by Dutchman
Weiser slept soundly that night, certain his partner would give in. In spite of his stubbornness, Waltz was a fair man, and, although he might not like to admit it, their future really was in California.
As Weiser snored softly, Waltz lay awake wondering about Weiser’s claim that there were no small farms in the Deep South. As morning’s first light crept into their shabby room, Waltz arose quietly, saddled his horse, and rode out in search of the truth. And, as Weiser had described, what Waltz saw was mile after mile of stately white mansions surrounded by a sea of fluffy white cotton fields. Incredibly, he had never noticed this before. But then again, Waltz had been so preoccupied with the mining that he hadn’t noticed much of anything else.
Reluctant to give up, Waltz kept going. Perhaps he would see some small farms beyond the cotton fields. But all he found was soft, soggy swampland that was impossible to cultivate.
THREE
Wagons West
Waltz burst into the shabby hotel room, yanked the tatty window shade so hard it spun on its roller, and said, “Get up, Weiser! We got to hurry if we’re gonna get on Adam’s wagon train.”
Weiser groaned and pulled his blanket over his head, then sat up, stared at Waltz, and said, “What did you say?”
“I said we’re going after that California gold you been hankering for. An’ we’re leaving today.”
That got Weiser awake with a jolt.
Two hours later, they were on their way, after dividing their gold equally, pouring it into tobacco pouches, and packing it in their saddlebags. Waltz traded their mule and prospecting equipment for food, while Weiser posted a letter to Adam Peeples saying they were on their way and expected to get there in about six weeks.
On their way out of Spartanburg, they stopped at Edward’s place. He invited them to lunch, but Waltz said, “Thanks for the invite, but we can’t spare the time. That wagon train we’re going to catch won’t wait.” There he goes again, thought Weiser to himself. He couldn’t figure where this bossy attitude in his partner was coming from, and it made him seethe with resentment.
One week later, they stopped for supplies, and Waltz was surprised when the merchant valued his gold twice as high as Brown, the Spartanburg assessor, had done. As Waltz hesitated, the merchant pursed his lips, said, “You drive a hard bargain, Mister,” and added ten percent to his assessment.
Waltz glanced at Weiser to see his reaction to this surprising assay of their ore, but Weiser busied himself trying on a new hat and said nothing. Waltz pocketed the extra gold, and with it a seed of doubt in Weiser’s honesty.
At the next supply stop, the merchant also gave a higher value for their gold, supporting Waltz’s suspicion that Brown had cheated him. Weiser’s continued nonchalance made him increasingly suspicious that Weiser was somehow in on it, and maybe had pocketed part of the profits himself.
By the time they reached Atlanta, Weiser was sick and tired of camping out. He thought it was high time they spent some of their gold on a little on comfort, and he was looking forward to a soft bed and a nice supper. When Waltz barely slowed down for an unappetizing stew at a roadside tavern, Weiser rebelled. “What’s the hurry?” he demanded. “The wagon train won’t leave without us.”
“How do you know they won’t?” Waltz said quickly.
“I don’t,” Weiser admitted, “but I bet there are plenty of other wagon trains if we miss this one.”
“Well this is the one I decided on,” Waltz said, with the same take-charge attitude that was beginning to really eat at Weiser, “an’ this is the one we’ll be on.”
Weiser wasn’t happy, but neither was he prepared to go it alone, at least not yet. He held his tongue as they continued west through the hills and valleys of the Georgia piedmont, descended the gently rolling hills of Alabama to the alluvial plains of Mississippi and Louisiana, and reached the mighty Mississippi River at Baton Rouge. It was late afternoon and they could see the last ferry loading, but this time Weiser dug in his heels and refused to hurry. They were a week ahead of schedule and he wanted a night in a soft bed.
But Weiser had underestimated Waltz’s frugality. Although the ferry pulled out without them, Waltz refused to go to a hotel, and set up camp on the dock.
Weiser’s resentment finally boiled over when they reached San Antonio and Waltz traded their horses for mules. “What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Weiser hissed. “I’m not riding any ugly, low-class mule!”
Waltz had had enough of Weiser’s complaining. “You’ll ride that mule if you’re coming with me,” he snapped. “We’ll be crossing a thousand miles of desert an’ our horses ain’t tough enough to survive. I ain’t going to let you kill a horse because you’re too high-an’-mighty to ride a mule.”
“You could of asked my opinion,” Weiser grumbled.
“I didn’t ask because I knew damn well what you’d say. Now shut up an’ get your ass on that mule,” Waltz barked.
It took every ounce of Weiser’s self control to keep from lashing out at Waltz, but he knew he still needed him — at least until they reached civilization. Without another word, Weiser climbed on his mule and followed Waltz the last thirty miles of their journey to Fort Hondo.
Their hearts sank when they reached Fort Hondo and discovered there were only ten able-bodied prospectors, and the rest of their train was ten Conestoga wagons of immigrant German farmers and their livestock. And though Adam Peeples was one of the prospectors, he was not the leader of this wagon train.
Weiser took one look at this motley group and whispered to Waltz, “Let’s get out of here. We don’t need this bunch of farmers. They’ll only slow us down.” He paused and added, “You know enough about prospecting. We could get on a stagecoach and be in California before this bunch even gets on the road.”
“The plan was to go with Adam,” Waltz said quietly. “And we need to stick to the plan.”
“He won’t miss us,” Weiser protested, ready to go it alone.
“A plan is a plan,” Waltz said firmly. “An’ anyway, I ain’t spending our gold on a ritzy ride.”
The assembled crowd fell silent as a tall man with an air of authority climbed onto a wagon’s foot rest, pushed his broad-brimmed hat back from his forehead, and said, “I’m Gideon Roberts, captain of this wagon train, an’ I intend to get all of you safely to Los Angeles.” He paused a moment and surveyed the crowd before continuing, “But this journey will not be easy. The desert ahead of us holds two enemies: thirst and Indians. Both will try to kill you.”
Until now, Weiser hadn’t thought about getting hurt — much less getting killed! Adam hadn’t said anything about danger or rampaging Indians. The last thing Weiser wanted was to be on the front line of any fighting. But how was he going to protect himself without looking like a coward? Weiser looked over at the farmers and their families, and realized these people might be the answer to his personal safety — or as close as he could get under the circumstances. He raised his hand and said, “Mr. Roberts, sir, if those Indians are as dangerous as you say, someone should stay back to protect the women and children.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the farmers.
Confident he was on the right track, Weiser continued, “Although I’d rather be riding an’ fighting on the front line, I volunteer to stay back and defend these women and children.”
Knowing full well Weiser just wanted to save his own skin, Waltz turned on his heel and walked away.
Weiser saw him go, but didn’t give a damn.
The wagon train pulled out the next morning, and Weiser’s ploy was justified, at least to himself, the very first afternoon, as a war party of Comanche Indians appeared, whooping and racing toward them at full tilt. According to plan, Weiser hid safely in the wagon reserved for women and children as Roberts led the wagons into a circle, and Waltz ran bravely to defend his new companions, shouting encouragement to the terrified farmers and cautioning the men to hold their fire until the last possible moment.
Wa
ltz barely had time to take his place before screaming Comanches were upon them, racing their ponies around the train and sending forth a hail of arrows. These terrifying savages did their best to overwhelm the white men, but were no match for their guns. Making each shot count, the white men waited until they could see the hatred in their enemy’s eyes before pulling the trigger and killing the savage, or at least knocking him to the ground.
After what seemed an eternity, the Comanches retreated, but not before getting off a volley of burning arrows that hit the wagon sheltering women, children, and Weiser, and turning Weiser’s safe haven into a death trap.
Weiser tried to push his way out, but the first woman he touched turned on him with the snarl of a mother tiger protecting her cubs. Weiser’s only alternative was through the flames to the back of the wagon. Shielding his face with his arms, Weiser dove through the roaring inferno, singeing his jacket and eyebrows as he sliced a hole in the canvas with his pocket knife, and jumped to the ground.
Safely on the ground, Weiser looked back at the wagon and saw that everyone’s attention was on saving the women and children and fighting the flames. Without considering going to help them, Weiser smeared ashes on his face and clothing and lay down to await being found. With luck, his sham injuries would land him a ride the rest of the way to Los Angeles.
Waltz made his way to the blazing wagon, expecting to see Weiser settled comfortably out of harm’s way, but Weiser was not with the women. Concerned about Weiser’s safety, Waltz climbed into the wagon, but could not see through the flames. Risking his own death to save his partner, Waltz covered his face with his arms and dived through the flames. Instead of Weiser, however, he found a hole cut in the canvas back of the wagon. Jumping to the ground, Waltz saw a dazed, but most definitely alive, Jake Weiser.
He should have known Weiser would take care of himself. Furious at having been played for a fool, Waltz stalked away, leaving Roberts to speculate on Waltz’s seeming lack of concern for his partner.
The next morning, Weiser went in search of a ride, his charred eyebrows lending such a pitiful appearance the Spengler family made room for him. Propped comfortably on Spengler’s pillows, Weiser made himself such agreeable company they insisted he ride with them all the way to Los Angeles.
Eleven weeks after leaving Fort Hondo, the wagon train pulled into the small city of Los Angeles. It was the end of the trail for the farmers and a one-night stop for the prospectors, who traded their mules for horses, packed their loads with the barest essentials, and prepared to ride north the next morning.
Weiser, however, was ready for a night on the town, and his grin reminded Waltz of his partner’s ability to make acquaintances and gather information. “While you’re out there having a good time, keep your ears open for any information about the gold fields,” Waltz ordered his partner.
Waltz’s high-handed attitude made Weiser feel like telling his partner to go fly a kite, but again he held his tongue. After all, each day was bringing them closer to getting rich.
Vine Street was the center of Los Angeles, a beehive of vendors selling everything from fresh oranges to fighting roosters. Weiser followed it to the plaza in front of the mission church, admiring gracious Spanish-style homes that lined the cobbled street and picturing himself living in one them. Clusters of dark-eyed beauties strolled the edge of the plaza, accompanied by their dueñas. All were elegantly dressed and wore lace mantillas that covered their shining black hair and soft white shoulders.
Weiser sat down beside a dapper gentleman wearing a well-tailored, grey, double-breasted frock coat that Weiser knew cost a lot of money. Pretending he wanted to practice his limited English, the gentleman, Don Pedro Santiago, drew Weiser into conversation. With a good deal of gesturing, the two men were soon chatting amiably and Don Pedro invited Weiser to dinner.
Weiser accepted the invitation with alacrity and was treated to a sumptuous meal, during which he flirted shamelessly with Don Pedro’s wife while the Don’s daughters flashed their dark eyes and kept his glass full of tequila. Enthralled by the sight of their luscious bosoms, Weiser lost track of how much he was drinking.
Following a desert of creamy caramel flan, the ladies left the room, and a butler served cups of the strongest coffee Weiser had ever sipped and a box of Cuban cigars. After an interval of contented silence, Don Pedro tapped the ash from his cigar and said, “Do you enjoy to play at cards, Mr. Weiser?”
Weiser chuckled and replied modestly, “Si, Don Pedro, I enjoy playing cards.”
“As it happens,” Don Pedro said with a little smile, “this is my — how do you say it? — evening for games of poker. Will you join us?”
Ordinarily, Weiser would have noticed the Don’s little smile, but the excellent meal and abundant shots of tequila had taken the edge off his customary caution. “Si, Don Pedro, I will play poker with you and your amigos. But I have no money, only gold for my ante,” Weiser replied, mentally filling his pockets with the dinero he expected to win.
“That is no problem,” Don Pedro replied with another little smile.
Don Pedro’s friends arrived, cards were dealt, and at first Weiser raked in most of the chips. But Weiser was not much of a drinker, and the flow of tequila caused him to miss sidelong glances and winks exchanged by Don Pedro and his amigos.
It wasn’t long before Weiser found himself back in the plaza with empty pockets, unsteadily propped against a lamppost. And he had no idea how to find Waltz and their camp.
At the break of dawn when Waltz arose, there was no sign of Weiser. For a moment, Waltz was concerned for his partner’s safety, but that quickly turned to anger. The group was about to leave, and he had no intention of being left behind while waiting for his irresponsible partner to show up. Waltz galloped into town and found Weiser passed out under an elm tree.
Weiser was so badly hung over he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — get up. His head ached and his mouth felt like the Mexican Army had camped there. “I think I’m dying,” he croaked.
All Waltz said was, “We’re ready to ride.”
“Go away,” Weiser said petulantly, opening his eyes and seeing three of Waltz. “An’ take your buddies with you.”
“The other men are ready to ride,” Waltz repeated, “an’ we don’t want to be left behind.”
“I don’t give a damn what you want,” Weiser grumbled. “Can’t you see I’m too sick to ride? Just go on without me.”
But Waltz was not ready to abandon Weiser. Deaf to Weiser’s protest, Waltz put his arm under Weiser’s shoulders and brought him to his feet. “You’re coming if I have to tie you to your goddamn horse.”
“I’m not going and you can’t make me,” Weiser protested.
Without another word, Waltz unloaded his frustration with an uppercut that knocked Weiser silly, picked him up, and slung him in front of his saddle.
Waltz hurried back to their camp, packed up their belongings, shifted Weiser to his own horse, and tied him on. Leading Weiser’s horse, Waltz fell in with their group, and they were on their way.
It became the most agonizing day of Weiser’s life to that point. Each step of his horse jarred his bones, his head throbbed, and he wanted to throw up, but his stomach had already been emptied the night before. He only managed to hang on because Waltz had tied him to the saddle and wouldn’t let him stop.
The prospecting group followed the old King’s Highway that linked the Spanish Missions, covered four hundred miles in less than two weeks, and arrived in San Francisco on a sunny April afternoon.
To their astonishment, the harbor was a tangle of abandoned ships whose entire crews had surrendered to gold fever and joined the rush to Sutter’s Mill.
Looking forward to shaves, haircuts, and a big steak dinner, the group found a cheap hotel and Roberts went in to register. There was space available, but the price of a single room was ten dollars, payable in advance. “We don’t want to buy the place,” Roberts said. “We just want a room for the night!”
The desk clerk grinned and replied, “There’s a tent city at the edge of town, but a tent fifteen feet by twenty-five will cost you one hundred dollars. There’s nine in your group, so you’d be paying less to stay here — an’ we have indoor plumbing.”
They paid for their rooms, settled their horses in a stable a block away, and allowed themselves the luxury of a shave and a haircut.
Weiser’s spirits soared when he bought a copy of San Francisco’s new newspaper, The Journal of Commerce, and read that the well-known and extremely wealthy bankers Henry Wells and William G. Fargo were in San Francisco to start a new express and banking company. “This is my lucky day,” Weiser thought. “I knew my luck would change as soon as I got to a real city. Now all I have to do is find Wells and Fargo an’ let them know I’m available!”
Leaving Waltz to fend for himself, Weiser bought a new shirt, slicked down his hair, stuffed a handful of gold nuggets into his pocket, slipped out the back of their hotel, and headed for the heart of the city. The cacophony of San Francisco’s sounds was music to Weiser’s ears. He felt like jumping for joy, but restrained himself as befitted the dignity of a future banker. “This is what I was born for,” he said to himself as he made his way through throngs of prosperous men laughing and talking.
The city’s finest hotels fronted on Portsmouth Place. Weiser’s first stop was the Union Hotel, where the first of his nuggets vanished into the gold-braided pocket of a doorman’s spotless white uniform. However, paying for entrance to the hotel lobby was only the beginning. A grinning bellman whisked Weiser’s second nugget into his silver-trimmed grey flannel pocket before shaking his head and saying, “Nah, them fellows ain’t staying here.”
After three more disappointing attempts, Weiser finally found his men at California Exchange, the city’s newest and best hotel. In contrast to his reception at the other hotels, Weiser was treated with deference by these employees, who knew that some of the shabbiest-appearing men in San Francisco had pockets filled with gold. On Weiser’s inquiry as to whether misters Wells and Fargo happened to be there, the California Exchange doorman smiled discreetly, accepted Weiser’s gold, ushered him into the lobby, and signaled the hotel’s manager.