“Gee mules. Gee now,” I hollered and pulled the team to the right, into the saw mill yard and up beside a stack of planks. When the rig rolled to a stop I tugged on the hand brake, threw a loop over it and hopped to the ground.
“Load your wagon, mister, only a dollar.” Every time I came here someone ran up wanting work. A year ago it might have been me yelling those words in hopes of making a little money for food. Coloma could be a hard place for a young boy alone. But it was right in this very lot that I’d first met Eban, and by that evening I’d met Maggie. It had been the luckiest day of my life.
I recognized the speaker at once. “Hi, Boyd, how’ve you been?” I said. Maybe eighteen or so, tall and skinny, Boyd Riddle hustled toward the wagon with a gawky lope, bobbing his head and swinging his arms wide. I liked him a lot. Dressed like a farmer from head to toe, what you saw is what you got with Boyd.
“Morning, Tom, I been fine. Pa’s near healed up. We’ll be back mining soon.”
“That’s good news. I wish you the best. Remember, if things don’t work out you can always come and see me. The freight line is growing steady. We’ll find work for you.” I liked helping people who needed it, like Eban helped me once.
“That’s mighty charitable of you, Tom, but I got to stay with Pa. You understand.” Boyd stopped walking and, with one hand on his hip, drew in a deep breath.
“I understand,” I said. “Look, I’ve got some things to take care of. How about I give you two dollars and you load the whole pile?” It was a good deal and I knew it, but I also knew some things about why Boyd wanted to load wagons. His pa busted a leg and fell into Weber Creek a few weeks back. Boyd pulled him out of the water and hauled him into town for help. Now he did anything he could to get food for both of them.
“Sure, Tom, thank you. Thank you kindly,” he beamed a wide grin across his freckled face. I knew that the extra dollar would come in handy.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I said and stuck out my hand. Boyd shook it and I walked off towards town.
A steady clang of iron on iron rang out as I passed the blacksmith shop along Coloma’s dusty main road at the edge of the saw mill lot. The Golden Nugget sat across the street and a few doors to the east. At the top of the stairs by the butcher shop I found the door to the mining cooperative open so I walked right in.
The room had only a few chairs scattered around the walls and a lone table over by the back wall. The same guy Reid Harrison had been with at the cafe, the one with the pudgy face and bushy eyebrows, sat behind it working on a pile of papers.
He looked up when I stepped inside. “Can I help you?” he asked.
The man sounded gruff, like I wasted his time. The same uneasy feeling I’d had with Reid Harrison rose up in my gut, and in the blink of an eye I made up my mind. “Sorry to bother you, sir. I came here with my Pa a while back. He got hurt but he’s feeling better now and ready to mine. We been hearing about the mining cooperative so I came by to see what we got to do to join up,” I lied, plain out and bald faced.
The man stood and his grumpy look melted a bit. “Well, I’d be happy to help you, son,” he said and held out a hand. “I’m Frank Barney. I run this office.”
I took his hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Barney, I’m Boyd Riddle.”
“Call me Frank,” he said in a voice that seemed as oily as Reid Harrison’s. “Have a seat.” He waved at an empty chair across the table. “You came to the right place. We got plenty of good claims that need miners. I’ll have you working in no time.”
I sat, thankful for a chance to look down, sure that the lie I’d told Frank Barney was plastered across my face like mud on a pig, and fully expecting to be called out for it anytime. I didn’t have much practice at this sort of thing, even though yesterday, when I’d told Maggie the dun kicked me, I’d done it mostly to keep her from worrying about me fighting with Jeremiah Wiggins. But now I’d told a dirty rotten whopper from top to bottom without even knowing why I’d done it.
Frank Barney pushed aside the papers he’d been working on and folded his arms over the table. “The mining cooperative is easy to join. You just sign up and you’re in. That’s it. We have some of the best claims in the gold country and our miners average five to six dollars a day. That’s real good money, you know,” he bragged.
Already in up to my eyeballs I had to keep up my story, so I tried to act like a guy fresh from the farm. Fortunately it hadn’t been that long ago since I lived on one. “Shucks sir, that sure sounds pretty good to me. I reckon Pa would think so too.” I jumped in with both feet and stared directly into Frank Barney’s eyes. “But I talked to a fellow yesterday—named Lawson, I think—do you know him?” I asked.
Frank Barney didn’t bat a lash. “That name don’t ring a bell,” he said firmly.
“Well, I ain’t real good with names. It could’ve been Lawton or Lawless or some other. Anyhow, the fellow said that since you split the money among all the miners some folks would get lazy and not work as hard as others. Is that true?”
Frank Barney’s hand slapped the table hard, his face red. “No! That’s nothing but a lie,” he bellowed. “Anybody don’t work don’t get paid. We got all kinds of safeguards. Men work in teams and we rotate them so folks can’t make backdoor deals. We run cheats right out of this cooperative. Anybody say’s our guys don’t work is lying, plain lying!”
He talked about people lying way louder than somebody ought to and I wondered if he’d figured out I lied too. Still, I went along like everything was on the up and up. “That’s right good to hear, Frank,” I declared. “My Pa sure don’t like paying the way for dawdlers. He’s real determined that everybody work for what they get. He’ll be happy to hear you ain’t got none of that stuff here.”
“I run a tight ship out of this office,” he growled. “I’ll fight any man who say’s different. You can tell that to your pa,” Frank Barney still sounded steamed.
I stood. “I’ll sure tell him, sir,” I promised, lying through my teeth. “We’ll be back as soon as Pa’s up to it. Thanks for your time.” I eased behind my chair.
“You do that son. You come back anytime. I’ll get you set up and working a gold bearing claim faster than you can shake a stick. No use panning all over the place looking for color.” Barney stood too. He’d calmed down a bit and wasn’t yelling anymore.
“Pa’ll like that. We could use the money,” I said and headed for the door. I looked back as I opened it, and then touched the brim of my blue army forage cap. I figured it sort of a goodbye salute. I didn’t plan on seeing Frank again.
“You be sure to come back, you hear,” he said, looking a lot like Pa did when he’d stand over the kitchen table and bark orders to my brothers and me back on the farm.
“You can count on it, sir.” I ducked through the door and quickly pulled it shut behind me. At the top of the stairs I paused long enough to grab a deep breath and mop the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. Somehow I didn’t think Frank Barney had figured out I’d lied. But inside I knew there was something awful wrong with what I’d just done, yet the whole underhanded story had simply slipped out of my mouth. When I was younger and told only a tiny fib Pa would always take a hickory stick to my backside.
I hotfooted it down the stairs and into the street, dodging two horses and a small wagon as I scurried across. Through the open door of the blacksmith shop flurries of orange sparks flew from a red-hot hunk of metal each time the smith pounded on it. When I rounded the corner of the smithy, Boyd Riddle still worked hard to load the pile of planks into the back of the freight wagon and had a good ways to go yet. I’d already agreed to give him more money to do the whole job himself so I spun and marched back down the main street of Coloma.
In front of a large, many-paned glass window at P. T. Burns General Merchandise I stopped, and there, hanging over a sawhorse, I saw three pairs of roll-up pants, one each in black, brown, and blue, just like the ones Lacey had talked about. In no time
the bell over P. T. Burns’ door jingled loud when I pushed my way inside.
In my whole life I’d never bought new clothes before, never worn anything but hand-me-downs, so maybe I did get a little carried away. Mr. Burns had four satisfied customers come and go before the bell over the front door rang again on my way out. I wore a brand new blue work shirt and a shiny new pair of black roll-up pants. Under my arm, wrapped in brown paper tied with twine, I carried both the blue and brown pants as well as two more work shirts, one each in tan and dark green.
When I rounded the smithy once more and walked into the saw mill lot, I saw Boyd still hard at it but now nearly done loading the pile of lumber. A large pang of guilt jittered down my spine. I’d lied to Frank Barney and used Boyd’s name. Somehow I didn’t much care how Frank felt about it, but if Boyd and his pa went into the mining cooperative office and tried to sign up things might get troublesome. I sure didn’t want either of them hurt because of me.
“Hi Boyd,” I said. “I see you’re about done here.” I walked by him and tossed the brown paper bundle onto the driver’s bench. When I looked back he’d stopped working and stared at me with his mouth wide open, still holding a plank twenty feet long and as thick as my thumb.
“Now don’t you look pretty all dressed up in brand new store bought clothes like that?” he gushed. “I do declare, I never seen the like on nobody I knew before now.”
Boyd’s bootlicking rubbed me right and I couldn’t help a boastful grin. “Well, they were ragging me about my pants being short so I had to do something.” I admitted while I headed to the lumber pile to grab another board.
Meantime Boyd heaved the plank in his hands onto the wagon and took the other end of the one I pulled on. “I ain’t never worried about my britches being short,” he said. ”Long as they fit my middle that’s fine.”
“It’s a first for me too,” I agreed. “When you hit a big strike on one of these creeks around here you’ll be able to get some store-boughts yourself.” And together we slid the board onto the wagon.
Boyd grinned, “I ‘spect I’ll do that. Can’t hurt none.”
We picked up another board together. That left only one more. I decided the time had come to ask Boyd the question that nagged me since I’d talked to Frank Barney. “Have you heard of the California Mining Cooperative, Boyd?”
“Ain’t that them fellers that put all the gold they’ve mined in a pot and then split it up equal like?”
“That’s them.”
“Yeah, a feller who must’ve been staying nearby stopped at our camp once. He told me that outfit runs Mexican and Chinese miners off good claims so they can put their guys onto them. Don’t know if that’s a fact but I’ve heard more talk about shenanigans going on there.” We packed the heavy board onto the wagon and turned to the last plank. “Pa’s too ornery to work with any of them fresh off the boat city folks anyhow,” Boyd went on.
My guilty mind eased some because of what he’d just said. If something bad happened to a nice guy like Boyd because I’d used his name in talking to Frank Barney I knew I’d have a hard time living with it. And I still couldn’t forget how my Pa wouldn’t cotton to a man who lied.
After paying Boyd his two dollars I climbed up on the wagon bench, let off the brake and cracked the reins. In no time the rig rolled out of Coloma and started up the hill. I pushed the mules as hard as I dared, eager to get home, and not because I had cooking to do in the cafe. It was closed today. I wanted to see Lacey and show off my new pants. Maybe she would like them.
Heading back up the hill meant hard work for me as well as for the mules. Because of the weight of the lumber the whole run back home from the saw mill put way more strain on the team. I had to keep them moving by yelling a lot and cracking the reins. If they stopped going uphill it could be hard to get the heavy wagon rolling again.
When I finally reached the top I let the mules go at a pace they felt comfortable with, sort of a walking rest for them. It gave me a chance to relax some too. I wanted to moon a while over Lacey and how she would gush when she saw my new roll-up pants, but instead my mind kept wandering back to Frank Barney.
A lot of things shuffled around in my head, like how quick Frank said he didn’t know Lacey’s Pa. Anybody hearing a name he didn’t recollect a face with right off should take some time to ponder it before he answered. At worst, since Frank sat right in his own office, he might’ve offered to check his paperwork to see if he had the name Lawson somewhere. No, it sort of sounded like he knew the name but said he didn’t.
Then there’s how mad Frank got when I brought up the stuff about miners shillyshallying around and still getting a share of the gold other men mined. His face burned as red as the back end of a strawberry roan and in no time flat too. I would’ve thought that if things went as good as Frank wanted me to believe he’d be proud of that and would do more crowing than squawking.
But what Boyd Riddle said burdened my thoughts most. Boyd hadn’t been in Coloma long, didn’t have much schooling but seemed pretty much a straight shooter. Boyd and his Pa were probably a lot alike, neither one liked anybody who sat on his butt and didn’t carry his fair share of the load. No farmer did. But Boyd talked matter of fact about hanky-panky with the mining cooperative. That kind of tomfoolery would be from Frank Barney and Reid Harrison as far as I knew. It sure seemed like they weren’t on the up and up somehow.
Still they could be the biggest hornswogglers in the world but that would be a problem for the sheriff to dig into, not the army. If Frank Barney and Reid Harrison had anything to do with Lacey’s pa why they did stayed a total puzzlement to me. No matter what kind of scoundrels these two might be, there still seemed no reason for Webster Lawson to get mixed up with them. Yet, like Eban would say, if I had to bet on it, I’d be betting that all three knew each other somehow, and knew each other real good.
The wagon picked up speed when it started down the hill. I grabbed the brake and pulled, slowing the headway of the heavy load and easing the strain on the team. I gently tugged on the reins to bring the mules back to a walk. I had a long way yet to go. The hill got steeper closer to town. I needed to keep a lid on the pace of things with so much weight. If things got out of control, the wagon could upend real easy, spilling the lumber and maybe doing harm to both the animals and me. I pulled off my blue army hat and put it on the seat to let what little breeze that blew here cool my sweaty forehead. I’d finished ruminating on the mining cooperative for now.
I heard the speedy clip-clop of a horse coming hard from behind. Men didn’t often ride fast along this stretch. Maybe there was trouble. I turned and watched a fellow in a red shirt and wearing a dirty white straw hat with a blue bandana around his neck ride up. He didn’t look much like a miner. When he reached the wagon he slowed to a walk and stared at me from eyes as cold as a Sierra blizzard before he sped on without even a how-do.
Somehow, even on such a hot day, a chill crept down my spine. The fellow stopped on the trail ahead and turned his horse. He eyeballed me again, causing me sizable consternation before he spun his pinto and tore off. I didn’t like guns much, never had, but right now I wished I had one. In all the trips I’d made to Coloma and back along this same road I’d never met anybody so unsociable, so downright scary, as this guy in the red shirt. Only half way home, all alone and without any help, I picked up my cap and pulled it tight on my head, somehow hoping an army hat might save me from harm.
But the rig still headed down a long hill and I had to work the brake, pull on the reins and zigzag the wagon to keep the speed down. For a while I forgot about both the guy in the red shirt and Frank Barney. At last, through the trees, I could see the roofs of the town ahead. I’d nearly made it back to Hangtown, and Lacey Lawson. Hangtown Creek lay at the bottom of the hill only a few hundred paces away. The bank on the far side of the stream was the last real rise before Main Street. With the danger of upending the load almost gone a little speed would help the heavy wagon get up that bank.
My feet hit the ground. I rolled over and quickly curled in behind a sugar pine. I stared down the trail. About fifty feet away my wagon bounced over ruts and roots as it gained speed. And right there a puff of gray gun smoke hung in the air. The shooter had to be somewhere close to that smoke. I kept my eyes peeled.
A man with a rifle in his hand and a big red triangle shaped patch on the seat of his pants leaped out of the woods at a dead run and followed the wagon until they were both out of sight. I couldn’t be pure positive but I’d bet my brand new roll-up pants that Jeremiah Wiggins shot me. Unfortunately my pants still sat on the driver’s seat of the run-away wagon.
Now that the shooter left I figured I could walk the short way to town. But when I stood I got dizzy right off. I rubbed my scalp. Hot blood covered my palm. My mind went groggy. My knees turned wobbly. I slumped against the tree. My head thumped and swirled around. I teetered on the edge of a dark hole . . .
##
“Tom! Tom, answer me. Do you hear me? Tom!”
Somebody called my name, a hollow voice from somewhere far off that echoed inside my head like a drum pounding from deep down a well. I wished they would go away and leave me alone.
I could see Lacey, so pretty in her yellow dress, her hair in pigtails, dancing, spinning across a field of flowers. I ran after her, fast like the wind, but she soared high over the ground, her dress framed against the deep blue sky.
“Tom! Wake up Tom!”
The hollow voice barged into my happiness again. Why won’t they let me be, I thought? I had to catch Lacey, so I soared into the sky behind her, closer and closer I came. Free, like a falcon, I followed her every move through the small puffs of cloud that floated by.
Into the face of the devil: A love story from the California gold rush Page 5
