Page 13 of Working the Lode

CHAPTER NINE

Lion Island

Bowmaker

“Least you’ve got a gal,” Erskine said glumly, chawing on a piece of jerked beef.

Equally as glum, Bowmaker poked the fire with a stick. “She’s hardly a ‘gal,’ Aaron. I’ll stake you half my gold claim if she ever bucks off that slimy preacher.”

“She will if we strike it big enough,” Erskine pointed out. “She’s just sticking close to him because he’s her livelihood.”

Henry Bigler chimed in. “Oh, there’s plenty of families that could use a hale and lusty gal about their farm.” This news did not comfort Bowmaker, and he looked up at Bigler, expressionless. “Then there was that newspaper fellow in San Francisco. Sister Sparks worked with him when we first came here in forty-six, setting type and even gathering news for him to print.”

Bowmaker sat erect. “Newspaper fellow?”

“A-yep, this Ed Kemble fellow who runs Brannagh’s Star newspaper. A right smart young fellow too. His father was a New York State senator. Fact, that’s who Isaac Eager went rushing off to see the other day, to show him the gold.”

Bowmaker angrily tossed his stick into the fire. “Ho, boy! There’s damp powder and no fire to dry it! Next thing you know every tomfool blockhead from California to Kashmir is going to be streaking it up here, jumping folks’ claims, creating a regular spree—”

Erskine jumped in. “—raising hair, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch—”

“—diamond-brooched gentlemen running all over the country, taking advantage of the Indians!” Bowmaker was so angry he got to his feet and paced in little circles in the sand. Wild Digger Indians knew nothing about the value of gold, and wondered what palefaces wanted with it. All they knew was, they could trade an ounce of gold for the same weight in silver, a thimble of glass beads, or a glass of grog. Pointing heatedly at Bigler, Bowmaker demanded, “So why didn’t she stick with the newspaper fellow?”

Bigler shrugged. “He’s maybe ten years younger than her. And Brannagh ordered her up here to the store. Besides, I think he may enjoy the company of men more than women, if you catch my meaning.” He chortled lewdly.

This bit of levity was enough to take their minds off the subject of the newspaperman, for all three men were now obliged to laugh at the concept. Bowmaker didn’t personally find it so far-fetched, as he’d seen all manner of Plains Indians who acted as women and sometimes, well, when the pickings were slim and folks were half-froze for any human warmth…He would not rub out anyone who gratified his dry in that manner. Heaps of beaver to them. But in front of Bigler, well, Bowmaker had best be conservative.

“A god-damned sodomite,” Bigler chuckled.

As their laughter died down, Bowmaker pricked up his ears. What sounded like four or even five horses galloped up the muddy road about half a mile distant. Such a herd could not be Zelnora making their rendezvous, so the three men grabbed their rifles and waited silently, laying close to the ground on their elbows, hoping the herd would pass. Their own sturdy Californio horses were picketed nearby, securely hobbled against horse thieves. But the riders drove their jingling spurs into the horses’ sides and reined in toward their campfire. The three gold miners got to their feet and leveled their weapons, and Bowmaker, who could nearly see in the dark, was the first to note it was Wimmer from the mill, along with other Battalion fellows such as Mowry, Sly, and Nutting.

They picketed their mounts and told how the wanted to join up and mine this fertile strip they had heard so much about. How had anyone heard? As far as Bowmaker knew, Marshall still thought they were deer—or was it duck?—hunting, although by now it was a foregone assumption no one was actually hunting. Bowmaker had been attempting to devise a method for legally staking a claim. As of yet, the rule of the mines was that each man got fifty feet along a streambed, but Bowmaker was waiting for Zelnora’s arrival to advise him as to which fifty feet she deemed the richest. Up until the arrival of these dunces, he’d felt that he owned this entire length of river.

So the newcomers yammered, warming their hands by the fire and eating their jerky, while Bowmaker shouldered his rifle and set out toward the road. He splashed across the newly-formed creek that had created the island on which they were encamped. He didn’t care—he wore his new miner’s boots that nearly reached his knee, stiff things he was unaccustomed to after years in moccasins, and he felt like a lumbering Frankenstein when he walked.

Claims should be marked out with stakes, he thought as he leaned against a tree, stakes decorated gaudily so it was obvious from afar that spot had been chosen. Up ‘til now, men just left their tools along the river to indicate a claim. If this spot panned out, he’d go talk with Sutter about registering the claim. Although Sutter had no control over mineral rights, he was the closest thing to an alcalde, or mayor of the area.

He was wrenched from his reverie by ducks streaking it upstream from the Fort. What brought ducks streaking it upstream if humans weren’t behind them? He eagerly perked up and listened for Zelnora’s horse, but the wind changed direction then, and something disturbed him. He sniffed smoke from a cook fire, but it was not his men, no, this came from the Fort’s direction, although of course the Fort was too far away to smell sign, about twenty miles. Indian sign? They’d be some pretty smart Indians to get hold of a side of beef. For Bowmaker scented beef, only a sign of white men or Californios.

Well, why shouldn’t a man have a cook fire between here and the Fort? Bowmaker didn’t own the river. Maybe some more of his compañeros were “hunting.” So he kept his eyes skinned, and soon the beloved woman hove into sight dragging that laughable husband of hers by her horse’s tail.

She waved wildly. “Cormack!”

He jogged up to her, taking her reins and placing a hand under her arm to assist her to dismount. “Hush,” he said quietly. “I smell white men sign about. Did you pass anyone on the trail?”

Her eyes widened. “No, no one at all. That I could detect.”

“Someone’s grilling beef,” he muttered, and went to help poor Quartus, who attempted as usual to slither off his horse like a jar of jellied prunes. Bowmaker untied the pack horse from the tail of Zelnora’s mount and took the reins. They placed Quartus between them as they stepped down the embankment.

“Where is…my drum…” Quartus mumbled.

“Why is he talking about a drum?” Bowmaker asked Zelnora in a hushed voice.

“Oh. I bought him a drum. Quartus, dear, I’ll give it to you when we reach camp. He used to love drumming,” she explained conversationally. “On the ship that brought us over here, he drummed constantly. Then the marines in San Francisco took his drum away. They claimed they needed it to help with their drilling, but I do suspect it was just driving everyone loco.”

Bowmaker grinned as they dragged Quartus through the waist-high creek. Quartus was not a bad sort, really—he was certainly harmless, and he was strong enough to help them shovel gravel from the river, though he could not throw anything plumb center and he flung about rocks right smart. Because Quartus’ legs refused to work and they each had a horse to lead, Quartus nearly wound up burbling creek water through his livery lips. The iciness seemed to wake him up, though, and by the time they reached the campfire he was cheerfully greeting the men he recognized from the mill with an effervescent “Howdy, brother!” Bowmaker picketed the two horses round the fire while Quartus took possession of his drum and fell to with a vengeance, madly drumming out his unexpended passion on the deerskin.

“There’s white man sign by the road from the Fort,” Bowmaker told Erskine. “I scented beef grilling. Let’s leave a sentry to guard the horses tonight. I elect Sly.” He gestured at the only man not drinking whiskey.