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

by Avi

  That’s a stern paddle wheeler on the Missouri.

  Probably just in from St. Louis.

  Whenever her mother released Lizzy, we’d wander off and talk—as we did so often—about what we would do once we got to the diggings.

  “Jesse and I are going to buy our own farm,” I told her.

  “I shall build myself a mansion,” said Lizzy, “with an elegant ballroom. Once a week all the fine ladies and gentlemen shall come and dance.”

  “I suspect you’d need to wear something better than calico,” I said.

  She closed her eyes. “Velvet,” she whispered. “Green velvet.”

  The thought of skinny, big-shoed, freckled-faced Lizzy in velvet made me laugh so, she yanked up a dirt clod and flung it at me.

  Mrs. Bunderly was feeling sufficiently better so that she and Lizzy went to the riverside and did some washing. Mr. Bunderly wandered around the waiting wagons offering haircuts and shaves. He found a few paying customers, which cheered him enormously. Upon his return, he proudly held out his palm in which lay two liberty quarter dollars.

  “Mr. Early, Miss Eliza,” he said, “it is independent commerce that animates this noble nation. It matters not a whit how great or how small the enterprise. Let it be my scissors or a great New England cloth manufactory, each contributes to the wealth of all.”

  Later, Lizzy said to me, “What do you think of my pa?”

  “I like the way his words build up high like church steeples,” I said.

  “Early,” she sighed, “you are a kind and generous person.”

  When Lizzy was allowed, she and I wandered among the waiting wagons. People were rearranging their goods, or trading with each other. Talking. Arguing. Once we came upon some fiddlers as well as boys playing baseball, the lopsided ball made of stitched leather and stuffed with horsehair, the bat a tree branch.

  All during this time, I was intent upon avoiding Mr. Mawr. For the most part, he didn’t pay much attention to me. But every now and again, he’d happen to come by. I suppose he was keeping watch on me. Nothing more. Not yet.

  May 21

  We moved to the head of the line. Our steam-paddle ferry carried twelve wagons each passage and charged five dollars for each wagon. If we wished to go on, there was no choice.

  We rolled our wagons onto the ferry, set the brakes, and tied the wheels down so they wouldn’t move. Then came the oxen. As they were skittish, it took a fair deal of pushing, shoving, and whipping to get them in place. Then we had to calm them, which was my job. Though her mother objected, Lizzy worked with me.

  The river’s wildness made us uneasy, especially Mrs. Bunderly. She determined to stay inside the wagon and not watch. As for Mr. Bunderly, for once he barely said a word, which meant he too was nervous. Now and again the oxen lowed for the unnaturalness of the crossing.

  I was more excited than tense, feeling we were crossing a great boundary, the division between past and future. I suspect Lizzy felt the same, for when she looked at me, she offered a gleeful smile.

  As our ferry was getting ready to push away, I saw another in front of us. It was a small, raftlike boat, carrying only two wagons, oxen, and a few people being poled slowly across.

  As I watched, that other ferry suddenly tilted to one side.

  “Lizzy!” I cried. “Look!”

  We stared, horrified, as the people on the raft began yelling and screaming, moving to the opposite side of the ferry while the oxen began to bellow, their desperate cries reaching across the river. It was to no avail: the ferry listed so heavily, so quickly, a pair of yoked oxen lost their footing and tumbled into the river. But they must have been tied to a wagon, for one cascaded into the water, too. It sent up a great billowing splash and was swept immediately away, only to sink in the roiling waters. Behind, the ferry raft righted itself, and nothing more was lost.

  But from that ferry came the most dreadful cries of lamentation, appalling to hear. I saw a man restrain a woman from leaping into the waters. We would learn later that a one-year-old child had been sleeping within the wagon that was lost—drowned.

  God have mercy!

  After the river tragedy, Mrs. Bunderly no longer wished to stay inside our wagon. I, too, was nervous the rest of the way. Lizzy gripped my hand.

  We got across and reached the landing place. Once on the far banks, we worked our way through the little town of Omaha, which I was told had been made by the Mormons. Fewer houses than Council Bluffs, mostly log built; a few streets; plus one hotel, and a sea of mud.

  We camped in a grove of cottonwood trees, perhaps two miles beyond the terrible river. Mrs. Bunderly sobbed loud prayers of thanks, and I joined in, thinking mostly of that poor, lost babe.

  Lizzy sat upon the ground, clutched her knees, and sang softly to herself.

  Having seen the tragedy in the river, we were forcibly reminded of the many dangers that lay ahead—dangers of which we had no true knowledge.

  That said, we were safely across. After almost a month of travel we had at last entered Nebraska Territory! All we had to do was get across the most of it, and there we’d be, right along Cherry Creek.

  With Jesse.

  And Mr. Mawr.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Into Nebraska

  BEYOND OMAHA was a great crowd of wagons. They were just sitting there, as if catching breath for what was going to happen next—crossing what was called the Great American Desert.

  The four wagons we had had when we began had been reduced to three. Word was that you didn’t dare go across in a train of fewer than twelve. Much too dangerous. You might lose your way, meet hostile Indians, stampeding buffalo, hungry wolves, or catch all manner of sicknesses, suffer wagon breakdowns or dying oxen, or a millions other perils you never considered when you began. No wonder emigrants believed in the safety of numbers, with sometimes as many as fifty wagons in a train.

  When Mr. Bunderly was about to go off with the men to find a bigger train to join, I heard Mrs. Bunderly say, “Mr. Bunderly, I beg you. Let’s go no farther. I’ll not survive.”

  “Cheerful heart,” he returned, “you’ve managed magnificently thus far. Certainly some hazards lurk before us. But with courage and fortitude, we shall find prosperity and excellent health hovering beyond the horizon.”

  “I am ill, Mr. Bunderly, ill! Words can’t cure me.”

  A little later, I asked Lizzy, “Is your ma doing very poorly?”

  “I think so,” she answered. “Her fevers come in waves, and she’s exhausted. And even more frightened. Early,” she said, “I pity her, but her whole world is her ailments. It’s too small for me.”

  I watched and listened as our people, trying to join a bigger train, went around and talked to other emigrants. There was much debate about which route to take, but also about traveling rules—Sabbath travel, liquor, who would be in charge of what: night watch, scouting, hunting, what tasks would women or children do, and the like. Endless rules, debates, and finally agreements.

  Even when a train was set, there were debates about who was going to be captain and who lieutenant. The men all agreed you had to organize military style, this being the only way to deal with the trail dangers. That said, I did see one solitary fellow heading west, pushing nothing but a wheelbarrow into which his provisions were piled. I always wondered what became of him. I cannot believe he survived—but perhaps he did, and struck it rich at that.

  I really did see people head out from Omaha pushing barrows laden with digging tools.

  I wonder how many made it.

  In the end we linked up with fifteen wagons—some twenty families, with extra hands like I was—emigrants from Iowa, Missouri, Wisconsin, and Ohio. All told, our train had about ninety-five souls, mostly men, but women and children, too. To be sure, Mr. Mawr was one of the men. He was not going to lose me.

  There certainly were all kinds of people crossing the plains.

  Our chosen captain was a Mr. Ezekiel Boxler out of Wisconsin state. He got the
post because this was his second trip (he having returned to collect his family), and he claimed he knew the way. A Mr. Khlor from Missouri was selected as lieutenant.

  After two days of organizing—everything from nightly guard duty to what kind of card games were allowed (euchre and cribbage)—it was agreed we’d start the next morning. Our plan was to take the Platte River route halfway across the Nebraska Territory, then follow the south branch of the Platte, which would lead us right to Cherry Creek. Though somewhat longer than other routes, it was considered safer.

  At the last moment, Apollo, Lizzy’s pig, disappeared. We searched everywhere, but to no avail. Furious, she believed he had been stolen. I suspected she was right.

  “You may not believe me, Mr. Early,” she said, “but Apollo was my truest friend. It is hard to think of one’s best friend as having been eaten.”

  “I could take his place,” I offered. “I’m not particularly eatable.”

  She was not amused.

  May 23

  What can one say about a slow journey across a desert? To begin, I can say only that it made home seem a long way back, and the future that much further. Secondly, it was most amazing how vast the land was. Not always flat but often rolling, sometimes even hilly. In the main, though, it was level, with a horizon always unreachable.

  But while you might think such a barren place would have no people, in truth, not a trail day passed without our seeing some settler’s home built of wood scraps, an old wagon, or sod, established midway between nowhere and nothing. We also passed many a tumbledown structure that sold liquor, in a world no true spirits could inhabit. Dreadful, filthy places they were; our train always passed them by.

  Now and again we saw Indians—the Pawnee people at first, then Sioux, and finally Arapaho, who gazed at us even as we gazed at them, strangers to one another.

  Yet the most amazing thing—considering all the open space—was the sight of so many wagons toiling in the same direction as we. Sometimes it seemed as if the entire eastern half of our nation had tipped itself so high, everybody was tumbling down west—an endless parade of big white ants.

  This will give you an idea about the great numbers of people crossing the Great American Desert!

  At night, when all were camped, you could see fires flaring in a continuous line that marked the trail from wherever you were into the distant darkness that always was there. When I had guard duty—rifle and Mr. Boxler’s old bugle at my side, every third night from eight to twelve—the fires were a comfort.

  Seeing all those wagons and people, I could only hope that the gold we were seeking was truly abundant. Having heard otherwise, I worried much about the lot of unhappy emigrants with empty pockets, sore bodies, and broken hearts. Had we not already seen some of them? The more I knew of Lizzy, the more certain I was that she would prevail. But the more I understood of Mr. and Mrs. Bunderly, the more certain I became that they’d made a mistake by having come. Too frail, by far.

  How often did I console myself with Jesse’s words: I have found gold! Enough to pay our debt. How much I tried to put my faith in that.

  May 24

  At a triple blast of Mr. Boxler’s bugle we commenced our trek from Omaha in the morning and went five miles across the high prairie. Along the trail, grass grew abundantly, which meant cattle could graze.

  With the days dry and the sun hot, the trains kicked up a world of dust!

  Midday we spied a line of trees far out to the northwest that we hoped marked the Platte River—our main route west. But first we crossed the Elkhorn River on a government bridge.

  Then, after three more miles, we saw some Pawnee Indians. Some of them stopped and asked for food. If I understood matters, they were at war with the Sioux.

  It must be said that though Indians were much feared, and some emigrants recounted tales of stolen horses or tragic raids, the Indians we saw never committed a hostile act against us.

  May 27

  It was a few days before we reached the Platte River, which we intended to follow until we reached Cherry Creek. The Platte was wide and shallow, sometimes beautiful, sometimes drab, its muddy waters warm, with many islands big and small.

  Nor did we just stay on one side. Since the river had many loops and turns, it created marshlands and quicksands. Here Mr. Boxler’s knowledge proved vital, for he led us back and forth over the river so as to avoid such places.

  Sometimes the trail was fine though rutted. By the deep ruts, you could see how many countless others had already passed. Other times it was sandy, so wheels sank down. That made it hard for our laboring oxen. All too often there would be but brackish water or sparse prairie grass for our animals to feed on, plus swarms of mosquitoes, who fed on us.

  Once, when we were crossing the river, we hauled up on an island only to have high winds blow in, so that our wagons were stuck midstream for two days.

  May 30

  As we went on, there were dispiriting markers to show the way—by which I mean, the many trailside graves. Mr. Boxler said the trail was the longest cemetery in the world. I could see for myself how many had come, how many went on, and how many stayed behind.

  Also left behind were broken wagons, worn boots, discarded goods that had proved too heavy or useless. Once we came upon an abandoned piano.

  And bones! Bones of abandoned oxen, of cattle, and once, human bones, all bleached more white than white itself—ghastly ghosts that turned to dust where they lay.

  Each object left a story told in silence.

  June 2

  Though as usual we started at sunup (breakfast: cold bean soup, bread, molasses, and weak coffee), we took a wrong turn and got lost despite our experienced captain. Had to go back. Then we ran short of water and didn’t find any until about nine. Only got back to the Platte River in the afternoon. Everybody, humans and beasts, was exhausted. Indeed, Mrs. Bunderly let it be known that it would not be long before she departed this mortal world.

  “Do you think she might really die?” I asked Lizzy.

  “My father is always talking and my ma is always dying,” was her response. Then she said, “You must think me cruel. They want so little and don’t get much.

  “Early, you won’t believe our migration. From Utica, New York, to Ohio. Then on to Tennessee, Illinois, and lastly to your town in Iowa. Hardly there a month. Now this. Every place we go, we live on the edge of disaster—and always seem to leap just before we truly fall.”

  I thought of my family, who had never moved, and did not want to. To be sure, there was comfort in what I knew. But if I did not know anything beyond home, how could I measure its comfort? As it’s said: you can’t know the pleasure of an old boot till you walk a new road.

  June 3

  I saw a gigantic prairie-dog town—as crowded as Council Bluffs. The way those creatures sat up and kept watch on their mounds, then darted about, was comical.

  Most nights people gathered around one of the fires and shared stories. Generally they were about their own lives, travels, and travails. Sometimes there was a funny story, such as from Mr. Shotcraft of Wisconsin, who (mistakenly) trapped a skunk under his bed.

  I loved watching the prairie dogs. Almost comical the way they sit up, keep watch, and scurry about in their great big towns.

  June 4

  This day I saw buffalo, a herd of them, a herd so immense it was impossible to count their numbers—a brown ocean flooding over the prairie, rolling slowly with ponderous magnitude. Our captain, Mr. Boxler, took pains to warn us we must do nothing to rile them, lest they stampede and trample our train to dust.

  June 6

  We saw antelope, and they were beautiful. Lizzy loved to watch them run. “I’d like to run like that,” she mused.

  “Get some bloomers,” I advised.

  June 7

  The land we passed over, though mostly flat, had many a sandy bluff, with mostly good water to be found and enough grass for our cattle to graze at the end of a day. I saw some trees—cottonwoo
d, I supposed—but not too many. Wood being scarce, I was regularly sent out to secure buffalo chips—dried buffalo manure—to burn. Though it didn’t provide much heat, it fired enough to cook our food.

  The collecting of the chips was something the wagon train’s children were sent to do. After a day cooped up in the wagons or walking through the dust, they found it a joy to run and screech. But there was always fear that a little one would wander into the tall prairie grass and be lost forever.

  Lizzy, released by her mother, and I, by Mr. Bunderly, were very happy to walk free and collect chips, too. Happily, buffalo were many, and chips not difficult find.

  One day we came upon a large, sick buffalo. It was quite alone in its suffering. I’d not seen one up close before. It was huge, most likely six feet tall, with shaggy brown fur, a mane, a beard under its chin, and a long tail with a tuft of hair at the end. Its head was truly gigantic, with short, sharp black horns, and it had a hump on its shoulders that suggested great power and strength. One of our train supposed it might weigh a ton.

  Mr. Armon shot it dead. The meat was shared, and that, I will admit, was good for a change.

  June 8–11

  Our endless walking continued. At times I wondered if anyone had ever walked so far! Then I recalled that those who were going to Salt Lake, Oregon, and California were going even farther!

  Once, as I was walking, thinking I know not what, Lizzy came along and walked by my side.

  She did not speak. Nor did I. Then I heard a great sigh, and sensed her shoulders shaking.

  “Lizzy!” I said, turning toward her.