Hard Gold: The Colorado Gold Rush of 1859: A Tale of the Old West

by Avi

  As we went, I kept wondering if Mr. Mawr had spoken to Mr. Bunderly and what he might have told him. If he had, the barber said nothing to me about it. That eased me somewhat. But since Mawr might speak to Lizzy, too, and she being so unpredictable, I still worried.

  May 13

  That day we went only three miles but reached the Nishnabotna River, where we camped. I took Lizzy fishing and got ourselves a catfish. I even cooked it for her.

  She watched intently. “I never saw a man cook before,” she said.

  “I’m a boy.”

  “Does that mean, Mr. Early, you’re going to stop when you get older?”

  “Why must you always ask outlandish questions?” I said.

  She tossed her hair. “I only ask what I wish to know.” Her green eyes seemed fierce.

  “Need you know so much?”

  “Are you comfortable with ignorance?”

  “A body can’t know everything.”

  “Mr. Early, I believe it’s time you started thinking.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Knowing everything is impossible. But knowing nothing is despicable.”

  Unable to argue, I made no reply.

  As the fish was cooking, she said, “Early, why doesn’t Mr. Mawr like you?”

  “Don’t he?”

  “He was asking questions about you.”

  “Like what?”

  “He suggests there are doubtful aspects to your life.”

  “Does he?”

  “So when he asked me about you, I told him I knew your great secret.”

  “You did?” I cried.

  “I confided to him that you were the concealed, if unnatural, son of the Emperor Bonaparte.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Did,” said a grinning Lizzy. “I will say I don’t care for Mr. Mawr.”

  “Me neither.”

  Then she said, “You haven’t noticed.”

  “What?”

  “Since I threw away my bonnet—the result.”

  “What?”

  “Freckles.”

  I looked over and said, “I think you look pretty fine.”

  For once, I detected something like a blush.

  May 14

  We forded Silver Creek near the town of Latimer’s Grove. When we got to the other side, we came upon a camp of some fifteen wagons, all going to the Cherry Creek mines.

  That evening, when the men sat around the fire as they did most nights, there was much talk about Pike’s Peak.

  Lizzy and I sat out on the edge and listened.

  All the men agreed that the gold in Cherry Creek was plentiful. Much talk, too, about the best route to get to the place. Some championed the Platte River route. Mr. Wynkoop insisted that the Republican River trail was most favorable. Mr. Griffin mentioned something called the Smoky Hill route as the shortest.

  A really clear map showing the various trails out to the Pike’s Peak diggings. When the state of Colorado was organized, it was made from parts of the Kansas, Nebraska, Utah, and New Mexico territories.

  There seemed as many points of view as sparks flying from the fire. But in all the arguments it occurred to me that no one really knew. That part was like the fire’s smoke.

  That so many grown men could go so far for so long without knowing the best way startled me.

  May 15

  It being Sunday, we rested. The weather was fine. Some took the time to cast some shot for their guns. Some baked bread. I wished Lizzy would do the same.

  I heard Mrs. Bunderly complain loudly about her health. Mr. Bunderly tried to soothe her. She scolded him for being a fool, and then told Lizzy she was slatternly.

  The girl stomped off.

  Shortly after, Mr. Mawr came along and ordered me to watch the cattle. Sunday or not, I suppose somebody had to do it, and I was the youngest of the hired hands. So although Mr. Mawr was surly with me, I went all the same.

  Apollo trotting by her side, Lizzy found me. The girl said nothing but sat on the ground and watched over the cows with me. “It being Sunday,” she suddenly announced, “I’ll sing you hymns.”

  She did, too: the old Methodist song “How Can We Sinners Know,” and then “Our Ancient Fathers.”

  When she was done, I said, “You’ve got a real fine voice.”

  She said nothing to my compliment but then said, “Early, what do you think of bloomer suits?”

  “Can’t say I know what they are.”

  “Some lady by the name of Miss Bloomer invented them for ladies to wear beneath their skirts. So they might walk and run.”

  “Ladies aren’t supposed to run.”

  “I like to.”

  I looked at her and grinned. “Then you’d best wear bloomers.”

  She giggled and said, “I think I just may.”

  A Bloomer girl! I’m not sure how Lizzy would have looked.

  Next moment she sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” while hugging her pig, who grunted. I suspected she taught the pig to do so. I never knew what Lizzy would do next.

  May 16

  We crossed another creek.

  Having yet to ride in the wagon, I began to wonder if I would walk the whole way.

  By the road we came upon a crude gravestone. It read:

  GEORGE W. RIPLEY

  HARTFORD. CONNECTICUT

  DIED OF A FEVER. 1859

  AGE 6

  RIP

  Lizzy said, “Early, I will pray that his journey to paradise is nearer than Connecticut.” The grave put us in a somber mood.

  May 17

  We went eight miles, and by crossing Keg Creek came within ten miles of Council Bluffs—or so I was told. That evening we found a camp of some eight wagons. One wagon had these familiar words on its canvas:

  PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST!

  But someone had crossed off the first three words, then added some letters so that it read

  BUSTED BY THUNDER

  We discovered that these people, all men, looking weary and sadly worn, were coming back from the Pike’s Peak diggings, going home to Ohio state. I was shocked.

  A “go-backer” or “stampeder,” heading back East—if he can make it.

  We made camp nearby, for naturally we wanted to learn their story.

  The men of our train—with Lizzy and me—approached their camp and introduced themselves.

  It was Mr. Bunderly who said, “Gentlemen, we’ve only just begun heading toward the Kansas mining territory and would be pleased to gain from your experiences.”

  These Ohio men, twenty-four in all, were sullen and seemed reluctant to speak. But then one of them said, “Mister, if you want the truth, it’s this: you are fools to go there.”

  “There’s no gold to be had in Cherry Creek,” said another.

  “Nothing?” said Mr. Mawr.

  “Nothing.”

  “But—”

  “We’ve been there,” said another. “It’s all a humbug. A pack of lies.”

  We pressed them for particulars, but the Ohioans would say little, other than to repeat what they had already said.

  Our group retreated, but I stayed behind. There was one old grizzled man in the returning train who kept himself somewhat apart. I went up to him.

  “Sir,” I ventured, “when you were out at the Cherry Creek mines did you ever meet a man by the name of Jesse Plockett?”

  “Jesse Plockett?” he returned, his bleary eyes much more alert than before.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What makes you ask about him?”

  “He’s my near relation.”

  “Is he now?” He studied me for a while. “Fancy that. You going out to him?”

  “Yes, sir. Is he alive and well?” I asked.

  “Alive? Last I heard, he was. As for being well … I couldn’t rightly say.”

  “Why?” I asked, alarmed.

  The man seemed to consider his words. Then he said, “They say he killed a man.”

  “Killed a man! What ha
ppened?”

  “Can’t say I know for sure.”

  No matter how I pressed him he would add nothing. I went back to our camp greatly agitated. The things people were saying about Jesse! That he was a robber. A murderer. All I had to do was close my eyes and I’d see his wild golden hair, his walk, and that smile which always made me glad. I could hear his easy, laughing talk, too. No, what people said was not the Jesse I knew. And since I had no doubt that Jesse had gotten gold, I decided these men were wrongheaded about all the rest they said, too.

  When I got back to our camp I was relieved to see that the men did not believe the go-backers either. We would press on.

  When I returned to our wagon, Lizzy came up to me. “What were you asking that man back there?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Mr. Early,” she shouted after me, “there are times Apollo says more than you!”

  May 18

  Started at dawn and worked our way up and down through a valley, then up some hills, from which we saw Council Bluffs city. Beyond was the great Missouri River. Knowing that when we crossed the river we would be in the Kansas Territory, I became greatly excited!

  We had made progress, after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Farewell to Iowa

  COUNCIL BLUFFS was the biggest town I’d ever seen. A fellow told me that some two thousand people lived there. Plus, the city was stuffed with emigrants (mostly young men, but some women, too), in hundreds of wagons and tents, along with oxen, mules, and horses. I’d never believed you could fit so many people and beasts in one place, a small valley between sandy bluffs that overlooked the Missouri River.

  Seemed most everybody was going to Pike’s Peak. But to get any farther west you had to cross the river. That meant, as some folks said, “leaving civilization.”

  There were three ferries, which went back and forth all day. Even so, they weren’t enough to carry all the people and wagons wanting to cross. It was like water backing up behind a beaver dam. All we could do was get in line and wait to take our turn.

  Try counting the wagons here, and you’ll sense just how many there were waiting to cross the river.

  Our team chose the middle ferry (because that’s where we hauled up), a steam side-paddle boat called The Nebraska Number One. It could (and did!) carry twelve wagons with their teams, making thirty to forty crossings each day!

  May 19

  Waiting for our turn left plenty of time to do nothing. I decided to look about Council Bluffs, so I asked Mrs. Bunderly for permission to take Lizzy with me.

  “Mr. Early,” she returned, “I’m not sure it will be safe. Speak to Mr. Bunderly.”

  When I repeated her words to him, Mr. Bunderly said, “Alas, Mr. Early, my good wife does poorly today. When pain obscures her world, melancholy holds her heart. I worry about her much. But,” he added, forcing a smile, “better grin than grimace.

  “As for Miss Eliza, by all means, let her accompany you. But be prudent, Mr. Early, prudent! Do not fail me or her unfortunate mother in protecting the girl. She is the jewel in our otherwise lusterless crown.”

  Having received permission, I asked Lizzy to come with me, for which I was given a fine look which gratified me. So we set forth, me being mostly quiet, she chattering and commenting on all we saw. I never knew one to so love seeing.

  But then, Council Bluffs was a whirligig of gold fever. Crowds of people tramping about on the dusty, deeprutted main street, a never-ending market of men selling, buying or trading the most amazing things. Lizzy pointed out a man offering a barrowload of ladies’silk shoes in exchange for shovels. Beaver pelts swapped for axes. Five dollars for a wheelbarrow. Four for a hatchet!

  It seemed like every commercial establishment we saw bore a name like “Pike’s Peak Hotel,” or “Pike’s Peak Outfits,” or “Pike’s Peak Lunch.” I imagined that if they could have branded water, there would have been “Pike’s Peak Water.” Lizzy even bought some “Pike’s Peak Candy Nuggets” with a three-penny coin she had. They proved sweetly sour.

  Voices filled the air, all of them, it seemed, speaking about Pike’s Peak. Pike’s Peak this, Pike’s Peak that. Much of the talk was furious argument about which way to go. How to go—by wagon, handcarts, or just plain walking. There were arguments about if to go, as well. Though most wanted to get to Pike’s Peak, some were going to the California diggings. Or to Oregon, which had just become a state. There was even a group of Mormons going to Salt Lake. Someone told us they had come from a country called Denmark. They surely spoke no language I knew.

  We paused to observe a man standing on a soapbox, barking at a jeering crowd.

  “Friends!” he cried. “There’s no gold to be found at Pike’s Peak!” He kept shouting. “It’s all a fraud! A lie! A humbug! All made up by these river towns, who want to take our money and leave us to rot in the desert! I’ve been there. There is nothing!”

  Prospectors often kept their gold dust in hollow feather quills.

  A man held up a small cloth bag. “I found some!”

  The crowd cheered. Whether the man actually did or did not have gold, we never knew for sure. But how I wished it had been Jesse!

  There was a terrible amount of drinking (I had never seen so many saloons), gambling, and profanity right on the streets. Enough to make the devil blush. I was nervous about Lizzy, but she remained calm until she cried, “Look!”

  I turned toward where she pointed, and saw two women pass by dressed in rough jackets and what looked to be oversize, almost billowy trousers beneath their skirts.

  “Bloomers!” said Lizzy with great admiration.

  It was a world such as I had never seen before.

  As we continued to wander through the crowds, I chanced to observe Mr. Mawr. Being so big, he was hard to miss, but I was sure he had not seen us. There being something purposeful in his walk, I wanted to follow him.

  “Lizzy,” I whispered. “It’s Mr. Mawr. I need to see where he’s going.”

  “Why?”

  “Just follow!”

  Though the crowds were thick, he wasn’t difficult to follow. We watched when he went into a small building that bore the sign:

  CHICAGO AND NORTH

  WESTERN RAILWAY

  Seeing it, I gasped.

  “What’s wrong?” Lizzy asked.

  “Come with me,” I said, grabbing her hand and leading the way out of town until we sat on one of the bluffs overlooking the river. I was so upset, I put all my caution aside and told Lizzy my story from the beginning: the railroad wanting to buy our farm; our fear of losing the farm to foreclosure; Judge Fuslin accusing Jesse of robbing the bank; Jesse going off to the diggings in search of gold to pay that debt; his message; the judge’s connection to Mr. Mawr; even what the go-backer had said about Jesse having killed someone.

  She listened intently.

  “Right after we moved to Wiota I heard talk about the bank robbery,” she said.

  “What did you hear?”

  “That it was somebody named Plockett.”

  Feeling wretched, I shook my head.

  “Early,” she asked, “is he … your uncle?”

  Greatly agitated, I could only nod. “I won’t believe it was him.”

  We sat silently for a few minutes as I tried to sort my thoughts. “Lizzy,” I said, “I’ll wager that railroad office is where the railroad is meaning to go. But to get there, it’s got to run right through our farm.”

  “What’s Mr. Mawr got to do with it?”

  “Maybe,” I suggested, “he’s going to keep me from even getting to Cherry Creek.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “So he can find Jesse on his own. Then he’d try to get Jesse’s gold for himself. Why? Because if that gold doesn’t get back home, Fuslin—and the railroad—will get our farm.”

  “Then we have to make sure Mr. Mawr doesn’t stop you,” she said.

  “But Lizzy, if I do get through, I might be leading Mawr right to Jesse
. Don’t want to do that, either. I just wish I knew what he’s scheming!” I cried out in frustration.

  “Early,” she said after a while, “what about… about your Jesse killing someone. You think that’s true?”

  I shook my head. “If I know anyone, it’s Jesse. He wouldn’t.”

  She put her hand on my arm. “Early, I do admire your faith in your kin.”

  I looked at her, trying to tell if she believed me or not. But I did not want to ask. Instead I stared out at the river.

  May 20

  Though waiting for the ferry frustrated me, our wagons stayed in line on the east bank of the Missouri River. It must have discouraged Mr. Wynkoop, too. Or perhaps he took to heart the word “humbug” when applied to the diggings. After the second day of waiting, he abruptly announced he was going to stay in Council Bluffs and set himself up as the carpenter he was. So he and his family left us.

  I only wished Mr. Mawr would leave.

  We remained by the riverbank. I didn’t want to go back into town. Too crowded, too loud, and too profane. Then there was that railroad office. I kept thinking about what Mr. Bigalow had said when he tried to buy the farm, that the Chicago and North Western Railway might well find a way to make us sell our land to them. I had to believe that was Mr. Mawr’s job now—to keep me from helping Jesse, or keep Jesse’s gold from getting home.

  Lizzy, being required to stay with her mother, left me alone to sit by the riverbank for hours, gazing out over the Missouri, which was about a mile across and awful muddy. Even the local people called it “The Big Muddy.”

  The water was high from upriver spring rains, swirling and snarling with powerful currents and eddies. Amazing to see a river could be so wide or so churning. Truly menacing. All manner of logs, tree branches, lumber, and once a small empty skiff (upside down) flowed with it. I even saw the bloated carcass of a horse float by.

  Other times I went to the steamboat jetty, where there were great piles of goods meant to be sold to emigrants going west: bales of dry goods, hundred-pound sacks of sugar and flour, cured meats, coffee, and dried fruits. Cases of lard, molasses, casks of butter, and salted fish. Lumber. Never saw such mounds of stuff. It had been brought on big rear paddle wheelers, mostly from St. Louis city, a city (we were told) much bigger than Council Bluffs, though I could hardly give it credence. I would have liked to see one of the big steam wheelers, but none came while we were there.