Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  When they came from the house, Mrs. Stromback studied them. Samuel figured she had to know. He was going to make some excuse but decided against it. Of course she knew.

  Jon Stromback rode with him a distance beyond the ranch and paused. This time, Roundup followed, padding along as if he hoped Samuel would stay.

  “Hey, Samuel, a few things I didn’t get said to you. Mind if I do?”

  Samuel sat Spooky.

  “About my niece. Here, she’s like a daughter to Mrs. Stromback and me. I reckon you know that.”

  Samuel’s heart skidded. Dread washed through him. He desperately wished he had not kissed her without proper permission. He started to apologize. “I-I’m—”

  “I know you’ve got a hankering for Bonnie, and I know she’s got one for you. Sure hoped it’d be that way.”

  Samuel could not believe what he heard. He tried to keep from grinning.

  “And judging by what I’ve seen, Mrs. Stromback and I don’t mind. Sure we don’t want to rush you, but putting it bluntly, Mrs. Stromback and I wouldn’t mind hiring you on, maybe someday see you and Bonnie taking up a ranch and settling down here. Sure would be proud to help you.”

  Without thinking, Samuel blurted out, “What about Rex?”

  Stromback laughed. “Don’t worry about him. I keep him on because it’s hard to get a hand that’s willing to put up with ranching in this country. Most of them want to be near a bit more civilization or go chase gold.”

  They rode in silence a moment. Samuel was thinking about being with Bonnie, but he was battling his thoughts, not letting them become real.

  “Sure ain’t any of my business what you and your pa do. He’s told me he intends to head back to Iowa and take up a farm, but it seems to me there’s land here aplenty to farm, or ranch, if you prefer. I tried to show you that. In fact, I just sent a friend up the Little Salmon to file on a spot. You came in following down the Little Salmon, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When you do head out, drop by and say hi. His name’s Thomas Pollock. You and your pa ought to look around there as well.”

  “We did look at some good ground when we came in,” Samuel remembered. “We even talked about it but figured the Indians might be a problem.”

  “Treat ’em right, and I don’t think so.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Samuel felt conflicted. He had an open invitation to court the most beautiful woman in the world. He had a job if he wanted. This could be a good life—his future. Then he thought of his own family.

  “Here you be, lad. I know what you’re thinking,” Stromback spoke. “I don’t have any answers for you. Sure might be it wouldn’t work anyway. You gotta do what’s right for you and your pa.” He stopped. “Just wanted you to know you’d be welcome back. We all think highly on you.”

  They were in the narrows above the ranch. The Salmon, high with the beginning of spring melt, surged powerfully through the narrow gap. It was as if they stood at the gates to the wilderness.

  Samuel reached to shake hands. “I’m mighty obliged, sir. Please give my best to Bonnie and to Mrs. Stromback and the children. Thank you for everything.” Roundup whined. He leaned down and patted the dog. “You too, Roundup.” He spurred his black horse down the trail; a terrible ache had risen in his chest.

  Chapter 12

  THE MONEY STROMBACK paid Samuel for ranching seemed a fair amount, but he had spent most of it for supplies in Slate Creek before heading out—most on some mercury, but also for some staples, and he had sent a few dollars home to Iowa.

  About halfway, he camped the night on the trail, reminiscing that about a year ago his father and he had first come to this country. As then, the river was becoming high with snowmelt.

  Early morning, he again headed out, keeping watch for trouble, although he had met no travelers. None of the trails over the summits were yet open, despite the hillsides at this elevation being bright green with a carpet of new grass. He had remained longer with the Strombacks than originally planned. Now he was anxious to see his father—to see how the placer was doing.

  He rounded the last corner from where he could first see the cabin, smoke rising from the stovepipe. He spotted Molly and Buster and felt a warming.

  His father looked up from where he was working at the sluice and hollered, waving.

  They embraced. “Good to see you, Pa.”

  “Good to see you, son.” He looked him up and down, grinning. “From appearances, I’d say ranching life has done you some good.” He eyed Samuel’s pack. “Hopefully, you brought us some coffee.”

  “I did, and some vegetables.”

  “I’ll be mighty glad for those after this winter.” Charles turned toward the cabin. “Let’s have some of that coffee, and you can tell me about ranching.”

  They stoked up the fire, and Samuel put on a pot of water.

  “How’s the girl?” was the first question his father asked.

  Samuel felt a rush at his personal thoughts and began talking. An hour later, he was still talking. A few things he left out, such as chasing a ghost cow over a cliff and getting shot at.

  His father shared how he had spent most of the time clearing off overburden, digging nearly every day, and finally getting down to bedrock but not getting much gold yet. The snowstorm had him holed up for a bit. He had been up to the Shearers’ once to visit and helped them do some planting.

  The good weather abruptly ended with Samuel’s return. During the next several days, heavy rains, some mixed with sleet, raced down the canyon, hammering their camp. The tributary streams filled and raced violently downslope, overflowing. White ribbons cascaded from the cliffs across the canyon, emptying into the rising river.

  Everywhere, the hillsides were splashed in green; leaves had come to the shrubs and begun unfurling on the cottonwoods. Samuel spotted the band of bighorns across the river and watched the newborn lambs scampering to keep up with their mothers.

  Between storms, they worked the sluice as much as possible. Each cleanup showed increasing streaks of gold, and the size slowly increased from fine flour gold to flakes about the size of grass seeds. Occasionally a slightly larger, flattened piece turned up.

  “You got back at a good time,” Charles said. “Almost half an ounce a day.”

  “Makes up for all the days when everything was frozen and we were just getting flour gold.”

  “You’re right. All things considered, it hasn’t been much, but I’m feeling lucky now. I’ve been waiting all winter for this run.” He took ahold of the sluice. “Help me reposition this.”

  They realigned the sluice and flume, and Samuel adjusted the head gate until a good flow of water washed a couple of test rocks through. They hoisted the head box back into place and reattached it.

  They returned to the pit, where they had finally exposed the heavily fractured, bowl-like bedrock. They took turns with the pick, prying out the chunks of bedrock and exposing the small seams of gravel, which they carefully scooped out.

  By midday, they uncovered a thin layer of cobbles between two chunks of bedrock. Samuel pried loose a rock.

  “Holy jumping Jehoshaphat, Pa!” he shouted. “You can see the gold!”

  Samuel trembled with excitement, blinking his eyes, hardly daring to believe them. So much gold had been trapped that it was visible in the floor.

  Charles scrambled down to where he could see.

  “Look at this.” Samuel reached down and picked out a flattened nugget the diameter of a pea. “Holy Hanna!” he exclaimed. “Here’s another.”

  Gold lay in a streak in the crevice much like it would behind a cleat in the sluice. Samuel started dancing around in the pit, and let out a whoop. His father joined him, and arm in arm, they spun each other around, whooping as they did.

  “You fellers must a hit it big.” A shadow
and voice came into the pit, then another shadow.

  Samuel spun around, frantically looking for the rifle. It was yards away, near the sluice.

  His father slowly straightened. “Howdy, strangers,” he said quietly.

  Both men appeared scraggly, clothes unkempt and torn, heavy beards and matted hair. One was skinny, appeared sickly, and had ratty black hair. The other, appearing a bit healthier, had light blond hair and wore a tattered vest. He was the one who had spoken.

  Giggling, he nervously headed down into the pit. “We ain’t seen an operation like yours. Mind if we take a peek?” He stepped lightly across the rocks, waving his arms to keep balance. The black-haired man, slightly balding, followed.

  “Name’s Andy Stephens,” said the light-haired man. “This here’s my partner, Clint Boston.” Stephens grinned from ear to ear, missing a couple of teeth, his dingy beard sporting tobacco stains and his eyes blinking.

  Charles took a step back.

  An icy clamminess enveloped Samuel as he recalled stories of people being murdered and buried in the pits they had dug, never to be seen or heard from again. He was slightly relieved to see that neither man wore a pistol, only skinning knives.

  “Guess you already did come down,” Charles said cautiously and nodded to Samuel who stepped away to get the rifle.

  “Heard you guys a hollerin’, by gum. Just had to check it out,” Stephens explained.

  “We just ran into something you almost never see,” Charles explained. “Here’s a few specks of gold you can actually see lying on bedrock.”

  The two men peered down.

  “Ain’t never seen any gold,” Stephens said. “Least not in the wild.”

  “I’ve seen it, but never enough,” Boston said, scratching his balding head.

  Charles laughed. “Sounds like me.”

  Samuel retrieved the rifle. He noted their two mounts—sorry-looking horses, broken and skinny. Their gear appeared similarly shabby. One rifle poked out of a scabbard. Nevertheless, Samuel did not trust the men.

  He could hear their excited voices and laughter. He worried a bit about his father. It would not take much to pull a knife on him and overpower him, being there were two of them.

  Samuel stood near the pit, making it obvious he held the rifle.

  His father looked up. “Remember our visit with Pete and Hallelujah? It’s the same sort of thing, Samuel.”

  Samuel nodded, remembering on their trip in when they had stopped to see how a rocker worked.

  The two men jabbered constantly, asking questions, pointing and gesturing, Stephens letting out with a giggle or two. Charles showed them the sluice box, and ran a bucket of gravel through, demonstrating.

  At length, his father called up to him, “How about fixin’ us some coffee?”

  Reluctantly, Samuel turned to do so, but not before he saw the three men coming his direction.

  They sat on stumps outside the cabin for a while, talking. Samuel brought more coffee and offered them some cornbread, which they wolfed down. He wished he had more to offer. He had a strange feeling that the gold fever these two had caught was all that was keeping them going.

  Later, while they watched them head out, straggling down the trail, still giggling and talking, Samuel laughed. “They sounded just like you and me last spring, didn’t they?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Making the same mistakes as well, I’m guessing.”

  “They might be making the worst possible mistake, son. The trail isn’t open. Those horses they’re riding will never make it. Last trip by, Mr. Hunt said they still had twenty feet of snow on both summits. Don’t know when we’ll be able to get in, either.”

  Samuel felt stunned. “How can that be? We were in there first of June last year. And here I thought by wintering we’d get a jump on it.” He felt dismayed. “We can’t wait too long, Pa. The snow’s probably already off the Sweet Mary. Sitting here, someone might jump us.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, Samuel,” Charles replied. “I asked Mr. Hunt to ask one of the guys I worked with at McLane’s to keep his eyes on it. Hunt said not to worry, that there’s still three feet of snow on the level in the meadow. Even so, it’s hard not to worry.”

  Samuel felt better. He shifted on the stump and gazed in the direction the riders had disappeared. “We should have offered them some grub to take with, Pa. They were starved.”

  “I did. I offered them some venison, but they turned me down,” Charles said. “They might feel different by the time they reach the Shearers’.”

  Samuel pushed his hands across his knees. “They don’t look like they’ll last another day.”

  His father raised his eyes. “That’s what gold fever does to a man, son. That’s what’s still driving them on. You know that.”

  “I just don’t think they’re going to make it.”

  “Don’t fret too much. Nature has a way of telling you what you don’t want to hear. I’m guessing when they hit the snow, they’ll sit it out at the bottom of the hill until they can get in.”

  “Hope they can last.”

  “Better keep the rifle handy from now on, Samuel. We were lucky. The next men drifting through just might intend to help themselves to what we got.”

  They returned to the pit. Each rock they turned, they found more bits of gold. By evening they had picked out nearly two ounces.

  Charles gazed at the darkening sky. “We worked too long, son. We’ll have to do a cleanup in the morning.”

  Wearily, Samuel followed his father toward the cabin. “I could keep going, finding gold like this. Just light a bonfire.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll get another three or four ounces. There’s a fair amount of bedrock still exposed.”

  Chapter 13

  SAMUEL WOKE, thinking he heard a horse. “Pa,” he said softly, sitting up. “I think someone’s out there.”

  “I hear ’em, son,” Charles whispered back. He was standing, fumbling with his trousers.

  They heard the soft thud from horse hooves receding. Charles grabbed the rifle and quickly stepped into the night.

  Shortly, he stuck his head back in. “Come on, Samuel,” he hissed. “I think we’ve been hit.”

  Samuel had finished dressing and started to light a lamp.

  “No light.”

  He grabbed the pistol, and they ran toward the sluice. With the moonlight, they could see the damage. The head box had been pried off. It was in a shambles next to the sluice. Several cleats had been ripped up. Water ran sparkling across a bare wood bottom; the black sand and any gold in it had been cleaned out.

  An icy feeling clawed at Samuel’s stomach. He could see where the brush had been moved. Running toward the bank, his fears were realized. Some of the fines were also missing.

  Charles swore. “Bet it was those snoops, Stephens and Boston.”

  Samuel felt sick. “Not counting the gold we left in the sluice, Pa, we likely lost two or three ounces in the fines. The last stuff was rich.”

  “Probably more,” his father spat. “And they busted up the box pretty good.” Moonlight glinted off the splintered wood. “We left it too easy. All they had to do was scoop everything into a canvas bag.” He knotted his fists.

  Samuel followed the tracks. “They went downriver.”

  “I don’t think so, son. They wanted us to think that. I heard rocks clatter upstream.”

  They strode quickly to the trail and saw where the tracks reentered.

  “They can’t get far, Pa. At night, they won’t be able to use the ferry.”

  “And the river’s too high to swim it. They’ll have to hole up until daylight, until the Shearers’ can take them across.”

  His father turned toward the cabin. “Fetch Buster, Samuel, I’m going after them and find their camp.”

  “I’ll g
o with you, Pa.”

  “No,” Charles said quickly, and then added more softly, “Your ma would never forgive me.”

  “And if I don’t go, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Charles glanced away and then back, studying Samuel. “All right, son. I’m hoping to see who they are, maybe get some help from the Shearers.”

  Shortly, they were on the trail. The fresh tracks showed moisture where the horses’ hooves had broken the soil. They rode quietly, pushing as hard as they dared, scanning ahead, watching for any glint of moonlight from metal and searching for a campfire.

  “Got to be careful they don’t hear or see us, though I ’spect they’ll move well off the trail,” Charles whispered.

  The hackles on Samuel’s neck rose, and he cringed at any sound or glint of reflecting moonlight, half expecting to take a bullet.

  Charles paused at the Florence trail, studying the tracks. “To blazes, they’ve headed up this way.”

  A hollowness washed over Samuel. “For sure, we won’t catch them now.”

  Charles sat Buster a moment, peering up the trail. His jaw tightened. “There’s another trail along the ridge closer to the Shearers’. Might be I can get above them and catch them coming up.”

  “I’m going with you,” Samuel protested. He felt chilled, thinking of his father going alone.

  “No, I need you here. If it’s those two from the other day, I’ll have a good chance of stopping them. Their mounts aren’t going to get them very far. They probably think we’re still asleep and won’t be in much of a hurry.”

  “This is crazy, Pa.” Samuel shook his head. “It’s just gold. We can get more. It ain’t worth killing for.”

  “I don’t intend to kill anyone, son.” Charles cleared his throat. “But to us, it’s not just gold. This is our life. Besides, if we let them get away with it, they’ll just hit someone else.”

  “Don’t go, Pa,” Samuel said, desperately. “It’s two against one.”

  “I only saw one rifle.” Charles’s voice was strained. “Stay here. If they turn and run, they’ll not be watching for you. Get a good look at them.”