Bound for Gold--A Peter Fallon Novel of the California Gold Rush

by William Martin

  “That’s the ancient Mokolumne,” said Cutler. “It’s been mapped from the El Dorado National Forest down to Route 49. I’ve plotted all the places where auriferous deposits were found.”

  “Auriferous. That means gold-bearing, right?”

  “Right.” Cutler pointed here and there. “Irish Hill, Indian Diggs, Volcano, Fiddletown.”

  “Why those places?”

  “Ancient rivers dropped their deposits just like modern rivers, at turns and bends in the landscape. Most of those spots have all been mined. But I still believe in undiscovered ore bodies. That’s what keeps me going.” He grabbed the paper cup beside the computer and took a swallow. “That and coffee.”

  Peter pointed to another line, in a different color, like a modern overlay.

  “That’s the ancient Miwok,” said Cutler. “My river.”

  “Your river?”

  “Lindgren missed it, so did everyone else. But one day, I was a few miles north of the Broke Neck site, inspecting a gravel bank in a hillside, above the ruins of an old wing dam some miners blew up. That was the legend, anyway—”

  “The legend is true. It’s in the journal.”

  “Now you see why I was in your son’s apartment looking for it. I’d love to get my hands on it. Does it talk about Rainbow Gulch?”

  Peter nodded. Larry honked again.

  Cutler kept talking. “At the old dam, I found an overlay of volcanic soil atop a gravel bank. But discontinuous.”

  “What does that mean, discontinuous?”

  “Sometimes, an ancient river deposit appears, then you lose it, then it shows up again a mile away, in a place where logic suggests it’s part of the same flow. Lindgren shows a lot of discontinuous streams on his map. The ancient Miwok just stopped on land owned by the Boyles family. You couldn’t trace it beyond there.”

  “Not that they’d let you.”

  “Very stubborn folks. But as far as I can tell, it runs southwest through their land, then around the Emery Mine property, then pops up on a four-hundred-acre plot of rangeland with Rainbow Gulch as its southern boundary. Across the millennia, water cut a ravine fifty feet deep and two hundred wide, right across this ancient stream, and released a lot of gold in a short time. That’s why Rainbow Gulch was so rich. But it didn’t last long because the deposits were so—”

  “Discontinuous?” Peter was getting it now. “But across the ravine, you have Manion Gold Vineyard—”

  “Where I am sure that there are other discontinuous deposits. There’s even a bump in the land, about a quarter mile back, a bend where a river could have turned and dropped its gravel. Sturgis won’t let me do core samples. But there’s nothing Zinfandel likes better than volcanic soil.”

  “So … an ancient river of gold?”

  “I bought the property north of the gulch as speculation. It’s what small timers do. Develop gold reserves, proven and unproven, then pitch investors. My core sample showed a belt of auriferous gravel at twenty-six feet. So, the lost river the Irishman—”

  “Michael Flynn?”

  “—told Ah-Toy about. Ah-Toy told my wife’s grandmother, who told my wife, who told me.”

  “And your daughter told my son?”

  “Yeah.” Jack Cutler ran his hands through his hair. “Although, my daughter is not very happy with me these days.”

  “Because you cheated so many people in Chinatown?”

  “I was having trouble paying the mortgage on my Rainbow Gulch acreage. Then your son brought Michael Kou to me, and Kou said it would mean a lot to the big-money Hong Kong boys if we could produce a good report. I got blamed, but Kou and his boys did the seeding.”

  “How?”

  “Core samples are supposed to go into bags that are sealed until they arrive at the assayer. Kou could have gotten into them en route. He wanted the big loans from China. But he also wanted the support of certain elements in the community, just to show the Hong Kong bosses that he could spread the wealth.”

  “Certain elements like, say, Wonton Willie?”

  “I told you. Willie’s a pimp. Someone with more juice.”

  “Who?”

  “Not sure. All I know is that Kou might think big and act smooth, but he’s still a hood, and hoods are all the same. They hurt their own people first. Some do it with gambling, drugs, protection scams. Squeezing people over a bad gold investment … eh.”

  “So he seeded the test holes, and you benefited?”

  Cutler shrugged, as if he had come to terms with it. “The locals lost money, but Kou stayed with me because I kept my mouth shut and proved my loyalty. With some of these guys, it’s all about respect and loyalty.”

  “Even when you know a guy is dirty?”

  “Especially then. Michael Kou told Hong Kong that we’d found a modern Gum Saan, so Sierra Rock got investment loans from Chinese banks. I paid my mortgage.”

  “Gum Saan,” said Peter. “Gold Mountain.”

  “The Chinese came here looking for Gum Saan. But most of them figured out that the only way to get to it is to work your ass off.”

  “Like the guy they call Uncle Charlie?”

  “It’s guys like him I’d love to make whole. I never went bankrupt. So if they held onto their stock, they may have lost money, but their shares are still worth five cents each.”

  “Down from what?”

  Cutler looked at the floor, shamefaced. “An initial offering of five dollars.”

  The door opened and Larry Kwan said, “Mr. Peter, I have a pickup scheduled at Manion Gold. Your girlfriend, remember? We keep her waiting, she won’t be happy.”

  Peter took the shotgun off the table and said, “Then let’s go.”

  Larry Kwan said, “Hey, I’m a peaceable guy. I like wine. I don’t like shotguns.”

  “You drive an armored Escalade,” said Peter. “You’ve been waiting for this.”

  “Well”—Larry flashed his smile—“I guess so.”

  * * *

  CUTLER BROUGHT OUT PICKS, shovels, and a Minelab GPX 5000 gold prospecting metal detector. He put them into the back of the Escalade and told Peter, “About this half million in Chinese gold. I think people like Uncle Charlie have first dibs on it.”

  Peter turned on him. “The only reason you’re along is because you have the tools, and my son loves your daughter. And I told you, our first problem is Wonton Willie. We’ll worry about your reputation later.”

  Twenty minutes south, they picked up Wild Bill Donnelly. He was waiting in his driveway, wearing his windbreaker, with something bulky under his arm. He hopped into the back next to Jack Cutler and said, “I’ve heard of you.”

  “He’s a geologist,” said Larry. “Knows a lot.”

  “He also has a Minelab GPX 5000,” said Peter.

  “Then let’s go get the legendary Chinese gold,” said Wild Bill.

  * * *

  BACK TOWARD BROKE NECK, a turn down the Fiddletown Road, another to the southeast, then another, deeper and deeper into the rolling dry-grass savannah.

  They passed the NO TRESPASSING sign by the dirt road leading to the Boyles’ property, then bumped along until Ginny O’Hara’s little ranch house appeared on the left, above the corral.

  Larry Kwan noticed the house and said, “Hey, this is it.”

  “What?” said Peter.

  “This is where the mom lived. When I brought that woman from the historical society, we stopped here and picked up her mom.”

  “Then stop now, for Chrissakes!” said Peter. There was no telling when dumb luck would play its part. That was why he always fell back on research, legwork, and careful dot-connecting. Sometimes, dumb luck came first, sometimes later. But he was always ready for it. He had done the research and legwork on the last trip. Time now to connect some dots.

  He told the others to stay in the car. He went past the garage that sat on Emery’s foundation, under an old oak tree that might have served for the hangings he had read about, then up the hill to the screen door of th
e little ranch house. The television was tuned to CNBC. The Dow Jones was up. Gold prices were down. The front room looked comfortable, sparse, arrayed around a hearth that faced the door.

  On the mantel: a picture of a young couple. The girl looked … familiar.

  He rang the bell.

  From somewhere in the house the voice of Ginny O’Hara trilled, “Who is it?” as if she was expecting someone else, someone she would be glad to see.

  “It’s Peter Fallon, the historian from Boston.”

  Ginny O’Hara’s face appeared. “I thought I told you to stay away from here.”

  “Could I ask you a few questions?”’

  She looked over his shoulder at the Escalade. “Is that Jack Cutler in the backseat? You tell him there’ll be no core sampling. There’s no gold here. And even if there was—”

  “I don’t care about your gold or your land.”

  That stopped her. “Then what?”

  “Can I step in for a moment?” He wanted a closer look at the picture on the mantel.

  “Say what you want to say right there. Then be on your way.”

  “I was at the California Historical Society yesterday. I met your daughter.” He threw that out. He did not know if it was true or not.

  “Kim?”

  “Yes. Kim.” And his mind started to spin: from the girl who greeted him at reception to Meg Miller, the librarian, to the assistant who kept coming in and out and watched the room when Meg Miller wasn’t there. And her name was—yes—Kim.

  Ginny O’Hara stepped out, all sun-dried, denim-wrapped, no-nonsense and plenty suspicious, too.

  Peter said, “It’s Kim O’Hara, right? She works with Meg Miller?”

  “Kim O’Hara Hally. Her husband’s name is Hally. She works in the library. What’s this about?”

  Peter could recall Kim Hally now. Taller than her mother, more bookish, not so skilled at the eye-to-eye glare. He decided to go straight for the truth. Ginny might appreciate that, even after being tricked into giving up her daughter’s name.

  So he said bluntly, “Do you have it?”

  “Have what?”

  “The James Spencer Journal. Or did you bring it to Manion Sturgis?”

  She nailed him with that glare, nailed him like the horseshoe nailed above her door, and said, “You, sir, are a son of a bitch.” Then she slammed the door so hard that the horseshoe fell off.

  * * *

  BACK IN THE CAR, Wild Bill Donnelly said, “Sounds like it went well.”

  “Yeah,” cracked Larry Kwan. “Lady says ‘son of a bitch’ and slams a door … means you’re doing something right.”

  Peter told Larry to drive on. When he saw the blackened hillside appearing through the cottonwoods, he started looking. When he saw the cut that led down to the river and to Big Skull Rock, he told Larry to stop.

  Cutler said, “There’s a famous old landmark.”

  “More famous than you know.”

  “Hell of a fire,” said Larry Kwan. “Burned all the way up to the top of the south ridge.”

  Wild Bill said, “If we spend too long here, expect the Boyles to start burning, too.”

  Peter said, “We’ll be quick. The Chinese gold is there, or it’s not.”

  “If it’s there, the Boyles will lay claim,” said Jack Cutler.

  “Then we take pictures for Wonton Willie,” answered Peter, “and give the bags to the proper owners, even if it means the Boyles.”

  Now that he had read of the events here, Peter could see everything on this burnt-over ground … the wheels and sluices, the Chinese camp and the cabin near Big Skull Rock. Anything made of wood was long gone, burned, carried off, or rotted away after a hundred and seventy years. But the spirits of Spencer, Flynn, Cletis, Wei Chin, Mei-Ling, and the rest were watching right then. That’s how Peter Fallon felt.

  Larry Kwan said, “What should I do?”

  “Stay in the car. Keep it running.” Peter grabbed a shovel.

  “Just make sure you’re not idling on any dry grass or you’ll start another fire.” Wild Bill pulled his .44, held it at his leg, walked down the embankment, across the stream onto the burned ground, with Peter and Cutler close behind.

  Peter said, “You’re making yourself quite a target, Bill. Remember last time?”

  “Last time was for show. I let Buster play his scene. This is for real.”

  “Keep a clear eye,” said Jack Cutler. “That Buster’s bad-tempered.”

  “Nine o’clock,” said Peter to Cutler.

  “What?”

  “Imagine that Big Skull Rock is a clock. Dig at nine o’clock. That’s what Spencer told Chin. And Spencer’s gold would be at ten o’clock.”

  Wild Bill said, “Do you really think you’re going to find anything there?”

  “I told you the last time,” said Peter, “I’m not sure what I’ll find. But sometimes, you go to the place where the thing happened and—”

  Again, the detective got it. “—you can find your way to what’s happening now.”

  Cutler looked around. “A great spot for precipitating gold.”

  “That’s what the journal says,” answered Peter.

  And they went to work.

  Cutler pointed the gold finder down. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. At nine, ten, or eleven o’clock.”

  Peter said, “How deep does that thing read?”

  “Five feet.”

  “Spencer said they buried the gold three feet down.” Peter started to dig. Maybe the bags had broken and mixed with the surrounding dirt. Maybe Chin had come back with a saw and cut up the flutter wheel. Maybe Flynn had gotten to it. But maybe, just maybe, it was there, as it had been for a century and a half.

  They dug two thirds of the way around the rock, tossing the rough dirt and gravel into a pile until they heard the whine of the ATVs on the ridge above them.

  With a note of professional cool, Wild Bill said, “You boys just about done?”

  “No gold here,” said Peter.

  “Chinese or otherwise,” said Cutler.

  Peter put down his shovel and took a few photographs for Wonton Willie. With the journal pages and the photographs, he could now put the bags-of-gold scenario to bed.

  The whine of the ATVs was growing louder. This time there were four of them. They burst over the crest of the hill, fifty feet above Big Skull Rock, each leaving its own contrail of black ash-dust.

  Three of them skidded to a stop on the crest, up where Spencer and his friends had tried to dig the trench to Rainbow Gulch.

  But Buster revved his engine and shot down, blasting through the black-twig remnants of a few bushes.

  “More shit, getting realer,” said Cutler.

  “Stop talking like you’re a rapper,” said Peter. “You’re a white guy in cargo shorts and a bush jacket.”

  Wild Bill said, “Let me do the talking.”

  Buster Boyles cut his wheel and kicked up another puff of black dust. He wore his AR-15 military-style, slung across his chest on a flexible strap so that he could bring it into action in an instant. He dressed in blue jeans, camo T-shirt, and a black ball cap with the Oakland Raiders insignia. “Didn’t you fuckers see the signs? I could have you arrested. Or shoot you.”

  “We got no good answers,” said Wild Bill, “except this.” He gestured with the gun to the hole around the rock.

  Then Marti Boyles came riding down, as if she could not resist an argument. She was the matriarch, the Mother Lode marijuana grandma, the dam of all the big-bellied Boyles boys, the bane of her neighbors, too, a small, white-haired bird-like woman who squawked like an angry crow. “What are you son of a bitches after on my land?”

  “Chinese gold,” said Wild Bill.

  “You find it, it’s ours,” said Buster. “You take anything from this land, you’ll have hell to pay. Right, Ma?”

  “We’re goddamn sick of people comin’ on our land, and—” She scooted closer and studied Cutler. “You again? We told you never to come back,
sniffin’ around here like a bear at a birdfeeder.”

  Cutler shrugged. “I had an old girlfriend, once, called me her hurly-burly bear.”

  Marti looked at Peter. “This fuckin’ guy’s crazy. Comin’ around with stories about an underground river of gold.”

  Buster said, “All the gold was sucked out of here a long time ago. Just tailing piles left, and an old trench that runs away toward Rainbow Gulch.”

  Marti said to Cutler, “Are you the one who called that Chink, that Lum guy?”

  “Stupid goddamn name, Lum,” said Buster.

  “Is he coming?” asked Cutler.

  “He says he’s comin’ to offer us more than our wildest dreams for our land,” Marti Boyles went on. “But this land is our dream. We like it just the way it is. Tell him that when you see him.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Cutler.

  Buster pulled a high-capacity magazine from his belt and popped it into his gun. “Maybe we’ll tell him ourselves.”

  Yes, thought Peter. Maybe the Boyles family would have a big surprise for Lum’s bodyguards.

  Wild Bill said, “Since we didn’t find anything, Marti, it’s time for us to leave.” He cradled the .44 in the crook of his elbow.

  The sons up on the crest of the hill raised their AR-15s.

  More target practice? wondered Peter. Or something worse.

  And a little engine began to hum behind them. Then something small and black, like a four-winged bug, rose over the river, a shiny black drone that went up to the crest of the hill and looked down on the ATVs.

  Buster said, “What the fuck?”

  Marti Boyles turned to the hilltop and jerked her thumb. Shoot it down. And from under the Escalade lift gate, Larry Kwan shouted, “Anything happens to my nice new drone, all this video’s going right out onto the internet. I got a son who can make it go viral in no time.”

  At that moment, Peter was very glad that he had brought Larry Kwan along.

  Wild Bill said, “So let’s end this like friends, and Larry won’t take that drone for a ride over your grove of wacky tobacky, the one that’s growing a lot more than the state allows. Okay? And given my close relationship with members of the Amador County police force, I could serve as a character reference if you ever need it.”