Meinrad grinned. “Well, a guy name of Chicken Bill claimed he’d struck ore that assayed out at two thousand dollars to the ton—quite a motherload, even for this area. Trouble was, the whole thing was a hoax. Miners flooded in and ripped the countryside to shreds, looking, and all they found was dust and bedrock. Folks got to calling it the Mount Pisgah Hoax, through a mix-up in locales, so when drunken old Bob Womack found ore worth two hundred dollars a ton at Mount Pisgah back in ’78, nobody would believe it. They still don’t. It’ll be another five years, 1890, before a German count by the name of Pourtales proves Womack right. Then, of course, Cripple Creek becomes a legend, particularly after the fires of ’96 burn the whole town to the ground. By 1902, they’ll be bringing twenty-five million a year out of Cripple Creek’s gold mines, but right now, the whole region is deserted, thanks to the Mount Pisgah Hoax.”
Skeeter chuckled. “Which really happened at Mount MacIntyre. Sounds like the perfect place to hold a black-powder competition. And if folks do a little prospecting on the sly, down toward Mount Pisgah, who’s going to complain?”
Meinrad laughed. “Certainly not the BATF. They’ll get their cut of any nuggets brought home. Anyway, there’s enough local color to give our competitors all the Old West they can stomach.” He glanced at the unhappy detective, who was shifting uncomfortably in the saddle again. “Don’t worry, Kaederman, you’ll survive, although your thighs might not thank you for it. You shouldn’t develop saddle galls, that only happens when your clothes and your gear don’t fit proper, but if you do, you can smear them with a salve I always bring along for the greenhorns.” He grinned and tapped his saddle bags. “Antiseptic, antibiotic, and plenty of anesthetic to deaden the pain.”