Hard Gold

by Avi

  Mr. Bunderly really did talk like that—planting words all around his thoughts, rather than weeding them.

  “Now, then,” the barber said, “are you capable of hard labor? The rigors of a long and hazardous journey?”

  “Yes, sir. I can drive an ox, gather eggs—and they don’t break, neither—and muster a rifle. Danger don’t dither me.”

  “Your name, young man?” he asked.

  “Early, sir.”

  “Would that be surname or Christian name?”

  “Works both ways,” I replied.

  He pursed his lips. “I fear I’m not entirely convinced as to your veracity.”

  I stood there, holding my eyes steady, hoping my silence could prop up the lie.

  “Son,” the barber finally said, “you create a quandary for me. In my wagon will be my ailing wife, and young daughter. On one hand, I suspect you are not being candid. On the other hand, having failed here, I am obligated to go, now, short-handed though I am. As I say, my wife does not enjoy robust health. Rock fever, I fear. As for my daughter, she is, shall we say, somewhat undisciplined. Lacking a mother’s firm hand, I suspect. In conclusion, I am keenly in need of assistance. Shall I stand in judgment of you or take you at your word?”

  “My word is pretty good, sir.”

  He sighed. “It hardly seems wise to commence a long-term arrangement when doubt is deep.”

  “I don’t doubt you, sir,” I put forward.

  He grew thoughtful and gazed at me. “Mr. Early,” he said at last, “what is your knowledge of women?”

  “Women, sir?” I said, surprised by the question.

  “My beloved wife can be … complex,” he suggested. “And my daughter …” Words failed him. Then he said, “Miss Eliza is nobody’s fool. She can skin a snake alive.”

  “I’m sure I’ll treat them with respect, sir” was the best I could come up with.

  He was silent for a while, then sighed and said, “Mr. Early, we intend to depart next week—Monday. In the morning.”

  “I can manage that, sir. I’m sure I can.”

  “You’re absolutely positive you’re free to go?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  He held up one of his fine hands as a caution. “Some conditions: We shall keep the Sunday Sabbath by not traveling. There will be no liquor, tobacco, or speaking with profanity. Can you abide by that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Today is Tuesday. I repeat: we leave Monday morning. And since no better prospects than you have come forward, I shall depend upon your being honorable.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir!” I cried. “You won’t regret it, sir. You won’t!”

  I went outside and truly jumped into the air. “Goodbye, Judge Fuslin,” I shouted. “Jesse! Here I come!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I Leave Home

  April 27–May 2

  MY JOY did not last long. I was too weighed down by my sinful lies. Didn’t matter that I told myself, I’m doing it to help Jesse so he can save the farm. I’d put forward an awful untruth, and I was about to run away from home and family. Hardly a wonder that as I made my way home, I was excited one moment, close to tears the next.

  At the farm, everything looked strange to me, shaped and colored by my knowing I was about to depart. Though the farm was where I’d lived every day of my life, it was as if I were seeing it anew. If a boy can be homesick before leaving home, that was me.

  It was unsettling, too, to be with Adam, Pa, and Ma that night. My secret head kept thinking, If only you knew what I was going to do. The next moment, from some way they looked or said something to me, I’d think, Jiminy! They’ve guessed my plan.

  Naturally, I wondered what they would think of my going. Naturally, I couldn’t ask.

  Over the next few days, I found myself wanting to throw my arms around Ma and say, Forgive me for going. I have to help our Jesse. Give me your blessing before I go.

  Or I’d take note of Adam’s scowl and think, You’re going to see what I can do when Jesse and I save the farm!

  When I looked at my pa, my thought was, I’m doing this for the farm, Pa. Please understand.

  But not one word escaped my lips. I kept all within like a bunged-up barrel of rain in a long dry spell.

  The night before I was to leave and we were all at the table, I was unable to contain myself. “I really think I should go help Jesse,” I blurted out.

  Adam frowned. “Early, how many times must we say it—you’re needed here.”

  Pa added, “Costs money to go, Early. We’ve none to spare.”

  “With Fuslin after Jesse,” said Ma, “maybe it’s better he’s gone.”

  “Do you think he robbed that bank?” I cried.

  “We always think the best of Jesse,” said Ma.

  I gazed at them in wretched silence and thought, What would you say if I told you I’d found a way to go for nothing and was leaving in the morning? Oh, how much I wanted their consent that I might feel better about my leave-taking.

  All I said, though, was “Jesse really needs me.”

  When no one replied, I cried, “He’s in danger, isn’t he? Don’t that go for something?” My eyes welled with tears. “He says he got gold, didn’t he? He only went to get it for us so we could pay our debts and save the farm. How’s Adam going to inherit the farm ‘less we can find a way to keep it? It’s all for the family!”

  “Early, no more!” snapped Adam. “You’re too young to go! It’s my job to find a way to save the farm.”

  His saying that righted things a bit. I yelled, “Jesse’s done more than you!”

  Ma reached out and put her rough hand on mine and said, “Early, Jesse will have to care for himself.”

  “Jesse’s gone,” agreed Pa. “No point talking about him.”

  So there was no more that night.

  I got ready in secret. Wasn’t no fuss to it. I’d wear leather boots, my baggy linen trousers, wool undershirt, and shirt. I stuffed an extra set of trousers and shirt in a flour sack. Winter being over, I wore no socks, but I did wear a vest, which had a fine pocket. I knew the clothing would hold up even for a rough journey since Ma had not only sewn them, she’d woven the cloth from which they’d been cut.

  When I added my old broad-brimmed felt hat to keep sun and rain off my face, I was ready to go.

  It was Monday, May 2, 1859, just before dawn when I got up. It had rained some the night before, so the air was sweet as gooseberry pie. But my heart was heavy, and I was sorely tempted to go where my parents lay abed and bid them a fair good-bye. Instead I left two notes. One, under my bed blanket, that read

  WENT TO CHERRY CREEK TO RESCUE JESSE AND BRING BACK THE GOLD.

  EARLY

  And another on the table.

  GONE FISHING. EARLY

  I hoped that that last one would keep them from looking for me for a while—least till I was well gone.

  With dawn just a pink promise in the eastern sky, I stepped from the house and began running down the road toward town. My heart was heavy, but my resolve high.

  Would I have gone if I’d known what raw trials lay before me?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lizzy

  May 2, 1859

  I GOT to Wiota as fast as I could, only to discover that many people had come out to watch the wagon-train leave-taking. Needing to make sure that the folks who knew me wouldn’t guess what I was doing, I ambled about trying to look as if I was just curious. It was easy enough to find what I was seeking—four covered wagons lined up on the town’s short main street. On one canvas wagon cover someone had boldly painted

  PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST!

  The wagons were about sixteen feet long, five feet wide, built with white oak, and covered with rounded white canvas covers held up by hickory wood loops. Only one wagon looked new.

  The canvas bonnet could be rolled up along the sides to let in air and had drawstrings front and back to keep out rain. Plus, the canvas was daubed with oil to ma
ke it waterproof. It was the whiteness of the sail-like covers and the slightly bowed bottoms of the wagons (to keep goods from rolling out) that made people call them “prairie schooners.”

  Each wagon had four large wooden wheels, which were rimmed with iron to make them last, with the front wheels smaller than the back ones and mounted on an axle that could be steered left and right. The brake lever was on the left side, reachable by the driver. The wheels turned on wooden axles, their hubs smeared with tar and fat to keep them moving cool and easy. If you didn’t tar the hubs, the wheels screeched something awful. That’s why a leather tar bucket was hung on the doubletree for easy access. In fact, some people called the wagons “tar grinders.” Not nearly as pretty sounding as “prairie schooners,” maybe, but I always thought that described them better.

  A good diagram of the kind of wagon the Bunderlys had.

  They were strong, generally waterproof, and could float.

  Up front, harnessed to each wagon’s tongue, were four yoked oxen. A pair of saddle horses was tethered to one wagon. Two milk cows were under the care of some young boys. A few chickens in cages were tied to another wagon. I even heard the squeal of a pig. The wagon train was a rolling barnyard.

  I found Mr. Bunderly pouring drinking water into the barrel affixed to one side of his wagon.

  “Ah, Mr. Early! How pleasant to know your name is equal to your promise,” he said by way of greeting. “I bid you a most hearty welcome to our great adventure.” He took my hand in his two and shook it as gravely as if I were joining a funeral procession.

  Turning to the small woman seated on the front wagon seat, he said, “Dearest Mrs. Bunderly, this is the orphan boy—Early—I spoke to you about. He will accompany us and no doubt provide a great deal of useful assistance.”

  Mrs. Bunderly—dressed in formless, plain linen-peeked out from deep within her Shaker wire-framed bonnet. Her face, what I could see of it, was small and sallow, with large, anxious eyes. As it was, she barely looked at me, offering hardly more than a nod of acknowledgment, though she did extend a delicate hand that barely touched mine, only to withdraw as if fearful of contagion.

  As Mr. Bunderly led me away, he whispered: “As I have already intimated, Mr. Early, my darling wife languishes in poor health. But I have heard reliable reports that the Cherry Creek air is sufficiently salubrious as to provide a potential remedy. We shall anticipate the best, shall we not? Enterprise feeds best on joy, not despair.

  “Now, then, young man, you shall meet my daughter.” We started off only to halt while he grasped my shoulder. “Do not,” he whispered, “let her intimidate you.”

  Mr. Bunderly led me to a girl who was leaning against one of the large wagon wheels. She was gazing at me with much boldness.

  “Mr. Early,” said Bunderly, “this is my delightful daughter, Miss Eliza. Miss Eliza, this is the plucky orphan lad who will be offering us needful aid.” That said, he walked away—in haste, I thought—leaving me alone with the girl.

  She was a tall, skinny girl, dressed in a long, not-too-clean calico dress. No hoopskirt for her. Around her neck hung her bonnet in slovenly fashion. Her face had bold green eyes that were almost saucy and a smudged, pug nose. Her hair was long and as red as any I’d ever seen. Her boots, men’s and neither left nor right, had wooden soles, and were surely too large, which made her taller than I was. Her hands were big, almost bony.

  In short, she was no beauty. I guessed her to be about my age, though for all I knew she could have been much older.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Eliza,” I said, more to my toes than to her face.

  “Mr. Early, I can’t say I share that pleasure,” she returned in a voice I thought excessively loud.

  “Beg pardon?” I said, taken by surprise.

  “My father has taken you on because he doesn’t think I’m capable of anything. And my mother,” she said, tossing her red hair back with a smart snap of her head—a gesture I would come to see many times—“doesn’t want me to be capable. She thinks capability is unladylike.”

  “I’m sure your father will know what to do,” I murmured.

  “Mr. Early,” she said, “if there is bravery in ignorance, you may be sure I have the bravest family in the whole world. My father brings along a pepperbox pistol about which I’m sure he knows not where the six bullets fit.”

  I stood there like a lump of mud.

  “Do you know about guns?”

  I shrugged. “My uncle taught me to use a rifle.”

  “Mr. Early,” she said, giving me a rude poke in the ribs, “my pa said you’re an orphan.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I told him that,” was my careful reply.

  She studied me, then said, “Mr. Early, I’m inclined to be interested in you.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  She reached forward, took firm hold of my arm, drew me close, leaned down, and whispered into my ear, “Mr. Early, I’ve seen you about town with a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to being your father. I suspect you are no more an orphan than I. Indeed, I believe you are running away and therefore a brazen liar.”

  I pulled back, shocked.

  Miss Eliza giggled at my reaction and added, “But, Mr. Early, you should know I find liars most entertaining, for they have deep secrets. I shall keep yours to myself.”

  “Th-thank you … Miss Eliza,” I stammered.

  “We’ll talk again, Mr. Early, I’m sure,” she said. “And if you desire my friendship, you shall never, ever call me Miss Eliza—I answer to Lizzy and nothing else.” With a toss of her hair and a smirk, she walked away.

  All I could do was look after her, aware that my face had grown hot, red, and stupid. Worse, if she knew about me, perhaps others would.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Westward, Ho!

  BEFORE I could collect my wits, Mr. Bunderly reappeared. “And what do you think of my daughter, Mr. Early?” he asked.

  “Most agreeable,” I mumbled, hardly knowing what else to say.

  “Indeed!” he returned. “I can think of many words to describe Miss Eliza, but I doubt agreeable is to be found in her dictionary.”

  He went on to inform me that his plan was to go directly from our town to Council Bluffs. Once there, we would join with a bigger wagon train, then leave immediately for the diggings.

  All I knew about Council Bluffs was that it was over in Pottawattamie County, maybe forty miles from Cass County, sitting on the eastern shore of the Missouri River. It’s where Jesse’s first letter had come from. Getting there would put me farther from home than I’d ever dreamed.

  Next Mr. Bunderly led me to meet the three other families who would be in the train. They all had young children, which explained their need for extra, older hands. There was a Mr. Griffin, his wife, and son; Mr. Wynkoop, his wife, and three daughters; and a Mr. Hicksby, his wife, and two young sons, twins.

  When people back East thought of the wagons going west, they concocted really pretty pictures.

  Then there were those who were being taken along like me—to work the train. They were a Mr. Tecknor, a Mr. Armon, and a Mr. Mawr. These men looked to be in their twenties, so among the extra hands, I was by far the youngest.

  As I was to learn, all of these folks came from out of town but about Cass County, coming together for convenience. It meant my fear that I would be known was much reduced.

  There was one exception. When Mr. Bunderly introduced me, Mr. Mawr looked somewhat familiar, but I didn’t think it out, not then. I was too anxious and excited, wishing we would leave. Though I was as yet unrecognized, every slow-passing minute had me half expecting Adam or Pa might appear and haul me home.

  So, midst the fussing with this and that on the wagons, getting them ready, adjusting the yoked oxen, loading children and chickens, I was doing two things: trying to keep out of sight, while wanting to act as grown up as I could, particularly in case Miss Lizzy might be observing me.

  I stayed therefore as close to the Bunder
ly wagon as possible, keeping my hat brim low. I even thought of getting into the wagon to hide. But when I stole a look, I found it was stuffed helter-skelter with boxes, barrels, blankets, a feather bed, and tools—even a pig—so many things I could hardly tell what was in there, much less find a place to hide.

  As I would learn, Mr. Bunderly had brought along some four hundred pounds of corn flour, one hundred of sugar, seventy of rice, and two hundred and fifty pounds of bacon, plus beans, coffee, molasses, and some dried fruit. I saw a Dutch oven—in which sat a six-barrel pepperbox pistol—and a tin coffeepot. An old Bible, blankets, and some medical ointments were there, plus more, too much and varied to enumerate. All had been set about in no particular design or order.

  But as I turned from the wagon, I saw something disturbing: among the people who had come to see us off was Judge Fuslin. And he was staring at me.

  I turned away in haste and dove behind the wagon. Then I peeped around to observe the judge speaking to one of the men who was coming with us, Mr. Mawr. Only then did I recollect where I’d seen him before: he’d been with the judge when I had told him about Jesse. I had little doubt Fuslin understood my intentions: I was going west with the train to be with Jesse. My stomach must have turned six times. Being in the train meant I’d be leading his friend, this Mr. Mawr, right to Jesse. Oh, how I regretted bragging to the judge!

  I was still wondering what to do when one of the wagon drivers—Mr. Wynkoop—yelled, “Let’s get a-going!”

  That was when old Reverend Gideon Fobbscott from our Episcopal Methodist Church, a white-bearded fellow in black frock coat, stepped forward. “Neighbors!” he cried in his rough, booming voice. “I should like to bestow a final blessing upon our emigrant friends!”