Zachary's Gold

by Stan Krumm

  Two diaries rested among the papers, and I pulled these out for later perusal. As I myself keep a journal, I felt a special interest in these. Glancing in one—a black, hardbound volume—I read:

  “Am abandoning my share of the workings on French Creek after the dispute with J.W. I will try prospecting on the other side of Cunningham Pass. Even if results are not as good as here, I will at least get away from this ongoing conflict.”

  Judging from the penmanship, he was an educated man. He made further entries for several weeks before he evidently met Ned and escaped from all of life’s ongoing conflicts.

  Also in the bag were a dozen or so letters, a certificate of honourable discharge from the Royal Navy, some newspaper clippings, a deed to a farm in Washington State, and scrips and scraps of other sundry papers. Lastly, there was a small, hinged watch box and therein two small mother-of-pearl hair ornaments and a lady’s gold ring set with one small diamond. My euphoria of discovery was replaced by an ambivalent gloom as I considered these few oddments of jewellery.

  Perhaps my curiosity could be viewed as morbid, but before I departed, I took several items to examine at my leisure. Everything in the cache was intriguing in its own right, but I contented myself with the two diaries and a couple of long, descriptive letters, as well as the military medals and the lady’s ring, the implications of which still bothered me.

  The walk home was slow and uneventful. Along the way, I stopped to reseal the nail keg and the box full of firearms. For the first time that day I took notice of the weather—a thick and chilling rain was now falling.

  By the time I reached the cabin, fatigue had overtaken excitement and, without even bothering to tend the fire, I collapsed onto the bed, where I spent most of the afternoon.

  When I arose at four o’clock, I felt more tired than ever. The exercise of chopping and carrying a few sticks of wood helped a bit, although it was both painful and awkward to do this with my injured shoulder. I boiled water for tea, and while it steeped, took the mule to a new tethering spot farther down the meadow. Returning indoors, I placed the pot of spuds and beans onto the stove, resolved to shoot some meat at the next opportunity, and took my mug of tea outside. It had stopped raining, but the sky was the colour of cold ashes.

  Steaming cup in hand, I walked once around the outside of the cabin, once around the clearing that served as a yard, and ended up seated on a stump, looking up at the dead trapper hanging against the poplar trunk. A pair of crows that had dropped by for a bite to eat left when I arrived. “Ned, Ned, Ned—I’m disappointed,” I finally said as I sipped my hot brew. “Disappointed indeed. I found the diamond ring, and that disappoints me terrible. I don’t know what your background is or what sort of circumstances got you into your line of work. Maybe bushwhacking your neighbour is what a proper fellow does where you come from, but killing women . . .

  “Still, I suppose I should thank you. You’ve made me a very rich man if I can ever get the yellow stuff out of here.

  “I really did intend to take the gold bars back, or at least I think I did, but I can’t see turning over your stack of dust and nuggets to some pack of politicians and bankers who’ll just divide it up amongst themselves.

  “So the good news is this, Ned: I’ve decided to let you go free. I could have turned you in and ruined your good name, but as of now, you’re free to do as you please.”

  For a while then, I mused about on the topic of getting the gold to safety—certainly not back in Barkerville or even Quesnelle Mouth. Too many questions would automatically be asked. I would have to carry it, as is, at least to Fort Langley, and preferably all the way across the border. Five hundred miles; two hundred pounds, plus supplies. And with a badly injured, very sore arm.

  “How did you plan to manage it? Was that express wagon your last fling? You shouldn’t have got greedy; you were already stinking rich.

  “And speaking of stink, Ned, the breeze has shifted, and you’re none too nice to sit next to anymore.

  “I believe I’ll do my thinking inside.”

  THE MORNING I STARTED BACK to Barkerville began with a filmy mist over the blue sky, but by nine o’clock the sunshine had burned it away, and the day had developed a genuine warmth. As I climbed up and over a rocky bluff, bypassing a wide loop in Antler Creek, I took off my shirt and carried on bare-chested. I was optimistic as I considered the daunting prospect of moving the stolen gold out to civilization. The rays of the sun felt luxurious and cleansing on my bare skin. Mountain weather is capricious, however, and I soon felt the tickling sensation of tiny, cold raindrops on my back. Moments later, the rain turned to light snowflakes. The sky was still blue, with only an occasional knot of cloud, but such, as I say, was normal for that quixotic climate. Once I grew accustomed to it, the feeling of snow on bare skin was not overly unpleasant, and I walked thus—half disrobed, through the falling snow—rejoicing in my good health, which had been so much at hazard of late.

  I felt, as I walked, like a man re-emerging into a wider world after a long respite in prison or a hospital room—invigorated by the autumn hillsides: the broad, empty spaces, the expanse of moss and low berry bushes, and the great variety of weeds, herbs, and ferns. In that harsh country, where rock and gravel leave little space for good soil, and where fierce winters rule over half the year, life of small and hardy sorts exerts itself with a beautiful determination. No chunk of slate forces itself out of the ground without being painted over by delicate lichens and ornate fungus; no grey stick of scrub submits to total annihilation until its twisted limbs have sucked every drop of nourishment from the ground. No nameless weed in that airy region exists for its brief moment without bedecking itself in tiny, bright blossoms.

  My journey that day was leisurely and contemplative for two reasons. Firstly, as I have said, my aesthetic enjoyment was greatly increased after a week or so of poor health, confinement, and introspection. Secondly, I was still vaguely unsure of my exact plan of action.

  My immediate destination was the claim on Binder Creek. I had invested enough time and energy in the place to want to ensure its security, even though I had no longer any intention of carrying on operations there. I also realized that if an explanation was ever required for my possessing large quantities of raw gold, I had best be able to say that I was the owner of an active claim.

  In reality, the gold I would be transporting would be easily recognizable as having come from many different locations, since each creek and drift provides ore of distinct appearance—round, well-washed pebbles that have been worn smooth in some pocket of water, or fresh flakes and fingers of metal only lately broken from the quartz that held them. Some of my new-found wealth was brightest yellow and as pure as if it had been refined. Some, from different sources, would be honeycombed with quartz, rust, and sand.

  Still, in case of emergency, any plausible explanation might satisfy the authorities, and in that eventuality, I wished to be able to put my best falsehood forward. Binder Creek would be duly registered and open to their investigation.

  I was only about three miles from Ned’s cabin when I noticed campfire smoke just off the course of Antler Creek, down a gully with a trickling side stream. Evidently someone was prospecting or had set up permanent workings there, and this troubled me slightly, being so close.

  I did not stop to investigate, but as I continued on, my thoughts returned for perhaps the hundredth time to a picture I had in my mind of friendly old Ned stopping to chat with a solitary miner on an isolated claim. A bit of talk, a cup of coffee, a joke, a laugh, and a bullet in the back. The trapper would clean up the premises at his leisure, and if anyone actually knew that the unfortunate prospector had ever been there, they would assume that he had called it humbug and gone back south.

  Looking at the distant twist of smoke, it struck me that the man who started that fire was a lucky little fly to wander so close to the web now, after the spider was gone.

  The snow flurry ceased almost as quickly as it had begun, and
the rest of the walk was warm and pleasant. In the early afternoon, I started up the valley-side through the trees and arrived at the ridge meadow to find a pair of grouse waiting like a small feathered sacrifice near the spot where I had been accustomed to sitting and surveying the valley. Not wishing to seem ungrateful, I shot the two of them and carried on, down the course of Binder Creek to my claim site.

  While my campfire was heating up a pot of water, I hastily gutted and plucked the two birds. It had been a long walk, I hadn’t eaten meat for several days, and the aroma was delicious. To preserve my sanity, I was forced to leave the immediate area, so I strolled down the creek, looking over the familiar ground for any changes that had occurred in my absence. Everything was virtually the same, of course, except that the single Chinaman had gone, leaving only a couple of stacks of gravel tailings and his wood chopping block to show that anyone had ever paused there. I didn’t know whether he had left the country or simply returned to partnership with his brothers, but I didn’t then venture far enough downstream to check. Instead I returned to tend my cooking fire.

  A ruffed grouse makes a pleasant meal for one—sinewy but tasty, with a flavour and texture much like rabbit. Ideally, it should be cooked for a long time to tenderize it, but I’m afraid my hunger got the better of me, and I ate the first half of it nearly raw. The flavour was decent enough, but it was about as tender as a cowhide glove.

  While darkness crept into my little camp, I sat on a grey, weathered snag and stared into the orange coals, wishing I could think of some relatively secure way of transporting my new-found wealth. No such idea was forthcoming. Instead, a cool breeze arrived, bearing the moist, chill edge it had picked up from snow on higher ground. Even if I had never gone off in search of the Ne’er Do Well Company’s gold bars, I thought, I would be deciding to leave the Cariboo about now.

  My little lean-to shanty seemed suddenly very frail and ugly as I bunked down that evening. While Ned’s cabin had seemed dark and airless, like some sort of crypt or mausoleum, in comparison my own home now felt as cold and close as a coffin.

  I drifted off to a restless sleep, with the wind blowing right through my makeshift walls and keeping me on the edge of wakefulness. Late autumn is the coldest time of year, when a man’s body still feels that it has some right to warmth and comfort. Later it forgets the sensation completely.

  When morning came, I was too cold to sleep and too tired to rise, so I lay there a long time, curled up like a snake in winter—too sluggish to squirm. Finally I crawled out of my hole, pushed together a fire, and heated tea in my billy can. It was well after eight before I had the initiative to start for town.

  I was not, of course, overly alert. I had spent too much time in thought, not enough in sleep, then huddled against a campfire until my face was baked and my backside frozen. Stumbling down the gulch with rifle and pack on my back, hands deep in pockets, shoulders hunched, I failed to cross over the creek as was my habit.

  “You’re a man who likes to flirt with danger, young fella.” I looked up to see Greencoat glowering at me. His rifle was at the three-quarters position, resting on his left forearm. His right hand held the stock by the hammer, fingers free of the trigger, but looped through the guard. For a long moment we stood there, glaring eye to eye. Finally he spoke again.

  “I’ve already given you a warning, and here you are again—trespassing on my land.”

  Glancing down, I saw his neat, three-sided marking post not more than four paces from my feet. I had almost completely crossed his claim, but I was still inside the boundary. Rational thought dictated that I should apologize, step lightly, and so end the confrontation. My neighbour did not choose to think along that line, however. I didn’t either.

  “Is that your stake?” I asked politely.

  A second or two passed. He was suspicious and unsure of the implications of my question. When finally he nodded slowly, I drew my hand out of my side coat pocket holding the Colt .45 already cocked.

  Only his eyelids moved.

  I took basic aim at the little stake and blasted it five times, blowing it into splinters, and nearly destroying both our eardrums. When the ringing echoes had died down enough that I could hear myself speak, I said, “You’d better cut yourself a new one.” Then I turned my back on Greencoat and walked the rest of the way down Binder Creek.

  I followed a slightly different route into town than I normally used, and it was three o’clock when I found myself on a high piece of land at the opening of Shy Robin Gulch, just off Grouse Creek. I felt a mixture of relief and excitement as I looked down on the city of Barkerville, with Cameronton just beyond, down the valley, and Richfield around the corner to my left. It was no scene of beauty—just a flat, grey expanse of cabins, shanties, aqueducts, and footpaths spreading up the hillsides cradling Williams Creek, with a ring of smoke hanging there that could never seem to escape from the valley. The grey clouds were draped like a drab woollen scarf about the town’s shoulders. After the splendid colour of the autumn forest, this aspect should have been depressing, but at that moment it was to me a wonderful expression of human life and desire. Thousands of men hurried and scurried about down there, vitalized by the hope of finding one special thing.

  I had already found it.

  Any one of them, of course, would take it from me in a minute if I lowered my guard. Caution and secrecy were the order of the day.

  My plan was to purchase one more pack animal and, together with Ned’s mule, which I had left back at the cabin, work my way inconspicuously south, keeping up the appearance of a poor, hapless prospector. In addition to my supplies and gold, I would carry a maximum of firearms and ammunition selected from the dead trapper’s private armoury. Even if Governor Douglas sent a platoon of infantry after me, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

  It wasn’t a great plan. Two animals take a fair amount of care and attention. There would be heavy lifting and carrying, with long hours of walking involved, and I was still not completely recovered from the wounds inflicted by the wolverine. I would be in danger from law officers and outlaws alike, over six hundred miles of rough roads and rough weather. For great reward, though, great risks must be taken.

  To begin with, I wanted a bath, a set of underwear that fit properly, and a meal I could eat from a plate at a table. My first stop was the Bank of British Columbia, where I exchanged three ounces of Binder Creek gold for currency.

  The bank was quite unlike those in more civilized cities. The main part of the building was like a warehouse, caged off from the public by strong bars and solid wood countertops. The patrons were left only a small corridor of space across the front where they could wait to do their business with the clerk, who stood at a small gap in the iron barricade. At busy times, the customers would often be forced to line up on the elevated boardwalk outside the front door to wait their turn. It was certainly a secure arrangement but not at all convivial, particularly when the clerk seemed to be tired and depressed. He was small, pale, and well dressed—most unsuited to his present locale. I tried my best to mirror his emotions as I played the role of a luckless gully-grubber.

  “Horrible, isn’t it?” I said to him, “but that little poke is all I have to show for six months’ hard work.”

  “Horrible place, this,” he agreed without showing much interest

  “I’ll be glad to be shot of it.”

  “You’re lucky, all right,” he grumbled. I felt a bit sorry for the poor young fellow, for unlike myself, he was probably just as miserable as he seemed.

  “You expect to stay on for a while, do you?” I inquired politely. He looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

  “I’m here on contract.”

  “How long is the contract?”

  “Three months.”

  “And how long have you been here now?”

  “Year and a half.” He dismissed me by looking over my shoulder to the next customer, and I shuffled off.

  After my encounter with this young master of f
inance, I found it much easier to wear a gloomy countenance. I purchased underwear, a shirt, and a newspaper, then returned to the Colonial Hotel, where I spent a leisurely hour in a hot bath.

  I possessed no medical training, and a close inspection of my wound after I cleansed it told me little, except that it was still ugly and sore. The weakness and recurring ache in my shoulder made me suspect that the wolverine had managed to rip some of the muscle completely apart, but I was nervous about doctors at the best of times, so I chose to ignore it for the time being. These things took time to heal, of course, and I was already learning to compensate with the other arm.

  I decided to postpone my dinner until I had checked out the availability and price of mules. I was luxuriating not only in the warmth and cleanliness, but also in the atmosphere of the town itself. After the solitary weeks, each face spoke loudly to me—of ambition, success, and failure; of the resentment of the hungry and the altruistic friendliness of the suddenly rich. It was constantly necessary for me to remind myself that my mask must be that of the disappointed failure.

  It was difficult to keep from grinning. I felt like a little boy, delighted with the bass drum sound my boots made on the board sidewalk as I tramped my way towards the stables just down from the hotel. There were a couple of horses for sale there but no mules. Two other places, both nearby on the back street, gave me the same story.

  It was the time of year when a great number of miners packed their belongings and headed to more hospitable climes for the winter, and for some reason or other, mules seemed to be the creature of preference as a pack animal. I myself would gladly have used a horse, but I needed two animals for the size of my burden, and I didn’t consider myself a good enough horseman to manage two of them, especially animals with which I was unfamiliar. Beside that, I already found myself the owner of one mule, and I thought it inadvisable to try to use two different species in tandem.