Janet Quin-Harkin

by Fools Gold

  “You want to see magic?” the gardener asked her.

  Staring at him wide-eyed and a little afraid, she had nodded silently. He had taken a big old potato from his pocket. “Here,” he had instructed. “Drop that in the ground and when you come back next time, you’ll see magic.”

  When Libby had returned several months later, she had hurried out to find the gardener. Grinning at her from a mouth with most of its teeth missing he had beckoned her to follow him. Then he put a fork into the soil and where the potato had been, lots of perfect new potatoes were growing instead.

  “How did it do that?” she had asked, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

  “Each one of the eyes can grow into a new plant,” the gardener explained. “Clever, ain’t it?”

  Now she hoped her brief lesson in horticulture was going to pay off. If each of those segments really did produce potatoes in the spring, her financial worries would be over. If she had heard nothing of Hugh by then, he must be dead, or gone home, she reasoned. She’d make enough money from the potatoes to sail back to Boston in style and then . . . she’d see what happened next.

  Another worry was relieved with the new cabin. After days of relentless rain, it was comforting to hear it beating on a shake roof with only a few drips coming through and only the occasional blast finding a gap in the canvas walls. Even if a blast came in, it didn’t matter, because the stove was giving out comforting heat. Libby felt like a child in her first playhouse and realized with a jolt that this was her first real home that she had not had to share with her parents. Knowing it was hers gave her the incentive to improve it. She tried her hand at making a bench for the girls to sit on and, impressed with her success, decided she would make a second bed if she could get someone to give her some rawhide.

  Winter had now set in. It was cold all the time. There was only a brief hiatus between storms and the creeks did not go down. Some miners gave up and moved down to Sacramento for the winter. Others, who could not afford to go, hung around in their cabins, playing cards, whittling, and doing chores to while away long days. There was no more washing to be done because nobody was getting fresh gold to pay for it. Hunger began to be a problem. It was also a major concern for Libby. She had plenty of flour and beans, but she knew that children needed a nourishing diet. She had to get meat from somewhere. When she saw a pair of miners go past, dragging the carcass of a deer, she suggested that she’d make them a venison pie if they gave her some of the meat.

  “We’d like to help, but there’s five of us at the cabin,” one of the men said. “It’s hard to find deer these days. They’ve all been driven right up into the mountains.”

  Libby took the girls out hopefully scouting for edible plants, not really knowing what she was looking for, but the high winds had stripped and flattened anything that might have been edible. She found some acorns under a grove of big oaks and tried roasting them. They tasted quite pleasant but they all had stomach pains that night so she didn’t dare try it again. She watched the mourning doves up in the trees and wondered if she could ever manage to shoot one of them with the rifle. Secretly, she began to practice behind the cabin, aiming at a target on a tree trunk until at least she could fire the rifle without it slamming into her shoulder.

  One morning she heard a twittering just outside the canvas and peeked out to see a flock of quail, feeding happily in the grass. They were enchanting plump little birds with adorable black crests, like question marks, bobbing on their heads as they communicated with each other. Swiftly, she grabbed a length of cloth she was about to cut out, opened the canvas suddenly, and threw it over the birds. Some managed to escape, running peeping into the forest, but the fabric still twitched with the remaining birds. Cautiously, she reached under it and her hands fastened around a bird. It struggled as she lifted it up, then lay limp in her hands. She could feel its tiny heart hammering against her fingers and noticed how beautifully it was marked with a delicate little crest on its head.

  How can I possibly kill it? she asked herself, her heart racing almost as fast as the bird’s. She slipped her thumb and forefinger around the little neck, but before she could apply any pressure the crested head fell back and the bird lay there, dead in her hand. It was frightened to death, she thought, feeling guilty and elated at the same time. She had never believed it could be so easy. She lifted the cloth and found that two more birds had died. The others scurried around in panic but she let them go. It took her ages and much revulsion to pluck the three little birds, but they made a good stew to which she added dumplings.

  Although the cabin was removed from the nearest settlement, Libby had not felt alone or threatened until one night. Shortly after dark she heard snuffling sounds right outside the cabin. She lifted the canvas a fraction to peer out and found herself looking at a huge grizzly bear. His head was massive and she could see four-inch-long claws glinting on his front toes. He had obviously smelled the food inside the cabin and was trying to see how to get at it. In terror Libby realized that one slash with his claws would open up the cabin like a sardine can. Her eyes went to the rifle on the wall. It was such a puny little thing compared to the size and strength of the bear. What if she shot and wounded him and he charged, enraged? Trying to control her panic she shoved a pile of dry kindling into the stove and held her breath while she waited for it to burst into flame. Then very steadily she lifted the canvas on the front and went around to the bear. He turned his giant head toward her with a surprised grunt, then reared up on his hind feet, at least eight feet tall.

  “Shoo! Go away!” Libby screamed, waving the burning brand at him. Bravely, she took a step forward. For a second, time seemed to stand still, the bear poised above her, the flames flickering. Then he grunted again, dropped to all fours, and ambled off into the forest. Back in the cabin Libby collapsed onto the floor, shivering with shock.

  “I can’t go on forever alone,” she whimpered. “I can’t keep on like this. I need someone to protect me and take care of me!” Her thoughts wandered to Gabe, riding up with Bliss on his saddle, not to Hugh. Where was he now? she wondered. She imagined him sitting in a barroom, surrounded by handsome Mexican bar girls, gold piled up all around him, never thinking of her at all.

  Christmas came and would have passed unnoticed if Libby had not heard drunkenly sung carols coming up from the settlement down by the creek. It seemed that even in this time of hardship, the miners always seemed to have money for drink.

  There was not even one present or treat for the children. She found her thoughts going back to Christmases at home. Her parents had always held a huge celebration with goose and plum pudding, guests and parlor games, and always lovely presents. Libby wiped away a tear and found that she was crying for herself as much as for her children.

  Around the first of the new year they woke to find the land blanketed in snow and more flakes falling thick and fast. There was almost a foot of snow on the roof of the cabin and the boughs of the pine trees were weighed down with their white mantle. Rocks and bushes were now unrecognizable bumps in a smooth landscape. It kept on snowing all day and all night, at times accompanied by winds that swirled the flakes and plastered the sides of trees. By next morning the snow was piled halfway up one wall of the cabin and when Libby went outside, she soon sank in past her knees.

  “We’ll just have to wait patiently until it goes away,” she said to the girls, and scooped snow into a pan to melt for water.

  “I don’t want it to go away,” Bliss said, looking expectantly at her sister. “I want to play in it.”

  “You have no warm clothes,” Libby said, “and no snow boots.”

  “Just a little play, Mama, and then we’ll come in to the fire again,” Eden begged. So Libby let them make a snowman outside the cabin. After a few minutes they were glad enough to come in again, shivering.

  “I wish we had something good to eat,” Eden said. “I hate bean soup.”

  “At least it’s hot,” Libby said. “I’m afraid we�
�re stuck with bean soup until we can catch something or get into town.”

  She looked at the girls worriedly. They had no energy and they both looked pale and drawn, like little old women. “As soon as I can, I’ll try and see if I can get down to the mining camps and do some mending or baking in return for meat,” she said. “Maybe they’re all tired of doing their own chores by now.”

  Darkness came so very early and the nights seemed to go on forever. Libby would often lie awake, staring at the red glow coming from the stove. Somehow they had to keep on going until spring. What if the snow lasted for weeks as it sometimes did in Boston? How long could they live on beans and rice? What would happen when there was no more dry wood to be found? Shadows flickered at the corners of the firelight and the shadows were heavy with demons.

  On the third snowy night Libby had settled the girls down to bed and was sitting, trying to sew by the light of one sputtering candle. She hated to go to bed too early, for that meant so many hours of lying, thinking. As long as she was up and active, thoughts could be kept at bay. Suddenly she looked up, her needle poised above her sewing as she heard a noise outside. Something was crunching through the snow. A bear? Didn’t bears hibernate when the weather got too bad? It sounded like something too large for a coyote or a fox or any other of the animals that sometimes hung around at night. Her gaze went to the rifle on the wall. Slowly, she put down her sewing and reached for it. Since the grizzly incident she always kept it loaded. The crunching and slithering seemed to be coming closer. She held her breath. The sound seemed to have stopped. She waited a moment, then very cautiously pulled back the canvas front of the cabin.

  She peered into the darkness, gasped and slid her finger onto the trigger of the rifle. A man was prowling around the cabin, trying to be silent and cautious. She cocked the rifle. The man heard the click and spun around.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Looking for the front door,” came the muffled reply.

  “There isn’t one.”

  “Then how am I supposed to knock?”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she snapped, her nerves stretched taut.

  The figure came toward her. He was snow encrusted and ice hung from his moustaches. “It’s Santa Claus. I’m a little late,” said a muffled voice.

  “Don’t come any closer. This thing is loaded,” Libby said threateningly.

  “I see your temper hasn’t improved over the last couple of months,” the voice said. Libby opened the canvas flap wider. It threw a triangle of light onto the white snow. “Or have you forgotten me already?” the man asked.

  “Gabe? Is that you?” Libby’s voice trembled. She lowered the gun.

  “See, you’ve already forgotten what I look like,” Gabe said and stepped into the light. “Is it safe to come closer now, or will you blast my head off with that dangerous-looking weapon?”

  CHAPTER 20

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Libby asked, unable to conceal her delight.

  “I tramp for hours through snowdrifts to see if you’re surviving and you ask me what I’m doing here?” he asked. “Woman, my hands are about to succumb to frostbite, I might never have the use of my toes again. Are you going to keep interrogating me on the doorstep forever?”

  Libby laughed. “Come on in,” she said, “only talk quietly. The children are already sleeping.”

  Gabe put his hand to his lips and dropped his voice to a whisper. “How are my favorite princesses?”

  “They’re both well, thank God. I worry about them a lot, but they seem to be surviving everything.”

  “They must be tougher than they look, like their mother,” Gabe said, smiling at her. She held open the canvas and Gabe stepped inside. “Very cozy,” he commented. “Don’t tell me you built this whole thing single-handed. I knew you were a remarkable woman, but not this remarkable.”

  “I inherited it,” Libby said. “Here, let me take those snowy clothes before they cause a flood on my floor. Sit down by the fire. Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “You inherited it?” Gabe asked, holding his hands over the stove. “From whom? Hugh built it?”

  “I didn’t find Hugh,” she said. “At least, not yet. I’m still looking but it’s so hard to get information. The rains put a stop to travelling.” She went ahead of him to the stove and put on water to boil.

  “Except for hardy people like me,” Gabe said.

  “As you say, except for hardy people like you,” Libby agreed, looking at him fondly. “What are you doing travelling around in weather like this?”

  “I was down in Sacramento,” Gabe said, “and the water started rising. When it reached my second-floor window I decided that I had better get out. So I thought I’d head back up here and see if there were a lot of idle miners who had nothing better to do than play cards. I passed through Hangtown and I just happened to ask whether anybody knew about you. The young man at the trading post said you lived a mile or so out of town, on your own, so I thought I’d pay you a visit. Just to make sure you were all right, you understand.”

  “You came all this way on foot?”

  “Believe it or not, there isn’t any snow down in the town. If I’d known what I was going to encounter, I’d never have set out.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Libby said.

  “I thought I was going for an afternoon stroll,” Gabe said. “That’s a good old-fashioned mile to your place. More like twenty.”

  Libby watched him, remembering with pleasure how the laugh lines around his eyes always crinkled when he smiled.

  “It was very nice of you, Gabe.”

  “I’m actually a very nice sort of fellow,” he said, coming across to the stove and putting down his pack on the table, “apart from my unfortunate habit of liking to gamble. So tell me all. How have you fared since we parted?”

  “Oh, I’ve managed very well,” Libby said airily. “We lived in a tent to start with and I took in washing.”

  “You—a washerwoman? I’d love to tell them that in Boston.” He threw back his head and laughed.

  “You’d be surprised at what I can do,” Libby said. “I baked pies. I do mending and cooking sometimes. We’re just fine since we got the cabin.”

  “Ah yes, the cabin you inherited,” Gabe said. “Tell me about that.”

  “It was luck, or fate if you’d rather,” Libby said. “Two miners got in a fight and they shot each other. I helped one of them back here and he died. He lived here all alone, so I just took it over.”

  “How convenient,” Gabe said. “You’re sure you didn’t shoot him when you were waving that formidable rifle around.”

  “I’d like you to know that I shoot very well,” she said. “I’ve been practicing. I even shot a rabbit.”

  “My congratulations,” Gabe said. “I see that you are now doubly dangerous and able to take care of yourself.” He reached into the bag beside him. “I did, however, bring some stuff up from Hangtown, just in case the snow had prevented you from hunting your dinner.” He grinned up at her and produced several packages from the bag. “Dried meat,” he said. “Dried apples and . . . a can of oysters! What do you say about that?”

  Libby’s eyes lit up. “I don’t know what to say. You really are Santa Claus,” she said. “Can we open the oysters now? We can share them.”

  Gabe laughed. “I eat these things all the time,” he said. “One gets rather bored with them after a while. I’ll watch you eat them.” He rummaged in the sack again. “I will, however, join you in a glass of champagne, if you can produce two glasses.”

  “French champagne!” Libby exclaimed in amazement.

  “It’s quite the rage up and down the mining camps,” Gabe said. “Whenever a miner strikes it really rich, only French champagne is good enough for him. It doesn’t matter that he’s never drunk anything other than beer or whiskey in his life before and that he doesn’t even like the taste of good champagne. Success means champagne, so he drinks it.”


  Libby went over to the shelf and took down two tin mugs. “No glasses, I’m afraid. We’ll have to pretend these are crystal.”

  “No problem,” Gabe said. He wrapped his handkerchief over the cork, twisted, and it came off with only a faint pop. “There,” he said with satisfaction and began to pour.

  Libby watched him, not able to take her eyes off him for a second. She noticed the greatcoat he had been wearing was of good cloth and had a big fur collar. His cuff links glinted gold and he had on a clean, crisp shirt.

  “You must be doing well to be able to afford champagne,” she said.

  He looked up at her. “Not bad, as they say. If I make money at the same rate all winter, I plan to go down to San Francisco next summer and start buying land down there. If there has ever been a boom town, it’s San Francisco. It’s just going to double and redouble in size and prosperity and I think I’d like to be in on it.” As he talked he produced a knife from his pocket, opened the can of oysters, and tipped them onto a plate. Then he pushed the plate toward Libby.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Libby said.

  “And you?” Gabe asked slowly. “What will you do after the winter?”

  “I’ll start looking again,” Libby said. “I have a little venture going that should make me some money. If I make enough, I’ll be able to travel up and down the entire length of the diggings or even hire other people to go looking for me.”

  “Searching for Hugh, you mean?”

  “What else?” Libby asked.

  “So you’re not going to give up on him yet? You don’t think he died along the way?”

  Libby’s gaze met his. “Until I have proof he is dead, I have to assume he’s still alive and I’m still his wife,” she said.

  “Very commendable,” Gabe said. He lifted his tin mug to his lips. “Your health,” he said.