Chuck Gravel drummed his fingers on the helmet he held in his hands anxiously.

The stout man stood on the outskirts of a large mining camp, made up of over a dozen six-man-sized tents. A giant mouth was dug into a rocky cliffside, with lines of rail track running out. A large, wooden mill house painted red, sat on one side of the cavernous adit, with a title reading across the side in bold italic white letters, big enough for anyone to see from miles away.

Houston Mining Co.

Gravel pulled out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his light blue button shirt, wiping his face and fuzzy, grey beard clean of sweat from standing under the sun for so long. Though, if he were to be honest, the sun wasn’t the only thing making him sweat.

He looked out over the California desert plains, his eyes peeled for any sign of life approaching over the next horizon. A part of him wished to not see anything at all.

His stomach dropped when he spotted a pitch-black carriage coming over the dusty hills, following a beaten trail that led the way into town, where he was presently standing. A coachman sat at the top of the black carriage, driving the two black-coated stallions pulling the small coach along. When it finally arrived, the coachman pulled the reigns back, making the steeds slow to a stop.

The coachman hopped down and went to open the door. The foreman steeled himself as much as possible, preparing himself to meet the man who was no doubt inside.

A man with spectacles stepped down from the carriage. He wore a light brown bowler hat with a matching suit and long coat. His face was still and emotionless as he cast a glance at the foreman, who snapped out of his stupor and gave a small wave and a smile. Gravel hoped it would get some kind of friendly reaction from the spectacled man by doing so.

It did not.

The spectacled man merely adjusted his glasses, before stepping aside to allow the next passenger out…

The man whom Gravel awaiting, and dreading, to come face-to-face with.

He looked to be as old as time itself, a black silk top hat upon his head of withering white hair. A pointed beard and moustache covered the lower half of his pale, wrinkled face, which did nothing to hide his permanent, imperious scowl. He was finely dressed in a black frock coat, with a matching suit, vest, and polished black shoes to finish his fancy attire. A black cane with a silver vulture head handle was clutched in his wrinkled right hand, helping him to keep himself upright.

It was hard to imagine that anyone could ever possibly be afraid of the old-timer who now stood before Chuck.

Jeremy P. Houston was no ordinary old-timer…

“M-Mr Houston! Welcome!” Gravel quickly greeted the mining baron, putting his helmet back on his head and reading out to shake his hand.

Houston did nothing but glare scathingly at the quailing man.

Gravel retracted his hand as tenderly as he could, hoping not to set the old man off. “U-Um…w-we’ve been e-expecting you, s-sir.”

“And I was expecting better results from you, Mr Gravel, when I made you foreman of one of the last mines I own.” Jeremy P. Houston retorted, a southern twang in his worn voice. “However, that appears to have been a poor choice on my part.”

“N-N-N-No, sir!” Gravel waved his hands in denial. “I-I-I can assure you! T-Thing’s here are not as b-bad as they seem!”

“Not from what Mr Radcliffe tells me…” Houston motioned to the spectacled man, Thaddeus Radcliffe, who opened the ledger in his hands and began flipping through the pages while his employer continued. “According to his records, copper shipments from Bradshaw Mines have been declining over the past…” His memory failing him, Houston turned to his assistant. “Radcliffe?”

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The spectacled man stopped at a certain page and, placing a finger on a line, read out loud. “Two months, one week, and four days, sir.”

“Precisely.” The mining baron turned back to face Gravel. He stepped toward the fretful foreman, the tap of his cane following him with each ominous step he took. “So tell me, Mr Gravel…” The head miner paled under his employer’s piercing gaze, a familiar yet unwelcome chill running down his spine as the old man drew closer. “What. Is happening. With my. Mine?”

Gravel swallowed the lump in his throat, before placing his helmet back on his head. “O-O-Of course, sir. F-F-Follow me.”

The foreman managed to break away from Houston's scathing glare, leading the way for them to follow. Houston and Radcliffe shared a look before succumbing to Gravel’s whims and trailing behind him through the campsite.

“Y-You see, sir. E-E-Ever since I gave the boys here the news that you would be docking their pay, well…” Gravel struggled to find the right words to say next. “T-They haven’t been as…compliant… as they used to be.”

“Are you suggesting that this is my fault, Mr Gravel?” Houston retorted to the accusation.

“N-No, sir, no! Not at all!” Gravel grovelled to the mining baron. “I-It’s just that the fellers here feel that they should be getting paid squarely for the work they're putting in.”

The feeling of eyes watching him as they walked came upon the mining baron in an instant. He spared a place to see the scowling, dirt-covered faces of miners he passed by. Each of them made their loathing for the baron known with a look. Houston, however, paid them no mind. He had no time for the petty antagonisation of the working class.

“The fact that I even pay them at all should be enough.” The bitter old baron announced, not seeming to care about who heard him. “Is that all it is, Mr Gravel? A little belly-aching from the commonwealth?”

“Actually…there’s something else…” The foreman confessed, a tone of regret in his voice when he finally brought the baron and his assistant to their destination.

A giant maw had been dug open leading deep into a rocky cliffside, held open by wooden beams to keep it from collapsing. Rail lines led in and out of the large adit, where mine carts sat lifelessly on the tracks. Miners were wandering around the range of the mine’s mouth, yet none of them appeared to be doing any work.

That did not sit well with the baron…

Gravel guided Houston and Radcliffe over to a stray mine cart, the three men looking inside to see a few clumps of dark orange ore sitting at the bottom. “This is as much copper as we’ve managed to dig up in the last month. A-And this was before they all stopped working, to boot.”

“What exactly are you saying, Mr Gravel?” Houston demand from the foreman strongly, his limited amount of patience already running out.

“He’s sayin’, yer mine’s all dried up!”

Houston turned his head up at the loud, gruff voice. He spotted a mountain of a man, with a thick grey beard growing down from his face to his chest stomping towards him, a small army of miners following him from behind. He wore a pair of grey overalls over a set of red long johns. He was covered with soot, as much as his boots were caked with dirt. His arms were chiselled from years of swinging a pick-axe. The large, hardened belly he had reminded Houston of a cast-iron stove, and from the sore expression on his face, he was already plenty fired up.

Radcliffe stepped up to Houston’s side as soon as he saw the giant storming their way. The mountain-sized miner approached the mining baron, who looked down on the old industrialist, which Houston figured was not only on account of his size.

And Jeremy P. Houston hated being looked down on in any manner.

“And you are…?” The baron inquired bitingly.

“Cole Hauler.” The mountain-sized miner introduced himself, folding his giant arms before him. “An’ jus’ like I told ya. This here mine’s all outta copper fer us to mine.”

“Is that so?” The mining baron clipped, waltzing up to Hauler, the click of his cane following along with each slow footstep he took. “Well, as the one provides you with your pay-“

“And that’s another thing!” Hauler interrupted, something the baron did not particularly welcome. “You’ve been paying’ us barely anythin’ fer working in your mine to begin with, and then you decide to start payin’ us near to nothin’!”

“You should be glad that I am paying you anything at all.” Houston debated hotly. “It is a great privilege to be working under the Houston name, and you should be grateful to receive any amount I pay you at all.”

The miners yelled out in outrage, unable to believe what was coming out of the old man’s mouth. Hauler clenched his fists, wanting nothing more than to slug the old-timer, but the sight of the spectacled man revealing the holstered piece beneath his coat made him hold back, but not from saying anything else. “You’ve never worked a hard day in your life, have you?”

“On the contrary. I have found that, much like the frontier, the world of business can be as harsh and unforgiving.” Houston detailed as he turned on his heel and made his way back to Radcliffe and Gravel. “You should have known what you were signing up for when you started working for me. “He turned back to look the giant miner dead in the eye. “So, if you’ve truly dug as deep as you say you have, and have yet to find any copper, then my resolution is this…”

“Dig. Deeper.”

The workforce was aghast at the mining baron’s bluntness. Hauler wanted nothing more than to throttle the bitter old prune of a man, but knew that he’d only catch a bullet for it. The only thing he could do was let Houston know how much he despised him with a fierce glare.

Houston merely scoffed before turning away and heading back towards his carriage, Radcliffe right on his tail. Gravel struggled to find anything to say as his employer passed him, but failed to find the right words to turn anything around. All he could do was stand there and look foolish.

“I’m afraid they’re not wrong, Mr Houston.” Radcliffe inquired, opening his ledger and turning to a certain page. “As of three months ago, Houston Mining Co. Has all but gone bankrupt. If we are unable to produce any more copper before the year is out-“

“You mean if they cannot find any more!” Houston snapped, irritated yet not refusing the words of his trusted right hand. “But, it appears that they no longer feel the need to offer their services. Least, not willingly.”

“Should I send for the Pinkertons, sir?” Radcliffe proposed.

“No,” The baron shook his head. “The Pinkertons have been too… ‘upright’ for quite some time…” Houston stroked his beard, musing over how to handle the situation. An idea seemed to come to mind, as he closed his eyes and released a reluctant sigh.

“Send a telegram to our ‘associate’, Mr Carver. I believe we may require his… expertise.”