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

by John Rose Putnam

  But it was on the majestic Duke of New Orleans that his house of cards had tumbled down. He had learned a hard lesson that day. A gambler, no matter how good he is, can’t afford a mistake in the salons of the mighty riverboats. The rich powerbrokers whose wealth he sought had a long and deadly reach.

  He had made that mistake. One small lapse, one simple slip ruined his dreams of high living, and he was forced to flee for his life. Even so, he had been lucky and arrived in California unscathed. But to a Mississippi gambler, this was a purgatory at the far end of the earth. He had survived by playing cards for pesos in cantinas, and then came those three magic words—gold, gold, gold—and his exile blossomed into the biggest bonanza a gambler could hope for.

  Thousands of men were taking fortunes straight from the earth, and there would be more, many more, in the coming years. Most of these were unsophisticated men, farmers, shopkeepers, clerks, and were easy marks even for monte men like Natchez. Memphis was making a fine living at the poker tables and, except for a hotel room and food, he had nothing to spend it on.

  The music changed. They played a lively reel, the Ole Virginy Break Down. He put his memories aside and looked up. Miners gathered in the shade between the street and the stream. Some were dancing with the handful of women present. One woman caught his eye immediately, her red hair falling in soft curls along her shoulders. He walked closer.

  She was filled with a natural, wholesome beauty. There was no paint or powder, no expensive jewelry, no Paris frock to enhance her charm. She was so unlike the society women on the riverboats, and yet so unlike the plain, dowdy townswomen who danced alongside her. She shone bright in the midst of the ordinary, like a harvest moon on a clear autumn night.

  “Stew’s almost gone! Get it while you can.” The cry came from a table under the oaks. The voice had a familiar ring to it. He turned to look. His eyes lit up when he saw Tom Marsh with a ladle in his hand standing behind a large pot. He was glad to see him, and a bowl of beef stew sounded good right now too. He hurried to the table.

  Tom scraped his ladle along the bottom, his head practically inside the pot. He pulled out a scoop full of stew, plopped it into a pie tin, then tossed a piece of bread and a spoon on top. “You’re lucky, mister. You got the last of it.”

  “Luck is a lady, Tom.”

  Tom’s head jerked up, his jaw dropped, then he broke into a broad grin. “Oh, wow, Mr. Memphis, what’re you doing here?”

  “You’re looking good, Tom.” He took the plate the boy held out to him. “My, this smells delicious!” He had a taste. “It’s wonderful. It’s home cooking. I haven’t had a meal like this in years.”

  Tom chuckled. “Yeah, Maggie’s a super cook, and she’s real pretty too.”

  Memphis looked over to the dancers. “Is that Maggie, the redhead in the calico dress?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. The feller she’s dancing with, the guy in the army hat, is her husband, Joshua. He’s real nice too and super smart. He’s been helping me learn my numbers lately.”

  A loud honk and a shriek erupted from the creek side. A crusty miner rushed towards the table, his left hand holding down a well-worn flat-topped hat. Behind him a mule with a straw sombrero tied on her head bucked and kicked wildly.

  Tom dropped his ladle into the pot. “That’s Clara, Maggie’s mule. She really hates miners. Maggie thinks somebody was pretty mean to her once.”

  The miner stopped in front of Tom, a scowl almost hidden beneath his overgrown beard. “Tom, you got to do something about that there out of control animal. She near kicked me again. I’m warning you now.”

  “Flapjack, why don’t you just leave Clara alone? Then you won’t have to come up to the cabin crying for Maggie to fix you up again. Clara don’t like you, Flapjack. She don’t like you at all. So why don’t you stay away from her?” Tom grinned. It was clear he thought the miner was messing with the mule and deserved what he got.

  “Now you’re just covering up for that ornery mule, Tom. It ain’t right that a man can’t walk around this place without getting kicked at by some out of control animal, but I reckon I’d be willing to forget it for some of that stew.”

  “The stew’s all gone. Mr. Memphis here got the last of it.” Tom nodded toward his friend.

  “Ain’t that the way you high-toned, rich folks is. Let your animals run loose then give the last of the miner’s meal to a tinhorn. Why, I ought to—”

  “There’s still some bread left, Flapjack. Help yourself.”

  “Bread? Well, it’s a sorry day when the miners get nothing but bread.”

  “Why don’t you take it all, Flapjack?” Tom sighed.

  “Well, if you insist.” Flapjack hurried to the table and stuffed every scrap of bread he could find into his pockets, then ambled off toward the dancers.

  Tom watched the old miner until he was out of earshot. “Maggie thinks he messes with Clara just so he’ll have an excuse to come by the cabin and cadge a free meal. Eban says he ought to spend more time panning and less time in the saloons. But I guess I kind of understand him. It can be real hard out here sometimes.”

  “Yeah, but you look like you’re doing fine now. I’m real pleased for you.” Memphis put the pie pan down on the table. “Now, how much do I owe you for the stew?”

  Tom held out his hand. “Oh, no sir, after all you done for me in Coloma, there ain’t no charge. Maggie just wouldn’t have it.”

  Memphis smiled at the boy. “Well, that’s mighty kind.” It was clear that Tom was much happier now than at any time since he had known him.

  “I got to get this stuff cleared away and back to the cabin, Mr. Memphis, but it’s sure good to see you. Are you going to be in town awhile?”

  “I expect so.” He waved his arm toward the buildings to the west. “The town looks like it has promise.”

  “Yeah, Eban says it’s going to grow fast. I expect you’ll be down at the El Dorado a good deal.”

  “Yes, I expect so. You take care of yourself.”

  “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Memphis.”

  Memphis walked back toward the town. The song, Dandy Jim of Caroline, played and the memories flowed again. He was about Tom’s age when his widowed mother died. He was alone just as Tom was, but a man befriended him, a monte man, and soon introduced him to the world outside his small Tennessee town. That man’s name was Jim, but he had also used the handle of Memphis. Perhaps Jim was the reason he had befriended Natchez and was now showing him the more intricate techniques of a good card mechanic.

  He had thought at first that he would take Tom under his wing, show him the ropes, just as Jim had done for him. But Tom was cut from other cloth, perhaps better cloth, and had a bright future in store without leading the transient and sometimes violent life of a gambler. He would keep an eye on the boy, and keep an eye out for the stranger from Coloma who was looking for the redhead, just in case.

  As he neared the El Dorado, two riders came from the Coloma road. Headed for the beef stew feed, no doubt. The door to the saloon was open. He went inside.

  Cherokee Bill spat on the dusty street. “City folk come for gold. Ruin this land.”

  Jack scowled at his companion. “Nobody around. What makes you think my woman is here?”

  “She’s here.” Bill’s head jerked alert. “Listen! Noise ahead.”

  “That’s music, you ignorant half-breed.”

  “No! Noise! Hides the quiet.”

  Soon they could see a crowd of miners to the left of the road. They stopped in front of a stable and watched the festivities. People were talking, dancing, laughing.

  “There’s the woman.” Bill nodded toward a group dancing to a reel.

  “Where?”

  “In front of the noise makers.”

  “Yeah, that’s her.” A wicked smile covered Jack’s face.

  Bill grabbed Jack’s arm and grunted. “Leave now.”

  “Leave? I just found her!” Jack jerked his arm free.

  “Too many eyes. Wa
it for a better time. Come.” Bill turned his horse.

  Jack sighed and took a last, long look at the woman. Bill was right. There were too many eyes. He followed Bill back through town.

  They rode left, up the Diamond Springs road. At Weber Creek they turned east until they found a suitably remote and secluded spot to camp, still close enough to the trail for easy access to the Old Dry Diggin’s and Maggie. Bill built a fire. Jack sat nearby and drank lustily from a whiskey jug Bill bought in Coloma the day before.

  “Yeah, Bill, it ain’t been easy at all, but I done found her now. Tonight I aim to get my comeuppance on her, and I plan to enjoy every minute of it.” He took another long pull from the jug. Bill didn’t answer.

  “She run us on a pretty chase all over this country, but all that’s over. Reckon it’ll be tonight. No use putting it off.” He wiped his mouth and tipped the jug up again.

  Bill left the fire and walked toward the horses behind Jack.

  “What a sassy one she is. Dancing with them sodbusters like that, right out in the open like she weren’t afraid of nothing. Going to be fun taking her down a peg. Real fun.” He hefted the whiskey up again. Before it reached his lips the sharp blade of Cherokee Bill was poised across his throat. Jack set the whiskey down slowly.

  “Take it easy there, Bill. I ain’t forgot about you and all you done. Why, I couldn’t have found her without you. Now don’t get your dander up and put that pig sticker down.”

  “You son a bitch, I found her. Put up with your crap, your sniveling and whining. Weren’t for me you’d be hanging from some tree in Coloma. You stay here. I’ll figure a plan. Screw it up, I kill you.”

  “Yeah, sure. I got it. You’re right. You do the planning. I was just excited. I ain’t going to mess up again. Put the knife down.” A bead of sweat rolled down Jack’s nose and dripped to the ground. He knew the threat he was under. He would have to let Bill have his way. He waited this long. He could wait a while longer.

  “Be going into town, find out the best time and place. I come back and you’re gone, I hunt you down. Slit your throat. Got it?” Bill pushed the blade into Jack’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood.

  “Yeah, Bill. I got it. I’ll do what you say. You’re right about Coloma. I won’t run out on you again, I swear. Just put the knife down.”

  Bill pulled the knife away, wiped the blood on the front of Jack’s coat, grabbed the whiskey jug, and walked back to the fire.

  Well past sunrise Jack roused from his drunken slumber. His gut was sour. His head ached. A pot of warm coffee sat by the fire. He mixed it half and half with whiskey and drank it in one long swallow. He felt some better. He poured himself another cup of the whiskey-laced coffee and sat on a log.

  “Damn Bill! Two days he’s gone to town. Left me here with nothing to do. I want that woman!” he ranted, restless, bored. He was too close now. The end of his long chase was near. He wanted action. He wanted it soon, but he was scared of what Bill would do if he riled the half-breed.

  He had to wait and let Bill plan what needed to be done. Then he could have his revenge, his satisfaction. That thought didn’t dent the restlessness. He scowled and spit in the smoldering fire. He needed action now.

  He threw the cup down, strode to his horse and rode off in the direction of Diamond Springs. As he waded Weber Creek, he could see large scars left from the efforts of men to find the yellow metal, but there were no miners working the stream here. Perhaps this spot had been played out and the men had moved on.

  A short way past the creek, he spotted her along the trail. She was alone, young, and had fire-red hair like Maggie. He felt that surge again.

  “Howdy, miss. Pardon me, but is this the trail to the Diamond Springs?”

  “Yes, sir, mister. It’s up the road a ways. Have you seen a little boy around here? My ma say’s I got to find him quick. He’s my brother.” The girl looked concerned.

  “Well, that must’ve been him down the creek a bit. Here, let me show you.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

  “Just follow me, miss. It won’t take long at all.”

  Bill circled around to the woods on the north side of Log Cabin Ravine and behind the new cabin on the hill above the creek. He settled into the same hidden spot that he had used for the last three days to view the cabin and the stables below along what the miners called Main Street. He sat unmoving, stayed quiet, and waited.

  The smell of coffee, bacon, and wood smoke poured from a flue that must lead to the stove inside. He had heard the miners talk of Maggie’s stove. It was where she made the pies that were the delight of the men in the camp. Bill had never seen a stove, never eaten a meal cooked on anything but an open fire. He had never had pie, or any sweet pastry. It was an idea as strange to him as the fascination these town folk had with the gold they sought.

  He spent his life in the wild lands of the American West. He was comfortable in the wilderness. He belonged there, just as the animals he hunted belonged. It was the way of life he was born to.

  The best cabin he had known was his mother’s, with its sod roof and dirt floor. The rough-cut door on the south had leather hinges, and the fireplace on the north was made of sticks and clay. A simple shutter without glass covered a window on both the east and west with only a fur sleeping pallet beneath each. A rough table filled the center of the one room. It worked well enough for Wakeetna.

  Miners began to enter the town for whatever business they had there. He watched them until the door to the cabin opened and the old man came out to the porch. The boy and another man, he must be one that had shot Norton, followed him.

  His gut twisted inside as he realized that Maggie was married to this man. Would it cause problems? He didn’t know, but he had come too far to quit now. He watched as the two men shook hands and the old man and the boy walked down the hill to the stable.

  Two large wagons soon rolled onto the street and turned towards the town. He lost sight of them behind the buildings but found them again as they crossed the stream and headed north towards Coloma. It was the same each day.

  The door to the cabin opened again, and the soldier came out on his daily trip to the woodpile. He picked up an armload of kindling and took it inside. He wore the covered holster where he carried the fancy repeating pistol. Bill wasn’t concerned with this new gun. The man would never have a chance to use it. Soon would come the sweet smell of freshly baked pies floating amid the smoke.

  He walked back to his horse then rode to the Coloma Road. With the old man out of town, he could drink in one of the saloons. He needed whiskey, and he might learn more about the red-haired woman and her companions.

  He sat with his back to the wall and drank by himself. There were only a few miners at this hour. It was too early for the gamblers and city folk.

  From the street came a regular, rhythmic clump, clump that grew steadily louder. A man appeared in the open door. He swung his legs forward together then pulled the two crutches ahead of his feet. Clump. He repeated the process. Clump. All eyes turned toward the lanky man in black pants as he struggled inside.

  “Woody Dunn, what kind of trouble you got into now?” A tall miner in a checkered shirt standing by the bar spoke out as the injured man put both crutches in one hand and with a little hop-step managed to seat himself at the nearest table. The miner grabbed a bottle and two glasses, walked over, plopped the glasses down, and filled them. “Here, let me buy you a drink. Looks like you could use it.”

  “Thanks, Caleb. Yeah, I can use a drink. This leg hurts like the dickens.”

  “What you do, fall off your mule?”

  “Close, I reckon. I ran down the hill toward the stream and tripped over a rock. Come down on the leg wrong. It snapped right in two.”

  “That redhead the one what fixed you up in them fancy leg splints? Did you get to go inside her house?”

  “Yeah, Caleb, she took me inside that cabin and fixed me up real good. Fed me some chicken and pie too. S
he’s a mighty fine woman. I’m real grateful for what she done. She says I ought to be good as new in a month or so.”

  “I hear tell she helps out everybody that gets hurt around here. She’s as good as they come, and she sure is pretty. Tell me, is that cabin as nice as folks say?”

  “You feel right at home there, like it were your mother’s house or something. Makes me want to go back to Oregon and marry that pretty brunette on the next farm. Yes, sir, that’s a home a man can live in. Nothing like it around here.”

  “She’s doing the beef stew again Sunday. You going to make it, Woody?”

  “I’ll be there if I got to crawl. That stew was something. It all seemed like the Fourth of July back home with everybody dancing and singing and having a good time.”

  Bill continued to drink and listen to the miners, but the conversation shifted to their claims and the gold. He needed to know more about the woman. When was she alone in the cabin? How could he get the men in the house away from her? There had to be a time. There had to be a way.

  A crusty old miner burst through the door. “She’s coming down the hill now, fellers. Remember old Flapjack here told you first. How about you, Caleb, buy me a drink?”

  “Every time I see you see you, Flapjack, you’re trying to bum whiskey.” Caleb turned to his friend. “You going for some pie?”

  “Yeah, let’s go. I can make it.” Ignoring Flapjack, Woody Dunn pushed himself to his feet and clomped to the door beside Caleb.

  The old miner followed them to the door. “It’s a shame that a rich miner like you, Caleb, can’t help out one of your friends whose down on his luck a bit. I don’t know what this world is coming to—”

  “Over here, mister.” Bill poured a shot and pushed the whiskey toward the old man.

  Flapjack quickly grabbed the glass in both hands. “Mighty kind of you, mister, mighty kind.” He tossed the shot back in one swallow, sighed, and wiped his mouth with a dirt-crusted sleeve.

  Bill kicked a chair out from under the table. “Sit down, mister. Have another.” He held the bottle out.