by Richard Puz
Sourdough Wind Mine
(A short story from the American Frontier – 1800s)
by Richard Puz
E-Book Edition
Published by East 74th Street Press*Washington at SmashWords
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Copyright 2011 by Richard Puz
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ISBN: 978-0-9852779-2-5
Dedicated to the love of my life ~
Table of Contents
Sourdough Wind Mine
From the Author
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Sourdough Wind Mine
1855
Yreka Gold Fields, California
In the dead of a starless night, Captain Al Rice remained hidden behind the large wooden equipment shed, watching as three men approached the lantern-lighted entrance to the gold mine. One stayed outside the ring of light as a lookout, while the others climbed over the gate and disappeared into the dark tunnel. The thundering sound of the stamping mill came from down the hill, and the noise of the rock crusher could be heard throughout most of the big valley, day and night.
As the captain watched, he could barely distinguish the shadow of the man posted outside. Despite his age and large size, he was light on his feet, as he sneaked up on the guard from behind and used the butt of his pistol to knock him unconscious. Tying the man’s legs and hands together, he made sure the thief would be there when he returned.
Entering the Sourdough Wind Mine, he lit the mirrored candle in his headgear and walked into the main tunnel, following the dimly lighted path before him. One hundred feet into the dark, the heavy noise from the stamping mill faded as he came to the edge of a vertical shaft that dropped nearly sixty feet straight down into bedrock. Below the main level, four tunnels radiated from the mine shaft to follow and tap into the rich gold that dipped into the bowels of the earth. The seams varied, ranging from several inches to nearly three feet wide, as these wound through solid rock.
He carefully peered over the edge and saw the dim lantern glow from a tunnel two levels down. He paused in the deep shadows, as loose pebbles from the edge dropped into the deep chasm and the water far below. The digging continued, without a pause, and it came from a newly dug tunnel. Looks like these gents know more about the Sourdough than is good for them.
With the weak light from his headlamp, he swung his head to cast a beam of light on a worker’s station near the shaft. Searching among the tools and supplies, he found a gunnysack. He slit two strips with his big knife, tying one on each boot in an attempt to muffle his steps.
During the day, a large winched bucket carried men, tools, and rock between the levels of the shaft. The only other way up and down was to climb the vertical wooden ladders that were affixed into the sides of the shaft.
Stepping down the wooden rungs slowly, the big man snuffed out his candle and carefully followed the dim light coming from the end of the tunnel. Rounding a bend in the crooked passageway, he stopped as he heard voices and the sound of a pick striking rock.
“C’mon, TR, use your spade and let’s fill that sack and get out of here. This soggy, dripping tunnel has got me spooked. Another few shovel loads and I’m leaving.”
Mockingly, the other said, “Ain’t nary a soul nearby at this late hour except for Trace up top, Jackson. That is if you don’t count the ghosts of all the dead miners buried in cave-ins down here.”
“Just the same, let’s finish and get.”
Captain Rice cautiously made his way along the side of the eight-foot wide tunnel, guided by the lantern light glinting off the rock walls ahead. He remained hidden by the unevenly excavated sides of the tunnel. He stopped behind a huge timber post that shored up one end of a crossbeam supporting the heavy rock ceiling above. Bending down, he grabbed a handful of small pebbles. With a flick of his wrist, some went flying along the tunnel floor behind him.
“What was that?” Jackson asked, raising his torch high to cast more light down the passageway.
Waiting for long moments, TR finally replied, “Aw, it just be loose stones falling down the main shaft. Happens all the time.”
Al tossed his last pebble in the same direction.
“There it is again,” Jackson said, nervously. “I’m satisfied with what we have in the sack, and I’m leaving right now.”
“Oh, all right,” TR said. “You’re as antsy as an old pussy cat. I reckon we’ve got about as much as each of us can haul up the ladders anyway.”
“You got that right. Tomorrow, we’ll smash and wash the rock in the stream south of town to extract the gold. Now let’s get.”
“Evening boys,” Captain Rice said in his deep voice, which seemed to rumble off the walls. He moved to stand in the middle of the passageway. “I didn’t know that we had a graveyard shift working the mine tonight.”
Startled and turning around quickly, lean-jawed TR said, “Hell’s fire and damnation.”
His partner dropped the sack and turned, with the pick still clutched in his hands. “Where . . . where did you come from?” Jackson asked, raising his lantern higher to cast the light farther.
Ignoring the question, the captain continued, “You boys know that it ain’t polite to steal gold from someone else’s claim. You’re also probably aware that it’s a hanging offense, don’t you? And that’ll be just what you men will be doing come sunrise, dangling from a tall tree with a tight noose around your necks, along with your pardn’r up top.”
TR peered toward the big man. A thin smile split his face, as he sneered, “You look to be good size, but there only be one of you.” Looking more closely, he continued, “And judging by the white hair I see hanging below your hat, you’re an old-timer trying to scare us young studs.”
Jackson let out a derisive laugh and asked, “Where’s your help? You have a posse behind you? Or maybe it’s waiting topside? How you planning to stop two of us, old man? Best you back off and go home and sit in your rocking chair.”
“We’ll see,” Rice replied, in his husky voice. “I work for Thorne Corse, who owns the Sourdough. He takes right badly to having his gold stolen.”
“Who are you,” Jackson asked.
“My name is Captain Al Rice and I’m known as the ‘enforcer’ hereabouts.” He could tell by the look on their faces that they had heard of him. “Best you step to one side and drop any weapons you’re carrying.”
“Go to hell,” TR shouted.
“Now, now, let’s don’t be letting our tempers get the best of us. Look around—you do know that you’ve been digging at the end of the tunnel?”
“So what?”
“I’d be mighty careful, if I was you, because the support posts and crossbeams have yet to be set at your end of the tunnel.”
“What in hell are you chawing about, old man?”
“You must not be very experienced miners. Most know that an unsupported ceiling can give way at any instant. Even loud so
unds can set off a cave-in.”
A sudden look of fear appeared on Jackson’s face. Quickly, he slung his pick, aiming the pointy end with deadly intent at Rice.
Nimbly stepping to one side, the captain said in an irritated voice, “Try that again and you’re dead men. You fellows have two choices. Give yourself up, or die in this hole. What’s it to be?”
“We’ll die topside anyway, so no sense in prolonging this with useless talking,” said TR. With a quick motion, he pulled a long knife from his boot.
Even faster, the captain drew his six-gun and fired twice. The loud booms in the confined tunnel echoed and reverberated against the walls, hurting his ears.
Immediately, a cloud of dust filled the chamber and the lantern light faded in the haze of dust. For a moment, the air began to clear and then, with a thunderous roar, the ceiling crashed down. With only an instant cry from one man, both thieves were buried.
Ducking to avoid flying debris and turning away from the heavy cloud of dust, the captain covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. Coughing, he reached into his vest pocket for a match. Lighting his headgear candle again, he cast its faint beam on the rock that filled the end of the tunnel.
“Well, you’ve saved yourselves from being hung, but now this tunnel is going to have to be dug out once more. Have yourselves a nice sleep, boys. See you soon . . . probably in hell.”
END
From the author . . .
