by E. L. Ripley
It turned out that the prospector had done some digging before he passed, and the holes weren’t too far from where they’d found his body. Rene stayed near Carpenter and Silva as Yates poked around. There wasn’t much light for travel left in the day, but this hollow wasn’t a bad place to camp. It was near the water at least.
“Could you put that away and make some coffee?” Silva said to Rene, and the words came out sounding surprisingly friendly, considering.
“I’d like to, Mr. Silva.” The boy’s fingers opened and closed on the handle of his pistol. “But I think I hadn’t ought to.”
Yates was going through the dead prospector’s tools. That was a blessing; if there really was anything worth finding here, they would have everything they needed to extract it.
“Did you see that rock?” Carpenter said to Silva. “Back in the water, twice your height. Did you see the shape of it?”
“I couldn’t say I took note,” Silva admitted, puzzled.
“Had a sort of cleft in it, by the look of it.”
“What’s that mean?” Rene asked.
Carpenter yawned. “Well, the water’s flowing right into it. And it just flows on. But the gold’s the heaviest thing in that water. Might be some collected there if it’s the right shape under the surface.”
“Ah,” Silva said, giving him a funny look. “I believe I see.”
“Say, Mr. Yates,” Rene called out, keeping his eyes on Carpenter. “Mr. Carpenter says there’s gold in the river.”
“Keep trying, Bill,” Yates called back without even looking. “You watch them close, Rene. Don’t let them pull one over on you.”
“Are you making things up?” the boy asked suspiciously, raising the pistol a bit.
Carpenter shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you, son. First time I ever went looking for gold, the two of you shot at me. How do I know if there’s gold in the river or not?”
“I could’ve made that shot,” Rene muttered bitterly.
“If you think you can shoot better than Yates, then being young ain’t an excuse. You’re just a fool,” Carpenter told him, and sighed. “But you make a good pot of coffee. Why don’t you do that?”
“No, Mr. Carpenter,” the boy said, turning the gun on him. “I don’t think I ought to right now.”
“Suit yourself.”
Yates was returning from his inspection of the prospector’s work.
“Did he find anything?” Silva asked curiously, and Yates scowled at him out of habit.
“It don’t look good with these,” he replied, pointing at the holes. “The rocks he dug ain’t right, and it’s just . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. For a moment he appeared to deliberate; then he looked up and squinted. “I reckon we have enough time to go over the top and have a look at the other side.”
With that, he shouldered the bag of tools and glanced at Rene.
“Lighten up, son. You’ll have a different look on your face if we see a hint of that color—I’ll tell you that,” he said.
“It’s all right, Mr. Yates.”
“Hell no, it ain’t, but it will be if we could find one half-decent pocket in all this. You never saw a place so barren. There’s probably more gold under my old farm than in this whole valley.” He glared at Carpenter. “If I hadn’t lost my hat trying to chase you, I’d be stomping on it, Bill.”
“Your hat has all the luck.”
“Don’t I know it? Keep on back from him, Rene,” he said to the boy. “Old Silva ain’t got much left to lose.”
“He don’t look like much.”
“It don’t matter.”
“Yes, Mr. Yates.”
The climb wasn’t so bad, and neither was the way down. Even though Carpenter and Silva had their hands tied, exhaustion alone was better than exhaustion and hunger. Yates didn’t mind sharing his store with his prisoners, though in Carpenter’s reckoning that still wasn’t enough to square them up for that shot he’d taken.
Rene made them sit at the foot of an enormous tree while he set up camp, and Yates hurried off. Reaching this place and seeing the prospector’s work had energized him, and he was as brisk as if he hadn’t just spent the better part of the day hiking. Carpenter had never seen the other man want anything so badly. There had been times in the war when they’d gone five days or more without food, and even then Yates hadn’t seemed this hungry.
There was still enough light, though the sun was down behind the trees. It was a strange thing, and a little sad, to see a man work so hard without his heart in in. Yates didn’t want to be here, doing this. He’d said himself that he didn’t know how he’d spend the gold, yet he was still chasing it as though it meant something to him. He didn’t want it, and his wife was dead; that meant he was doing it for Hale and the others.
Carpenter watched as the other man dropped the bag of tools and took a shovel, hurrying off down the hillside.
Rene looked worried, and Silva looked for an opening, but he didn’t get one. Rene noticed the way he was watching him and forced both prisoners down into the shade of a tree before taking his bearings.
“For land with nothing on it and nobody rightly owning it, sure do seem to be a fair few fellas about,” he remarked after a while. “Did you see him too?” Rene asked. “That raggedy one missing fingers?”
“We did,” Carpenter said tiredly.
“That’s funny. He didn’t say he’d run across you,” Rene replied. “Of course, Mr. Yates didn’t believe him.”
“Oh, I’m sure. He used to be an excellent judge of character,” Carpenter replied to the boy, but he wasn’t listening to him. He was watching Yates, who had found something that interested him about thirty feet down the slope.
Something changed in Silva, and Carpenter looked over sharply and caught the other man’s eye.
Rene had given them a chance. He had sure footing, but that would change if anything startled him, and the slope was just steep enough that one good push would stand a reasonable chance of leaving him dead or maimed.
That wasn’t lost on Silva, who was steeling himself to do just that. He would launch himself up and throw his shoulder into the boy, heedless of the gun. Rene wasn’t fast or cool enough to shoot him, but Yates wouldn’t miss. They wouldn’t get far with their hands tied, and Silva would spend the rest of the journey being dragged by Carpenter with a bullet in his leg.
And things would go even worse for him when they returned to Hale.
“Don’t,” Carpenter warned under his breath.
“Why in God’s name not?” Silva muttered back.
Because this wasn’t the boy’s fault any more than it was Silva’s.
“You wouldn’t get a hundred paces,” Carpenter hissed.
The other man glared at him but didn’t argue. It wasn’t a lie.
Yates was trudging back up toward them, and they all looked at him expectantly. Rene wasn’t going to say it himself, but he was of the same mind as the prisoners: that the day had been long enough already, and it was time to make camp and have something to eat.
It was clear that wasn’t what Yates had in mind. He drew up a few paces below them, wiping his brow and wearing a funny look.
“Well?” Carpenter said, when it was clear no one else would.
“I reckon I found something,” Yates replied, looking a little surprised by the words himself. He drew his knife and cut Carpenter free, offering his hand.
“Mr. Yates, is this smart?”
“Hell, Rene, ain’t nothing I do is smart no more. Come on, Bill.”
Sighing, Carpenter allowed the other man to pull him to his feet, shaking his wrists and working his shoulders. They hurt even more now.
“But why?” Rene asked, lost.
Yates snorted and shrugged at him. “Because old Bill’s stronger than me and you together, son.”
Carpenter followed him down to a rock that protruded from the hillside. Yates had already done a little work, shifting some earth to expose more of the stone.
“What do you make of that?” He leaned in and pointed.
Squinting, Carpenter moved closer to look. There was something rough and white there. He brushed away a bit more of the dirt, peering at it closely.
“I see it,” he confirmed, straightening up and rubbing his wrists.
“Is it quartz?”
“Hell, Yates. I’m the wrong one to ask,” he snapped, running his hand through his hair and looking back up the hill. “Ask Silva. He knows more than I do. I worked a factory in Richmond. What do I know about prospecting?”
“I saw you pan that river,” Yates shot back.
“You can’t have been too impressed if you decided to shoot me.”
“Maybe I was jealous of how proficient you were with a pan.”
Carpenter smiled despite himself. “And maybe I’ll grow wings.”
“Oh, I imagine we’ll both have those soon enough.” Yates patted the boulder. “It’s a good rock, Bill.” He put his finger in the air and drew a circle with it. “Just about the right place as well.”
“Ain’t the gold supposed to be under the ground?”
“That’s the beauty of it, Bill. It was. You see? Look at them trees”—Yates pointed—“and all that there. See them berries? You see it?”
Now that he was looking, Carpenter did. He couldn’t help it; his annoyance was melting away. Yates was right; it was a good rock, and there was a half-decent chance that rough patch was the very edge of a nice sheet of quartz. And more, there had been a landslide down below. This rock might well have been covered up for a long time, maybe even fairly deep. The mountain had unearthed it, doing the work for them.
It was just a boulder in the woods, but . . . it was a boulder in the woods not far from a spot that a real prospector had a good feeling about. And another would-be prospector did as well. The only trouble was that Carpenter couldn’t be sure how much of Yates’ confidence was coming from sense and how much was being wishful.
Who could know?
Finding a little gold would change things, likely for the better. Finding a lot of gold would go a long way in making these troubles disappear. Hale had no grievance with Silva; he only needed money. And while he wouldn’t show Silva any semblance of fairness, Carpenter might still be able to expect some.
“Hell,” Carpenter grumbled. “Ain’t as though I have pressing business elsewhere. Could we eat first?”
“Once I sit down to eat, I ain’t getting back up.”
“Have yours later, then.”
Yates grinned. “Attaboy, Bill. What do you say? There?” He indicated a crack in the rock. “And there?”
“Oughta do,” Carpenter agreed, resigned.
They took the sledges from the bag of tools. Carpenter hefted his and glanced back up the hill.
“Playing with fire if you leave Silva with the boy. He won’t think twice.”
“That’d be a mistake,” Yates replied, unconcerned. “You seen the boy sweat, Bill, but I seen him shoot. He and I rode together up on two months now.” He took his place on the other side of the boulder, measuring his swing. He cocked the hammer back. “There was a fella once that swung on him in front of an apple cart, of all places.” He was trying not to laugh, though his eyes made it clear he didn’t find it all that funny. “Rene just pulled on him right there, fast as you like.”
“Did he fire?” Carpenter asked worriedly.
“He did. Didn’t hit nothing but the sky because I was there and I put his arm up, but if I hadn’t, he’d’ve shot that man right there in the street.” Yates shook his head. “He ain’t soft like you.”
“I suppose not.”
Carpenter set the hammer back and got ready for the pain that was coming. He was sore just to move after today, and this work would make his whole body feel like fire. Swinging a hammer wasn’t exactly easy, but at least it didn’t take much thinking. Soon the clanging of the blows echoed up and down the hillside as he and Yates struck the stone in turn.
It wasn’t long before Carpenter was dripping sweat, and his fingers ached even more than the rest of him. Although his hands were generously callused, they would be blistered after work like this.
Yates wasn’t troubled, though. He banged away with a perfect motion of his arms and shoulders, like a ticking clock that wouldn’t need to be wound again for a long while.
When the pain changed from discomfort to a true message that something was wrong, Carpenter halted to get his breath.
Yates paused as well, leaning on his sledge. Together they looked up at the sky, streaked with the red and pink of a sunset hidden by the pines.
“Penelope, wasn’t it?” he said after a moment, and Carpenter just wiped his brow.
“That’s right.”
“The captain told me. Told all of us, I mean.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t write you a letter, Bill. I should have, like you done for me when my wife passed.”
“It’s all right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Carpenter gazed down at the boulder. “It’s a funny thing, you know. Where she went when it was time. She wasn’t worried about me at the end, Yates. Or even her brother, and her little nieces and nephews, only kin she had.”
“She weren’t?” He raised an eyebrow.
“No. No, she lay there, and all she asked about was herself.” Carpenter rubbed his shoulder, staring at the trees. “Not in a selfish way, mind. She was just so afraid she hadn’t done enough. I think if she hadn’t been dying anyway, that would’ve killed her.” He shook his head.
“Done enough?”
Carpenter snorted. “I did all right, you know. I don’t know if the captain mentioned it to you. But we did all right in Richmond.”
“Did you, really?”
“Oh, we did.” He looked down at his filthy clothes, and he’d long ago stopped noticing the smell of his own sweat. The memories seemed especially distant when he was in this state, yet also especially immediate. Like a strange dream. “With a house and a maid and a cook and all. See, Penelope had nothing on her hands but time.”
“That’s really something, Bill,” Yates said, a funny look on his face.
“Don’t be like that. She went and spent it all at the church with her sleeves rolled up, ladling soup and so on while I was at the factory. She worked as long as I did, and I’ll wager at least twice as hard. And she lay there,” he said, squinting as he peered into the memory, “worrying that it weren’t enough.”
“I reckon it would be,” Yates said.
“That ain’t the point.”
Yates knew that; Carpenter didn’t have to tell him. For a moment he just stood there, gazing over the boulder at him.
“You ever worry about that?” Yates asked finally. “The Almighty?”
Carpenter just picked up his hammer. “Can’t say I ever had much use for Him.”
“You stay there!” Rene warned loudly, and they both turned in surprise. The boy took several steps back, pistol in hand. Silva was still seated, but he must’ve said or done something.
For a moment Carpenter’s heart stopped, but Rene didn’t pull the trigger. Only Silva’s eyes moved, settling on Carpenter, an urgency there that couldn’t be mistaken.
Silva was a chess player, and he’d made his move.
Yates had his back to Carpenter and was gazing up the slope at Rene. His rifle was close at hand, but still leaning against the boulder.
Carpenter considered the sledgehammer in his hands. This was the moment.
He let it pass.
Yates realized what had happened and turned on him, taking a step toward the rifle, head cocked to one side.
“Well,” he said, the
look on his face a calculating one. Carpenter didn’t much care to look at it, but he did; the alternative was the look of disappointment on Silva.
Yates wanted to say something, but he couldn’t decide what, so he just stood in the twilight. Maybe it was suddenly dawning on him where they were and what they were really doing. Carpenter didn’t even want to know what Yates had been telling himself to bring them here.
Yates’ features hardened, and he lifted his hammer, pointing it at Carpenter.
“You know, Bill, if you’d been a little more like Silva, Byron’d still be alive.”
“No doubt,” Carpenter replied.
“Rene, he says one more goddamn word, you shoot him in his knee. Old Bill won’t mind carrying him the rest of the way.” Yates sighed. “Will you, Bill?”
Carpenter just went back to the boulder. As the last of the sunset faded and the dark gathered around them, it happened. Yates struck, and the report of the blow was different. He grabbed the lamp from the ground and held it up to the stone, revealing the new crack.
“This is it, then,” he said.
“About time.” Carpenter didn’t have many swings left in him. They repositioned, then pounded in turn, aiming for the same spot. The crack grew on the third blow, and on the seventh the rock split apart. They both dodged out of the way as pieces that would easily weigh eighty pounds or more crashed to the ground. The boulder hadn’t split fully, but they’d taken a nice piece out of it.
Yates snatched up the lantern and held it high.
Carpenter wiped the sweat from his stinging eyes to be sure. They weren’t what they’d once been, but his eyes still wouldn’t lie to him.
The quartz inside the stone was easier to identify: cloudy but standing out clearly from the rock. And no one would ever mistake the gleam of gold.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Yates knew he couldn’t possibly do much before morning, but that didn’t stop him from going to work with his pickax, then his hammer and chisel as the night grew darker. Carpenter and Silva were tied up again, and the chill was enough that they were content to be near the fire, listening to Yates working in the dark.
