Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  “I sure missed you over the winter. Not a lot of people wintered over,” she continued.

  “I missed you too, Lilly,” Samuel admitted. She visited him when he fell from Spooky because of the rattlesnake and was nearly killed last year.

  “How was it on the river? I heard you and your pa got jumped. Did you lose a lot of gold?”

  Samuel nodded. “Yep, except for that and the fact our placer up here also got jumped, we managed the winter okay.” Samuel wanted to melt into Lilly’s arms. The feelings in the pit of his stomach made him ache.

  “Your placer here as well? That’s where your cabin is, ain’t it?” She frowned and then raced on. “You get a good notion of who they were? You see ’em? If’n you do, you gotta put lead in ’em, Samuel. That’ll settle it.”

  “We have an idea who they might be, and yes, we aim to put lead in them if they return.” Samuel smiled, thinking how easy it was for Lilly to tell him to shoot someone. “How was your and Miss Hattie’s winter?”

  “We survived. Miss Hattie better’n me. You know how she is.” Lilly sighed. “My winter wasn’t good.” She stepped closer to Samuel, and he took a quick step back. He could feel her warmth.

  “I been a mite sick.”

  Samuel could now see a grayness to her skin, partly masked by her heavy makeup.

  “If you’d’ve come back sooner, I would’ve been better.” She smiled and reached to brush Samuel’s hair. He desperately wished she would not do that … not in the middle of the street. He glanced to see if anyone was watching.

  “I-I’m sorry you were sick—” Samuel could not tell her about Bonnie, not at this moment. “You look good now,” he lied. “I hope you’re better.”

  “If you’d’ve come visit me like you promised, I’d feel much better.” She cocked her head. “Just come by Ripson’s.”

  Samuel felt a rush. He remembered his promise. What he had said had been somewhat accidental, but since that day, he had been troubled by it. He often imagined what it would be like to visit Lilly. Now he felt emboldened and warmed by the idea.

  Samuel noticed Chen walking his direction from his uncle’s store.

  “I have to excuse myself, Lilly. I’m here on business. I’ll see you, okay?”

  “I’ll be here, Samuel.” She smiled broadly.

  Samuel walked quickly toward Chen.

  “Hehwoh, Sam,” Chen greeted. He bowed slightly.

  “Howdy, Chen.” Samuel bowed in return. “Shake.” He extended his hand, which Chen took.

  “Good. It’s important to shake if you are going to do business with us Americans.”

  “And it is important you bow if you do business with Chinese.” Chen laughed.

  Shortly, they were seated in the back of Sing Mann’s store. A couple of Chinese were present, finalizing a purchase, talking excitedly with Sing Mann. Samuel always worried that when they became as agitated as they now appeared, out would come the cleavers and hatchets. Of course, this never happened, but due to the many stories, it was hard not to expect it.

  Samuel took out some paper. “Write me a sentence, Chen.” He offered the pencil.

  Carefully and deliberately, with well-crafted letters, Chen wrote, “My friend Sam looks for gold.” He used no punctuation, but it was of no concern to Samuel.

  Samuel shook his head in wonder. It had taken him years to learn to read and write. Chen was doing so in a few months.

  Chen wrote another sentence: “Someday I will teach Sam how to write Chinese.”

  Samuel smiled. “I don’t have the patience you have, Chen, and I don’t plan to go to China.”

  Chen grinned. “So you do business with Chinese here. You do more business.”

  Samuel paused. Sometimes when talking with Chen, he wondered about China. He felt comfortable here in Mann’s store. He enjoyed coming in to see and smell and sometimes taste the merchandise from China, the mysterious and wondrous food—crocks of pickled eggs, beans, onions, pig feet, pickled everything. The teas of different tangy smells mingled with the aroma of ginger and with the pungent, sweetish odor of burning joss sticks from an altar near the rear of the store.

  Most Chinese items were strictly functional, but Samuel appreciated the clean design of the different crockery types—those of light and dark brown with red Chinese lettering, and those with all white glazes and bright blue characters. And he appreciated their simple clothing designs, the wide-open blue tunics, the baggy and loose pants, and the slip-on cotton shoes. And then there were some items that appeared to be more for decoration than function—tall, narrow vases containing brilliant peacock feathers; brightly colored silks that hung and floated on the air; several bright brass figures representing animals of the Chinese zodiac; and fluttering squares of red-colored rice paper pocked with holes. But the pocked rice paper, he remembered, was to ward off the devil. He decided the decorative items must remind the Chinese of their homeland. Samuel smiled to himself. In many ways, the Chinese had brought their homeland to America.

  Inexplicably, Samuel felt a longing for Iowa, for his own mother and sister. He reflected that he would never again see his grandma, but when he thought of home, he could see her there as well, cooking at the stove or playing with his little sister.

  “Uh, Chen, do you hear news of your family in China?”

  A shadow crossed Chen’s face. “Not for vehlie long time. Not since after you go.”

  Chen was born to a San Francisco slave woman and escaped with Sing Mann to Idaho Territory after the saloon boss had murdered his father. Mann had taken in and raised Chen as his own, giving the boy the name Sing to help protect him. Even so, all Chen dreamed of was getting enough gold to go to China to seek his own relatives.

  “What of your mother?”

  Chen appeared troubled. “Sh. Do not ask.” He frantically glanced around, even though only Mann was present. “I do not know where saloon boss have his men.” He wrote a few words: “Someday I will go to China to see my family.”

  Samuel wrote, “Maybe I will come with you.”

  Chen smiled. “Then see, Sam, you should learn Chinese.”

  Early afternoon, Samuel headed back toward the assay shop, where he had left Spooky. He was met with dozens of cheering men, both Chinese and white, running into the street. They gathered around a man who sat his horse in the center of the road, waving his hat and shouting.

  “Pack string’s a comin’ in. Binnard and Grostein’s string’s comin’ in with thirty-two mules,” he cried, “and they’re fully packed.”

  “Told you’d it’d be them,” someone else shouted. “They always beat Hofen’s string.”

  “That means whiskey, gents. Whiskey!”

  His words were nearly drowned in answering cheers.

  The bell mare led the way down the street’s center. A rider alongside urged people to step back. Mule after mule trotted in, aparejos swinging and bulging with goods.

  A second rider came up along the opposite side of the mules.

  The mules, heaving and clamoring, sensing they had arrived, slowed and stopped, heads mostly down, standing uneasily in the street, occasionally twitching their tails and shivering from muscle fatigue.

  A rider instructed, “Stand back unless you want to help unload.”

  There was a sudden rush of men, most making a beeline toward the whiskey kegs, arms reaching to unlash the mules’ burdens.

  “And not just the whiskey,” the rider protested.

  Piles began growing along the street, and one of the packers began directing bundles to the appropriate merchants.

  Samuel noticed one large stack being deposited in front of Scott Alexander’s Mercantile, where Scott was busy examining the material.

  “Want me to give you a hand hauling this inside?” Samuel asked.

  “Just as soon as it’s checked off, Sam. You’d be mor
e’n welcome to help.” Scott was reviewing items with one of the packers.

  A couple of men started rummaging through the items. “Now hold on, Mr. Thomas, and you too, Mr. Baker. Let me get this inside. There’ll be plenty of time to get what you want—tomorrow.”

  The men looked in Scott’s direction and grumbled.

  “You’re not going to starve in a couple more hours. I’ll have it ready in the morning,” Scott insisted. “Maybe you’ve forgot about Mr. Ripson? Just as soon as he gets that whiskey unloaded, he’ll offer a round. He does that every season after the first train comes in.”

  The men’s expressions lit. “Well, we just might go by then.” Turning, they nearly tripped over each other, heading toward Ripson’s Saloon.

  “Didn’t have the heart to tell them Ripson won’t be opening for business for an hour or so.” Scott grinned, his eyes sparkling. He pointed at the pile. “Now you can start hauling those bundles inside.”

  Scott waved at the packer. “Come on in, Carey.” He nodded to Samuel. “Just keep bringing that stuff in, Sam, while I settle.”

  Scott hung a Closed sign on the door, went behind the gold scales, and dug out a large pouch of dust. “Want me to weigh it for you?” Scott asked.

  “Nope, I trust you, Mr. Alexander.” Carey hefted the pouch and headed out the door. “We’ll catch up later for your order. Like you told those other fellows, I’m heading over to Ripson’s.”

  “That’s all anyone’s been talking about all winter, Sam. ‘When’s the whiskey comin’ in?’ We get this unloaded, I just might join them.” He pushed at his moustache and then began undoing some ropes on some boxes. “You might as well come along and say hello. Everyone in camp will be there.”

  Samuel’s heart caught. Lilly and Miss Hattie worked there. Lilly was always telling him to visit. He was also fifteen—not an age to be drinking. But he knew about whiskey. He had seen what it did to men on frequent occasions. His father never seemed to take part. Something in Samuel’s memory, a time after his father returned from the war, he was eight or nine, he remembered his grandfather bringing his father home. His mother had been upset. It had something to do with whiskey—and his father and Uncle Jake.

  He said nothing but helped Scott undo bundles and stock shelves and bins. Within the hour, they had the necessary work finished.

  “Come on, Sam. I can work on the rest later. I’ll credit you four bits for your help.” Scott took out the ledger and entered a line.

  Together they headed toward Ripson’s Saloon. The place was packed and noisy, and bottles clinked as they were being passed around. It seemed that the entire town was present, even some of the miners who should have been on shift. He caught sight of both Lilly and Miss Hattie as well as a couple of other ladies. They were serving drinks and bustling about.

  Lilly saw him and came up. “This don’t count,” she whispered. “This is a town doin’s.”

  Someone hollered for her, and she turned away, carrying a whiskey bottle and a couple of shot glasses. She winked back at Samuel.

  Scott stepped up to the bar. “We too late, James?”

  James Ripson was behind the bar filling bottles from a keg. As fast as one was filled, another was handed to him.

  “By cracky, we ain’t, Scott.” He poured a glass and handed it to him.

  “What you staring at, Samuel?” Ted Rankin, the county recorder’s partner, had shouldered up to Samuel. “Come on, no one’s gonna bite you. We’re celebratin’.”

  Scott held his glass; somehow Samuel found one in his hand; he swirled it and watched the amber liquid smoke the sides.

  James Ripson clinked a glass for attention. “All right, gentlemen, who’d ever of thought it would be the middle of June afore we got ourselves rescued?”

  Men roared, “Hear, hear.”

  Ripson held his glass high. “Here’s to us. Here’s to survivin’ another blamed long winter, by cracky.” He drained his glass.

  In unison, a couple dozen men noisily tipped their glasses. “Hear, hear.”

  Samuel swirled his, watching the amber reflections.

  “Come on, kid. No one here cares how old ya are. If you can reach the top of the bar in these parts, you’re old enough.” Rankin nudged him. Other men watched.

  Samuel took a swallow and tried not to grimace as the liquid burned its way down. The men cheered, laughing.

  Rankin slapped him on the back. “Whatcha think, kid?”

  Samuel swallowed some more, a bit too much. He nearly choked. “I guess I can take it …” He coughed, sputtering. “ … or not.”

  The men laughed and cheered and tipped their glasses. “To the kid! Hear, hear.”

  “It’s official,” Scott said. “He ain’t a greenhorn no more.” He thumped Samuel’s back and took his empty glass. “But we best not overdo it.”

  Scott led him back outside. The warmth Samuel felt was more than just the whiskey.

  “Too bad your pa wasn’t around to join in.”

  “Thanks, Scott.” But Samuel didn’t think his father would approve. He gazed at the western horizon. The sun was settling into the trees, sending long shadows across the land. Likely his father was back at the cabin, wondering where he was.

  “Well, Sam, like the first robin that marks the start of spring, the first pack string of the season marks the start of summer. Must be summer.”

  “I reckon.”

  “By the way, you and your pa should come to town tomorrow. There’s a miners’ meeting taking place. The new mining law is out. Mr. Rayburn will give a rundown on it.”

  “I’ll tell my pa.” But Samuel wondered about its use, because they would be leaving in the near future.

  Samuel met his father back at the cabin.

  “You stayed in town quite a while today.”

  “Yep, it was an interesting day.” Samuel set down the supplies and began making up some supper. “The first pack string came in. Mr. Ripson offered everyone a round of whiskey to celebrate.”

  Charles studied Samuel a moment. He sat and began removing his boots. “Not a good idea to make that sort of thing a habit. Maybe when you got a few more years on you, but not even then if you can help it.”

  Samuel threw some venison into the hot skillet. “I don’t plan on it, Pa.” He searched for some explanation. “Mr. Ripson was being kind to everyone; I felt I couldn’t refuse.”

  “Nor would have I,” Charles replied. “But just remember—we fatten up steers, but it ain’t for the reasons of being kind to them.”

  Samuel laughed.

  “Don’t read too much into it,” his father continued. “Mr. Ripson gives the men a free drink, they’ll be sure to buy the next one and the next. Same with those dancehall girls like that Miss Lilly you like. You might think they just want to be kind and visit and tell stories or entertain you with a song, but they’re just working you up to get you to buy another drink.”

  Samuel thought of Lilly and Miss Hattie. He felt a little confused.

  “I ain’t condemning liquor, son. You just gotta know your limit and what it can do to you.” Charles spread his hands. “Next time, come get me so I can join you.”

  Shortly Samuel had some dinner of beans and fried venison. He offered a plateful to his father.

  “How’s Mr. McLane?”

  “Actually, he’s quite well. I managed to pitch in today and earn three dollars.”

  “Hey, I got paid four bits for helping Mr. Alexander unpack.”

  Charles laughed. “Well then, we’ve had a banner day, son.” He stabbed a piece of venison. “No, Mr. McLane is doing well. The placer is up and running. He said anytime I wanted to give up on this placer of ours, he’d give me my old job back.”

  Samuel expected as much. If anyone worked harder than his father did, he had never met the man.

  “He asked about you.
Hoped you hadn’t had any more run-ins with desperados. I told him about our luck on the river and up here. He said apparently you weren’t learning.”

  Samuel grinned.

  “He also said if you got tired of mining gold, he’d sure like a new cook.”

  “I hope you didn’t volunteer me.” Last season, when Samuel had his arm in a sling, he had helped Gabe Whitman with some of the cooking. Later, when Gabe left, he had taken over.

  Charles laughed. “Nope, I knew better.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I did say you might like to run a sluice with me.”

  Samuel paused. “I’d rather run ours.”

  “I figured, and you can keep your eyes on things here. Besides, you have a knack for finding rich spots.”

  “Only the one, and we didn’t get to mine it.” Samuel felt the bitterness wash over him.

  “All we can do is try to catch up. Come Monday, I’ll work for Mr. McLane until the snow’s off the O’Riley. Should only be a few days.”

  “I can do some packing for Mr. Alexander.”

  Charles nodded. “Then how about tomorrow we go to town, clean up, and have a decent meal?”

  Samuel frowned.

  “I’m not saying anything bad about our cooking, son, but even you’d have to admit we’re no match for Ma Reynolds’s.”

  “No, sir, I won’t argue with that.” Samuel felt a rush of joy.

  Chapter 23

  SAMUEL DREAMED about visiting with Lilly, seeing her in her frilly pink dress with the low-cut bodice, and then seeing her come out of her bodice. Lilly was talking and serving him whiskey, insisting he keep drinking, unaware of her dress. Other men were gathering around, staring, and laughing. Samuel wanted to cover Lilly, but she kept talking as if nothing was wrong, and then she was no longer beautiful. She turned angry with him and began yelling. It was because of Bonnie she was angry with him. Bonnie was arguing with Lilly. Bonnie began crying and would not talk to him until he took her in his arms and held her—held her very close—and felt her warmth.