February, 1859
John and Buford McGee were sitting by the wood stove in their ramshackle cabin, warming their hands and preparing to play another hand of faro. John was currently up, having won most of Buford's chips on the previous game. But it didn't really matter who had the most chips; this wasn't a contest for real stakes, as neither of them had a nickel to his name.
Their cabin was in a small mining camp on the outskirts of Denver City. Green Russel's discovery of gold in the South Platte River had lured thousands of prospectors across the Great Plains, and John and Buford had settled just east of the Rocky Mountains in the hopes of finding their fortunes.
Today, however, the majestic peaks were blanketed in snow, and the McGee brothers were hunkered down in the foothills, waiting for the spring thaw.
Neither of them had seen so much as a drop of whiskey in more than three weeks. Their last bottle of Old Crow sat empty on a nearby shelf, and for several days they had taken turns placing the bottle's neck near their noses to smell the lingering fumes. But now the bottle had been all sniffed out, and they were desperate. John had even come up with the notion of filling the bottle with creek water and swigging it, as though the glass would somehow transform the murky liquid into Kentucky bourbon. This was a stupid idea, and Buford liked to remind his brother of this often.
Their initial attempts at panning for gold had been a huge bust. Aside from a frightening encounter with a group of Cheyenne scouts, and a bout of dysentery that had temporarily put Buford on the brink of death, the only marginally interesting thing their efforts had produced was a large mound of geodes. These geological curiosities, their rough, stony shells giving no hint of the sparkling, jewel-like formations concealed within, were piled between the brothers' cots. The first time John cracked one open and saw the crystals glittering in its interior, he had been convinced the rock was full of diamonds. The revelation that what he had thought were gems were actually a worthless variety of quartz, and the deep depression that resulted, were what had killed their next-to-last bottle of whiskey.
Although they wouldn't have said it aloud, either of the men would probably have killed the other for just a mouthful of the precious amber-colored elixir. To raise the glass to your lips, to take that first wonderful whiff of those bitter, malty fumes, to tilt the glass back and let the fiery nectar trickle down your throat ... Buford's mouth began to water, and it was suddenly more than he could stand. He hated this cabin, hated Colorado. In fact, in his current frame of mind, he hated the country, President Buchanan, the world, and the entire known universe.
"Damn it all!" Buford roared, leaping to his feet. He upended the barrel and the wooden plank on top of it, sending Samuel Hart playing cards and grimy faro chips into the air. John watched as his brother tore through the tiny cabin, cursing at the top of his lungs. Buford snatched up the empty bottle of Old Crow and flung it against the wall. When it didn't break, he decided to throw something more substantial and picked up one of the worthless geodes.
He was just about to hurl it right through the flimsy cabin wall when he heard something gurgle inside. He stopped, his tantrum forgotten.
"You all right?" John asked.
Buford said nothing for a moment. He held the large stone in his hand and gave it another shake. Yes. There was definitely water or some other liquid trapped inside. He could hear it sloshing around in there.
"What is it?" his brother said.
"Somethin' inside," Buford drawled. "Like a watery sound. You remember when we was little, that big brown nut at the general store, the one they said was from the islands? Cokey nut or somethin' like that? They said there was some sorta milk inside, and you could shake it and hear the milk in there. That's what this sounds like."
He handed the stone to his brother, who shook the geode and looked at it curiously.
"You're right. I ain't never seen water when we broke open the other ones."
Buford walked over to the large pile and began shaking the geodes, one by one. Most of them he tossed aside, but then he found another that made the sloshing sound. And another. And two more. He brought these large specimens over to the makeshift table, which John had righted again.
"I reckon we should break one of 'em open," he said.
"Yep," John replied. "I reckon we should."
Buford retrieved his hammer and began delicately tapping at the geode. Rhythmically he hammered its surface until he created a small crack. Then he turned the geode and tapped it some more, wanting to split the stone cleanly in two so that the mysterious liquid inside wouldn't splash to the floor. At last he broke the geode open. John quickly grabbed the halves and turned them upright so that nothing would spill.
"My lord," Buford said, looking inside.
"It's beautiful," John agreed.
The mineral deposits inside the geode were the deep crimson of rubies. Both halves of the stone were brimming with a clear liquid, and the lantern's light threw dancing red reflections across the dirty, bearded faces of the two bewildered brothers.
"Is it water?" Buford asked.
John lifted one half to his nose and sniffed it experimentally. Then he exhaled and took a long, theatrical whiff. A look of sublime happiness came over his face. Without a moment's hesitation, he pressed the rough stone to his lips and downed the liquid in one gulp.
"What do you think you're doin'?" Buford exclaimed. "Could be poison, for aught you know."
"It's hooch," John said, his features flushed and his eyes aglow. He handed the other half of the geode to his brother. "I don't know how, but this stuff is top-shelf firewater."
"Can't be. Nobody ever drank liquor out of a rock."
"Try it for yourself," John said, seizing up the hammer and going to work on the second stone.
Buford sniffed the strange fluid. A heady, intoxicating aroma filled his nasal cavities. He took a sip, then quickly gulped the geode's contents. It was liquor. He didn't know how it could be, but it was. A delightful warming sensation blossomed in his stomach and spread quickly to his extremities. The room began to swim all around him.
He realized, with utter amazement, that he was drunk. Thirty seconds ago he hadn't been, but a single swallow of the stuff was all it took.
"I'm as stinko as a sailor," John declared, breaking open the second stone. "This stuff kicks like a mule." He handed half to his brother. They clicked the geode halves together, then drained the potent spirits within.
By the time they got to the fourth geode, they had taken such a seasoning that neither could stand upright. They laughed and sang bawdy drinking songs and struck up another game of faro, toasting how rich and prosperous they would be when McGee Brothers' Rockwater hit the saloon shelves.
They still had smiles on their faces when one of their neighbors discovered them the following afternoon. A local newspaper reported on the strange account of the two prospectors who had been found in their cabin, grinning and sitting up, each clutching a geode in his hand.
They were no longer men, but statues. Their flesh was as hard and gray as granite ... as cold as a freshly quarried slab of Colorado marble.
The mining camp became a tourist attraction for a time, with people from miles around paying ten cents a head to see the mysterious Petrified Men of Denver City. Then the month of May came to the foothills. The mountain snows began to melt, the other prospectors set out in search of gleaming riches in the rivers, and John and Buford McGee passed into folklore.