Where did Crusty Bill find the "motherlode?" Only one man was up to the task: Takoma Chee, a Navajo tracker and gunman, a.k.a. Martin Ramsey. How far is Ramsey willing to go to find Crusty's gold? Even murder?

Crusty Bill’s Gold

The balding, cantankerous, eighty-nine-year-old man ran his fingers through his scraggly beard. He leaned forward in his wheelchair and waved his arms at the men shuffling by. “I’m Takoma Chee, Navajo by birth, but most knew me by Martin Ramsey. In my younger years and for the right price, I’d find people, track’em down, that is. If’n they didn’t want found, I’d persuaded them. Most didn’t resist once they saw I was carrying a Colt.45 Peacemaker.

A few stopped and listened to Martin as he rambled on.

“In my time, I met all kinds—some I’d sooner forget—but occasionally, I crossed paths with someone that stuck in my mind. Bill was one of them. He was born William Stewart, but people called him Crusty Bill. He got his nickname, Crusty, partly ’cause of his outward disposition and partly ’cause of his appearance.”

By now, a sizeable group had gathered.

Martin sat back and tented his fingers. “Oh, it must be gettin’ near onta sixty years now, but I still remember the events like-like they happened yesterday. So, if’n you have a mind to, pull up a chair—any chair’ll do—and sit a spell while I tell the story of Crusty Bill, and how I met him, and how I discovered where he hid his gold.”

The crowd shuffled about, found chairs, and drew close enough to hear. Martin stared into empty space for a few moments and then began to tell his story.

Yep. Ole Crusty was one-of-a-kind; he sure was. And when the old man-in-the-moon smiled, you knew he’d be coming to town. And when he did, he always came with a pouch of gold nubs. For those who don’t know, nubs are small nuggets.

Anyhow, a consortium of “upstanding” businessmen hired me to find Crusty’s hoard of gold. The truth was, one person, Wilbur Taylor, the town’s banker, had strong-armed a few shop owners to form the consortium—just to make it look legal. He held sizable mortgages on their properties, so no one dared to challenge him. Anyways, I arrived by horseback before noon on March 20, 1883.

I bedded my horse at the livery and stopped at the mercantile for a fresh supply of cigarettes and hard candy. It seems the townsfolk were fit to be tied that Crusty was comin’ to Silver Rock. I entered the shop and found the shopkeeper and his wife all in a tizzy.

“Did you see the moon last night?” the shopkeeper asked.

“I was fast asleep, hon,” his wife said.

“It’s getting near full, and you know what that means.”

“How’s that?”

“Crusty, that’s how. He’ll be coming to town any day now.”

“Lordy be. I plumb forgot. Anything needs removin’ from the walkways?”

“Plenty. I’ll take care of that while you get Crusty’s usual order ready. Don’t want him hanging around the shop any longer than need be.”

“But George, he’s always been kind to us, and he pays good, too.”

“Trouble follows him, Martha. And last month, our window got broke in the street brawl.”

“But he paid for it.”

“The new one hasn’t even been painted yet.”

“Did I hear, right? Crusty’s coming?” a shopper asked.

“That’s right, Agnes,” Martha said. “Due any day.”

“Better keep your youngins off the streets until he’s gone,” George said. “That man’s nothing but trouble, if you ask me.”

“Don’t speak ill of a person, George,” Martha said, “when the man’s not here to defend himself.”

“Just the same to me,” Greg, Agnes’s husband, said. “If Crusty comes too close, you’re bound to get caught up in it.”

“Don’t forget, he pays with pure gold,” Martha said. “The town needs money, cash of all kinds, and Crusty’s gold goes a long way.”

“Where’s he get that gold, anyway?” Greg asked.

“Don’t know,” George said. “Nobody knows. In those mountains, somewhere.”

As interesting as the conversation was, I was mighty thirsty and wanted to stop by the saloon after my purchase, so I stepped to the counter.

“Can I help you, young fella?” George asked.

“Six cigarettes and a small bag of hard candy.”

“What flavor? Of candy, that is.”

“Mix them up.”

“You from around these parts? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“No. Just rode in.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Work.”

“Wish you luck, mister. But, the town’s fallen on hard times, and work is hard to come by.”

“Sometimes, I’m lucky.”

“Dollar seventy-five.”

“Huh?”

“Cigarettes and candy. Dollar seventy-five.”

“Sorry. Right.”

I paid, popped a sour ball, and left the store.

Martin looked at the twenty or so faces that had stopped to hear his story: eyes were wide, and jaws were dropped as he spun his tale. He smiled, then took a swig from the nearby glass of water and continued his yarn.

Yep. Like clockwork, Crusty descended from the mountains to Silver Rock, Oklahoma Territory for beans, coffee, and flour; a rare-cooked steak; and a small cask of rotgut whiskey. And it didn’t matter none what the weather was—spring rains, scorching sun, or north-wind snow—Crusty and that mule of his, Loco, made their regular journey, come hell or high water.

Crusty was fortyish, but nobody knew for sure. His weathered face, scraggly hair, and scruffy beard added twenty, maybe even thirty years to his looks. And his bowlegged swagger and perpetually raised left eyebrow turned your knees weak. I mean, knee-knocking weak, especially if’n you met him square-on. So, most folks went out of their way and crossed the street if’n they saw him coming. When he came to town, people generally avoided the otherwise busy walkways of Silver Rock altogether until he left.

When Bill and that mule strolled into the far end of town, the alarm passed to the other end before you could sneeze. Ole Crusty usually looked worse off than Loco. His clothes were dirty and sweat-crusted. ‘Twas doubtful they’d felt the touch of soap and water since his last visit—most likely, neither did he, for that matter. Saying Bill was just a tad bit gamey, was being Christian, and ’til he got his once-a-month bath, even Loco wouldn’t walk downwind of him.

That was his rough exterior.

But at heart, Crusty was a kindly fellow. He never cursed, and he was never cross to a soul that anyone could remember. And he often helped the less fortunate if’n he could.

Some drunken fool always found a way to pick a fight with Crusty over his looks, his cache of gold, or his swayback mule. Nobody ever said an ill word about Loco without ruffling ole Bill’s feathers. Then Crusty would start swingin’, and a fight would erupt into a first-rate brawl—all-comers invited to slug it out.

Yessiree, Bob. The townsfolk counted the days until Crusty returned to the mountains. But when Crusty opened his pouch, though, and produced some of those shiny nuggets of pure gold, he always drew the attention of all bystanders alike. Those nubs weren’t big, mind you, but they were big enough and plentiful enough to fan the flames of gold fever. By the end of his stay, the town’s conversation reached a fevered pitch— “Where’d he find that gold?” was on everyone’s lips—only to die down a few days after he’d gone.

That is, in most. But, for some, the flames never went out; they burned brighter than ever.

That’s where I entered the picture.

A consortium of “upstanding” businessmen hired me to find Crusty’s hoard of gold. The truth was, one person, Wilbur Taylor, the town’s banker, had strong-armed a few shop owners. Since he held sizable mortgages on their properties, no one dared to challenge him. Anyways, I arrived on horseback toward the evening of March 20, 1883, and headed for the nearest saloon.

A man in the front row raised his hand and got Martin’s attention. “Thought you said you arrived at noon and bought cigarettes and candy.”

Martin sat back in his wheelchair and thought for a moment. “Who’s telling this story, me or you?”

“You are, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Then listen real close. ‘Cause I ain’t gonna tell it twice.” Martin scratched his forehead and continued his story.

Since the man-in-the-moon was smiling fuller and brighter each night, Crusty could arrive any day. So I bed my horse at the livery, went to the nearest saloon, and bellied up to the bar for a whiskey and beer chaser while I waited.

Before I could get the tapster’s attention, a saddle-tramp yelled, “I don’t much take ta drinkin’ with yer kind.”

“And what kind would that be?” I turned and faced a mangy-looking trail-bum who could barely stand without support.

“Half-Half-breeds. That-That’s what’s kind.” His knees buckled a bit, but he braced himself against the bar.

Martin leaned forward in his wheelchair and rubbed his chin. “People had mistaken me for a half-breed more than once. I had fair skin, trimmed my hair, wore western clothes, and spoke the language better than the average Bilagáana—White man.” Then he leaned back and continued his story.

“I’m full-blood Navajo if’n it’s any business of yours.” I felt for the cold bone-carved grip of the Colt .45 under my right hand. If he pushed the issue, I wanted to be ready if he went for his weapon. “You got any objections to that, mister?”

The cowpoke’s eyes fluttered like he was about to pass out. Then, at the last moment, he revived but struggled to keep his balance and stand erect. To my dismay, his hand moved toward his gun. In his condition, there was no tellin’ what he might do. The muscles in my forearm tensed as my hand gripped and loosened my pistol from its cradle. When his two sidekicks stepped forward, I prepared for the worst. But they each extended an arm, catching the trail-bum before he crumpled to the floor. His body went limp, and he passed out cold.

“He don’t mean nuthin’,” the first friend said.

‘Tis the whiskey talkin’, mister,” the other friend said. “We’ll take him and be on our way, so rest yer hand easy on that there shooter of yers.”

“Don’t be causin’ no trouble, mister,” the tapster said. “Sheriff Duggan will lock ya up fer sure, ya bein’ an Injun and all. Won’t matter none, who started it.”

“How ’bout a whiskey... And-And a beer. If’n I’m left alone, there’ll be no trouble.”

“Whiskey and beer comin’ right up.”

I leaned against the bar and downed the whiskey in one gulp. Then, while I sipped warm beer to chase the taste of cheap whiskey from my throat, I signaled the tapster for another shot.

He nodded and refilled my glass.

The saloon’s usual assortment of characters—cowpokes, drifters, businessmen, husbands, bachelors, and saloon-girls—milled around. Some stood at the bar; others sat at tables—an older man hammered out familiar tunes on an upright piano. When three men dressed in tailored eastern suits pushed open the swinging doors, the music stopped for a moment and then resumed. They looked as out-of-place here as a preacher in a brothel.

The leader of the delegation extended his hand. “Mr. Ramsey, I presume?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Sorry, Mr. Ramsey. Excuse my poor manners. I’m Wilbur Taylor, the one who sent for you, and these gentlemen are my associates: Mr. Samuel Hardy, the town’s mayor, and Mr. Harold Crane, our treasurer. Please join us at a table where we can talk.”

“Sure.”

“Tapster, a bottle of your finest whiskey, and four glasses,” Mr. Taylor said.

“Yessir. Comin’ right up.”

I left my cheap whiskey and followed them to a secluded table. I sat—back to the wall—and waited for the good stuff. “So, Mr. Taylor, I’m here at your request. What is it you want exactly?”

“An old prospector named Crusty Bill comes down from the mountains each month. He wanders into town to get supplies and leaves a couple of days later.”

“What’s so unusual about that?”

Mr. Taylor signaled for quiet. The tapster arrived with a bottle and glasses. He poured a shot for each of us, placed the bottle in the middle of the table, and left.

“I’m coming to that,” Mr. Taylor continued. “Crusty always pays with nuggets, small but of the purest gold. Prospectors have been combing those mountains for years without any luck, and several have tried tracking him to his find but failed. So if he’s come across a mother lode, I… We want to know where it is.”

I threw back and gulped my whiskey. Then, after shuddering off the whiskey burn, I asked, “You gonna jump claim?”

“No… No, Mr. Ramsey. You’ve got us all wrong. Ole Bill never filed a claim; at least we can’t find a record of one. If he doesn’t want to file one, it’s an open claim for the right enterprise. And we’re that enterprise. Our silver mine gave out nearly ten years ago, and the town needs a boost. A gold strike could be that boost. It’ll be a boon for Silver Rock.”

“And for you as well, I’d guess.”

Mr. Taylor ignored me. “We’re thinking only of the town’s future.”

“Don’t matter none to me, one way or the other. It’s work, and right now, I need work.”

“Then, you’ll track Crusty to his mine and report the location to us?”

“If’n that’s what the work is, that’s what I’ll do. And if’n the old man objects?”

“We’ll leave that to your discretion. Do whatever you need to do.” Mr. Taylor slid an envelope across the table. “Here’s five hundred. Another thousand’s waiting once you deliver the mine’s location. Is it a deal?”

“If’n I gotta kill ’im, it’ll cost two. So we still got a deal?”

Without hesitation, Mr. Taylor said, “All right. Two thousand. Deal.”

“Wait a minute, Wilbur,” Mr. Crane said. “I didn’t think there’d be any killing.”

“What’d you expect, Harold, that ole Bill would welcome Mr. Ramsey with open arms?”

“Still, I’m not partial to any killing.”

“Me neither,” Mr. Hardy said.

“Nobody said anything about killing ole Bill outright, Sam. Mr. Ramsey wants our approval to defend himself. Isn’t that right?”

“Sure, if’n you say so.”

“Then, it’s settled,” Mr. Taylor said.

We shook hands, and they left without touching their drinks. So I picked up one and sipped it.

Martin shifted positions in his wheelchair and took another swig of water. “There’s something you ought to know about me: Navajo are excellent trackers, but I never got the real hang of it. Most people thought I should be, so I’d been able to bluff my way through a few hires, but this one was different: I’d have to rely on all my tracking skills.

“Don’t get me wrong. I could track better than any White man, just not as good as my Navajo brothers. For twenty-five hundred dollars, though, I’d try tracking fish across a lake. Or, maybe. Just maybe, I should try to find a cunning way to earn that money.”

Martin leaned back and continued his tale.

So I waited, disguised as a down-and-out Indian, curled up outside the Nugget Saloon. Last night the full moon and its perpetual grin lit up the sky bright enough to read a newspaper. That meant Crusty Bill would arrive soon. My plan had better work because my legs ached from being all twisted.

Without fanfare and with his mule alongside, Crusty finally lumbered into Silver Rock. After leaving Loco at the livery, he stopped by the barbershop for his monthly bath, haircut, and shave. While he was getting cleaned up, the barber’s son went to the mercantile for a new set of clothes. Once the barber finished, ole Crusty didn’t look as sordid as when he arrived. I stayed close enough to observe every move he made.

I heard stories about how Crusty always helped those in need if’n he could, so I exchanged my western attire for a wig and thread-bare native clothing. I positioned myself where some cowpoke would surely try to pick a fight. It didn’t take long.

“Hey, Injun,” a saddle bum yelled.

“Si.”

“Don’t you speak English so good?”

“No, Señor.”

“Well… Git yer red-dog *** outta my way.”

Before I could respond, the cowpoke landed a fistful of knuckles square on my jaw and kicked me when I went down. My willpower was put to the test, but I restrained myself. Then he pulled out his revolver and raised it above my head, ready to strike.

“See here,” Crusty shouted. “There ain’t gonna be any pistol-whipping today, pardner.”

“Says who?”

“Says this here shotgun pointed at yer belly.”

“All right, old man. I ain’t gonna git kilt over the likes of him.”

Crusty kept an eye on the cowpoke while he moved away. He knelt beside me. “That good-for-nuthin’ hurt you, son?”

“Mostly, my pride, Señor.”

“Come with me; We’ll git ya fixed right up. Had anything ta et, lately?”

“Scraps, Señor.”

Crusty laughed. “Yer in fer a treat, son.”

The aroma of fresh-baked bread and bacon greeted us long before we stepped inside. No sooner had we closed the door behind us, trouble reared its ugly head.

“We don’t serve his kind here,” the skinny waiter behind the counter said.

“What kind would that be?” Crusty asked.

A handful of customers dropped their utensils with a collective clink as if rehearsed. Crusty’s left eyebrow rising, and his voice booming an octave higher announced his disdain for the waiter’s remark.

“I asked ya, ‘What kind?’”

“H-Him. The Injun.”

“Got anythin’ agin’ this here shotgun?”

“No-No, siree.”

“Then git over here and take our orders.”

“Y-Yessir, Mr. Crusty. Right away, Mr. Crusty.”

“Ya knows who I is.”

“Everybody does.”

“So, bring me a plate of bacon, eggs, and beans. And hot coffee; scolding hot.”

“Y-Yes, Mr. Crusty.”

“And the same fer him.”

“R-Right away, Mr. Crusty.”

While we waited for our breakfasts, Crusty told me when and how he’d come to Silver Rock. But he never mentioned anything about the gold. He asked about me, but I fabricated a story to draw on his sympathies. Then our food arrived.

“Here you are, Mr. Crusty. And the coffee’s hot enough to peel yer tongue.”

“Thank ya. Have a seat,” Crusty said to the waiter.

“What, Mr. Crusty?”

“Ya heard me, you pimple-faced pecker-head. Sit and eat what you brung the boy.”

“I-I-I couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t be right.”

“Eat up.”

“But Mr. Crusty, I could lose my job.”

“Eat.”

“I won’t.”

“And why not?”

“We put something in it.”

By now, the last of the customers had vanished.

“Call the cook out here wheres I can see him.”

“Jammie! James Wilson, come out here!”

A fat man with a grease-stained apron tied around his ponderous belly poked his head through the kitchen door. Crusty leveled his shotgun on him.

“This here gun wants to talk to you.”

“What’s going on, Homer?”

“He knows we put something in the Injun’s food.”

“What you do, Homer?”

“Knock it off, Jammie. We both poisoned his food. Own up to it.”

“So, you planned to kill the Injun?”

“No-No, Mr. Crusty,” the waiter whimpered. “Just enough to make him sick.”

“Git over here, Jammie. You and Homer are about to enjoy a special breakfast treat.”

“You can’t mean it,” Homer said.

“Yes, I do. Now, eat and enjoy.”

While Crusty held his weapon on them, they ate every bite. Then, as we walked to the door, they ran for the nearest exit. The sound of their retching echoed above Crusty’s laughter.

“It’s clear to me, son, you ain’t safe in this here town. So why don’t ya consider coming to the mountains with me and join my family.”

My plan was working better than I had hoped. Crusty’s kinder side was taking me, a downtrodden Indian, under his protective wing. He was about to lead me to his gold cache. I almost laughed at how simple my plan was, but at the same time, I had to be careful that I didn’t overplay my hand.

As much as I could, I kept out of sight. Three days later, Crusty announced he had had his fill of civilization, and it was time to stock up for our trip back to the mountains. We loaded Loco with supplies and struck out toward the hill country.

“Where you taking me, Señor?”

“To my home.”

“Why you put hood on head?”

“So’s you can’t figure yer way in or out. The location of my claim is a secret, and I’m aimin’ ta keep it that ways.”

“Si, Señor. As you wish.”

Crusty put a flour sack over my head and tied a rope around my waist, which he fastened to his mule. Then, he told me to hold onto Loco’s tail and tag along. After about a three-hour walk—maybe longer, I lost track of time—he removed the hood.

I shielded my eyes from the brightness of the sun but soon was able to see--

Before Martin could finish, the double doors of the hospital ward opened, and a husky orderly stepped inside. Everyone turned to see who had entered.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the orderly said, “but it’s time for your shower, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Wait. Can’t ya see I’m tellin’ my Crusty Bill story?”

“Not again. What did Dr. Stein say ‘bout you fanning your hallucinations?”

“Halluc... Crusty happened, I tell ya. The events happened.”

“You ain’t never been out of New Jersey your whole life. Your daughter says so. Besides, you ain’t no Navajo Indian either. Ramsey’s a Scottish name.”

“I ain’t got no daughter. No daughter’d dump me in a place like this. So I ain’t got one. No one. And... And I’m full-blood Navajo, mark my work. Like ya know anything, anyhow.”

“She’s comin’ to visit you today. And Land of Goshen, you do need a shower.”

“Won’t do it. Won’t see her.”

The orderly thought for a moment and said, “Crusty Bill’s granddaughter’s comin’ at three o’clock for a visit.

“Crusty’s granddaughter? Didn’t know he had one.”

“Yep. Comin’ at three. Now, let’s get you showered.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mary.”

“Same as my daughter’s name. She’ll have lots of stories ‘bout ole Crusty, no doubt.”

“No doubt.

The orderly pushed Martin’s wheelchair down the hallway toward the showers.

“Did I tell you ‘bout the time ole Crusty and me--” Martin’s voice trailed off.

Two other orderlies watched the doors close behind them.

“How many times have you heard about Crusty Bill and his gold?” the first orderly asked.

“Lost count... And you?”

“First time,” the first orderly said. “Wanted to hear what he saw.”

“You’ll get your chance next time.”

“Next time?”

“Been telling that same ole story every week since he arrived eight months ago.”

“When?” the first orderly asked.

“Tuesday’s. Every Tuesday afternoon.”

“Tuesday then,” the first orderly said.

“Yeah. See you around.”