<span class="mu-i">“As I was walking among the fires of Hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius, which to Angels look like torment and insanity, I collected some of their Proverbs; thinking that as the sayings used in a nation mark its character, so the Proverbs of Hell show the nature of Infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or garments. A Devil picked me out his Favourite Portion, and it said ‘A dead body revenges not injuries.’”</span>

<span class="mu-i">Tahoe Lumber Camp, California State, Late October, 1859</span>

<span class="mu-i">“Six, no, seven now. All men I knew well, and hard-up with scars from Injuns and mountain cats. None of ‘em would trouble none with what small calamities are on that road.”</span> Whittier’s jaw shivers from the chill, turning his speech into a series of half-stutters. He steps in close to you, face spackled with saw dust settled into old pockmarks, presumably from a former encounter with plague. He lowers his voice even further, <span class="mu-i">“Mary, that is, Mary Wallace, who came up with ya in that Irishman’s cart, she said ye told ‘er stories about things, things in the woods, things in the dark, she said ye knew about ‘em.”</span>

You grind your jaw at that, not much to do in a wagon other than drink and tell stories. The run of stories in question were shocking in their cruelty and certainly not fit for any sort of lady, though the haze of your recollection implies that Paddy’s whiskey shoulders most of the blame. At least you have an explanation for why he and Mary stopped speaking with you this last week. The trees crack in the frost, the watery morning sun illuminates your breath rising up to the peaks, Whittier motions toward his tent and you follow, cracking the mud slush as you go. <span class="mu-i">“Listen,”</span> he says, <span class="mu-i">“Ye got no horse, ye got nothin’ for prospectin’, nothin’ I can see ‘cept a <span class="mu-s">gun</span> and a <span class="mu-s">satchel</span>. Got any money? Cause this ain’t fit habitation for a beggar.”</span> He kicks a snow drift for emphasis as he finally stops in front of a tan hide tent with a double flap and a stone-ringed fire pit outside.

You breathe deep, deep enough that the frost feels like glass dust, perforating your lungs. You stop outside the tent and look him in the eye, <span class="mu-i">“If somethin’ is happening out there beyond expectation, and if it’s somethin’ I happened to be familiar with, and if it happens that I can do somethin’ about it, you would not be able to afford the rate.”</span> Whittier scoffs, <span class="mu-i">“I disagree! My brother-in-law was on that last wagon to the Comstock and I have my foreman’s bonus in hand.”</span>