Wimmera Gold

by Peter Corris

  'I don't think so. I can ride and shoot and I want to fight. What would the problem be?'

  The sergeant struggled to control his temper. His job was to enlist men; it was a better job than facing Union bullets and grapeshot in the coming winter further north, and he could put up with a flea-bitten boy's sass if he had to. He wrote the name on the page, spelling the words laboriously but correctly.

  'Age?'

  'Eighteen, near enough.'

  'You were born when?'

  Wesley saw this as a trap. 'Not sure. They never told me.'

  'You an orphan or something?'

  Wesley saw this as an insult. The sergeant was fat, shaved close with fancy mutton-chops and he smelled of some kind of perfume. The idea of joining the army was beginning to lose its appeal. 'No!'

  'Don't shout at me, boy.'

  'Don't call me boy.' Wesley half-turned. 'I think I changed my mind.'

  The sergeant saw the pistol strapped to the young man's hip and through the open door he could see a fine chestnut horse hitched to the rail. This was too good a prize to miss and, besides, it would be someone else who'd have to whip this specimen into shape. 'Don't be hasty, son. Pay's good for a mounted man. You can supply your own horse, pistol and carbine?'

  His pride somewhat restored, Wesley nodded.

  The sergeant made an entry. 'Need a long-legged uniform for you, Lincoln. Course, you can't wear that glove. Only officers can wear gloves.'

  Wesley looked at his gloved hand. 'I can't wear it?'

  'That's right.'

  'Then I ain't joining.' Wesley stalked from the room.

  The sergeant took a firm grip on the ebony ruler. 'Come back here, you snotty bastard. Come back!'

  Wesley kept walking.

  'Corporal! Arrest that man!'

  A uniformed corporal stationed outside stepped into Wesley's path, unslinging his rifle from his shoulder. Wesley's hand flew first to his back. He whipped out his knife and sliced through the rifle sling in one easy motion. The weapon clattered on the boardwalk.

  'Hey!' The corporal bunched his right fist, then slowly opened it and raised both hands as he looked into the muzzle of Wesley's pistol. 'Don't shoot.'

  'Don't want to.' Wesley stepped back off the boardwalk and unlooped the reins with his gloved hand. He moved the pistol up and left until it was pointing at the sergeant. 'What you going to do with that there ruler, fatty?'

  'Arrest him!' the sergeant roared.

  'Guess not,' Wesley mounted smoothly. 'I don't reckon much on our chances in this war if'n you two's what we got for soldiers.'

  'You're committing a serious offence.'

  'So're you, pretending to be an army soldier when all you are's a fat bag of wind that smells like a woman.'

  Wesley holstered his pistol and rode away.

  The incident at San Antonio gave Wesley Lincoln his fill of the war. He was on a cattle drive passing through Abilene when he heard that Sherman had taken Atlanta and he was working as a hired gun, guarding silver shipments from a mine near Tucson, Arizona, when he read about Lee's surrender at Appomattox. The mine was owned by an absentee Englishman, managed by a Tucson banker, worked by Cornishmen, Appalachians and Mexicans and guarded by riffraff. Few of the men at the mine could read, and Wesley had to read aloud and slowly through the account of Grant's shabby appearance but handsome behaviour and subsequent events at the surrender in the Tucson Chronicle so many times that the information became fixed in his memory to the extent that he began to believe he'd been there. In later years he was able to convince people that he'd seen it all.

  In fact, he found to his surprise, that the defeat of the Confederacy meant nothing to him at all. He tended to think of the fat, grey-uniformed sergeant and the slow-moving corporal at San Antonio as typical, and he'd developed a sneaking admiration for Grant, who was said to be a hard-drinker who got the job done. Guess I'm more of a Westerner than a Southerner now, he thought. That notion strengthened as discharged Confederate soldiers and dispossessed Southerners began to drift into Arizona looking for work and sympathy. Wesley found their stories about how the Union soldiers had spread the pox in the South by raping every woman over ten and under a hundred foolish. After living in Snake-hole, associating with the Mescaleros and moving with cattlemen through the South-West, his opinion was that rapists were about evenly distributed among humankind.

  Early in February 1866, Wesley and another guard named Jack Clancy escorted the mine wagon into Tucson. The trip ended at the assay office where the silver ore was weighed and a tentative value assigned to it. A chit was issued which Wesley then took to the bank where Cecil Treece, the mine manager, made his calculations. It irritated Treece that the tall, dust-stained guard with the pistol at his hip and the carbine on his shoulder, always paid such close attention to his ledger entries and was insatiably curious about the management of the mine.

  'What are you looking at, Lincoln?'

  'Excuse me, I was wonderin' how much money the mine made this month.'

  Treece spun the ledger around. Wesley was confronted with rows of figures. 'Well, take a look,' the banker said. 'It's all here.'

  Wesley gazed at the columns and then placed a black-rimmed fingernail on one. 'I can't make any sense of it, not bein' a banker. I see here you write the payroll money down in red.'

  Treece coughed. 'That's right.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Money the mine spends goes down in red, money it makes goes down in black.'

  'That's kind of interesting. My understanding is that you pay the miners and the white men spend it all back to you in your saloon and whorehouse. Right, Mr Treece?'

  'That's no business of yours.'

  'And the Mexicans spend it in the cantina and the greaser whorehouse which you half own along with Luis Fernandez. What the Indians do with their money I don't know and I guess you don't care because it don't amount to much.'

  'Get out of here, Lincoln. I'll have the money ready by four o'clock.'

  'I'll be in the Three Chances, across the street from your place.'

  Wesley entered the saloon, ordered a beer and sat down to play cards with Clancy and two others. The cards ran so solidly against him that he pulled out of the game and went out to sit in front of the saloon to carve wood and watch the world go by. He took a chair and set it near the rail on which he could rest his feet. He was working on a piece of box pine, fashioning a prancing horse about three inches high. For a while he divided his attention between the carving and the comings and goings along the dusty street—several wagons rolled by, heading out of town, various riders on horses and mules. Then the work occupied him deeply and he scarcely noticed that someone had taken a seat beside him.

  When he had completed an intricate curve he looked up to see a black man watching the progress of the work.

  'That sure is a nice piece.'

  Wesley shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 'Why, thank you.'

  A large, pink-palmed hand came towards him. 'Name's Jubal Bass.'

  Surprised, Wesley put the knife and carving down and shook. 'Wes Lincoln. You like to whittle?'

  'No, sir. I can't work wood worth a damn.'

  'Well … '

  'Tell me, Mr Lincoln, how d'you like working for the mine?'

  'Not much. You looking for a job?' Wesley studied Bass more closely, trying to observe more than just his shiny blue-black skin. He saw a man about his own height but much more powerfully built, wearing a flannel shirt and canvas pants, good boots and a pouched cartridge belt with holstered pistol. 'I believe they're hiring, but … '

  Bass laughed, making a sound like a rock-slide. 'Me they might hire to haul an ore wagon. No, I wasn't thinking of hiring on. More trying to weigh up your dedication to the mine company.'

  Wesley carefully folded the carving into a bandana and tucked it away in his jacket pocket. 'My dedication?'

  'How much money does that mine make every month?'

  'A lot.'

  'And how much
does it pay the men who do the work?'

  'Not much. Damn little.'

  'That fair, according to your lights, Mr Lincoln?'

  Wesley shook his head. He enjoyed conversations of this kind and had been starved for them of late. Even if it was with a man as black as a preacher's coat, it was nice to exercise the tongue and wits. 'It ain't fair, no. But it's the same in every business—cattle, crop farming … ' He stopped, hard put to think of any other kind of enterprise.

  Jubal Bass took a pipe from his shirt pocket and a tobacco sack from one of his belt pouches. He filled the pipe and struck a match on the sole of his boot. 'I was a slave,' he said. 'A damn lucky slave you might say. The master believed in educating a few of his niggers so's to keep the others in line. I got the education but I didn't do overmuch line-keeping. A man who works for wages isn't really much better than a slave, Mr Lincoln. Like being a slave, there's no future in it.'

  'Maybe so,' Wesley said. 'But what's there for it?'

  'There's working for yourself.'

  'Store-keeping, mustang-breaking, buffalo-shooting, trapping, you mean. I can't see myself in no store. Horse-breakers break their fool necks sooner or later, and buffalo men are the sorriest people I ever did see. Trappers don't live no better than the critters they catch.'

  Bass puffed smoke. 'All true.'

  Wesley was beginning to find the conversation turn depressing. He glanced up at the clock mounted on the front of the new sandstone courthouse and gaol. It was getting close to four o'clock. 'So?'

  'The trick is to own land.' Bass tapped his pipe. 'To grow tobacco on.' He pointed to the dung in the street. 'Or to raise cattle and horses, even sheep.'

  'Sheep!'

  'Forget sheep, then. To own a piece of the country. I'm told you read the newspapers.'

  'Who told you that?'

  'It doesn't signify. I'm employed by a rancher near here to keep down the coyotes and bobcats. I'm not allowed to be in town after nightfall, so I have to watch the clock too, but I've had time to do a study of the mine and you, Mr Lincoln. I can't believe that a man of your talents doesn't want to better himself.'

  'By doing what?'

  Bass leaned closer. 'How many men work at the mine?'

  'About two hundred.'

  'Two hundred and nine. What's the average-wage per month?'

  'Don't rightly know. I get fifteen, overseers get twenty, the Indians get about five, so I guess around ten.'

  'A bit above twelve. I calculate. The payroll must come to around twenty-five hundred dollars. Do you realise how much land twelve hundred and fifty dollars could buy you in California, in this year of our Lord eighteen hundred sixty-five, Mr Lincoln?'

  At an hour before sundown on 12 June 1865 at a fork in the road leading to the mine, Wesley Lincoln leant down from his horse and put his revolver in the ear of Jack Clancy who was driving the wagon.

  'Pull her up nice and slow, Jack. I'm a new at this, so don't do anything sudden like.'

  'Aw, Wes, quit clownin'.'

  Jubal Bass, mounted on a piebald pony, came jogging from behind a stand of cottonwoods. He had a shotgun with a cut-down barrel and stock held like a pistol pointed at Clancy's head. Clancy pulled the team up with a jerk that left the horses frisky and nervous. Bass soothed them while keeping the shotgun trained on Clancy.

  'You ain't goin' to kill me are you, Wes?'

  'Last thing I want to do, Jack. Just you sit there real quiet while I load this coin and paper.'

  'That's there's our wages.'

  Wesley jumped from his horse into the tray of the wagon and opened the drawstring of a large canvas sack. He handed two bags of silver dollars and a wrapped package of banknotes to Bass. He put another two bags and two packages into his saddlebags and remounted. Bass opened one of the bags and took out some notes which he offered to Clancy. 'So's you won't be out of pocket, friend.'

  'I don't take no money from no nigger.'

  Bass put the notes in his shirt pocket. 'Your brain's as weak as your grammar. Put your pistol on him, Mr Lincoln, while I stow this away.'

  'I never heard of no nigger road agent before,' Clancy said. 'They'll hang you sure, Wes.'

  'Have to catch me first. Hop down, Jack, and loose the team.'

  'The hell you talking' about?'

  'You got about a two hour walk back to town or on to the mine. That's your choice. But walking's the way it's going to be.' Wesley cocked the pistol. 'Do like I say, Jack. Now!'

  Clancy undid the buckles and released the horses from the shafts. He removed the harnesses and lead reins and the horses skittered and tossed their heads. Wesley slapped the rump of each in turn, shouted the Apache word for 'Run!' and the horses dashed along the road and then peeled off into the light mesquite scrub.

  'You might catch one or you might not,' Wesley said. 'It's a sporting proposition. Course if you waste too much time trying you'll be out here in the dark with the coyotes and the Indians and the rattlers. I'd head back to town if it was me.'

  'Enough talk,' Bass said. 'Let's go.'

  'Bye, Jack.' Wesley wheeled his horse and trotted after Bass who had left the road and headed off in an easterly direction. He turned in the saddle after a few hundred yards to see Clancy watching intently. Bass increased his pace and Wesley followed suit.

  'Everyone knows you're a Texan,' Bass said as Wesley drew abreast of him. 'Where else would you go?'

  'My geography's a mite uncertain, but wouldn't Africa be east, too?'

  Bass laughed. 'Indeed it is, indeed it is.'

  They rode for twenty minutes until it was almost dark and then turned west, heading towards the faint pink streak on the horizon towards the trails that would take them through the lower reaches of the Mohave desert and into California.

  18

  A posse organised in Tucson after Jack Clancy staggered into the town with his story failed to find any trace of the robbers. Cecil Treece got the town marshall to take Clancy into custody and two deputies beat him for several hours before Treece was forced to admit that the man was telling the truth and had no prior knowledge of the crime or any idea of where the perpetrators might have gone except 'east'. Treece wrote, but did not mail, a report on the loss to the English directors. His hand trembled as he prepared to make the entry, '2,760 dollars lost in robbery' in the ledger. The memory of Lincoln's insolent, mocking manner came back to him and he flung down the pen. That night, after consultation with the manager of one of his Tucson saloons, he hired the services of a bounty hunter named Aaron Nestor to search for Lincoln and his black companion.

  Nestor, a native of Clay County, Missouri, who had ridden with Quantrill's Raiders in the late stages of the war beside Frank and Jesse James, accepted one of Treece's cheroots and asked the first of the only two questions that interested him. 'How much?'

  'A hundred dollars,' Treece said, 'for Lincoln. Twenty-five for the nigger. Five per cent of anything you recover.'

  'Okay. Dead or alive?' Nestor's small dark eyes were almost crossed and it was hard to be sure where he was looking.

  'Dead. No need to bring back the whole nigger. An ear or a finger would do fine.'

  'Okay.'

  'I'll be putting on some pressure to get a government reward. Whatever that is, you get half if you do the job right.'

  Nestor nodded and lit the cigar.

  The Governor of the Arizona Territory placed a price of $100 on the head of Wesley Lincoln, described in a widely distributed handbill as 'about 20 years of age, six feet and one inch tall, 175 pounds, dark complected with fair hair, wears black glove on left hand', and $50 on the head of his companion described as 'a buck Negro, 30 years, six feet and two inches, 200 pounds, educated'.

  None of this was known, but most of it was anticipated, by Wesley Lincoln and Jubal Bass as they rode west towards the Colarado River. Lincoln had a blanket roll and a jacket but was otherwise ill-equipped for the journey. He had left his Winchester, some ammunition, a good pair of boots and some of his clothes back
at the mine. He mentioned this to Bass who had a substantial pack strapped to the rear of his saddle.

  Bass chuckled. 'You can send for them.'

  'All right for you. You've got all your home comforts there with you. It's going to get mighty cold out here tonight.'

  'We won't be stopping,' Bass said, 'so you won't feel it so bad. That blanket'll see you through. When we make camp tomorrow night I'll give you a poncho and an extra blanket.'

  'What'll your rancher think when he doesn't see you?'

  'He doesn't want to see me. I just bring in the scalps once in a while. I won't be missed for a time.'

  'How come he hired you?'

  'Can you shoot a running coyote at a hundred yards?'

  'I don't know. I never tried. Can you?'

  Bass laughed. 'Sometimes.'

  They rode through the night and the next day, stopping only briefly to rest and water themselves and the horses. They shared the hard biscuits and dried figs Bass carried and watched anxiously for signs of camp fires and moving men and animals. Moving on and off the trails, taking sightings from high ground whenever possible and making wide loops around exposed, open stretches, they made slow progress but saw no other human being.

  'You're pretty damn good at this,' Lincoln said as they forded a tributary stream of the Colarado.

  'A runaway slave has to be.'

  'You ran?'

  'The day the war started. The master called us all together and told us how he and all his friends would soon be fighting to keep us as happy and safe as we'd always been. I almost died laughing and that night I left.'

  'No wife or kids?'

  'Would you want to bring a child into slavery?'

  'Guess not. Never thought about it.'

  'Not many white folks did. No reason to. I ran for the entire four years and I was running from the Union as much as the Confederates. Something bad happens to men when they put on a uniform.'

  'I'm with you there,' Lincoln said.

  That night they camped in a sheltered creek loop, made a small fire and ate beans. After he'd made coffee, Bass produced a map and studied it in the firelight. Lincoln looked over his shoulder, squinting as the fire died down. Bass produced the promised poncho and blanket and extinguished the fire. 'Get some sleep,' he said. 'I'll keep first watch.'