Dragon of Cripple Creek

Howell Troy

Description

When Kat and her father and brother visit the Mollie Kathleen, an old gold mine now open for tours by the busload, Kat gets lost from the group and falls down a shaft, where she discovers an awe-inspiring world of fantasy come to life. She meets an ancient dragonthe last of his kindand discovers a secret about the gold that litters the creature's den and why dragons throughout time have hoarded the sparkling treasure.The dragon helps Kat escape the endless caverns, but not before Kat greedily takes a piece of gold for herself. Feeling guilty, Kat decides to return it, but before she can do this she drops it in front of a group of visitors, and a media frenzy ensues. Soon the mining town is filled with gold seekers. In order to save the dragon and his gold, Kat and her brother must venture back into the mine to warn him. But will they get there in time?This fast-paced, beautifully told modern fantasy tale by children's book illustrator Troy Howell will keep readers spellbound.Praise for TheDragon of Cripple CreekWriting in Kats first-person narrative, which is wry and funny, clipped and eloquent, Howell, best known as an illustrator, mixes fantasy adventure with a moving conservation story in a debut that blends sadness, secrecy, and pure fun. Booklist

Informations

• Publié par: ABRAMS BOOKS
• Date de parution: 01 avril 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 3
• EAN13: 9781613121313
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Howell, Troy. The dragon of Cripple Creek / by Troy Howell. p. cm.
Summary: When Kat, her father, and brother visit an old gold mine that has been turned into an amusement park, she falls down a shaft where she meets an ancient dragon, the last of his kind, and inadvertently triggers a twenty-first century gold rush. ISBN 978-0-8109-9713-4 (alk. paper) [1. Dragons-Fiction. 2. Gold-Fiction. 3. Greed-Fiction. 4. Colorado-Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.H83844Dr 2011
[Fic]-dc22 2010034362
Text copyright 2011 Troy Howell You Are My Sunshine by Jimmie Davis. Copyright 1940 by Peer International Corporation. Copyright renewed. All rights reserved. Book design by Maria T. Middleton
The text in this book is set in 12-point Horley Old Style. The display typefaces are Halcyon, Rough Riders, and Roulette Caps. The ornaments are from the Adobe Woodtype family.
Published in 2011 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [e-mail] or the address below.
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To my angel mom, in memory of Dad And to the girl with the pearl
CONTENTS
MOLLIE, ME, AND YE
WARREN PEACE
EMPIRE MIRE
IN MEDIAS REX
DAWN S EARLY LIGHT
KANSAS ANYMORE
HELLO, GOODBYE
AUTHOR S NOTE

CALL ME CALAMITY CAT.
That s what the news media called me. My name s actually spelled with a K, and Kat is for Katlin.
Calamity is for calamity. An event causing great damage or distress . If you look it up in the dictionary, which is something I often do-look up words-you ll notice it s a noun.
I ve made it a verb.
Kat s calamiting again.
I suppose I was calamitous before I ever showed up in a little sky-high town in the Colorado Rockies-but that s when my calamiting reached world status.

Friday night in Cripple Creek is a two-step back in time, with honky-tonk and colored lights and mobscenities-as my brother, Dillon, puts it-spilling into the streets. It s the Wild West all lit up.
That s when we checked in. The Empire Hotel had vacancies, though you wouldn t know it by the human logjam in the lobby. We d been on the road since glory knows what inglorious hour, after slouching in the car (as opposed to sleeping) at a restless stop (as opposed to rest), right in the middle of truckers night out.
While Dillon and Dad were waiting in line, I was crouched behind a couch in the lounge, shaking a pair of dice. They were my own dice and came in handy at times like these.
Handy, as in small cash gain.
C mon, c mon, c mon! I said. I said it seriously enough for it to sound real, as if the roll would be strictly chance. Seven! Seven c mon I tossed the dice across the red-and-gold carpet they hit the base trim of the wall
One was a six. I expected that. The other-
Yes! A one.
I grinned at the kid next to me, who was down on his knees by my side. And down on his luck. So far, I d collected three dollars from him-two ones, two quarters, four dimes, and six pennies-OK, he was four cents short, but I had let it slide.
I stuck out my hand, palm up.
I only have a five, he said. I m not giving you that.
You will.
It was his turn to roll. But first, he popped up to peer over the couch he d been sitting on, moments before, fidgety and bored. Not one to miss an opportunity, I had approached him and grinned, flashing my gold-capped tooth. Got any money?
What s it to you? he d said, his eyes round as nickels.
I showed him my dice and explained the rules. I call and roll-if I call it right, you pay me a dollar. You call and roll-if you call it wrong, you pay me a dollar.
So, whatever it is, he said, protruding his lower lip, I pay you a dollar.
Let me finish. If I call it wrong, you keep your dollar. If you call it right-
You give me a dollar!
I shrugged. Fair enough.
The game was going well.
All clear, he said, dropping back behind the couch. He cupped the dice. C mon! Twelve twelve He rolled there was the six-
There was another six.
Twelve! he said
Was he catching on? I reluctantly pulled out the coins he d given me and let them fall through my fingers.
Hey, he whined, scrambling to pick them up.
This is what you gave me for a dollar, I said. Ninety-six cents.
He blinked at me.
I m being generous, I went on. You still owe me a dollar. A whole dollar.
He surrendered with a grunt.
My turn. So far, it was working better than I d thought. I could always, or nearly always, count on one die coming up six. All I had to do was guess on the other one. More often than not, I got it right. How long it took my opponent to suspect was the only risk involved.
That and Dad catching me.
Nine, I said, and rolled.
Eight. A six and a two.
Ha! said the kid, and stuck out his hand.
Nope. You keep your dollar, remember?
He frowned, tilting his head.
Hurry, I said. We don t have all night.
He snatched up the dice, pretended to spit on them, and said, Four!
I smiled to myself: So he wasn t catching on after all.
He rolled. Four it was: two twos. Leaning over, I adjusted my glasses and inspected the dice.
It was a four! he challenged. Like I said!
I know. I spun one die around-the black spot was still intact. I fingered the other one
Hand it over, he said, his nostrils flaring.
Now we re even, I explained. You owed me one.
His frown returned. Doubt was ticking away in his head. Maybe I d underestimated him. Maybe it was time to quit. I picked up the dice and plunged them into my pocket. I felt the money there. I d never make godzillions at this game, but two dollars were better than nothing.
And I knew what nothing was.
The kid finally said, How do the rules go?
As luck would have it, Dad called out my name.
Katlin!
I jumped up. He and Dillon were standing beyond a spittoon and some potted ferns. Dad hadn t seen me yet, but Dillon, good brother, had. He doesn t miss a thing.
Kat, he said. Let s go.
The kid said to me, Wait!
Here, Dad! I said, crawling over the couch.
Wait! It s not fair! The kid started pulling my shoe, the one with the floppy sole.
Dad looked in our direction. Hotel guests looked in our direction. A walrus of a woman draped in fur and holding a little dog looked in our direction.
Lucas! she bellowed.
Lucas-no wonder he hadn t told me his name-let go of my shoe. I tumbled off the couch, got to my feet, and, with Lucas trotting behind, went to Dillon and Dad.
Lucas went to the woman, who apparently was his mom, and said, I gave her some money to fix her old shoe.
What! I blurted.
The woman patted his head. Good boy! To us she said proudly, He ll make a great philanthropist.
He ll make a great liar, I muttered, tugging Dad s arm for us to go.
The woman blinked at me from behind her tortoiseshell glasses, while her silky little dog, who wore a gold-and-jeweled collar that read duchess, yip-yipped.
Katlin, said Dad, as he headed us toward the stairs, what were you doing behind that couch?
I know what she was doing, said Dillon.
I glared arrows and other projectiles at him.
Did he give you money? asked Dad.
Um not exactly.
Kat, we re not beggars. We re not subject to charity-
Somebody s got to make money in this family, haven t they? I said it loud enough to put Dad on the spot, which wasn t difficult, considering he d been developing this guilt fret for a long time, and considering several ears were aimed our direction.
Hush! he said.
Up the stairs we went.

I M REALLY NOT THAT KIND OF PERSON, TO embarrass my dad in public. But I didn t want to give the money back, or part with my dice, and I could see it was coming to that.
We hadn t always been poor.
We used to have two cars that were nice and new.
We used to live in a nice big house. I called it my castle.
I used to go to a private school, where I had the best teachers, best books, computers, programs, even the best schoolmates. Anyway, they acted as if they were the best.
I used to have a horse. He wasn t a purebred, but that didn t matter to me, as long as he had a pure heart. He did, and I named him Angel. All my friends liked to ride him.
I used to have friends.
I used to invite one along when we went on vacations.
Now it was Dillon and Dad and me. But this wasn t a vacation-I was just trying to make it one.
We were outside Colorado Springs when Dillon fanned his fingers in front of my face, saying, Don t look, Kat.
But I d already seen the sign.

No apologies, I had this craze for gold.
As a kid, once I figured that gold wasn t just the color of my hair, I wanted everything gold. Gold bed, gold walls, gold shoes. Gold-rimmed glasses, gold jewelry. I got a golden-haired pony on my golden birthday-I had turned four on the fourth of April-and named her Goldie.
In the fifth grade, I saw the Tutankhamen exhibit, and it sent me soaring. All that molten wealth, formed into bugs and beasts and figures and faces. While we studied economics, I tracked the price of gold, and if you don t think reading tiny numbers is exciting to a twelve-year-old, you haven t done it yourself. When those numbers inch up, inch up, almost double, then sink like a stone, it does something to your pulse.
There was only one e