Chapter 5
It Looked Like an Offer From Here
Now, if you want to talk about a man who didn’t fit the dirt he walked on, you’re talking about Sir Bartholomew Thorne.
Folks in the valley just called him Bart. Behind his back, they called him a lot of other things that wouldn’t fit proper in church gossip. The public name was Black Bart.
Bart come all the way from England, though he didn’t bring many manners with him. He was a hardened self-made businessman, the kind of man who looked at a beautiful, timber-laden mountain and only saw a pile of rocks standing between him and a bank vault. He didn’t care a lick about Winze, or the people, or the future of the county. He just wanted the gold. He’d dig it up, wash it clean, and send it straight out of the county and right out of the country, back across the big water.
He lived in a massive stone mansion built right on the inbetweens—just north of the Atlanta money, but south of the Winze mountains. It was a lonely-looking place, sitting right on the ridge line like an owl watching for field mice.
Down in the dark of the Little Load Mine, Bart was a terror.
He didn’t pay a penny more than he had to, and he knew how to drive a man until his back near snap. When the miners would get tired, or when the vein would start running thin and the men wanted to pack up their picks, Bart had a trick.
He’d reach into his vest pocket for his pouch of chewing tobacco. What the men didn’t know was that Bart had mixed a healthy handful of fine gold flakes right in with the leaf.
He’d take a big chew, work it around, and then spit a dark, glittering stream right onto the rock wall or down into the muddy sluice box.
Then he’d freeze, narrow his eyes, and point a fat finger at the wet rock.
“See there, men?” he’d holler, his British accent cutting through the dark. “Keep going! I know there’s more! The earth is bleeding coin today!”
The poor miners would look at that glitter, get a second wind, and swing them picks until midnight. Bart would just watch from the shadows, smiling a cold little smile, knowing he’d bought himself another twelve hours of backbreaking labor for the cost of a few pinches of dust.
But even a robber baron has to face a collection day sooner or later.
With the courthouse burned to cinder, and Big Jim putting the word out that every soul in the county needed to chip in for the new brick building, everybody knew Bart Thorne was going to be a hard nut to crack. He didn’t use the courthouse, he didn’t care about deed books, and he sure didn’t care about a jail cell unless it was to lock up a miner who owed him company store scrip.
The day before the big plate was passed, Big Jim decided to take a ride down to the Little Load Mine. He didn’t send word. He just saddled up his horse and rode right into the mouth of the beast.
Bart was sitting on a crate outside the shaft, watching a wagon load of ore get weighed, when the preacher pulled his horse to a stop.
Bart didn’t get up. He just took a slow chew of his special tobacco and looked Big Jim up and down. Big Jim drew attention wherever he went, so you’d better believe every soul that spotted him stopped to see what was fixin’ to happen.
“Preacher,” Bart barked, wiping his chin. “You’re a long way from the pulpit. If you’re looking to save my soul, you’re wasting your breath. The devil and I have a very comfortable business arrangement.”
Big Jim didn’t get off his horse. He just rested his hands on the saddle horn and looked down at the Englishman.
“I ain’t here about your soul today, Bart,” Big Jim said, his voice calm and low. “The Lord can handle you in His own time. I’m here about the courthouse.”
Bart threw back his head and laughed, a loud, barking sound that made the mule team shake their harness.
“The courthouse! Why should I give a single sovereign for a pile of Georgia mud bricks? My gold goes to London, Preacher. I don’t need your laws, and I don’t need your county.”
Big Jim let the silence hang for a minute. He looked over at the miners, covered in soot and sweat, dragging heavy carts out of the dark hole. Then he looked back at Bart.
“You’re right,” Big Jim said easy. “You don’t need our laws. But your wagons use our roads. Your boilers use our water. And the men down in that hole, breathing that dust and ruining their lungs to put gold in your pockets? They’re my people. And they need a place where right is kept right.”
Bart sneered, reaching into his pocket. He took a fresh chew, intentionally letting a few bright yellow flakes sparkle in the mountain sun as he shoved it in his cheek.
“A touching speech,” Bart said. He spat a glittering stream right near the hoof of Big Jim’s horse. “But the answer is no. I don’t give away what’s mine.”
Big Jim looked down at the shiny spit on the ground. He didn’t blink.
“Well, I figured a man with a title like ‘Sir’ before his name would want to leave his mark on the land he conquered. But I reckon England was already written out of American history from the losing of the war on. Guess you’re content with folks forgetting you were ever here.”
The words struck a nerve. Bart froze, his jaw tightening. Being written out of the history books didn’t sit well with him at all. He wanted to make his mark, to carve his name so deep into the earth that he could carry the glory of it right back to his King and country—to take the kind of wealth and legacy out of American soil that England had never managed to hold onto.
Bart reached down and grabbed the heavy leather purse hanging at his hip. He loosened the drawstring just enough for the gold inside to glimmer in the sunlight.
Holding the purse out toward the preacher, he smiled that cold little smile.
“I told you the devil already had my soul,” Bart growled. “You want to take the devil’s money… preacher?”
Without so much as blinking, Big Jim leaned from his saddle, snatched the entire purse clean out of Bart’s hand, and tucked it under his arm.
“I reckon the devil’s had it long enough, Bart!”
Before the mine owner could gather his wits, Big Jim touched his heels to the horse. The old gelding lunged forward, scattering dust across the yard as the preacher rode for Winze with enough gold to buy a mighty fine start for that brick courthouse. The miner’s laughter followed Big Jim halfway back to town.