by F. M. Parker
When they had finished with the deer, Yutang lifted one to his shoulder. He said something to Tom and gestured at the remaining carcass. Then he hesitated, glancing at Tom’s thin, half- starved body. Yutang did not wait for Tom to take up the deer, but bent and caught the animal by the base of an antler. Carrying one deer, and dragging another, he moved off toward the cabins.
Tom was glad the big man had the load for he did not believe he could have lifted one of the deer. He walked behind Yutang, feeling the ancient atavistic joy of the successful hunter giving him strength to keep up.
* * *
At the evening meal, Tom ate a huge quantity of venison stew and hot bread. He finished, smiled his thanks at Hoy for a fine meal, and went outside to sit on the ground by the cabin wall.
Sigh also came outdoors and took a seat beside Tom. They sat without speaking, listening to the yellow moon come up.
Sigh broke the quietness and asked in a shy voice, “Can you teach me to read and write the English?”
Tom nodded and smiled, pleased and moved by the strange warmth of having something unique to give to this man who had shown him so much kindness. “I would be glad to do that if you would teach me to speak your language. And tell me the customs of your country.”
“Good. Shall we start now?” asked Sigh.
“Never too early to begin. What word should be the first?”
“Friend,” said Sigh.
“Yes. Friend is a good word.”
They went back inside. Sigh found pencil and paper. They studied at the table in the candleshine. The moon rose the height of a tall man before the lesson ended and the two men found their pallets on the floor of the cabin and went to sleep.
CHAPTER 7
Tom’s head had no pain on the second day and he worked with the Chinamen on the gravel bar. He filled his basket only a third full of stones, but even so he had to rest often. His legs were wobbly with fatigue by the time Hoy rang his bell for supper.
Tom ate mightily that night. The evening language lesson with Sigh was short. He slid off to sleep listening to Sigh repeating the word “bill of sale.”
The following morning several of the men did not go to work on the gravel bar. Instead they assembled by the cookhouse and made ready for a journey.
Sigh spoke to Tom, “Wong and nine others are going to Baker City to buy our winter supplies. May they use your horse? With it they can bring back a much larger quantity of provisions.”
“They are welcome to take him,” said Tom. “Tell Wong he must keep hold of the horse or keep him tied, for at the first chance he will leave them and come back to me.”
Sigh talked with Wong and the other men preparing for the trip. Tom listened closely, but he understood only a few words of the swift conversation. Sigh was quicker than he at learning foreign tongues.
Two of the travelers rode the horse as they filed away south along the Snake. Each man carried a mostly empty canvas pack-sack on his back. The group made its way around a bend of the river and was lost from view.
“How far is it to Baker City?” asked Tom.
“About seventy of your American miles. The men must go up the Snake River and then turn west along the base of the Wallowa Mountains. They will be in Baker City in less than three days. With heavy loads they will require five days to return.”
“I hope a snowstorm doesn’t catch them before they can return,” said Tom.
Sigh swept a glance up at the high, pine-cloaked peaks of the Seven Devils Mountains and the opal dome of the clear sky. “I see no storm clouds.”
“In mountain country, storms can come upon you with little notice.”
“Yes. That is so. I have seen it happen in the California land.”
Tom and Sigh turned with unspoken accord and walked to the river to begin work.
* * *
The deer in the valley of the Snake were plentiful, and unused to man, quite tame. Tom hunted them each morning during the twilight hours. He would lie in ambush with his pistol as the deer in their daily ritual left the river and climbed the mountainside to a vantage lookout point to rest the sunlit hours away. In ten days he had killed an even dozen of the animals.
On that tenth day, he worked for the first time with Yutang, hauling stones from the bar. The big Chinaman had laughed in his deep bass voice when Tom had approached at the start of the work day and took up the opposite ends of the poles of the sling. This skinny, young white man could not lift such heavy loads as Yutang was used to carrying. And if he could, surely he could not carry but a few.
Tom finished the day soaked with sweat, staggering under the weight of a large stone. At a signal from Yutang they dumped it from the sling into the water with a great splash.
Tom remained standing in the current of the river to his knees, letting it cool his hot body. Yutang laughed his rough laugh and half-bowed to the leanly sinewed white youth, acknowledging the praiseworthy accomplishment of the day’s work. None of the other men had ever endured a full day as his partner on the sling.
Tom grinned, and feeling awkward in the unpracticed gesture, bowed low in acceptance of Yutang’s salute. Tom liked the big man immensely. It was glorious to be alive and strong and spend a hard day with a man equally strong. No, in pure strength Yutang was a stronger man, still Tom had made a good showing.
Yutang cleansed himself and walked up the hill to the cabins. Tom bathed more leisurely, gazing out over the land, enjoying the night slowly rising like blue-gray fog in the far-deep hollows.
In the growing darkness, he hung his freshly washed clothing over a shoulder and, nude, went toward the light of Hoy’s cooking fire shining pale yellow in the open door of the cook shack. As he drew close, he saw Scom eyeing him with a hard stare from the shadows beside the wall of the cook shack. Tom wondered why the man hated him so much. He believed that one day he might have to fight the Chinaman.
* * *
The men returned from Baker City in the afternoon of the eleventh day after their departure. They carried amazingly heavy loads upon their backs. Tom’s black horse had been fitted with a much worn packsaddle and on this was tied a mount of bags and boxes of provisions.
After the supplies had been stored, Sigh declared a holiday. All the men who had stayed behind to work the claim gathered to listen to the news the travelers had heard while in Baker City.
Tom listened intently and comprehended a smattering of the talk. Sigh turned now and then and in English told him some special bits of information.
The conversation wound down and a discussion of the cost of the supplies began. Suddenly Sigh’s voice rose, sharp and wrathful. He sprang up and with his fist clenched, rushed to stand over Wong.
Sigh spoke swiftly to Wong, a staccato crackling of Chinese so swift Tom caught not a word. Sigh drew back his fist as if to strike the man.
Yutang took hold of Sigh. Calmly he began to talk to the angry man. Sigh pulled away and whirling about, went outside.
He soon returned and began to talk to Wong in a tightly controlled voice. After questioning Wong and listening to the much chastened man’s answers, Sigh faced Tom. “Wong bought many things at the general store in Baker City. He did not have enough fine gold dust to pay for all of it. He had with him gold nuggets that were to be left for safekeeping with Sing Chong, one of our countrymen who has a strong iron vault in his pharmacy in Baker. Wong brought out the pouch of nuggets, and there in the store in plain view of several white men, finished making payment with gold nuggets.”
“Is there something wrong with that?” asked Tom.
Sigh looked out over the river for a time. Tom thought the man was not going to answer.
Then Sigh said in a flat tone, “Chinamen cannot own property in Oregon. Also they are taxed heavily for digging gold, four American dollars each three months. That is the law in Oregon. White men are jealous of us. They want us to search for gold only on old diggings that have already been worked. In these places very fine dust is all that is usually foun
d. Only rarely a nugget. Wong showed a large pouch of nuggets to men who understand gold mining and now know we have a rich mine. Soon white men will come and take this rich claim. I feel it here.” Sigh touched his heart.
“But that is not right. You told me you and the others bought the claim and have a bill of sale. Surely you are mistaken.”
Sigh shrugged his shoulders. “We bought the claim. That is correct. That means something to men who are fair. To most that will not mean a thing. We will soon know if Wong has been followed. There is nothing we can do now.” He looked intently at Tom and seemed about to say something. Then he walked off without further words.
Wong left also, humiliated for the major error he had committed. He may have done great harm to his comrades. Now he would suffer much mien tzu, loss of face. He went alone into the rocks and brush along the river. If the white men did come and take the gold, then he would kill himself.
The other men sat motionless and silent on the ground near the cabins and looked down at the rich gravel bar. The blackness of the night arrived and still they did not stir.
Tom sat among them. A nippy wind with teeth began to drone up the river valley. A star lost its moorings in the sky and fell, streaking to the north where it disappeared in a final winking flash.
Tom finally arose and walked to his pallet in the cabin and lay down. There was no worry. White men would not come to steal the gold. He went to sleep, the only man in the cabin who did so.
* * *
Keggler angled his telescope and methodically walked the field of magnification over the shadowy forms of the Chinamen working on the gravel bar.
“There’s nineteen of the heathen,” he said to his men.
“Doesn’t make any difference if there’s a hundred of them,” said Cardone, his second in command. “These Chinaboys won’t fight white men. They only fight among themselves.”
Keggler and his band of six men had been lying in hiding and spying upon the foreign miners since the coming of first morning twilight. Now as he waited and watched, the sun crested the high crown of Triangle Mountain and filled the valley with bright light. A fine light for shooting Chinamen.
Two deep valleys joined at this location. The swift Imnaha River came in from the south to merge with the much larger Snake River. The mouth of the Imnaha was choked with a fan- shaped gravel bar of three acres or so. The high water of the flood stage of the Snake in the spring dammed the smaller Imnaha, slowing its tumbling descent and causing it to drop its load of rock debris scoured from the granite flanks of the Wallowa Mountains.
“Look how fast those fellows work,” said Cardone. “They act like the sun won’t rise tomorrow.”
“They have to work like hell,” responded Keggler. “This bar has been worked before by white men. These Chinaboys will still make a lot of money by moving every rock and sifting shovelful by shovelful the whole bar again.”
“Yeah. They’ve probably washed out hundreds of ounces,” said Canfield, a third member of the gang. “We’ll get a whole summer’s sluice of gold for just ten minutes” work.”
Keggler made one last cautious sweep with his telescope. The men near the river seemed oblivious of anything beyond the bar. Their camp of four canvas tents was on the west side of the Snake below its junction with the Imnaha. It appeared deserted.
“Time to rob the Chinamen of their gold,” said Keggler. “We’ll do this same as all the other times. Canfield, LeRue, you check the tents first thing. Hustle anyone you find there down to the river. Ottoson, Vaughn, McMillan, stop your horses where your guns can cover all the gravel bar and the men there. Cardone and me will brace the Chinaboys and then make a search for their hid gold. Kill any man that tries to put up a fight.”
They crawled back from the top of the brush-covered knob situated upstream on the Imnaha and went to their horses. All swung astride, and with Keggler leading, rode boldly into sight and in the direction of the miners.
One of the Chinamen spotted the string of horsemen coming along the bank of the Imnaha. He called out his discovery to his comrades. Keggler raised a hand high above his head and shouted out a greeting when he noted he had been seen by the miners. A friendly hello always put these foreigners off guard.
The miners on the bar stopped working and curiously waited for the strangers to draw near. Visitors were rare. These came from the direction of Baker City and the news they might carry would be welcome.
Keggler’s cunning eyes ran over the men. They almost never owned rifles, but sometimes had pistols. He saw not one gun among them.
“All right, Canfield, LeRue, break off here and go to the camp.” Keggler spoke over his shoulder to the men.
The outlaw chief raised his voice and called out to the Chinamen. “We’re looking for some horses that strayed away from our diggings up on the Imnaha. Have you seen two roan horses?”
He received no answer. Had not expected one.
The bandit gang reached the edge of the gravel bar. “Ottoson, and you two other men, stop here,” directed Keggler in a low voice.
The miners had left their work and drawn forward to meet the strangers. Two men moved out in front of the group.
“Those will be the ones that can talk American,” said Keggler. “Now, Cardone, let’s just pull our six-guns and get down to business.”
Both outlaws swiftly drew their pistols.
A cry of alarm burst from the startled Chinamen. One of the men in the rear of the crowd spun around and dashed back across the bar toward a dense stand of cottonwoods.
“Cardone, shoot that fellow,” ordered Keggler.
Cardone fired his revolver. The Chinaman fell. He rose and holding his shoulder, broke into a staggering run for the copse of trees. Cardone’s pistol roared again, knocking the man down.
The wounded miner fought to his feet. Weakly, slowly, leaning so far forward he seemed ready to topple onto his face, the man continued his flight.
“Damn fine shooting,” declared Keggler. “You broke both his shoulders and still left him walking. One day you may be as good as I am. Now finish it off for we’ve work to do.”
“A head shot,” said Cardone. He aimed along the short barrel of his weapon. At the sound of the cartridge exploding, the miner was slammed face down on the rocks.
“These tough little heathen make mighty fine target practice,” said Cardone.
The remainder of the miners stood stock still. Keggler smelled their hatred and fear. He grinned wickedly at them.
“No one here at the camp,” shouted Canfield.
“All right, come down here and help us search these Chinaboys,” replied Keggler.
“Strip, you damn heathens,” ordered Keggler. “Take off all your clothes. Hurry up about it.” He pointed his six-gun at one of the front men. “You tell them or you are a dead man.”
The miner turned and spoke quickly to the other men. Then he pulled his blouse over his head and let it drop to the ground. He slid out of his trousers and stood naked except for a belt holding a thin knife in a sheath.
“Well, well, wearing a little meat cutter,” said Keggler. “Just toss it there with your clothes.”
Canfield and LeRue arrived. Canfield said, “I found four pistols in the tents. Old ones that probably wouldn’t work very good. That may be all the guns they have.”
“Maybe so,” said Keggler. “You two finish searching these monkeys and take what gold they got on them. I’ll go and look for the main stash of gold.”
Keggler darted a glance in one tent after another until he found the small religious shrine. He went straight to the highly polished wooden altar and brushed to the floor the offering of wine and an apple in a woven basket and incense sticks in a porcelain vase. He kicked the altar aside.
Five leather pouches heavy with gold lay in a neat row on the earthen floor. Keggler smiled. The shrine might dissuade Chinamen from stealing, but to him it only meant the most likely spot to find their treasure.
Still he thoroughly r
ansacked all the tents for another cache. He found one golden nugget of about an ounce hidden in a roll of somebody’s personal clothing. So they have thieves among their own kind, thought Keggler.
He went outside and called to his cohorts. “I believe I’ve found all the gold.”
“Should we kill them Chinaboys and burn the camp?” asked Cardone.
CHAPTER 8
Keggler surveyed the hating faces of the miners. Then he looked over the gravel bar. Much of it had not yet been mined the second time around. A colossal joke came to him. Let the moon-eyed Celestials mine the gold. Next summer he would return and once again rob them of all their golden treasure.
He spoke to his men. “No. Let them live. Give them back all their guns and knives and let’s get out of here before some white man sees us.”
“Why give back the weapons?” asked Cardone.
“Why? Because we don’t want someone to rob them,” laughed Keggler.
The outlaw chief stowed the bags of the gold in his saddlebags. All seven robbers swung astride and left at a op up the Imnaha.
Once out of sight of the Chinamen’s camp, Keggler guided right, and spurring his horse, started the precipitous climb out of the valley of the Snake. His men followed, knowing the chief wanted the gang to be far away and in the company of honest men when the news of the robbery broke.
After six miles of steep climbing, the gang reached Buckhorn Spring on the high tableland. The men halted the lathered and hard-blowing horses and allowed them to drink lightly at the cold water.
“That’s the meanest and roughest country God ever made,” said Cardone, gazing backward at the eroded and broken land that plunged downward thousands upon thousands of feet to where the Snake and Imnaha Rivers were mere trickles of water in the bottom of the stupendous chasms.
“Rough country all right,” said Canfield. “But there’s one thing about it I like.”
“What’s that?” questioned Cardone.
“There’s hundreds of Chinaboys down there working like slaves to dig gold for us.”
All the men laughed.
