by Dutchman
With those words, Webber turned and headed toward the door, and the rest of the men followed in silence, all of them avoiding Weiser’s malevolent glare.
Weiser sat staring at his clenched fists as the door closed behind the other men and said to himself, “I’m smarter than them, an’ they’re jealous. Webber called me a freeloader because I have a bad ankle, but I can tell he’s jealous. Can’t even play a simple game of five-card stud without losing his shirt.
“An’ to say I should be sharing my money with them. Hah! Webber ain’t just stupid, he’s crazy.
“But as to sharing the gold, if it wasn’t for me being Waltz’s partner an’ getting him started, this gold mine wouldn’t of been found, and those guys would still be standing in the river freezing their asses for a handful of lousy placer gold.”
Weiser shuffled his cards thoughtfully, put them in his pocket, and stepped out on the porch.
Webber was a little way off, standing near his tent. Weiser saw Webber say something to Young, and they both guffawed.
Gritting his teeth, Weiser snarled softly, “I’ll get you, Matt Webber, and the rest of your chums as well.”
On the seventy-first day of mining, the men awoke to a mild January day with a light drizzle of rain. By noon, their clothes were wringing wet. With no inkling of imminent ill-fortune, the miners put away their tools and went to the saloon to dry out. Once inside, with the fire so warm and welcoming, they decided to quit working, even though it was early. There was so much gold in their claim, they saw no need to make themselves miserable slopping about in the mud. One day couldn’t make much difference. And although they’d heard ugly rumors of groundwater seeping into some of the mines, no one took them seriously.
Waltz wasn’t interested in hanging out at Caldwell’s and decided to curl up in his sleeping bag for a little nap. Seeing Waltz safely snoring gave Weiser an idea. Quite simply, he’d lure Webber into the mine, smash his skull with a rotted timber, and make it look like a piece of the scaffolding had given way and killed him. He hurried up to the mine, put the timber in place just inside the entrance, returned to Caldwell’s porch, and waited for Webber to step out for a smoke. When he did, Weiser grabbed his arm and said earnestly, “I need your help, Webber.”
Webber shook off Weiser’s arm and laughed, “I ain’t helping you with shit.”
But Weiser interrupted, “This ain’t about me, Webber. Waltz ain’t come back from the mine an’ I’m afraid something must of happened to him.”
Webber looked at Weiser’s seemingly sincere distress and said, “Let’s get the rest of the men!”
“There isn’t time for that,” Weiser said breathlessly. “What if he’s bleeding to death right now? We need to hurry down there and see. Then one of us can come back for help if we need it. But for God’s sake, let’s go!”
Deciding safe was better than sorry, Webber yielded to Weiser’s pleas and followed him.
Everything was going to Weiser’s plan until, unbeknown to him, Waltz awoke from his nap and decided to go back to the mine. He was far happier mining than he was hanging out in a saloon, and his frugal nature rebelled against spending good money on bad beer. Every dollar frivolously spent was a dollar that could have gone toward his future farm. He put on dry clothes, stuck a hunk of hardtack in his pocket, and headed over to the mine.
At that moment, Weiser was preparing himself for his deadly deed, reminding himself that if he didn’t kill Webber, Webber would try to kill him. As the two men entered the mine, Weiser craftily dropped back and allowed Webber to take the lead. But as Weiser picked up the piece of timber, a piñon jay perched on a pine branch outside the tunnel scolded him with sharp cries of “awr-awr-awrrrr. ” Stunned by the jay’s shriek, both men turned around and saw Waltz at the entrance to the mine.
Weiser dropped the timber like a hot potato as his mind raced. How could he talk his way out of this? His response poured out instinctively as he rushed to Waltz and said fervently, “Thank God you’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Waltz said, his lips tightening as he looked intently at Weiser, trying to figure out what he was up to.
Before Weiser could say more, Webber butted in with a mocking smile and said, “Your buddy here was afraid you was lost in the mine tunnel, an’ he talked me into coming up here to rescue you.”
“That’s right,” Weiser said, making Waltz the guilty party. “I was worried. Where the hell were you?”
“I was taking a nap,” Waltz said curtly. “What business is it of yours?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you was going to do that?” Weiser snapped back. “You had me worried sick when you didn’t show up with the other fellas, and they said water in the mines was rising. I just knew something awful had happened to you, an’ you was up here by yourself, lying helpless with a broken leg.”
“Cut the crap, Weiser,” Webber interrupted. “We all know you don’t give a shit about Waltz’s welfare as long as you get your share of his gold.”
Turning his back on Weiser, Webber said, “Come on down for a beer, Waltz. You deserve a break.”
“Not just now,” Waltz said. “You go ahead. I need to talk to my partner a bit.”
After Webber was out of earshot, Waltz put the squeeze on Weiser: “What the hell was you up to? Why did you bring Webber up here when you knew I wasn’t here?”
“Swear to God I thought you was,” Weiser countered. “You wasn’t at Caldwell’s, and the only place you ever go is this mine. You’re so dedicated to digging out this mine, working day and night for us so we can get our farm faster, I never considered you’d be sleeping on the job.”
But Waltz wasn’t to be brushed off easily. “Since when do you give a damn where I am or what I’m doing?”
Weiser quickly and cleverly shot back, “I cared enough to grab Webber and come up here to save you, didn’t I?”
Waltz was dumbfounded and weary of the conversation, completely at a loss for how to deal with Weiser. What’s more, he was anxious to get to the gold. So he changed the subject. “Look Weiser, I don’t have time to fool around with whatever you was up to,” he responded. “We don’t know how fast the water’s coming, or how deep it’ll be, so I want to get all the gold I can in case we have to shut down. I’m heading back down, an’ you can come help if you want.”
Cursing his luck and the depressing drizzle, Weiser acquiesced. “Sure partner, I’ll help you out. Just give me a few minutes to go back to camp to get my gear, and I’ll be right there by your side.”
Waltz had no illusions about Weiser returning anytime soon, so in the interim, he made his way into the mine and back to the section he’d been working before the storm. Seeing no unusual moisture, he stuck his candle holder into the tunnel wall and resumed filling buckets with ore he chipped from the wall beside him. Proud of his strength, Waltz had a self-imposed minimum of four buckets a day. Intent on the task at hand, he failed to notice groundwater creep into the shaft.
The water rose silently until it reached the tops of his boots. Accustomed to wet feet, he ignored the chill.
Fed by the morning storm, water rose swiftly but his stubborn German nature wouldn’t let him quit. Water reached his knees. Waltz worked faster. Just half a bucket more and he could quit. Every shovelful of ore brought him closer to his farm.
Increasing water pressure softened the tunnel’s floor, causing a support beam to shift with a harsh creak of protest. Waltz ignored its warning and continued to work.
Under increasing force from rising water, the beam protested again, but Waltz was beyond accepting the reality of his situation and kept swinging his pick as though his determination was enough to stop the inevitable.
Reality struck swift and hard as the tortured beam split and pinned his left leg to the side of the mine.
Perhaps the cracking sound was his leg breaking. Waltz was aware only of excruciating pain as he sank into oblivion.
When he came to, the water was at his knees and his c
andle was flickering. He tried to move, but the wayward beam held his left leg firmly against the mine’s wall, and the pain of further effort was unbearable. Once again, he lost consciousness.
The second time he came to, his candle had gone out and he was in total darkness. He could feel the water at his crotch. He had never been so cold or so frightened. Nonetheless, he fixed his eyes on what he thought was the way out of the tunnel. And as he peered intently into the pitch-black hole in front of him, he began to see a glimmer of light. Hope gave him the strength to cry out, but his once-powerful voice was a feeble croak and the effort made him slip back into insensibility.
Meanwhile, Weiser had stopped off for a little poker, but the cards were not going his way. Reluctantly, he decided it was time to leave the comfort of Caldwell’s and return to the mine, mostly to keep an eye on Waltz and make sure he didn’t try to keep any more of the gold from him. He left the saloon porch and made his way uphill, expecting to hear the clink of pick and shovel as he got near the mine, but was greeted instead by an ominous silence.
A light breeze came up as the sun retreated behind a cloud, contradicting the promise of an early spring. Weiser shivered uneasily and called out to Waltz.
There was no answer, but a self-appointed sentinel jay’s “Awr-awr-awrrrr” gave Weiser his first stirring of alarm. He went to the tunnel entrance and called more loudly to his partner.
Again, there was no reply. He lit a candle and went a few steps into the tunnel. He had never been here alone, and wasn’t sure of his way.
The silence was unnerving. He began to sweat, in spite of the coolness of the damp earth. It wasn’t like Waltz to play tricks. He called out, “Waltz! Where the hell are you?”
No reply.
Weiser took another couple of steps and called again, but there was still no response. Weiser asked himself, “How deep is this tunnel? And why didn’t Waltz tell me he was the one who found this gold? He should of told me,” Weiser thought. His guilty mind wondered if Waltz had other secrets. “Is he part of Webber’s gang? And is he down there ready to kill me and get my share of the gold?”
Now Weiser’s curiosity overcame his unease. He started down the gentle slope that was their mine, sliding his feet cautiously in search of firm footing. In the dim light of his candle, the surrounding tunnel was pitch-black.
The tunnel followed their gold vein, weaving slightly as it burrowed into the hillside. Stout timbers supporting the shaft creaked ominously.
He considered turning back, but wondered why Waltz didn’t answer. What if he was really in trouble? And if he was, how was Weiser going to get enough gold to go to San Francisco? Moving cautiously forward and down, Weiser felt his way along the slimy wall with his right hand and held the candle in his left.
Ahead and partly concealed by a beam that was oddly out of line, a dark shape shifted ever so slightly.
Weiser inched his way forward and realized the darker shape was Waltz, trapped by the rebellious timber and hip-deep in floodwater. Water lapped at Waltz’s partially submerged body.
Weiser’s first thought was for his own safety. He held his candle high and saw no signs of impending cave-in. But the rising water was a sure-fire sign their mine itself was in deadly danger. Flooding was the kiss of death for any mining claim.
Waltz moved a little, groaned, opened his eyes, and saw Weiser’s face in the flickering light of his candle. Summoning his diminishing strength, Waltz tried to shout, “Help me,” but his shout was no more than a whimper.
Weiser looked down at his helpless partner and was tempted to leave him and get out with all their gold. No one saw me come up here, he thought, they’re all in the saloon. I won’t have to lift a finger — I can just leave Waltz here an’ let rising water take care of him for good. Everyone’ll think his death was just another unfortunate mining accident.
Weiser turned and started to leave.
Summoning the last of his resources, Waltz begged, “Don’t go, Weiser. For God’s sake, help me!”
Weiser looked down at Waltz and came to his senses. Even if he took off with all the gold they had now, it was only half of what he really needed. He met Waltz’s eyes and said, “Don’t worry, I’m going to get help. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
As darkness returned, Waltz felt fear in his belly. Weiser wasn’t coming back, he knew it. For the first time since he was a child, Waltz was powerless to help himself. He clung to the timber that was his jailer and gradually became aware it was also his only friend, without whose support he would sink and drown.
The belligerent water continued its relentless rise.
To hold off the panic that nibbled at the edge of his self-control, Waltz turned his mind back to Germany and the time when he first knew Weiser. “He was my friend and partner. Without his encouragement, I’d still be hungry and struggling to make ends meet. He’s the man who got me into the world of boxing and paid me prize money that put food on mother’s table. And he’s the man who got me to America and talked me into coming to California.”
Waltz desperately wanted to believe Weiser would bring help, but his heart whispered, “Weiser should be back by now.” And it said, more boldly now, “If you die, Weiser will have your gold.”
While Waltz clung to his timber, Weiser clung to the clammy walls of the pitch-black pit and picked his way back to safety, mindful a misstep would leave him as helpless as Waltz. It was an eternity before he saw daylight at the tunnel’s end.
The brightness hurt his eyes, made them water. Weiser stood unsteadily in the tunnel’s entrance, squinting down the hill, and saw Roberts approaching. “Thank God you’re here,” Weiser called out. “Waltz is trapped in the mine an’ the water’s rising fast!”
Roberts heard Weiser and ran to help. As they made their way down the tunnel, Weiser thought uneasily, “Will Roberts or Waltz suspect I tried to leave Waltz to die?”
When they reached Waltz, the water had risen to his shoulders, but his stubborn German nature had not let him give in. At the sight of Roberts, Waltz knew he would be all right and allowed himself to sink into merciful oblivion.
As they set to work freeing Waltz, Weiser’s concern was no longer a sham. Even though it disgusted him, Weiser ducked into the dark and dirty water to pry Waltz’s leg from the grip of the timber while Roberts supported Waltz and kept his head above water. And he used strength he didn’t know he possessed to help Roberts drag Waltz up the tunnel to safety.
When they reached the tunnel’s mouth, Roberts ran down to their camp for blankets and help carrying Waltz. And Weiser, who had worked as if his own life depended on saving Waltz, made sure that the first thing Waltz saw as he regained consciousness was his solicitous face.
Nevertheless, regardless of what he pretended, Waltz had glimpsed murder in Weiser’s eyes. Nothing Weiser could ever say or do would change that.
The evening after his narrow escape from death, Waltz sat by the campfire with Roberts, warming his hands around a cup of coffee laced with whiskey. Waltz was too tough to have suffered more than a badly bruised leg and a bad case of the sniffles from his ordeal in the mine shaft. He groaned softly as he shifted his injured leg. Wind in the pines sighed as if in sympathy. He set his coffee cup down and said softly, “Where’s Weiser?”
“Up at Caldwell’s,” Roberts replied in a similar tone.
“And the others?” Waltz asked, looking around.
“In the saloon, drowning their sorrows over our bad luck,” Roberts replied.
A log shifted, sending up a shower of sparks. In the glow, Waltz met Roberts’ unemotional brown eyes and asked, “What do you think really happened down in the mine?”
“Don’t you know?” Roberts asked evasively, leaning forward and poking at the fire.
“I’d like to hear it from you,” Waltz said.
“All right, then,” Roberts said. “I was coming toward the mine when Weiser ran out waving his arms, shouting you were stuck in the shaft and water was coming in. We lit f
resh candles and started down. We found you up to your neck in rising water, hanging onto a broken timber and about to go under. I held your head above water while Weiser went under and freed your leg. I was a little surprised he was willing to do that, the way he’s so fussy about his comfort, but he really did save your life down there.”
Waltz and Roberts sat quietly, each man absorbed in his own thoughts until another log shifted and broke the silence. Then Waltz sighed heavily and said, “I can’t prove it, but Weiser meant for me to die down there. If you hadn’t come along, my death would have passed for a mining accident. He would of took my gold an’ skedaddled. But after you showed up, he had to start acting like a hero.”
Roberts nodded and said, “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, at least for now. Weiser’s too lazy to start trouble. He just takes his opportunities when they come along. From now on, I’ll be watching him like a hawk, that’s for sure. If he makes one false move, I’ll break every bone in his cheating body.”
As they talked, Weiser came out of Caldwell’s and saw them with their heads together. Curious how much they knew, or suspected, about his leaving Waltz to die, Weiser left the porch and moved carefully toward the campfire, but their voices were too low to make out what they were saying. Besides, it was uncomfortably cold. He gave up for the time being and went back to Caldwell’s.
The next evening, Weiser saw Roberts at the campfire by himself. In spite of the cold, Weiser felt his forehead start to perspire. “He’s stayed away from me all day,” Weiser thought. “He thinks I’m guilty, but of what? It’s not like he saw me standing over Waltz with a bloody bludgeon. I didn’t actually do anything, but I’d sure as hell like to know what he thinks.”
Acting nonchalant, Weiser approached the fire, rubbed his hands briskly, and said, “Fire feels good tonight, don’t it?”
Roberts examined the grounds in his coffee mug and said nothing. He didn’t give a damn what Weiser felt. Without looking up, he said curtly, “What do you want?”
“Why, nothing, sir,” Weiser replied in an injured tone. “I just came over to thank you for helping save my partner.”