Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  “You bet.” Chen produced several sheets of paper that were filled with words—carefully crafted words, not scribbled.

  Samuel laughed. “I need some with room to write.”

  Sing Mann had been listening and soon brought them a couple more sheets. “Vehlie good paper.”

  “Thank you.” Samuel knew that paper was scarce, except the rice paper they wrapped merchandise with. “Here, try this, Chen.” He wrote a few words into a sentence.

  Chen read, “My name is Sing Chen. I sell vegetables.” Only he still pronounced it “vegebows.”

  Samuel laughed. “You’re amazing, Chen.”

  Chen stared back, stonily. “I want to learn to write and read English.”

  “I know you do, Chen, and you are doing well.” Samuel wrote, “You are doing well.”

  Chen read it.

  “Exactly.”

  Chen smiled. “See, I tell you that I study. Now you are back and can help me more.”

  Samuel felt good about Chen’s comment. He hoped he was of help to Chen. They worked for a long while until Samuel realized he still needed to visit Raymond Hinley.

  Hinley had several crucibles in front of him. “I was beginning to believe you had forgotten your assay and your gold.”

  “No, sir.” Samuel took his customary stool. “Just been mining.”

  “How is it proceeding?” Hinley was measuring flux for some samples, something Samuel had learned to do. He added the soda ash to the crucibles and wiped off his hands.

  “We’ve hardly been at it, and it doesn’t look good. The claim jumpers cleaned us out.”

  “Simply intolerable.” Hinley began measuring out the borax.

  “Want me to take over?” Samuel asked.

  “If the winter has not caused you to forget everything I taught you.”

  Samuel laughed. “Maybe some.”

  “First, let us take care of business.” Hinley went to his safe and pulled out a cloth bag. “Here’s your paperwork and the gold from your amalgam.” Hinley laid two small shiny ingots on the counter along with a few silver coins. “Forty-two dollars and forty cents.”

  Samuel picked up the two one-ounce ingots and hefted them. “Praise the Lord. These sure feel nice.” He could not help but think of the stolen gold, maybe another fourteen or fifteen ounces after refining. His stomach knotted.

  “I shall never grow tired of seeing fresh-cast gold,” Hinley said. He pulled out a canister and unfolded a sheet of paper. “Now here is your assay. It did not show strong gold, Samuel, but it is a respectable amount.”

  Samuel read the assay: “Gold: 1.2 ounces. Silver: 8.4 ounces. Copper 6.4 ounces.”

  He set the paper down. “So, if I hauled out a lot of ore, I might have something. You once said you needed about an ounce a ton to make it worthwhile.”

  Hinley shook his head. “Unfortunately, this is not likely with this sample. The metals are bound in sulphurets, and there is no nearby mill that can reduce this type of ore. I do believe there is some free gold, but most likely that will be a fraction of an ounce per ton.”

  Samuel shrugged. “I guess I’ll keep prospecting.”

  Hinley harrumphed. “The winter has not been so long that I have forgotten about that good prospect you should already be mining.”

  “The rich sample I brought in?”

  “That is the one.”

  “I did tell my pa about it, Mr. Hinley. We agreed we didn’t have enough time or money to get it out of that country.”

  “Poppycock. I wager I could find someone who would be delighted in hauling out that type of ore.”

  “You have been mighty kind to me, Mr. Hinley. If I decide to give it up, you will be the first to know.”

  “I shall hold you to that, lad.”

  “So how are the mines doing, if I can ask? You’re always in the know.”

  “And you also know I am bound to keep secrets.”

  “But I work for you, and I’m sworn to secrecy,” Samuel protested.

  “Then you shall work for me, and you shall be quiet.” Hinley handed Samuel an apron. “I am in the process of running this set of assays; however, those two samples await the muller.” He nodded toward some ore next to the muller.

  “I figured.” Samuel stepped over and tossed some of the pieces onto the metal plate. He began rolling them under the muller, watching the tiny fragments pop as they gradually turned to powder. “So how is the season looking?”

  “Several of the quartz mines ran all winter and are anxious to get their ore milled. Most of those mines are still operating, except, of course, the Rescue.”

  Hinley set the crucibles next to the furnace and opened the door, allowing a blast of heat to escape. “Here, bring me that bucket of charcoal and help me pack these crucibles.”

  Samuel assisted. He wanted to ask where the assays were from. Maybe when he saw whether or not they were any good he would ask, although Hinley would likely not say.

  Samuel worked for as long as he dared and as long as Hinely was sharing the mining news. When at last he left, he spotted his father coming up the street. “How’d it go with Mr. Bradshaw?”

  “Maybe we should talk about it at the cabin.”

  Samuel knew things were not good.

  At dinner, they talked.

  “Took a bit of doing getting into the Summit Lode. More snow up there than at the O’Riley. But they were operating. Mining, that is. There is no mill.”

  Samuel stopped midway in taking a bite of venison and stared at his father.

  “They ran into trouble last fall getting it shipped out of Lewiston. Some of it’s still sitting at Mount Idaho waiting for the trails to open, and some other pieces got shipped south to Oregon by mistake. The best guess Mr. Bradshaw thinks he’ll be operating by is mid-July or so.”

  “That’s better than a month, Pa.” Samuel felt dismayed.

  “He asked if I still wanted to be on his list. I told him I had no choice.”

  “What about the Charity and Hic Jacet? Any chance on them?”

  “I went by the Charity. Mr. Sanders said they’re full up with contracts. He guessed the Hic Jacet is also booked up. I talked to some of the other miners. Some of them were talking about bringing in a mill out of Florence. Might get it in by this fall. If we’d a been sticking around, I’d have offered to go in with them.”

  “Guess we’ll be here awhile, then,” Samuel said. He wondered if his father would change his mind and head back to Iowa now. Probably, they should. Nothing was working.

  Chapter 21

  WHILE WAITING for the snow to leave the O’Riley, they began trying new places on the Sweet Mary, checking for richer gravel. One spot they tried under the lodgepole pines, stripping the thin soil underneath, hacking through the roots, and shoveling the upper layers of dirt to the side. When they had dug down a couple of feet, they reached a thin seam of gravel packed on top of a layer of clay. The gravel held moderate gold, but for the work, it proved nearly worthless.

  “We gotta be able to find some cobbles like you had last fall,” Charles said.

  They moved to another area where a bit of gravel showed and began a new hole.

  “Certainly doesn’t look like the pay streak from last fall,” Samuel observed.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Maybe the next pick or shovelful, Samuel hoped.

  Both continued swinging their picks, shoveling gravel, carrying it up to the sluice, washing it through, and checking it. Very little gold showed.

  The following morning, they woke to several inches of snow. It melted by noon under a good sun, but clouds again thickened and by evening, the drizzle had begun anew.

  “Weather like this makes you want to mine hardrock underground.”

  “True, but now the mines are filling with water,” Samuel sai
d. “I’ve heard some of the miners that come by Alexander’s say that during snowmelt, working underground is like working under a waterfall.”

  “What’s the difference, this time of year?” Charles gazed up at the rain. “Certainly underground has to be warmer.”

  “Maybe not. It’s surface water coming into the mine. A lot of the time it freezes.”

  Charles paused, leaning against his pick. “I guess if a man is going to make a living, none of it’s easy. Seems I remember something like that from the Bible.”

  “And for sure, we won’t eat if we don’t work.” Samuel thought of his family back in Iowa. They had not received any letters since they last sent one of their own. “Wonder how the crops are going.”

  “I’m guessing your uncle Jake and your cousin Daniel got them in okay.” Charles pulled his collar up. “I figured we’d be headed back by now.”

  Despite the rain soaking through, they continued work. A small line of gold grew behind the uppermost cleat.

  The following day, the weather held, and they worked all day without any interruptions.

  “We stick to this hole, maybe we’ll start to get lucky,” Charles observed.

  They had been working downward into an area that held more cobbles and gravel than usual.

  “It’s certainly looking better.” A few more specks began showing.

  That night, they cleaned out the box and piled the black sand.

  “I can’t believe we got a full day in without rain,” Samuel said. He had stoked the fire and they had hung their clothes to dry. “Maybe tomorrow our clothes will stay dry.”

  But the next day, a steady drizzle sifted down, drenching the woods and meadow. They worked for a while, each pulling his coat about himself, trying to keep the rain from running down his back.

  “Figured it was too good to be true,” Charles muttered.

  “At least the snow is melting. A few more days and we should be able to get into the O’Riley.”

  “And the camp has good water,” Charles said. “I’ve even heard some fellows are ground sluicing.”

  They continued work and spoke little. The cold rain soaked through their clothing. It trickled from their hats and down their necks and backs. The gully where they ran the sluice turned to mud, sucking at their feet as they trudged uphill with the heavy buckets, snatching their legs from under them when they returned downhill to the pit. Their trousers were soaked and clung to their bodies. Their boots filled with mud and water. If it had been warmer, they might have stripped like the Chinese did in the heat of summer during the summer thunderstorms, but today, the rain, sometimes mixed with snow, was bone-chilling. By noon, they shook with numbing cold.

  “Enough of this,” Charles finally said. Without waiting for Samuel, he set aside his pick and shovel, and, holding his hat firmly, headed back to the cabin.

  He built up the fire. “Just like last season, son. You would think summer would come a bit earlier. When I get home to Iowa, this is the part I will definitely not miss.”

  “Nor I,” Samuel managed. He rubbed his numb hands over the stove. They stung with needles as his circulation returned.

  Charles put a pot of water on to boil.

  In the morning, the sun shone and the meadow warmed.

  Samuel recognized Sheriff Sinclair on his bay, riding up the trail.

  “Hello, Mr. Chambers … Samuel,” he greeted, dark eyes squinting, and dismounted. He glanced at Samuel. “Seems I’m riding out here to check on you more often than I should be, Samuel.”

  “I reckon.” Samuel remembered the last time after his encounter with Dudgin and Smith. Sinclair was younger than his father was by a few years and of medium build with dark hair. “We seem to have more than our fair share of trouble.”

  “That you do.” Sinclair smiled. “My deputy told me what was up, Charles. I came out as soon as I could get away.”

  “I appreciate that, Sheriff,” Charles said, pushing his hat back. “I may have covered up any evidence, though. I didn’t have much choice but to get started mining.”

  Charles walked about, pointing out the damage as he explained the robbery. “A lot of garbage left behind. Seemed to be pretty lazy. Instead of cutting wood, they burned half of my pole fence.”

  Sinclair followed, taking note. “Can’t say any of my other cases show this pattern. What I have seen, Chinamen have been suspected. In those cases, I think it’s a misunderstanding about boundaries and such. Maybe not always.” He paused and glanced around. “In your case, they were camped here and knew what they were doing.”

  “Anybody you would guess?” Charles asked.

  “Maybe those two I suspected of hitting placers down on the Secesh,” Sinclair replied.

  “Finney and Culler,” breathed Samuel.

  “Yes.” Sinclair eyed him. “Hell, Charles, I thought Finney and Culler, and whoever else was with them, would have taken the lease on life we allowed them last fall and left the country. No one has seen them otherwise that I know of.”

  Charles shook his head. “They weren’t who we were chasing last fall, Sheriff. Samuel figured out it was Dudgin and Smith with a new partner that we chased. Samuel recognized my description of their horses.”

  Sinclair tightened his jaw. “For sure you better hope it’s not them. They won’t hesitate in killing somebody else.” Sinclair glanced at Samuel. “Nor is it much better if it is Finney and Culler. Someone’s going to be slinging lead at them one of these times, and when that happens, I’m guessing they won’t hesitate to start slinging it back.”

  Samuel wondered if they had not already done so.

  “You two better keep your eyes peeled.”

  “We’re getting accustomed to keeping our eyes peeled,” Charles replied.

  “Hell, Charles, soon you’re gonna have all the scum in the county after you.” Sinclair laughed and swung back onto his bay. “Do me a favor. Take them all with you when you head back to Iowa.”

  “Unless we hit some decent gold, they won’t have any reason to follow.”

  Samuel wanted to laugh but couldn’t.

  That evening, while his father fixed dinner, Samuel did his best to separate what gold he could from the black sand. He panned it down as far as possible, scrapped out the largest particles, and then dried it over the fire in a pan. Next he used a magnet to remove most of black sand—magnetite, an iron mineral, Hinley had explained. The remaining lighter sand he gently blew away, leaving mostly clean gold. When paying for merchandise, the lingering impurities did not matter as much, but for large amounts, the dust needed further refining, which is what Hinley did.

  Charles examined the gold Samuel had separated. “How much do you figure?”

  “About like we been doing, about five dollars.” Samuel scraped the gold into the small canister in which they kept their dust. “There might be another four bits or so in the black sand.”

  Charles pushed back on his stool. “That keeps us in grub but not much else.”

  Samuel nodded. “Only the Chinese work a placer this poor. Hinley said as soon as yield drops below half an ounce a day per man, owners are looking to sell.”

  “Only we can’t sell. This is all we got,” Charles said. “And we still need about a hundred dollars for tools and powder for the O’Riley.” He set his jaw. “My concern is as before. Can we get our investment out of the O’Riley and still have some money to take home? If not, we should start packing now.”

  Samuel gulped. “We can, Pa. I’m sure of it.” He didn’t want to go. He wanted to make it work, but he also realized how difficult staying would be.

  “Okay, but at this rate, it may take all summer to get any gold, and I don’t want to be here all summer. Maybe I’ll ride out and visit John McLane. You can keep running the Sweet Mary and keep an eye on the cabin. Who knows? Maybe you’ll hit another rich spot.”

/>   “I know Mr. Alexander will let me do some packing as soon as his wares get in. That might help a little.”

  FIRST PACK TRAIN

  COMES TO TOWN

  Chapter 22

  THE MORNING HIS FATHER headed downstream to see Robert McLane, Samuel set off for Washington, intending a quick visit with Raymond Hinley about possible work until the pack train got in, after which he hoped to do some sales trips for Scott.

  The moment he dismounted from Spooky in front of Hinley’s, Miss Lilly stepped from Ripson’s Saloon and headed directly in his direction, her red hair flashing from underneath her large, feathery pink hat. As if she was watching for me, Samuel thought. He felt his heart do a flip-flop. Blazes, why does she have to look so beautiful?

  He recalled the first day he had met Miss Lilly. Her beauty and presence in a remote placer camp had mystified him. Since then he had come to know both she and Miss Hattie were dancehall ladies. It didn’t help that he was attracted to Miss Lilly and she to him. He glanced around to see if the older woman was standing by ready to ambush him as well.

  Samuel politely touched his hat. “Hello, Miss Lilly.”

  “Well, howdy, stranger.” Her hazel eyes sparkled as she smiled broadly. “I tried to say hello when you come to town the other day, but you were busy at Mr. Hinley’s shop.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Samuel stammered. “I had a lot to do.” Samuel felt nervous. He wanted to tell her about Bonnie now, before it became too late—to get it over with—but he could not muster the courage. His throat was dry. She wore the same low-cut, frilly, pink-and-white dress as when he had first met her. Her standing just inches away, all cinched up and pushing up her breasts, didn’t help matters.

  “Don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ Samuel. We’re still friends, ain’t we?” She nodded for him. “Well, then, you just call me Lilly.”

  “Yes’m, Lilly.” Samuel remembered. Although she was but four or five years older than he was, the respect he had learned for women was too difficult to overcome—despite that she entertained men with her singing and stories and other possibilities. But that thought only made Samuel more uncomfortable. He wanted to think of her as a regular woman—a real lady.