his nose was long and thin, and his clean-shaven chin held a dimple August wouldn’t have minded licking. His fancy suit made August’s dusty chambray and canvas look like rags.

  The fellow must have finally decided he liked what he saw, because he slid off his stool and marched closer to August, back straight and head high. “Are you a prospector, sir?” he asked without any preamble. He had a funny accent that swallowed his r’s.

  “I reckon so.”

  “I have a business proposition for you, then.”

  August laughed. “If you’re drumming something, you can save your flack, ’cause I ain’t buying. Spent most of my dust on this overpriced coffin varnish”—he lifted his empty glass—“and now I’m down to the blanket.” When the fellow looked baffled, August sighed. “My claim’s played out, ducky, and my pockets are plaguily empty.”

  Comprehension made the fellow grin. “Then you are a perfect choice. What I have to offer is an opportunity to fill those pockets anew. Will you listen to my proposal?”

  “Sure, if you’ll buy me another,” August replied. If they weren’t going to fuck, at least he could get a drink out of the exchange.

  “Of course.” The fellow held out his hand, which was clean and long-fingered. “My name is Georgios Cappadocia.”

  August shook with his own callused paw. “August Hayling, and your name’s a mouthful. Mind going by just George?”

  “If you prefer it.”

  George spent a moment or two parlaying with the barkeep before leading August to a table in the dark rear of the saloon. The Broken Wheel was a noisy place, full of loud conversations and raucous laughter, but this little corner was a degree more peaceful. As soon as they took their seats, the barkeep strode over with two glasses and a full bottle, which he placed on the table before walking away.

  “A whole bottle?” August asked incredulously as he watched George pour.

  “I trust a man as large as you is capable of consuming a great deal of liquor.”

  “If someone else is paying, sure.”

  George continued to scrutinize him while August took a hefty swallow. This was better stuff than what the barkeep had given him over the counter. Instead of tearing up his insides on the way down, it went with a soothing, smoky sort of burn. “Whereabouts you from, George?”

  “Not here.”

  “Ain’t nobody from round here, except for the Indians. This all was Mexican ’til a couple of years ago. Wasn’t a state until last year.”

  George shrugged as if none of that mattered and then took a delicate sip of his whiskey. Meanwhile, August tried to get a bead on George’s age. He looked mighty young—no wrinkles, good teeth—but his eyes looked ancient.

  “You have been searching for gold?” George asked.

  It was August’s turn to shrug. “Off and on.” He’d claimed a stretch of river as his own and built a little hut of bark and branches. When he got hungry enough, he panned the river until he had a few little cloth sacks filled with dust. Then he came into town to buy what he needed, including a few drinks, before heading back to the woods. The supplies generally allowed him to spend a couple of weeks tromping through the wilderness before he had to get his pans out again.

  “But you have not struck it rich.”

  “That Eureka story’s nothing but balderdash.” August snorted. “These sapheads come here to California thinking somebody’ll give them a plummy claim where they can just scoop up the gold easy as you please. But all they find is a little dust—and it’s peskily hard work to find that. And then they die of the shakes or they drown or they just give up and shin out. Skedaddle back to wherever they came from.”

  “If that is your opinion of the situation, then why are you here, sir?”

  “Got no place else to be.” For August, California had never been a place of new hope but rather somewhere to get lost in. He liked the mountains, the impossibly tall trees, the bigness of it all—it was as if this place were made for him. Besides, he liked being able to feed himself without some boss man ordering him around, treating August as if he were a hired mule.

  George took another sip before refilling August’s glass. “What if I told you I know quite certainly about a rich source of gold two days’ walk from here? A cave where one truly can scoop up the gold?”

  “I’d call you a liar. Or cracked.” August tapped the side of his head.

  Some men might have taken that as an insult, but George simply smiled and reached into his inside coat pocket. August tensed, expecting him to pull out a revolver. Instead, George set a gold nugget on the table between them. It was as big as a child’s fist.

  Dumbfounded, August stared at the thing.

  “Go ahead,” George said. “You may examine it.”

  But August didn’t touch it. “You don’t want to be waving that round in a place like this, ducky. Some of these fellows here, they’d slit your throat over less.”

  George gave a very odd smile at that, then loosened his bow tie and collar to reveal a puckered scar running the width of his neck. It didn’t look recent, but it sure looked nasty. “That does not concern me,” he said calmly.

  Unease was a rare emotion for August, but he felt it now. There was something off about George, something he couldn’t place. Common sense told him to g
et up and start the long walk back to his little cabin, where he might get a decent night’s sleep before rising to pan for gold in the morning. Instead he downed the glass of whiskey in one fiery slug. “What do you want from me?”

  “I wish for you to accompany me to this cave because I am not familiar with this territory and you are. I wish for you to help me… obtain the gold. Some degree of difficulty may be involved. I shall repay you by allowing you to take as much gold as you can carry on your person.”

  “I can carry a dreadful lot.”

  George gave him a wide, slow smile. “That will not be a problem.”

  It was a damned strange way to prospect. George refused to buy pans, picks, or shovels, insisting they weren’t needed. He didn’t want a rocker box either, and he owned neither horse nor mule. He dragged August to the general store, where he bought several cloth sacks and some big packs they could carry on their backs. He also had August pick out supplies to get two men through a week in the wilderness: matches, blankets, a metal pot, tin cups and plates, coffee, sugar, hardtack, salt pork, beans, flour.

  “Your fancy duds ain’t gonna do good once we leave town,” August pointed out.

  “My attire is sufficient.”

  August shrugged. Wasn’t his business if George wanted to ruin his clothes, although it was surely a waste. August couldn’t even imagine how much such a well-tailored suit would cost if he were able to find it in his size.

  One they’d amassed the supplies, they carried them up to George’s room in the hotel. “You shall sleep here tonight so we can get an early start,” George announced.

  “Fine with me.” August wondered whether George would want to fuck. George was powerful handsome and certainly exotic, but his odd ways were off-putting. Well, August could cross that bridge if he came to it.

  In the meantime, George took him to dinner at the town’s only restaurant, where he ordered enough food to fill even August’s belly and surprised August with a bottle of wine. “I don’t normally drink so well,” August said, holding up his glass of ruby liquid.

  “But you do like to drink.”

  “I reckon so.” In truth, August didn’t imbibe that often. But it passed the time, and a glass or two of whiskey gave him an excuse to spend some hours among other human beings at the saloon on those occasions when he came to town.

  They lingered over brandy and coffee after dinner. August had never had brandy before, and he liked it well enough. It was fiery too, but smoother than whiskey.

  “Have you any family?” asked George, who had spoken little during the meal.

  “Orphan.”

  “Did you have family at one point?”

  “Nah. Farmer found me when I was a baby, squallin’ on a pile of straw in his barn.” August had always been slightly comforted by that knowledge, reckoning it meant that whoever had abandoned him had at least wanted him to live.

  “No wife or children?”

  “Ain’t settled down long enough for that.” Besides, he liked a man’s hard body better than a woman’s soft one.

  “And that weapon you carry—have you used it?”

  At first the abrupt change in conversational direction took August by surprise, and he thought George was asking about his dick. But then he realized the weapon in question was his holstered pistol. “Are you asking whether I’ve perforated a man?”

  George drew his fine eyebrows together in puzzlement. “Perhaps. I’m asking whether you’ve shot anyone.”

  “Twice. They drew first, and both times the sheriff said it was self-defense.” He’d felt guilty about the deaths afterward. Not that he’d had much choice, assuming he didn’t want to be the one tasting lead. But who was to say his life was any more important than those of the bastards who’d aimed at him?

  “So you are skilled with a gun.”

  “Skilled enough. I practice, and I’m faster than I look.” August narrowed his eyes. “Why does it matter?”

  “I am—I was a soldier. I value talent in combat.”

  August wasn’t sure he bought that explanation, but he shrugged. “I ain’t no soldier. But like I said, I’m handy enough with a shooting iron. And if someone comes on proddy, I can beat almost anyone in a hand-to-hand scrap on account of being the biggest fellow around.”

  George nodded thoughtfully. “Good.”

  That seemed to be the end of the conversation, which was fine with August. He finished his brandy in silence.

  After dinner George disappeared on an unstated errand while August sat in the saloon, nursing a glass of whiskey. A few of the girls appeared, but even if he’d had the interest, he didn’t have the cash, so he gave them a smile and a shake of his head. They were pretty to look at, though, in their vivid dresses. He liked bright colors. If he thought he could get away with it—and if such things were made in his size—he’d have spent his gold on silk shirts the colors of emeralds, rubies, and daffodils, or maybe the exact shade of a springtime sky. Wouldn’t he look a sight!

  George eventually returned to fetch him, and they went up to the hotel room. August stood awkwardly, wondering what George wanted, until George pointed at their newly purchased supplies. “You may roll out a blanket,” he said.

  Ah, the floor, then. Wasn’t so bad—August had spent the night in more uncomfortable places. Besides, the room boasted a pair of rag rugs that would cushion him from the wooden planks. And when he lay down, he could still have the pleasure of watching George undress, and that was a treat. The man was lean and pale, with numerous old scars marking his body.

  George noticed August watching. “I am chaste.”

  “Who’s chasing you?”

  “I— No. Chaste.” And he spelled it out, which galled August because nobody at the orphanage had taught him to read, and he hadn’t had a chance to learn his letters since then. He couldn’t even write his own name but instead had to mark an X for his signature. George must have sensed the problem, because he sighed. “I mean that I am pure.”

  Ah. “No fucking, then?”

  “No.”

  “What for? Are you some kinda priest?”

  George shook his head. “Not precisely. And my reasons matter not to you. But you are welcome to gaze upon me if it pleases you.”

  “Well, that’s mighty big of you,” August said with a snort. “You ain’t that pretty, ducky. I can live without the sight of you.” He turned away from George, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep.

  They began with breakfast at the restaurant, which was a good enough way to begin. August rarely ate so well, and he knew vittles wouldn’t be nearly so nice on the trail. George only picked at his eggs and ham, though, and he looked eager to leave.

  August ended up hauling most of their gear, which he reckoned was fair enough since he was twice George’s size. He could have carried even more. But it wasn’t until they were outside of town that George produced a hand-drawn map from his coat pocket and showed August where they were headed.

  August squinted at the markings. “That’s loco! That’s up in the mountains. Rivers is where you’re gonna find gold.”

  “That may generally be true. However, in this instance we shall find it elsewhere.”

  “Ain’t nothing up that way.”

  “Yes, it is quite isolated.” George kept his voice light and even, as if he were absolutely sure of himself.

  At this point August gave up on the treasure. His employer was either a lunatic or a scam artist. But even without pocketfuls of nuggets waiting for him at the end, August reckoned the journey was worth it for the sake of adventure and a bit of odd companionship. And if he cashed in along the way and ended up as a big corpse rotting in the middle of nowhere, at least he wouldn’t grow old wondering at George’s mystery.

  “Are you still agreeable?” George asked.

  “Yeah, I reckon so.”

  “And can you take me there?”

  August nodded. He understood the map.

  Looking pleased, George unbuttoned his long coat
, perhaps with the intent of tucking the map away. But as he opened the cloth, August caught a glimpse of what George wore around his hips.

  “What in tarnation is that?” August shouted.

  George looked down at himself. “My sword.”

  “Your sword? Let me tell you, if you come up on a grizzly, a shotgun’s gonna do you a right smart better than that there pig sticker. And if it’s bandits we face instead, well, those fellows ain’t gonna ask you to duel.”

  “I do not use firearms,” George said, as unflappable as ever. “You have your pistol should we need it.”

  “I got a shotgun back at my camp. Maybe we should fetch it.”

  “No. I do not wish to experience further delays.”

  So they set off into the mountains with little more than a six-shooter, a sword, and some food.

  The going was tough, but August had to admit that George was game. He marched along as sprightly as August but muttered something in a strange language whenever he caught a toe on a root. The autumn weather was good for the journey—the dry summer heat having departed and the cold wet not yet upon them. The trees blazed with colors to make August’s heart sing, as if the Almighty was intent on making the world outshine the dresses of the saloon girls. Soon enough those joyous leaves would fall and winter would set in. It wouldn’t be as frigid as those long February nights in Ohio, but still, most prospectors would hole up for a few months in one of the nearby settlements: Sonora, Columbia, Murphy’s, Rattlesnake, Angel’s Camp. August would stay in his hut—a small fire and some furs warming his big body—but the banks of the river would get lonelier than ever.

  George and August stopped in a small valley for some lunch. Birds twittered around them.

  “Do you hunt?” George asked—the first words he’d uttered in hours.

  “Not unless I got to.” Although he would never admit it, August preferred to see critters alive than on his plate. Not that he’d say no to a big steak. But he figured slaughtering a steer that had spent its life wandering the range and waiting to become dinner was different than killing a deer running wild in the forest.