by Gary Paulsen
What they had amounted to a fortune. Though Francis had not worked it out—sums bored him and for the moment it didn't matter anyway, since there was no place to spend it— the amount was enough to cause greed and desire . So Francis and Lottie and Billy had kept the gold hidden, wrapped in private packs rolled in green hide in back of one of the wagons in a space that the men had provided. But the gold came between them and the men, for it was a secret to be kept, and the more Francis came to like the men, the less he liked the feeling of not being honest.
They had traveled for two weeks. Francis, Lottie and Billy had fallen into the routine of hunting, traveling, cooking and eating, helping with the wagons if it was needed, which it almost never was, and moving slowly through the country.
They covered ground at a snail's pace, rarely making more than ten miles a day, and it often frustrated Francis, who was used to the freedom and relative speed of horseback travel.
“When we get up,” Billy whined one morning, “wc can see where we're going to sleep tonight.”
“It makes no never mind,” Lottie said to him, slapping him across the back of his head—though much more lightly than she formerly had. “The company is good and we're moving in the right direction.”
In two weeks they had come not much more than a hundred and twenty miles but the country had changed dramatically. They had gone through a small range of mountains, working down several passes that were fairly easy going and came out in some break country that was semidesert. From a distance, it looked almost flat but as they approached it the country turned into a nightmare. The smoothness gave way to stccp-sided gullies and ditches that made wagon travel almost impossible. The wagons bung up, teetered, fell, crashed down, half rolled over and were jerked to the next gully. Francis and Billy were off a long time hunting. Game had become more scarce as they left the mountains and they had to work harder for meat, and by the time they came back to the camp with two deer and half a dozen rabbits the men had a fire going and were settled into doing camp chores, mending broken wagons, torn harness and the like. But tonight there was a difference; something had changed. They seemed reserved, not talkative— even Billy and Lottie noticed it—and Francis could not sec the reason.
He shrugged it off at first, sat by a fire to sharpen his knife, which had hit sand when he was gutting a deer and become dull. He was just finishing it up when Orson came to him.
“Francis,” Orson said in his deep, even voice. “We must talk.”
Francis looked up. “All right. Let's talk.”
“Over there, by John's wagon, where we can be alone.”
The hairs went up on Francis's neck and he stood and hefted his rifle, slid his knife back in its sheath. “Why alone?”
“Because I think you would rather be alone for what I have to say.”
What on earth? Francis thought. What is he after?
Francis held back and let Orson lead so he could watch him. He liked the man and trusted him, but so much ot his life had become a habit of caution, of taking care, that he couldn't help himself
Orson stopped by John's wagon and turned, and Francis held back a step and a half. “What's wrong, Orson?”
Orson coughed, seemed embarrassed. “You have your goods in the back of John's wagon….”
Francis nodded.
“We are in some hard country for wagon travel.”
“I know.” Francis waited.
“It is only maybe three more weeks now and we'll turn the wagons into rafts and run down the big river to the settlements. We are nearing our destination. Everybody is anxious.”
Francis nodded again. He had heard them talking. They thought to make the Columbia River before long and there they would make rafts to get to the valleys where the farmers had settled.
“But now it is very hard going.”
“I understand. Do you want me to stop hunting and help with the wagons? Is that what this is about?”
Orson shook his head. “No. No. It is just that the wagons break…. John's wagon broke and your bundle came undone.”
Ah, Francis thought. There it is.
“Francis, there was so much gold there in your bundle.”
“Yes. I know.”
Now Orson waited and when Francis did not come forth with more information he sighed again. “We believe that a man's business is his own and I do not want to pry but the others—”
“Others? Does everybody know about the gold?”
Orson nodded. “We have no secrets. And we do not have a desire to intrude in your affairs but the others have a concern and I must confess I have some of the same feelings. Is the gold, I mean, docs the gold—did you come by the gold honestly? We would not ask except that there is so very much of it.”
Francis relaxed. Orson was so honest, and so obviously uncomfortable about asking …
“Yes. We found it.” Francis quickly told him the story of discovering the grave and the Spanish armor and sword.
Orson smiled. “Such good fortune, such very good luck for you.”
Francis nodded but thought again, as he had thought many times, that the gold was only good where you could spend it. And while they were closer, they were still many hard miles from where the gold would do them any good.
Francis could not believe the river.
He stood with Lottie at his right and Billy at his left, Orson and the men off to the side, and stared at the river in awe. And not a little fear.
It was half a mile across, smooth but with a fast current that made the dark waters roil so that they looked almost alive, and evil. The Columbia.
They had come across the last of the high desert plains with little further mishap and no injuries , now following a trail that was so heavily traveled it would have been impossible to get lost. They set the wagon wheels in the ruts. Game became more and more scarce and Billy and Francis ranged farther and farther afield to get meat, at times going ten or fifteen miles off the track before they found deer or elk. Buffalo had disappeared completely, hunted out in the years the wagons had been passing, as had most other game. But as they came near the river they met Indians of different bands and tribes who wanted to barter tools or steel or guns for food. The men and Francis had nothing extra to trade, but Francis, who knew the more or less universal sign language used by all the tribes to trade or talk war or peace, took some young men aside and they showed him how to catch salmon in the river, using line and bone hooks.
Francis set to fishing as soon as they reached the river. The salmon were so numerous that they seemed to fill the water, and soon he had more than enough fish for everybody. The meat was oily and thick and rich, and while it tasted fine at first, within two days Francis was ready for elk or venison again.
Work on rafts began at once. The wagons were broken down and taken apart, huge cedar logs were cut from the surrounding forest and horses in harness were used to skid them down to the water. They lashed the logs together with rope and bark twine, and used boards from the wagons to make flooring. Then they built a pen to hold the animals.
But now the Indians, at first helpful, had changed. When it became apparent that the white men had nothing further to trade or sell, the Indians took to stealing. Any tool left lying around, a nail, a piece of rope, an auger bit, was soon gone. They hung around the camp constantly, watching the men work and waiting for a chance to grab something and run. The white men soon learned to keep track of their tools and equipment and stopped losing gear, but they began to distrust the Indians.
While fishing one day, Francis befriended a young man named Iktah. Iktah's language was almost impossible for Francis to learn because there were so many short, guttural, sharply cutoff phrases that were hard to pronounce. But they soon became almost fluid in their sign language and Francis learned to trust Iktah.
They were sitting on the bank one day just after Francis had set his lines, watching the dark waters stream past, when Iktah pointed down the river and signed, “The water down there is not safe.
”
Francis signed, “Why?”
He watched Tktah carefully as he answered, “It has been a dry year. No rain, very litde snow. The river will not come high as it does sometimes. Tt is too low. There are places where many rocks stick out of the water like sharp teeth. They will eat the boats and the men and the horses and oxen.”
“Is this ail true?”
“Yes.”
“What must be done?”
“There is a trail back through the mountains. It will take more time but it is safe. My people could help you carry your goods and drive your animals. Do not let the men go on the river.”
That night while eating—salmon, always salmon—Francis told Orson what Iktah had said.
“We have not heard of this before,” Orson said. “Nobody in any group has left word.”
“He says we are the first this year to try the river.”
Orson shook his head. “We would have heard. And now this man says his people will help us carry our things over the mountains? The same people who would steal us blind?”
“He says the river is too dangerous,” Francis repeated. “Farther down, miles down into canyons where you cannot turn around, he says there are rocks that will tear the rafts to pieces. You cannot get through.”
Orson sighed. He was not tired—Francis did not think he could ever be tired—but there was a sadness in his voice. “I think that we cannot believe what you have heard about the river. I think they merely want to steal more from us and are using this as a way to get what they want.”
“Orson, I believe him. I'm going to go around.”
Orson shook his head. “You have learned how to make your own way, and you must do what you think is right. We wish you well.”
Francis knelt in the dirt and took a stick to sketch a map, and he thought of Grimes as he drew. How many times the mountain man had done the same thing, showing a tree, a river, mountains, drawn in the dirt as Francis did it now.
“Here we are,” he said. “Iktah said it would take seven days by horse to get back to the river below the bad places. Lottie, Billy and I will leave tomorrow with horses, and you won't be leaving for another week at least. We'll stop here, near where Iktah says there arc two peaks, and camp by the river and wait. If you're right, when you come along we'll rejoin you.”
“And if we're wrong …” Orson looked steadily at Francis.
Francis shook his head. “You'll be fine, you'll be fine.”
They shook hands, and Francis went to tell Lottie and Billy to get ready. That night they packed and arranged the loads. They left at dawn, and Francis did not look at the river as they rode away. He thought only of shaking hands with Orson.
“I don't think they're coming,” Lottie said. “They decided to stay right where they were.” Her eyes were hopeful as she poked the fire.
“Or maybe,” Billy said, “they haven't left yet.
“Maybe.” Francis nodded. “Yes, that's probably it. They haven't left yet.”
But Francis didn't believe it. Orson and the other men might have delayed a day or two, but it was going on two weeks since Francis and Lottie and Billy had set out. Once they reached the river, Iktah had left them here to camp and gone back to scout. The men should have come along by now.
The three of them had been waiting for more than eight days. Billy had ranged out to hunt. Somehow he had brought down an elk with his small bow. It was a large bull—more than seven hundred pounds—and they had spent the week in a comfortable camp by the river drying elk meat and eating red meat to get the taste of salmon out of their mouths.
“Should we stop looking?” Lottie asked.
“No.” Francis shook his head. They had been taking turns watching the river and standing watch by the fire at night, to keep it going so the men would see it. “Let's keep it up for a while yet.”
“Maybe I should look for another elk.” Billy pointed at the hills. “I saw fresh signs back about four miles. Wc could use the meat when they come.”
“Good idea. The way they eat we'll need …”
Francis trailed off. It was late afternoon and he was watching the river while he spoke. The water was more than half a mile wide here but had flattened considerably and slowed down. The river was still dark, and had what must have been underwater obstacles because it seemed to boil and tumble, almost in an oily way, with thick bulges that rolled up and back under. While he watched, Francis saw the body of a man hit one of the bulges, come upright for a second with his arms up in the air, almost as if waving, and then disappear. It was too far away to tell for certain but it looked a lot like Orson. Francis nearly cried out.
While he watched, he saw the bodies of four horses and one ox float through the same eddy. Then came a large piece of wreckage that was unmistakably part of the raft Orson and the men had made from their wagons and cedar logs.
He dropped to his knees, mutely watching the water.
Then there was nothing.
Lottie and Billy had been looking away and had not seen anything but Francis felt a brush on his shoulder and turned to see Iktah standing there, making signs.
“The teeth of the river have taken your friends.”
Francis nodded slowly and answered with shaking hands, ‘Tm afraid that is so.”
“What did he say?” Lottie asked.
“He said that Orson and the rest of them aren't coming.”
“Well, we can wait. I like traveling with them, even when I have to cook.”
“No.” Francis put his hand on her shoulder. “They aren't coming. Ever.”
“Oh.” Her eyes grew wide, then teared. “Oh. All of them?”
He nodded.
“Oh, Francis.” She turned and looked at the river, across it, at the mountains behind. “Is it to be like this always? Just always so hard, so that it crushes people?” She covered her face with her hands and began to sob.
Billy had been listening silently, standing on one leg with his left foot on the inside of his right knee. And he nodded now, looking strangely weary and wise beyond his years. He looked up and down the river. “It's always been hard. I guess it always will be hard.” He went up to Lottie and put his hand on her shoulder.
Francis felt less grief than a bone tiredness. He had used up all his grief when Grimes was killed. Now he was so exhausted that even pain was dulled. He just wanted it over.
“We can't travel on the river,” he said to Iktah. “Even if we had time and could do it, making the rafts would take more tools than we carry.” He looked back into the mountains. “Is there a trail that will take us to what the white men call the golden valley, where the settlements begin?”
Iktah frowned, thinking. “There is talk of such a trail. It follows the river but way off to the side. I have not seen it and do not wish to go to where the white men live. But they say it is easy to follow. Just look for the dead line with the yellow flowers.”
“Dead line?”
“There is no grass because the animals of the white men have eaten it all. And where the animals leave their sign in the flat places there are yellow flowers that grow tall and smell bad.”
Francis had been speaking aloud, translating to Lottie and Billy as he read sign, and Lottie said, her face still wet with tears, “He means mustard, Francis. Papa showed us how the wild mustard seed is in some of the feed the wagon trains carry. The oxen and horses eat it and it passes through them and grows where they leave their manure while they walk. “We just have to follow the mustard flowers.”
“How far is it?” Francis asked. “How many sleeps?” lktah shrugged. “Some say three, others seven or eight. It depends on how you work your horses.”
Close, Francis thought. I am close to done with this. We are close to done with this. “I thank you for the time spent traveling with us.” lktah shrugged again. “It was right to do it. Sitting by the fire with you to talk was a good time. Some things are not a good time, but this was. I will go now.” And he turned his pony and disappeared.
Francis waved a hand in farewell.
Then he looked at the sun. “We can make some miles before dark. You want to keep going?”
Billy was already gathering his things together. Lottie nodded. “I want to get away from this cursed river.”
They broke camp quickly. Billy rode first, then Lottie, who trailed the packhorse. Francis mounted and followed them. There had been times when his life depended on water, times when he would have loved to see this river. But now he wanted shut of it. He never wanted to see it again.
It turned out to be three days to where the settlements began. It was a quiet ride, for Francis hardly spoke, and that silenced Lottie. Francis was getting more and more anxious. Were his parents alive? How did his parents and his sister, Rebecca, look now? How would they feel when they saw him—they would have thought him dead all this time, after all. “What would they think of Lottie and Billy?
If he expected to find them at once, he was to be sadly disappointed. At the first settlement they had never heard of the name Tucket, nor at the second, and in the third a man looked at them and said:
“Tucket! Now, that sounds familiar. Let me see …
Lottie clutched Francis's arm.
“I got it!” the man said. “Weren't they all killed on the river?”
After that Francis nearly stopped looking.
But Lottie got her stubborn streak up. “Francis,” she said, “you can't stop now. Billy and me won't let you stop.”
So they rode on, Lottie talking, talking, to till the silence.
Nine days later, in the fifth settlement, they stopped at a lcan-to that served as a store and trading post. A wizened old man leaned across the board counter and said, “A family called Tucket? Would there be a girl named Rebecca?”
“Yes.” Francis held his breath. How long, how many months? All the time he had spent searching now came down to this very second.
“Would she have black hair?”
“She does.”
“Is it the family that lost a boy coming across, lost him to the Indians?”
