“More than ever.” She’d dressed in men’s clothing as Jack suggested. How strange not to feel a skirt swirling around her ankles, but how much easier it was to walk. No wonder men wore pants. She might actually pass for a boy in her wide-brimmed men’s hat and loose cotton shirt—that is, if no one looked too closely at her not-so-flat chest.
So these were the diggings! Traveling ever upward, they passed deep riverbeds and ravines, many of them swarming with men wielding picks and shovels, wrestling with boulders, packing dirt to make dams. Others were hammering together the long, wooden flumes that carried water to their claims. At one point, Sarah stood in a spot where she could see hundreds of flumes zig-zagging their way downhill, along with countless waterwheels.
Tents and cabins of rough logs dotted the hillsides. Everywhere men toiled in the streams—all kinds of men like the Mexicans with their huge uncombed beards, Colt revolvers in their belts, and knives stuck into the legs of their pantaloons.
They came across a black man who said he was an ex-slave. He had to work by himself. No white man would associate with him, but he didn’t care. With a broad smile on his face, he told them, “I’m just glad they made California a free state. Could have gone either way.” He was saving his money to buy his wife and family, still slaves in Georgia.
A grizzled, old miner took a moment from his labors to talk. “Look at them,” he said, sweeping his hand over the swarm of miners. “All of them crazy, me included. Either we’re standing in ice-cold water for hours or we dig, dig, dig. When we’re not working, we’re getting sick with scurvy or downright starving. Look at that man.” He pointed to a nearby miner with a pale, cadaverous face. “He uses mercury because it binds to the gold. Trouble is it’s poisonous. He’ll be dead soon, and what will all his gold do for him then?” He grimaced and put his hand on his hip. “My back is lame. I’m a wreck. Don’t know if I can hold on much longer.”
“So why do you do it?” Jack asked.
The miner looked surprised he would ask. “Why do any of us do it? We’re killing ourselves out here, and all for the same reason. I’ve got the same dream as everyone else. There’s a twenty-five pound pure gold nugget lying in a stream out there, just waiting for me to find it. That’s what keeps me going.”
They climbed higher. The terrain got rougher. Ling seemed tireless, climbing with the ease of a mountain goat. Much as Sarah wanted to show she could hold her own, she welcomed Jack’s help when she stumbled or had a hard time hauling herself up a steep hill. By now they’d left all the miners behind. They got so high Sarah could see the timberline in the distance above them. They followed as Jack veered to the left. After a short hike, they looked down on the Mad Mule diggings. When she saw the crew of men toiling in the stream and working the sluice boxes, she had a moment of doubt. “Wait! I don’t want to drown anyone.”
“You won’t.” Jack pointed to the scattering of tents and lean-tos high on the hillside. “We’ll wait for dark when they’ll be safe in their beds.”
They climbed higher till they came upon a dirt dam with a lake behind. Several long, wooden flumes led into it. Others lead downhill. Jack pointed. “There it is, Hannibal Palmer’s dam. See those flumes? That’s where he diverted the stream that ran through Sandy Gulch. Those other flumes lead down to his Mad Mule claim.” He looked at Ling. “Are you ready?” Using exaggerated gestures, he pointed to the dam, then to the packs on their backs. “Time to plant some gunpowder.”
Ling eagerly nodded.
“I want to come, too,” Sarah said.
“Not on your life.”
She was going to insist, but the sternness in Jack’s voice told her further discussion was useless. “It’s dangerous?”
“I’d hate see that beautiful figure of yours blown to kingdom come.”
End of discussion. Only after Jack and Ling left did she realize that hauling gunpowder on their backs and planting it with fuses might be dangerous. Up to now, she hadn’t given it a thought, but Jack’s blown to kingdom come remark caused a tightness in her chest. She waited with growing dread, expecting to hear an explosion at any moment. After two anxious hours, a cry of relief broke her lips when they returned. “You’re back! Did it go all right?”
Jack wearily sat on the ground, laying his backpack aside. “It’s done. We’ve set enough gunpowder and fuses to blow half the Sierra Nevada away.” He grinned. “You weren’t worried, were you?”
She grinned back. “What was there to worry about?”
“We’ll wait till after dark before we set off the charges. Palmer’s men will be out of the valley and up on the hillsides by then. Not that they’ll thank me for saving their lives.”
“So we wait some more?”
“We wait.”
* * * *
Under a quarter moon that barely lit the sky, Jack and Ling left again. It wouldn’t take long for them to light the fuses. Sarah stood breathlessly waiting until a tremendous blast shook the ground. She heard, more than saw, the dam crumble and the wall of water crash through and head down the valley below. Jack and Ling returned shortly, and the three stood peering into the near darkness. Sarah clasped Jack’s arm. “You did it!”
Jack gave a nod of satisfaction. “Blowing up the dam was the easy part. You’ve got the hard part.”
“Are you sure Palmer will come?”
“We’ve just wrecked his pride and joy, his second best moneymaker. You think he won’t come running? I give him two days, three at the most, before he arrives in Hangtown steaming mad.” He punched Ling on the shoulder. “Good job!”
The young Chinese smiled as if he understood, and maybe he did. Together they stood and listened as the last vestiges of water drained from the remains of Hannibal Palmer’s dam.
* * * *
A day later, after a quick, uneventful hike down the mountain, Sarah returned to the pie shop and found the air abuzz with only one topic of conversation, the destruction of the Mad Mule diggings. From what Sarah could glean, speculation over who blew up the dam ran rife. Maybe Joaquin Murrieta, the notorious bandit, blew it up. Maybe one of Palmer’s millionaire rivals was seeking revenge. Back in the kitchen, Cedric greeted her with a twinkle in his eye. “’Ave you ’eard the news? Someone ’ad the nerve to blow up the dam above Mad Mule. There’s ten feet of silt over the diggings. It’ll take months for Palmer to clean it up and get it going again, if ’e ever does.” He made an exaggerated clucking sound. “What a shame. I’d wager Palmer will show up in town any minute now.”
“Do you think so, Cedric?” Sarah asked sweetly. “Poor Mr. Palmer. Who would do such a terrible thing?”
Late that afternoon, Jack brought her the word. “Palmer’s just arrived. He checked into the El Dorado Hotel. Early tomorrow he’ll travel up the mountain to see the remains of Mad Mule.”
“Then I’d better see him tonight.” Sarah looked around to make sure she wasn’t overheard. “Is everything in place?”
“We just got back,” Jack said softly. “It’s ready to go.”
The big moment had arrived. Her stomach filled with fluttering butterflies. Florrie. Little Addy. The thought of them steadied her. She must do what she had to do and not let fear get in the way.
* * * *
Dressed in a high-necked, dark grey calico, a plain grey bonnet on her head, Sarah entered the lobby of the El Dorado Hotel and asked for Mr. Hannibal Palmer’s room number. Upon receiving it, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on his door. Palmer opened it himself. He stared at her blankly. “Yes?”
“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Palmer? Not so long ago you had me escorted from your home.”
He frowned in recognition. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Gregg, is it not? What could you possibly want?”
The last of the butterflies disappeared from her stomach. Where her newfound courage came from, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was simply the knowledge that justice and decency dwelt on her side, not on the side of this evil ma
n standing before her. “There’s a certain matter we must discuss.”
Palmer gave her a cold stare. “I have nothing to say.” He started to close the door.
She stopped it with the palm of her hand. “But I have lots to say to you.”
“See here,” he began, “I don’t have to—”
“Oh, but you do.” Her voice rang with confidence. “I assure you, you’ll face dire consequences if you don’t hear me out.”
Palmer frowned in thought. Easy to guess he’d love to shut the door in her face, but he didn’t quite dare. He swung the door open. “All right, come in, but make it brief.”
“Gladly.” She wasn’t the least bit glad to step into the room of a ruthless killer. Even worse, what she was about to say would make him angry. She’d come this far, though, and wouldn’t back out now. She swept into the room and turned to face him. “I won’t ask to sit down because this won’t take long.”
“Then speak up. I don’t have all night.” He was annoyed, yet curious, too.
The words came readily to her mouth. She didn’t even have to clear her throat. “As you know, the Mad Mule is in ruins.”
Palmer’s face suffused with anger. “What has that got to do with you, Mrs. Gregg?”
“I’m the one who blew up your dam.”
If the situation hadn’t been so serious, she would have enjoyed seeing his expression change from annoyance to a mixture of astonishment, suspicion, and just plain disbelief. “What do you mean? You couldn’t possibly have—”
“I assure you, I did. Would you care to know why?”
“Go on.”
“As you may recall, I asked for my sister’s child back, and you refused. I still want her back, so I have a proposition for you.”
“And what might that be?” A thread of skepticism ran in his voice, as if he were talking to someone not quite bright.
“It’s like this, Mr. Palmer. I’d venture to say that as much as you might regret the destruction of Mad Mule, it would be nothing compared to losing Golden Hill. Wasn’t that the claim that made you rich? Twenty-pound nuggets lying on the ground and all that? I understand it’s still paying handsomely. Am I right?”
As she talked, a growing suspicion filled Palmer’s eyes. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
This time she had to take a deep breath. Stay calm. This is now or never. “Do you recall how you diverted the American river and built a dam above your Golden Hill claim?”
“What are you getting at?” His superior expression was starting to fade.
“That dam has been planted with enough explosives to blow half the Sierra Nevada Mountains away. I have only to send the signal and pouf!”—she flipped her hand—”Golden Hill will be lying under tons of silt.”
A small vein near Palmer’s left eye bulged as his face grew red. Fingers curled, he reached toward her throat. She stepped back and held up her hand. “Stop! Hear me out. Did you think I’m alone? You’ll pay a huge price if I’m not outside this hotel in twenty minutes. I have people waiting. When they get the word, one touch of a match to a fuse, and your dam is gone. There’s no way you can stop them, even if you and your men race up there at top speed. That’s because the dam will be long gone before you got there and Golden Hill washed away.”
Palmer’s face blanched. “You didn’t plan this yourself. Who’s behind this?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is you can easily save Golden Hill. All you have to do is return my sister’s baby.” Her heart started hammering in her chest. She was getting slightly dizzy. Don’t ruin it all and faint.
“That’s blackmail.” His lips curled with scorn. “I don’t believe you.”
She turned toward the door. “I shall wait in the lobby.” She hadn’t intended to leave, but the man was way bigger than she was, and she’d started to wither under the force of his hateful glare. She was getting dizzier. Her knees had gone weak. She very much wanted to sit down. In her boldest voice, she declared, “You have fifteen minutes to decide.”
When she reached the lobby, she sank into an upholstered chair and checked the clock behind the registration desk. Fifteen minutes, and not a second more.
Five minutes later, Hannibal Palmer came down the stairs and confronted her. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
She rose and gave him a smile. “Think about it, Mr. Palmer. We took the trouble to blow the dam above Mad Mule because we were either after revenge or we wanted something. If it was revenge, wouldn’t we have blown the dam in the middle of the day when your men were working? We waited until dark because our purpose was to send you a message, not kill everyone.” She gave the clock a purposeful glance. “Your time’s almost up.” She softened her voice. “I’m not asking for a penny of your money. I just want my sister’s baby back.”
A nerve twitched in Palmer’s jaw. He was breathing short, tight little breaths. Easy to see he’d love to strangle her if they weren’t in the busy lobby of the El Dorado Hotel. Through gritted teeth, he finally spoke. “I’ll send for the child. Meantime, you’d better make sure Golden Hill is safe.”
She’d won! She wanted to clap her hands, do a little jig. Not a good idea, though, with Palmer close to exploding. She remained straight-faced and dignified. “I prefer to get the child myself. Is she still in Coloma?”
Palmer smirked. “Do you think I’d allow the child of a whore in my home? She was never in Coloma. She’s not far from Hangtown. She’s called Mary. If you wish to get her yourself, I’ll send my carriage. You give me your word—?”
“I give you my word.” She boldly met his eyes. “But don’t forget Golden Hill will be in danger until I hold that baby safe in my arms.”
Minutes later, Ruben, one of Palmer’s men, picked her up in a two-seater carriage in front of the hotel. His bushy black beard and gun strapped to his side made him look ferocious, but when she asked where they were going, he gave her a friendly smile. “Moose City is where we’re going. About ten miles. The road’s bad in spots, but we’ll make it.” He flicked the reins and frowned. “Don’t know why you’d want to go to that hellhole.”
“Why is that?”
Ruben shook his head and spat a chaw of tobacco over the side. “Hangtown’s a paradise compared to Moose City. It grew up practically overnight when some lucky fool found a fifteen-pound gold nugget in a ravine close by. Just about the whole town’s thrown together with canvas and spit. Not the brothel, though. It’s about the only wooden building in town, but that ain’t saying much.”
A horrible thought occurred to her. It couldn’t be, but she’d better ask. “This place you’re taking me to, it’s not the brothel, is it?”
Ruben glanced at her in surprise. “You don’t know? Yep, that’s where we’re going.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a letter. “You’re supposed to give this to Mrs. Dawson. She’s the madam who runs the place.”
By now, Sarah was familiar with mining towns. She’d traveled the main streets of Gold Creek, Hangtown, and Coloma, but never had she seen anything so ugly as the main street of Moose City. Nearly every foot of the muddy street was covered with trash of all sorts—old boots, sardine cans, empty bottles, broken picks, and shovels—everything imaginable. With few exceptions, the buildings were constructed of canvas, all with sagging roofs. At the far end, a two-story, unpainted, rickety-looking wooden structure stood out like a sore thumb. The Hangtown brothel was a palace compared to this place. Ruben stopped the carriage in front. “We’re here.”
Sarah didn’t hesitate. Her heart knocking in her chest, she stepped from the carriage, carefully made her way through the muddy yard, up the steps, and knocked on the door. A slovenly woman in a flowered silk wrapper, hair uncombed, swung it open. “You’re too early. We’re not—” She stopped when she saw who it was. “What do you want?”
Sarah introduced herself. “I’m to speak to Mrs. Dawson.”
“That’s me. I don’t
like being bothered at this hour.”
Without apology, Sarah handed Mrs. Dawson the letter. “Here, read it. It’s from Mr. Palmer.”
The madam practically snatched the letter from her hand. When she finished reading, she asked, “You want just the one?”
What did she mean? Sarah had to think fast. “I’ve come for the little girl you call Mary. She’d be around six months old.”
“Oh, that one,” Mrs. Dawson muttered. “Well, come on in.” She led Sarah through the house, out the back door, down wobbly steps to a sea-of-mud backyard. She pointed to a tent pitched at the back. “She’s in there with the other two. Watch your step.”
A trail of carelessly laid wooden planks led across the mud to the tent. Mrs. Dawson followed as Sarah stepped across them, cautiously lifting her skirt, her thoughts shifting between joy and dread. At last she was about to see Addy! But what was the poor child doing in this wretched place, and who were the “other two”?
They reached the tent, entered, and were greeted by an Indian woman in a buckskin dress with long, white braids down her back. “This is White Flower,” the madam said. “She takes care of the children.”
Children? Sarah looked around the dim room. It contained two makeshift cribs, a couple of beds, stove, rough-hewn table, and chairs. A few brightly colored toys lay on the rough plank floor. A blond, curly-headed little boy of around two toddled toward her, smiling and holding out his arms, but she had to ignore him. She looked toward the cribs. In one, a little girl with big brown eyes stood holding the railing. She appeared to be around a year old. Not Addy. Sarah stepped to the other crib where a baby about six months old, neatly dressed in a long, white, embroidered gown, sat playing. With her chubby cheeks and happy gurgles, she appeared to be well cared for. As Sarah approached, the baby looked up at her with bright gray eyes. Florrie’s eyes. She didn’t have much hair, but the few wispy curls on her head were blond, exactly the color of Hiram’s hair when he was a young boy. The baby lifted her arms, squealed, and smiled. Sarah couldn’t hold back her burst of joy. “Addy, Addy, I found you!” She scooped the baby into her arms. “This is my sister’s child. I’d know her anywhere.” Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t help it. White Flower, seeming to understand, started crying, too, bobbing her head up and down, a happy smile on her face. Sarah turned triumphantly to Mrs. Dawson. “This isn’t Mary. This is Addy, my niece.”
Wagon Train Sisters (Women of the West) Page 22