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

by Avi

  As for saloons, while there were too many to count, there was no church, and there wouldn’t be a school until October. For that matter, there was nothing that looked like a city hall, or any kind of government building. Cherry Creek seemed to be about riches and drink.

  But what about those heaps of gold that you could scoop up with a shovel such as Jesse had read about in the newspaper? All we had to do was look about and see there was nothing of the kind. But if dirt, dust, and mud were gold, I’d have been twice as rich as King Croesus. The truth was, everyone I saw looked as poor as Job—and just as miserable.

  In other words, those first 1858 reports of gold did prove a bust. “Humbug” had been an apt word. But that was only the beginning of the story. In the early spring of 1859, prospectors went into the mountains and did find gold. A lot of it. When word got out about these new discoveries, people flocked in from the east. This time they didn’t stop at Cherry Creek, but headed straight for the mines.

  I asked a man on the street where I might find information about someone.

  “A miner?” He spoke loudly, as if not used to speaking. Perhaps he was partly deaf.

  “I think so.”

  “You can look around,” he said. “But most folks have gone to the mountains, to the Gregory diggings!” He waved a hand in a westerly direction, taking in the numberless mountains. “Who you looking for?”

  “Someone named Jesse Plockett.”

  The man had been paying scant attention until I said the name. Then he turned, studied me, and glanced away again, as if trying to make up his mind. Shifting back, he pointed and said, “Try Denver House. Blake Street. On the Denver side. Can’t miss it. Biggest building in town. If any one knows about Plockett, they will.”

  Lizzy and I started off. As we went along, Lizzy said, “Early, the way that man reacted when you said Jesse’s name—it didn’t seem good.”

  I agreed. “Wish he’d said more.”

  We walked on, though now and again I paused to look about to see if we were being followed. It didn’t appear so. But the man had spoken so loudly that if Mr. Mawr had been close by, he would know exactly where we were going.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Denver House

  WE CROSSED over Cherry Creek on a rough plank bridge and soon discovered the pine-log building we’d been told to look for. DENVER HOUSE was proclaimed over the doorway. It was hardly more than a hundred feet wide, thirty-something deep, and was a single story with a canvas roof.

  Off to one side were some corrals for horses. One had a sign over the gate: THE ELEPHANT, that pulled me up short. Was that what was meant by “seeing the elephant”?

  Inside, it was hot and dim, with only a little light seeping through glassless windows. A long serving bar ran the full depth of the building. Behind the bar were shelves crowded with bottles of gin, rum, and whisky. Cigars were also being sold. A water barrel of filthy water was there. The stench of tobacco and liquor was thick.

  Behind the bar was a big-stomached fellow with a flat, thickly bearded face, large red nose, and ears large enough to hear anything he wanted. Deep-set eyes were streaked yellow, giving them a sickly cast.

  On the wall opposite the bar were six small cubicles, set off by canvas curtains. Over them was a sign:

  Bedroom 10 cents a night

  I suppose they allowed Denver House its claim of being a hotel.

  Set about a dirt floor were rickety tables at which some twenty or so men were drinking and playing cards. The only sounds were the shuffling of cards, murmurs of frustration, and swearing. Midst the gambling, someone would call for more drink, which the man behind the bar poured from a bottle into a dirty glass and served. Off to one side was a billiards table. No one was playing.

  A few men had their heads down on tables, buried in sleep or stupor. On the tables were coins and feather quills. The quills—as I was to learn—contained gold dust, the town’s principal currency.

  A prospector is offering up his gold dust, which will be weighed in the scales and evaluated. Then he can buy some food.

  When no one paid Lizzy or me the slightest attention, I approached the man behind the bar.

  “Please, sir, can you help me? I’ve just arrived in town.”

  “You have my condolences,” the man replied in a loud voice. “Can I offer you a complimentary glass of Taos Lightning?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our special blend of whisky, pepper, tobacco, and gunpowder.”

  A look of disgust must have registered on my face.

  “Not half bad,” he insisted.

  “No, thanks,” I said in haste.

  “Just know,” he cautioned, “that from here on in, every drink will cost you a pinch of gold dust.” He held up a hand with large fingers. “And my pinch,” he said with something that might be considered a smile, “is big.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Looking for work, then? I can get you a dollar a day plus board. The work is only twelve hours the day.”

  “What it is, sir, I’m looking for someone from back home.”

  “You’re not the first,” he said, as if to say, You won’t be the last. “Where you from?” he asked. “Who you looking for?”

  “Iowa state. A man named Jesse Plockett.”

  “Jesse Plockett,” he repeated and gazed at me with what I took to be more than casual interest, not unlike the man we had spoken to on the street. “What’s he to do with you?” he demanded.

  “I come from his home—Cass County, Iowa. His family told me to ask about him when I arrived.” That part was true. But I lied when I added, “He’s sent no word.”

  “I suppose he wouldn’t,” said the man. “Mail is slow. Used to come through Fort Laramie, if it came at all. Got ourselves a post office now. But I’d hardly expect Plockett to tell anyone about where—” The barkeep broke off his words. Instead, he looked around, and bellowed, “This boy—just arrived from civilization—wants to know about Jesse Plockett.”

  There had been hardly any noise in the place. The barkeep’s words made even that cease. Half a dozen of the gamblers turned and considered me with curiosity.

  “Who’s going to tell him?” the barkeep called.

  A man pushed himself up from his chair. “I suppose I can,” he said. He flipped his greasy cards on the table. “Nothing left for me here.”

  The man, who reeked of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat, wore a red flannel shirt and old leather trousers. His skin was grimy and weathered dark, while a thick beard proclaimed him a prime customer for Mr. Bunderly. On his head perched a battered bowler. His boots were broken enough so that you could see his dirty toes. From his much cinched belt hung a bowie blade. His breathing was deep and raspy.

  “Sit over there,” he ordered in a gruff voice, indicating an empty table in a corner.

  “All right, then,” the man began when we were all seated and he had looked us over. “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen,” I said.

  He looked at Lizzy.

  “The same,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed. “You two alone?”

  “With my father,” said Lizzy. “We just came by wagon train.”

  “They will keep coming,” said the man, as much to himself as to us. “How come you want to know about Jesse Plockett?”

  I said, “His family wants news of him.”

  “Do they?” he said, breathing hard.

  “Yes, sir, they do.

  The man clasped his hands before him. “My name’s Willard,” he said, offering no last name. “From Cambridge, Mass. Got here in the late summer of’58. One of the first, sucked in by those reports of easy Pike’s Peak pickings. You hear about them?”

  Remembering Jesse’s newspapers, I nodded.

  “Yes, there’s gold in the creek,” he went on. “River, too, for that matter. Not worth a Boston brag. Work a day and you might get a pinch. Say, twenty-five-cents’worth. Enough to get yourself a drink. So if the work don’t ki
ll you, that drink will.

  “So I went cross the river, following the creeks up into the mountains. Lots did. Above that settlement, the one they’re calling Red Rocks, or Boulder, up at Mud Lake, I met your Plockett fellow. You ever meet him?” Willard asked, his dark eyes fixed on me.

  I said, “What’s the Jesse you knew look like?”

  His description fit Jesse pretty close, so he must have known him.

  “You say you came by wagon train?” the man asked. “Working it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Most do. But this Jesse fellow, he paid the train he came with to take him.”

  “He did?” I said.

  “So he boasted. Anyway, when I met him, Jesse was panning along Mud Lake. Raising color, too. Not a whole lot, mind, but considerable more than you’d get down here. Worked hard. Harder than most. Stuck with it. Didn’t complain. Well, nothing out of the ordinary. Said he had to make money for his people back home. Lots say that. Jesse seemed to mean it.

  “Bit by bit he had himself a pile. Some do,” he added wistfully, thereby letting us know he hadn’t. “Not that I ever saw what he got. But I didn’t doubt it.

  “The past winter was—so they claim—mild. If so, I’d hate to see a hard one. So Jesse worked on. Least till the cold came and the creeks froze. Then he had to quit.

  “Came down here to wait the weather out. You couldn’t get back to the states. You’d be crazed to cross the winter prairie.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Stuck here like the rest, counting snowflakes. Guarding what he had. No real bank to keep your dust. No regular law, either. But there are thieves. So you’re pretty stupid if you talk about what you got.”

  “Did Jesse do that?”

  “He must have. Because one day in February he came in here—”

  “This place?”

  Willard nodded. “Like a wild man. Had a Sharps rifle with him. Claimed his gold had been stolen. Accused a fellah named Thornberry. From Tennessee, as I recollect. You might guess what happened. Argument. Fight. Jesse shot the man dead.”

  “Killed him,” I echoed dully, my heart sinking.

  “As dead as cold rock. Well, folks rose up and grabbed your Jesse. Hauled him away. No jail around here. So they nailed him into a little house down the way.

  With no regular law courts, the miners organized courts on their own and dispensed quick justice. When Jesse was brought to trial, the scene might have looked like this.

  “Word got around. People got excited. Well, it was winter. Ever notice how fast justice works when there’s nothing else to do? A jury of peers—all fair and square—was gathered. That barkeep was judge.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jesse was found guilty. Sentenced to be hung.”

  “Hung!” I cried.

  “Only, the night before the event, he worked his way out of his jail. Kicked the side out.”

  “But… where did he go?” I said with real dismay.

  “In the mountains, I’d guess, somewhere. No one knows for sure. Word has it he went to a place called Gold Hill. Lots of folks there. Good diggings. Anyway, he hasn’t been found. If they do, they’ll still hang him.”

  “Did they look for him?”

  “No one has the time for that. ‘Course, if he shows up again …”

  “How … how can I find him?”

  “It was winter when he went. He might not even be alive. If you’re looking, try Gold Hill. But I’ve got a favor to ask: can you buy me a decent dinner? It’s been a while.”

  Lizzy gave him a coin and we began to quit the place. At the door I turned around to nod a good-bye. That was when I saw Mr. Mawr stepping out of one of those little curtained rooms.

  No doubt he’d heard it all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Going After Jesse

  AS LIZZY and I stepped away from Denver House, I could not have talked, not even if I wanted to. Hearing that story about Jesse had made me sick of heart, truly frightened. Was that the Jesse I knew?

  But what Willard said made sense. Jesse saying he was working hard for his family: that was Jesse. His paying his way out to the diggings: I hated to think about how he had managed that. Regarding what had happened at Cherry Creek: it fit the letter he wrote. As for Jesse having killed someone, this was the second time I’d been told as much. And Mr. Mawr had heard it all!

  We were moving toward the place where Mr. Bunderly had set up his shop when I stopped walking. “Lizzy,” I cried, “I never saw Jesse harm anyone. Never! It would be so awful …” I felt pain raising in my chest. Then I had a memory of him right before he went west: the two of us sitting out in the woods. He’d just shot a pigeon dead. What had he said? “Wish that was old Fuslin.” Was that the true Jesse?

  I don’t know how long I had been standing there when Lizzy said, “What are you going to do?”

  What I said, barely, was, “Go to Gold Hill.”

  “Have any idea where it is?”

  “Out there,” I said, nodding toward those ever-present mountains. At the moment they seemed to be another world, even vaster than the desert I’d just come across.

  When Lizzy said nothing, I said, “You see Mawr?”

  She nodded.

  “For sure he’ll be going after Jesse. I got to get to Jesse first. You can stay with your father.”

  “Early Wittcomb! I would have thought you knew me better. I mean to go with you.”

  “Truly?”

  “Oh, how each day I lament the loss of my pig, who had the gift of true understanding!”

  I grinned. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

  “Good,” she said, calming down. “Now, are you going to help me find a house?”

  It proved impossible to find an empty house, at least not a fully made one. We could have taken an abandoned place, but finishing it would hold us a while, and I was in a hurry.

  After much looking, we found a poor but complete cottonwood log house. A woman by the name of Mrs. Rascoe resided there. She had come from Texas the previous fall and was living with her two infant children while her prospector husband was in the mountains. They had built the cabin, chinked it with mud, and then he’d left. He’d been gone for so long without sending word that Mrs. Rascoe wasn’t sure where he was. While awaiting his return, she was pleased to rent one half of the house for ten dollars a month.

  Denver wasn’t much when it began. But its streets were sure wide.

  Like so many other houses, it had but two rooms—or rather, one room divided into two parts by canvas. Another piece of canvas served as window covering. The furniture consisted of a wooden crate and bed. The floor was just dirt.

  Mrs. Rascoe was an amiable woman, more than happy to have paying tenants who appeared likely to stay and were willing to talk. “It’ll be good to have a woman about,” she said to Lizzy. “There aren’t many here.”

  Having located a place to live, we returned to Mr. Bunderly. He had found someone to shave and thereby earned his “first Cherry Creek gold,” as he put it. “Miss Eliza, I have established myself,” he crowed. “Enterprise triumphs! Progress proceeds! A new day has arrived!”

  The oxen pulled our wagon to the log house on a muddy street and there we unloaded. In truth, the space inside the house was hardly bigger than the wagon.

  While Mr. Bunderly and Lizzy lodged in the house, I would sleep in the wagon. Since I’d spent so much time sleeping under it, I suppose it was a step up.

  That first night in Cherry Creek we ate a dinner cooked on a fire outside the cabin. Mrs. Rascoe offered real bread and antelope stew. While she worked, she told us her tales, emigrant stories not unlike our own. She insisted that great wealth was now being found in the mountains, and she had no doubt her husband would get his full share.

  “It must be hard for you, Mrs. Rascoe,” said Mr. Bunderly, “not knowing for certain about him.”

  The woman shrugged. “Well, sir, to be in Cherry Creek is to act as if you know what you
’re doing, even when you don’t. There’s hardly any money, less civilization, no law, and too much liquor. You live by your wits or lose them. But if my husband is gone, there’s enough men about that I suppose I can find another.”

  After a moment to absorb this declaration, I asked, “Do you know where Gold Hill is?”

  “Up beyond that settlement called Boulder, somewhere. You going prospecting there?”

  “The name sounds promising,” I said.

  She sniffed. “Young man, if we could eat promises, we’d all be fat.”

  When Mrs. Rascoe retired with her children, Mr. Bunderly, Lizzy, and I remained by the fire.

  “Mr. Early,” said Mr. Bunderly, “I wish to acknowledge the fact that having come this great distance with good heart and capable hands, you have kept to your word. Moreover, you have proved a fine friend to me, my daughter, and my late wife. Having reached this place of golden imaginings, I herewith release you formally from your pledge. Be free to go where you wish, taking with you the gratitude—but alas, little else—of this reduced family.”

  “And my gratitude, too,” cried a laughing Lizzy, clapping her hands.

  “And where,” Mr. Bunderly asked me, “do you go from here?”

  “That Gold Hill,” I replied.

  “I wish you well in your search. When do you go?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said.

  We continued to sit there until Mr. Bunderly rose up. “Good night. It will be fine sleeping with a true roof overhead again. Lizzy, you’ll come along.” He started for the house.

  “Pa,” she said, “when Early goes, I’m going with him.”

  Mr. Bunderly halted and came about slowly. “My dear Eliza, you are far too young. …”

  “Pa, Early came with us because we needed help. He needs mine now.”

  “Help with what?”

  “Finding his uncle,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, the uncle,” said Mr. Bunderly. “And does he reside upon that Gold Hill?”

  “I think so.”

  “Dear children … and you are children.” He paused and daubed his eyes. “Miss Eliza, I am sure your mother … Alas, she is no longer here, is she?” He cleared his throat. “How long, Mr. Early, do you think your quest to find this uncle will take?”