by Nikki Tate
“What’s to go back for?” Bart repeated my question and then answered it for himself. “A decent bed. Coffee that don’t cost an arm and a leg.” After a pause he added, “Emily Rose.”
The longing in his voice was painful to hear.
“Emily Rose? Who is Emily Rose?” I tried not to sound upset, though I knew I was talking too fast. Who on earth was this Emily Rose? And why should I care, anyway?
“Why, Emily Rose is just the finest young lady I ever met.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her before now?”
Bart ignored my question.
“I should like to marry Emily Rose some day,” he said, and I was surprised to hear a catch in his voice. I was more surprised to feel my stomach lurch at the idea of Bart getting married.
We lay in our tent, listening to sounds from outside. A few of the men stayed up late, talking and drinking by the fire. Occasionally one of the horses snorted or sighed deeply before resuming the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of the serious business of grazing.
“I don’t suppose Emily Rose would think much of a journey like this,” Bart said.
“Were you thinking of sending for her?” I could hardly squeeze the words out. What was I going to do if some other girl showed up all ready to marry Bart? The prospect was grim.
Bart sighed and said, “This trail is no place for a young lady.”
I longed to tell him that a young lady would be quite capable of surviving the journey, if she was in good health and of a determined mind. In my imagination I told him that there was no need to send for Emily Rose, because I was as good a friend as he was ever likely to find. All I could think of to say was not what poor Bart wanted to hear. But I had to say it, to protect myself and the lie that now consumed my whole life.
“No, I don’t suppose this is a good place for a girl.” My voice was flat and hard, just like the stone that lay where my heart should have been.
In the darkness Bart’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell. I lay awake for a long time, regretting my words and wishing that somehow things could be different.
Chapter 9
The fourth morning after we left Lilloet began the same way as every other, with Mr. Emerson slapping the canvas tent so loudly I thought that I had woken up in the heart of a thunderstorm.
“Up, boys! You got work to do!”
Mr. Emerson’s temper was worse than ever. He scarcely spoke to anyone unless it was to scold them or tell them what to do. Getting us up out of our beds was the first thing he demanded, and he never let up until we were in our tent again at the end of the day.
“I think you were right about Mr. Emerson,” I said when Bart and I had escaped Mr. Emerson’s evil glare and were helping Joshua with the horses. “Maybe we should cut our losses and tell him that we don’t want to work for him anymore.”
“Stay out of his way,” Bart advised, sponging the horses’ backs. We had been very careful, but the heavy loads, long days and tough climbs through the mountains had taken their toll despite our best efforts. Several of the horses had developed horrible sores, which we washed every morning before packing up.
“We haven’t seen a nickel of pay,” I said, stroking the neck of a leggy chestnut called Sassafras. Joshua cleaned an ugly sore just behind the horse’s withers, and Sassafras protested with pinned ears and a nip at Joshua’s backside whenever he turned around. “I don’t blame you,” I said to Sassafras. “That must hurt, all right.”
“What about me?” Joshua asked with a laugh, rubbing his behind.
Bart chuckled and continued, “You know I never liked the man, but he’s been as good as his word when it comes to paying our way. We don’t have so many options out here. He ain’t no angel, but I don’t got no cause to think he won’t pay us once our mine starts producing.”
Joshua rinsed off the Castile soap and dabbed at the open sore with a strip of cloth. “Hush, you two,” he said, just loudly enough for us to hear.
“Damned animals,” Mr. Emerson said, walking past us on the way to the creek to wash. “Slowing everything down. Ain’t nothing wrong with these beasts that a good stick wouldn’t fix.”
“Only one who needs a stick around here is him,” Joshua muttered, jerking his chin in Mr. Emerson’s direction. “Hold still.” Joshua gave the wound a final wipe and then tied Sassafras to a tree before turning his attention to the next horse.
Bart and I didn’t say anything more about our boss, but I looked at Bart differently after that. He may not have been the most enthusiastic member of our party, but he was steady and reliable, not given to making rash decisions. And on a journey such as ours, rash decisions could be deadly.
By mid-morning on the fifth day out of Lilloet we found ourselves strung out along yet another stretch of precarious trail, scarcely wider than my shoulders.
The path snaked along the sheer face of a mountain in a series of dizzying switch-backs. Like the others with a horse to lead, I was forced to walk ahead of Sassafras.
“Don’t look down, Bart.” My words were meant more to reassure myself than to protect Bart. I closed my eyes, tightened my grip on the lead rope, and drew a deep breath before I continued. Sassafras took one short step and then another. His hooves slipped a little each time he set his foot down on the gravel and loose rock.
Each breath Sassafras took came with a little snort—of pain or weariness or fear, it was impossible to tell. Sweat trickled down my temples, dribbled along my neck, eased over my sides. The horses, beneath their heavy loads, were so hot their hides were slick and dark with sweat.
My own back ached from the load I carried, but that ceased to matter when, without warning, the edge of the trail crumbled, sending a shower of rocks and pebbles tumbling down the steep cliff below me. Startled, I hopped to the side, expecting Sassafras to do the same.
But the path edge had given way in a place already so narrow that the widest part of the horse’s load bumped the cliff on our left. As Sassafras put out a foot to steady himself he found only air beneath him.
“Lord! Help!”
The lead rope snaked through my hands.
“Let go!” I heard Bart shouting, but I was paralyzed, staring in horror at the horse, now below me, slipping away.
“Drop the rope!”
My instincts wanted to save the horse, which, ever so slowly, slithered sideways. For a long moment it seemed he might keep his feet under him, and I fancied I might somehow drag him to safety.
But just as the end of the rope yanked through my burning hands, his forelegs buckled and he tumbled, over and over, bashing into rocks, struggling to get his feet under him. He kept falling until he came to rest at the bottom of the cliff, inches from the stream that carved its way through the gulch below.
We stared into the void. I held my hands out before me as if I could raise the horse from the place he had fallen. He lifted his head and I thought maybe he would shake himself off and wade into the stream for a drink.
But Sassafras dropped his head onto the rocks and did not move again.
I could not stop the tears or the choking feel of bile rising in my throat.
“Son, no man could have held him.” Joshua’s voice was quiet, his hand gentle on my shoulder. “He’s one of the lucky ones. He died right fast.”
I gulped, forcing the tears back inside, willing the contents of my stomach to stay put. “Attaboy. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a soft heart when it comes to beasts of burden. He done served us all well, bless him.”
Served us all well. An animal had died so I might have a chance to collect some yellow metal from a remote mountain stream? What good would come of this? Could any good come of a mission born of greed?
I was seized with a sudden desire to turn around on the spot and race back down off the mountain.
“What’s the trouble up ahead?” Mr. Emerson’s obvious irritation sent a spear of rage blazing through me. I clenched my fists and drew a breath, but Joshua yelled first.
“We
lost a horse, Emerson!”
“Get him back! I can’t afford this nonsense!”
Nonsense!? A horse was dead and the man called it nonsense! Get Sassafras back? How could anyone be so stupid?
“Feel free to try, sir!” Joshua gave my shoulder another squeeze. “We gotta keep going,” he said to me. At his touch I let out the angry breath I’d been holding.
“I know.”
And so we continued, subdued by the pointless loss of a good horse. I felt stunned, as if I had been struck a physical blow, though I had escaped unhurt. It felt as though I had swallowed a stone. My stomach twisted and knotted, then settled into a dull ache. The fact that I could still stand, walk, carry a load, and draw breath into my lungs filled me with a peculiar grief, a guilty sadness that I had survived and Sassafras had not. The space between my life saved and his life lost was but a few inches, and all day long I wept inside at this eerie thought, and thanked God for sparing me.
Chapter 10
That night Bart was full of questions. We sat close to Joshua near one of several fires the group had built in a clearing. The men’s faces glowed from the warmth of the firelight as they chatted and drank.
“Do you suppose God notices when men treat their animals bad?” Bart asked me quietly.
In the near dark, I shrugged, then stiffened, worried Joshua would hear us, afraid I would not be able to hold back the tears if both of them showed concern. But Joshua was regaling the Irish lads with the story of a mule train that had taken a wrong turn near Sacramento.
“Not you,” Bart added. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Not one of us could have saved Sassafras. I mean Emerson.”
Mr. Emerson sat at the next fire over, holding forth about this and that and whatnot, as loud and obnoxious as ever.
“I hope the Good Lord has sense to notice those who care for beasts and those who don’t,” Bart said.
A wave of horror washed over me again, as it had each time I thought about the moment when the rope flew from my hands and Sassafras tumbled to his death.
“Did you hear what them other men said?” Bart asked so softly that I had to lean close to catch his words.
“Which ones?”
“Them miners we passed going the other way at the river crossing.” A log snapped in the fire, spraying sparks heavenward.
“Yeah. I heard.”
It would have been hard not to hear what that lot had to say. They had finally made it to the diggings only to find they couldn’t afford to stay. The cost of goods was so high and the gold, according to them, so hard to find, that after all that effort just to get there, they had turned back and were advising everyone they met to do the same.
“Your lives and the lives of them animals ain’t worth it,” one of the men had said.
To my surprise, six of the men in our group listened. Without bothering to take more than what they carried on their backs, they joined the others heading back to Lilloet.
“I was sorely tempted to go with them,” Bart confessed. “How about you?”
For a long time I stared at the flames. Yes, I longed to leave behind the death and ugliness in this harsh beautiful land. But I wasn’t sure that the way to leave was to turn tail and run. Who was more foolish? Those who had given up? Or those of us who carried on?
“There’s gold up there in the Cariboo,” I insisted, because I believed that much was true. But what I said next I now only half believed myself. “Somebody’s gonna get it out of the ground—that somebody might as well be me. And you.”
Bart heaved a sigh and stretched his hands toward the flames. “I admire your optimism, Joe. You know, you’re about the only reason I haven’t turned back.”
I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands when he said that. A piece of me felt just a little bit better because, as my pa always said, having a friend at your side helps ease the pain of whatever ails you. But another piece of me felt terribly guilty. If I hardly knew myself whether it was wise to carry on, how could I ask Bart to keep going? Or was I flattering myself to think I had any say in what Bart Ridley chose to do?
“It’s late, boys,” Joshua said, turning from the others and clapping his hands together. “I’m turning in. See you bright and early.”
Bart followed him toward the tents, and the moment passed when I might have told Bart that he’d be better off back in California with Miss Emily Rose.
Each long hard day began early. We broke camp, loaded the horses, gulped mugs of black coffee and, if we were lucky, found a few stale biscuits to dunk into the thick black brew. Men foolish enough to have bought new gumboots in Victoria had blistered feet so swollen and sore they hobbled like grandmothers. The rest of us, slightly better off in leather boots, nonetheless trudged along like their old husbands, bent under the weight of the packs we carried.
Each day also found the men a bit more irritable, until there was precious little friendly talk. The days passed one after the other in a grim procession as we settled into the grind of making and breaking camp, tending sore muscles and blistered feet, and convincing ourselves to keep going. The tension didn’t ease until we finally reached the town of Williams Lake, some sixteen days after we left Lilloet.
“Looks like Heaven, don’t it?” Bart declared when we led our remaining horses into town. “Mr. Emerson says we’re gonna get us a square meal.”
Just the thought made my tummy rumble. My mouth watered all the way to the restaurant. When the plates of cabbage, fresh beef, beans and pies were set before us, we attacked the food as if we might never eat again. Only once I slowed, and that was when I considered how ashamed my mother would be to see her daughter devouring a meal without thought of chewing. But I ignored her imagined scolding and tucked in with the best of them, not stopping until I’d gobbled down two platefuls of grub and slurped three cups of tea laced with milk and sugar. Heaven on Earth, indeed, and worth every penny of the three half-dollars Mr. Emerson forked over for each of us!
But the pleasure of a full belly didn’t last long. The men were worried that our supplies wouldn’t see us all the way to Antler Creek. Two of the horses limped from stone bruises, and Joshua wanted us to rest in Williams Lake for a few days to give them a chance to recover.
Mr. Emerson insisted that stopping could only mean poverty for all of us. His scowl was permanently stitched across his face, and everyone steered well clear of him whenever possible.
Of course, there was no way the two jovial men who banged their glasses down on our table could have known any of that.
“You folks coming or going?” one of them asked.
“Coming,” said Mr. Emerson, and we all laughed because we always talked about going off to the diggings. “Going, I mean—going to the diggings.”
“You won’t know if you’re coming or going if you head on up the trail. You ain’t seen the bad part yet.”
I thought of poor Sassafras and doubted that. How much worse could a trail get?
The two men thought themselves hilarious. One slapped the other on the back so hard he nearly fell over.
Quietly, his voice cold and hard-edged, Mr. Emerson asked, “Perhaps you gentlemen could inform us of the trail conditions ahead?”
The men paid no attention to Mr. Emerson’s query but regaled us with several extremely rude jokes.
Bang!
The gunshot was so loud I clapped my hands over my ears. Mr. Emerson eased his pistol back into its holster and looked up. A neat black hole in the wood beam above us marked where the bullet had disappeared.
“I asked a question. I ain’t got all day to wait for an answer.”
“Sir, you can’t wait for your answer here—not if you’re going to shoot that pistol in my dining establishment.”
Mr. Emerson raised his hand to the proprietor of the restaurant, a tall thin man with a glorious curling mustache. “Boys—git up. We got work to do.”
Bart and I stood as one and meekly followed Mr. Emerson outside.
“Be ready
to leave early tomorrow,” he said with a curt nod toward the edge of town where we’d pitched our tent. He turned on his heel and strode into the closest saloon.
Unrolling our blankets on the ground seemed preferable to spending even a minute cooped up in a room with Mr. Emerson.
“Do you suppose them men were coming or going?” Bart asked as I was about to lose myself to sleep.
Despite my weariness, I smiled. “I do believe they were coming from the diggings with their pockets full of gold.”
“I don’t know about the gold, but I suspect they were going south because they ain’t out of their minds like most folks in these parts.”
“You don’t call their foolery madness?”
“Nope. I call it being happy. I ain’t been happy in so long I can’t hardly remember how it feels. But I know what it looks like.”
With that, Bart rolled away from me and I was staring at his back. I wanted to reach my hand across the space between us and touch his back the way one tries to soothe an animal in pain. Instead I turned the other way and stared at the bottom edge of the canvas side of the tent. I counted all the way to one thousand and forty-two before I finally lost track of what I was doing and fell sound asleep.
Chapter 11
The next day Mr. Emerson was adamant that we push on. But late that morning when we found ourselves struggling to free Honey from where she lay belly deep in a swamp, I think we all regretted not having had a better rest at Williams Lake.
