Zachary's Gold

by Stan Krumm

  At a fourth stable, I found someone who at least knew of the whereabouts of a pack mule. A Negro yard man told me of a blacksmith drunkard who possessed one that he wished to sell. I thanked him, obtained the necessary directions, and found myself ten minutes thereafter behind the blacksmith’s shop in what was referred to as a corral, although it was only a foul-smelling outdoor stall.

  The farrier himself was a squat, bald Englishman who, true to the stable hand’s report, sweated rancid whisky.

  “He’s a grand little animal,” he claimed, with ill-staged pride. “And the only reason I can bring myself to part with him is that he’s been so faithful to me these three years that I can’t bear to see him suffer through another of these Godforsaken winters. You’re going south, are you, brother?”

  I replied in the affirmative as I looked the beast over. For once, it was not difficult to appear downcast. He was a sorry-looking old runt indeed, and it depressed me to think that just when I had come into possession of a treasure beyond my greatest hopes, I might be forced to entrust it to this mangy little grey swayback.

  The blacksmith must have sensed my dismay.

  “Aye, of course you can’t reckon a good mule by its looks now, can you? They’re not given to great beauty at the best of times, are they? It’s character you want now, don’t you? Character, courage, strength . . .”

  I expected from the sound of things that he had probably named the thing Lord Nelson, and fed it molten iron since it was foaled.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a large shaved area on its flank, centred on some sort of sore.

  “Oh, that. Yes, that spot.” He shrugged. “He’s rubbed herself raw against a rail, hasn’t he? No worry there, mate. No worry there.”

  He ran his hand down the mule’s back once in a gesture of feigned affection, and I couldn’t help but notice that the single stroke removed a noticeable handful of hair, which I did not consider a good sign, even with my limited knowledge of those animals.

  The thought that I found most dismaying was that there appeared to be no better mule available in the whole of Barkerville or Cameronton.

  I thought that the approved thing to do when purchasing any member of the equine species was to examine the teeth before discussing the matter of price, so at that stage I put one hand on Lord Nelson’s jaw, the other over the bridge of his nose, and tried to part his lips.

  With a speed I would not have believed possible from the old wretch, he clapped his jaws at my hand like an alligator. I almost matched his speed and kept the damage to a bit of lost skin, but he locked onto the sleeve of my coat and we enjoined in a battle of tug of war that had everyone momentarily in a frenzy, including his besotted master.

  “Hey there, none of that! Let him go! Don’t hit him, brother! Let him go! Don’t fight him! Easy! Easy!” he wailed.

  Suddenly the mule released his grip, I lost my balance and sat in the mud, and the blacksmith and I exhibited our knowledge of colourful expressions.

  “What do you want for him?” I finally shouted, taking the man completely by surprise, for I’m sure he had lost all hope of making a sale.

  “Oh, thirty dollars,” he ventured, when he had regained his composure.

  My response was even louder than anything said up to that point.

  “Five dollars, sir! And I’ll take blanket, bit, and rope! Also that bag on the rail over there, and if you open your mouth for one more word, I’ll chop you into pieces and feed you to this decrepit devil!”

  He took my five dollars, and the deal was completed without so much as a handshake. It seemed that my skills as a negotiator improved a great deal when I was angry, but I was not about to gloat over the success of my bargaining. I wrapped my bleeding thumb with a strip of my handkerchief and led my obstreperous new friend down the back street towards the hotel.

  For another twenty-five cents I obtained lodging for him at the stable on Main Street, then returned to the hotel to do the same for myself, as it was too late in the day to consider heading out of town. After depositing my pack upstairs in my room, I returned downstairs for a late supper.

  Mealtime had officially finished, but in the kitchen I was given a plate, a corner of a serving table, and enough hot food for a crew of six. Afterwards, I lumbered upstairs to my bed, where my excess translated itself into severe internal discomfort.

  Unable to consider an early night in spite of my great fatigue, I returned to the kitchen for bicarbonate of soda, then tried to still my boiling gastric juices with a walk in the cool night air.

  I strolled as far as the last commercial buildings on the far side of Richfield, then back, past the hotel, and down the strip of saloons in Cameronton that bathed the muddy streets in gaslight and filled the night air with the sounds of the banjo and piano.

  Looking in the window of a place called the Lucky Penny, I saw a card game in progress, and I decided to rest my legs and watch the gentlemen play a few hands.

  I was no more than a foot inside the doorway when someone called my name. It wasn’t a big place, but amidst the bright lights and the fog of tobacco smoke, it took me a moment to make out my friend Carl seated with a half-dozen other fellows at a table laden with jugs of yeasty Barkerville brew. I strolled over and stood beside his chair, and he himself took his feet, put a hand theatrically across my shoulders, and introduced me to his mates.

  “Gentlemen, we are fortunate enough to have with us tonight my friend Zachary, the richest man in these mountains—a veritable modern Midas.”

  My mouth fell open into an expression of guilty horror.

  In fact, I had arrived while they were in the middle of liquor-loose gossip about who was rich and who was ruined—the most popular sort of discussion in Barkerville—but I was so unprepared to meet up with anyone that I missed the joke. I stared accusingly at my friend, gulped like a dying fish, and turned red. Everyone, except perhaps Carl, enjoyed my obvious discomfort, but I couldn’t think of a thing to do. I realize now, of course, that I should have joined in and laughed it off, but at the time I was incapacitated with amazement that my distant friend had somehow discovered that I was rich.

  “I’m not!” I blurted out, “I’m not rich at all!” And I continued to stand there until a friendly arm pushed me into an empty chair.

  I sat, but my expression did not change. I was furious with myself for not planning what I would say or do in this situation. I knew I was acting in the worst possible way and dramatically drawing attention to myself, but by now I thought I would only compound matters if I just stood up and left. I glared angrily at Carl, who sat cleaning his spectacles, mystified by my overreaction. I toyed with the glass of beer someone had poured me.

  “You know, I believe we really do have a big winner among us.” The speaker sat directly across from me—a red-bearded, bald man who had affected a red bow tie over his grimy woollen shirt. “Buy another pitcher, friend, and tell us,” he said, “where did you strike it, and how much did you take?”

  There was still some jest in this, but it was a direct contravention of local protocol. I would have been well within my rights to sneer at him and keep silent, but once again I was stupid enough to overreact.

  “I tell you, I’m as poor as all of you put together, and if you choose to call me a liar, then you’d best do it outside in the street.”

  Now even the card players at the next table were interested. Everyone was watching me. A fat Englishman sitting next to the bald man spoke next. I believe he may have been the proprietor, and he tried to calm things.

  “No one’s saying you’ve done a thing wrong, Mr. Zachary. It’s all just passing conversation, and you’re not required to tell us two bits. I’m sure you deserve everything you have.” Then with a wink he added, “or anything you don’t have.”

  I wasn’t sure just what he meant by that, but things were getting worse by the minute, so I stood up, pronouncing angrily that I certainly deserved better than to be harassed by a bunch of drunken strange
rs, and stomped out.

  Carl followed me. He called from the doorway, but I wouldn’t stop, so he walked alongside, apologizing and trying to explain the obvious.

  “You have to forgive them, old man. You really did sound a bit suspicious, and everybody likes to hear good news, now and then. But it’s really as you said in there? Nothing turning out for you at all?”

  “Isn’t my word good enough for you, Carl? I’m on my way south and out of this useless country, but I thought I could at least remember you as one good friend.”

  More than anything, I was angry with myself for being so stupid in public, but I allowed my ill humour to be interpreted as annoyance at his mistrust.

  Carl continued to exhibit his long-suffering pose.

  “Look me straight in the eye then, Zach, and tell me plainly that you’re out of luck and broke, and I’ll buy a jar of whisky, and we’ll drink a last goodbye down at my place,” he said.

  Without thinking, I replied, “No need for that. I’ve got a room at the hotel.”

  I knew I had blundered as soon as I said it, but it was too late. The twinkle returned to Carl’s eye and he smiled.

  “The American? The Colonial? Kind of expensive, aren’t those rooms?”

  I turned on my heels, and answered over my shoulder as I walked into the darkness.

  “It’s a sad thing,” I said, “when a man can’t trust the word of a friend.”

  “Trust?” Carl called after me. “You don’t know the meaning of the word, Zachary.”

  I had spent the whole day in anticipation of a soft, sound sleep in a hotel bed, with a feather pillow and a wasteful number of blankets, but the joy of that night of comfort was stolen from me by the implications of my argument with Carl. I was annoyed with both my friend and myself, and worried about the slim but serious chance that someone overhearing our confrontation would have his curiosity tweaked enough to investigate a bit. Needless to say, I could afford no investigation.

  I resolved to be up early and on my way, before I had a chance to make things worse. I would have saved myself a great deal of trouble if I had held to that decision.

  IT WAS LATE WHEN I awakened. I could tell by the sounds in the hall and outside in the street. Both mentally and physically I felt muddy and blunt. My first thoughts were of my indiscretion the previous evening, and I muttered self-deprecations all the time I was dressing. I held the irrational but irresistible suspicion, as I carried my belongings downstairs, that someone might try to follow me when I left Barkerville. I tried to shake off the feeling, but I could not.

  I had become a noticeably more cautious, more suspicious man since my encounter with Ned. Monumental events in the life of a man can change him dramatically and instantaneously, and my experience of homicide and great wealth had certainly produced a change in me. I was not a better man, but neither was I much worse, I suppose. As I looked over Barkerville that day, I was probably braver, stronger, and shrewder, but I was also more selfish, and there was a callous aspect to my personality that no one would be likely to consider a positive characteristic.

  The street outside the hotel was already busy—workers working and travellers travelling—but no one gave me a glance or lurked in the shadows. No stranger followed at a discreet distance when I started down Main Street. I was still suspicious and nervous, but gradually the mood subsided, and I walked along, considering my plans for transporting the gold.

  I was disturbed by the recollection that Ned himself had once used two mules. The journey that he undertook was much shorter than mine, his burden lighter, and his knowledge of the animals greater, but even so, his expedition ran into calamity, and he was forced to shoot one animal. The independent spirit of mules is well documented, and the dreadful vision came to me of one gold-laden beast headed off one way, while the other chose an opposite direction, leaving me alone in between. I then considered the idea of hitching the pair to a wagon—a prospect that was appealing for the main part—but one great drawback prevailed. As the murderous trapper had demonstrated, a wagon invites investigation from all sorts of fellow travellers, and since it must remain on the main road, it is difficult to avoid those investigations. A person could try to disguise the cargo as something cheap and innocent, but what would that be? All goods travel from south to north in that land. The only thing worth bringing back to civilization is gold.

  I toiled at the proposition for some time, but by the time I was back at the hotel, I had been forced to give the idea up and return to my plan of leading two mules. I retrieved my belongings and walked down the street to pick up Lord Nelson.

  I had not brought a great deal with me on this trip—change of clothing, a bit of food, a blanket, and a package of the papers and personal effects from Ned’s treasure stash. (Originally, I thought I might try to do a bit of detective work—visit the Cariboo Sentinel and figure out who some of his victims had been—but the idea now made me too nervous.) In total, I guessed I was asking the mule to carry about five pounds—not much for a creature commonly referred to as a beast of burden. He was reluctant to cooperate with me, however. In fact, I believe he sneered at me.

  “Listen careful, you miserable emasculated ass. I’m the one responsible for seeing that you’re dry and well fed, and I don’t ask for thanks, but let it be known that I’m also the one that chooses when we walk and when we stop. If you cross me one more time, I’ll show you that I can wield a bigger stick than that drunken Englishman ever owned.”

  I doubt that the animal even knew that I was addressing him, but it made me feel better, and the creature did indeed clatter along behind me without complaint.

  It was nearly noon already, and I was a bit hungry. Rather than reach into my baggage, I stopped at a butcher’s (his name, incidentally, was Baker) and purchased a two-pound slab of moose sausage—rather dry, but very good, with a spicy bite to it. I tethered the mule to a post and carried the sausage into a saloon to eat with a tankard of beer. I brought my little hand pack, but left the rest of my things with Lord Nelson.

  On the saloon wall was a poster advertising an evening performance of a musical extravaganza titled Goldfield Romance – A Miner’s Story. The advertisement promised that it would be a stimulating entertainment that would please one and all.

  I was sure that it would. The amazing thing is that a crowd of gold miners and prospectors find it vastly enjoyable and enlightening to hear in prose, poetry, and music that their life is full of excitement and romance. From hard experience they know this to be totally fallacious—ridiculous, in fact—but they listen to it with rapt attention and hoot and stamp their approval when the spectacle is over.

  The truth is, I thought, that for every gold seeker who goes home rich and satisfied, there are two who leave in coffins, if they leave at all.

  With that, the great plan hit me: coffins!

  I wasn’t immediately certain whether it would be necessary to carry a body or bodies, or whether empty coffins would suffice. The gold might be hidden in the coffins, or in concealed compartments within the wagon, with a casket or two on top. With a suitably plausible but gruesome story prepared, I was sure I could deflate the inclination that anyone, inside or outside of the law, might have to search my cargo.

  My good humour returned. The odds for success seemed to have increased dramatically.

  I checked my watch to see if there was still time to talk to a carpenter about building coffins and found that it was just after twelve. From my recollection, they took a break at that time to eat. I thought it would be polite to wait for a bit before I approached them. There was plenty of time.

  I left the watch, with its cover open, on the table in front of me, cut myself another slice of sausage, and took a long drink of beer. It was a most pleasing pastime to try to visualize every possible problem with my plans, to work out the details of execution, rough out a timetable, and so on. I was enjoying myself and at first paid little attention to the fact that the man at the next table was staring at me.


  He was a man of my own age, clean-shaven, dark and tall, and from the way he kept glancing at my table, I assumed he was interested in my food. I thought perhaps he was a proud unfortunate who hadn’t eaten in some time, although there was a drink before him. With my hunting knife I chopped off a sizeable chunk of the sausage and offered it to him in a friendly manner.

  He pulled himself upright and shook his head in refusal. His eyes opened even wider than they were before, and for the first time I began to feel uneasy. I decided to leave as soon as I finished my drink.

  “That’s a nice watch,” the stranger said, in a tone that was not perfectly conversational.

  I nodded agreement. I had thought, myself, that it was the best of Ned’s selection—gold-plated, ornate, and heavy.

  “Might I ask where you got that watch?” the tall man continued.

  I affected an impatient attitude as I rolled the heel of meat into a scrap of newspaper, and replied that my father had given me the watch for my twenty-first birthday. Before I could stand up, he spoke again.

  “No,” he said firmly. “No. That watch belonged to my brother. He got it in the navy. You see the coat of arms . . .”

  My own eyes were probably a little wide when I looked again at him. To my horror, he was holding a pistol—an ugly beast with a homemade wooden grip—in his hand. It wasn’t yet pointed at me, but it was resting on his table.

  “My brother. Timothy. He got himself murdered a year or so back, right on his own claim.”

  I was momentarily unable to speak. The half-dozen other patrons and the bartender were also watching and listening to the man in grim silence.

  Things looked pretty bad. My thoughts about getting a coffin made were assuming a nasty, ironic aspect. The stranger was not likely willing to appreciate the humour in it all.

  “You got his watch. You got the nerve to flash it around like you’re proud of it. My God! You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as he did.” The man’s voice was becoming high and light, and he had given me a good view of the end of his gun barrel.