by Jory Sherman
McElves himself was an easygoing sort, but Clay was sure he had a Deringer tucked back of his apron. He talked of gold fever along the Klondike, of bitter nights and long winters in the north country, always with a Scottish sense of humor. He insisted that Belleville was a paradise compared to Dawson or Nome. Clay figured the man was probably right and glad as hell to be out of Alaska.
"I'd like some local information, if you don't mind," he told McElves. "I have a friend here, Andy O'Keefe."
McElves eyed him suspiciously at first, his hands toying with his apron, but when his gaze was returned directly, he told him to talk to the head of the Miners' Association, a man named Revard Lunt, who was standing in for Billy Holcomb, since the latter got married to Nancy Stewart and they had a child the previous August. "Billy's down in San Bernardino village. His father-in-law had the first blacksmith shop up here, before Van Dusen," McElves told him. "See Revard. He's over there at the far table by the door."
Clay walked his drink over and asked to sit down.
"Clay Brand. I'm looking for Andy O'Keefe." Lunt was a big man, wide-shouldered and meaty, with a face tanned by working the sluices and the quartz ledges. He had a hearty laugh and a suspicious nature.
"Friend of his?" he asked Brand.
"Yes, from a long time ago. Up at Sutter's." Lunt's eyes widened. They were a light blue, like a child's.
"Was it that good up there?" he asked. "I was on the Sacramento, farther up."
"It was good, for a while. Too good."
"Well, Andy's place is over toward Hitchcock's, the man who's ranching cattle. I'll draw you a map. He's working hard rock and placer there. On Holcomb Creek. Easy to find, if you follow my drawing."
Clay bought him a drink and thanked him, then returned to the bar. He was anxious to see Andy and Kathleen, whom he hadn't mentioned to anyone. Her last letter to him had mentioned that there was someone up here who was interested in her, a teasing reference that had bothered him no matter how hard he had tried to put it out of his mind. He didn't think it was anything, but he had to find out how far it had gone. He wanted to find out if she would accept the ring he had brought with him.
He called McElves over to the end of the bar, so he could talk to him in private.
"One more question of you, McElves," he said, his voice low. "Did you see a couple of men in here earlier ? One with an arm wrapped up, maybe, and the other a Californio, dark-complexioned, flashy dressed, with a pair of six-guns on his belt?"
McElves, a small wiry man, opened his eyes wide and began to wipe the bar while he looked around. "Yes, I saw them," he said, a faint burr to his voice. "Figured them for part of the Button gang. Mean faces. You a friend of theirs?"
"Not exactly."
Ken leaned over the bar. "They were in here, they were. Had plenty of drinks."
"Staying here?"
"No, I don't think so. The one called Matt or something, he mentioned they were riding on."
"Nat?"
"Yes, Nat it was. Said they were going to Starvation Flats. The other one, Jingle or whatever, told him to shut his mouth."
"Starvation Flats?"
"Down in another valley, Bear Valley. A place for hardcases, outlaws. Stay away from there, man. Most there are on the wrong side of right." He nodded for emphasis.
Clay tipped his hat to the Scotsman and pushed his empty glass toward him. "Much obliged, McElves," he said.
At a card game, Clay heard a man yell out, overloaded with drink: "It's double, or back to the mines."
He walked from Octagon House and felt the eyes of people on him. They knew he wasn't a miner, and he was, as he had been most of his life, a stranger.
He walked warily back to the stables, a hunger growing in him for a flame-haired girl named Kathleen. The ring in his pocket was burning through to his flesh.
CHAPTER FIVE
Andy O'Keefe bent over his pan, roiling the muddy water, sloshing out some, letting the sand roll over the edge. Gradually, with the counterclockwise motion, specks of yellow dust began to appear, clinging to the edge of the black dolomite. The dust looked like goldenrod, bright in the sun. He added more water and sloshed the pan some more, his back muscles rippling under his sweaty shirt. Occasionally, he reached for a bandana in his pocket and wiped his forehead, but mostly, he worked, his eyes glittering as the color began to show.
He was a stocky man, originally from Ireland, one of a stream of immigrants who had come to America to find fortune, only to find poverty, discrimination, and outright hatred. He had been to places where the signs had said: "No Dogs or Irishmen Allowed." He had grubbed for bread in the East until he heard about the gold in California. Like many of his countrymen, he had come West and found many of his kind here—and other kinds as well. At least here, he reasoned, everyone was in the same boat; French, Greek, Italian, English, Chinese—only the Chinese had it worse than any, so he'd heard.
Now, it was only trouble with outlaws and Union men and "secesh," now that the war in the States had broken out last year. He tried to stay out of that conflict, had come down from Hangtown with a poke and staked his claim on Holcomb Creek. He kept to himself, except at the miners' meetings and built a cabin big enough for his daughter and him. He was taking out twenty or so ounces a week and keeping quiet about it.
O'Keefe, with his kindly blue eyes and strawberry-colored hair, was well-liked, and the canyon where his cabin was gave him fairly good protection from thieves. Only a few people knew where his claim was: Billy Holcomb, who was now a father and Justice of the Peace, Revard Lunt, head of the Miners' Association, and a few others. He had paid his subscription for the wagon road down the easterly slope and had heard talk of a toll road over Cajon Pass. Now, two years later, his claim was finally beginning to pay. The stamp mills and steam engines were coming up all the time. People were settling down, despite the bad floods of 1861. He felt he was stealing a march on the other men because his claim was rich with the spring runoffs, nuggets in every pan, along with the dust sluiced from the gravel from the creek.
O'Keefe's mine, The Shamrock, was behind his cabin and at the juncture of two canyons that came together in an "L." One leg of the "L" was the creek, the other was the canyon behind his cabin. He also had a mine shaft running on an angle between one leg of the "L," the canyon side, and a lower part of the creek. His ore was rich, assayed to sixty dollars a ton. O'Keefe felt that it would prove richer the deeper and farther he went in either direction. This was something he could only work at in the summer time. Water was his big enemy. It came from nowhere, it seeped through every pore of rock and sometimes he would clench his fists in frustration because six or eight feet of hard digging was wiped out by a sudden rain or a late spring snowfall melting.
"Dad!"
O'Keefe looked up from the small pan where he had transferred the last dregs from the large pan to separate later in the cabin.
"Over here, Kathleen," he said, setting down his pan and rising.
"Quick!" she yelled, running toward him. He saw she had the old rifle in her hands. She was a pretty thing, frail as a sapling, but just as strong, with the gold in her hair and the green of Ireland in her eyes. Her mother, rest her soul, would have been proud to see such a colleen a-grownin' so.
"And what's the matter?" he asked.
"Someone's riding this way. Riding slow, looking at a map. A stranger."
"Well, gorry be, give me the rifle, girl, and stay behind me."
"I'm not afraid," she snapped, her eyes boring into his with a childish defiance that he would have found laughable any time but now. A stranger could be trouble. He knew the men who rode his way, usually. She was a snip of a girl, but she had the spunk of the O'Keefes. She was filling out that dress she'd brought down with her from San Francisco, too. Time, almost, to get new clothes bought before she shamed them both looking poor in clothes too small for her.
"I left me pistol in the cabin," he said, by way of explanation. "Come!"
The two ran to th
e back of the cabin and Kathleen pointed out the rider in the distance. O'Keefe pushed his thick neck forward and peered hard. He shaded his eyes with his hand and tried to make out who the rider was. He had tried not to leave a definite trail to the cabin, but it was hard going a different way each time. In a minute, he knew, the rider would find the worn path, concealed as it was by a dry stream bed hiding it this early in spring.
"Whist!" he said. "Stay low, girl, and let me make him out."
"Well, I spotted him," she said. "He's coming this way!"
He waved his hand back of him and continued to stare.
Clay had already seen the trail and the corner of the cabin. He had also seen a round little face peeping out at him. But he wasn't about to spoil the fun he was having. He walked his horse back and forth and looked at Lunt's map as though puzzled. Then, he spurred his horse and raced straight at the cabin, yelling as loud as he could. He wasn't afraid. He knew Andy couldn't hit the slabside of a mercantile store with a double-barreled scattergun.
"Hey, Andy," he yelled, "you gonna shoot me?" Then he pulled up short and laughed as his horse pranced around in front of the cabin, wondering whether to buck or go blind.
"Clay!" he heard, and then a running girl in long skirt bowled over her father coming around the corner of the house.
He jumped down from his horse and swooped the girl in his arms. She was all softness and swirling copper hair, frantic kisses on his forehead and cheek, small hands kneading his back in delighted welcome.
"Kathleen," he said.
They romped that way for a moment before a red-faced Andy O'Keefe came storming at them, his rifle dragging behind him as he seemed to lean forward as though a wind was at his back. "You—you," he sputtered. "You might have had your fool head blown off. What the devil is in your mind, scaring a body near to death with that banshee scream and galloping up here like some gravel-brained spalpeen. I ought to beat you into the ground for a stump, I should." And, pausing for breath, "Clay Brand, you wild one, about time you came to the Shamrock!"
The three of them laughed hard, then, while Andy slapped Clay's back and sides with his flailing arms, gleefully bouncing up and down, like a naked child being stung by a hard summer rain.
Supper was a simple affair by candlelight and fireglow. Easy talk of past times and talk of the days ahead flowed between Andy and Clay. Kathleen waited her turn, knowing that the men had to speak of their things before she would be allowed to speak of hers.
Out back, in the small corral, one of Andy's burros brayed. The smell of woodsmoke filled the small cabin. Candlewax clung to the room like memories of other places, other countries. Clay admired Andy and missed his gentle wife, Moira, who had died of the fever in Hangtown. Andy, he knew, was an educated man who had smelled the gold, been luckier than most, and had pursued its elusive ways in the streams of California. Now, after talking to him this pleasant evening, he was sure that Andy had a real stake here in Holcomb. He wasn't a spender, like so many, and the riches would suit a man of his temper well.
After supper, while Kathleen cleared away the plates and set them to soak, Andy lit his pipe. The fragrance was something Clay remembered. Andy put his feet up on a roughed out wooden chair and Clay sat back, ready to listen to more stories. A tiny cough from Kathleen drew his attention in her direction. She was making motions with her eyes.
"I think I'll get a breath of air," Clay said to Andy. "Kathleen. Would you like to show me around outside?"
"Oh, yes," she said, as though the thought had just come up with no inkling in her mind whatsoever. "I'll get my wrap."
"Don't like me pipe, eh?" Andy said to Clay, with a wink.
Clay smiled. "We won't be long," he said.
"Sure, and the stars won't shine but all the night," said Andy, with a put-on gruffness.
Kathleen and Clay walked away from the cabin and out of the canyon where the land was open. The scent of pine and cedar floated on the night air. Stars blazed like far-away mirrors, broken and scattered over an endless expanse of velvet. They could hear the creek behind them, murmuring soft songs over the rocks.
"Dad says the creek reminds him of Killarney," she said, taking Clay's arm.
"It reminds me of Oregon," he said. "It's drier here, but just as pretty."
"Are you through roaming all over, Clay?"
"I might be. I think so."
"I wonder. A man like you who's been so many places, seen so many things. It would be hard for you to put down roots."
"I came from roots of my own, Kathleen. I haven't forgotten them."
They stopped by a lone tree in the middle of a meadow. The light of the moon made everything silver.
"You said you were seeing someone else," he said.
"In my letter? Oh, there is someone interested, I suppose. He means nothing to me."
"Are you sure? I don't have much to offer. Some savings, a job, temporary I hope."
"You have a lot to offer, Clay Brand. But, are you offering anything?"
He took her in his arms, then. They kissed briefly, as they had when they had parted a year or so before.
He reached in his pocket and drew out the ring in its satin-lined box. He handed her the box.
"For me? Oh, Clay, what is it?"
"Open it," he said quietly.
She drew out the ring and it sparkled in the moonlight. Tears filled her eyes.
"Try it on, Kathleen."
He helped her slip it on her finger. The fit was perfect. He was pleased, since he had only guessed at the size. They kissed again. This time he held her tight and for a longer time. She seemed so small against him, yet so natural.
"Come on," she said, "I want to show Dad. Clay, does this mean what I want it to mean?"
He didn't hesitate. "It does. I want to marry you, Kathleen."
Her heart leaped for joy as she heard the words she had waited to hear. It was all so sudden, she was speechless. She pulled on him as they raced back to the cabin.
Andy was asleep in his chair, his pipe hanging from his mouth. She took it out carefully and set it in the hollowed-out rock that served as an ashtray.
"Poor thing. He works so hard every day. I—I'll show him the ring tomorrow. Are you going to stay the night, Clay?"
"No, I've got a meeting in the morning. Your breakfast might keep me here longer than I should be."
She smiled. "I'm very happy, Clay. I'll make you a good wife."
"I never doubted that. Good night, Kathleen."
"Good night, Clay."
They kissed once more and then he was gone. She kept the cabin door open a long time, watching him, thinking about him. She looked at the ring on her finger and heaved a deep sigh. "I love you, Clay Brand," she breathed. Then she turned to help her father to bed. He was like a big baby when he fell asleep like that. She knew he would be pleased when she told him the news the next morning.
Andy liked Clay and that was what made his proposal perfect. She had liked Clay a long time, herself. In the past year, she had felt that admiration grow into something else, something mysterious and exciting. She loved Clay now, and tomorrow she must tell the other man that she could see him no more. Not that there was anything to that, but she owed him that much for his gracious attention to her since coming to Holcomb. He might be more successful, on the surface, than Clay appeared to be, but he was not half the man.
* * *
Clay rode easy in the moonlight, passing a mile or two from campfires in the hills that bounded the north of Holcomb. A deer crossed his path once, startled and graceful as it bounded through the trees, its tail flashing a white warning in the night. It was a doe, and Clay knew the buck was probably skulking close behind.
Belleville was strangely alive after the quiet of the forest. He took his horse to the stables and rubbed him down, saw that he had grain and a good bed of straw. He carried his saddlebags and bedroll with him to the Osborne Hotel. He took the room for a week, paying the eight dollars in advance.
He was still stiff and sore in spots from the landslide, but tired enough to sleep as soon as he hit the bed. He slept with his pistol near at hand, in a windowless room of thick log siding. His dreams were of Kathleen and the ring he kept putting on her finger.
CHAPTER SIX
Garrison Morfit had treated Clay to breakfast the next morning before taking him to his base of operations, a stamp mill in the hills north of Belleville. There, he introduced Clay to the owner of the mill, Henry Wilson, a sallow, thin man with dark hair, sunken black eyes, and a wracking cough. Clay took him to be a lunger, one of the kind who came West to overcome tuberculosis. He told Clay that he had been a deep rock miner, making enough to buy an eight stamp mill in the past winter.
It was a busy operation. Wagonloads of ore, mule-driven, kept coming to the mill, unloading and returning to the mines for more. Men sweated in the sun, though it was still cool, cursing and laughing as they mashed fingers and dropped quartz rocks on toes during the unloading.
"Bert's working an arrastre," Wilson said. "We're one of the first ones up. Frank Melius has his steam mill going, took Bill Sanford twenty-seven days to haul up his boiler."
"Keeping you busy, I see," said Clay.
"We're handling quartz from the Mammoth, the Olio, the Pine Tree, the San Bernardino, the Eclipse, the South, the North, the Grasshopper. We'll have more, too, once word gets out about Garrison's freight line. We're building a small empire here, Brand, a small empire."
Clay was silent. It seemed to him that Wilson had big dreams. He saw that the mill could handle a lot of quartz. Water tanks stood nearby, pipes running to the spring above them. It was noisy and dusty. Garrison's wagons were busy, too.
Pops Spinard came rolling up, his mouth full of tobacco, his shirt sweated to his skin.
"Howdy, Clay," he yelled. "What d'ya think of this?"
