“You have heard of the Battle of Life. It is a reality here; the fallen are trampled into the mud, and are left to the tender mercies of the earth and sky.”
-J.D.B. Stillman, 1849
As you finish your drink, a prospector wedges himself between you and the next stool, and lays his leather poke on the bar. Some gold dust and a few nuggets spill out before your eyes.
“Barkeep!” the prospector says. “I want you to cook me up the priciest meal you can. What’s the most expensive thing on the menu?”
The bartender calls the order back to the cook, who drops what he’s doing and comes to the bar.
“Most expensive is eggs, laid fresh this morning,” says the cook. “Next is oysters, packed in ice and sent from San Francisco.”
“Cook me up a mess of eggs and oysters,” says the prospector, “and throw some bacon in there, too. I’m a rich man today.”
You look around the crowded bar.
Maybe you’re here too late.
The building is no more than a year old, but the men inside it all seem to have been in California forever, working the land, staking out claims.
“Yankee!” a man yells from across the room, interrupting your thoughts. “Grab a chair, Yank!”
You head over, and the man is, frankly, disgusting — the teeth that remain are dark brown. He hasn’t shaved in a week, or bathed in far longer.
A filthy bandana is tied around his neck, and a soiled slouch hat droops upon his head. He chews on the remains a of a soggy cigar.
“Poker?” you ask. The men nod and chuckle.
You have seven dollars left. Is this where your fortune lies?