Hangtown Creek: A Tale of the California Gold Rush (A Tom Marsh Adventure Book 1)

by John Rose Putnam

  Hangtown Creek

  A Tale of the California Gold Rush

  John Rose Putnam

  Contents

  Copyright

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  1. Fall 1846

  2. Goodbye, Old House

  3. Sailing

  4. Smiling Jack’s Injun Woman

  5. Pursuit

  6. The Heat of the Valley

  7. Sonoma

  8. The Rancho on Deer Creek Slough

  9. Sacramento City

  10. Confluence

  11. Mormon’s Island

  12. The Saw Mill at Coloma

  13. The Road to Weber Creek

  14. Gold

  15. Oh, Poor Pa

  16. Luck is a Lady

  17. Maggie’s Cabin

  18. Tom Marsh

  19. Smiling Jack’s Return

  20. Cherokee Bill’s Plan

  21. Trial by Fury

  22. The Gold on Hangtown Creek

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  About the Author

  Hangtown Creek:

  A Tale of the California Gold Rush

  (A Tom Marsh Adventure Book 1)

  by

  John Rose Putnam

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2016 by John Rose Putnam (as revised)

  Wolfpack Publishing

  P.O. Box 620427

  Las Vegas, NV 89162

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-62918-453-1

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  1 Fall 1846

  The earth, rutted deep from hundreds of wheels, churned raw by thousands of hooves, bore witness to the recent passing of a large immigrant party—all save one battered wagon that sat alone and untended, a loose pot clanking in the cold north wind. Here the trail followed the Truckee River, strangled by a long, dry summer into a trickle of shallow pools, and looking as pitiable as the forlorn wagon.

  But on the horizon ahead the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada beckoned bright in the chill blue September sky. There, below the granite spires, a high mountain pass waited, the last great obstacle on the long journey to California. A traveler who failed to cross that pass before the winter snows snapped it shut would be in a hopeless situation, and those snows would come at any time. The rest of the party had hurried on. Stragglers would be left behind, and this wagon was a straggler.

  For days he had dogged the caravan’s track, watching, waiting. With shirt and pants of buckskin and a coat of sheepskin he was dressed more as an Indian than a white man. But his hat, flat-topped and wide-brimmed, was like those worn by the whites west of the mountains, though the eagle feather in the beaded band was a personal touch. Burned dark by the sun he was neither white man nor red, but a singular mixture of both.

  His horse was shod and bore a sturdy Mexican saddle. Cradled in his arm he carried a powerful Hawken rifle. The bone handle of a large knife stuck out from his boot, a brace of single-shot pistols from his waistband. Completely at home in this wild, remote land he was truly a mountain man.

  He called out a hello as he dropped from his horse. There was no reply, save a weary snort from the poor mare tied to the tailgate. The animal was skittish and shied from his advance. “Easy girl, easy now.” He talked softly to calm her. Slowly he put his hand on her tether and pulled. “Settle down now.” He leaned the rifle against the wagon and let the mare smell his free hand. When she calmed he stroked her nose until she gentled. “That’s a good girl.” He led her to the stream and let her drink her fill.

  Back at the wagon, he peered over the tailgate. A powerful stench filled his nose. Cholera! A man and boy lay dead on a cot near the back. Ignoring them, he climbed up and rummaged through the family’s belongings. He took tools, knives, and cooking gear and wrapped them in a blanket. What money he found went into a leather pouch slung across his shoulder.

  At the front of the wagon he saw a woman stretched across the driver’s seat. Clearly the cholera had her too but she had clear eyes and a strong heart. He pulled her from the seat, ripped her dress away, stripped her soiled undergarments and carried her to the river to wash away the effects of the sickness. He worked fast, for this was the wasting disease, often taking people within hours.

  If she survived the cold stream she might live, and he wanted her to live. Never had he seen such a woman. Her fire-red hair and eyes as green as a blade of new spring grass were unknown on either side of the great mountains. She would be worth much to the man who had her. He rolled her in a blanket and left her in the sun to warm while he freed the oxen from their yoke. The gaunt animals lumbered towards the water they had needed for too long.

  From saplings by the river he made a travois and lashed it to the mare. On it he put the woman and the loot. Then he returned to the wagon, spread the oil from several lamps and lit it. The wagon burst into a raging inferno, devouring everything the young family had struggled to ferry across this vast continent, as well as the bodies of the husband and son who had struggled in vain.

  From his pouch he pulled a small talisman and tossed it on the ground near the flames. The local Piutes would soon see the smoke and come. They would take the cattle to help through the long winter, and the talisman would tell from whom this gift of meat had come. To live in this rugged land good relations with one's neighbors were a must, and he was welcome on both sides of the mountains. With the mighty peaks of the Sierra Nevada ahead he mounted his horse and, leading the mare, hurried west along the rutted trail beside the Truckee River.

  2 Goodbye, Old House

  A rider, coming down the old Spanish mission trail that ran south from San Francisco, turned up the lane beside the apple trees Ma planted before she died. Tom had been waiting for him for weeks. He should be happy. So why was he still worried?

  “Pa’s coming,” he yelled out then cranked hard on the winch. It groaned loud in protest. It would probably bust soon too. So much stuff needed fixing. He pulled the bucket over the edge of the well, splashing water onto the ground. “Darn!” He poured the rest into a pail and dropped the well bucket back down the hole.

  Hank popped out from the barn door. Stocky, with brown hair and eyes, he took after Pa a lot. “Hey, Tom, did you say Pa’s coming?”

  “Coming up the trail now. He’s early.”

  “Yeah, he said three weeks. Maybe it went good, whatever he was doing. He sure was tight-lipped about it.”

  “I hope he’s all right. He looked real pale before he left.”

  “Now don’t you go brooding about Pa. He’s tough.”

  “He’ll be hungry. Supper’s almost ready. Where’s Jess?”

  Hank chuckled. “Jess, ah, he’s chasing the cow again.”

  “Yeah, I reckon Jess didn’t expect Pa back so soon either.”

  “Tell Pa I’ll be in as soon as I fix the plow harness.” Hank ducked back inside.

  Tom picked up the pail. Chickens scurried away as he crossed the sandy yard to the cabin. The front door creaked and stuck along the stoop. “Dang!” He put the water down, heaved the door open, picked up the pail again and lugged it into the house.

  Leaving the water by the tin washbasin he went to the stove, gave the stew bubbling in the black iron pot a stir then tasted a spoonful. He threw in a dash of salt an
d took another taste. Satisfied, he reached for the handle to the oven door. “Hot damn!” The spoon clattered to the floor as he grabbed his singed hand.

  “You watch your tongue, Tom Marsh. You know how your Ma felt about cussing.”

  “Pa, you’re here!” Tom ran to the door and threw his arms around his father. “I’m glad you’re home.” He heard the plop as the saddlebags hit the floor, then the strong arms of his father pulled him close. He felt protected, loved. The sting of the burned hand mattered little. His Pa was home.

  “Here, let me look at you.” Pa clasped his shoulders and pushed him back to arm’s length. “I’d swear you get bigger and stronger every day. You’re going to be a fine man, and someday soon by the looks of you. Here, let’s see that hand.”

  “Oh, it ain’t nothing.” He looked deep into Pa’s face. “You look tired.” Pa’s skin was pasty looking and he had dark bags hanging under his eyes.

  “It’s been a long ride. That burn might be nothing today, but it’ll come hurting you by tomorrow. We’ll dab some butter on it. That’ll help some.”

  They sat on a bench by the plank table and he let Pa smear the butter on his hand. “Thanks, Pa. It feels better already.”

  “That’s fine. I’m glad. Say, something sure smells good. Is supper ready?”

  “Yeah. Jess shot a rabbit this morning. I made a stew and some biscuits.”

  “Rabbit stew sounds real good. Where are your brothers? I ain’t seen them yet.”

  “Hank’s in the barn. He’ll be here directly. Jess is chasing the cow.”

  “Chasing the cow is he? Reckon he didn’t know I was coming back today.”

  The door scraped loudly on the stoop then slammed shut. Hank stuck his hand out as he crossed the room. “Pa, I’m glad you’re home. How was your trip?”

  “Hank, it’s good to see you. It was a long two-day ride. I ain’t as young as I used to be, you know.” Pa stood and, instead of shaking Hank’s outstretched hand, he gave him a manly hug. “Tom tells me Jess is chasing the cow again.”

  Hank shrugged like he always did when Jess drank. “Yeah, Pa. I’m sorry.”

  “It ain’t your fault. I’ll have another talk with him.”

  Tom, using a cloth this time, pulled the biscuits from the oven and placed them on the table. “Supper’s ready. Let’s eat.” He turned back the stove to ladle up the rabbit stew. Pa and Hank sat down. He gave each one a bowl. Then he sat by Pa and they began to eat.

  The thick, plank door suddenly jerked halfway open then stuck abruptly on the stoop. There was a loud thump followed by a drunken curse. “Oh, damn it!” With a screech the door opened wide, and Jess reeled across the room to the stove, rubbing his nose and mumbling, “Damn farm’s falling apart.”

  He slopped stew into a bowl and lurched to the table, spilling more stew as he plopped onto a bench across from Pa. “Rabbit stew! Finally got some decent food around here, right, little brother?” Jess’s eyes were red and watery, his hair a snarled mess. He leaned over and grabbed two biscuits. “Pa! You ain’t supposed to be here till tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’m here now. I see you been chasing the cow again.”

  “So I had a couple of drinks. Who cares?”

  “Your Ma cared. She loved you with all her heart. Made me swear on her deathbed to mend my ways so I could raise you right, and I done my level best. I ain’t had a drop since she’s been gone. Done everything she wanted. Where I went wrong with you, Jess, I don’t know. I just hope she’ll forgive me for it.”

  “To hell with Ma. She’s dead, been dead for years, and all we got is this busted down, scrub oak farm in the middle of nowhere. It ain’t enough.”

  Tom hurled his biscuit at a startled Jess and yelled, “Don’t talk like that about Ma! If you weren’t drunk so much, the place wouldn’t be so busted down.”

  Hank grabbed Jess’s arm to stop him from throwing a biscuit back. “Tom’s right, Jess. Pa and me could use your help. Tom’s only fourteen, and he pulls his share.”

  “I’m almost fifteen, Hank!”

  “That’s enough, boys. Ain’t no reason to fight about it. Jess is right. This ain’t nothing but a broken down, scrub oak farm in the middle of nowhere. I done the best I could for you. Maybe I just wasn’t good enough.”

  Was Pa planning on leaving the farm? Tom jumped to his feet. “No, Pa! Don’t say that. You done great.”

  “Thanks Tom, but I got to face facts. I promised your Ma I’d give you a better life, so we’re leaving here day after tomorrow. We’re going hunting for gold, boys.”

  They sat around the table and stared blankly at each other. Suddenly Jess shot his arm in the air. “Gold! Hooray! Anything’s better than here.”

  Leave? Tom sat. Now they would all have to leave the farm? “No, Pa, this is the only home we got.”

  Hank put his spoon down. “Yeah, Pa. I’ve put so much work into the place. We can make a good life out of it. I know it.”

  Pa glanced off to the bedroom he once shared with Ma, then quickly back to his sons. “Hank, no man could ask for his oldest to do more than you. And, Tom, you’ve been a godsend since you was no higher than a pup. And even you, Jess, in spite of you chasing the cow too much, are still a big part of this family. It don’t matter none, boys. We don’t own the farm no more. I owed money to a man in San Francisco. It come due and I didn’t have it, so I sold the place. We got to leave by the end of the week. I’m sorry, boys, but that’s how it is.”

  Tom chewed his thumbnail. “But, Pa, we don’t know nothing about gold.”

  “Reckon we don’t, but in San Francisco that’s all they talked about. Seems they found some up at a new saw mill a man named Marshall was building with Captain Sutter. They say you can walk up a stream and pull big hunks of pure gold right out of the water. All you need is a pan and a shovel. People are finding the stuff everywhere they go up the American River. I reckon I got one last chance to give you boys what your Ma wanted for you. I ain’t going to let her down again.”

  Jess grinned drunkenly. “Hey, that’s great. I’d rather be digging for gold than scratching this rain-starved dirt for a few vegetables and a little hay. I’m with you, Pa.”

  Hank drummed his fingers on the table he had helped Pa build. “I don’t share your view on this place, Jess. We could make the farm into something we could be proud of, but now . . . I reckon we got no choice. I’ll go too, Pa.”

  Tom sat, idly stirring his spoon around the bottom of the nearly empty stew. He was determined not to cry, but the table swam through the hot tears flooding his eyes. His family was used to his ways. He would speak up when he was ready. Soon the spoon dropped into the bowl. “I don’t want to leave here, Pa. I ain’t never been nowhere else, but if you’re going then so am I.”

  “That’s great, boys. It’ll be a real adventure, and if we find some gold we’ll be set. Now I’ve had a long day. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, boys.”

  As soon as the door to Pa’s room slammed shut, Tom hopped up and ran to the other bedroom. He was going to cry. He couldn’t let his brothers see.

  Deep shadows crossed the silent valley. A lonely owl cried hauntingly from the top of a tall pine. A glimmer of light leaking from a large tent showed where the few still awake to hear the owl’s mournful song were gathered. Cautiously, quickly, she dashed across a splash of moonlight and huddled at the tent’s rear.

  The men in the camp called her Jack’s Indian woman. She knew. She had heard them talk. She rubbed her hand through her hair and looked at the bear grease that covered it. She hated the grease. Once she had been pretty, vibrant, and happy. The grease reminded her how horribly things had changed, how desperately miserable she was now. She wiped the hand uncaringly across her deerskin dress.

  Leaning in toward the canvas, she listened as a late night poker game unwound inside. Gambling was a passion here, and the main activity of this rough, backwoods saloon, except for the consumption of the raw whiskey served inside.

  Her head je
rked alert. The voices were suddenly louder and came through the canvas clearly.

  “I saw that, Norton. You’ve been dealing from the bottom all night. You’re a cheat. I’ll have my money back.”

  The low voice of Norton boomed, drunk, “You calling me a cheat, you good for nothing sodbuster? I’ll break you in half.”

  “You dealt from the bottom. I saw it. I’ve got a wife and a family to feed.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have been gambling away your gold.” A sound. Wood crashed into wood. She had heard it before. It was time. “Get out of my face. I ain’t got no truck with them what calls me a cheat.”

  She shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest. If he caught her, she knew what would happen, but she had to do this. Helping these men was the only way she could feel like a human again. Maybe it was the only way she could feel anything again, anything except her hatred for him.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Norton. You were in the wrong. Now I expect you to do the right thing. I’ll settle for my money back.”

  Another sound, the thud of a fist on flesh, then a groan and the clatter of a body knocking into tables and stools. It had started.

  “Norton, keep that crap outside.” It was him, his pushy, arrogant voice. She cringed. It was from him, that voice, that man, where all the pain, the loneliness, the hopelessness came. Oh, how she loathed that voice.

  “Yeah, Jack, yeah. I’ll take it outside.”

  Another thud, a heavy thump of a man hitting the ground hard, then a deeper thud of a boot on a body, followed by the scraping of a man being dragged out into the night. She crept around the tent to get as close as possible while still veiled by the shadows.

  The dull thumps of strong fists and booted feet against soft flesh mingled with assorted groans and moans for too long. Stop it! Stop it, that’s enough! She wanted to scream, to end the man’s suffering, his pain, but she couldn’t. She had to wait.