Zachary's Gold (13 page)

“Is that your stake?” I asked politely.

A second or two passed. He was suspicious and unsure of the implications of my question. When finally he nodded slowly, I drew my hand out of my side coat pocket holding the Colt .45 already cocked.

Only his eyelids moved.

I took basic aim at the little stake and blasted it five times, blowing it into splinters, and nearly destroying both our eardrums. When the ringing echoes had died down enough that I could hear myself speak, I said, “You'd better cut yourself a new one.” Then I turned my back on Greencoat and walked the rest of the way down Binder Creek.

I followed a slightly different route into town than I normally used, and it was three o'clock when I found myself on a high piece of land at the opening of Shy Robin Gulch, just off Grouse Creek. I felt a mixture of relief and excitement as I looked down on the city of Barkerville, with Cameronton just beyond, down the valley, and Richfield around the corner to my left. It was no scene of beauty—just a flat, grey expanse of cabins, shanties, aqueducts, and footpaths spreading up the hillsides cradling Williams Creek, with a ring of smoke hanging there that could never seem to escape from the valley. The grey clouds were draped like a drab woollen scarf about the town's shoulders. After the splendid colour of the autumn forest, this aspect should have been depressing, but at that moment it was to me a wonderful expression of human life and desire. Thousands of men hurried and scurried about down there, vitalized by the hope of finding one special thing.

I had already found it.

Any one of them, of course, would take it from me in a minute if I lowered my guard. Caution and secrecy were the order of the day.

My plan was to purchase one more pack animal and, together with Ned's mule, which I had left back at the cabin, work my way inconspicuously south, keeping up the appearance of a poor, hapless prospector. In addition to my supplies and gold, I would carry a maximum of firearms and ammunition selected from the dead trapper's private armoury. Even if Governor Douglas sent a platoon of infantry after me, they wouldn't stand a chance.

It wasn't a great plan. Two animals take a fair amount of care and attention. There would be heavy lifting and carrying, with long hours of walking involved, and I was still not completely recovered from the wounds inflicted by the wolverine. I would be in danger from law officers and outlaws alike, over six hundred miles of rough roads and rough weather. For great reward, though, great risks must be taken.

To begin with, I wanted a bath, a set of underwear that fit properly, and a meal I could eat from a plate at a table. My first stop was the Bank of British Columbia, where I exchanged three ounces of Binder Creek gold for currency.

The bank was quite unlike those in more civilized cities. The main part of the building was like a warehouse, caged off from the public by strong bars and solid wood countertops. The patrons were left only a small corridor of space across the front where they could wait to do their business with the clerk, who stood at a small gap in the iron barricade. At busy times, the customers would often be forced to line up on the elevated boardwalk outside the front door to wait their turn. It was certainly a secure arrangement but not at all convivial, particularly when the clerk seemed to be tired and depressed. He was small, pale, and well dressed—most unsuited to his present locale. I tried my best to mirror his emotions as I played the role of a luckless gully-grubber.

“Horrible, isn't it?” I said to him, “but that little poke is all I have to show for six months' hard work.”

“Horrible place, this,” he agreed without showing much interest

“I'll be glad to be shot of it.”

“You're lucky, all right,” he grumbled. I felt a bit sorry for the poor young fellow, for unlike myself, he was probably just as miserable as he seemed.

“You expect to stay on for a while, do you?” I inquired politely. He looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“I'm here on contract.”

“How long is the contract?”

“Three months.”

“And how long have you been here now?”

“Year and a half.” He dismissed me by looking over my shoulder to the next customer, and I shuffled off.

After my encounter with this young master of finance, I found it much easier to wear a gloomy countenance. I purchased underwear, a shirt, and a newspaper, then returned to the Colonial Hotel, where I spent a leisurely hour in a hot bath.

I possessed no medical training, and a close inspection of my wound after I cleansed it told me little, except that it was still ugly and sore. The weakness and recurring ache in my shoulder made me suspect that the wolverine had managed to rip some of the muscle completely apart, but I was nervous about doctors at the best of times, so I chose to ignore it for the time being. These things took time to heal, of course, and I was already learning to compensate with the other arm.

I decided to postpone my dinner until I had checked out the availability and price of mules. I was luxuriating not only in the warmth and cleanliness, but also in the atmosphere of the town itself. After the solitary weeks, each face spoke loudly to me—of ambition, success, and failure; of the resentment of the hungry and the altruistic friendliness of the suddenly rich. It was constantly necessary for me to remind myself that my mask must be that of the disappointed failure.

It was difficult to keep from grinning. I felt like a little boy, delighted with the bass drum sound my boots made on the board sidewalk as I tramped my way towards the stables just down from the hotel. There were a couple of horses for sale there but no mules. Two other places, both nearby on the back street, gave me the same story.

It was the time of year when a great number of miners packed their belongings and headed to more hospitable climes for the winter, and for some reason or other, mules seemed to be the creature of preference as a pack animal. I myself would gladly have used a horse, but I needed two animals for the size of my burden, and I didn't consider myself a good enough horseman to manage two of them, especially animals with which I was unfamiliar. Beside that, I already found myself the owner of one mule, and I thought it inadvisable to try to use two different species in tandem.

At a fourth stable, I found someone who at least knew of the whereabouts of a pack mule. A Negro yard man told me of a blacksmith drunkard who possessed one that he wished to sell. I thanked him, obtained the necessary directions, and found myself ten minutes thereafter behind the blacksmith's shop in what was referred to as a corral, although it was only a foul-smelling outdoor stall.

The farrier himself was a squat, bald Englishman who, true to the stable hand's report, sweated rancid whisky.

“He's a grand little animal,” he claimed, with ill-staged pride. “And the only reason I can bring myself to part with him is that he's been so faithful to me these three years that I can't bear to see him suffer through another of these Godforsaken winters. You're going south, are you, brother?”

I replied in the affirmative as I looked the beast over. For once, it was not difficult to appear downcast. He was a sorry-looking old runt indeed, and it depressed me to think that just when I had come into possession of a treasure beyond my greatest hopes, I might be forced to entrust it to this mangy little grey swayback.

The blacksmith must have sensed my dismay.

“Aye, of course you can't reckon a good mule by its looks now, can you? They're not given to great beauty at the best of times, are they? It's character you want now, don't you? Character, courage, strength . . .”

I expected from the sound of things that he had probably named the thing Lord Nelson, and fed it molten iron since it was foaled.

“What's that?” I asked, pointing to a large shaved area on its flank, centred on some sort of sore.

“Oh, that. Yes, that spot.” He shrugged. “He's rubbed herself raw against a rail, hasn't he? No worry there, mate. No worry there.”

He ran his hand down the mule's back once in a gesture of feigned affection, and I couldn't help but notice that the single stroke removed a noticeable handful of hair, which I did not consider a good sign, even with my limited knowledge of those animals.

The thought that I found most dismaying was that there appeared to be no better mule available in the whole of Barkerville or Cameronton.

I thought that the approved thing to do when purchasing any member of the equine species was to examine the teeth before discussing the matter of price, so at that stage I put one hand on Lord Nelson's jaw, the other over the bridge of his nose, and tried to part his lips.

With a speed I would not have believed possible from the old wretch, he clapped his jaws at my hand like an alligator. I almost matched his speed and kept the damage to a bit of lost skin, but he locked onto the sleeve of my coat and we enjoined in a battle of tug of war that had everyone momentarily in a frenzy, including his besotted master.

“Hey there, none of that! Let him go! Don't hit him, brother! Let him go! Don't fight him! Easy! Easy!” he wailed.

Suddenly the mule released his grip, I lost my balance and sat in the mud, and the blacksmith and I exhibited our knowledge of colourful expressions.

“What do you want for him?” I finally shouted, taking the man completely by surprise, for I'm sure he had lost all hope of making a sale.

“Oh, thirty dollars,” he ventured, when he had regained his composure.

My response was even louder than anything said up to that point.

“Five dollars, sir! And I'll take blanket, bit, and rope! Also that bag on the rail over there, and if you open your mouth for one more word, I'll chop you into pieces and feed you to this decrepit devil!”

He took my five dollars, and the deal was completed without so much as a handshake. It seemed that my skills as a negotiator improved a great deal when I was angry, but I was not about to gloat over the success of my bargaining. I wrapped my bleeding thumb with a strip of my handkerchief and led my obstreperous new friend down the back street towards the hotel.

For another twenty-five cents I obtained lodging for him at the stable on Main Street, then returned to the hotel to do the same for myself, as it was too late in the day to consider heading out of town. After depositing my pack upstairs in my room, I returned downstairs for a late supper.

Mealtime had officially finished, but in the kitchen I was given a plate, a corner of a serving table, and enough hot food for a crew of six. Afterwards, I lumbered upstairs to my bed, where my excess translated itself into severe internal discomfort.

Unable to consider an early night in spite of my great fatigue, I returned to the kitchen for bicarbonate of soda, then tried to still my boiling gastric juices with a walk in the cool night air.

I strolled as far as the last commercial buildings on the far side of Richfield, then back, past the hotel, and down the strip of saloons in Cameronton that bathed the muddy streets in gaslight and filled the night air with the sounds of the banjo and piano.

Looking in the window of a place called the Lucky Penny
,
I saw a card game in progress, and I decided to rest my legs and watch the gentlemen play a few hands.

I was no more than a foot inside the doorway when someone called my name. It wasn't a big place, but amidst the bright lights and the fog of tobacco smoke, it took me a moment to make out my friend Carl seated with a half-dozen other fellows at a table laden with jugs of yeasty Barkerville brew. I strolled over and stood beside his chair, and he himself took his feet, put a hand theatrically across my shoulders, and introduced me to his mates.

“Gentlemen, we are fortunate enough to have with us tonight my friend Zachary, the richest man in these mountains—a veritable modern Midas.”

My mouth fell open into an expression of guilty horror.

In fact, I had arrived while they were in the middle of liquor-loose gossip about who was rich and who was ruined—the most popular sort of discussion in Barkerville—but I was so unprepared to meet up with anyone that I missed the joke. I stared accusingly at my friend, gulped like a dying fish, and turned red. Everyone, except perhaps Carl, enjoyed my obvious discomfort, but I couldn't think of a thing to do. I realize now, of course, that I should have joined in and laughed it off, but at the time I was incapacitated with amazement that my distant friend had somehow discovered that I was rich.

“I'm not!” I blurted out, “I'm not rich at all!” And I continued to stand there until a friendly arm pushed me into an empty chair.

I sat, but my expression did not change. I was furious with myself for not planning what I would say or do in this situation. I knew I was acting in the worst possible way and dramatically drawing attention to myself, but by now I thought I would only compound matters if I just stood up and left. I glared angrily at Carl, who sat cleaning his spectacles, mystified by my overreaction. I toyed with the glass of beer someone had poured me.

“You know, I believe we really do have a big winner among us.” The speaker sat directly across from me—a red-bearded, bald man who had affected a red bow tie over his grimy woollen shirt. “Buy another pitcher, friend, and tell us,” he said, “where did you strike it, and how much did you take?”

There was still some jest in this, but it was a direct contravention of local protocol. I would have been well within my rights to sneer at him and keep silent, but once again I was stupid enough to overreact.

“I tell you, I'm as poor as all of you put together, and if you choose to call me a liar, then you'd best do it outside in the street.”

Now even the card players at the next table were interested. Everyone was watching me. A fat Englishman sitting next to the bald man spoke next. I believe he may have been the proprietor, and he tried to calm things.

“No one's saying you've done a thing wrong, Mr. Zachary. It's all just passing conversation, and you're not required to tell us two bits. I'm sure you deserve everything you have.” Then with a wink he added, “or anything you don't have.”