by Sarah Lark
“You don’t need to swear, Michael Drury,” Lizzie said, trying to make her voice sound firm. “You need only tell me one thing: if I marry you now, Michael, can I be sure you won’t call me Mary Kathleen at the altar?”
Michael lowered his head onto her shoulder. It took all his strength finally to lift it again and look Lizzie in the eye.
“Kathleen,” he whispered, “is dead.”
Lizzie was both friend and mother as he wept his eyes out on her shoulder. Later that night, she became his lover. And the name he called out at the climax of his joy was not Mary Kathleen’s, but neither was it that of a whore.
Chris Timlock was happier than he had been in months as he rode Michael’s horse to Tuapeka. Until that evening, he had lost his belief that he could get rich from gold prospecting. First, the claim yielded nothing, and then came his long illness. Chris had been prepared to die in the little gold miners’ town.
Now, though, there was this unexpected blessing, which Lizzie shared so generously with him. If Chris had had enough breath left in him, he would have sung, but he already needed all his strength to ride the vivacious gray. The horse pranced down Tuapeka’s main street. First they rode to the goldsmith’s shop. That had been Lizzie’s request, and Chris wanted to take care of it right away.
The goldsmith, a short, wiry man named Thomas Winslow, managed a small jewelry business next to one of the banks. He did not have many customers; most of the prospectors exchanged their few nuggets into money and scraped together just enough to live. Occasionally, however, someone struck it big, and then he’d craft an ounce of gold into a ring for one of the girls from the taverns or from Janey’s Dollhouse. The business owners and craftsmen who were slowly settling in Tuapeka also ordered jewelry from time to time for their wives. There was enough business that Thomas Winslow could have lived well if he had not hit the whiskey a little too hard. Almost every night, he drank his earnings away in one of the taverns. To afford the occasional girl, he panned for gold himself on the weekend and dreamed of a big find.
Naturally, he was immediately attentive when Chris Timlock laid two ounces of gold on the table. He eyed the fine little platter of gold with desire.
Chris smiled at him guilelessly. “If I could get you to make a pendant out of that, a moon with a few stars around it, or a constellation. Sure, that would be a lovely idea: the Pleiades. And a chain for it, if there’s enough.”
Winslow assured him it more than sufficed—and tried to sound him out about the location of the gold.
Chris was careful not reveal anything. “My partner always believed in our claim,” he said warily. “But maybe it was just luck. When can we pick up the pendant? Next week?”
Winslow nodded, but as he closed his shop door behind Chris Timlock, he shook his head. Luck? A one-time largish find and he was already having jewelry made from it instead of taking the money to the bank? Surely, there were men who could do that, but he did not think Chris Timlock and Michael Drury were among them.
The post office was already closed, but Chris had to have the gold turned into money before he could send anything to Ann anyway. Luckily, the bank was still open. Many prospectors took their earnings there every day, since too much was stolen in the camp. Mr. Ruland, the bank teller, kept the bank open after dark, and Chris had to line up to have his small fortune entered into his account.
“What did you just pour out there, Timlock? Just over seven ounces?” The man in line behind Chris had looked at the scale and announced loudly what he had seen.
“A few weeks’ worth,” he said.
Mr. Ruland looked at him, astonished. Of course, the banker had seen Michael there a few days earlier, but after an uncomfortable-looking conversation with Ian Coltrane, he had left before exchanging any gold. Mr. Ruland said nothing; he could keep a secret. It was the right thing for Chris Timlock to deposit the money rather than taking cash. There was obvious greed in the eyes of the men behind him. Ian Coltrane, especially, eyed Chris Timlock with unusual interest. Mr. Ruland shivered. He could not stand Ian Coltrane. Three days ago, the man had sold him a horse, and it was already starting to drag its leg.
Chris Timlock went to celebrate his luck with a couple of beers in one of the new taverns. He watched a few girls who performed risqué dances to entertain the drunks, but he would not be drawn into conversation with any of them. Even though the gold miners at the bar were friendly, and happy to see him again after his long illness, Chris only answered their questions monosyllabically. The story of his sudden wealth had not made it around Tuapeka yet, but he was cautious nonetheless.
Thomas Winslow and Ian Coltrane were at the same tavern, sharing a bottle of whiskey at a table in front of the stage. They were by no means friends, but Coltrane had been trying to convince Winslow he absolutely needed a mule to transport his tools from his shop to the gold mines. Naturally, he happened to have just the right animal on hand—yet so far Winslow had not quite taken the bait. That day, however, both men had made interesting observations, and they both occasionally cast appraising looks at Chris Timlock.
“A pendant from two ounces of gold,” Winslow whispered to Coltrane. “That means he had the gold left over, so to speak. How much did you say he deposited?”
“About seven ounces. A small fortune. Can it be that he was lying about being sick? Maybe he’s been in the mountains all these weeks discovering new gold deposits.” Ian Coltrane filled his glass again.
Winslow raised his glass. “I doubt it. Jus’ look at him. He’s still so thin that a breeze could knock him over, and I’ve seen him coughing. He wasn’t gone either; now and again he attended service with the reverend.” Winslow also belonged to Peter Burton’s church. “And when he made it there, he was definitely sick. Fellow could only stand up if his partner and Lizzie helped him. What d’y’ think of her anyway? She got something with one of ’em, or both?”
Coltrane didn’t answer and didn’t much care. He kept his eyes trained on Timlock, as if, through a smile or movement, he would give something away. One thing was certain: the man at the bar was happy. He did not trumpet his fortune like all the other successful prospectors, seeming instead to glow from within.
“We should wait till he’s drunk and then go after it,” suggested Winslow. “The information about the gold, that is, not Lizzie, though she’s quite a pretty l’il thing.”
Coltrane shook his head. He had thrown out that idea long before. Chris Timlock was only just sipping at his second beer. He was not a man to get drunk and then blab his secrets. No, if they wanted to learn anything, they would have to resort to more drastic measures.
“Going after him sounds good,” said Coltrane. “But not here in front of witnesses. We’ll wait behind Janey’s and interrogate him a bit.”
“Inter . . . rogate?” asked Winslow stupidly.
He had already had more than three glasses of whiskey and was slowly becoming sluggish. First in his brain, which did not matter much. But if Winslow drank much more, he wouldn’t be physically capable of executing Coltrane’s plan.
“Oh yes, my friend. You know, the sort of questioning where you don’t take no for an answer.” Coltrane grinned at Winslow conspiratorially.
The goldsmith frowned and took another swig of whiskey. “But that’s not very nice,” he said.
Coltrane rolled his eyes. “Well, do you want to be nice or get rich?” he said. “And besides, we’ll start very friendly. We’re comrades, man; you don’t keep secrets from your comrades.”
“But if it’s really his claim?”
“What do you bet no claim’s even been staked? Nothing new’s been registered anyway. And besides, who wants his claim? We could settle in next door. Come, Winslow. Gabriel Read wasn’t the only one who got rich in Gabriel’s Gully.”
Coltrane was determined. Chris Timlock would tell him that very night where he had found the gold—willingly or with the help of a few well-placed blows. Winslow just needed to play along. And now Timlock was stan
ding up and throwing a few coins for his beer on the table. Coltrane elbowed his drinking buddy.
“He’s going. Come on now. Let’s follow him.”
“You don’t even know where he’s going.” Winslow hesitated. After all, there was still whiskey in the bottle.
“Of course I know. He put Drury’s gray in MacLeod’s stable. On account of the rain—’s got a good heart, the lad. Didn’t want the nag getting wet. Now he’s got to walk there, and the shortest way leads past Janey’s.” Coltrane fished a banknote out of his pocket, signaled to the barkeeper that he needed no change, and pushed Winslow out of the bar.
“Maybe he’s going to go into Janey’s,” Winslow said.
Coltrane shrugged. Timlock hadn’t given the girls in the tavern a second look. But it wasn’t out of the question.
As Coltrane expected, Timlock walked right past the entrance to Janey’s, and the two men stopped him behind the girls’ tent.
“Evening, Timlock,” Coltrane greeted him.
Chris nodded to him. He did not know the man, but he was with Thomas Winslow, who must have told the man his name. “Evening, Thomas.”
Winslow grinned at him. “Hullo, Timlock. So, celebrated a bit?”
Chris shrugged. “Just drank a couple of beers. What’s to celebrate?”
“Your gold find, of course,” said Winslow. “Two ounces just for jewelry for your sweetheart. That’s a bit much, my friend.”
Chris waved his comment away. “’s not for any sweetheart. It’s for a friend of Lizzie’s. And she saved a long time for it.”
Winslow and Coltrane laughed. They approached Chris, and the young man began to feel uncomfortable.
“So, Lizzie saved, did she?” said Coltrane mockingly. “And the seven ounces you still had after that? Where did they come from?”
Chris looked around nervously. “Like I said, man. A few weeks’ worth.”
Coltrane lunged at Chris and, with a quick movement, twisted his right arm onto his back. “Don’t lie. I saw your partner at the bank just a few days ago. So tell me: Where did the gold come from?”
Chris gasped for air and twisted in Ian’s grip. “It was mine. I found it over the last few weeks. Like I already told you.”
“The last few weeks you’ve been bedridden.” Ian’s fist struck Chris in the kidneys. Not too hard, but enough that he groaned and bent over—which increased the pain in his shoulder. “And if you don’t talk soon, you’ll be spending the next few weeks back in bed. Now, out with it!”
“I already told you. I, I’m telling the truth.”
Coltrane sighed as if he were sorry for what he now had to do. “Hold him, Winslow,” he ordered. “It’s not polite when you don’t look someone in the eye while you speak.”
Chris tried to use his last chance to get away from the men as Coltrane handed him over to the obviously drunk Winslow. He got his arm free briefly, but he wasn’t strong enough to hit back. Coltrane tripped him when he tried to run away. Chris fell, and Coltrane kicked him in the kidneys again before Winslow pulled him to his feet.
“Had enough yet? Come, friend, just tell us where you got your luck. Then we’ll let you go.”
“Damn it, Timlock.” Winslow now tried his luck. “It won’t cost y’nothing. Where that comes from must be gold for a hundred men.”
Chris said nothing as Coltrane’s fists struck him again, this time in the face.
“I don’t have anything to say.”
Chris tried to keep his courage up, but his arm hurt like the devil. When Winslow had pulled him up by it, he must have dislocated it. The other man kept hitting him, and Chris tasted blood. His lip was busted.
“Now do you have something to say? Not even a little tiny hint, Timlock? Where did the gold come from?”
The next blow landed in his stomach. His tormentor could have been a very good fighter. His fists were like iron. Chris slumped. He tried to gain control of himself, but he had to vomit. Winslow held him by his dislocated arm as he did. Chris groaned as Winslow pulled him up again.
“Well, now you’ve gotten yourself dirty,” Coltrane said regretfully. “And me too.” Disgusted, he looked at a few drops of vomit on his boots. “You should clean that off.”
Winslow pushed Timlock to the ground. “Well, do it quick.”
Chris tried clumsily to wipe the drops away with his left hand.
“Now, out with it. Where did you get the gold?”
“Don’t know,” whimpered Chris.
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say? Maybe it fell from the sky? Like in a fairy tale?”
“He, he did ask for a constellation in his order,” said Winslow. He pulled Chris upright again while Coltrane struck another time. Chris persisted in silence. Then Coltrane broke his nose.
“Don’t know anything.”
“Maybe he really doesn’t know?” The whole thing was becoming too much for Thomas Winslow. He had no objection to a few punches, but this had gone too far. Coltrane had seriously injured the man. It was time to stop.
“Oh, he knows. Spit it out already, lad. Otherwise, I’ll really get unpleasant.”
Chris hung, completely helpless, in Winslow’s grip. He had no chance to dodge the next blow, which struck his eye and broke his cheekbone.
“My eye,” Chris sensed it growing dark around him. But the pain was still there—a raging pain and the horrifying knowledge that he would not make it away from there.
“Just talk, or I’ll beat the other one out too.”
Winslow was whimpering. He let Chris slowly fall.
“Talk! And you, hold onto him.” Coltrane ordered.
“Lizzie,” whispered Chris. His last chance was to say what he knew. Lizzie would never forgive him, nor would the Maori. Chris tried to put together what he knew, but the pain made it impossible. “Lizzie,” he repeated. “She . . .”
“The whore had the gold? She found it?”
Chris nodded with the last of his strength.
Then another blow struck him. “Where’d she get it? Where’d she come from, eh?”
Chris heard nothing more. Nor did he feel the rest of the punches and kicks that rained down on him. Coltrane had lost all control.
The information had been disappointing. Just another reference point: Lizzie. But really Timlock had said nothing. He had defied Coltrane. For that, he should pay. Winslow tried to yank Coltrane away from the motionless man on the ground, but drunk as he was, he wasn’t quick or strong enough.
At some point, Coltrane stood there, breathing hard while Winslow checked on Timlock.
“He’s still alive,” he said, relieved. “Thank God, he’s still alive. But for this, for this, they’ll lock us up, Coltrane. We can’t pass it off as a little scuffle now.”
Coltrane slowly returned to his senses. He turned Timlock over and felt his pulse.
“He won’t live much longer,” he observed. “And it’s best we put him to rest right now.”
He picked up a rock, leaned back, and aimed for Timlock’s temple.
Winslow grabbed Coltrane’s arm. “Are you mad? You want to kill him?”
“Do you want to go to jail?” asked Coltrane. “He saw us. If he comes to and talks, we’re done for.”
“But, but killing him? I’ll give you an alibi, and you give me one. He can talk as much as he wants.”
Coltrane arched his eyebrows. An alibi that two assailants gave each other did not mean much, but if he delivered the final blow now, Winslow might turn and betray him. It wasn’t worth that. He was sure Timlock would die anyway. The man’s eye was crushed, a few teeth were knocked out, and every bone in his face had to be broken—and those final kicks must have shattered his ribs. Coltrane decided to take the risk. The man would probably die before anyone found him. In the meantime, he had to keep Winslow reasonably busy.
“All right, fine. Go home. Wash up and pack your things. Early tomorrow we’ll ride to out to Drury’s and lie in wait. When this Lizzie goes out, we’ll foll
ow her.”
Winslow continued looking fearfully at the injured man.
“Shouldn’t we go for help? And besides, I, I can’t go. People will notice if I’m not there in the middle of the week. I have a shop, you know.”
Coltrane thought for a moment. That was true, and after this incident, people would be on the lookout for any unusual behavior.
“All right, fine, then you stay in town, and I’ll go alone,” he said. It was probably for the best anyway. Winslow would likely stay quiet about beating the man to death—out of fear, at least. But could the drunk manage to keep a gold find secret? “For now, just go. No matter what, they can’t find us here.”
Winslow prayed for the man’s life while he slunk back to his shop, but he couldn’t bear thinking of what had happened without another whiskey. Fortunately, the next tavern wasn’t far, and Winslow sat there, getting ever drunker, until the bar closed. Then he went back to Janey’s. Timlock hadn’t moved, but he groaned when Winslow poked him.
Winslow’s conscience had pricked all the harder the more alcohol he had drunk. Finally, he dragged himself to the entrance of Janey’s Dollhouse.
“Around the corner from you,” he said, slurring at whoever would listen, “there’s a dead fellow.”
Chapter 9
Lizzie had awoken quite happy next to Michael and wanted to let him sleep while she relit the stove and made tea. When she found Chris’s bedding empty, however, she woke Michael right away.
Michael tried to pull her back to him and kiss her. “I was just dreaming of you,” he whispered. “But you’re even prettier in the flesh. Come on, let’s . . .”
Lizzie resisted gently. “Michael, Chris isn’t here. Could something have happened?”
Michael laughed. “What could have happened? Probably he treated himself to a girl at Janey’s to celebrate his luck. Or one from that new bar. It’s supposed to have Chinese women.”
Lizzie shook her head. “Michael, Chris doesn’t want a Chinese woman. He wants his Ann. I can’t imagine that . . .”