Salmon River Kid

by Joseph Dorris

  “Do you know any of the Chinese near here, Chen?”

  Chen shook his head.

  “There’s a stone hut a few miles downstream where some Chinese have a placer. I’ve seen it. I think we can get to it. They have a raft.”

  “Might be wrong Chinese,” Chen replied.

  Samuel went numb. “What do you mean ‘wrong Chinese’?”

  “Wrong tong. They won’t help.”

  Samuel recalled that the Chinese had factions that did not get along, but time was running out. “We have to chance it. If we can get there, we can use the raft to carry our gear across. I can swim Spooky. We’ll leave your mule.”

  Samuel led Spooky well off the trail so their pursuers wouldn’t see their prints and turned downstream. They were forced to climb above sheer rocks near Groff’s ferry, following a thin game trail. Beyond, in the gathering darkness, Samuel studied the canyon. They would be trapped if they encountered more cliffs.

  The mule struggled to follow, limping. It went down again. Samuel thought he might have to leave her.

  Night fell. They continued until they spotted a light shining through the door of the stone hut. The distinctive odors of Chinese food and singsong voices drifted to them on the night air.

  “You go, Chen,” Samuel said. He pulled his pistol. Chen eyed it. “Just in case,” he explained.

  Chen departed and reached the hut. The door came open and a couple of Chinese came out, soon breaking into excited voices. Chen turned and motioned to Samuel. The men waited, silhouetted at the door.

  “They okay, Sam,” Chen said excitedly. “Kan Dick is here.”

  Kan Dick greeted Samuel joyously, and Chen interpreted. “He say thank you again.”

  Samuel knew Kan Dick. He was the Chinese man that Finney and Culler had roped last year and whom he had helped. Samuel bowed. “You are welcome.”

  Chen introduced the other men—Ahn Kee and Chow Lein.

  Entering the hut, Samuel sat uncomfortably on his heels. The flimsy Chinese chairs were all in use. The hut was furnished similar to Sang Yune’s but was slightly larger. A small table held an oil lamp. Clothing hung from pegs. Three sleeping pallets were against the sides of the room. He wondered if there was room enough for Chen. Samuel had already decided he would sleep outdoors away from the cabin.

  Similar to Sang Yune’s hut, the men also had a small stove outside near the door. A kettle of rice was being kept warm.

  Chen chatted happily with the men. Ahn Kee brought Samuel a bowl of hot rice with a vegetable and fish relish garnishing it. The Chinese nodded at Samuel and then began eating and talking noisily, often gesturing at him. When finished, they put their bowls outside and prepared some tea.

  Chen addressed Samuel. “They know we are carrying out gold.”

  Samuel felt queasy. Like Chen, he trusted no one. He had heard more than one story of Chinese turning on Chinese for gold or opium or gambling debts—of them hacking each other to pieces.

  “They have seen men who stay across river and watch,” Chen said. “These men know they have mined much gold. They think they wait until they cross river with gold and then steal it,” Chen said simply. “Instead, they plan to take raft downriver to Lewiston.”

  Samuel almost dropped his tea. “The raft … downriver? That’s impossible.”

  Chen shook his head. “No. Other Chinese do it.”

  “How do they get through the rapids? No raft will get through those rapids. It’ll get busted up in the rocks.”

  “They stop for bad water. Use rope along shore and let raft through.”

  Samuel decided it made sense. He could also imagine that would be where the men would jump them. He wondered who they might be. Dudgin and Smith? He would have suspected Finney and Culler, but they were in jail. An icy realization washed Samuel. No, they were probably free. He had missed the hearing.

  “So what’s our plan? Leave Spooky and your mule here, float downriver to Lewiston, and walk back? It’s still a hundred miles.”

  “Yes.” Chen nodded.

  RIVER RUN

  Chapter 47

  EARLY MORNING, just as light crept into the sky, the Chinese prepared a meal and began packing. Samuel took his gear to the raft and carefully lashed it on, knowing he might lose it in rough water. The raft consisted of several logs sandwiched between poles at opposite ends that had been deck-lashed to them. The Chinese had fashioned a rudder and lashed it to an upright pole, enabling it to swivel from side to side. A couple of other poles lay on deck for pushing the raft off rocks or poling it upstream.

  Chen’s gold had been secured in leather pouches inside burlap bags. Samuel took one of his blankets and split it, wrapping the bags yet again. He then securely lashed each to one of the logs. He had come this far; he was not about to lose the gold now. Similarly, Chow Lein lashed their gold to a log as well.

  Chen climbed onto the raft and grabbed a pole, steadying the raft. Chow Lein stood ready to untie it. Samuel climbed back up the rocky cliff to get the last of their gear. He had left his pistol at the hut. He normally tucked it in his pants, but he didn’t want it accidentally falling into the river while he was loading gear.

  Ahn Kee and Kan Dick tossed a few pieces of perforated paper into a small stone cubicle next to the door to confuse the devil while they were absent, their last action before carrying their remaining gear to the raft.

  Samuel headed back toward the raft, but paused on the edge of the bluff, taking in the grandeur of the river for a moment. The sun now touched the far mountains. The raft, a small square on the breathing water, bobbed quietly. He felt good. They would be in Lewiston in a few days.

  Chen steadied the raft with his pole. Suddenly, he began shouting, frantically waving, pointing.

  Samuel turned to see three riders coming down the rocky slope toward them, Quinton Dudgin in the lead. Ramey Smith pulled up and leveled his rifle. He saw the puff of smoke and heard the high-pitched whine of a bullet. The report reverberated from the canyon walls, shattering the morning silence.

  Cold, icy fear flooded Samuel. He stood, terrified, rooted to the spot.

  “It’s that bastard, wet-nose kid,” Smith cursed.

  “Pull that raft in!” Morton hollered; he pulled his rifle and fired into the air.

  Ahn Kee came running toward Samuel. Kan Dick hesitated near the hut.

  Two rapid shots rang out. One bullet whined past. Kan Dick went down near the hut’s door. He struggled up a moment and then went still. Samuel went sick inside. Desperately, he grabbed his pistol and returned two wild shots. Ahn Kee ducked down near Samuel.

  He heard Morton. “We’re after the gold, damn it, not the Chinamen.”

  Another shot rang out.

  Morton yelled toward Samuel, “Stop those Chinamen, kid. They’re stealin’ our gold.”

  Samuel saw Smith aim his rifle and fire. The bullet whined past, and he scrambled for cover.

  “Hey, kid, remember, me? I told you we had some settling to do.” Smith fired again, the bullet kicking up dirt near Samuel. Smith was not aiming at just the Chinese.

  Morton turned toward Smith, yelling something that Samuel couldn’t make out.

  Heart pounding, anger overwhelming him, Samuel ran toward the men and wedged himself behind a tree, cutting the distance. He carefully aimed at Smith and squeezed off a shot. The man spun away crazily, batting at his ear. Samuel thought he saw blood.

  “Who’s next?” Samuel hollered. “Come any closer, one of you is dead.”

  The men brought their horses to a halt, and Morton hollered down. “Don’t be a fool, kid. That’s our gold they’re stealin’. Help us out, you won’t be hurt.”

  “Is that what Dudgin told you, Morton?” Samuel hollered back. “You better ask him what happened to his partner from last fall when they robbed the Chinese pack train.”

  “Don
’t listen to the shirttail, Morton. He’s just tryin’ to scare ya,” Dudgin shouted. “We didn’t have nothing to do with any Chinaman train.”

  “Then ask him about a man named Bender,” Samuel shouted. “I was there when they gunned him down. You’ll be next, Morton. By God, I swear you’ll be next.”

  “You’ll be next, you bastard wet-nose,” Smith yelled. A round went past Samuel’s head. He squeezed himself harder against the tree. He saw Morton backing his sorrel up, turning, and galloping off.

  Dugin cursed and yelled after him, “Lily-livered bastard.” He fired at Morton. The man clawed at his shoulder and dropped his rifle. Morton continued riding from sight, slumped in his saddle. Dudgin turned and fired again at Samuel and then began reloading. Smith spurred his horse down the hillside.

  Samuel stepped out. He could now see blood on the side of the man’s face. Good, he thought. He took careful aim and fired. The horse staggered and went down, throwing Smith. It lunged back to its feet and, shaking its head, broke away, staggering up the hill. Smith scrambled to his feet, cursing, running toward Samuel, and flung himself behind a rock a few yards away.

  Samuel saw him steady his rifle and the puff of white smoke. A bullet sprayed up dirt near his foot. Samuel heard Smith chamber another round and knew in moments he would be dead. The thought seemed strange, cold. He glanced to see Dudgin on foot working his way downward toward him.

  Overwhelmed by anger, Samuel decided he would take at least one of the two men with him. He stepped out and aimed.

  “You’re dead, Chinaman lover,” screamed Dudgin. He began firing at Samuel.

  Ahn Kee scrambled toward Samuel, desperation in his eyes, shouting. His shout was cut short; his face went blank, and he pitched forward, crumpling a few feet from Samuel. One of Dudgin’s rounds had found him.

  Samuel glanced toward the river below. He saw Chow Lein wading into the water, pushing the raft out.

  Ahn Kee continued crawling toward Samuel, pain flooding his face, eyes pleading. He quit crawling and gasped, mouth working, bleeding.

  Samuel jumped up, put a bullet past Smith, and his last round past Dudgin. He jumped crazily down the bluff, almost tripping and tumbling, yelling toward the raft. “Get down!” Smith’s rifle bullets buzzed past him.

  He hit the water, diving, swimming for the raft. He lost his grip on his pistol, and it slipped into the depths. A slug plunged past him, kicking up a spray. In icy fear, he realized they would soon pick him off. Chen grabbed his arm and helped pull him onto the raft. Painfully slowly, the raft swung into the current.

  Dudgin and Smith scrambled down the rocky bluff toward them, cursing. At the river’s edge, they took up positions and began firing. Slowly, slowly, the raft slipped downstream, swinging out and away.

  Samuel’s heart wouldn’t quit pounding. He watched upriver as the men faded to small dots. The two Chinese bodies lay where they had fallen. He shook until he got sick.

  Chen’s face was white. The raft drifted toward hanging up on the bank. Chow Lein ineffectively pulled on the sweep. Chen grabbed a pole and stabbed at the looming rocks. Samuel forced himself up and grabbed the rudder. Pushing against the current, he turned the bow back into deeper water. “I can handle it, Chen. You can set your pole down.”

  Shaking, Chen placed his pole on the deck and sat, Chow Lein next to him. Both seemed oblivious to the water that freely splashed up through the decking and washed across the logs soaking them. A few logs rode beneath the surface. Both men appeared terrified. “I can’t swim, Sam,” Chen whispered.

  “You won’t have to if we can make a few miles.” Samuel tried to be reassuring. “Just the same, I reckon we should lighten up, in case we go in.” He pulled his hat down firmly and then began unlacing his boots and pulled them off. He pulled off his shirt. “Tie these on, please,” he instructed Chen. Both Chen and Lein removed their tunics as well.

  He watched upstream as Dudgin and Smith headed back toward the ferry, riding double. Samuel figured they would soon steal another horse and again be on their trail, especially now that they carried even more gold.

  Desperately, Samuel searched his memory for the placer camps, for where people who might help could be. But it was summer. No one would be working the bars until late fall or winter. They faced the river alone. The hopeless feeling he had nearly overwhelmed him.

  Samuel tried to remember where the rapids were. All he could remember were the ones at Lucile Bar. Likely, Dudgin and Smith would know this as well and would be there waiting for them.

  The current quickened and a line of spitting whitewater appeared below.

  “Better hold on,” Samuel cautioned. “Looks like rough water ahead.”

  Boulders crowded in from each side of the river with whitewater dancing around their edges. Samuel pulled against the rudder, sweeping the bow toward the glassy, black tongue of water toward the river’s middle. He had spent enough time studying the river to know the water ran deeper in the glassy patch.

  The raft dropped down into the trough and rose up on the descending swells below. Samuel felt the rush of the river and the raft yielding to its massive bulk. The river’s power was deceptive. They slid through the swells into slower water that now curved slightly to the east.

  After a short quiet stretch, they entered another quick section of water. The raft rose on the huge swells and fell down the other side. It bucked and strained. The logs shifted underneath the decking, turning freely. The ropes were loosening.

  “Chen, you and Lein have to tighten those ropes,” Samuel shouted, keeping his grip on the rudder, sweeping it back to force the raft left past the shoulder of a half-submerged boulder. Its shape rose black and menacing beneath the surface. Samuel braced for the collision, but surprisingly, they swept past.

  Shaking, Samuel shouted, “There’s more rope in my pack. Try to loop more over those logs.”

  They entered a section of quiet water. A cliff came down from the west edge, and the river swept back toward the east. A stream entered from the west, and a bouncing line of whitewater marked its boundary. Boulders littered the river. Samuel remembered studying these rapids from the trail. These were not good. Desperately, he swung the raft toward the west bank. He had no idea if they could walk the raft along that side from the shore, but he had no choice. He brought the raft into the bank directly above the bouncing, thundering water.

  Whitewater rocketed down through chutes between the boulders, boulders as large as small cabins. The swells rose six or more feet at the foot of the chutes and tumbled back on themselves, foaming into white. A log trapped in a hole rolled over and over, rose up the swell, and then got hammered back down. Samuel had made the right choice. If trapped, the raft would have been torn apart.

  With two ropes firmly anchored to bow and stern, Samuel eased the stern out until the current caught the raft and pushed it out toward the largest chute. Samuel wrapped the rope around himself, hoping he wouldn’t be snatched into the river by the raft. He shouted at Chen. “See the angle? We got to keep this angle or the raft will get caught and be ripped apart.”

  Painstakingly they walked along the bank. Sheer rocks blocked their route, and they were forced to climb up above and around them. They kept the raft in the current. It rode through the turbulent whitewater, getting tossed and bucked.

  The creek had brought in boulders that chopped up the water. Past its mouth, the rapids diminished into a series of explosive cockscombs dancing into each other until they quieted. At the far end, they brought the raft to shore, where they reboarded.

  Samuel watched the far bank, but thankfully, he had not seen Dudgin and Smith.

  “Maybe bandits don’t follow,” Chen observed. “They ohnee have one horse.”

  “Maybe.” But Samuel figured they had probably already taken Morton’s. Maybe he had more than nicked Smith. Maybe they had given up.

  Samuel swu
ng the raft back out into the current. The logs had shifted considerably. Chen and Lein worked to snug up the lines.

  Samuel steered the raft to the river’s center, and they swept downstream for a couple of miles, encountering only a few quick spots, but nothing difficult. The worst set of rapids above Lucile had to be near. He scanned the river ahead. It appeared as if it ran into descending cliffs. A dull roar began to fill his ears. This had to be the spot. They would have to land the raft again and line it through.

  He peered back upriver for their pursuers and then shouted at Chen. “Maybe we should beach the raft and hide. Maybe we can fool them into thinking we already made it through.”

  Chen addressed Lein, vigorously talking. Lein shook his head.

  “Lein say they will find us. They know this place.”

  Samuel glanced downriver and went numb as he spotted Dudgin and Smith, sitting their horses in the river shallows. “They already have.” Both had their weapons aimed their direction. Smith rode Morton’s sorrel, and Samuel guessed Morton was dead.

  “Keep down,” Samuel hissed. Blood pounded in his head and his mouth went dry.

  “Bring the raft in, boy, and we’ll let you go,” Dudgin shouted. He aimed his pistol. “You don’t, I’ll kill ya.”

  Samuel knew Dudgin could see he had lost his own pistol. “If you do, you’ll lose the gold,” Samuel shouted back. The raft slipped toward Dudgin. Samuel tried to angle away, his hands grasping the rudder, sweaty.

  “Don’t be a fool, boy. Bring it in.”

  Chow Lein started to stand up, saying something.

  Chen interpreted, “He say it is not worth dying. Too many dead.” Desperation filled Chen’s eyes. “I say okay.”

  Samuel felt defeated. Two men were already dead. He thought of his father. His father always said a man could start over, but not if he were dead.

  He swung the raft toward the shore directly toward Dudgin, sweat stinging his eyes. Smith sat his horse a few yards downstream, his rifle held steady on Samuel. Without warning, he raised it and fired. Samuel flinched. He heard the bullet smack, and Lein slumped to the deck, bleeding profusely from a hole in his chest. Samuel went numb. Smith’s bullet had been aimed for him.