Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  “How rich?”

  “I had it assayed. I asked Mr. Hinley not to say anything. It came back over six ounces to the ton.”

  His father sat up. “To blazes, son, why didn’t—”

  “I didn’t say because I knew we didn’t have any time to do anything with it, Pa, and it would be dang near impossible to get the gold out of that country.”

  “Tarnation! We could have sold it and let someone else worry about bringing it out.”

  “I know, Pa,” Samuel admitted. “But I also wanted to finish the O’Riley because of the work I put in.”

  “To blazes with the O’Riley, Samuel. It’s half as valuable.”

  His father’s troubled eyes made Samuel uncomfortable. “Mostly I didn’t say anything because of the Indians. I-I didn’t feel right about it.”

  Having finally spoken of it, Samuel rushed on, not daring to stop. “I had this feeling that the Sheepeaters didn’t want me there. I know we could have gone there with a bunch of men and run them off, but that wasn’t it. Somehow, I knew that where the man was pointing—where he wanted me to go—was their home. There’s nothing there, Pa. For a hundred miles or more, there’s nothing there but mountains and canyons—land that no whites would ever set foot in—unless we did. I began thinking maybe we shouldn’t. It just seemed … it belonged to the Sheepeaters.”

  Samuel was not sure he made sense, even to himself. If there was gold there, why not go and get it? That’s why they came here.

  “They weren’t like the Nez Perce, Pa,” Samuel continued. “If they were, they’d have horses and could just up and go to a new place. They didn’t own much. Only when they got up close, I could see they had good clothes. They had horn bows, so I knew they were good hunters. They were part of the land like the deer and the mountain sheep. It just didn’t seem right. There would be no place for them to go.” He looked up, struggling, trying to put into words what he had felt.

  “And you think if we leave them alone, no one will ever know about them?”

  “That’s it, Pa.” Samuel nodded. “No one. They’ll be left alone.”

  “That’s just not so, son.” Charles sighed and gazed out across the river and then back at Samuel. “Whites will go into that country. It’s our nature to explore, to always want to go over the next mountain. To blazes, you went there. Maybe they’ll find something, maybe not. Maybe they’ll just homestead and raise a family. Maybe there won’t ever be much gold, but they’ll go there all right. And those Indians, whoever they are, will get pushed out.”

  His father was correct. It was like what Stromback had said about the Nez Perce. At some point they would get pushed out. And Samuel knew if he and his father never went after the gold, someone else would.

  Charles continued, “What if we go there when we get back to Warren’s, son? Let’s decide together on this thing.”

  Samuel clenched his fists. His father would see it was a good ledge and want to work it.

  His father lay back and closed his eyes again. Samuel could not. He rose and wandered out toward the sluice box and gazed northeast in the direction of the Sheepeaters and the ledge.

  Chapter 15

  TROUBLED DREAMS filled Samuel’s night, but by morning, a tentative calm had returned. His father had risen earlier and had some coffee ready by the time he dressed.

  “Well, son, you gave me a lot to think about yesterday.” Charles turned the salt pork, its odor making Samuel realize how hungry he was.

  “If I was thinking straight, I’d take you and head home. Hell, if I had been thinking straight last fall, we’d already be home. But we made an agreement, you and I, and I’m still in it if you are.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m happy to be sticking with it.” Samuel felt washed with relief. He was not about to give up.

  They inspected the sluice and found most of the damage had been to the head box. Samuel found a board to cover the broken side but nails were scarce. Charles recovered a few from the broken wood, and they began reassembling the box. Shortly, they had the sluice operational and were washing the remaining gravel. It continued to be rich.

  “We’re still getting some decent gold, Pa.” The small specks of gold that collected in the black sand behind the cleats warmed him.

  “Maybe we’ll surprise ourselves and keep finding some for a while.” Charles dumped another bucket of gravel into the stream of water. “One thing for sure. We’re cleaning up every night in case some other yahoos decide to help themselves.”

  That night, they moved the fines into the cabin and stored them on a tarpaulin. Samuel decided if any thieves came by to inspect the sluice, it would be empty, and if they wanted anything else, they would have to come through the cabin for it with them in it. He slept with the pistol at hand.

  For the next couple of days, the streak continued, and the gold remained coarse. Occasionally, a few flattened nuggets showed. They picked out what gold they could and added the black sand to their growing pile.

  They had nearly finished the streak, taking out almost four ounces of gold, twice what they had hoped for, when the river broke through and flooded their pit. Shortly afterward, it drowned most of the bar and continued rising.

  “We’re done here, son,” Charles said. “Except for amalgamating the fines.”

  They began the slow process, both of them washing pan after pan of black sand with the mercury, slowly collecting small lumps of amalgam.

  The canyon warmed. Samuel reflected on the cattle back at Slate Creek. Calving would be finished. The cows would be roaming the hills with their new calves, following the greening grass up the slopes. It was full summer here, and he could not imagine snow in the high country.

  Mr. Hunt came through. Samuel had flagged the trail for him to pick up a letter, but it was more for an excuse to talk to Mr. Hunt and to check on the status of the trail.

  “Nope, no pack trains yet. There’s still a couple miles of deep snow on both summits. Can’t get past the freight landing either.” He took a sip of coffee. “There’s about a dozen pilgrims camped halfway up French Creek waiting for the snow to clear. Several men went in on snowshoes, but they left most of their gear at snowline.”

  “How much longer?”

  “I’d say if the weather holds and we don’t get a cold snap, maybe a couple weeks.”

  “A couple weeks! It’s the first of June,” exclaimed Samuel. “We were already there this time last year.”

  “Can’t rush the seasons, Samuel,” Hunt said. “Remember, some years have been worse.”

  “Then last season was early?” Samuel wanted to know.

  “No, I think about average.” Hunt swirled his cup. “By the way, I never did get a chance to say how sorry I was to hear you got claim jumped. Everyone on the river’s heard and spread the word, but no one’s seen anything that I know of. Any thoughts on who might have done it?”

  “Nope.” Samuel had some thoughts but declined to share them.

  “A lot of problems with high graders and claim jumpers lately. You may have heard Carrol and Brooks got into it over their placer. You know them?”

  Samuel shook his head, but he was wondering more about their placer. If Carrol and Brooks were placer mining, that meant the meadow was free of snow.

  “Carrol took some shots at Brooks. The sheriff went after him but never did find him. You might want to keep your eyes open for him as well,” Hunt explained.

  “We will. Anyone who is wanted by the law doesn’t have much to lose,” Charles agreed.

  Hesitantly, Samuel asked, “You said they were working their placer claim. Does that mean the snow’s off the meadow?”

  “Pretty much.” Hunt set down his cup. “Thanks for the coffee. I best be off. The Shearers are going to want to load me up on some more.”

  They watched as Warren Hunt headed down the trail, his extra mount following with
the snowshoes still prominently lashed on top of the pack.

  “We have to go, Pa,” Samuel said. “The snow’s off. We can start placer mining.”

  “I heard, but you’re forgetting our horses. They don’t have snowshoes.”

  Over the next couple of days, they impatiently finished panning down the fines and amalgamating the gold. They stored the amalgam in a canister, deciding they could retort it in Warren’s.

  “At least we won’t be hauling three hundred pounds of fines to Warren’s,” Charles said.

  “I wish it was three hundred pounds of gold.” Samuel knew they were recovering very little gold from the fines.

  They sat at the cabin in the warm sun, staring at the green grass and shrubs covering the canyon walls. They had gone to the Shearers’ and reshod their stock. Nothing remained for them to do except mend some gear and wait for the snow to melt.

  “I can’t believe the snow’s as bad as Mr. Hunt says.”

  Charles laid aside the shirt he was sewing. “Maybe we should try it. Maybe we could walk the horses in if we try early morning while the snow’s frozen.”

  “We could go until it gets too soft. Maybe we’d have to camp a couple nights is all.”

  “And it could be, if it doesn’t freeze up hard enough, we’d be stuck more than a couple nights.”

  “Last year we got in and there was some snow.” But Samuel knew that by then the pack trains had already broken a trail. Nevertheless, he was willing. He had not seen a rattlesnake yet, but he knew it was only a matter of days. He wanted to be gone before they showed up.

  They closed up the cabin and stored the sluice. They doubted they would ever be back. Someone else could use the sluice. Samuel felt a bit bittersweet. It had been a good cabin. With a bit more land it could make a good home. And he knew there was a good deal of gold remaining in the bar, enough a man could mine during the winter for several years.

  RETURN TO

  WARREN’S CAMP

  Chapter 16

  EARLY MORNING, they were packed and on the trail. The warmth of the canyon was like midsummer. Elderberry and mountain ash were blooming. Wildflowers carpeted the hillsides. Some grasses already had flower spikes.

  Mining on the river bars was done whether or not the miners wanted it to be. Snow in the high country was rapidly melting, and the Salmon was at flood stage. The bars were submerged, and now the high water threatened to close the ferries and trail crossings. Where they had been mining was under six feet of racing water. No wonder gold was being deposited there. Each spring, more was brought down. The river acted like a giant sluice, trapping gold below the boulders and sandbars wherever it slowed.

  When they reached Shearers’ ferry, the water raced past, submerging much of the bank. An upturned tree washed downstream in front of them. The ferry bobbed violently, and Samuel’s chest tightened at the sight.

  Somehow he forced himself onto the boat and helped hitch the animals. Like before, he held Spooky’s muzzle and soothed him. Both of the decked boats that the ferry spanned were submerged, and water poured across the decking.

  “The current wants to submerge us,” George said. “Don’t know if this old boat can take many more of these high-water crossings.”

  “Just make this one,” Charles said. “We got to get into Warren’s.”

  “Hope you brought your snowshoes.”

  The waves bucked and rocked the ferry, but George jockeyed it across the river toward the opposite bank.

  “You won’t see the landing, Samuel. It’s under water, but it’s there.”

  Water surrounded the pole where Samuel had to tie the ferry. He leaped and splashed into the water, thankful and somewhat surprised that his feet found wood. Quickly he ran the line around the snubbing pole.

  They visited briefly with the Shearers.

  “I doubt you’ll make it in, Charles,” Frederick Shearer said.

  “Got to try. Can’t do any good down here anymore with the bar under water.”

  Samuel thought about the river creeping up the bank toward their winter cabin.

  “Now you mind your papa,” Mrs. Shearer reminded Samuel, “and don’t stay up at Washington all summer. You get that gold and go home to your momma.”

  Samuel hoped they would “get that gold.”

  Shortly, they turned up French Creek, and Samuel peered up toward the direction the trail climbed, toward the dark, timbered ridges. At least no pack trains would be coming out like last season.

  Near the first saddle, the trail turned to mud. Shaded areas harbored snowbanks. They were still two thousand feet lower in elevation than the freight landing. The snow had just melted. Grass was yet brown and matted, and the aspens and shrubs had just begun to bud. Musty, damp earth odors wafted on the warm air as they followed Fall Creek downward.

  Where they began the climb toward the freight landing, tents and gear appeared, scattered under the timber in the draw. Several parties of miners had camped alongside the trail. Their stock searched for grass nearby. Samuel tried to spot Stephens and Boston, the two men who had visited them, but he didn’t see them.

  One of the miners came to the trail. “I wouldn’t try it yet, boys.” He nodded up the trail. “About a half mile up, you run into snow. You’re welcome to camp here. We’re figuring the first pack string ought to be through in another week, and we can follow it in.”

  Charles tapped his hat. “Thanks kindly. We may just push on a bit more.”

  “Nothing level up ahead. The trail gets steep, and there’s nothing for your stock unless you’re carrying feed.”

  “Much obliged.” Charles pushed on, Samuel and Molly following. After they had passed, Charles turned back to Samuel. “Didn’t have the heart to tell them we’ve been here before.”

  The trail pitched steeply upward and grew muddier. Rivulets of water from melting snow ran down it. They reached the narrow section where the trail clung to the mountain face with only empty space below all the way to the gorge. Samuel reflected on their encounter with the pack train. Nothing but open, sheer, grassy slopes fell away below the trail. He thought he could still make out the mule carcass in the ravine.

  They ran into unbroken snow just beyond the upper switchback where the trail entered the timber. They struggled on for a while longer, the horses and mule floundering, slipping on the snow and rotten ice.

  “I can’t believe it,” Charles muttered. “This morning we were sitting in a tropical paradise, birds singing, flowers blooming—now we’re in snow up to our eyeballs.” The sun beat down from a pure blue sky, uncomfortably warm. “Guess this isn’t so smart. We’ll stop next spot we find. With luck, the snow will be frozen in the morning, and we can top the summit.”

  On the next switchback, they found a level alcove back under the trees. A stream full of melt water cut across the trail.

  They cleared out an area and cut and piled limbs to keep their bedrolls up and off the snow. Samuel heated some water while his father cooked up some venison with onions and beans.

  “Beautiful country,” Samuel said, waving toward the horizon.

  Their campsite was like a tiny shelf tacked to the side of an immense wall. Stretching to the west were unbroken, snow-covered peaks rising from the purple depths of the Salmon River canyon. Behind them rose forested ridges. The sky shone blue and the shadows grew long as the sun settled toward the horizon.

  “I’m betting we can get through in the morning,” Charles said. “We’ll start as soon as the snow freezes tonight.”

  Already, there was an evening chill.

  They were up well before light. Ice crystals sparkled from the brush and snow.

  Charles kicked the crusted snow. “This should do.”

  They walked, leading the animals until daylight brightened the sky. By then they had reached the freight landing. Samuel felt strange. No one was around—no ten
ts, no camp, no hay—not like last spring when they had come by. Instead, unbroken snow lay among the trees. He remembered the violent thunderstorm from last year and how Andy Brown hated the lightning.

  They rode for a distance, the horses staying on the packed trail, following the snowshoe tracks of Mr. Hunt and others who had gone into Warren’s throughout the winter. The trail descended into the trees, and as the day warmed, the snow quickly softened. As they left the snow, they broke out onto long sections of muddy trail crossed by flooding streams.

  “There’s the steam from Mr. Burgdorf’s hot springs.” Samuel pointed, feeling joy. They were nearly to Warren’s. Chen and he had ridden this trail numerous times. A few miles ahead was the turnoff to the Ruby placer, where his father had worked. This country had been his backyard.

  Fred Burgdorf shook their hands enthusiastically. “First folks in on horseback,” he greeted. He had the sleeves of his wool shirt rolled up as before. “I hope you haf brought that vhiskey. I been out since March.” He snapped his suspenders, eyeing them.

  “I did, but it is just a bit, and courtesy of the Shearers.” Charles unwrapped a flask he had been carrying. Samuel was surprised, not knowing anything about it—in fact, having forgotten.

  “Well, a swallow shall do it,” Fred managed. “And a deal is a deal. I hope you haf time for a swim and some chow.”

  “Been dreamin’ about it,” Samuel nearly shouted.

  “A quick swim and a bite is all. Then we’ll have to be off,” Charles said. “I want to go as far as possible before we get back into bad snow.”

  “What I want to know is how you got this far.”

  “We came across early morning while the snow was still frozen.”

  Burgdorf nodded. “So you camped in the snow.”

  “It wasn’t bad,” Samuel answered. “We cut a lot of limbs to keep dry.”

  “Yah, that works.” Burgdorf found them some towels, and they waded into the hot springs.

  “Can’t beat this,” Samuel said as he kicked out into the warm water.