Pale Rider

by Alan Dean Foster

  Inspecting the sluice’s bounty was a rakishly handsome young man of twenty-five. He paid no attention to the spray-drenched laborers, treating them with only slightly less disdain than he reserved for immigrants, slaves, and household vermin. He could do this to men better and stronger than himself because of an accident of nature. It was his fortune to have been born to the name Lahood.

  Something drew his attention away from the gold-gleaning riffles that lined the bottom of the sluice. Three men drew near enough for him to recognize them. Josh Lahood let out an oath and went to meet them.

  All three wore crude bandages. Jagou and Tyson had white cloth wrapped around their heads, while a thick roll of absorbent cotton had been secured to McGill’s lower jaw. They reined in when they saw Lahood was coming to meet them. The boss’s son had to raise his voice in order to make himself heard above the rumble of the monitor. It didn’t take much of an effort. He was plenty mad.

  “Where the hell have you three been? Your shift began an hour ago. You think I’m gonna leave Club on the monitor forever?”

  Tyson and Jagou said nothing, leaving it to McGill to explain as best he was able. “ ’Pologize, Josh. We’d’ve been here on time but we got tied up at the sawbones.”

  “Lucky thing he was visitin’ his sister, too,” Jagou mumbled.

  Lahood scrutinized their assortment of bandages, and took note of their subdued attitude. Neither was appropriate to this trio. They were among his daddy’s toughest and most inspired hell-raisers.

  “I can see that. The three of you look like you fell down a mine shaft. What the hell happened?”

  McGill had trouble with the words, was rescued by the reluctant Tyson. “Well, we were takin’ it easy-like outside the office, boss, killin’ time until it was our turn on shift, and Barret rode into town. You remember how we did him last time he tried that?”

  “Yeah, I remember. So?”

  “Well, we had a little set-to. Just funnin’ him a little, and—”

  “Wait a minute.” Lahood’s gaze narrowed as he looked from one battered visage to the other. “I want to be sure i understand what you’re saying. You got yourselves whipped? All three of you, in Lahood, California? By a lousy tin-pan?”

  “Oh no, Boss, not just him!”

  “He had some of those other dirt-grubbers from Carbon with him?”

  “Well, not exactly. See, there was this stranger kinda gave him a hand, and we—”

  “What stranger?” Lahood frowned. Something here didn’t make sense. “Who are you talking about? If he wasn’t from Carbon, then where’d he come from?”

  Fed up with the whole embarrassing business, McGill was in no mood to go into details. But with the boss’s son standing there glaring back at him he couldn’t play dumb.

  “Blankenship’s.”

  Lahood gave him a jaundiced eye. “That’s not what I mean and you know it, McGill.”

  “We didn’t see him coming. He left with Barret. Didn’t stick around to chat, and that suited us fine. Never did get his name.”

  “No? Looks to me like he left each of you his calling card.” The three roustabouts exchanged sheepish looks. Each man fervently wished he’d come to work early instead of loafing around town looking for a little excitement. They’d found more than they’d bargained for.

  “One stranger?” Lahood inquired. McGill nodded.

  The pistol slung at the younger man’s hip caught the sun as he turned away. “That’s just great.” He didn’t try to keep the disgust out of his voice. “Dad’s goin’ to be thrilled when he hears about this.” The trio looked more miserable than ever, but Lahood wasn’t finished with them yet.

  “McGill, take over the sluice.”

  The foreman put a hand to his aching jaw. “Boss, I ain’t sure I—

  “Well I am sure. Get your ass over there. Tyson, Jagou—you two get to work the monitor.”

  Tyson groaned and shared a look of misery with his friend as the two of them followed Lahood up the hill. Working the monitor was the hardest job in camp, because it wanted to go everywhere except where you wanted it to. You had to lean on it constantly, using all your strength, and at the end of a shift with the water cannon every muscle in your body ached. McGill stood alone for a moment, watching them go. Then he slunk over toward the sluice and tried to make himself vanish in the spray.

  Up atop the monitor platform, Lahood rapped the man everyone called Club on the shoulder. He had to stand on his tiptoes to do it. Club was well over seven feet tall and broad in proportion. He was the only man in camp, maybe in all of northern California, who could handle a raging monitor all by himself. Jagou and Tyson would have to wrestle with it for awhile. Lahood had another job in mind for the giant.

  Nowhere in the world does the morning dawn as bright and clear as it does in the Sierra Nevada. Not for nothing had the exploring Spaniards christened it the Range of Light. Something in the air combined with the gray expanses of naked granite to produce an alpenglow distinctive among the mountain ranges of the Earth.

  Hull emerged from his cabin, arched his back, and inhaled deeply of the fresh alpine air. As he started downslope toward his claim, he reached automatically for the heavy sledgehammer that stood propped up against the cabin’s outer wall.

  This morning was different from those previous, because today he had company. Hull was glad of the Preacher’s presence. Not only was he apparently willing to keep the miner company, perhaps Hull could also induce him to say a prayer or two. The way the digging had been going lately he could use all the help he could get, and he was not a man to exclude the possible influence of the ecclesiastical.

  “This man Lahood,” the Preacher asked him conversationally, “I take it he’s the one you folks have been feuding with?”

  Hull nodded brusquely. “Him and his son. Those were their boys you knocked off me in town yesterday. Old Coy Lahood’s one of the most powerful men in this part of the country. I guess he come up here in ’54, ’55. One of the first miners to figure out that the original placer deposits in the American River were played out and to start poking his way up into these tributaries. I reckon he was just about the first man up in these parts to really strike it rich.”

  The canyon was alive with activity as the two men picked their way down to the creekbed. Work was evenly divided between those fortunate few who had been spared the attention of Lahood’s riders and those who were laboring hard to repair the damage that had been done to their equipment by the rampaging horsemen.

  There was also a third group busy at a different task entirely. Several men were loading their families and all their worldly possessions onto the backs of sway-backed mules or into flimsy wagons. Lahood had beaten down a few more of Hull’s neighbors. He was dismayed to see how many there were this morning. He’d hoped Ulrik Lindquist’s defection the previous evening might prove an isolated one.

  He kept his depression to himself. What right did he have to burden the Preacher with his problems? No doubt a traveling man of the cloth carried around worries of his own.

  As if sensing his distress, the tall man urged him to continue with his story.

  “Well, Lahood, he’d save himself a poke instead of blowin’ it on gamblin’ and women, and he’d use it to buy into new claims. One way or another he’d end up losin’ his partners after a month or two. He’d buy ’em out, or scare ’em out, and there’s tell one was found floatin’ down the river. But there’s not much law in this part of the country and there was less back then, and couldn’t nobody never prove nothin’ on the old man.

  “He’d settle into each new claim and mine it out, save the proceeds, and buy into some more. Kept at it until he had himself enough to float a proper company. Last couple of years he’s gone at it in a big way. Uses them hydraulic monitors. Water cannons—you ever seen one?” The Preacher nodded. “Then you’ve seen what they do. They blast the place where they’re workin’ all to hell—excuse my French—and when they move on, the place where they’
ve been at ain’t worth nothin’ no more to man or beast. Can’t nothin’ live in a canyon that’s been mined with a monitor.

  “But they’ve made Lahood richer than ever. Carbon Canyon’s about the only part of this ridge his crew hasn’t ruined yet. It’s drivin’ him crazy because we’re right in the middle of where he’s been workin’. He’s blasted out all the little creeks all around Carbon, but this stream’s the biggest in these hills and a bunch of the others all feed into it. Engineer fella in Placerville once told me Carbon’s even on the map.”

  The Preacher looked thoughtful. “No wonder he wants you folks out of here.”

  Hull nodded. “If there’s more than trace gold in these hills, I figure it’s got to be here in Carbon. So does Spider and the rest of the old-timers. But it’s gettin’ harder and harder for them to stick it out. Most of ’em don’t cotton to fighting. They’d rather give up and try somewheres else.”

  “But not you?”

  “Nope, not me. And a few others, still. They all know why Lahood wants their claims.”

  “He’s greedy for it,” said a new voice.

  Glancing over a shoulder, the Preacher saw that Megan had elected to tag along behind them. She was following at a respectful distance, but clearly still near enough to overhear. He acknowledged her presence with a half grin and was rewarded with a smile that traveled from ear to dainty ear. He turned his attention back to his host.

  “You’re clear enough about Lahood being anxious. Does he have any lawful rights to the canyon?”

  Hull shook his head, and a hint of pride crept into his voice. “Not enough for an ant to piss on. My claim’s filed proper in Sacramento, same as everybody else’s here. Bunch of us checked this creek out, had a long chat with Spider Conway, and decided to settle in here. We rode into Sacramento in a body and filed together. Can’t nobody say my claim or Cobbler’s or anybody else’s ain’t legal, ’cause we’re all witness to each other’s filin’.

  “So far Lahood’s only been able to scare people out. But if many more leave, then he’ll start buyin’ up their claims and that’ll force the rest of us out. He’ll move in here with his crew and his machines and his damn monitor, and those of us who don’t sell out to him won’t have a chance. All we’ll get in our pans and sluices is gravel.

  “Right now the only way Lahood can legally get his hands on this land is if most of us abandon it. You probably know you can’t keep title to a claim unless somebody’s workin’ it.”

  The Preacher nodded and commented wryly, “I guess he’s been kind of persausive, hasn’t he?” He gestured in the direction of those men who were packing to leave.

  “I don’t care if all of ’em quit.” Megan kicked a rock aside and spoke as she trailed along behind them. “I’m staying. Lahood killed my dog. And my grandpa, too. They can’t make me leave.”

  At the mention of the death, the Preacher’s face assumed a darker expression. “No lawman in town? No one you can take your case to? Town’s big enough to rate a sheriif.”

  Hull laughed derisively. “If there was one, Lahood’d own him like he owns practically everything else. He’d been the one most likely to do the payin’, so he’d end up nominatin’ himself to do the hirin’. I ain’t met the lawman yet who’d go up against the man payin’ him his wages. Not much a lawman could do anyways, even if we could find us an honest one. Lahood ain’t really killed anyone yet. He don’t come near Carbon Canyon except once in a while to drool over it from on top of the ridge over there.” He pointed to the southern crest, fringed with evergreens.

  “He’s mean, Lahood is, but dumb he ain’t. His hired hands do all his dirty work for him. Even if somebody did get killed, some country lawman would have a heckuva time tryin’ to pin it on Lahood.”

  “What about what Megan just said about her grandpa?”

  “Old Dad Wheeler’s heart give out after one of the raids a while back. You go up to a judge and try provin’ that Lahood’s men caused it. He was nearly eighty.” He shrugged. “I’ve been sort of takin’ care of Sarah and Megan ever since. Not that I mind the chore, understand. If it wasn’t for me they’d be long gone from here. Carbon’s no place for a single woman with a child.”

  He went quiet as they reached the bank of the stream. There he pretended to be studying the ground until a bored Megan sauntered off upstream. When she was well out of earshot he continued.

  “It ain’t that we’re livin’ in sin, and it ain’t as if I don’t want to marry the woman.”

  “I can see that. What happened?”

  “One day a few years back her husband—Megan’s father—just lit out. Wasn’t because of Lahood or anything like that. He just wasn’t much good. Left her with a half-growed child. Since then, gettin’ her trustful of any man has been,” he hesitated and smiled slightly, “well, it plain ain’t been easy.” He eyed the Preacher speculatively. “When we do get hitched, how about you doin’ the hitching?”

  “If you’re waiting on a woman to make up her mind, it might be awhile. Especially going on what you’ve just told me.”

  “I know.” Hull faced the creek resignedly. “It ain’t as though I haven’t been trying.”

  The Preacher reached over and took the sixteen-pound sledge from the miner’s grasp. “While you’re waiting, why don’t you put me to work?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t ask that. You’re a guest here. I mean, maybe if there was something of a spiritual nature that needed taking care of in Carbon, that’d be different.”

  “The spirit ain’t worth spit without a little hard work to firm it up. A man’s body needs firming up just as much as his soul does.” He swung the hammer easily with one hand, testing its heft. “You brought this down here for something besides a decoration. Tools were meant to be used. The good book’s a tool. So’s this. Where do we start?”

  They’d reached the place where Hull’s claim began. The miner led his companion over to the huge boulder that marked the center of his diggings. He let the fingers of his right hand trail over the night-chilled granite.

  “I always thought that if I could split this rock and get to the gravel that’s accumulated underneath I might find something. It’s smack in the middle of my claim. No telling what’s sifted down under it. Every time the creek floods in the spring, there’s got to be a lot of stuff that gets swept under it and hung up against the base. That’s how I see it, anyways.

  “I figure maybe there’s gold been waitin’ to be found under here since the beginning of time. Big as it is, it could’ve been sittin’ here that long, too. I’ve crawled all over it, and I swear there’s a hairline fracture running through the whole structure. Every day for two years now, usually after Sarah and me have finished with supper, I’d come down here with the sledge and bang away at that fracture. If it is a fracture. See?”

  He pointed out the spot where he’d labored so hard for so many evenings. The Preacher leaned close for a better look, and put his fingers in the shallow, uneven depression. A pitifully small portion of the giant boulder had been chipped away.

  “You’re right about one thing. There’s sure enough a fracture there. Looks stubborn. Kind of like Sarah?”

  Hull laughed gently. “They do have something in common, don’t they?” He wore a fond expression as he inspected the unyielding surface of the monolith. “It’s like this rock and me have kind of an agreement. It’s gonna do me in or I’m gonna do it in.”

  “I’d be willing to lay odds on who’s going to win.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought of drilling it and blasting the sonofabitch. That’s what Conway says I should do.” He nodded down the creek. “Spider Conway. I think I told you about him.”

  “You mentioned his name.”

  “He’s been here longer than anybody else. Knows more about dirt-pan and sluice mining than anyone on this side of the Sierras, I expect, and that includes Lahood.”

  The Preacher was looking past Hull and his rock now, letting his gaze roam over the steep slope just above
the claim. “But you were afraid dynamite might bring down the rimrock, right? Idly he tossed a pebble uphill.

  “A lot of this is broken, and you’re sitting right at the base of an old talus slope here. It’d slip pretty easy, given the right shove.”

  Hull eyed him curiously. Apparently the Preacher had dipped into other books besides the one he was required to read from on Sundays.

  “Yep, that’s what I figured, for sure.” He tapped the boulder. “As much dynamite as it’d take to split this thing, it’d bring the whole hillside down.” He nodded toward the slope above. “That’d dam up the stream, and that’d be the end of everything. I’d slow down the creek and form a lake behind it. No panning and no sluicing and all the easy gold, assuming there is any, buried under ten or twenty feet of rock and snowmelt.” He stepped away from the boulder.

  “Anyway, dynamite’s expensive, and I don’t like the idea of bein’ any broker than I already am. I don’t like owin’ old man Blankenship or anybody else.”

  “Impecuniosity’s not a sin,” the Preacher murmured.

  Hull looked at him crossways. “What?”

  “Nothing. Let’s have a look at the whole project.”

  Following Hull’s lead, the two men circled the boulder. When they had completed their geological circumnavigation the Preacher rolled up his sleeves, spit into one palm, and rubbed both hands together. It was the first time Hull had gotten a good close look at those hands. One thing was immediately apparent: they had handled rougher material than the leather exterior of a bible.

  “There’s plain few problems,” the tall man said as he raised the sledge over his head, “that can’t be solved by application of a little sweat and hard work.”