The Furies

by John Jakes

ii

  Even in San Francisco, Amanda had seldom seen such a confusion of humanity as she did that Sunday morning.

  Hopeful straggled for more than half a mile along the bank of the Feather’s branch, hemmed in on the landward side by nearly perpendicular hills covered with dark firs. The camp consisted exclusively of improvised housing—tents, scrap-lumber hovels and even a number of large packing cases from which the sides had been removed. Inside one of these, a man lay reading. In another, a couple of bearded miners played cards.

  Amanda kept her hat brim pulled down as she and Israel rode along the main street. She saw no women anywhere. Men milled aimlessly on either side. Most were white, but here and there she spied a darker face: a Mexican, a Chilean. Two stocky youngsters appeared to be Kanakas from Hawaii. Most of the miners were dressed as Jared had been—heavy coats and trousers. There was an almost universal display of mustaches and chin whiskers.

  Being hatless, Israel immediately attracted attention.

  A group lounging outside a tent identified as Sacramento Tom’s started pointing. One man lobbed a stone. Another shouted, “Ain’t no claims for niggers here!”

  Israel went rigid. Amanda laid a hand on his arm. He swallowed and gazed straight ahead.

  Inside Sacramento Tom’s, the fiddle scraper swung into “The Old Oaken Bucket.” A man approached Amanda’s mule, weaving. He doffed a filthy felt hat.

  “Welcome, pilgrim! You don right, comin’ to Hopeful. We’re takin’ it out of the ground with jackknives—”

  Head down, she didn’t respond. The man shrugged, executed a half-turn, unbuttoned his pants and began to urinate in the mud.

  On Amanda’s left, three bearded fellows were carrying a wounded man out of another gambling tent, to the amusement of a small crowd. Had this been the source of the shots? She heard one of the watchers yell to someone in the tent, “Frenchie, you be in miner’s court at five sharp. The court’ll decide whether Dick provoked you. That is”—a glance at the wounded man being borne away—“if Dick’s still alive to state his case.”

  A somewhat larger tent on the right announced itself as the bear flag palace. From all the lanterns burning inside, some positioned above others, Amanda realized an enterprising soul had somehow rigged an upstairs section for the hotel. Immediately beyond the Palace, a general store—another tent—was doing a brisk business.

  Out in front, a shirtsleeved clerk waved a pair of boots to half a dozen customers. “Cowhide, double-soled, triple-pegged and guaranteed waterproof. Fit your road-smashers exactly! Who’s going to start with a bid of two and a half ounces? Do I hear two and a half ounces of dust—?”

  “You hear three!”

  “Three and a half!”

  “Four!”

  Before Amanda passed by, the boots sold for nine ounces of dust. She admired the auctioneer’s audacity.

  She was so intent on watching the auction’s conclusion, she failed to see another man, more tipsy than the first, who came lurching toward her mule from the left. He stumbled against the animal. The mule brayed, bucked—and Amanda went toppling off.

  She struck on her right side, sinking three or four inches into the ooze and gasping for air. Her cheeks and forehead were splattered with mud. Israel tried to control his nervous mule as Amanda gained her knees. She grabbed for the top of her head. Her hat had fallen off! The tipsy gentleman, pink-faced, middle-aged and bearded, gaped. “God bless us all, a woman! Madam”—he extended a pudgy hand—“Otto Plankveld, late of Albany, New York. Allow me to assist you—”

  “No, thanks, I’m all right,” Amanda said, jumping up and jamming her hat on her head—too late.

  “A woman! The Dutchman’s got a woman!”

  “Ah, he’s just blind drunk again—”

  “No, you are. She’s standin’ right out there!”

  Instantly, men rushed toward Amanda from both sides. The commotion spread, attracting others from up and down the street. The damp air grew so full of alcohol fumes, she might have been inside a distillery. Poor Otto Plankveld was promptly elbowed to the rear of the crowd. Hands reached out. Teeth shone in sudden grins.

  “Hey, dearie, you a workin’ girl?”

  “How much for a toss in bed?”

  “How about in the mud? Is that cheaper?”

  “Hell, she ain’t no whore. She’s too damn old—”

  “Yeh, but she’s got her nigger bully with her—”

  “Gentlemen,” Amanda began, not a little alarmed by the ring of jostling, inebriated men, “I’m looking for the Ophir—”

  Before she could finish, a particularly foul-smelling fellow with a long white streak down the center of his sandy beard grabbed her left arm.

  “The Ophir boys can wait a while to take their turn. There ain’t another creature in Hopeful that’s got what you got—” With his other hand, he reached for her crotch. She jerked out of his grip and took a hasty step backward.

  “Hey, Pike, leave hear alone—we seen her first!”

  The man paid no attention, his smile fixed and ugly. The portly Dutchman had squeezed his way up front again. He stepped between Amanda and the man identified as Pike. Not his name, probably, Amanda thought, recollecting Jared’s remarks about the type.

  The Pike shoved Plankveld. “Back off, you fuckin’ little sausage eater.”

  “No. Can’t you see she is a lady?”

  “Shit, why would a lady come up here—’less it’s to do business?”

  “You’ve swilled too much liquor, Pike. She’s a lady. You got to treat a lady decent, especially on the Sabbath—”

  “I’ll Sabbath you, you two-legged jackass!” the Pike said in a slurred voice. He shoved Plankveld hard. The crowd surged back as Plankveld staggered, then righted himself.

  Amanda intervened. “Stop it! You’ve both drunk too much. I’ll thank you to get out of my way.”

  Plankveld almost retreated. The bearded Pike refused, grinning as he faced the German. He wriggled his fingers, an invitation for the other man to attack.

  Amanda’s mule had wandered to a spot just beyond the two antagonists. The crowd closed in again. Israel, still mounted, was behind her. The only way to reach her mule was to remove the two drunks from her path.

  “Did you hear me? Stand aside.”

  The Pike called her a filthy name.

  Muddy and exhausted from the long journey, her temper was short. She saw the quarrelsome Pike as an infuriating obstacle. She started to yell at him. Before she could, he reached for Plankveld’s neck.

  The German tried to fend him off. The Pike’s arms were longer. He locked hands on Plankveld’s throat, yanked him forward and drove a knee into his genitals.

  Plankveld cried out. The Pike flung him into the mud, laughed. A few watchers applauded. The crowd, completely ringing Amanda, Israel and the mules, grew larger every second. The Pike raised his right boot and brought it down on the German’s temple.

  This time Plankveld screamed, the right side of his head driven deep into the mud. Amanda shot her hand toward Israel, snatched the quirt from the mulatto’s hand. Just as the Pike started to boot the German a second time, she laid the quirt across the back of his neck.

  “Now will you stop and get out of the way?”

  The Pike stood up to his full height. A hand darted to the back of his neck, where the quirt had drawn blood. Amanda’s palms started to sweat. Whimpering, Plank-veld tried to crawl away.

  The Pike faced Amanda. “Well, ain’t the little bee got a sting—”

  Israel kneed his mule forward to block the Pike’s lunge at her. The bearded man pounded both fists into Israel’s ribs. With a yell, the mulatto slid off the side of his mule just as Amanda had done, landing on his rump in the mud. Someone flung a handful at him, smearing his face. Almost at the same moment, the Pike stabbed a hand under his tattered coat and pulled a pocket pistol, a cheap copy of the popular large-caliber weapons built by the Philadelphia gunsmith Henry Deringer.

  “I got me a sting
too, woman—”

  Behind Amanda, men yelled and scattered.

  Perhaps if she hadn’t been so tired and so furious at having been stupidly balked in the middle of the main street, she might have reacted in a different way, tried to reason with the Pike. But he was mad and so was she. His right hand lifted for a shot at close range. She saw the man not just as a witless bully but as a symbol of everything that stood between her and what she wanted—

  The Pike pointed the stubby muzzle at her eyes. She darted to one side, freed the revolver from her holster while the Pike tried to correct his aim. Because he’d been drinking, his forearm shook. He closed his other hand over the one clutching the pistol, squinting as the muzzle steadied—

  Amanda extended the revolver to the full length of her arm and fired.

  The reverberations of the shot died slowly. The pocket pistol slipped from the Pike’s hand. He dropped to his knees, astonished at the reddening hole drilled in his flannel shirt between the lapels of his old coat.

  He lifted his head and stared at Amanda for one gruesome moment. Then his eyes shut. He fell facedown in the mud.

  Someone exclaimed, “By Christ, she killed him outright!”

  Amanda whirled. “He was going to kill me!”

  “He was too drunk to shoot straight. He’d have missed you sure—”

  “And I was supposed to take a chance on that? No, thank you!”

  Men surged around her, shouting. Israel shoved them back. “Get away! You get away from her—!” He bent to whisper, “Keep the gun handy, Miz Kent. We may need it before we’re out of here—”

  A violent argument erupted between factions in the crowd. Some claimed Amanda had committed coldblooded murder, others that she had only defended herself against a man who would have done murder himself. Her right hand was shaking so badly, she could barely hold the Colt’s.

  Israel slipped an arm around her shoulder. A man demanded she attend miner’s court at five. In the midst of the yelling, Plankveld picked himself up and tried to out-shout the others.

  “Nein, no court! He attacked her! A worthless Pike—everybody knows he had a terrible temper—”

  “I’ll be in court!” Amanda said.

  “Walk with me,” Israel whispered, cradling her against him and easing the revolver from her hand. “You bring the animals, will you please, sir?” he said to Plankveld.

  The red-cheeked German nodded, grabbing the reins of the two mules. Amanda felt the unsteadiness of Israel’s gait; he was favoring his left leg, the one burned worst.

  Faces swam around her, glaring eyes, mouths bawling this or that point in connection with the argument. She and the lanky yellow-skinned man took two steps, then two more. They could go no further.

  Israel raised the revolver. Oh God, he’s forgotten to revolve the cylinder. What if they notice—?

  Israel spoke politely to the men in front of him. “We’re looking for a claim called the Ophir and we’ll be obliged if you permit us to go on our way.”

  Ugly grumbles. Israel swallowed again, glancing around the ring of miners. He adjusted his grip on the revolver he was holding at waist level. Several men eyed the barrel apprehensively.

  “I’m asking you all to stand aside,” Israel said.

  “Shit,” a man grumbled, “the Pike ain’t worth gettin’ killed over. Let the nigger through, you boys.”

  “Thank you,” Israel said quietly. The men fell back.

  Dizzy for a moment, Amanda closed her eyes. “Come on,” Israel whispered.

  “Hurry—I got the mules,” Plankveld said from behind them.

  “I can walk,” Amanda said. “You ride, Israel. I know your legs are hurting—”

  “Be that as it may, just lean on me till we’re clear—thank you, gentlemen, thank you—”

  He led her past the miners and out into the open. After they’d gone a short distance up the street, he relaxed a little. “Well, we got out of that. For the moment. Sure wish you hadn’t killed that fellow—”

  Infuriated, she wrenched away. “He was aiming that hide-out gun straight at me!”

  The mulatto’s sad gaze accused her. “Yes, but it holds only one ball. Those men called it right—the Pike was full of whiskey, and wobbly. I think you could have dodged him.”

  “That’s not your place to say!”

  Israel glared suddenly. “Miz Kent, don’t you forget—I don’t have any place except the one I pick.”

  “All right, all right—I’m sorry.”

  “Never seen you so riled as when you pulled the trigger—” He sighed. “Guess it’s too late to do anything now.”

  She held back a retort because she knew he was right. She’d lost control, aimed for the Pike’s chest when a leg would have served. But her pent-up anger and her desire to reach the claim had pushed her beyond reason. She was terrified to discover that she was capable of such irrational rage when she was opposed.

  iii

  The Ophir Mineralogical Combine was a plot of ground thirty feet long and ten deep along the excavated bank of the stream. Plankveld led them to the claim’s boundary, stopping near a large tent. A piece of mining equipment stood on a sandbar three yards out from the bank. Constructed of wood, it resembled an oversized child’s cradle. A long chute jutted from one end.

  The bedraggled German handed the reins of the mules to Israel, who kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. Amanda’s revolver was back in the holster, but she still felt the aftereffects of the shooting—which apparently had already been forgotten by most of the camp. Fiddle music and laughter drifted down to the claim.

  “Madam,” Plankveld said, “take my advice. Do not go alone anywhere in Hopeful today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Scurrilous as he was, the Pike had one or two friends.”

  “All right, I’ll do as you say. Israel will come to court with me. Where is it?”

  “The Bear Hag Palace.”

  “At five. Thank you for helping us, Mr. Plankveld. I’m sorry you got dragged into a scrape because of me.”

  “The Pike—Armbruster, I think that was his real name—he was known for his bad ways—” The German picked at a gob of mud in his beard, then aimed a thumb at the lamplit tent. “Those boys won’t be too unhappy over what happened. The Pike worked for them four days, got drunk and smashed up their cradle. Cost Mr. Nichols plenty to buy lumber for another—”

  “Mr. Nichols is one of the partners?”

  “Ja, one of the three. Just two left now. Another, Mr. Kent, he went down to San Francisco and never came back. Too bad, you know? The Ophir, she’s one of the best. Starting to produce close to a thousand dollars a day—”

  Amanda caught her breath. The tent flap lined.

  “I say—someone there?”

  She turned to confront a spare, rather handsome man of about thirty. He was bearded and dressed like the other miners. But one touch distinguished him—a bright sash of scarlet silk.

  She answered the query in a voice still a bit unsteady. “Yes, my name is Amanda Kent—”

  The man’s debonair smile faded. “Kent, did you say?”

  She thought of Jared living with guilt all his days. She thought of the man who had caused that guilt. And suddenly, her own guilt over shooting the Pike vanished. She spoke with authority. “That’s right. A third of this claim is mine.”

  iv

  Francis Pelham, the former draper from the British Isles, and Joseph Nichols, the rotund little Baptist from Georgia, welcomed Amanda into the tent. Nichols brought a basin of water and a few rags. After she’d cleaned her face and hands, they listened to her story. At the end, Nichols shook his head.

  “I’m sorry indeed to hear of Jared’s demise, Mrs. Kent. You have my most sincere sympathy. Your cousin was a straight sort.”

  “Can’t say the same for that rascal Armbruster,” Pelham remarked. “We took him on and later regretted it.”

  “So Mr. Plankveld told me,” Amanda said.

  The in
terior of the tent was crowded with shovels, pickaxes, three cots, crates, a small stove and a table with a crooked leg. A set of balances rested on the table. Amanda saw no evidence of gold. She asked about that.

  “We have a sort of community bank in Hopeful,” Pelham explained. “Each miner pays a share to cover the wages of the clerk and three guards who work eight-hour shifts. Three other chaps watch the guards so they’re not tempted. As you discovered, the atmosphere in this camp borders on the unbalanced—”

  “Damnation!” Nichols jumped up from the crate on which he’d been sitting. He squashed his palm against his left leg just above the knee. Then he blushed. “I beg your pardon for the profanity. We’re all afflicted with the quicks and slows.”

  “Joseph means fleas and lice,” Pelham said. “Are you sure I can’t warm a biscuit for you, Mrs. Kent? You look a trifle pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “And nervy,” Nichols said. “I ’spect you realize by now that you risked your life coming here.”

  She shrugged. “I had no choice. I heard from miners in San Francisco that any man who gets killed or disappears forfeits his claim.”

  “Entirely correct,” Pelham returned with a precise nod. “We had all but given Jared up for lost. I share Joseph’s grief at his unhappy end.”

  “Well, that’s past,” Amanda said.

  “Would you perchance like some coffee?”

  “I’d like some whiskey if you have it.”

  “We do—for medicinal purposes,” Nichols told her.

  Pelham grinned. “And the Sabbath.”

  Nichols poured. No mention was made of refreshments for Israel, who’d been standing silently ever since the four entered the tent. Nichols gaped as Amanda downed the half cup of liquor in four swift swallows.

  The alcohol was cheap and raw. It hurt her throat and stomach at first, but quickly began to exert a soothing effect. Feeling a little stronger, she said, “Israel might like something—”

  She didn’t miss Nichols’ frown. The mulatto noticed too. Amanda realized he was thinking of her welfare when he refused to turn the remark into an issue.