Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  “Looks like the entire Rescue crew is in jail, Mr. Hinley,” Samuel said. “What happened?”

  Hinley laughed. “I shall take that as an invitation to catch you up.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “Just as well. I am in need of a respite.” He waved at the crucibles lined up on the worktable. “Would you care for some coffee?”

  “Much obliged,” Samuel said, pulling up a stool and sitting. The rain picked up.

  Hinley filled their cups. “As you will recall, the Rescue has had its share of troubles.”

  “What now? When we left, they were running a crew of thirty men around the clock.”

  “And they’re now all in jail.” Hinley laughed. “Mr. Isenbeck—the mine superintendent—got shut down. The Pioneer Mill, which Mr. Isenbeck was using, had liens against it. Well, as events progressed, the sheriff shut the Pioneer down and posted an injunction against the Rescue. Both properties are now in receivership.”

  Samuel felt regret. Everyone touted the Rescue as the richest mine in the district and, in some respects, the pride of Warren’s camp. At least it had the best potential. Last season they had hit a rich section of the vein that ran one thousand dollars a ton—the richest rock ever. Unfortunately, it was an isolated pod, and the yield quickly returned to the mine’s average of three ounces per ton.

  “When the sheriff escorted Mr. Isenbeck from the mine property, I had privileged knowledge that the owners had still not forwarded Mr. Isenbeck any funds for paying his labor. Therefore, the miners took matters into their own hands and continued working. They were high-grading some of the best-paying shoots they could find, attempting to acquire sufficient gold on which to live. They operated for the better part of the winter, taking out whatever they could.” Hinley paused and glanced out the window, adjusting his glasses. “Such intolerable weather.”

  A heavy rattling raked across the building.

  “With the Pioneer Mill down, the hands took the liberty to operate it and process their high-grade ore. That progressed until Sheriff Sinclair was directed to arrest and jail them, which he has now carried out a few days past.”

  “Doesn’t seem right,” Charles muttered. “They had to eat.”

  “You shall not hear many argue with you, Charles,” continued Hinley. “Each had a five-hundred-dollar bond levied against him. A few were fortunate to bond out, or Sheriff Sinclair would really have a problem. There is problem enough. No one trusts the county, and therefore no one desires to give the sheriff any credit for provisions for the prisoners.” Hinley leaned across the counter. “Sinclair has already spent a goodly portion of his own money in trying to feed them. In my opinion, he is a downright decent man just trying to do his job. I say here is a time the county should step in and help out.”

  Hinley lowered his voice and eyed Samuel. “You shall know, lad, that for the first time in my career, I knowingly reduced some high-grade.”

  Samuel smiled. “Like my pa said, they had to eat.”

  “Aye, and living off the land in the midst of winter in this country is nigh on impossible.”

  Samuel guessed the reason Sheriff Sinclair was in Mount Idaho was to get some financial help.

  “It shall be highly entertaining when the judge arrives this summer to hear this case. Attorneys Poe and Gamble, who are representing the miners, and Superintendent Isenbeck have been preparing night and day for their defense. I wager they shall win.”

  “I hope so,” said Samuel.

  The rain continued steadily, turning the streets to standing water and mud. No one was in a hurry to head back into it. Hinley poured more coffee.

  Chapter 19

  TO AVOID DESTROYING EVIDENCE, father and son hesitated to begin placer operations; however, they had searched and found nothing. The real evidence, the gold, was already gone. The best they could hope for was for someone like Mr. Hinley identifying somebody with a good take of placer gold.

  They located some of the missing pieces to the sluice, but Charles had to procure additional lumber from William Bloomer’s sawmill. Samuel rode into Washington to see Scott Alexander for nails and new canvas.

  Scott warmly welcomed him. “Well howdy, Sam. It’s good to see you’re back and that you survived the winter.” His blue-gray eyes sparkled as they shook hands.

  “More or less we survived, Scott,” Samuel greeted. “Partly why I’m here today. We’re in need of supplies.”

  “If it ain’t edible, maybe I can help.” He smiled.

  “Mostly some nails and canvas.”

  “I should have that.”

  “We got jumped and our sluice got tore up.”

  “Hell of a thing,” Scott exclaimed. “Heard you got hit on the Salmon. Didn’t know about up here.” He took out his pipe and gestured toward the stool where Samuel customarily sat.

  They talked for a while. Samuel told him about the robbery on the river as well as the Sweet Mary. Samuel wondered if there was more gray in Scott’s black hair. He still wore the same striped shirt with the dingy white apron. For a shopkeeper, Samuel figured he could afford a better-looking shirt. But the smile said he was still the same Scott that Samuel had come to know. Scott had always insisted that he address him by his first name, and it made Samuel feel welcome.

  “Well, no one’s been in with any remarkable amount of dust,” Scott said.

  “Mr. Hinley said the same. Apparently, no one noticed anything unusual.”

  Another customer came in and Scott excused himself to greet and help the man. Samuel knew where to find the nails and canvas from helping Scott before. He gathered what he thought he would need and measured it out.

  “That wasn’t much of a sale,” Scott muttered after the man had left. “Wanted some butter and eggs and flour. All I had was a little flour. Then he said if I didn’t have eggs, how about some vegetables. I told him the Chinamen have vegetables. Probably have eggs as well. I tell you, Samuel, those Chinamen are going to run me out of business.”

  “Now, that’s not true, Scott. They don’t have nails and canvas, or candles, or …” Samuel waved his hands about the store looking for items he knew Sing Mann didn’t have. He noticed it was not much, so he decided to be quiet.

  “Well, I hope you and your pa brought enough grub to last till the pack trains can get in.”

  “Now that you mention it, we could use some cornmeal and beans if you got any.”

  “Beans are okay, but the cornmeal might be more bugs than meal. You might consider waiting if you can.”

  Samuel shook his head. “We’re out.”

  Scott scooped out some cornmeal for weighing. “You must have come by some spending money.” He dumped the meal onto some paper to wrap it.

  “Nope,” Samuel replied. “I’m going to ask you to start a ledger page for us, if you can.”

  Scott stopped midway to wrapping and raised his eyes. “Next you’re going to want a grubstake.”

  “Not yet,” Samuel replied. He thought Scott seemed overly delighted by the manner in which he opened the ledger. He stroked his moustache and began writing down items. Before, Samuel and his father had always paid with gold. He laughed to himself. That was after the first visit, when he had only coins and made Scott give him change. He had also tried to use coins at the Chinese store and found out they only accepted dust. That was how he had met Chen. Chen would not take the coins, and he returned later to pay Chen with the first gold he had mined.

  Samuel walked out of Alexander’s Mercantile over twenty-six dollars in debt. He headed toward the far end of the street, where Sing Mann and Chen had their store. He glanced around, hoping not to spot Miss Lilly or Miss Hattie. He was not ready to meet them, although his heart flip-flopped at the thought.

  The two Chinese who always sat outside Mann’s store smoking their long-stemmed pipes smiled broadly and quickly rose to greet him. They bowed and chatted exuberantly. Samuel wo
ndered at how happy they seemed, apparently because of him. Before, they often got up and left whenever he visited Mann or Chen.

  Sing Mann must have heard. In a flurry, he was outside, bowing and smiling.

  “Vehlie good to see you, Mistah Samyew.” Sing Mann’s long, black queue swung as he bobbed his head. He was dressed in his red tunic with gold buttons and braid and wore a small rounded red cap.

  “It’s mighty good to see you, Sing Mann.” Samuel noticed Mann’s much-improved English.

  “You see, Samyew, I am right. I say snake and dragon are tied strong.”

  Samuel remembered the story. Last fall when he was saying good-bye, thinking he would never return, Sing Mann predicted Samuel and Chen would see each other again.

  “You were correct, Mann. I’m glad to be back to see you as well. Is Chen here?”

  Mann shook his head. “He is at garden with Sang Yune. He be back tomahlow.” He excitedly waved his arms as if he wanted to hug Samuel.

  Samuel had looked forward to seeing Chen, but it was just as well that he was not in. He had work to get underway back at the placer.

  “You tell him I’m back and for him to come out to the cabin if he can.”

  “Yes. I will tell him,” Mann replied. He shook his head and bowed. “He be so happy you are home. Yes.”

  Samuel caught the word home. “Yes, you tell him I am happy to be home as well.”

  Back at the cabin, Samuel helped his father finish repairing the sluice, and they began working on the catch basin. The claim jumpers had dug into it, and the water had cut down through its bottom. They hauled rocks and rebuilt the berm, patching it with mud. Digging until near dark, they were finally satisfied they had a basin again sufficient for storing water.

  “That ought to keep us running awhile after things start drying out.”

  Samuel followed his father toward the cabin. “Hope we didn’t do all this work for nothing.”

  “Could be we did, but I’m guessing you’ll find something the claim jumpers missed.”

  Samuel began cooking up the cornmeal to make hasty pudding. Tasting it, he nearly spit it out. It tasted like sawdust. He added more molasses. Maybe his father wouldn’t notice.

  When it had finally thickened, Samuel served it up.

  “Thanks,” Charles said and took a bite. “No thanks.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Terrible. Just terrible. That stuff must have sat all winter.”

  “Sorry, Pa,” Samuel said. “I think it did. Mr. Alexander is nearly dry on food stocks.”

  He took out the last of the salt pork and cut off some pieces to fry. Salt pork made anything palatable. He added the drippings to the pudding.

  His father took another bite and eyed him. “Better. At least it’s edible.”

  Samuel tentatively tasted some. It still tasted like sawdust.

  The following day, clouds scudded into the meadow early. They began work, expecting rain would begin shortly.

  Like before, they loaded buckets with gravel and carried them to the head of the sluice. Samuel dumped in the dirt, allowing the strongly flowing water to wash it into the box, where it bumped against the cleats and flowed on out the far end. After each bucket, Samuel peered into the head of the sluice for the sight of gold. A few encouraging flakes gathered behind the cleats, but it was nothing like last fall.

  By midday, a steady drizzle began. They worked through the rain, shoveling the muddy gravel into the box, washing it through. By late day, they were soaked.

  “Enough of this,” Charles said. “Let’s do a cleanup and go dry out.”

  Samuel blocked the flow of water, and they washed the black sand into a couple of pans. Samuel washed his down. “I’m afraid it doesn’t look good, Pa.”

  “I’ve been noticing.”

  Tiny specks of gold winked from the black sand but nothing was larger than a grass seed.

  “It’s hard to believe there was so much gold before.” Samuel poked at the two largest pieces.

  Charles set his pan aside. “That’s the way it is with these gravel deposits.” He studied the surrounding hillside. “There could easily be another pay streak, but then again, we likely won’t find it. The trick will be getting enough gold to prove up the O’Riley.” He straightened up and pushed back his hat. “We won’t know that for several days.”

  Samuel dumped the black sand back onto the pile for later amalgamating.

  “At least we don’t have anything for any claim jumpers to steal,” Samuel said, bitterly.

  A couple of days later, after similar dismal results, they decided to check how much snow remained on the O’Riley.

  Samuel led the way. The Chinese were in full operation on Baroon’s claim on Slaughter Creek, and he noticed there was plenty of water.

  Charles nodded across the narrow valley toward the Pioneer Mill. It was silent. “I’ll need to head up to the Summit Lode and check on Mr. Bradshaw’s mill. I haven’t heard if he got it in or not.”

  Last fall, when they were looking for a mill to process their ore, William Bradshaw had been the only mill that offered to fit them in. Both the Charity and the Hic Jacet mills had full contracts, and now the Pioneer was again shut down.

  They worked their way through the dense timber along the ridges that rose to the north above Meadow Creek and the summit above the South Fork of the Salmon River. Long before they reached the O’Riley, Samuel guessed it would be inaccessible. Scattered snowbanks quickly became consolidated into an unbroken snowfield. Clouds had sifted in from the northwest and threatened rain or possibly snow.

  “Don’t like the looks of that,” Charles said, nodding.

  Samuel guessed they had a couple of hours at best before the weather closed in.

  Finally, he recognized the area where he had discovered the O’Riley. One of his claim posts stood out of the snow. A deep snowdrift covered where Samuel had exposed the vein.

  “Almost like it was supposed to keep it buried for us,” Samuel observed.

  “Means we have at least a week or probably more to continue work at the Sweet Mary before coming up here. Probably about the time the first pack train makes it in.”

  Muted thunder rumbled to the north and the rain began.

  “Like last season,” Charles observed. “Remember all the trips looking for O’Riley’s ledge and getting soaked?”

  “How could I forget?” Samuel pulled his coat up around his ears.

  Halfway back to Washington, the rain turned to snow—wet, thick, sloppy flakes. By the time they reached their cabin, several inches had accumulated.

  Chapter 20

  SUNDAY, as was customary, they headed into Washington for business.

  “You don’t need to accompany me while I visit Mr. Bradshaw, son,” Charles said. “You can catch up on some of your own business. See if Mr. Hinley has the assay done and our retort gold.”

  Samuel had hoped his father would turn him loose. Before seeing Mr. Hinley, he intended to visit Chen. He caught up to him in the back of Sing Mann’s store, where he was putting crockery on a shelf.

  He had never seen anyone smile as much as Chen smiled when he walked in. He bobbed a quick bow, his long, black queue swinging as he stepped toward Samuel. They embraced. Samuel had never been so happy to see someone.

  “Sam, you surprise me vehlie much,” Chen said. “Uncle tell me you are here. You said you would never be back, but I told myself sometime you would be back. Sing Mann tell us you will be back.” Chen was dressed as usual in his dark blue cotton tunic. His bony ankles were showing, sticking out from his short baggy blue trousers. He wore the traditional cotton shoes. Many of the Chinese miners wore Western clothes, but except for a Western-style hat, Chen wore traditional Chinese dress. It was more fitting for his work as a merchant and farmer.

  “Yep, Chen. Mann was right. The dragon and the snake
are tied strong together. I am glad to see you.”

  “I am glad to see you, Sam. You tell me about your winter. How is your father and mother? How is your mine?”

  Samuel joined Chen at the table in the rear of the store where they often spent time reading. Sing Mann stood aside, listening and smoking his long-stemmed pipe.

  Samuel told Chen about Bonnie and ranching.

  Chen laughed. “So you will marry her and live here?”

  Samuel blushed. “That is my business, Chen.”

  “At least you have a woman. No women for Chinese men.” Chen glanced away.

  Samuel knew what Chen thought. Without the presence of women, the Chinese men whiled away their time by smoking opium, drinking rice whiskey, and gambling. Not infrequently, fights broke out. A few Chinese had been hacked to death by their countrymen over gambling debts or other disagreements.

  “My father and I do not plan to stay, Chen. We came back to finish digging the gravel I found last fall and to prove up the O’Riley so we can sell it.”

  A shadow crossed Chen’s face. “Like last season.”

  “Yes, only someone jumped the placer and got our gold.”

  Chen startled and then frowned. “You should have told me, Sam. I would have watched.”

  “You went to the Sang Yune’s gardens, remember?”

  “Yes. Now I am coming from the garden for two months. We have a good trail through the snow.”

  “How is Sang Yune?”

  “Good. We grow vegebows all winter. Bring them here as soon as we can to sell. Maybe go in a few days to sell. You want to go?”

  “It might come to that, Chen. It doesn’t look like there’s much gold left on the Sweet Mary, and we need money for the O’Riley.”

  Chen paused and then smiled brightly. “Hey, let me show you what I can do.” He jumped up and brought out the book Ma Reynolds had given them, now tattered and dog-eared.

  Chen flipped open a couple of pages. “I know many words now.” He began pointing to words and reading them.

  Samuel was stunned by the many words that Chen remembered and more so by those he had figured out on his own. “You have our paper and pencil?” Samuel asked.