By Kevin S. Giles
It’s a temptation to build novels around Butte. Anyone who asks “Butte where?” hasn’t been listening.
Butte, Montana. Butte, America. Butte, for crying out loud.
Mile High City. Mile High, Mile Deep. The Mining City. Richest Hill on Earth. You know.
Once home to Italians, Serbs, Cornish, Irish, Welsh, Finns and a dozen other nationalities who converged on the city, way back, when the mines ran dark and deep and coughed out copper by the ton. Right?
Today Butte is a lesser place, shorn of many of those characters that made it one of the strangest, naughtiest, more daring cities in America. Back then, of course, when men mined tunnels a mile underground and died of accidents, fires and explosions or, later, the lung disease from the poisonous dust they inhaled. Back then.