Hard Gold (18 page)

This is Boulder Canyon. You can see it would have been hard to go along the creek. Fortunately, the trail to Gold Hill was higher up.

As we climbed, our breathing became labored. For though we were already high, we kept going higher. I’d feared the mountains would swallow us, and indeed they did. Our way was full of twists, turns, and switchbacks, until I lost all sense of direction. But no matter how far or high we went, there was only more forest, more mountains.

Then, after I’m not sure how much time, Mr. McFadden called, “Gold Hill!” from the head of the mule train. Pausing, he pulled out a battered brass bugle and—like the angel Gabriel—blew a series of blasts to announce his coming.

Lizzy cried, “Look!”

There, in a small valley, below were hundreds of men, prospectors all. They had found gold in what came to be known as Gold Run Creek. That soon extended into Left Hand canyon. Much more gold was found at what was named the Horsfal Mine at the head of Black Cloud Gulch. This was not just panning for gold, though there was plenty of that. Here they dug for the gold-laden ore with pickax and shovel. Once dug out, the rock had to be crushed by hammer, ground by an arastra wheel, or pulverized by stamp mills. The broken stone rock was then washed and searched, much like the panning process, but in long sluice rockers and water troughs.

Looks like Gold Hill to me.

Still following the mule train, Lizzy and I wandered down the steep trail toward the settlement, watching as Mr. McFadden’s bugle calls brought in men—and a few women—from all directions, enough to remind me of a stirred-up nest of ants. We went slowly, not sure what we should do or what we’d find.

We did see many houses and tents, but so randomly placed it was hard to number them. Many lay in the yet uncut forest. The houses—if you’d call them that—were crude, hastily constructed log cabins, as if no one had time or inclination to do better. Only a few were chinked. Doors and windows were merely holes. Roofs were logs thrown on top, layered with pine boughs. No chimneys were visible, which meant cooking was done outside.

An arastra wheel used for crushing ore. This one was powered by a horse.

Fortunately, no one paid attention to us. It was the mule train that brought excitement. And whatever value the supplies held, letters were the treasures. As soon as McFadden reached the town center, he retrieved the letters from one of the mule packs and started bawling out names. The men who received letters snatched at them as if they contained life itself. No matter what they had been doing, they went off to read. Those unable to read called upon those who could. We supposed they came from families back in the states and could have been written months ago.

It was fortunate that the community assembled as it did. All attention was on Mr. McFadden. Lizzy and I were able to stand uphill and watch. I scrutinized the men closely.

“Any sign?” she whispered. She meant Jesse.

“No. But I see Mr. Mawr.”

“Where?”

“Over there,” I said, not wanting to point. “At the far side. By that lean-to. He’s watching the crowd, too. Must have been waiting for the supply train to arrive.”

“Think he sees Jesse?”

“He isn’t moving. Come on,” I said, “don’t want him to notice us.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t have red hair,” murmured Lizzy. We moved up the hill and stepped behind a broken- down cabin. While Lizzy remained completely out of view, I kept poking my head out to watch.

“What’s Mawr doing?” she asked.

“He’s gone among the crowd. Talking to people.”

“See anything of your Jesse?”

I kept surveying the milling crowd, not sure how I was to find Jesse—if he was there—among so many.

“Do you?” Lizzy said impatiently.

“No. Wait!”

“What?”

“Hold on!”

Standing apart from the large crowd was a man. He was dressed like the rest: slouch hat, old shirt and trousers, boots. Bearded. But unlike the other miners, it did not seem as if he had any expectation or hope of getting anything from the train. He simply remained in place, looking on, one hand in a pocket, his posture suggesting resignation. But though I could not be sure, there was something about him that looked familiar.

As the crowd began to break up—the letters distributed—this man turned and began to walk uphill toward a grove of trees. Halfway along he took off his hat and appeared to wipe away perspiration. His hair was golden. I knew then I was seeing Jesse’s hair as well as his walk, that ambling, shambling gait I would have known anywhere.

“Jesse!” I managed to whisper.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Jesse

I
GLANCED BACK to Mr. Mawr. He was still in a conversation with a miner, paying no mind—as far as I could tell—to the one I was sure was Jesse.

“Did he see you?” Lizzy asked.

“Don’t think so.”

I shifted around. Jesse was continuing up the hill. I turned again. Mr. Mawr was still talking with that man.

“Early,” cried Lizzy, “tell me what’s happening!”

I shifted my look to where I’d last seen Jesse. He was out of sight. I felt panicky.

“Early, please!”

“He’s gone. Don’t know where. I just know what direction.” I looked back to Mawr. To my great relief he was going off in a different way, caught up in his talk.

“Come on,” I said.

“Where?”

“After Jesse.”

All but running, my heart pounding, I hastened up the hill, moving in the direction I’d seen Jesse move. Lizzy stayed close. I kept turning around to watch for Mawr. I didn’t see him.

After we had gone up the hill some ways, I cut over to where I’d last seen Jesse. What I found was a well-used path. I took it. Lizzy followed.

The path led farther uphill, taking us among the thick trees and countless stumps. Hereabout there were log houses tucked everywhere. Tents, too. Any number of men were attending to their business. No one I saw resembled Jesse.

Out of breath, I halted, and looked around.

“Any idea where he went?” said Lizzy.

“Don’t know,” I panted. “And don’t want to ask anybody. Anyway, he’d be a fool to use his real name.”

Being on the only visible path, I chose to keep going. After perhaps a quarter of a mile, the trail narrowed considerably. Log houses were no longer around. I stopped, not sure where to go.

“You certain it was him?” said Lizzy.

“Positive.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t know. But either we find him, or Mawr will.”

Then I noticed what seemed to be a clump of closely packed trees some twenty yards off the path where we stood. When I looked down, I saw the tracings of a faint path that led in its direction.

“Come on,” I said.

As silently as we could we moved along the narrow path. When we drew close, I realized that what I’d seen was a small log house set in a grove of trees. Its door was nothing more than a gap.

I halted.

“Jesse?” whispered Lizzy.

I stood there.

“What’s the matter?” Lizzy asked.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Lizzy, I know what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

Unable to speak I shook my head, muttered, “Come on,” and went forward.

Followed by Lizzy, I stepped inside the tiny house. With a glance I took in all there was to see: a small, dim room with a dirt floor. No window. In the far corner, a cooking pan, panning tin, flour sack. Nearby lay a Sharps rifle. Down along the right-hand wall, some boards had been laid out. The boards were covered with pine branches. On the branches lay a man.

Soon as we came in, the man bolted up into a sitting position. His hand went right to his rifle, which he leveled at me.

For some moments we stared at one another, he squinting—the light was behind me—as he tried to figure out who I was. I had no doubt who
he
was. Though he looked older and was bearded, filthy, weathered, and worn, it was Jesse.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I couldn’t. And it took him a while to realize it was me. When he did, his face blossomed into that smile of his, that
golly, good morning!
grin that made folks glad he was around. He flung down the rifle and just laughed. Oh, how he laughed, finally sputtering, “Well… hel-lo … little brother!”

My heart hammering so hard it hurt, I gulped deep and said, “Jesse, why’d you have to rob that bank in Wiota?”

Jesse kind of blinked. His smile faded.

“You … you shouldn’t have done it,” I cried.

Jesse shook his head. “Hey, Early,” he said, “that’s no way to greet your best friend. Not after so long.” He pulled himself to his feet and came forward, hands extended.

I couldn’t help it. I held back, my eyes smarting with tears. “You shouldn’t have done it!” I shouted. “It was wrong!” I was bursting with anger I didn’t know I had had. Trembling, actually. My outburst was strong enough to make him hold back. He looked at me with puzzlement as his right hand combed through his beard and then his hair. He shook his head slightly, then he turned and nodded toward Lizzy. “Who’s this?” he said.

“My friend.”

His bright smile came back. “Hey, I thought I was your only friend. Is Adam here, too? Sister? Brother Daniel?”

“Just me,” I said.

“You? Alone? All ‘cross Nebraska?”

I nodded.

“What made you do that?”

In the time since I’d last seen him, I had grown some, but I still had to look up to him. “You,” I said.

He stood there, as if unsure what to say or do.

I said, “You … stole the money so you could get out here, right? So you could find enough gold to pay our mortgage debt.”

“Hey, Early, remember what they said? That gold was here for easy pickings. Well, I wanted to get some, fast. Before it was all gone. Only, you know what, it wasn’t easy. Nothing like they wrote.”

“Did you … really get enough gold?”

“Didn’t you get my letter?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I sure did get enough gold. But it was hard, Early. You can’t believe how hard. You think working for Adam is hard? You don’t know the word. The hardest work I’ve ever done. You know what panning is?” he asked.

“Sort of.”

“Simplest way of getting gold. Get yourself a pan. Hey, some use a frying pan. Tin is better, because it’s light. Find yourself a bend in a fast-moving creek. Make sure it’s a sandy spot. Or gravelly. Best be sure no one else is around, either. Scoop up some sand or gravel and water into the pan. Swirl it. Let the sand, gravel, and water trickle out. Slowly. Gold—if there’s any—separates out. Because it’s heavy it sinks to the bottom. Follow me?”

I just stood there, staring at him, listening.

“You get up at dawn, stand in that freezing cold mountain water till your toes pucker white and ache with chills. All the while you swirl that pan, maybe—what? Ten million, billion times. By the end of the day, when there’s no more sun to burn your neck, and you’re weary, starving, and got more mosquito bites than hairs on your head, when you’re asking yourself who you are, where you are, and what awful sin against almighty God did you do to bring you to such a wretched place, you may have, what? Ten cents’worth of gold. Then again, you might have five dollars. Word is that Gregory, on his first strike, made six
hundred!
But that was placer gold. Digging.