Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  “That three-fingered fella said Murrieta wanted Miss Clapp for himself.”

  “Oh, Lordy!” Yukon thought a minute. “I better go up to the Pot o’ Gold and tell Roscoe.” Yukon stayed gone for four hours. When he finally returned, he was subdued and not a little bit inebriated.

  “I been up there at the Pot o’ Gold, helping Roscoe watch out for Murrieta and Three-Fingers. We been sitting in the saloon all evening, waiting on them boys to show their faces. But when it was time for Miss Clapp to perform, she didn’t come downstairs. The place was packed with miners wanting to see the woman—she’s got herself several hunnert de-voted admirers, that’s for sure.”

  “Roscoe finally went up to see about her, and she was gone. Looks like they took her right out the window. When Roscoe come back downstairs and told them miners that she wasn’t there, I feared they was gonna hang him. One of them said he was lower than a snake’s belly. But when he told them who he figgered had took Miss Clapp, those boys put together a posse on the spot. Must be over a hunnert of them out covering the whole country right now to bring poor Miss Cordelia back to us.”

  Mary shook her head and sniffed at the thought of referring to the painted hussy as “poor Miss Cordelia.” Yukon continued. “Roscoe sent a telegram tonight to Governor Bigler hissef, telling him what a vile thing Murrieta done and asking for some troopers to stop them low down criminals from stealing away our innocent women folk.”

  Neither Murrieta nor Three-Fingered Jack was found, but even worse, there had been no sign of Miss Cordelia Clapp. Whether finally pushed to action because of Roscoe Dibb’s letter, or because of their continued lawless acts, or more likely because of the presence of a $5,000 reward, the governor sent the “California Rangers” to the goldfields, with the express assignment to arrest or kill the Five Joaquins.

  This news was unhappily received by others of Mexican descent, as many of them regarded Murrieta as a Robin Hood figure. There was considerable discussion in Placerville about whether or not the Mexicans in the area were hiding the Five Joaquins.

  In July, the rangers finally encountered the band, killing two of the Mexicans. There were some who doubted that the rangers had indeed succeeded. So in an inspirational moment, the rangers cut off the head of the one believed to be Murrieta and the incriminating hand of Three-Fingered Jack. The rangers placed the evidence in two large jars of brandy and began a traveling exhibition of sorts, showing the morbid proof throughout California to anyone willing to pay the admission price of a dollar.

  They obtained the signatures of seventeen people—including one priest—who indicated that they knew the men, and that indeed the remains were those of Murrieta and his three-fingered compadre. Despite the claims of several others—including Murrieta’s own sister—that they had the wrong man in their jar, the rangers received the $5,000 reward.

  My Story October 10, 1852

  Today Yukon and I went up to the El Dorado Saloon, where the California Rangers had set up a tent outside to show off what they claimed to be the remains of the outlaws, Joaquin Murrieta and Three-Fingered Jack. We waited in line for at least an hour, and finally stood before two large jars of brandy with the grey-skinned evidence floating there, right in front of our eyes.

  Yukon elbowed me and tried to whisper. “You seen him as close as anybody. Is that truly Murrieta?”

  “Well,” I said, “I have to admit that people sure do look different after they’ve been dead for three months, even though they’re pickled. It’s hard to tell whether the head in the jar belongs to the same fellow who was sitting in my barber chair last spring. After all, he was talking at the time. I do know that the man in the barber chair had some of the waviest hair I ever saw. But the pickled head has straight hair. Maybe the brandy has something to do with it, but to tell the truth, I don’t think it’s him.”

  When B. F. made this observation to Yukon, one of the rangers was standing directly behind them, and he roughly pushed both B. F. and Yukon to the side. “Move on, you two.” He raised his voice. “Let everybody see for theirsefs what comes to outlaws at the hands of the California Rangers.”

  Twenty-Five

  The Tarantula Dance

  Placerville, California 1853

  It didn’t seem possible that B. F. had been in the gold fields for four years. Mining operations in and around Placerville had changed significantly. There were very few small mining operations left. The true “prospectors” had moved on to other towns in California, chasing one strike after another. What remained were larger groups of miners, working in ever more complex mines.

  In many locations along the streams, organized groups of miners built a large sluice alongside the waterway and diverted a significant portion of the flow of the river through the sluice so they could dig for gold in the now-exposed stream bottom. Others pumped a stream of water against the sides of the river bank to try and loosen gold from the clay, then used other sluice-boxes to capture the grit being washed from the embankments.

  But the most sophisticated technique was to extract gold from rock. Rock suspected of containing gold was placed in a stamp mill or some other rock-crushing device powered by a steam engine. After the rock was crushed to the size of gravel, the miners ran water through the crushed mixture to extract the pieces that contained gold.

  Placerville, at least for a time, became the third largest town in California, behind only San Francisco and Sacramento. Many merchants came to Placerville, all with their own scheme to extract gold directly from the miner rather than from the hills along the river. But the majority of them were unsuccessful. They were often under-funded or not ready for the hard living conditions. Also, they failed to appreciate the loyalty the miners had for those businesses which had been there with them during the hardest days.

  The singular exception was the interest generated by new female employees at the saloons and gambling halls. Men who had gone to the Pot o’ Gold every night for a year could easily be swayed to switch loyalties to the City of Cibola Grog House with nothing more compelling than the arrival of a new young lady.

  In August of 1853, as the full, triple digit heat of summer bore down on the town, a black-haired lass arrived from San Francisco in a private coach that pulled right up to the door of the Pot o’ Gold. Roscoe had finally recruited someone he claimed could adequately take the place of Cordelia Clapp, who unfortunately had still not been found.

  The new entertainment was Miss Lola Montez. She parted her black hair right down the middle, wore large gold ear bobs and dresses that included a generous amount of fine Irish lace placed in the most aggravating places. Her second evening in town, not a single extra miner could find room to squeeze into the Pot o’ Gold after seven o’clock.

  She sang for them—sad songs of frustrated love. Those that couldn’t get into the place stood out front just to hear her voice. But if they were outside, they missed something that defied description that night—a historical event even by Placerville standards—something that lit a roaring fire under every man in the grog house.

  Another woman came up on stage with her, introduced as Miss Lotta Crabtree. Lotta was just possibly a stage name, as it was very descriptive of so much of Miss Crabtree. The audience figured they were about to hear a duet between the two ladies.

  But nobody would say he was disappointed when only Lotta Crabtree sang—particularly when Miss Montez came back on stage in a black, tight-fitting dress with long, tantalizing slits up the sides. She had on black stockings and long black gloves, and she began to dance.

  Or rather, some of the witnesses might argue that it was not so much a dance as it was a dream come true that night. Slowly she began to move all four limbs in a mesmerizing fashion that soon found her on the floor, balanced ever so lightly on her fingers and toes, and swaying like some kind of wild animal, the likes of which had never been seen in the forests of California before. As the music increased in speed and volume, it was hard to keep up with just what were arms and what were leg
s.

  It had suddenly become very warm in the place, as men around the room were pulling off their jackets, downing their drinks, fanning themselves, and still they were red-faced. Not only had they never seen a woman move like that before, but they never even imagined one could. The song came to a frenzied end, with Miss Montez still on her hands and feet but finally moving as rapidly, and with just as much vibrato as the singer’s voice.

  The place went wild with applause. Miss Montez gave them a couple of low bows, and then finally stood in front of them with her hands on her hips. “Boys, that’s my Tarantula Dance. Maybe I’ll do it again for you some day,” she gave an exaggerated wink, “if you’re real nice to me.” First one and then many gold coins were tossed up on the stage as tribute. And they cheered until they were literally out of breath.

  That night, his long history of regular attendance at the Pot o’ Gold finally paid off, for Yukon Jack was seated at a table very close to where she performed, and as she ended her dance, he rose like a real gentleman and held his chair for her to sit down. As long as he didn’t launch into a coughing fit, he was still a handsome man, and Miss Montez accepted his invitation.

  In the few minutes she sat with him, he learned she had been engaged to a French prince, but before they could be married, he was killed by a pirate who also sought her hand. Then the pirate was beheaded on the island of Jamaica, and she faced a future all alone in the whole world. She decided to come to California to forget her sorrow. Not only did Yukon fall head over heels for the woman, but in the next few days he predictably provided her story to every man in town. At least she wouldn’t have to repeat herself.

  Within a week, Yukon had come to Mary with an offer to sell her the store. This, he explained, would give him more time to be with Miss Montez so that she wouldn’t have to spend any evenings with some of the riff-raff at the Pot o’ Gold. After all, Miss Montez had confided in him that he was very special to her, and it was her desire to give him her undivided attention, if only he could keep paying Roscoe for her time. He almost quivered when he assured Mary, “And she’s a true daughter of the cross, too!”

  To that description, Mary had to choke back the response that came to her lips. The price for the Miner’s Rest was $7,500, and Mary asked for two days to consider his offer. She sat down after the evening meal with B. F. and Jane, thinking that sometimes she had to pinch herself when she reflected on how far they had come since arriving here. They had been almost penniless, and now she estimated she had somewhere around $5,000 in each of the banks, and at least $60,000 in gold coins and gold dust under the floorboards of the store. But the price of the store was not the point. Her daughter was the point.

  At fourteen, Jane was a striking young woman. It had become impossible to disguise just how much this was so by simply pulling her hair back severely, binding her torso, and requiring that she wear shapeless smocks. The attention she now drew from the miners, both in the store and on the street, had gotten to the point that it was impossible to ignore. Jane needed to be in a more civilized environment. There was absolutely no culture in Placerville, despite what Yukon might say about the new, refined entertainment at the Pot o’ Gold since the arrival of Miss Montez.

  It had been Mary’s intention to move her family to San Francisco in the very near future, but she had more or less set a goal of accumulating $100,000 in order to be sure they would have enough money to live in a fine home, associate with proper neighbors, and make sure her daughter was introduced to a better life. As she learned more about the cost of living in San Francisco, she was afraid her $70,000 would not be enough. Strange that just four years previously they were ready to start from scratch in Oregon with little more than a half-filled wagon and less than twenty-five dollars to their names.

  Mary stamped her foot. “Yukon is bein’ played for a durned fool. That floozy has got him as worked up as a lovesick rabbit. He wouldn’t know a good woman if he saw her every single day! The man acts like the butter has done slipped off his flap jacks!”

  But as B. F. listened to Mary describe Yukon’s proposal and her concern about staying in Placerville, he was torn between making more money and finding a way to stay with this family—and Jane in particular. It was impossible for him not to hear many of the whispered comments and notice the lecherous looks directed toward Jane; and there were times when he had been afraid for her safety. For the life of him, he couldn’t see a way ahead to make money, stay with the Fitzwaters, and still keep them safe. And yet, Mary felt strongly that they didn’t have enough money yet to move to San Francisco.

  Jane had a different perspective. “I think we oughta stay right here. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here instead of being on some old farm in Oregon. Can’t say I appreciate peeling taters every morning, but at least there’s people to talk to. These old men don’t mean any harm. If I had my sooners, I’d sooner we buy this place.”

  Mary was not convinced. “Yukon don’t sell near as much as he use to before all these big mining operations come in here. Why, he’s still trying to sell prospecting pans, while the miners have moved on to sluices and baffles and water cannons. About the only things we’re gaining is the store building and a good way to buy food outa San Fran. Besides, we’d still hafta hire a feller to run the store.”

  B. F. tried to frame the issue differently. “The most important thing to me is the three of you. You being happy and safe is what counts. But if you believe you don’t have enough money yet to leave here, then the question is whether or not this deal makes sense. If you buy the store, then you stop paying one hundred fifty dollars rent every month. You’ll start getting the fifty dollars rent from me for the barbershop. You can get rid of prospecting pans or anything else you don’t want to sell. And you can hire whoever you want to work here. But if you don’t buy it, Yukon’ll sell it anyway—maybe to somebody that you might not even like, you’ll keep paying rent, and there’s no telling what they’ll sell in here.” He half-smiled at her. “Maybe even hard liquor!”

  Mary snorted. “Over my dead body!”

  B. F. laughed. “All I’m saying is that you have control if you own the place, but not if someone else does.”

  “Mr. Fitzwater used to say if it’s worth thinkin’ about, it’s worth sleepin’ on it. This here’ll wait ’til morning.”

  B. F. felt pretty sure about the way her decision would go, and he decided this was reason enough for him to spend some of his gold. He’d been considering the purchase of a handgun for some time, but faced with the prospect that Yukon would no longer be in the store, he felt like now was the time for some extra fire power. As soon as Yukon arrived the next morning, he was there to greet him. “How much for that new pistol?” He knew perfectly well what the price was but was hoping Yukon would give him a better deal.

  “With the holster, a box of lead, a pound of powder, and a hunnert of them percussion caps—eighty dollars. Who wants it?”

  B. F. looked him in the eye with as mature a look as he could muster. “Me.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for a gat like this? This here is one terrible weapon. I seen a feller win a bet over at the Pot o’ Gold by shooting one of these six times in the same amount of time it took for a wad of chewin’ tobacco to hit the ground.”

  “Yukon, right now I’ve only got one shot from the old musket in the barbershop. That might not be enough whenever you’re gone.”

  Yukon hung his head. “So ye know about that. I was hoping to talk to you separate. Gimme sixty dollars for the lot—and don’t tell nobody what ye paid for it.”

  The 1851 Colt Navy revolver was a beautiful piece of work, with brass fittings, a brass trigger guard, and fine walnut grips. B. F. was careful to follow Yukon’s directions regarding the amount of powder to use. He added the ball and patch to each chamber and tamped it down with the rod. Then he placed a percussion cap over the six chambers. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, as he’d seen way too much blood in Placerville to think violent deat
h was somehow romantic.

  He tried wearing it on his waist for about ten minutes in the barbershop and realized it was too cumbersome. Even worse, the gun threatened to pull down his pants. His solution was to hang it on the back of his barber chair. That way he could get to it quickly, and any thief would probably not realize, just by looking, that he was armed.

  Twenty-Six

  I Figured I Kilt Ye

  Placerville, California 1853

  Mary hired Lester Purdy to run the general store portion of her establishment. Yukon had introduced him as a man who knew something about the business, having worked in a store in San Francisco. And he certainly seemed to know what he was doing. She caught him looking at her every few days and gradually came to realize that it didn’t displease her.

  He was taller than most men and sported a short beard. His hair was black but flecked with plenty of gray. He arrived at work on time and never left early. Although she couldn’t be certain, she was fairly sure that he stayed away from the liquor and the ladies at the other end of town.

  On three different occasions she had nicked silver dollars along the edge and then got Ethan to use them to buy something in the store right before closing time. The marked money was always still in the cash box when Lester left. Of course, that didn’t prove anything, but all the same it gave her a level of comfort with the man. Very soon they had a good working relationship. She even heard herself laughing at some of his remarks, and realized she hadn’t heard that sound for a long time.

  My Story October 20, 1853

  Something is just not right about Lester Purdy. He acts nice to Mary and Jane, but has no use for me and Ethan. Maybe I’m comparing him to Mr. Fitzwater. I know that’s not fair, but it’s hard not to when you’re accustomed to the genuine article.