Authors: Avi
Hard Gold (7 page)
That day I believe we did not go a mile.
It was odd to be with strangers all the time. I’d forget their names, or they mine. Different ways of talking, too. I said “bucket.” Mr. Griffin said “pail.” Mrs. Wynkoop was wont to complain about hardship. You had to stand close to Mr. Hicksby to hear his soft talking. In the miles we had gone, it felt as if I had gone to a different world.
May 5
Got moving, only to strike another low marsh, in which the teams were stuck fast yet again. It was powerful work to get them out—eight oxen to pull each wagon through. Then the road that followed was poor. Happily, the next creek we came to had a bridge. That was progress. Still, here it was just a few days from starting, and already I began to wonder how long our journey to Cherry Creek would take. A long while, I reckoned. I hoped that Jesse could wait for me.
As we wore on, I chanced to note that Mr. Mawr carried a Colt pistol on his belt. What need, I wondered, required him to have a fancy weapon like that?
May 6
The weather proved fine, but we soon reached a big creek that was flooded some fifty yards wide, so we couldn’t cross. Mr. Armon (a pleasant man) and I waded waist deep until we found a shallow spot. Then we drove the wagons across. At one point our wagon was afloat, the oxen swimming. All proved secure.
Such was our relief that when we got to the town of Marengo, Mr. Griffin and his son, Peter, led the way, playing “Oh! Susanna” in lively fashion. My heart was lightened.
That night when I crawled under the wagon to sleep, Lizzy appeared again and peeked in at me.
Crossing streams and creeks was always a tricky business.
“Mr. Early?”
“Look here,” I said, propping myself up on one elbow, “you don’t want that name ‘Miss Eliza.’Well, I don’t want you calling me ‘Mister.'”
She laughed. “I thought I was being respectful.”
“Sounds otherwise,” I said.
“But, Mr. Early—”
“I’m not talking to you if you call me that.”
She stared at me for a moment and seemed to make a decision. “Early,” she said, “can I tell you something?”
“You can say what you want.”
“Then I so want to know why you are running away from your family.”
I hardly knew what to say. “Why do you need to know?”
“I
hate
not knowing things,” she said.
Though much annoyed, I grumbled, “I’m not running away.”
“You are doing
something
devious.”
“I’m going to Cherry Creek.”
“You grow up in that town, Wiota?”
I nodded. “Nearby.”
She was quiet for a moment, sat down on the ground, and then drew up her knees and hugged them. “We were there only a month. You won’t believe how often we’ve moved. My mother didn’t want to go. Says she’s too ill with her fevers.”
“Is she?”
Lizzy nodded. “Rock fever. Brings waves of heat and unhappiness. Hurts right into her bones something awful. But my father said we had to go, as it is our last chance.”
“Chance for what?”
“To restore health to his business and to my ma. She insists she’ll not live to get there.” Lizzy paused again before saying, “Mr. Early, I envy you.”
I sighed. “Why?”
“I’d like to run away from my family.”
“Why would you want that?”
“Then I could do all kinds of things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Get gold for myself,” she said. “Be the richest lady on the whole earth.”
“If you went to sleep,” I suggested, “you could dream about it.”
She considered my remark and then said, “Early, I don’t usually care for boys, but you’re a mite sharper than most.”
Next moment we heard her mother calling, “Miss Eliza! Where are you? I need you!”
She sighed. “Being an orphan seems fine to me.”
She hastened away.
May 7
Crossed a river (I never learned its name) by pole ferry, the owner of which charged us one dollar each team. No less than robbery!
Made good miles, but then the men got into a dispute about when to stop. No one asked my opinion. In the end, we pushed on.
That same evening, Mr. Mawr finally spoke to me. I was tying down our ox team. When I looked up, there he was, staring down at me, full of scorn.
“Boy, what’s your name?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.
“Early.”
He said, “Early, I have heard your uncle has already gone to the diggings.”
Of course he’d heard. He was with the judge when I told him. He must have thought I hadn’t recognized him.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Going to meet him?”
“Could be.”
“And he’s done well, I suppose.”
“I don’t know that for certain,” I replied, not pleased with the drift of his questions.
“Mr. Early,” he said, “there is much that is uncertain in this world.”
Any hopes I had that he was not interested in Jesse vanished: his words were a warning.
May 8, 1859
I
T BEING Sunday, we rested—though we really had not gone very far. But the Lord will be served, even going west.
Mr. Griffin and his son, Peter, played fife and drum, and so we sang some old hymns. Lizzy, for such a tomboyish creature, surprised me with a fine voice. The songs she sang, one of which was “Home Sweet Home,” filled me with affecting thoughts of our farm.
Had some dried fruit soaked in water as a Sunday treat.
May 9
In the morning, we were held up by a strong rain. Mr. Bunderly urged me to join his family as they huddled in the wagon. The rain beat on the canvas as if it were a drum, and there was some leaking. Thunder rumbled near. When lightning came the canvas lit up like a magic lantern. Apollo, Lizzy’s pig, rested his head in her lap and now and again grunted. When he did, Lizzy looked at me, and we struggled to keep from laughing.
Mr. Bunderly sighed and said, “Laughter, as the poet said, is the soul of youth turned to sound.”
“Don’t you ever laugh, Mr. Bunderly?” I asked.
“Mr. Early, consider: I now reside in a wagon with all my earthly possessions, my beloved wife and daughter, and you, Mr. Early—plus a pig. Outside, a deluge. A genuine summation of what my existence—so far—has achieved.” He spoke with such solemnity that Lizzy and I could not hold back our laughter.
“Miss Eliza!” cried Mrs. Bunderly. “Be a lady!”
The poor woman spread her misery.
When the rain cleared, we discovered one team of oxen had strayed, so our start was late. That said, we went six miles, but stopped when we found some old fence posts. I set them to fire while, as usual, Lizzy cooked our dinner: bacon, rice, corn cake, and coffee.
Eating with the Bunderlys was not like eating with my family. My family talked and argued—at least Jesse and Adam did. And there was no better bread than my mother’s. But at camp, Mrs. Bunderly rarely spoke, save to criticize Lizzy. Their corn cake was heavy. Mr. Bunderly gave long speeches, which made Lizzy roll her eyes or appeal to me with impish looks.
I missed my family.
May 10
We continued on. The slowness of our progress weighed on me. I worried much about Jesse and his predicament. Then I reminded myself that worry would not move me faster. All I could do was keep going. But I could not keep from fretting about Mr. Mawr.
At one point Lizzy walked by my side, her long skirt dragging in the muddy road, her bonnet, as usual, dangling down her back.
“Early, you mustn’t be bothered by my mother. She can’t scold her illness, so she scolds me. I try not to mind.”
“It’s all right,” I said.
We went on in silence for a bit and then she said, “Early, I so do wish to know why you are going to the diggings.”
I considered her question, shrugged, and said, “Same as everyone else. To get the gold.”
“Early,” she said, “by now you should know that I will take pride in keeping your secrets.” She put a hand to her heart as proof.
I glanced at her sideways. She was looking at me, too. “A shared secret is an honor shared,” she said, trying to make her words solemn. Next moment she sputtered and laughed. “When I talk like Father, I sound thick.”
I returned her honesty by blurting out, “I’ve an uncle at Cherry Creek.”
“Does he know you’re coming to him?”
I shook my head.
“He get any gold?”
“Think so.”
“He going to give you some?”
“Don’t know.”
She considered my reply and then said, “I should like you to know, I shan’t marry unless the man is rich.”
“Why is that?”
“Rich people do as they choose.”
“Can rich wives?” I asked.
She glared at me and tossed her hair. “I will.”
“Fine, then. And what would you do?”
She thought a bit and finally said, “Not sure.” Then, as if correcting herself, she added, “But I’d do it.”
For some reason or other, we both laughed. It felt good to do so.
We went on for a while, and then she said, “I hate this stupid bonnet.”
“Why wear it, then?”
“Ma doesn’t want me looking dark.”
“Dark is better than washed-out and peaked.”
For once it seemed as if I had surprised her. “Do you truly think so?”
“Just said, didn’t I?”
After a moment she whipped her bonnet off, looked round at me, and grinned.
I was pleased we were becoming easy.
May 11
Went twenty miles, which was the most we had gone in one day. Toward sunset, we found a sinkhole with good water.
If you look at this picture, you can see some wagons were pulled by oxen, others by mules. Sometimes, even by horses. Oxen were considered best, being strongest, and because they really liked to eat the prairie grass.
Lizzy served up bacon, beans, corn cake with molasses, and coffee. I was tempted to ask if she could cook anything else. Didn’t.
In the evening, when I crawled under our wagon as I usually did to sleep, I found myself restless. As I lay there, I heard footsteps approach our wagon.
“Mr. Bunderly?” a voice called.
“Is that you, Mr. Mawr? Good evening.” It was Mrs. Bunderly who had replied.
“Evening, ma’am. I hope you’re feeling better.”
“I do the best I can.”
“Mrs. Bunderly, I was wanting to speak to your husband about that boy of yours, Early.”
“My husband is asleep. Is there something I can answer for you?”
“I heard say the boy is traveling to meet his uncle in the diggings. Has he spoken of that to you?”
“He told my husband he’s an orphan, that’s all.”
“Did he? Has he said why he’s going out to this uncle?”
“Not to me,” said Mrs. Bunderly.
“I wonder if he can be trusted,” said Mr. Mawr. “You might be better without him. You can find another in Council Bluffs.”
“You can speak to my husband in the morning or even with my daughter. She’s on good terms with the boy.”
“With your permission, I shall. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Mawr.”
I hated that man.