by Sarah Lark
“Have you checked the pen? Maybe he was being considerate and set up camp there when he heard us.”
That seemed more likely to Lizzie. She ran outside to check the pen, but there was no trace of Chris or of Michael’s horse. In any case, the horse had not come home on its own, so Chris must have stayed somewhere over night. Lizzie felt somewhat more at ease, but a bad feeling remained as she returned to their cabin.
Michael, on the other hand, was in the best of spirits. “Do we want to just spend today at home, or do you want to look for gold?” he asked.
He had served the tea Lizzie had brewed and poured a good deal of sugar into her cup. Lizzie liked her tea sweet—and now they no longer needed to be stingy with the sugar.
Lizzie looked out the window. “You won’t keep me in your bed on such a sunny day, Michael Drury.” She smiled. “We’ll pan a few ounces of gold, and then we can always spread a blanket out next to the stream.” She winked meaningfully.
Michael suppressed his memories of the Vartry River. “But we should wait for Chris to return,” he said.
Lizzie laughed mischievously. “You mean, for your horse,” she teased him. Michael did not like to walk, and that beautiful horse was his pride and joy.
Michael nodded. “You know me too well, which is no good in a wife. I should be a mystery for you, and you should spend your life trying to unravel it.”
Lizzie giggled. “You’d be the first man not to carry his mystery between his legs and unveil it to anyone who gets close enough. As for your horse, everyone can see that you’re mad about it. I wish your eyes would light up like that when you look at me.”
Michael pulled her into his arms. “You’re a saucy one, Lizzie. An honest woman doesn’t talk that way. An honest woman blushes when the talk is of men’s mysteries.”
Lizzie laughed even louder. “I’ve been honest longer than you’ve been rich,” she reminded him. “Let’s go, so you can finally earn some of that gold. In all seriousness, Michael, I don’t want to wait too long. Who knows whether the Maori might change their minds about us collecting the gold if something happens?”
“What could happen?” asked Michael insouciantly.
Lizzie shrugged her shoulders. “Hostility between Maori and pakeha, for instance. Here, you don’t see as much of it, but who knows what the Ngai Tahu will think of if it comes to war? I would like to be done quickly. Come to think of it, it was already a mistake to send Chris into camp with the gold. We should have mined all we needed first and then quietly left with it. In Dunedin, one might get a better price, and most importantly, we would not have drawn any attention.”
Michael frowned. “You mean Chris might have gotten into trouble? He’s not the kind to blab when he has a drink. In any case, I can’t imagine he’d betray your trust.”
Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t think he would either. He’s also not the kind to spend a night in bed with a prostitute. But . . . I have an uneasy feeling.”
Michael chewed his lip. “Would it be better to ride to Tuapeka to look for him?” he asked.
Lizzie shrugged. “Then we lose a whole day. Listen, why don’t you just go to town, and I’ll ride ahead for now? You’ll find the stream easily, like I told you yesterday, but I’ll explain it again just to be sure.” Lizzie repeated the directions to head west from their cabin, then upstream to the waterfall. She reminded Michael that everything formed a triangle: the Maori village on the river, their cabin, the gold source. “Above the waterfall, that’s where we found the gold. There could also be some that flows down from there—probably is, even. But we’ll pan up where the Maori gave me permission and nowhere else.”
Michael looked at her doubtfully. “I don’t know, Lizzie. You alone? Damn it, you already panned the first ounces alone. You can’t do all the work.”
Lizzie laughed and began to braid her hair. It was windy, and she did not want it blowing in her face as she panned for gold. “Oh, you’ll catch up to me easily. Your gray is twice as fast as my bay.”
That was true, and in contrast to Michael, Lizzie did not like to ride. Michael knew well that she would find any number of reasons to walk next to the bay gelding instead of riding it. Probably, she would load it with all the tools and supplies she would need for one or two weeks in the mountains. Then there would be no room for her in the saddle. So she could walk, but she would spend the whole day on route. Michael, in contrast, would only need a few hours if he made his gray horse trot.
“Well, all right,” he finally said. “But I’ll pack your horse. The last thing we need is for you to haul everything out and load it up just to walk the whole way.”
Lizzie gave him her sweetest smile. “You know me too well, Michael,” she said. “But don’t get ideas. I still have more secrets than a little fear of horses.”
Janey’s girls had found Chris Timlock in the early morning hours and alerted the reverend, who ran, along with his assistant, to attend to the severely beaten man. There was now a doctor in the mining camp who likewise had arrived quickly. He could not offer much help though.
“I’ll do all I can, but I fear he won’t make it. All the facial fractures, the caved-in skull, and those ribs—so badly shattered I’m sure he has internal injuries as well. To survive that, you’d need to be as strong as an ox—and the boy is just a wisp. Any idea who would have done this to him?”
Reverend Burton shook his head. “None. Thomas Winslow, who’s a notorious drunk, stumbled on him early in the morning. He’s still sleeping it off, but he won’t have much more to say. Otherwise, all we know is that Winslow had been at Will’s Corner, but he left early, according to Will. Later he got drunker at Gregory’s. That’s where he was coming from when he found the boy.”
News of Chris’s gold find had quickly spread through town, and whoever knew something had told it to anyone who would listen.
The doctor sighed. He was a bold man, still young, and a desire for adventure had driven him to Tuapeka. Yet the rough customs of the gold miners disillusioned him a little more every day.
“Then give me a hand bandaging him. He’ll lose his left eye, even if he survives. Does he have any family?”
“I don’t know. Though he has a digging partner,” Reverend Burton said. “Someone should inform him. They live in a cabin farther upriver, but his partner, Michael Drury, will come down on his own once he misses him. Then we’ll have to ask him about the matter too. Although I don’t think there can be any question of him having done it.”
The doctor shrugged. “Has anyone sent word to Dunedin?”
“To the police? We’ve sent a telegram, and someone is riding there as well. This has to be investigated. Whoever did this can’t be allowed to get away.”
A few hours later, Michael stood, shocked, in front of his friend’s bed. He would not have recognized Chris if no one had told him that the ragdoll wrapped in bandages on the bed was his friend. Chris was unconscious, his breathing was ragged, and now and again he let out a weak groan.
“You can talk to him,” said the doctor. “He might even hear you. There’s not much else we can do. I gave him morphine for the pain.”
“Doesn’t that make you weak in the head?” Michael asked.
The doctor smiled wearily. “You can become addicted. But surely not your friend. I’m sorry, but I think it’s unlikely he’ll survive the night.”
Michael stayed with Chris and told him about Lizzie and their plans to marry. He held his left hand—the doctor had put the right shoulder back in joint and bound the arm firmly to his chest—and promised him he would write Ann and send her the money.
“Yesterday, I bet the post office was already closed,” he said gently. “But if I do it right now, soon she’ll be on her way to you. And when you’re doing a little better, she’ll be here.”
Around noon, Michael thought Chris might have squeezed his hand, but he was not sure. In any case, he left Chris’s side briefly to send a letter and the money to Wales.
Mr
. Ruland, the bank teller, expressed his sympathy and told Michael of his concern about the other prospectors’ jealousy. “I’m sure word got around quickly that he had deposited seven ounces of gold. The devils probably thought he had the money on him.”
Michael nodded and felt a burning guilt. He should have thought of that. If he had not been so intoxicated with Lizzie, he would never have sent Chris to town alone.
In the meantime, a police officer had arrived and was asking the witnesses questions. Michael was concerned. His experiences with the law were not the best, after all. He decided to stick halfway to the truth, and spoke of an extraordinary gold find on their claim that Chris had made alone. He did not know precisely where, but his friend had wanted to send the money to his wife straight away. Michael had lent him his horse for that purpose. He had been at home with his fiancée, himself. Lizzie could testify to that.
The officer believed him. “Why would the fellow need to ride all the way to town to beat his partner’s brains in?” the officer said later to the reverend. “He could have done it more easily up there. No one would have asked questions if this Timlock had simply disappeared. A few weeks later, Drury could have turned in the gold himself, and no one would have been the wiser.”
His questioning of Thomas Winslow didn’t yield anything either—the goldsmith was already drunk again. Despite that, he worked, not unskillfully, on a golden pendant that showed the Pleiades. The officer was impressed but didn’t ask him anything about it.
The officer registered that Winslow looked shocked, but anyone who had found a man covered in blood might have been. Besides, Winslow had a tight alibi. He had been getting drunk first at Will’s Corner, then in Gregory’s Public House.
Michael’s outlook grew a bit more hopeful when Chris was still alive that evening. He felt guilty when it came to Lizzie, but she would know that if he hadn’t made it to her yet, it was because something important was keeping him. Lizzie would pan for gold and wait for him, at least for a day.
That evening, Thomas Winslow, completely drunk and obviously deeply upset, arrived at the hospital. He took one look at Chris’s motionless body on the bed, broke into tears, and handed Michael a packet.
“Here, here,” he sobbed. “It’s done. Maybe he’ll even be happy when he, when he wakes up. Oh, what a shame, what a shame. Such a young man.”
Michael frowned and opened the packet and drew out a tiny pendant. “The pendant Lizzie wanted made. Chris gave you the order yesterday?”
Winslow nodded.
Michael dangled the pendant on its chain, admiring the craftsmanship.
“You’ve made it really pretty,” he said. “And thank you for taking care of it quickly.” Michael reached into his pocket for some money. “What do we owe you?”
Winslow recoiled as if the money might burn him.
“Nothing, no, nothing of course. I, I was happy to do it.”
Winslow went away, sobbing. Michael wondered if he should speak with the reverend about Winslow. The man had obviously drunk himself out of his mind, but no minister could do anything about that either.
Michael turned back to Chris. He wet his invalid friend’s lips with water—Chris could not or would not swallow, but his mouth was dry, and he had to sense the care, even if he did not react. Michael tried to remember old stories he could tell Chris, and as the night wore on, he talked about Ann and their children—he repeated everything his partner had told him in their time panning gold together. In the morning, Michael could hardly keep his eyes open, but Chris was still alive.
“You should eat something,” advised the doctor when he came in around nine in the morning. “And sleep a little yourself. I’m here now, after all, and the reverend’s on his way.”
“Is he any better?” Michael asked, after the doctor examined Chris.
The doctor shook his head. “Not that I see. I think your friend is in a coma, Mr. Drury. I fear he won’t be waking up, but no one can know for certain, so don’t give up hope. You shouldn’t make yourself sick though. Find something to eat and a place for some sleep.”
Michael left Chris’s side reluctantly, but hunger finally drove him into a tearoom that Barbara, a former prostitute now married to a prospector, had opened not long ago.
“So, they don’t have any idea who it could have been?” she asked, as she placed a giant omelet in front of Michael on the spotless table. “The officer’s started investigating, sure, but maybe you ought to ask around yourself?”
Michael considered it. The woman had a point; the gold miners were more likely to talk to him than a stranger from Dunedin. Many of the men in the mines had a past similar to his, and they did not trust the police.
“I think I’ll start at the bank,” said Michael. “It would be worth finding out who knew about Chris’s gold find first. Let’s see if Mr. Ruland remembers.”
The bank teller did indeed remember a few names, particularly Ian Coltrane’s. This alarmed Michael, but on the other hand, the other fellows were not innocent little lambs. Michael knew them and where they mined. He needed the fresh air anyway. Instead of going to sleep, he retrieved the gray from the stables and rode to the prospects.
Ian Coltrane was nowhere to be found, however, and that made Michael suspicious. Those in the neighboring claims were less surprised.
“Probably off horse trading,” one of the diggers said. “Coltrane splits his time doing that. He’s only here half the week at most—and I’m sure he earns more with the jades than with this gold. He’s got no hand for gold mining; not a hard worker either—at least not for long. If he uses his spade two hours a day, that’s enough for him. Check by his tent. Maybe he’s there transforming another old jade into a young stallion.”
The men laughed in chorus. Here, too, Ian had already earned a reputation.
“And the boy?” asked Michael. “Is he at school?”
The men shrugged. “Mostly he follows his dad around. But he could be, of course. The boy’s like his old man: if he catches the scent of easy money, like a horse trade, he’s there in a flash. But he’d rather learn to read than spend hours panning for gold.”
Michael had to find out if Colin Coltrane had been in the reverend’s school. But for the time being, he went looking for Mr. Ruland’s other customers. It was exhausting and did not amount to anything. Though all had noted Chris’s sudden riches, they said they had believed his claim that it was the result of several weeks’ work with Michael.
So Michael rode back to the hospital, where Chris lay like a dead man on the bed. According to the reverend, nothing had changed. Michael had meant to take his place at his friend’s side, but then tiredness overtook him. He simply had no more strength to talk to Chris. He needed sleep himself. Without anywhere else he could think of to go, Michael staggered over to Janey’s.
“As an exception, could I rent one of your beds for more than an hour?”
The girls laughed. Michael’s desperate vigil over his partner was already the talk of the town, like everything surrounding Chris’s assault. Janey’s staff found his efforts touching. The girls fell over themselves, first to make him lunch and then to prepare the “royal suite,” as Janey wryly called it: a tent, but swept clean and with spotless white linens. Michael was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Reverend Burton kept watch over Chris Timlock and tried not to give up hope. He had helped the doctor change the bandages, but aside from a weak groan, the man had not made a sound.
The doctor was now firmly convinced he lay in a coma. “I hope it won’t last too long,” he said unhappily. “Please understand, Reverend. I’d be happy if the man survived. But blind, unconscious, motionless—one has to wonder what would be better.”
The reverend shrugged. “We’ll have to leave it in God’s hands,” he said. “And hope He knows what He’s burdening us with.”
Peter Burton took a brief break to tend to some other business, but around noon, one of the hospital volunteers ran excitedly in
to his office next to the church.
“Reverend,” wheezed the chandler’s pudgy wife. She must have run all the way from the hospital. “Reverend, you should come to the hospital. We think the boy’s waking up. He’s moving and moaning. Dr. Wilmers thinks you should take a look, and maybe give him last rites.”
Peter Burton leaped up and rushed outside. “Is Michael with him?” he asked while hurrying beside the panting chandler’s wife.
She shook her head. “No, don’t know where he’s hiding. Probably sleeping somewhere, the poor boy. They say he spent all morning riding around asking people questions.”
“See if you can track him down, Mrs. Jordan. If Chris does really wake up, he’ll want to talk to him.”
The doctor stood next to Chris’s bed, feeling his pulse. “Something’s definitely happening. He seems to be clinging to consciousness. He wants to wake up.”
Chris tried to move and opened his remaining eye. But he stared, unfocused, into the room.
The reverend took his left hand. “Chris, Chris, do you hear me?”
Chris gently returned the pressure. “Michael?”
It was but a whisper. Peter and the doctor held their breaths.
“Reverend Burton, Chris. Peter Burton. Can you talk?”
Chris pressed the reverend’s hand once again, then let it go. “Lizzie, gold, warn, fern.”
“Ferns, Chris? What do you mean? What about Lizzie?”
“Warn, gold, Lizzie, Mike, triangle, Maori village, cabin, cabin west,” Chris sputtered out the words between his battered lips with the last of his strength.
“What do you mean, ‘warn,’ Mr. Timlock?” asked the doctor. “Do you mean we need to warn Lizzie?”
Chris nodded violently. “West, cabin, stream, upstre . . .”
Peter Burton looked at the young man desperately. “I don’t understand, Chris. Once more, slowly. Lizzie is looking for gold in a triangle, and we need to warn her? Why, Chris? About what? Chris, who did this to you? Whom do we need to warn Lizzie and Michael about?”