Colorado Gold

by Marian Wells

  Treasure Quest Books

  Colorado Gold

  Marian Wells

  © 1988 by Marian Wells

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publicaion may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—with the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Manuscript edited by Penelope J. Stokes.

  Cover illustration by Brett Longley.

  Cover designed by Dan Thornberg.

  eISBN 978-1-4412-6244-8

  To My Husband

  Chet

  My Best Friend

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Books by Marian Wells

  Back Cover

  Introduction

  “There’s gold in Pikes Peak country!” The shout was electrifying, the response immediate. The year was 1858. As quickly as they could put their affairs in order, they came—streaming into the wind, charging across the plains. Youths and middle-aged men, poor farmers, lawyers, doctors, storekeepers, outlaws, gamblers, and dance-hall girls—all had eyes shining with hope, sure of success. It was there for the taking—easy gold, ready to be picked up by the shovelful.

  The would-be miners came. Some walked; others rode on horseback or in rickety wagons—they were the lucky ones. The billowing canvas tops provided at least feeble shields against sun, rain, and Indian arrows.

  Many gave their lives there on that barren stretch of high, desolate prairie. Many a dream was buried beside the trail. Many turned back when they discovered that gold demanded their blood, sweat, and tears. But the survivors—the hardy, determined ones—were inclined to make their dreams come true.

  Those who stayed learned to change their goals. The dream of becoming a millionaire gradually diminished into a determination to earn a living. These miners spent their lives ever hacking away at yet another mountain. Still others were willing to exchange the old dream for a new one. Some of these men became successful farmers, industrialists, shopkeepers.

  Among the gold seekers, some were successful beyond wildest expectations. Gold nuggets rolled across the gambling tables, and guns roared. The wild west was reality; for a time each man was law unto himself.

  Into this climate stepped the missionaries from the Methodist Episcopal church. Clad in threadbare coats, they preached in saloons and in tiny log cabins. As they walked from gold camp to gold camp, their very presence caught the men up short.

  Perhaps it was a blessing that only a few of the gold seekers found riches, for the lack of treasure set men looking for a gold that didn’t sift through their fingers. More than a few soberly considered the missionaries’ words and measured the nuggets in their hand against eternal treasure.

  But not only the miners faced this dilemma. The daughter of one such frontier preacher plunged into the middle of this restless scene. Amy, sixteen years old, is amazed, bewildered, and mystified by the life surrounding her. Face to face with her father’s calling and the lure of material riches, she must choose the course her life will follow. And the decision that she ultimately makes—the choice between wealth and the will of God—will change her life forever.

  Chapter 1

  “Think of Amy!” The insistent voice penetrated Amy’s dream, making her eyes flutter. The voice continued. “You’re bringing a young innocent girl into a rough gold camp. Eli, it’s a mistake, exposing her to that element. You know our mistakes will dog us to the grave.”

  “Now, Maude, Amy’s—” came Father’s low voice.

  “She’s asleep.”

  Amy squinted at the light probing her eyes. Yesterday a sharp branch had poked a hole in the canvas stretched over the Rev. Eli Randolph’s wagon, and Aunt Maude took it as a sign that Satan was marshaling his forces against them. Today a finger of light danced through the hole. With each jolt of the wagon it stabbed her, daring her to shed the dream and listen to the two bent figures as they argued on their wagon seat.

  In her dream, Amy’s tight braids had become a floating veil of springy yellow curls; her eyes were daring and brave. Now Amy screwed her blue eyes tight against the light and clung to her dream. A trickle of perspiration beaded on her lip and dropped to the pillow.

  With a tiny sigh, Amy wiped her lip and surrendered the dream of the tall young man on horseback. He had come crashing into her life, spilling gold nuggets and sweeping aside Aunt Maude and Father with a smile as he reached for Amy.

  Aunt Maude’s voice caught her as it lifted beyond the discontented grumble, stacking the argument to dangerous, dizzy heights. Amy’s ears strained to hear the words. It wasn’t the familiar complaints, but new, strange things that made her uneasy.

  “Following a dream you are—a foolish, selfish one. Why can’t you forget her? Risking our lives, threatening your daughter with the very thing you should be fleeing. The taint makes it a bigger fear. Eli, you can’t tempt fate this way and get by with it. We’ve not talked this out, but I know your secret thoughts. Everytime I see you looking toward those places, eyeing those painted faces, I know what ails you.

  “’Tis one thing to convert the heathen, ’tis another to not rest easy with one’s lot in life. Are you intending to ever tell her about—”

  As Aunt Maude paused, Amy heard the pounding hooves, a shout. Her aunt’s complaint ended in a sob. “Eli, Indians! Oh, the Lord forgive us for this foolishness!”

  Amy rolled off the pillows and pushed her face between the two on the seat. Her aunt spoke automatically. “Amy, take your elbow out of my side.”

  The horse thundered past, leaving a cloud of dust that slowly settled down over the Randolph team and wagon. Amy coughed and rubbed her watering eyes. The rider circled back. It wasn’t an Indian.

  Amy grinned at the dusty young rider. “Are you a cowboy?”

  “Naw, I’m heading for the gold mines.” He tipped his hat at Amy’s father and added, “Just wanted to say howdy and I’ll see you in Denver City. Stay on this Smokey Hill road; it’ll take you right into town.” He wheeled his horse and left them to their plodding gait.

  The color was seeping back into Aunt Maude’s face. Amy stretched to look after the rider, and her aunt snapped, “And don’t you practice poking your lip out like that and making your e
yes like saucers. Eli, these miners will ruin a sweet-faced innocent.”

  The whip cracked impatiently over the backs of the team. The mules hurried their gait a bit, and Amy slanted a glance at Aunt Maude, recalling the things she overheard. Taint. Aunt Maude, why didn’t you like my mother? Deep down, you’re really glad she died, aren’t you?

  The ugly thoughts pressed against Amy as she settled back on the quilt. The noonday heat poured down on the prairie as the wagon swayed through the ruts. Amy peered out at the barren trail. Slowly she said, “A lonely trail, straight as an arrow to Pikes Peak country.”

  She waited for their reply as she studied the sparse gray-green bushes and the poor, pale soil. The heavy silence was broken only by the creaking wagon and the snort from the team. Father’s shoulders moved again, but neither he nor Aunt Maude spoke.

  Amy sighed and yanked off her sunbonnet. Trying to break the lonesome silence, she said, “I wish a cool breeze would come up. Just a little one.” Perspiration had darkened her braids to honey color and plastered her hair into shiny corkscrews across her forehead.

  She picked the curls away and rubbed her offending elbows, saying, “I wish I didn’t look like a scrawny baby. And I wish I could wear my hair loose and curled.”

  Aunt Maude peered over her shoulder. “Tut,” she said uneasily. “You’ll grow up fast enough. Don’t pine for what you don’t have.”

  Amy fanned herself briskly with her sunbonnet. With a quick glance at the two, she said, “If the end of May is like this, what’ll summer bring?” No answer. “Father, we’ve been staring at sagebrush forever.”

  Her aunt answered. “Not so. You can’t forget the miles of grasslands.” Her tart reply changed to a plaintive murmur as she sank back on the seat, “Not that it matters. It’s the green pastures of Kansas Territory I’m wanting, not those rearing up lands they call the Rocky Mountains. Trying to stick in a wagon when your nose is pointed skyward is enough to scare a person humble in a hurry.”

  While Aunt Maude rambled on, Amy studied her father. He was a dark lump of dusty coat and limp black hat. But Amy didn’t need to see his face; it was a copy of Aunt Maude’s long-planed face, with a nose like finely chiseled flint.

  Glancing at Aunt Maude she saw the one tear on her pale cheek, but the guilty sympathy Amy felt put her in partnership with her father. With a quick look at him, she began to think out her words carefully. “Aunt Maude, I know you don’t like coming to the Pikes Peak country; I’d rather stay in Kansas too, but I’m not scared by mountains. They’ll be beautiful, all green pines and mirror-like lakes, deer and bighorn sheep—”

  Aunt Maude snorted, “You sound just like that guide book. The one by the fellow pushing us to get gold fever and join the wagon train.” She sat up and waved her arm, crying weakly, “Pikes Peak or Bust!”

  Amy blinked. Eli nodded, saying, “The pamphlet put out by William Byers. I’ll admit he printed a pretty nice picture of life around Cherry Creek. Made it sound like a growing city with piles of gold in the creeks.”

  Straightening on the hard wagon seat, Aunt Maude snorted in disgust. “Last autumn, by snowfall, the greatest share of them had come back to Lawrence, Kansas.

  “It wasn’t hard for us to see that they had been humbled—creeping back into the territory and civilization, tail between their legs, their canvas all labeled Busted by God.”

  “Now, Maude,” Eli’s voice came from under the hat, “some quotations don’t bear repeating. Besides, you’ve no doubt noticed, we aren’t the gold-seeking crowd.”

  Amy knew it was best to keep silent, but the words burst out, “Since church conference time, you knew Father would come. And we knew you didn’t want to come. Father tried to get you to stay with one of the uncles.” Immediately she regretted the words. Aunt Maude dabbed at her eyes.

  Father’s shoulders moved uneasily again. Sadly Aunt Maude said, “I couldn’t forget my responsibility. ’Tis bad enough for a widower to be out here alone to fend for himself, but one with a child—that’s out of the question. I know my duty.”

  “Child!” Amy exploded. “I suppose I’ll never get a figure, even by eating butter and cream. But on the inside I’m grown up. I’m fifteen. Lots of girls are getting married at sixteen. And what did you mean when you said—”

  Amy’s father reached out with a calming touch. Trembling, Amy settled back on the pile of quilts; she had nearly admitted to eavesdropping. She said no more, but concentrated on her keyhole view.

  “Look!” Maude pointed. “Isn’t that blue line a river in the patches of trees? Maybe the Platte?”

  Eli shook his head. He held up the scrap of paper. “According to this map, it’s Cherry Creek. That means we’re almost there.”

  “Thank God.” Aunt Maude breathed out an explosion of relief. “I can say I’ve been worried silly thinking we’d be done in by the Indians any minute. It was hard to see those other folks take off and head north to the Oregon Trail.”

  “Almost there?” Amy said slowly. “What do you mean? Those mountains look a long way off.”

  “Amy, daughter,” Eli said gently as he continued to flick the reins and study the paper, “we’ll be staying in a little town this side of the Cherry Creek. They call it Denver City. That is, we’ll stay there until the missionaries assign us a place to minister.”

  “Missionaries?” Amy questioned. “You mean there aren’t bishops and presiding elders here?”

  “No. A conference hasn’t yet been organized. It’ll probably be several years until we’re strong enough. There’s just a few missionaries, come in from the Kansas-Nebraska Conference.”

  Studying her father’s weary face, seeing the new lines and the way his shoulders sagged, she bit back the sharp bitter words she wanted to say. But it had always been this way, as far back as she could remember.

  Father never had enough money or time for frolic. Amy bitterly reflected on the last parish. They had just made the old house fit to live in before it was time to move on. There was time to make only a few friends before saying goodbye.

  “Minister! I doubt there’s even a decent church where we’re going. Besides, what can a spindly fifteen-year-old and a maiden lady do in a mining camp—dig gold?”

  He shot a half-grin at her while Aunt Maude groaned. “Eli, mark my words. In another year I’ll remind you I said this would be a mistake.”

  He pointed toward the southwest. “That’s our destination. We’ve about a half hour, just enough time to give you the bare facts about the place.”

  “I see cabins on each side of the creek,” Amy said.

  “Well, the east side is Denver City; on the other side is another small town they’ve named Auraria. I understand the two scrap like litter pups. The fella back in Lawrence told me as of last summer there was just a handful of cabins in each town. I think he said twenty-five on the Denver City side and fifty on the Auraria side. Looks to me like there’s more now. Those bigger places must be hotels.”

  He paused, then added, “Even from here it doesn’t look too bad. The line of trees along the creek gives it a homelike touch.

  “There must be some pretty good-sized camps in the mountains by now. The young man in Lawrence said fifty thousand men and a few women had moved in last year.”

  Amy echoed, “Fifty thousand!” Aunt Maude shook her head.

  “Eli, I heard you talking to that man. You didn’t know, but just around the corner another fellow was saying that a good share of the men took one look around, shook a panful of gravel and then high-tailed it back to Kansas.”

  “I’ve an idea they were the ones who fell for the story that the gold was lying around waiting to be scooped up by the bucket loads,” Eli replied.

  “Or the rumor that you could quarry it like granite,” Amy added.

  “Up both branches of Clear Creek,” Eli said, “they’re saying there’s good color showing, but the miners will have to work for it.” He turned to grin at Amy. “See, I’m getting miner’s jargon down pa
t. Color refers to the presence of gold in the ore.”

  In a moment his smile faded into the familiar brooding expression. Aunt Maude began to nod in her corner of the seat, and Amy strained her eyes to pick out the details of the area around the creek.

  They dropped down a slight incline and the small settlement stretched out before them, a tiny smear of brown against the overwhelming mountains. For a moment Amy was uneasy. Everything seemed hazy and barren down that line of gray soil and green trees marking the way to Denver City.

  Father was talking, his voice moving through the stillness, barely lifting above a murmur. Amy knew he was quoting scripture as he often did while they traveled. She turned to listen to him.

  His voice rose and grew strong. “‘Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfortably unto her. And I will give her her vineyards from thence, and the valley of Achor for a door of hope: and she shall sing there, as in the days of her youth, and as in the day when she came up out of the land of Egypt.’”

  When he had been silent for a time, Amy asked, “What book are you quoting? It’s pretty, almost like a love story.”

  Startled, he cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice was flat. Flipping the reins he said, “Hosea. It is a love story—in a way.” In another moment he pointed. “See that? That’s the south fork of the Platte River. Cuts down Nebraska way. We’ll be living this side of it, but I hear there’s a good ferry close hereabouts. Doesn’t look safe to ford. They say in spring run-off it’s seventy feet wide.”

  He paused then added, “One thing, don’t forget, daughter. We’re here to spread the Gospel. That should make us look at circumstances in a totally different light. It matters not whether people find gold, or that the towns be little and shabby. The important part is that we establish the church regardless of anything else.”

  The passion in his voice made Amy move impatiently. His words dug down in her, uncovering the uneasy, hidden guilt of questions she felt but dared not ask. This was new—the need to question nearly everything. She looked at him, wondering what he would think of her questions. Did he ever wonder about God? She saw his eyes were troubled.