Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887)

by Dutchman

  “I didn’t do anything special,” Roberts said, still without looking at Weiser. “I just happened to come by when Waltz needed help.”

  “So that’s the way you want to play it,” Weiser thought, “just acting like you don’t suspect I was trying to leave Waltz in the mine. Well, that’s fine with me, because I sure as hell ain’t going to admit anything.” Aloud, he said, “Thank you anyway, sir,” and continued to Caldwell’s.

  As he walked, Weiser said to himself, “Roberts’ cold-shoulder treatment tells me all I need to know. It ain’t just Webber who’s against me, it’s every damn one of this group. An’ I have no choice but to get rid of them, one by one.”

  FIVE

  Chief Tenaya

  The next day, Gideon Roberts and Abraham Peeples rode over to Marysville, intending to purchase a pump to save their mine. They returned with no pump. “Did you order a pump?” Waltz asked.

  “No,” Roberts replied grimly. “Some big bankers are buying up the small claims in Grass Valley, and they intend to have the only mine. They told the storekeepers not to sell pumps to anyone else.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Weiser asked, inwardly wishing he was one of those bankers. He’d drive a hard bargain, that was for sure.

  “Sell them our claims,” Peeples said.

  “How much will they pay? I wouldn’t mind selling if the price is right,” Young said.

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars,” Roberts replied. “And they had the nerve to tell me it’s the best offer we’ll get.”

  The men exploded with anger: “That’s less money than I make in a month!” “They have to be joking!” “It just ain’t fair!”

  “Maybe it ain’t fair,” Roberts said, “but it’s the hard truth of doing business. They have us between a rock and a hard place. We have a mine that’s full of water, and even if we could buy a pump, there’s no guarantee it would get the mine dry enough to work it.”

  The men sold their claims. Adam Peeples took his share and went to Cairo, Illinois. The rest of the men stowed their sacks of ore in saddlebags and rode southeast along the Sierra Nevada foothills. Overhead, puffy banks of white clouds skittered across a brilliant cobalt-blue sky. Beside the trail, tiny pink manzanita flowers sparkled with drops of moisture. Roberts led the way, and Waltz brought up the rear where he could keep an eye on Weiser.

  Jake Weiser hated the wilderness, and he blamed Waltz for keeping him there. His stomach rumbled, rebelling against their diet of hardtack, beans, and molasses. If Waltz had found another strike like he should have, Weiser thought, I’d be in San Francisco eating caviar and sipping champagne. Miserable from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he jammed his no-longer-stylish hat low on his forehead, pulled his collar up, and buried his chin in a scratchy wool scarf. He was a million miles from the cashmere comfort he had known as a boy and it was Waltz’s fault. The emotions of a spoiled child churned in his chest. “I’ll fix him and the rest of these fools as soon as I get the chance,” he thought. Mirroring Weiser’s vindictive mood, the white clouds disappeared and driving rain soaked his rough clothing.

  Roberts decided they’d gone far enough for one day and stopped to camp beside a river. As they dismounted, Waltz saw Weiser turn and give him a malevolent look that was enough to sour pickles. “What’s eating him?” Waltz said to himself. “He sure ain’t the man who I trusted enough to be my partner an’ come to America. These days, I have to think twice before turning my back on him.”

  The next morning, the men built a sluice box from fallen timber and settled down to harvest this river’s gold. By now, Waltz was determined to make Weiser do his share of the work, and, although it was a little like inviting a fox to tend the hen house, he gave Weiser the tedious task of sorting ore after it settled in the sluice box riffles.

  This wilderness was Weiser’s enemy, a hostile place full of stinging, biting insects and innocent-appearing plants that made his fair skin covered with fiercely itching red blotches. Furthermore, he was out of Cuban cigars, the nights were goddamn cold, and his golden future was beginning to seem like a self-deluding fantasy. Bored to tears one afternoon, he noticed that the meadow above their sluice box was dotted with bushes bearing berries. What he didn’t see was a mother grizzly bear and her two fat cubs.

  The other men were busy with their work and didn’t notice Weiser leave his post. But Waltz saw Weiser and the bears. And without conscious effort, he imagined how easy it would be to shoot Weiser and claim he’d been trying to save him.

  Weiser ambled into the meadow, picked and ate a handful of berries from a small bush, and continued toward the bears’ bigger bush. The mother bear stopped eating, raised her head, and sniffed the distinctive new scent approaching.

  Intent on berries, Weiser failed to see her.

  Curious, the mother bear stood up on her hind legs, swaying and sniffing.

  Waltz raised his rifle and focused it on the bear. Her silver-tipped, dark brown fur gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. On her hind legs, she was taller than Weiser.

  Waltz lowered his rifle and aimed it at Weiser.

  Unaware of the bears or Waltz, Weiser stooped and picked another handful of berries.

  The mother bear swayed slightly, trying to decide if the man on the other side of the bushes was a threat to her cubs.

  Tired of bending over picking berries, Weiser suddenly stood up.

  Alarmed, the mother bear dropped to all fours and started toward Weiser.

  Startled, Weiser turned to run and stumbled, momentarily losing his balance, long enough for Waltz to shoot.

  The bear stumbled, but didn’t fall.

  Waltz lowered his rifle, released the bolt to eject the spent bullet, slid the bolt forward, locked it, and fired again.

  This time, the bear went down.

  With the first frost, the dogwood trees turned a rich, deep red; bigleaf maples shone cadmium-yellow; black oak trees dropped plump acorns from brilliant, golden branches; and their stream was pretty well picked over. It was time to move on.

  The first settlement they came to was Mariposa, a cluster of small cabins nestled around a stockade. The handful of men who lived there were happy enough to see visitors who would listen to them brag about their exploits chasing Indians. They had succeeded, or so they thought, in pushing Chief Tenaya and his band of renegade Indians back into the Yosemite Valley, but an old-timer knew better. He took Waltz and Roberts aside and warned them, “Them Indians won’t stay bottled up in that valley! White men murdered Chief Tenaya’s first-born son, an’ he’ll come looking for revenge. If you’re smart, you’ll take a different road for the next hundred miles.”

  Weiser and Coho Young stopped to listen. Weiser whispered something to Young.

  Hearing them, the old man paused, but Young grinned and said, “Don’t stop now, Grandpa. Your redskin story has me shaking in my boots.”

  The old man frowned and said, “Chief Tenaya is no joke, young man. There’s murder in his heathen heart. If you follow him into the woods, you won’t get out alive.”

  Weiser laughed out loud.

  Outraged by this rudeness, Waltz grabbed Weiser’s arm, spun him around, and snapped, “You apologize to this man!”

  “Why should I?” Weiser said. “This old man’s story is too absurd to take seriously.”

  Waltz’s angry eyes narrowed as he said, “Don’t argue with me, Weiser. Say you’re sorry and do it now!”

  For an instant, Weiser met Waltz’s glare, but Young backed away, taking Weiser’s boldness with him. Left to stand alone, Weiser faltered. Swallowing his pride, at least for the moment, he said, “I apologize, sir, if I was rude. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Seeing Weiser chastised in front of the group, Webber laughed out loud. Weiser’s only visible reaction was his jaw tightening as he renewed his vow to kill Webber — and all the others, one by one.

  The old-timer squinted briefly at Weiser and said, “I warn you, Chief Tenaya will invite you to
his camp, but there is great danger. His camp is deep in the Sacred Mountains, a land of tall trees, tumbling waters, and deep canyons from which white men do not return.”

  When the old-timer was out of earshot, Roberts turned to Waltz and said, “What do you think? Should we change our route?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary,” Waltz said. “If we keep our eyes open and stay close together, we’ll be all right.” It was an opinion he came to regret.

  Ten miles out of Mariposa, patches of early snow showed white at the edge of the forest. The trail began to climb and a chill wind came up, gathering speed as the sun dropped toward the horizon. A raven left his perch in a towering ponderosa pine and rose to the darkening sky, his ebony wings sparkling ominously as he circled and soared above them in figure-eight swoops.

  Leaving the road, they set up camp in a sycamore grove beside a small river. Green, Young, and Gideon Roberts took their fishing poles and cast their lines for trout while Peeples and Webber set the horses’ pickets, spacing them in the small grassy patches between trees. Roberts started a campfire, Waltz made coffee, and Weiser gathered wood at the edge of the forest.

  Waltz was the first to see the small group of Indians. Two braves wearing weathered derby hats and denim shirts over buckskin trousers stood at the edge of the clearing. They wore small leather pouches hanging from a thong around their necks. Smiling, the braves stepped forward and raised their arms with palms open to signal peaceful intentions.

  As Waltz walked slowly toward the Indians, Peeples and Webber left the horses and joined Green, Young, and Gideon Roberts, who had left their fishing lines near the river as they hurried to join Waltz. Weiser cowered in the background.

  An old Indian, wearing a tall black hat with an eagle feather tucked in its ribbon as a mark of his importance, stepped in front of the braves and said, “I am Tenaya, Chief of the Ahwahneechee.” His tall frame was curved with age and his weather-beaten skin was as spotted as the ancient sycamore tree behind him. The smile on his lips was not reflected in his gimlet eyes. “I want to trade,” he said proudly, and gestured toward one of his braves. The brave stepped forward, lifted the pouch from his neck, and handed it to his chief. Tenaya stuck his hand into the pouch and took out a two-inch gold nugget.

  The sight of the redskin’s gold made Weiser bolder. He slipped in front of Peeples and saw in Tenaya’s gnarled hands the means to achieve the power and luxury he deserved. But selling guns to Indians was against the law and he didn’t think Waltz would do it, no matter what the Indians offered. “I’ll make my own deal if I have to,” Weiser said to himself.

  Roberts and Waltz exchanged a glance.

  Tenaya looked at them intently and repeated, “I want to trade.”

  Roberts stepped forward and extended his empty hands, palms up. Raising his shoulders slightly, he replied, “We have nothing to trade.”

  Tenaya knew better. White men had guns and he wanted them. He smiled and said, “Yes you do. You have guns.”

  Roberts had no intention of selling guns to Indians, but he thought perhaps they could get some gold here before moving on.

  Even Waltz was tempted as he moved toward Tenaya and bent to inspect the nuggets. After looking at them closely, he said, “May I feel the weight of your gold?”

  Tenaya’s inscrutable eyes narrowed, but he handed Waltz one large nugget, keeping his hand extended to show he wanted it back.

  Waltz studied the piece of gold, then looked up at Tenaya and remembered the war-painted Comanche warriors filling the sky with flaming arrows. Even if the Indian’s gold was tempting, they were in danger and would have to be cautious. He handed the nugget back to Tenaya and said, “Does the Chief think we are fools? You do not have enough gold here for even one gun!”

  The Chief had dealt with white men before. He smiled and said, “We have much more gold at our village. Tomorrow we will take you there.” With that, the Chief and his braves disappeared into the forest.

  As soon as the Indians were out of earshot, Waltz said, “Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  But Roberts had seen Waltz’s interest in Tenaya’s gold. “Those nuggets looked mighty good,” he said.

  “Are you crazy?” Waltz responded quickly. “That old Indian has no intention of trading gold. He just wants to get us into the woods where his braves are waiting to kill us.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” Roberts admitted, “but if those men from Mariposa could chase these redskins back into the mountains, we ought to be able to take care of ourselves.”

  Waltz snorted and said, “Those men from Mariposa were soldiers, Roberts. We’re just a group of prospectors. We ought to get the hell out of here, if we know what’s good for us.”

  “I ain’t so sure we should pass up a chance for some easy gold,” Roberts said calmly. “Especially if the redskin’s weapons are only hatchets and arrows.”

  “Wait a minute, Roberts,” Waltz countered. “We don’t know if they have guns. An’ even if they don’t, hatchets and arrows can kill us just as dead. I’m leaving, an’ if you an’ the others have any sense, you’ll come with me.”

  Hoping Waltz might have second thoughts about staying if he had some food in his belly, Roberts said, “Well, at least eat some dinner before you go.”

  Weiser overheard this exchange and grinned, pleased to have an unexpected ally in Roberts. “These men are going to follow Tenaya like children following the Pied Piper,” he thought.

  While the others checked their gear and fixed supper, he slipped away to find Tenaya. He found the chief near the river, sitting cross-legged and studying the current. As Weiser approached, the old man gestured for him to sit down and said, “Why have you come to me?”

  “I want gold,” Weiser said.

  The corners of Tenaya’s mouth tightened, but it was barely perceptible.

  Weiser waited.

  After a time, Tenaya made a small nod, just enough for Weiser to suppose he should continue. “I can give you guns in return,” Weiser said softly.

  “If I give you gold, are you willing to lead your friends into ambush?” Tenaya asked.

  Weiser knew he might get caught in the crossfire. And even if he got out alive, he would need Waltz’s help to get back to civilization. After a slight hesitation, Weiser decided to trust Tenaya. “I’ll get you guns, but only if you promise me an’ my partner Waltz will get out alive.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tenaya said easily. “I will take care of you.”

  Half an hour later, having stolen guns from the other men’s gear and delivered them to Tenaya, Weiser went back to the campfire. After filling his plate with biscuits and beans, he sat down between Young and Green to do some persuading. Leaning toward Young, he said, “That Indian’s gold looked pretty damn good.”

  Webber was sitting on the other side of Young. He leaned forward and said, “I seen it, too! Them hunks of gold was as big as my fist. We’d be crazy not go after them. If that redskin has as much gold as he claims, we’ll be set for life.”

  Young didn’t say anything. But he stopped chewing his biscuit, swiped his sleeve across his chin to wipe off molasses, and looked thoughtfully at Weiser.

  Weiser winked at him and said, “Those nuggets would make a man like you real popular with the ladies.”

  That got a horse-laugh from the others.

  Ignoring them, Young looked at Weiser and said, “Redskins ain’t got no use for gold anyway, do they?”

  Was Young looking to ease his conscience about taking the gold? Weiser met his eyes and said, “Sure they do. They use it for trading with white men.”

  The others were quiet as they thought this over.

  On the other side of the campfire, Roberts and Waltz heard the men. Roberts looked at Waltz and said, “That gold looked mighty good, Waltz. Are you sure you won’t stay with us?”

  “Are you insane?” Waltz answered quickly. “Don’t you understand those Indians will lead us into a trap?”

  Weiser overhe
ard them. He grinned and, loudly enough for everyone to hear him, said, “I thought you was a brave man, Waltz. It ain’t like you to be scared of a handful of redskins!”

  Waltz looked at Weiser and said, “Ain’t you the coward who rode with women and children when we was crossing the desert?”

  Roberts didn’t say anything.

  Made bold by Roberts’ silence, the corners of Weiser’s lips turned up in a mocking smile, and he said, “And ain’t you the fella who went into our mine all by hisself and damn near drowned?”

  Young, Green, and Webber laughed out loud. But next to them, Gideon Roberts looked down at his plate, and Peeples shook his head ruefully.

  Furious now, Waltz turned and roared, “What the hell’s the matter with you, Roberts? You’re supposed to be leading this group! Are you going to just sit there and let Weiser take charge?”

  When Roberts still remained silent, Waltz got to his feet and strode down to the river.

  “Guess we’re going with the Indians,” Weiser said with a smug smile, and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  Roberts followed Waltz to the river and found him throwing rocks at a small boulder. Waltz ignored him at first, but after a few minutes he said, “Why didn’t you back me up?”

  “Maybe I should have,” Roberts admitted, “but think about it, Waltz. We killed Indians in Texas and didn’t think twice about it. We ain’t really going to sell guns to Tenaya, but he has gold. Maybe he and his men will get hurt when we take it, but they’re only Indians.”

  Waltz snorted in disgust.

  Roberts put his hand on Waltz’s arm and said, “Please, Waltz, I need you to stay.”

  Forgetting his own moment of temptation, Waltz said, “I thought you was a man I could look up to, but you ain’t acting like a man I want to ride with any longer.”

  That night, Waltz lay awake long after the others had gone to sleep. He had to admit he was tempted by Tenaya’s gold, but his gut told him to get on his horse and get out of there. And his conscience said killing for gold ain’t the same as killing to save your life.