Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

Samuel studied the marks. “Why don’t we just mark them in a square?”

  “This isn’t like drilling and blasting boulders where all you do is drill to their center and blast them apart,” Charles explained, “The center holes are relievers. We drill them at an angle so they lift the rock out of the way, giving room for the rock coming in from the edges. This pattern takes fewer holes and is more effective, or so Thomas tells me.”

  “Sounds easy,” Samuel said lightly.

  “It is. We drill fifteen holes at least two feet deep, load them with dynamite, shoot them, and muck out the rock, and we’ll be about a quarter of the way done.”

  Charles picked up a shorter, slightly larger diameter drill steel and the four-pound hammer. “This piece is called the starter. Once I get the hole down a couple of inches, we’ll change to the regular steel. Then you can hold and turn it, and I’ll swing. Double jacking goes faster, and you get a bit of a rest when you’re doing the holding.”

  Samuel had watched a couple of drilling contests, but he had never tried it, nor had he paid attention to the details. All he had used the steel for before was chipping and prying.

  “The trick is to drill the hole straight and smooth so the steel doesn’t bind. You do that by turning the steel a quarter turn after each stroke.”

  Charles positioned the steel on one of the outer marks and hit it, sending tiny granite fragments and dust flying. He swung the hammer and turned the steel. The strong, metallic ring echoed from the surrounding rocks.

  Charles paused. “Give her a go.”

  Samuel took the hammer and steel. What had appeared easy was not. The hammer bounced off the steel and the steel vibrated off the rock. He swung and missed the steel, barely missing his hand.

  “Better learn the length of that hammer if you don’t want a busted hand.”

  Samuel shook his head, repositioned the steel, and struck it. He hit and turned the steel. Hit again. In a few minutes, the resemblance of a hole began to appear amid the dust and rock chips. It took him twenty minutes to near two inches.

  “Good enough, son. Time to get serious.” Charles chipped an area on the rock and handed Samuel the long-handled hammer. “Hit this spot, full extension of the hammer precisely each time. Use a full swing. Get your back and legs into the swing, not just your arms, and keep your back straight. If you don’t, you get all stove-up. I learned that the hard way at McLane’s.”

  Samuel took several swings, only occasionally hitting the mark. His father watched, saying nothing. Samuel swung again. Although similar to swinging an axe, there was less room for error. The hammer’s tapered head was not quite two inches across; the steel was an inch and a half across. He dared not miss. His father’s hands would be holding the steel, and he knew men could have their arms busted by partners who missed. Samuel already knew what it was like to spend a summer with a broken arm.

  “The most important thing is to keep your eyes on the spot. Your swing will follow your eyes. Don’t try to swing to the left or right. An easy swing all the way through. Same spot. Let the weight of the hammer do the work.”

  His father took a few swings. He was dead-on. “Okay, time to get started.”

  Samuel placed the steel back into the hole and gripped with both hands. His father hit it. The vibrations jarred his hands. He turned the steel a quarter turn. The hammer hit again. Dust and tiny fragments bounced from the hole. He turned. His father hit. The loud metal on metal ringing echoed through the woods.

  They switched positions. Samuel took a few practice swings.

  “Don’t think about it. Just keep your eyes on the steel. Get a full swing. Let’s do it.”

  Samuel gripped the hammer, his hands sweaty. He swung, felt the jar of steel on steel, and felt relieved to hear the metallic ring. He continued swinging. His father turned the steel. Slowly, slowly, the steel penetrated the rock. Rock dust bounced out of the hole.

  Thirty minutes later, they were down six inches. Samuel began making mental calculations. Fifteen holes at twenty-four inches—he quickly dismissed the idea.

  The hole filled with dust and rock particles, binding the drill.

  “Hold it,” Charles said.

  Samuel paused as his father poured water into the hole.

  “Now take a few more licks.”

  Samuel did. His father grasped the steel, pulled it free, and knocked off the mud.

  “That’s how you free a piece of drill steel and clean out a hole.”

  They finished the first hole in two hours. They drilled a second hole, one on the outside that Samuel had started, saving the angled holes until they were both more practiced. Samuel was already tiring. They paused for lunch and a short rest.

  Samuel ate in silence, thinking. His shoulders and arms already ached. His back ached. He examined his hands. Although calloused from swinging a pick and shoveling dirt all season, they were red and sore. They had thirteen holes to go, and that was just for the first round of explosives.

  They resumed work. His father talked and joked as if he had been born for drilling, but Samuel found it difficult to concentrate and talk.

  Samuel missed. The hammer came down on its handle.

  “That’s why handles get replaced,” Charles muttered. “Just remember my hands don’t.”

  A bead of sweat trickled from Samuel’s scalp. He resumed swinging. His father turned the steel. Shortly, he missed again; this time to the side of the steel. His father moved in time.

  “I’m sorry, Pa,” Samuel managed. He twisted the hammer in his sweaty hands.

  “Don’t be sorry. Hit the steel, Samuel. Nothing else.”

  “Do you want to change out?”

  “No, hit the steel.”

  Samuel wiped his hands on his trousers and took several practice swings against a spot on the rock, returned to the steel, measured his swing, and hit the steel. He tried not to think about missing, just hitting the steel. Eyes on its end, he swung and hit. He kept swinging and hitting, eventually losing track of the count. Finally, his father stood up, indicating it was time for their rotation, after approximately two hundred strokes.

  His father did not miss. Samuel turned the steel and counted. They finished the third hole and prepared to drill the fourth. Between holes they broke to drink some water, to take a short break, and to try to relax their muscles.

  When the sun had set, the fourth hole was done. Samuel struggled to build a fire and help prepare some dinner. They ate in silence. Samuel was used to hard work running the placer, but this was much worse.

  They finished the beans and cold cornmeal mush they had brought. “I could use some more,” Samuel said.

  “I could as well,” admitted Charles. “Tomorrow, get up early and make up a little more chow.”

  “Maybe a deer will wander within range.”

  Samuel washed out the dishes and examined his hands. Despite his callouses, blisters were forming.

  “You can see why I didn’t care to work in one of the quartz mines,” Charles said. “It’s the same type of work, only you’re underground in the dark.”

  “At this rate, Pa, it’ll take a month,” Samuel whispered. “We’ll never get done.”

  “Not very optimistic, are you? We’ll get faster.”

  They did get faster. Each hole was an accomplishment that made Samuel proud, but it was also brutal, demanding work. Sweat dripped from his hair and stung his eyes. His hands were now bleeding. His back ached. His legs ached. He could hardly lift and swing the hammer. He could hardly move. Whenever he rested, it took a painful effort to get up and resume work. How men did this for ten hours a day, six days a week was a pure mystery.

  At night, he slept like the dead, except that toward early morning, he woke from the pain in his shoulders and back. He could hardly rise up from the stiffness that had set in, and he ached with hunger. He ate everything in si
ght and was still hungry.

  By Friday early afternoon they had finished two more holes. Two remained to be drilled, but the drill steel had dulled down next to useless.

  “Guess we have no choice but to go to town,” Charles said. “I didn’t realize how quickly the steel would wear. We had plenty of steel out at McLane’s whenever we needed it.”

  Samuel was too exhausted to argue. Town, for whatever reason, would be welcome.

  “Let’s get loaded, son. We can drop off the steel on the way through town. A night in our beds at the cabin will do us good.”

  “And a stove to cook on.”

  They packed the steel and headed back toward Washington, stopping at Andrew Faust’s blacksmith shop.

  “Should have brought it in days ago,” Faust said.

  “That would have meant the first day,” Charles replied.

  Faust scratched his chin. “Either that or you get yourself a blacksmith out at your mine.” He grinned.

  The producing quartz mines had their own blacksmith and forges on site where they sharpened the drill steel around the clock.

  “What are my options?” Charles asked. “I can’t afford the time to bring it in every day and wait around for it to be sharpened.”

  “Bring it in and trade out for steel that’s ready to go,” Faust said. He indicated several piles of various lengths. “I outfit a couple small mines that way.”

  “Thanks,” Charles replied. “Not sure I can afford to go and buy any more steel.”

  “I can sell you some of this pretty cheap if you don’t mind a few dings and odd lengths.”

  Charles nodded. “Wish I’d known that before I bought all this.”

  Faust laughed. “Someone has to buy the new stuff.” He kicked at a pile of steel. “Just pick out another sixteen to twenty pieces. If you can trade it out at midweek, that ought to be enough. I’ll even buy it back when you head out.”

  Charles waved at the pile. “Go ahead, son. Get what we need.”

  Samuel selected equal amounts of the four lengths, including some starter steel, bundled them in canvas, and began strapping them onto Molly.

  Faust took out a pencil and made notes in a ledger. “Of course, I buy it back based on condition and length.”

  “To blazes, son, I wished I’d have known this before we bought it new,” Charles said as they rode toward their cabin.

  Samuel grinned. “Yes, but like he said, someone had to buy it new.”

  “That’s going to save us a lot of time, but I’ll have to trust him to keep track of everything. There will be the cost of the steel plus the cost of sharpening it each time we bring it in. Hope he can figure all that out.”

  They reached the cabin, turned out the stock, which seemed appreciative to be back where there was more grass, and began supper. Samuel checked on the Sweet Mary. Enough water had collected to where he could make another run. He was tempted, but his body ached, and he was hungry.

  They ate in silence.

  “I don’t know about you, son, but that drilling business has just about worn me out.”

  Samuel was comforted to hear his father admit that he was tired as well. He had questioned himself. He was near his limit.

  Chapter 35

  ON THEIR WAY to Alexander’s Mercantile, they noticed Sheriff Sinclair up the street talking to a couple of men.

  “Think you can manage getting the fuse and powder?” Charles asked. “I need to see the sheriff a moment.”

  “Sure.” Samuel thought it might have to do with Finney and Culler.

  Samuel greeted Scott and asked about the powder and fuse.

  “So you got some holes drilled. Congratulations. Now you’re about to become a real hardrock miner.” Scott set out a spool of fuse and box of caps. “If you have any extra, bring it back.” He swung a wooden case of dynamite onto the counter.

  Samuel backed away.

  “Don’t worry about this stuff, Sam. It’s not like black powder that can blow up by being looked at cross-eyed. Mr. Nobel’s invention is truly miraculous. When nitroglycerin is mixed with clay, it’s stable. It takes another explosion to set it off—that’s these fuse caps.”

  He opened the box and held one up. “These are far more dangerous than that powder. You hit them hard, they’ll explode.” He handed a cap to Samuel. It resembled a brass bullet casing. “They’re a lot like a Chinese firecracker. You crimp it to the fuse, stick it into the stick of powder, and light the fuse. When it explodes, the powder explodes. Otherwise, you could lay a stick of powder on a fire and nothing would happen.”

  Charles came in and assessed the pile. “Our credit still good?”

  Scott frowned. “Well, I can’t very well grubstake you with drill steel and hammers if I’m going to leave you with empty holes, now can I?”

  “Just checking.” Charles smiled and grabbed the case of dynamite. “I’ll strap this onto Molly, Samuel. It’s probably not a bad idea for you to carry that other stuff separate.” Charles headed out toward the mule.

  Samuel whispered to Scott. “How much is all this?”

  “Considerably more than a couple sales trips,” Scott whispered back.

  That meant it was expensive.

  Even though Scott had explained that the dynamite was stable, Samuel still felt nervous with Molly following so closely. He reminded himself it was more likely to detonate the caps.

  Samuel considered what else Scott had told him about dynamite. “The main thing is to keep the powder dry,” he had said. “This time of year you don’t have to worry about it freezing, but if ever it does, you want to thaw it gently next to a fire. You also got to watch old sticks of powder that’ve been sweating. If any nitroglycerin leaks out, it’ll explode just by being jiggled. Build a fire you can toss it into and run like hell.”

  Still, Samuel did not completely trust hauling dynamite, and he watched Molly’s steps.

  At the O’Riley, they found a rock crevice in which to store the dynamite and then drilled the final two holes.

  Charles laughed. “Makes a difference having sharp steel.” He stood back and surveyed the fifteen holes. “See that they are clean, and then let’s load them up. Based on a drill hole of two feet, one stick should do it, son. All we want to do is break the rock, not pulverize it. But first, we need to test burn our fuse.”

  They retrieved the fuse, and Charles measured and cut a three-foot length.

  “Count with me, one thousand, two thousand, until the fuse burns out. That will give us an idea on how fast this fuse burns per foot and how much we need so we have time to get away.”

  Charles lit the fuse and they counted until it went out. “About three minutes. That should be enough.”

  Samuel had no idea how far away he had to be in order to be safe. He imagined a huge blast sending up columns of shattered rock that would rain down everywhere.

  “I figure we should come back down here, son. This is plenty far. We can walk this in a minute. That gives us a full minute to light fuses and another for safety.”

  Samuel gingerly wrapped the dynamite into a canvas and carried it toward the excavation, following at a distance his father, who had the fuse and caps.

  At the site, Charles cut another three-foot length of fuse and crimped a cap onto the end.

  “Now, when you’re handling dynamite, you want to use gloves. Nitro can be absorbed through your skin, and it will give you the worst kind of headache you can imagine.”

  He pulled on a pair of gloves, cut the dynamite in half, and then cut one of the halves lengthwise. “Pack half a stick into the hole, then place in the primer and pack the remaining half stick around it.” After tamping in the half stick, he gently sandwiched the fuse with cap between the two remaining quarters and tamped them in. “Now we pack the remainder of the hole with dirt.” Charles scooped up double handfuls and trickl
ed them into the hole until full. “By compacting the dirt around the powder, the blast will be forced down and out rather than up and back out of the hole. That does a better job of fracturing the rock. In fact, if you just laid a stick of powder on top of a rock and detonated it, it’d hardly chip it. All the force would be directed up by the rock underneath.”

  Charles packed the dirt down. “Fourteen to go.” He cut another piece of fuse and began attaching a cap. “Go ahead and cut yourself a fuse and start loading a shot.”

  Samuel cut the fuse and then cut into a stick of dynamite. The consistency was like thick clay. Despite Scott’s assurance that it was safe, Samuel handled it with nervous trepidation, not quite believing it wouldn’t explode. He set his knife aside and packed the half into the hole, tamping it in firmly.

  As his father watched, he took a cap and crimped it to a fuse, squeezing the open metal ends down around the fuse, feeling nervous the entire time.

  “As long as that cap doesn’t explode, there’s no danger,” his father reassured him. “Just don’t grate it against the rock when you slide it in.”

  He slid the primer into the hole, gently pushing it into the dynamite, and then sandwiched the remaining dynamite around it.

  “I think you’ve got the hang of it,” Charles said. “Just don’t get cocky.”

  They continued working until all fifteen holes were loaded. Charles made a final check.

  “Now we trim and split the fuses,” Charles said. “We want the center holes to go first, so I’ll shorten those fuses about an inch. The next ones out, we shorten half an inch.”

  Charles cut an inch from one of the center fuses and cut a notch into its end. “Try to shake the powder down into the cut. It will ignite easier.”

  Samuel copied his father as they quickly trimmed and notched the fuses, leaving the outermost ones their original length.

  Charles took another section of fuse and cut fifteen notches into it about an inch apart. He lit two candles and handed one to Samuel. “Yours is in case my candle is spit out. We don’t have time to fumble around lighting another.” He held up the notched fuse. “After it’s lit, the fuse will burn to each notch. When it hits a notch, flame will spit from it, making it easier to light the fuses. If you try lighting fuses with a candle, either a spitting fuse or the wind will snuff it out. You don’t want to be caught with a short fuse while trying to light another candle.”