by Gwynne Stanker

Boomer Donks sucked in his gut in an effort to loom over Percy Smiggly. It didn’t work. Percy had the money, so Percy had the power, and they both knew it. Percy closed his computer, his small eyes flashing up for an instant at the old prospector. With a pained sigh, Percy took the rock, fingered it, peered at it through his jeweler’s glass from every angle—its edges were smooth. This rock had been tumbled in water.

Boomer shifted from foot to foot, scratched his grizzled beard. Weasely little guy always drove a hard bargain. But what choice did a poor prospector have? Smiggly was the only one in Suther County who paid cash on the barrelhead, no questions asked. Boomer was sure the place where he’d found the rock was across the state border and into Injun land. Didn’t do it a purpose. Mules don’t know about reservation lines. Bessie’d strayed in her grazing then trotted herself right into the stream for a drink, stirring up the gravel with her hooves. He’d waded in after her and, hee-haw, there the rock had been, glinting up at him through the water. He picked it up. Anybody would have done the same.

“This ain’t like the small browns you’ve been bringing me, Boom. They’re worth something. This is just a rock with a few zircs buried in it. Where’d you find it?” They both peered at the rock. Its surface was uneven, the three trapped “zircons” had a violet-purplish tint.

Boomer let out a breath. Nothing but fakes? “I never seed no zircs like that.” They sure weren’t diamonds, but Boomer had been around the mountain a few times. “I ain’t going to tell you where, Perce. Zircons may not be worth what them itty-bitty diamonds was, but zircons got value.”

“True,” Percy allowed. “They’re not called the poor man’s diamond for nothing—a poor man’s gemstone to fool a poor man’s woman, but that’s why her man will pay some for it. I said some.” He fingered the rock under the light. He hadn’t set it down since he’d first picked it up. He didn’t look at Boomer. “Where’d you find it, again?”

Boomer’s red flags went up. Mother Donks didn’t raise no fool. That bastard wanted to find them zircons for himself. “I ain’t going to tell you that, Perce, I ain’t.” Boomer’s stomach growled. He hoped Percy didn’t notice. Boomer hadn’t had a find in a month. He was tired of stream trout and beef jerky, and Bessie could forage, but she deserved better.

Boomer cleared his throat. What he wouldn’t give for a home-brewed Choctaw beer, but he was in town, now. Barney at the Fourcorners wouldn’t extend him any more credit. Boomer pushed his slouch hat back revealing a bald pate. He shuffled his mud-encrusted boots. The sole of the right boot had come loose. If he wasn’t careful, it flapped when he walked.

Not looking at Boomer, Percy waited. They’d played this game before. It wouldn’t do to pressure Boomer. And, unless Percy missed his guess, these gemstones were most certainly not common zircons and were more than worth taking his time for. “I can give you a hundred and fifty for this rock, Boom, tops.”

Percy waited, but Boomer didn’t take the bait, stubborn old geezer. Percy turned the rock over, peering at the embedded gemstones, trying to keep his cool, his voice level. “They’ll have to be extracted, tumbled, polished. But a good source of zircs is worth something to some friends of mine. I’ll give you five hundred dollars cash in hand for the rock and the place you found it.”  Percy was proud of how relaxed he sounded, indifferent, even. The fool hadn’t even staked a claim, but then, a rock found in a streambed, as Percy suspected this one had been, well, that rock could have washed down from just about anywhere in the upper watershed. No point making a claim till you’ve found the source. A man on foot could spend years looking. That’s where MineralCor came in. This was 2023, after all; MineralCor had lidar—ground penetrating radar—and geophones, and core samplers—they could go miles down and even read into the past with those things—and all the other latest tech stuff to make things happen. Just point them in the right direction. Percy felt a pang for Boomer, but God created wolves to prey on sheep. Percy looked up. Boomer was about to cave. Time to close in for the kill.

Boomer licked his lips, shuffled his feet. “Source ain’t nothing special.” He didn’t mention the Indian reservation.

“Whyn’t you let me decide that, Boom? In my kind of business, I got to take a few risks.” He waited a moment then added the clincher, “Just think how Bessie’d enjoy her some oats.”

Bastard, Boomer thought, but he could already taste Barney’s beer. “Five hundred cash in hand?”

And Percy had him. Zircons, indeed. Poor old Boom had just sold his soul—and a possible diamond find so big that Percy could hardly breathe—for five hundred dollars, a sack of oats, and one of Barney’s beers. It wasn’t that Percy didn’t feel for the poor, old fellow, but there were the haves and the have nots, and Percy was about to transition.

As soon as Boomer was out the door, Percy flipped open his phone, punched in the numbers. It was a risk, he hadn’t lied about that, but he had a feeling. He was certain the embedded gems were chrome pyrope garnets. Even rough, he’d never seen anything like them. He could barely contain himself. One thing Percy knew for sure: these particular garnets were a byproduct of the same geologic processes that birthed diamonds. Their presence in the streambed meant that there was a good chance there was a diamondiferous kimberlite pipe in the upper watershed—an extinct volcano just brimming with diamonds. It was so sweet a find he could almost taste it—a big rock candy mountain. The fatheads would pay big time for this one.

Impatiently, Percy worked his way through the phone tree. Then he heard the stuck-up receptionist, “MineralCor, New York offices of Vice President Ronald Martin. Whom may I say is calling?”

Whom? Did anybody still talk that way?  Percy gritted his teeth and gave her his name. As if she couldn’t see his name and number right there, snooty, insufferable broad. He visualized his foot square on her backside, her startled squeak as she hurtled into the air, eyes wide in shock; but then, just as she was about to reach the apex of this imaginary trajectory, he heard her say, “I have a call from a Mr. Percy Smiggly, Fort Suther, Arkansas. I’m instructed to tell you it’s a Code 357.”

Percy came to attention. Silence, and then a new voice came on, a man’s voice, “This better be worth my time, you hayseed.”

For a moment, Percy was tongue-tied, relishing the money, his ticket out of this shit-kicking hellhole. He stared at the mud-colored rock with its marvelous stones. In the bright jeweler’s light, they crouched in all their encrusted glory and winked back at him. What kind of find might they yield? Please, please let it be a big one. You didn’t mess with these MineralCor guys. With a sweaty hand, he clutched his phone, took a breath. This just might be the most important call of his life.

***

Bessie, her nose in an oat bag, stood behind the Fourcorners Saloon. Boomer sat beside her on an over-turned barrel, savored his single malt whiskey with a cold beer chaser. From up the alley, a couple—a man and a woman—rubber-necked him. With his mule and pickaxe, Boomer knew he cut a comical figure, something out of the history books. Town tolerated him, he lent atmosphere for the tourists, but hell, he’d loved the life. He was getting old, but not so old that that Choctaw gal hadn’t eyed him good when she’d brought him that deer haunch last winter. Mayhap she was looking for someone to keep her feet warm this winter. The tribe had been good to Boomer—knew he roamed their land—didn’t care. They’d take old Boom in. He sniffed the air. He could almost smell those diamonds. He knew they were there. He’d known all along. You can’t stake a claim on Indian land. Only the tribe could do that. Now, thanks to Percy, MineralCor would find the diamonds. Make the tribe rich.

“Bess, I got me a yen for some of that green, Choc beer. Giddy-up, old girl. Let’s you and me go tell the Injuns all about them purty garnets we found on their land.” Just thinking of Percy’s face made Boomer chuckle. As if catching his mood, Bessie threw up her head and let out a full-throated bray. That defiant hee-haw could be heard all over town, even floating like an echo up to the lonely headwaters where the diamonds slept, just waiting to be found.

Photo by Pongracz Noemi on Unsplash