The Founding of Perdition

I WAS SITTING in a corner of what’s now one of the town’s respectable dining establishments, with linen napkins and decent wine. The floor still tilts in back, and the original bar leans like it’s remembering a poor bet, but travelers and tourists don’t mind. They come for history. For stories.

One of them, a young man with a notebook, tracked me down. Said he was writing a story for a newspaper back east—The Founding of Perdition. Wanted it from someone “here since the beginning,” especially, his words, not mine, “the town’s highly regarded doctor.”

I told him most of the beginning had been buried a long time ago.

He bought me a drink.

“So, who really started it?” he asked, notebook open, pencil tapping. “The records are unclear. Some say the mining company, some the folks trying to attract the mining company. Others say a church did, and it got away from them.”

I looked around at the polished brass, the smiling waitstaff, and the gaslight fixtures. A spot on the floor.

“It started with a man named Jedediah Knox. And a mule named Clovis.”

He blinked, then grinned, not sure if I was spinning a yarn. “One man and a mule started all this?” He gestured broadly.

I nodded.

“Tell me,” he said.

So, I did.

***

Jedediah Knox talked to his mule like it was kin. Most days, it was the only soul willing to listen.

He’d been in the hills near two months, grumbling at the sky and drinking coffee that could tan leather. He wasn’t what you’d call old, but he looked it. Thick beard with emerging gray, sun-creased skin, a right shoulder that popped every time he swung a pick. His clothes were the same he’d left Santa Fe in: Union-blue trousers, threadbare coat, boots mended twice with rawhide and spit. The hat on his head had once belonged to a man who tried to steal his rifle.

Clovis, the mule, didn’t care. She was the patient sort—long-eared, thick-ribbed, fond of sour apples, and walking in the opposite direction Jed wanted. He’d named her for a girl who hadn’t waited. Maybe he held a grudge. Maybe he missed her. He wasn’t sure anymore.

They camped near a dry wash, a bit of stone and dust winding between low red hills. It didn’t look like much. It didn’t sound like much either, unless the wind came down from the pass and made the brush hiss like snakes.

In the morning, Clovis wandered off again, same as she always did when Jed’s back was turned. He cursed and shouldered his canteen before following the trail of hoofprints down the cut. The sun was already high, pressing on the back of his neck like a branding iron.

He found her standing in a bend of the wash, hooves half-submerged in the damp edge of a shadowed spot. A trickle of water, not much, but enough to darken the rock. She was nosing at the ground, flicking her ears.

“Damn fool mule,” Jed muttered, with less anger than affection.

He crouched beside the mule, running a calloused hand over the ground. That’s when he saw it.

Just a glint. Not much more than a sliver—like sunlight had licked the dirt and left a kiss. Jed leaned closer. Dug with his fingers. It flaked, but didn’t crumble. A color too bright for fool’s gold. Too warm.

He fetched his pan and shovel, his heart thudding louder than his boots in the gravel. Ten minutes in, he had five specks. Then a dozen. Then a chunk the size of a thumbnail. He dropped it into the pan with a clink that made Clovis look up, ears twitching.

It wasn’t a vein, not yet. But it was more color than he’d seen in six long weeks. Untouched. Like God had set it there just for him.

He didn’t smile. Jed did little of that. But his shoulders lifted, like the years had slipped off for a moment.

He dug for the rest of the day, making camp nearby, but not sleeping much.

By the next night, he’d filled a small sack with flakes and two good-sized nuggets, yellow as cornmeal. He hid the bag inside a coffee tin, stuffed it under his bedroll, and stared at the stars.

Maybe he’d ride south. Perhaps he’d skip staking the claim, cash out the first chance he got, and buy a patch of land in San Miguel or Yavapai. Somewhere with shade. Some good food. A loving woman.

But that night, against better judgment, Jed lit a fire higher than he usually dared. Maybe he was cold. Maybe he was proud. Maybe, deep down, he wanted someone to see it.

He lay with one hand on the coffee tin that held the gold, listening to every whisper of wind like it might carry boot steps. Funny thing—he hadn’t been afraid in months. Now he couldn’t shake it.

The flame cut a tall silhouette against the ridge. It flickered in the dark like a signal.

And someone answered.

Three days later, Jed spotted a rider on the ridgeline, silhouetted in the dawn. By evening, two more. A week passed, and the hills filled with more men, more tin pans, and more mules. The old wash was lined with canvas tents and cook fires, the air thick with coffee, smoke, and curses.

Someone nailed a rough board to a juniper post and scrawled PERDITION in black tar. No one knew who did it, but no one took it down.

Jed said little. He nodded when spoken to, gave fair directions when asked, and otherwise kept to himself. He stashed his poke in a lockbox beneath his cot, covered it with a wool blanket, and moved camp half a dozen times. It didn’t matter. Word had outpaced him.

By month’s end, the wash was lined with shanties, rough-framed with scrap lumber and faith. A man opened a cook pot tent selling bitter stew and hardtack for twice what he should have. Nobody blinked. Miners came in filthy and left poorer. But they stayed, because with increasing regularity, someone struck it big.

Jed watched it all with something like regret. The quiet he’d once cursed was gone now, replaced by laughter, shouting, arguments over boundaries, and the ever-present clang of pick on stone. He no longer recognized the bend where Clovis had once stood. The creek was dry again, trampled to chalk.

But they called him “Jed the Lucky,” slapped his back when he passed, and offered him drinks he hadn’t requested.

He thought, once or twice, about leaving. He’d filled his sack and had enough to disappear. But each time he tried to roll his kit, someone needed a direction, a lesson, a lead. And then there was the attention. It became flattering, in a way. Hard to let go of being important when a man has never been such.

The camp shifted into something like a town. A blacksmith came, then a barber.

And a doctor, of course. Places like Perdition didn’t grow long without needing that sort of work.

Then came Silas Vane.

He rode into Perdition on a fine bay gelding with a smirk that could’ve sliced saddle leather. His vest was maroon silk, his boots blacker than sin, and his hands constantly moving. Shuffling cards, spinning coins, adjusting cufflinks that gleamed even in the shade.

Jed saw him before he heard him. Most folks did.

Silas dismounted in front of the largest structure yet—a half-finished saloon with fresh plank walls and large front windows. A sign hung crooked overhead: The Gold Wager. A man in his shirtsleeves stood outside, counting nails and boards, frowning as it appeared he didn’t have enough of either. Silas tipped his hat, handed over a few coins, and strolled inside like he owned the place.

By dusk, he did.

Jed avoided the saloon for a few days, but curiosity’s a quiet drunk. It always sneaks up when you’re alone.

One night, after all the clatter of construction had ended, Jed stepped inside. It smelled like smoke, sweat, fresh varnish, sawdust, and whatever homemade gut rot was being drunk. The bar had a lean to it. The floor creaked like it wasn’t sure about the arrangement.

Silas sat center-stage, framed by two lanterns, dealing cards with a fluid grace that made the deck look like part of his bones. He saw Jed and grinned.

“You’re the fella struck the hill,” he said, voice smooth as aged rye. “Jedediah Knox.”

Jed paused. “Ye’ve got me.”

Silas gestured to the empty chair. “Well, hell. I was just telling these gentlemen that luck rides a mule. Now here you are. Our glorious founder. What’re the odds?”

Jed looked at the table. Three men played, all red-eyed and wary. One had a fresh bandage on his hand.

“Don’t play much,” Jed said.

“Even better,” Silas purred. “Means you won’t know what you’re doin’. Pull up a chair.” He smiled. “I kid, friend. It’s friendly stakes.”

Jed hesitated. Then sat.

It started casually. Players bought chips at the bar, trading coins, gold flakes, even the occasional nugget for a chance at more. Silas dealt him in, poured him a drink without asking, and ran a line of patter that sounded friendly but never quite let Jed think. The stakes were modest at first—small stacks of chips traded hands, a quiet rhythm of wins and losses.

Jed dropped a few early rounds, his pile shrinking with each hand. Then luck shifted. He won a couple in a row, made back what he’d lost to the table, and even stacked a few dollars’ worth of chips on top. Silas clapped and said, “Look at that. Lucky after all.”

But the turn never lasts long.

Jed pushed higher. The next hand cost him a chunk of his stack. The one after that, he lost enough that he had to go back to the bar and trade in a decent-sized nugget to stay in the game.

At one point, a man stood and accused Silas of dealing dirty. Cards hit the floor. Silas rose, calm as lake water, and gestured the man outside with one of his associates. A moment later, the door swung back open, and only the associate returned.

Jed should’ve stood then as well, but pride is a stubborn thing.

The last hand came down to just the two of them. Everyone else had folded and drifted back to their drinks, their eyes still fixed on the table like it held the outcome of a storm.

Silas looked up from his cards, smiling, and said, “Tell you what, Jed. Let’s make this one interesting.”

Jed didn’t flinch.

“That lockbox you keep under your cot—I hear it’s heavier than your conscience is over hiding it.”

Jed said nothing.

Silas leaned in, voice smooth as river stone. “Put it on the table. Win, and you get all this.” He gestured to the stacked chips and tall piles of coins. “Plus, half a stake in the saloon. I’ll draw up papers myself. Hell, I’ve been thinking of taking my show to Santa Fe anyway. Maybe it’s time I get a partner for when I’m not around.” Silas puffed on a cigar and spoke around it. Think you’ve got it in you to be a businessman, Jed?”

Jed’s eyes flicked to the chips, the crowd, the bar with its warm firelight and full bottles, the room upstairs with dry walls and a clean bed. The thought of making money without breaking his back was appealing.

It was everything he didn’t know he wanted until offered.

But more than that, he liked his hand.

Silas had been bluffing boldly all night, pressing with nothing and buying pots with charm. Jed had studied him, watched the rhythm of the man’s play. Jed was sure of it. He had the cards, and Silas didn’t. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was weariness. Maybe it was hope. But to Jed, he had the read.

He reached into his coat, pulled the iron key from his pocket, and set it down on the table. “I call.”

The room hushed like someone had blown out a lantern.

Silas grinned. “Now there’s a man.” He removed the cigar from his mouth and blew out smoke. “Alas, though…” Silas laid his hand down slowly. Four jacks. He raised an eyebrow, sure of himself, no doubt, but perhaps a hint of concern that the miner had found luck once more.

The suspense was short-lived as Jed’s eyes fell. His stomach dropped. He tossed his cards on the table. Two pairs. Eights and queens.

Jed didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Just stood, nodded once, and walked out, boots silent on the warped floorboards.

No one said a word.

The town didn’t see him the same way. They didn’t slap his back or call him “Lucky.” Word was, he’d been hustled. Others claimed he’d thrown the game out of pity or drunkenness. No version agreed. No version mattered.

Jed returned to his old pan, working the soil like a man trying to scrape meaning out of dust. He found some color, but never like before. His fingers ached. His back hurt worse. He couldn’t sleep.

He saw Silas again a few weeks later, holding his old lockbox like a prize, showing it to two grinning men near the steps of The Gold Wager.

Jed didn’t feel anger. Not exactly.

Just a hollow space where pride had been.

That night, he walked into the saloon with a pistol on his hip and mud on his boots. The bar was louder than before, busier. New faces. Fewer friends.

He stepped up to the same table, locked eyes with Silas, and said, “I want what’s mine.”

Silas didn’t look up from his drink. “You lost it, Knox. Fair and square.”

Jed stepped forward. “I built this town. And you fixed a game to take it from me.”

Silas finally met his gaze. “You dug a hole. I built the town.” He puffed on a cigar. “And by the way, the town’s founding we can debate if you like, but you’ll not call me a cheat in my establishment, Jed.”

Jed rested a hand on the grip of his pistol. A pistol he’d only recently traded for, and knew very little about using.

Silas never moved. Just finished his drink, then pulled his coat away from his holster. “You really wanna die poor and wrong, Jed?”

The silent tension that followed was thick enough to chew. One man shifted his chair back, slow and quiet, like he didn’t want to be too near any outcome. Others also backed away, but a pair of men working for Silas stepped closer.

Jed didn’t draw. Not yet. He had not thought Silas carried a weapon, and didn’t know if the men standing near him did. He had not thought about any of that, only his lost pride.

He turned when someone laughed behind him. Not cruel, just careless, pointing and joking about the unlucky situation Jed the Lucky found himself in.

Jed turned back to Silas, and that’s when it happened.

No warning. No insult.

Just a flick of the wrist and a flash of smoke.

The bullet hit Jed center mass. He staggered once, coughed, and collapsed like someone had yanked the bones out of him.

For a breath, no one moved.

Then the cards went back down. Glasses clinked. A man asked who was dealing next.

Silas nodded to the two men, who then grabbed Jed by the arms. Behind the bar, someone fetched a mop.

“Call for the undertaker,” Silas said without emotion.

***

The reporter sat back, pencil still. “Quite a story.”

I nodded, sipping my whiskey. “He struck gold. But the town struck something else: opportunity, greed, permanence through growth. Jed didn’t transform. Perdition did. He was the first, but not the last, to be caught up in it.”

The young man frowned. “And no one remembers him.”

“Not rightly. Folks remember the legend.” I nodded at the old lock box above the bar, along with a smattering of other collectibles nearby. “The legend of a man who lost his entire, sizable, stake on one poker hand instead of that he was the one that found the place to gather such a stake to begin with. Happens that way.”

He glanced around the room, the polished wood, the framed documents, the mural behind the bar. “And you stayed through it all?”

“I did. Came as a doctor, but took up undertaking when patients were scarce. Always more dead than sick in towns like that.”

I finished my drink. “I helped take Jed out of here and buried him.” I looked again at the floor where Jed fell, scrubbed clean and covered with a fine rug.

“Out of here?” He looked down, then peeled back a corner of the rug, revealing a dark spot. There was a grin of disbelief on his face. “This was the Gold Wager? You were the undertaker?”

“Son, you aren’t much of a writer if you didn’t see that twist coming.” I smiled.

His pencil tapped once more as he shook his head. “So what changed afterwards?“

“Everything,” I said. “Followed the path of every other town like this. More people came to find gold, businesses and streets were built, a proper local government, county recognition, and a mining company came in. But it all started with one man and a mule.”

“What happened to Clovis?”

I chuckled. “Regularly visits where he’s buried. Livery the rest of the time. Should’ve interviewed her, she’s the one been here the longest.

The young man smiled, closed his notebook, shook my hand, and thanked me before departing.

I didn’t wave back. I was lost in thought. Perdition didn’t start with a gold rush. It started with a man trying to be left alone.

And that’s what the town never let him be.