On the Trail of the Truth

by Michael Phillips

  I was stunned. It was the very thing I’d dreamed of. Yet how could I possibly do all he asked? I must have said something, or asked what I should do first, though I don’t remember. But I do remember his answer.

  Mr. Kemble’s expression changed from concern to relief. “The first thing you do is get yourself out to Sonora and start asking questions and nosing around. Real quick you’ll start to find out if you’re really a reporter, or just a kid who wants to be one. And whatever you find out, it’s got to be on my desk by noon on the 22nd or else we’re done for. That’s ten days, Hollister. By then we’ll know what kind of stuff you’re made of.”

  Chapter 42

  Sonora

  Everyone in California had heard about Sonora. Except for the area around Sutter’s Mill farther north, it was one of the heaviest populated, roughest, and richest regions of the Mother Lode. There were stories told—and we’d heard them all the way up in Miracle Springs, thanks to Alkali Jones—of single nuggets worth thousands of dollars. One was found that was supposed to have weighed twenty-eight pounds!

  The whole place had been fabulously rich in the few years after the rush. There were twenty or thirty separate little towns all within ten miles of Sonora. Every one had seen thousands of hopeful miners pass through, all with a hundred stories to tell. In Shaw’s Flat, only a mile away, eighty-seven million dollars had been taken from its streams. Columbia, four miles away, supposedly had a population of 30,000 with over a hundred gambling houses, thirty saloons, twenty-seven food stores, a stadium, and a theater. Farther north, Mexican Flat and Roaring Camp and Columbia and Angels Camp and Sawmill Flat—they all could have laid claim to equal riches and equal notoriety. I’d heard stories of fights and jumped claims and even murder. Most of what I’d heard, coming from the mouth of Alkali Jones, was probably considerably bigger in the tale than in the reality, but that only made it all the more fearful for me as I rode into the heart of the Mother Lode—alone, and not even knowing what exactly I was looking for. I had been praying harder than ever before in my life since leaving Sacramento! And I hadn’t been about to spend the night alone in this country—at least not my first night. I’d stayed at the National Hotel in Jackson, although it wasn’t much better than sleeping outside. I’d heard yelling and singing and piano playing all night, and a couple of gunshots. But at least I’d been able to lock the door to my room!

  Late the next morning I rode into Sonora, still praying, still thinking every other minute of just forgetting the whole thing and galloping back to Miracle Springs as fast as I could! But I knew I couldn’t. Even though Pa didn’t really approve of me riding down here alone, Mr. Kemble was counting on me. And maybe Mr. Fremont too, and Jessie Fremont, and even Ankelita Carter. So I had to do what I could. Even if I failed, I had to try.

  I walked my mare slowly through the main street. I hoped I could find a boardinghouse in town instead of a hotel, because most of the hotels were connected with saloons, and stayed pretty loud and raucous all night long. But I didn’t see anything that looked even halfway civilized. Every other building seemed to be a saloon, and from the sounds coming from them they all seemed full of men drinking and yelling. The people on the streets were all men, and I didn’t see a friendly face anywhere. The ones who noticed me looked me over as I passed, and a few yelled and whistled at me. But I just kept going and tried to keep my face from turning red. I was beginning to think I was the only female in the whole place when two or three saloon girls came out of a place called the Lucky Sluice. They started calling out worse things than the men. I didn’t like their looks at all!

  Finally a little ways farther on, I spotted a building with just the word “Hotel” printed across the door. I rode toward it, stopped, got down and tied my horse to the hitching rail, and walked inside.

  I was glad there was hardly anyone inside, though a few tables in the lobby indicated that probably card playing went on at night. A man stood behind a counter, and I walked toward him. But before I even got across the floor, a whistle behind me let me know that the man at the counter wasn’t alone after all. “If it ain’t a real live female woman!” someone said.

  “Hey, Fence,” a voice called out, “check her into my room!”

  I ignored the noises behind me and went up to the counter. Before I’d said a word the man they called Fence pushed the register in my direction.

  “Excuse me,” I said, putting on my bravest-sounding voice, although I probably didn’t convince anyone, “do you know if there’s a boardinghouse in town?”

  “I got a boardinghouse, Missy!” called out a voice, followed by footsteps slowly coming across the floor.

  “Shut up, Jack!” said the hotel man. “Can’t you see she’s just a kid?”

  “So much the better!”

  “Get outta here, Jack. I don’t want no trouble.” Then looking down at me, the man said, “There’s Miz Nason’s place, little lady. Down the next street to the right, ’bout a quarter mile down.”

  Just as I was about to turn to leave, a thought occurred to me.

  “You don’t have a man by the name of Gregory registered here, do you?” I asked. I glanced down at the register and tried to scan the names on the page without being too conspicuous.

  “Nope. But half the fellas what come to the diggin’s ain’t usin’ their real names anyway.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said, turning around to go. As I did I almost bumped into the man the hotel manager had called Jack. He had been standing right behind me. I didn’t know how I couldn’t have known it, because he smelled terrible. He must have been working for a month without a bath! He looked even worse, and I walked on past him toward the door without even looking into his face, though he muttered a few words as I went by. Just as I was going through the door, the hotel man’s voice called out after me, “If you don’t find no room, Missy,” he said, “I got one you can have fer four dollar a day. The lock works, an’ I personally keep Jack an’ his kind off the second floor.”

  Four dollars! When Almeda and I went to San Francisco, she’d only paid six dollars a night at the fancy Oriental, and that was for two of us! And he wanted four, just for me, in this ramshackle place that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the day it was built! I kept walking back out to the street, ignoring the voices and laughter coming from behind me.

  I mounted my horse again and set off again in the direction that I hoped would lead me to Nason’s boardinghouse. In five minutes I found myself approaching a decent-looking two-story wood house. At least the paint wasn’t peeling and some grass was growing in front. A small hand-painted sign on the fence simply said “Nason.”

  I stopped, got off my horse, and walked up and knocked on the door. In a minute or two a stout, broad-shouldered black-haired woman opened it. She looked me over up and down, without the slightest change in her expression, then just stared at me, waiting.

  “I’m interested in a room,” I said, “if you have any available.”

  “Rooms? ’Course I got rooms!” she said back, a little too gruffly to make me feel altogether comfortable. “How many you got with ya?”

  “It’s just me, ma’am.”

  “Just you!” she exclaimed. “You expect me to believe a young thing like you’s travelin’ in this country alone?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I really am by myself.”

  “Well, then, guess I can’t hardly send you away. Yeah, I got a room, if you got two-fifty a night.”

  “Two-fifty!” I said in astonishment before I could keep it from slipping out.

  “Two-fifty, and a bargain at that! Only two other houses in town—one of ’em’s full of dance-hall girls, and the other’s full of drunken miners. An’ both charge the same. If you want to stay in one of the hotels, you’ll take your life in your hands—someone’s gettin’ shot over some gold fracas every week. An’ you’ll pay more besides. So it’s two-fifty a day—in advance! Breakfast’s included, but if you want supper, it’s another two-bits.”<
br />
  Every other boardinghouse I’d stayed at was a dollar a night, including supper—except for Miss Bean’s in San Francisco, which was a dollar-fifty. It was a good thing I’d brought money along!

  Finally I nodded my head and said that would be fine. Mrs. Nason opened the door and led me inside.

  I followed her through a large parlor and toward a flight of stairs. “Might you have a man by the name of Gregory lodging with you?” I asked.

  “Never heard of him,” she answered without turning around.

  We continued up the stairs in silence, and she opened the third door we came to. “This here’s the room,” she said. “How many nights?”

  “I—I’m not altogether sure just yet, ma’am. I guess I’ll pay you for two to begin with.”

  “With supper?”

  “Yes . . . thank you.”

  “That will be five dollars, four bits. And I believe I did say in advance?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll go down and fetch my things from my horse.”

  “Ain’t a good idea to keep nothing of value unattended in this town. They’ll steal you blind. You better go down and make sure your horse is still there.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, turning back the way we’d come.

  “If you want to put your horse up, there’s a barn out back, with stalls an’ fresh oats.”

  “Thank you, that will be fine.”

  “It’s another two-bits for the horse,” added Mrs. Nason. I sighed, and walked back outside to where my mare was waiting patiently.

  An hour later I sat down on the edge of the bed in the bare little room. I’d fed and groomed Raspberry and put her up in the barn for a well-deserved rest. Now I had to think about what I was doing here.

  I supposed if I was being a newspaper reporter investigating something, then about the only place to begin was by asking questions. No doubt Mr. Kemble might have other ideas. He’d probably have all kinds of sneaking-about-kind-of notions how to find this fellow who was working for the Globe and for that Senator Goldwin. But I didn’t know anything but just ask around and try to find him. And if I did, then try to find out what he was up to, even if it meant just going up to him and asking him. I didn’t have to blab right out that I was working for the Alta and that my editor told me to sabotage him.

  I wasn’t sure how to do what Mr. Kemble sent me to do and still be honest at the same time. This was a part of being a reporter I’d never thought about. I had always wanted to write just to express myself and tell interesting stories to people. Now all of a sudden here I was in the middle of trying to investigate a situation where wrong was being done. But even if wrong was being done, I couldn’t do wrong myself to try to uncover it. I just hoped I’d be able to keep straight what was right myself, no matter what anyone else was doing!

  I got down on my knees beside the bed.

  “God,” I prayed, “I’m not sure what’s going to happen here. But I ask that you’d show me what to do and where to go, and guide my thoughts as well as my steps. Help me to be true, like I prayed before, and help me to find out the truth behind this article they’re trying to hurt Mr. Fremont with. Help me to be a good reporter, and to be a good daughter of yours.”

  t of dough overnight. They want all the wealth and power for themselves, and it makes them crawl to have to share it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “Why do you think I can help?”

  “Maybe you can’t, but it’s worth a try. So here’s what I want you to do. Find this Gregory, or whoever he is, and find out what he’s got. If he has something on Fremont or his wife that’s not true, then use your contact to write an article discrediting Goldwin’s charges.”

  “How could I possibly find him? I’m just . . . a girl!”

  Mr. Kemble laughed. “Here all this time you’ve been wanting me to overlook that fact. And now when I drop something really important in your lap, you tell me you’re not old enough to do it!”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t old enough. I just don’t know what you expect me to do when your other man couldn’t do it. I don’t have experience tracking someone like that.”

  “Don’t you see—you’re the perfect one, Corrie. No one will suspect you of a thing. I doubt if anyone who’s involved with Goldwin will even recognize your name. I could send one of my experienced men. But they’d spot him right off. No, I think you might be able to find out things someone else couldn’t. You shouldn’t even have to lie.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to. But you won’t be able to tell them what you’re after.”

  “I still don’t see why you want me to follow somebody.”

  “I’m not just sending you to track this fellow. I’m sending you after a story. You’ve got to get on the trail of this thing, find out what’s at the bottom of it, and then write a story that tells the truth and shows up their lies for what they are. Once their story runs, it’s too late. You’ve got to find the guy and uncover what he’s trying to do. I don’t know how, but that’s what you’ve got to try to do. I can’t do it, and none of my regular guys can do it because they know them all. But you can, Corrie—at least I hope you can, ’cause the outcome of the election in California may depend on it. You get to the bottom of it, find out the truth behind the things they’re planning to say, and I’ll make you a reporter, Corrie Hollister. You find this guy and uncover what Goldwin’s up to, and get me the story I want before their charges can appear in the Globe, and I’ll give you a monthly article of your very own, as an Alta regular.”

  I was stunned. It was the very thing I’d dreamed of. Yet how could I possibly do all he asked? I must have said something, or asked what I should do first, though I don’t remember. But I do remember his answer.

  Mr. Kemble’s expression changed from concern to relief. “The first thing you do is get yourself out to Sonora and start asking questions and nosing around. Real quick you’ll start to find out if you’re really a reporter, or just a kid who wants to be one. And whatever you find out, it’s got to be on my desk by noon on the 22nd or else we’re done for. That’s ten days, Hollister. By then we’ll know what kind of stuff you’re made of.”

  Chapter 43

  The Lucky Sluice

  All that afternoon I walked around the town of Sonora.

  After a while I got used to the rowdiness and the yelling and the horses running through the streets, and even the men talking to me and calling after me. I saw a few other women about who didn’t look like they belonged in a saloon, and that helped. And luckily there hadn’t been rain for a while, so the streets were dry instead of muddy.

  I went into several stores, peeked over the swinging doors into a saloon or two, and got up my courage to go into two or three more of the town’s hotels to ask about the fellow named Gregory. I felt rather foolish just wandering about, and it didn’t seem like I was having much luck. Later on I saddled my horse and rode out of town.

  I took a ride clear around through Jamestown, Rawhide, Shaw’s Flat, Springfield, and Columbia. I saw signs pointing off to Brown’s Flat, Squabbletown, Sawmill Flat, and Yankee Hill. I had no idea there were so many little towns and mining camps—though most of them were just a few buildings surrounded by claims up and down the streams. Once I got out of Sonora no one bothered me much. The men I passed would stare or watch to see where I was headed, but most of them were too intent on their work to mind me. All around were the sights and sounds of gold mining—men panning in the streams, mules laden down with equipment heading off the roads up toward the high country, the sounds of heavy equipment and dynamite and quartz machinery. It seemed that every square inch of this country was being dug up or mined by somebody!

  Riding back to town, I decided that the only way to go about this search was to start at the beginning of Sonora and go to every hotel and boardinghouse and ask about Mr. Gregory. Then I’d go ask the sheriff. After that, I’d have to do the same things in whatever places there were
in the little surrounding towns where he might be staying. I’d never find him just wandering about. There were thousands of people around here! I’d have to go to every lodging place one by one until I found where he was staying. At least by then I’d know for sure if he was in Sonora or not. If he wasn’t, then I’d be able to tell Mr. Kemble I’d done everything I knew to do.

  I arrived back at Mrs. Nason’s just in time to unsaddle and put up my mare before supper. When I went in, Mrs. Nason introduced me to the others around the table, including her own husband who’d been out working their claim all day. Besides Mrs. Nason I was the only woman, but the men were all nice enough, although they spent most of their energy gulping down the biscuits, potatoes, roast beef, and cooked cabbage.

  “She’s lookin’ fer a feller named Gregory,” said the landlady to her husband. “You ever heard o’ him, Jed?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” the man answered. “What you want him for, Miss?”

  It was the first time I’d been asked that, but I’d already planned out the answer to give.

  “We’re in the same line of work,” I said. “And I need to ask him a few questions.”

  “’Bout what? You look kinda young to be in any line o’ work in these parts. What do you do?”