Hangtown Creek: A Tale of the California Gold Rush (A Tom Marsh Adventure Book 1)

by John Rose Putnam

  Eban doffed his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. We look forward to supper.” He turned to Joshua. “Let’s go.”

  When they were out of earshot Joshua stopped, “Are you sure about this? I’m not.”

  “Don’t fret about Maggie. Mrs. Wimmer’s as tough as they come. Besides, we can watch the house from the trees. Her husband runs the saw mill for Marshall. I’ve known him for years. He knows everybody. After all that’s happened in the last few days we’ll need to find Sheldon and Daylor soon. If anybody knows where they are, Wimmer will. We’ll talk to him at dinner.”

  “All right, if you say so. I guess Maggie deserves some female company. Lord knows she’s missed it.”

  “Let’s see if we can find a spot with a good view of the cabin. We’re liable to get a treat come sundown. As I recollect, Mrs. Wimmer can turn out biscuits so light they float right off your plate.”

  Bill rode slow along the tops of the hills on the north side of the American River. By swimming the stream above Mormon’s Island, he shook the city folks who pursued them from Sacramento City. Now his problem was Jack. He had been in a stew since they crossed the river.

  “How could you lose the trail of my woman? I want that slut back! I bought her. She’s mine.” Jack had been carping all day, sniveling and whining worse than Norton.

  Bill was tired of it. “Hadn’t fooled them town folks by swimming the river, you’d be hanging from some tree now.”

  “You’re supposed to be a great tracker, half Injun and all. Are we going back across that river to get her?”

  More bellyaching. Bill ought to shoot him, be done with it.

  “Rather live. Do what you want.”

  “All right, all right, what’s your plan then?” Jack moaned.

  “Need food. Men are mining ahead. Get it there.”

  “That slut stole my money.” Jack’s face flushed red. It wasn’t from the sun.

  “Don’t need money.”

  “How do you get supplies without money?”

  “Done killed a man. Only hang you once.”

  “You aim to kill a miner for his gold?”

  “Let him live, he’s trouble.”

  “Yeah, that’s a fact. They can’t hang us but once. That’s good. That’s real good.” Out of nowhere Jack chuckled, a smug smile wrinkling his scar.

  Jack’s laugh rubbed Bill wrong. Killing a man for his food had to be done sometimes, but only someone with a black heart would laugh about it. But he would have the woman soon. It was almost over. A drink would help. “Need likker too.”

  “Yeah, I’m as dry as the valley.”

  Bill motioned to his right where several plumes of smoke spiraled above the trees. “Woman’s likely at the saw mill now.”

  Down the hill Jack could see the saw mill and just to the east of it the small town growing along the river. “Yeah. What do you reckon she’ll do next?”

  “Find her tomorrow.”

  “Lot of country out there. She could get lost in it. We’d never find her.”

  “No, a woman will stay close to people.”

  A devilish grin lit Jack’s scared face. “Reckon she will.”

  They continued up the north side of the river. Here miners combed ravines that channeled the winter rains downhill. In these ravines, hidden in a layer of clay, many a lucky miner hit pay dirt. But because the ravines only carried water in the winter, the ore had to be taken to the river to pan out the gold. The miners called this a dry digging.

  A mile above the saw mill they came on two men hard at work separating gold from the silt that was left after panning. Hidden in scrub oak, they watched the men pour the ore onto an oilcloth and toss it into the air. The lighter sands blew away in the wind but the heavier metal fell back to the cloth. The miners dumped the recovered gold dust into an already well-filled leather bag.

  After several healthy pulls from a whiskey jug, the two miners locked arms and danced a jig around their campfire, whooping, hollering and slapping each other on the back. These men had gold and they had whiskey, just what Bill needed. He led Jack up the ravine to wait for nightfall.

  Joshua climbed onto the mustang at the camp they had set up at the edge of the forest. He had watched the cottage where Maggie was for several hours, but no one had come in or out. Eban rode up beside him, and they crossed the clearing together.

  True to her word, Mrs. Wimmer served an excellent meal of beefsteak, potatoes, and carrots. But dessert was a peach cobbler Maggie had made. Joshua thought it was the best he ever had. Mrs. Wimmer had invited Maggie to stay the night, so after the dishes were done the women and children retired to the back of the cabin, leaving the men around the table to talk.

  Mr. Wimmer pulled out a bottle of California brandy and cigars. As he poured three glasses of the amber wine, he turned somber. “Sheriff Rodgers and his deputy, Jim Price, were at the saw mill yesterday late. Said a man was killed in the stables in Sacramento City. Old Obadiah got beat up in the fracas. He ain’t doing too good.”

  Joshua glanced at Eban. “We just saw Obadiah yesterday. He was fine. In fact, he warned us that three men had come in looking for us.”

  Wimmer lit his cigar. “The dead one was dressed like a lumberman. He wasn’t from here so maybe from Sutter’s Creek. Obadiah says the three of them came back after you left. It sounds like they were looking for you. You came from Sutter’s Creek with Maggie. You’ve been up front about it and nobody thinks you shot this guy, but if you know something, you best tell me. The sheriff will be back here. I’ll pass it on for you.”

  Joshua put down his brandy. “The man who was killed, was he a big guy with a black beard and wide, red suspenders?”

  “That sounds like what the sheriff said.”

  Eban blew out a cloud of smoke. “That would be Norton. I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone. He was rotten to the core, but who killed him?”

  Wimmer passed the brandy around the table. “The sheriff don’t know. But it looks like it might be the men he was with.”

  Joshua could see Eban’s brown eyes narrow, accenting the crow’s feet that cracked into his leathered face. Certainly if Jack or Bill had killed Norton they wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. Their threat now seemed more immediate, more personal, than it had when they left Sutter’s Creek.

  Eban sniffed at his glass. “That would be the whiskey peddler who come by the fort some in the old days. You must’ve seen him then. They call him Smiling Jack now. Runs a saloon at Sutter’s Creek. He’s the one who had Maggie. The other feller is called Cherokee Bill. He’s been rumored to sell Injun squaws. Maggie was dressed up like she was Jack’s squaw. They were after us, but I can’t say why they had a falling out.”

  Wimmer nodded. “I heard the stories about Cherokee Bill, seen that Jack feller selling whiskey at the fort. It don’t sound like they’re the best lot to have trailing you.”

  Eban stubbed out his cigar. “No, they ain’t. That’s why we’re looking for Sheldon and Daylor. They’re mining with their Injuns on Weber Creek south of here, according to their wives. We crossed Weber Creek just a few miles below the saw mill, so I ain’t real sure where they are.”

  Wimmer blew out a long puff of cigar smoke. “That ain’t such a bad idea. Those Miwoks will keep anybody they don’t know away. You’ll be in as good a shape there as anywhere.” He took another puff and stood, jamming the cigar butt between his teeth. “Just past the last building east of town, a trail runs south up the hill. Here, let me show you.”

  He grabbed a slate board from the mantle, erased the addition problems one of his six kids had left on it, and drew a map of the route from Coloma to the spot on Weber Creek where he thought Sheldon and Daylor were mining, explaining in detail what they would find along the trail.

  Joshua picked up his brandy but didn’t sip. Eban was right. Wimmer knew a lot of information about the area. “How long a ride to Weber Creek, Mr. Wimmer? Jack and Bill swam the American in front of me late yesterday. I expect they were headed this w
ay. We’ll ride a lonely trail until we meet Eban’s friends.” Joshua twisted the glass in his hand. “I’m concerned for Maggie.”

  “It should be a half day, maybe less, but you’re right, there ain’t nobody on that trail. I’d be careful.”

  Eban stood. “We’d best turn in, Wimmer. We got a hard day tomorrow. Give Sheriff Rodgers my hello when you see him. Thank Mrs. Wimmer for the supper. We’ll come get Maggie in the morning.” Eban downed the last of his brandy and reached for his hat. Joshua followed his lead.

  Only a sliver of moon hung low in a darkened sky as Bill crept down the ravine with Jack behind him. Carefully he closed on a camp near the river’s edge, the camp where whiskey and gold waited. His success depended on a quiet approach. Any mistake, any noise, would alert a miner. That could be deadly.

  Ahead a fading campfire cast barely enough light to make out two forms sleeping beside it. Bill indicated the nearest man for Jack to take care of. He pulled the large knife from his boot, and with a slashing motion across his throat, reminded Jack how to use it.

  Then he carefully stole into the camp, tiptoed past the closest man, and knelt beside the second miner. With practiced skill, he clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth while slashing the large knife through the arteries, veins, and sinews of his neck, sending the man to his Maker before he realized the threat.

  Then from behind came a snap, a grunt, and the unholy curse of a man who had roused from deep sleep to find his life in immediate peril. Jack had messed up somehow. Bill spun.

  The miner rose from his bedroll, yelling for his dead partner, just as Jack lunged at him. The miner grabbed the arm with Jack’s knife, but the force of the attack knocked him back. Far stronger than the whiskey peddler, he easily flipped Jack over and forced the knife back towards Jack’s chest.

  Bill rolled to his feet, grabbed the miner’s hair from behind, and with the same sure stroke, he slit the second man’s throat. Hot blood erupting from the massive wound splashed full force into Jack’s face. He wailed like a polecat’s lost kit, squirming to free himself from under the miner’s dead body.

  “Quiet, fool. You wake the whole river,” Bill hissed.

  “His blood is on me!” Jack came to his knees, wildly wiping at his face.

  “Blood won’t hurt you. Noise will. Keep quiet!”

  As Jack stumbled to the water to wash away his shame, Bill searched each man, scalped him, drug his body to the river, and pushed it far out into the current. Then he scoured the rest of the camp but found little save some food, the leather bag of gold, and the whiskey jug. He settled across from the fading fire. Soon Jack joined him, and together they drank most of the whiskey before riding away with the first hint of sunrise.

  13 The Road to Weber Creek

  The promise of another hot day hung in the early morning air as Maggie followed Joshua and Eban around the corner of the Wimmer cabin. When they turned onto the dusty road across from the saw mill, a wave of sadness rushed over her.

  But this wasn’t the same soul-rotting despair that had consumed her at Sutter’s Creek. Instead it was the normal reaction to leaving friends with a happy, loving home. She had almost forgotten how special the simple joys of life could be.

  The time she had spent with Mrs. Wimmer and the children had been wonderful. She was infused with hope again, the hope that one day she too could build a life, a home, out of this wilderness. Maybe her dreams could come true after all.

  She noticed a small group of men gathered at the top of the loop where the millrace met the river. “Something’s up, Eban.” A man, running and yelling for Wimmer, headed towards them.

  “Ace Mellon. What’s your hurry? Wimmer’s still inside.” Eban knew him.

  “That you, Snyder? There’s a body floating down the river. Cut up real bad. Looks like Injuns done it. The guys pulled him to shore. I got to tell Wimmer.”

  As he hurried past, Joshua and Eban exchanged glances. Maggie knew the news that Indians were killing miners wouldn’t be welcome, but was it Indians?

  Eban exhaled noisily. “Reckon we best check it out, Josh.”

  “Yeah.” He turned to her. “Maggie, why don’t you wait with Mrs. Wimmer until we get back?”

  Her head shook before he finished. “Not on your life, Joshua Stone. I’ve seen dead people before and I’ll see them again. I’m going with you.” She had to know. Bill was half Indian. Could it be him?

  Joshua’s look showed he knew it was useless to argue with her. “All right. Let’s go.” He turned to the riverbank.

  She sat on her horse and watched as Eban and Joshua walked up to the body of the dead miner. He had been dragged onshore near the millrace dam and was a sorry sight indeed. His half-severed head canted unnaturally to one side, a large clump of dried blood where his scalp had been cut off. She shivered.

  Joshua surveyed the three men standing nearby. “Anybody know who he was?”

  A tall man in muddy boots stepped up. “It looks like Joe Lovell. He was mining up the river with guy named Harry Longfellow. They came out of San Francisco three, four weeks ago. Rumor has it they had them a good-sized poke.”

  “Has there been any trouble with Indians here?” Joshua spoke quickly, pushing for answers.

  The man looked to the others then shook his head. “No, not that I heard of. Not lately, anyhow.” The other two grunted agreement.

  “Did he and his partner get along? Could this be a falling out between friends? Or did someone else kill him for his gold then scalp him to make it look like Indians?”

  The man tugged on a bushy horseshoe mustache. “No, they got on about as good as any two do up here. It couldn’t be Harry. He might be dead too.”

  Maggie dismounted and walked up beside Joshua, staring at the body and shaking. She leaned close. “It’s Bill. We have to go. Please,” she whispered.

  He gave her a hard look. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded, more with her eyes than her head.

  “Eban, I’m going to get Maggie out of here. Are you coming?”

  “I’ll be along.”

  “Come on, Maggie.” They mounted and rode back towards the main road through town. “I’m sorry you saw that. It wasn’t a fitting thing for you to see.”

  “Joshua, don’t you understand? I’ve seen worse than that. I’ve seen my family and all kinds of friends die on the trail to California. And I’ve seen Bill kill someone just like that man.” She knew he could hear the quiver in her voice. She wanted to run, to hide, to forget, but she couldn’t. Perhaps she never would.

  Joshua tugged on his ear. “Well, it’s hard for me to understand. I’m used to women being protected from this kind of thing. That’s the way I was raised. Still, I don’t think it’s something you should have to see. I don’t even think it’s something I should have to see.” Another trail led off to the south. They turned onto to it. “What do you mean you’ve seen Bill kill people like that? Why do you think he did it?”

  “Can’t you take my word for it? I know, that’s all. I just know.”

  Eban rode up at a gallop and joined them.

  Joshua looked over to him. “Maggie says Bill that killed that man. What do you think happened?”

  “Don’t really smell like an Injun. Most of them don’t care much about gold. Ain’t no use to them. Lots of other reasons they’d kill you. But Bill, he’s half Injun, and he’s been rumored to do things like that for years. He’s still around too. What do you know about it, Maggie?”

  They pushed her too hard. It was too horrible, too recent and now it was too close. “I just know, that’s all,” she yelled then kicked the chestnut’s sides and galloped off ahead of them. Clara scampered behind her.

  Joshua wanted to ride after her. Jack could be anywhere, but Eban grabbed his arm.

  “There’s a powerful lot of stuff burning inside that woman. I expect she knows more than she wants to tell. I reckon it could’ve been Jack and Bill. They shook Sheriff Rodgers by crossing the river then riding up
the other side. Maybe they ran into this guy and killed him for his gold. Wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “Well, no matter what happened to that fellow, we’ve got to think Jack and Bill are still after us, and we have to assume they’re close.”

  “You’re right. Why don’t you catch up with her, but give her time to simmer down some. Don’t push her. She’ll talk when she’s ready. I’ll stay back for a while, just in case Jack is following.”

  “Yeah, I’ll wait for her to talk. You’re right.” He spurred the mustang and took off after Maggie. Eban’s words rang in his mind. She’ll talk when she’s ready. It was his friend’s gentle reminder that he had been too forceful with her. He had pushed hard for the answers he needed. They both had. It was a matter of trust.

  He had grown to know her better these last few days. He had seen how she handled herself with Jack and Bill only a few feet away across the rock. She had faced her fear with a lot of grit and hadn’t panicked. He would follow Eban’s sound advice.

  But the miner’s murder troubled him. Maggie seemed certain Bill had done it, and he felt sure she was right. Had it also been Bill who killed Norton? That seemed likely as well.

  But the killings didn’t make sense. They only brought attention to them, made them outlaws. The killing of Norton had brought the sheriff of Sacramento City all the way out here. More killings in Coloma just meant more notice. He liked it when things were logical, when they added up. This didn’t.

  When he caught up with her, she turned and gave him a look that said she was both glad to see him and afraid that he would dig into those raw sores that she couldn’t yet face. He rode beside her for a while without talking, waiting for her to open up.

  A deer bounded across a clearing, followed quickly by two gangling fawns. Maggie’s expression eased. The sight of the young ones dashing after their mother seemed to bring her comfort.