by F. M. Parker
Keggler led off, holding west of the breaks of the Imnaha. The route traversed gently rolling forested country sloping at a low angle to the south. The cayuses traveled easily on the mat of needles beneath the tall pine trees.
In late afternoon they came out of the timber and crossed the flat valley of the Wallowa River. By the time darkness overran the gang, they had climbed into the Wallowa Mountains to Moccasin Spring Lake lying under the crown of Glacier Mountain.
There was snow in the shade of the trees and a cold wind blew down from the glacier on the mountaintop. The band found a dry spot and made camp. The horses were staked out to graze the dry alpine grass.
“If I’d known we were going to be in snow, I’d have brought another blanket,” complained LeRue.
“You can stand one cold night,” said Keggler. “We’ll be in Baker City well before dark tomorrow.”
The gang moved fast the following day, trotting their horses where the land allowed it. At noon they crossed the Powder River and two hours later drew near Baker City, lying under Elkhorn Peak of the Blue Mountains.
Weeks before when they had first arrived in the territory, the robbers had rented a house on the outskirts of the town. Now they rode in at a leisurely pace so as not to draw attention to themselves. They stopped at the house and stabled the horses.
“Spread out and drift around and let people see you,” directed Keggler. “No one will believe we robbed those Chinamen yesterday far away on the Snake River.”
* * *
Keggler placed a nickel on the top of the counter of Thompson’s General Store and helped himself to a handful of hard candy from a large glass container. As he sucked on one of the sweets, he idly watched Thompson and his Chinese clerk dealing with a group of Chinese miners.
The miners had arrived at the store a few steps ahead of Keggler, ten small brown men with two of them riding a long-legged black horse. An excellent mount, judged Keggler and he wondered how the Chinamen had gained possession of him.
The leader of the group of miners called out in the Chinese language the names of various items from a list. The clerk interpreted for Thompson who moved about the long aisles of the store collecting the desired provisions. The store owner in turn sounded the price to the clerk. With nimble fingers, the man tallied the cost with a flick of wooden balls on an abacus board.
Finally the list was exhausted and the clerk told the total cost. He set a scale on the counter and placed a brass weight in one of the pans hanging on the delicate balance arm.
“It will require gold sufficient to equal the brass piece four times to pay for all you have purchased,” the clerk told the miner. “Supplies are very expensive because they must be shipped from San Francisco.”
The clerk interpreted and the miner nodded his understanding and handed a bag of gold dust to the clerk.
The pan was filled three times. The gold pouch became empty before the balancing bar was in equilibrium for the fourth time.
“About two more ounces of gold are needed,” the clerk told the miner.
The man reached inside his blouse and extracted a second pouch. He untied the neck and poured a mound of nuggets into his palm. He selected a nugget he judged to be approximately the correct weight and added it to the higher pan of the scale.
“Close to being in balance,” said the clerk. “You have four dollars coming in change.”
At the appearance of the nugget on the scale, Keggler sidled a couple of steps to the side so he could better see the quantity of gold the miner held. He was astounded at the pile of nuggets in the Chinaman’s hand and the large bulk of the pouch that obviously contained many more. Somewhere these foreigners had struck a rich deposit.
Keggler strode across the store toward the outside. The comrades of the miners making the purchases stood and waited in a group by the door. Before they could get out of Keggler’s way, he roughly elbowed a passageway through them.
Once in the street, the robber chief quickened his step. The members of his band must be gathered, for there was much nugget gold to steal. And nuggets always brought a large premium over dust.
Many nuggets meant the heathen were mining virgin ground. If that was indeed true, Keggler would do more than steal what gold they had washed out in their sluice boxes. He would take the whole claim, for he had always wanted to own a rich gold mine. Even if that could only be accomplished by killing most of the Chinamen in the state of Oregon.
* * *
Tom awoke in the morning after Wong’s return from Baker City to a shuffle of feet on the earthen floor. Sigh was at a table near the door. A sheet of paper and writing brush and ink were in front of him.
Several men were lined up and passing before him. As they did so, each took up the brush and signed the piece of paper.
“What is going on?” asked Tom.
“We are giving our gold claim to you,” said Sigh. “Then we will work for wages.”
“I don’t want your gold,” said Tom, rising quickly.
“Then if there is no trouble with white men from Baker City, you can return the claim to us,” replied Sigh.
“I will surely do that,” said Tom. “But I don’t believe there will be any problem with Americans wanting your claim.”
There was a scuffle at the doorway and a series of shrill Chinese curses. Scom came sprawling inside. Yutang followed immediately and caught him by the queue and arm and lifted him erect.
“Sign the paper,” Yutang ordered. “Do it now or I will break your stubborn neck.”
Scom grabbed up the brush and make his mark with savage strokes. “This white man now owns our gold. We will never get it back.”
“Scom, there are times when we must trust one of the white men,” said Sigh. “I believe Tom is the one.”
“I think otherwise. You are a fool.” Scom spun to look at all the men. “All of you are fools.”
“We shall find out,” said Sigh. He folded the paper that transferred the ownership of the claim and offered it to Tom.
“Keep it for now,” Tom told Sigh. “Then if nothing happens, tear it up.” He turned away and, uneasy about the whole chain of events, went outside.
The day was gray and an ill-tempered wind gusted under a lowering sky. A thick mass of clouds clung to the flanks of Seven Devils Mountains like a shroud. A trickle of snowflakes glided down.
The fisherman waited with his basket. He bowed slightly to Tom. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Mook,” replied Tom and returned the greeting bow.
Without further conversation, they left together, heading downriver. The fisherman had seen several deer bedding in a large patch of brush near his fish traps. He had informed Tom of his discovery and they had agreed upon a hunt in the early morning before the deer were disturbed by the presence of Mook emptying the fish traps of the night’s catch.
* * *
On the gravel bar, Sigh placed the golden cube on its stone pedestal and the men began their labor. The pace was sluggish. As the morning wore away, the men often glanced up the river channel along the trail from Baker City.
“Sigh, they come as you said they would,” said Yutang, stabbing a hand to the south.
Sigh pivoted to stare and counted six horsemen winding their course beside the Snake. He felt a cold chill. Would his scheme of giving the gold-filled gravel bar to Tom stop these men from taking it? Or had he merely placed his young friend in a very hazardous position? Would Tom be sacrificed and the gold still lost to the strangers?
“I see Tom returning far down the river,” said Sigh. “Go and get the bill of sale and give it to him. Bring him here as fast as you can.”
Yutang sped up the slope to the cabin. A moment later he came outside and ran down the river.
* * *
Keggler led his gang of five around the last curve of the river and approached the cabins. He swiftly estimated the number of men who had stopped working and watched the horsemen from the long gravel bar.
&n
bsp; Keggler spoke to his cohorts. “There’s a big bunch of those Chinaboys. I wish LeRue was here, for we may have need for one more gun. Canfield, you work alone. Check the cabins quick and come stand with us. Ottoson, Vaughn, McMillan, get your rifles ready. Shoot the damn heathen if they give us the least bit of trouble. I mean to have the gold they’ve dug and their claim, too, if it is as rich as those nuggets showed it might be.”
Cardone loosened his six-gun in its holster. “Keggler, I sure wouldn’t mind some target practice shooting some of those moon-eyed Celestials.”
“You just might get the chance. You watch whoever acts like he’s boss. Kill him quick if he starts to signal the others to jump us.”
Keggler guided the way past the cabins and angled down toward the river. Just above the gravel bar, he motioned a halt.
“Ottoson, you three stop here and keep on guard. Cardone, come with me. Watch like I told you to.”
“We can take them easy,” said Cardone.
On the bar, Keggler and Cardone dismounted. Casually they scanned the brown faces of the Chinamen who stood uneasily looking at them.
“Just as I suspicioned, only heathen here,” said Keggler.
Ignoring Sigh and the other Chinese, Keggler walked to the nearest sluice box and with his knife began to sort through the material trapped in the bottom. He found a nugget the size of a pea.
He chortled loudly and held the golden kernel up for Cardone to see. Then he roved his sight over the bar.
“This is virgin ground. And damn rich from what I can see. They can’t claim this property. Whatever is here is ours for the taking. Now, Chinaboys, what is that on top of that rock there in the center of the bar?”
Keggler strode to the mound of rock that had been left behind as all the remainder of the bar on all sides was worked lower and lower.
“Good God!” exclaimed Keggler. “Cardone, there’s a chunk of gold laying here half as big as your fist. We’re rich.”
“The claim owner will not like for you to take his gold,” said Sigh, coming up to Keggler.
“What’s that you say? What owner? I don’t see anyone here but you coolie fellows, and you can’t own horse manure let alone gold-bearing land.”
“The owner comes now. There on the side of the river.” Sigh pointed.
Keggler ranged his view along the river. A tall, lanky white man and a heavy-set Chinaboy were hurrying up the Snake.
“There may be a little trouble, Cardone. I wasn’t counting on an American being here. Still, this claim looks to be one damn fine patch of ground. Let’s play it out a little farther and see what happens.”
“I see only one man,” replied Cardone. “He’ll be easy to kill. These Chinaboys won’t help him and they can’t testify in a court of law against white men regardless what they see.”
Tom slowed and raked his eyes over the six armed white men. Three were sitting their horses on the slope above the bar. Their rifles were out of the scabbards and resting across the saddle in front of them. Another man came out of one of the cabins, mounted and rode to join them. Two more of the strangers were in the center of the bar. Both wore pistols. One held the golden cube in his gun hand.
Sigh stood five or six paces behind the white man with the cube. The other Chinamen were scattered over the bar.
Tom angled a course to come up on the right side of the line of four mounted men. Their rifles were pointing to the left away from him. The nearest horseman blocked the view of his comrades. Only this one man was in a position to make a fast shift to bring his rifle to bear on Tom.
Yutang walked out on the gravel bar to stand beside Sigh and near Keggler and Cardone. The big Chinaman regarded Tom closely. How much courage did the white youth possess?
“What can I do for you fellows?” Tom asked.
Keggler evaluated the young man before him. He had a sparse stubble of beard. His black shoulder-length hair was pulled back behind his head and tied with a strip of blue cotton cloth. He was dressed in blue pants and blouse like those the Chinamen wore. The outfit was much too small for him. The holster and pistol belted over the Chinaman clothing looked outlandish.
“This fellow ‘pears to be turning into a Chinee heathen like all of the rest of them here,” Keggler said to his men and began to laugh.
A few of the other white men snickered at the comment. Keggler nonchalantly changed the golden cube to his left hand.
Tom felt the hot blood rush to his head. Then he squashed the anger. Never let an enemy make you mad—he could hear the voice giving the advice rush up out of his memories.
“This Chinaboy says you are the owner of this claim,” Keggler said to Tom. “Let me see your recorded claim notice or a bill of sale.”
Tom reached inside his blouse and extracted the paper Yutang had given him. He held it in his left hand and idly waved it in the air a couple of times. He knew it was worthless. The Chinamen could not own property, so therefore, they surely could not sign it over to him. However, he would never tell them that.
“Let me see it,” said Keggler.
“I don’t have to show you anything,” retorted Tom in a flinty voice. “You are trespassing on private property. Take your friends and move on.”
The sharpness of the response surprised Keggler.
The big smile on his face washed away. He growled at Tom, “You’re mighty rough talking with six of us here. Just show me your ownership papers for these diggings and we’ll leave.”
“I was here first, so this ground belongs to me,” said Tom. “That is the law. And if I want to work these men, that is my business. Now get off my property.” Tom put the paper in his shirt. He knew that the showing of a document, no matter how valid, would not stop what was going to happen here.
“Keggler, let me take care of this,” snarled Cardone. His face had grown hard and a merciless glitter was in his eyes.
“Then do it,” snapped Keggler.
Cardone moved two paces nearer Tom. “You’re just a smart-aleck kid with a gun,” said Cardone. He set himself to draw his six-gun. “Even if you have recorded a gold claim, you’re not old enough to hold it under the law. Now don’t try to play men’s games. Take your heathen Chinaboys and clear out.”
Tom felt the wolf rise in his heart at the ruthless disregard for the rights of the Chinamen and his own. He knew the battle was now.
Cardone had expected the youth to show doubt, perhaps fear at the challenge. Instead he saw the youth’s eyes measuring the position of his opponents, plotting the strategy for the fight. Cardone had seen skilled gunmen make such surveys, had made them himself. Strange to see one so young act so professionally. A momentary doubt of how the gunplay might end touched Cardone.
He shrugged it off, confident of the swiftness of his hand.
CHAPTER 9
Tom looked at Sigh and saw in the man’s taut and nervous face that he would not fight the intruders. Tom darted a glance at Yutang. He was the only other man close enough to the two white men to launch an attack upon them.
Yutang’s sight met his and read the probing query. He showed his teeth in a slit of a grin and half closed an eye for an instant.
Tom saw the big Chinaman’s black eye close and open and the watchfulness and calculation and a light of battle come into his countenance.
A hot flame of elation touched Tom. With Yutang’s help, he just might live through this fight.
“Take your coolies and get out while you are still alive,” roared Cardone.
The battle might as well start now, thought Tom. “To hell with you!” He threw the challenge back in a tight and icy voice. “You get off this property.”
“Keggler, kill the bastards,” yelled Cardone and swiftly drew his six-gun.
Tom pulled his pistol from its holster with a flick of his wrist. The .45-caliber weapon bucked in his hand.
Cardone was flung backward. A startled expression suddenly contorted his face.
Keggler leaned forward toward Tom and began the d
raw of his revolver. Stunned by seeing Cardone fall, Keggler knew he was late in his action. He should not have sent Cardone to kill the kid. He should have done it himself.
Yutang screamed a savage, guttural cry. He leapt in the direction of the outlaw chief, his stout body moving with unnatural speed and formidable strength.
Seeing Yutang springing at the second white man, Tom whirled left toward the nearest rider. The man was swinging his rifle around. He had a very long distance to turn to shoot down at Tom.
Too far and too slow. Tom’s bullet drove in under the rifleman’s ribs, continuing up at a slant, plowing through the soft lungs, breaking the thick bone of the clavicle and tearing free of the body at the top of the shoulder.
The man tumbled sideways from the saddle and struck hard upon the ground. His horse, frightened by the explosion of Tom’s gun so close, lunged left to escape. It stepped upon the corpse and slammed into the next rifleman’s steed, nearly upsetting it.
Yutang crashed into Keggler from behind before he could shoot. The Chinaman’s arm encircled the outlaw’s chest and hoisted him up from the ground. At the same moment he ripped the half-drawn pistol from Keggler’s hand and hurled the weapon away.
Yutang locked a hold in Keggler’s hair and wrenched the man’s head far to the rear. He stopped just short of breaking the spinal column.
“Tell the foreign devils I will snap their leader’s neck if they hurt Tom,” Yutang yelled at Sigh.
“Stop! Stop the shooting or this man is dead!” Sigh cried out loudly in English.
Keggler arched backward to relieve some of the pressure on his neck and twisted to break free. He was a child in Yutang’s hands. The Chinaman held him firmly and applied more force, feeling the vertebrae grinding upon each other.
Keggler shrieked in horrible pain, the pitch mounting to a keening intensity that was not human. His arms fluttered and he went limp.
“Hold your fire,” bellowed Ottoson. “That damn Chinaman’s got Keggler in a death grip. Look’s like his neck’s already ‘bout broke off.”
Tom backed away to where he had a clear line of sight at the three remaining riflemen. He called out, “Sigh, take their guns. Don’t get between them and me. Hurry it. Now move.”
