by Dutchman
Toward dawn, he drifted into a fitful sleep and dreamed he was at the edge of a dark forest. He saw the other men, his friends, resting in a sun-filled meadow. Bloodthirsty savages lurked among the trees, waiting to ambush them. He tried to warn his friends, but they paid no attention. As he watched, they went into the forest, the trees trembled violently, and in a moment Indians came out of the forest leading a string of horses with bloody bodies slung across their backs. Waltz awoke with a start, his heart beating wildly.
After a moment, he heard his companions snoring in the vulnerability of deep sleep, and he realized he could not abandon them now. With this change of heart, his conscience let him sink back into sleep, and this time it was dreamless.
In the morning, Waltz found Roberts at the campfire and said, “I’ll stay with you, even though you’re asking for a heap of trouble. We’ve come too far for me to quit now.”
“Thank you, Waltz,” Roberts said. “You’re my right-hand man. I’m glad you changed your mind.”
Waltz grunted and picked up a plate. Helping himself to biscuits, he soaked them with molasses, poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down, and began to eat.
Weiser saw Waltz and sidled over. “I thought you was leaving,” he said.
“What I do is none of your damn business,” Waltz replied.
“What’s the matter?” Weiser sneered. “Was you too scared to go by yourself?”
Waltz was prevented from responding by the timely arrival of Chief Tenaya, who had been standing at the edge of the clearing listening to this conversation. He smiled a little and motioned for his two braves to step forward. Each brave held a potato sack filled with gold. As they opened their sacks and displayed their gleaming contents, Tenaya gestured toward the gold and said, “Here is proof of my wealth. There is much more at my place in the mountains.”
As he had intended, the sight of his gold put an end to the white men’s doubts. It was a forgivable mistake, but one that was to cost them dearly. The truth was, the gold in front of them was all Tenaya had, a desperate gamble of revenge for his son’s execution at the hands of other white men. In Tenaya’s mind, all white men were the same, and he would not rest until they were all dead. “I will wait for you at the river,” he said and left them to pack up and follow him.
Speckled rainbow trout splashed in the clear water beside the path as they entered the forest. The path was just wide enough to ride single file. Roberts rode in front, Waltz in the rear once again to keep an eye on Weiser. Each mile into the misty forest took them farther from the main road. The only sounds were the quiet clink of horses’ bridles and the rush of the river beside them. Danger was in the very air they breathed. Waltz had never been more alert to his surroundings. He had spent enough time in Grass Valley to know forests were never quiet like this. It was as if birds and animals were watching and waiting, like the calm before a storm. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he heard the soft, “Ha-hoo, hoo-ha-hoo-hooooo,” of an Indian’s simulation of a great horned owl’s cry echo through the trees.
As the day advanced, Waltz thought he saw shadowy forms move silently among the trees. They vanished quickly, before he could be sure they were more than the shifting of foliage from a passing breeze. At the edge of the trail, a golden-mantled ground squirrel sat squarely on his hind legs and watched them pass, his beady eyes sparkling at a private joke.
Shadows deepened and darkened around them and the trail became a mossy footpath. They made camp, ate a comforting supper of bacon, biscuits, and molasses, and Waltz spoke briefly about taking cover when they were attacked. No one corrected his use of “when” or complained about taking a turn at sentry duty.
The second morning was warm and dry, the late autumn weather sometimes called Indian summer. They continued to ride beside the river, but now the trail was little more than a footpath. Spurious bird calls increased and vague shadows disappeared as the sun came out.
Shortly before midday, the trail approached a deep, narrow gorge with steep sides. Large boulders and fallen trees surrounded a small clearing beside the trail. Roberts halted his horse and said, “This is as far as we’re going.”
Chief Tenaya appeared at the top of the gorge. He had changed his shabby jacket for a crimson shirt and eagle-feather cape, and his battered derby had been replaced with a magnificent eagle-feather headdress. His face was painted white with gray stripes running vertically down his face, starting above his eyebrows, going down his cheeks, and ending in forked tails. The braves who traveled with Tenaya now wore crimson stripes down their forehead from the center of their hairline to the tip of their nose and continuing from the center of their lower lip to their throat. Their cheeks and jaws were black, they still wore their gold-filled purses around their necks, and now they had arrows in their bows. Thirty additional war-painted braves stood behind them.
Most of the white men jumped from their horses and ran for cover, but Weiser immediately saw this opportunity to steal a little gold while the other men’s attention was diverted. Cool as a cucumber, he unbuckled each of his companions’ saddlebags and helped himself to a handful of nuggets. They’ll never know the difference, he thought.
As Weiser tucked his companions’ gold in his own gear, Chief Tenaya raised his lance and led his braves in a terrifying battle cry that echoed through the clearing. A moment later, Indian arrows filled the air.
Concerned for the safety of their horses, Coho Young left the shelter of his boulder to lead the horses away from the battle. But as he came back, an arrow pierced his thigh. He collapsed in anguish, unable to move. Heedless of his own safety, Waltz went back and carried Young to cover behind a fallen tree.
While Waltz was saving Young, Weiser tried to escape, but his getaway was blocked by one of Tenaya’s gold-wearing attendants. Weiser backed away in mock terror. Fifty feet away, Webber saw this from his position behind a tree, fired, and the Indian went down, blood darkening his shirt as he fell. As Webber approached to help, Weiser grabbed the fallen Indian’s tomahawk, spun, and buried it in Webber’s skull — then stole the Indian’s pouch and stuffed it in his pocket.
Waltz saw all this from across the clearing and shut his eyes for a moment, appalled by his partner’s despicable action. Without conscious thought, he raised his rifle and drew a bead on Weiser, but before he pulled the trigger, Waltz paused and lowered his rifle. “Shooting’s too good for him,” Waltz thought to himself. “Before I kill that bastard, I’ll make his life so miserable he’ll beg me to pull the trigger.”
Waltz laid his rifle down carefully. Staying low to the ground, he sprinted across the open space between them and dragged Weiser over to where Young lay in a pool of blood. “I’m going to pull this arrow out of Young’s leg,” Waltz said, “an’ you’re going to help me.”
Weiser’s face turned white at the sight of Young’s gory leg, and he muttered, “I can’t do it.”
Waltz pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it at Weiser’s chest. “Yes you can,” he said though clenched teeth. “Squat down there an’ hold his leg, dammit.”
Shocked into reacting, Weiser crouched down beside Young.
Waltz put his pistol back in its holster and said, “Now give me your whiskey.”
Weiser handed over his flask. Waltz unscrewed its top, poured a swig into Young’s mouth, and took a gulp himself.
Weiser looked at Waltz and whispered, “Shouldn’t we get out of here? We can come back later for Young.”
Waltz grabbed his pistol and spat, “Sit on that leg, you goddamn coward, or I’ll blow your head off.”
Weiser shut his mouth and shifted his weight.
Waltz opened his pocket knife, cut off the lower half of Young’s pant leg, and handed it to Weiser. “Tear this into strips,” he said.
“How wide?” Weiser asked, his face turned away as he avoided looking at Young’s wound.
“Wide enough to stop the bleeding,” Waltz replied.
Weiser tore the strips and handed them to W
altz, who wrapped and tied a tourniquet, and began cutting the feathers from the arrow.
“Why don’t you just pull the arrow out?” Weiser asked.
“Because he’d bleed to death from the arrow’s head tearing his flesh,” Waltz replied. “Now sit on that leg an’ hold it still.”
Waltz began to ease the arrow through Young’s thigh muscle grunting with effort as the fibrous tissue resisted. Weiser gritted his teeth and hung on. Sweat beaded Waltz’s forehead as he strained to push the damned arrow, until at last it moved through the muscle and came out cleanly in a fresh gush of blood.
Weiser’s face, already pale, turned still whiter at the sight of the surging blood.
Waltz wiped the sweat from his face, poured whiskey in Young’s parched mouth, and used the rest of it to clean his wound.
Weiser tried to ease away, but Waltz stopped him short as he snapped, “Not so fast, Weiser. You got us into this an’ you’re goddamn going to see it through. Tighten the bandage.”
Weiser obeyed, then turned his back and vomited. Neither man had noticed that the gunfire had tapered off.
Half an hour after Waltz finished working on Young’s leg, Chief Tenaya came out of the woods and took a stance at the top of the ravine. Raising his spear, the old chief raised his voice in a shout of defiance. As his battle cry filled the air, Waltz aimed his rifle at Tenaya’s chest and pulled the trigger.
The noble chief’s chest bloomed crimson as he fell, mortally wounded.
Stunned and confused by Tenaya’s death, his warriors retreated into the forest and disappeared.
Gradually, squirrels left their hiding places and scurried about in search of pine cones to nibble. Their scolding was a welcome relief from the hush that had prevailed after Tenaya’s death, and a sign the Indians had retreated.
In spite of Waltz’s efforts to save him, Young died. Shocked and sobered that their futile attempt to get easy gold had cost the lives of two men, Roberts covered Waltz with a round of gunfire as he worked his way over to the horses and brought back a spade. The remaining men dug shallow graves, covered the mounds with rocks, and Roberts said a short prayer for their fallen comrades.
As Waltz listened to Roberts’s prayer, he thought about ways to make Weiser pay for the grief he’d caused. Waltz looked at Weiser slumped miserably against a fallen tree, and thought, “What’s worse than death for a greedy bastard like him?”
Feeling Waltz’s eyes on him, Weiser’s hand went instinctively to his gold-filled pocket.
This gesture made Waltz realize that having his gold in another man’s keeping would make Weiser crazy. “That’s it,” he thought. “I’ll take charge of Weiser’s gold an’ keep it with mine.” The corner of his mouth twitched with pleasure as he pictured Weiser’s helpless indignation.
From under lowered eyelids, Weiser saw Waltz’s smile and knew he was in for trouble.
It was dusk before they began their retreat. While the other men filled their canteens from the river, Waltz ordered Weiser to straighten his saddle blanket and tighten up the girth on his saddle.
“Why should I?” Weiser said, his dark eyebrows nearly meeting in a frown.
“Because I said so,” Waltz replied, lowering his voice and moving closer to Weiser. “I saw you kill Webber. Why did you do it? He was your friend.”
Weiser decided to brazen it out. He met Waltz’s scowl and said, “Webber would of wanted the redskin’s gold. Just like you do, Waltz. Only I’m not giving it to you, either, and you can’t make me!”
The corners of Waltz’s eyes tightened as he said, “Yes I can. Because if you don’t give me your gold, I’ll tell the rest of the men you killed Webber.” An onlooker might have mistaken Waltz’s expression for a smile, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You just put your gold in my saddlebags an’ I’ll keep your dirty little secret, at least for now.”
Weiser frowned. He hadn’t seen this coming, but he recovered quickly and said, “That’ll be hard on your horse. He’s already sagging under the weight of your fat ass.”
Weiser’s jibe backfired when Waltz replied, “I didn’t know you was concerned about my horse, but I’m glad you spoke up. Go ahead an’ load the gold on your horse, an’ you can walk.”
“I can what?” Weiser said in astonishment.
“You can walk,” Weiser repeated.
Weiser was no fool. The other men would hang him from the nearest tree if they knew what he’d done. He had to accept Waltz’s temporary advantage, but inside he fumed. “Who the hell does Waltz think he is, treating me like a servant? I’m as smart as he is. Smarter, if it comes to that. There’s not much I can do now, but just wait until we get back to civilization. Waltz is dead wrong if he thinks he can keep my gold! One of these days, I’ll have his as well. I deserve it.”
SIX
Rich Hill
Dark clouds sent down a mist of fine drops as Waltz and Weiser straggled down the only street in Whiskey Flat and stopped in front of the saloon. Weiser’s bitterness had grown with each mile Waltz forced him to walk. His only comforts were planning fatal accidents to the other men and imagining his soft life ahead in San Francisco. Smoke, laughter, and the promise of warmth drifted from its swinging doors. Waltz looped the reins of their bedraggled horses over the hitching rail and seized Weiser’s arm. “You mind your manners an’ stay where I can see you,” he commanded.
Weiser was footsore and weary. Fuming with resentment, the last thing he needed was Waltz reminding him of his plight. Weiser’s eyes were slits as he snarled, “I’m not your servant. Damn you, Waltz.”
“You better get used to it,” Waltz replied roughly, and shoved Weiser into the saloon. “Now get me some coffee, and make it snappy.”
Inside the saloon, grizzled men leaned on its scarred oak bar and drank whiskey. A mirror behind the bartender reflected shelves of bottles and half-a-dozen tables of card players intent on their game. A squat wood stove warmed the back of the room. Gideon Roberts stood at the end of the bar with Abraham Peeples. He saw Waltz and elbowed his way toward him. Ignoring Weiser, Roberts drew Waltz toward the glowing stove and said, “How do you like this new settlement? They call it Whiskey Flat, an’ you better like it ’cause I already bought this saloon an’ the hotel next door.”
“I like it fine,” Waltz grinned, looking around the crowded room filled with men swapping stories and drinking beer. Whiskey drinkers stood at the bar, resting a foot on the rail and tossing down shots like they were water. Women in low-cut dresses circulated through the crowd, whispering in men’s ears.
Turning to Weiser, Waltz snapped, “Where’s my coffee?”
“Get it yourself,” Weiser retorted.
“What did you say?” Waltz asked, raising a bushy brow and putting his fists on his hips.
“I said, ‘Get it yourself,’ ” Weiser repeated boldly. “I’m not your servant.”
Waltz put his hand on Weiser’s shoulder and said softly, “Yes you are, mister, if you want me to keep your dirty little secret.”
Weiser scowled, but did as he was bid and got the coffee.
Waltz took it without comment, turned his back on Weiser, and continued his conversation with Roberts and Peeples.
Weiser tried to strike up a conversation with Joe Green, who was standing nearby, but Green ignored him and started a conversation with Peeples in a low tone. Weiser couldn’t quite make out Green’s words, but saw him turn his head slightly, gesturing in Weiser’s direction, and both men laughed.
“You holier-than-thou bastard,” Weiser said to himself. “You think you can make fun of me and get away with it, but you’ll pay dearly for this.” Drawing himself up to his full height of five feet ten inches, Weiser pushed past Green and Peeples, and moved toward a table where he saw a vacant chair and a poker game in progress.
The dealer, who was shuffling a well-worn deck of cards, nodded for Weiser to join them. Waltz saw Weiser sit down and walked over to the dealer. “You better be careful when this man’s playing,
” Waltz said, loud enough for everyone in a ten-foot radius to hear.
Weiser glanced at Waltz, then looked back at the dealer and said, “My partner here is just jealous. He don’t know how to play this game, an’ he’s a sore loser to boot.”
Waltz ignored the taunt and went back to where Roberts was standing, but managed to keep a close eye on Weiser in spite of the smoked-filled air. Roberts observed Weiser’s growing pile of poker chips and commented, “That’ll be a pretty pile of cash when he cashes in.”
“Yup,” Waltz said tersely, trying to figure out how to get hold of Weiser’s winnings.
As if he’d read Waltz’s mind, Roberts said, “I have a new Diebold Safe in my office, same as the ones that survived the Chicago Fire intact. Would you like to keep your and Weiser’s assets in it?”
Waltz grinned and said, “Damn straight I would, Roberts. You’re a real friend.”
For the rest of the evening Waltz had a little smile playing at the corners of his normally stern mouth as he watched Weiser pile up the chips. “Your cash is goin’ in Roberts’s safe,” he thought, “and there’s nothin’ you can do about it.”
Poker was one of the few pleasures Weiser had left in his current circumstances. He sometimes thought he’d go mad if he didn’t have his profitable evenings at a poker table. He twisted in his chair and stared at Joe Green, who had snubbed him earlier. In Weiser’s eyes, Green was a sorry example of a man, a person with no manners. “I’ll get back at you,” Weiser vowed. “You can’t insult me and get away with it.”
Just then, Green said something to Roberts. “Probably conspiring to take my winnings away,” Weiser thought. He leveled a look of loathing on Green that caught Waltz’s eye.
Weiser turned his attention back to his poker hand. There’d be plenty of time to deal with Green.
Three hours later, Weiser cashed in his chips and started to leave, but Waltz barred the way and said, “Where do you think you’re going?”