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

by John Rose Putnam

  He put his arms under the boy and stood. A wave of dizziness washed over him. He stumbled back against the doorjamb and gulped down a deep breath.

  “Joshua, are you—”

  “I’m fine. Just a little woozy.”

  He took another deep breath. The air helped. He managed to get the boy to the back room and laid him out on the bed. Hopefully Tom would come around soon, and with no lasting effects. The boy had shown a lot of heart, a lot of courage. Joshua was proud of the way he had come to Maggie’s aid. Tom had taken a beating for it, but he hadn’t given up. He pulled the blanket up then mussed Tom’s blond hair before leaving the room.

  “How is Eban, Maggie?” He knelt beside her.

  The blood had dried on her face now, but the bruises were beginning to blacken and swell. She looked much worse than she had the day they had taken her from Jack. It seemed so long ago now. So much had happened.

  “Joshua, it’s bad. It’s really bad.”

  “Will he live?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so, not unless . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Unless what? Can you help him?”

  “The ball is so far inside his chest. If it stays there, he’ll die. If I try to take it out, I could kill him.”

  “He’s going to die. We have to try.”

  “I’ve never done anything like this. I can set broken bones and sew up cuts, but this . . . I . . . I just can’t do it.”

  “How do you know unless you try? You’ve got to try.”

  “I can’t kill Eban. I just can’t.”

  The cry, almost a moan, came from the back room. “Maggie? Maggie, are you here?”

  “It’s Tom. He’s come around. I’ll look in on him. You think about Eban. You have to try, Maggie.” He got up to check on the boy.

  Joshua stood in the door. “How do you feel, Tom?”

  “Oh, Joshua, my head hurts.”

  “Well, it’ll get better. We’re real proud of you.”

  “Is Maggie all right?”

  “Yeah, she’s looking after Eban now.”

  “How is Eban?”

  “He’s in pretty bad shape. We just don’t know.”

  “Oh, no, if Maggie’s taking care of him, he’ll be fine. She can fix anybody up.”

  “You get some rest?”

  “Okay.”

  He turned back to Maggie. She stared at Eban, chewing her lip. He knelt beside her, and she looked up at him. “When I was with Bill’s mother in the mountains, a man came. He was shot almost in the same place. Wakeetna was a healer. She was good, but she didn’t think the man could live. She tried anyway. I helped her. The man lived. I’ll need hot water, bandages, and more light.”

  “I’ll put the water on.” He wondered, as he went into the kitchen, if it was the boy’s faith in her that had made up her mind. Tom had had a remarkable effect on her since he’d been here. He put a pot of water on the stove then threw some wood into the firebox.

  From the corner of his eye he thought he saw something moving. Was it Smiling Jack’s hand? The man had been shot in the head. Jack must be dead. Joshua knew he was still woozy, his eyes still blurry. It must be in his head, but he would check to make sure.

  “Joshua, I need you. Right now.”

  No, it must have been his eyes. Eban was too important. “Coming, Maggie.”

  21 Trial by Fury

  Bill walked back from the bar with more whiskey. The saloon was becoming crowded and loud. It only added to the rage that boiled inside him. The whiskey had done nothing to ease the sting of dishonor the red-haired woman had caused him.

  He returned to the corner table he had staked out and sat with his back against the south wall, his eyes facing the door. A man came in, passed the bar, and sat at the table next to him, his back to the west. A gambler. He wore a black frock coat over a frilly, lacy shirt, just another leech flooding the country, ruining it because of the lust for gold.

  Bill filled a glass from the bottle and tossed it down. After he had dealt with the woman, he would go back across the mountains and stay. This was no longer a land for a man like him. It would only get worse with more city folk pouring in to mine.

  A man reeking of smoke walked up to the gambler’s table. He threw a lump of gold down. “I’m feeling lucky tonight, Natchez. I’ll go a round with you. Deal it up.”

  “Luck is a lady, my friend, and all you need to do is find the lovely lady, the queen of hearts, and double your money.”

  The gambler showed a card, put it on the table with two others, and mixed them around. His hands were jackrabbit fast, but to Bill, with a hunter’s keen eye, it seemed a simple, silly game.

  “Pick your card, friend. Find your lady luck and win.”

  The miner reached toward a card, hesitated, then picked another. The gambler turned it over.

  “The deuce of spades, my friend. Not a winner. Would you care to double your wager? Luck may still be with you.”

  The man rummaged through his pocket and threw two golden rocks down. “All right, Natchez, double or nothing. Let’s go.”

  Natchez scrambled the cards again. As soon as he stopped, the man fingered the center card. “That’s it. I know it.”

  “Are you sure, friend? Are you truly sure?”

  “Yeah, I seen it the whole time. Turn that doggie over.”

  The gambler moved his hand to the center card then slid it to the left and flipped over the card on the end. It was the queen of hearts. “I’m sorry, my friend. The hand is quicker than the eye.”

  “You got me again, but one day I’m going to find that queen. Your hands ain’t that fast.” He turned back to the bar. Natchez scooped up the gold and dropped it into the pocket of his coat.

  Natchez turned to Bill, aware he had been watching. “It’s a simple game, is it not, my friend? All one needs do is follow the queen of hearts around the table to win your bet. What could be simpler? Would you care to try your skill, sir?”

  Bill poured another shot, tossed it down, then spat on the floor at the feet of the gambler.

  “I understand perfectly, friend. If you don’t feel competent enough to win at such a simple game, you shouldn’t play. After all, you’ve watched these other men, perhaps more sober than you, fail to find the elusive lady luck. Think nothing of it, sir. There are many here who have the skill, and I’m sure one will soon find his fortune at this table.”

  Another man tossed his gold down. The gambler began his spiel again. Bill poured more whiskey. He would leave when the bottle was gone. The gambler bothered him. He downed the shot and poured the last of the whiskey into the glass.

  “The queen of hearts, my friend, you’ve won! Luck is with you today. Here, take your gold and celebrate.”

  “Hooray! Willie, Shep, I beat Natchez Pete at his own game. Let’s have a drink. I’m buying.”

  The man ran off to his friends standing at the bar. Bill swilled the last of his whiskey then threw a lump of gold onto the gamblers table. “I’ll play your game.”

  “That’s fine, friend. A man of your talents will do very well indeed.” Natchez flipped over the queen of hearts and rapidly shuffled the cards around the table. Bill watched his hands like a hawk. The queen should be on his left. He rapped it with a knuckle. The gambler turned it over. It was the deuce of clubs.

  “A very good try, friend, but I’m afraid lady luck wasn’t with you this time. Would you care to double your wager and win back your gold?” Natchez raked the gold from the table and dropped it in the side pocket of his coat.

  Bill threw two nuggets on the table. He watched the gambler shuffle the cards. The queen should be in the center this time. Bill flipped it over. It was the deuce of diamonds.

  “Another very good try, friend—”

  Bill threw the whole purse on the table. “Again.”

  The eyes of Natchez Pete grew wide. The tinge of a smile crossed his lips. “Well now, sir, that’s quite a lot of money, and your luck hasn’t been good. Are you sure you wa
nt to risk so much color on one game?” Pete spoke out loudly and several nearby men turned to his words.

  “Again, now.” Bill snarled.

  “Yes, sir, friend. Right away.” Once more he showed the queen of hearts and began to shuffle the cards, but in the flick of an eye Bill grabbed his hand and turned it over to reveal the queen cradled in the palm while three cards still remained on the table.

  A small flash of fear sparked in the gambler’s eyes. “Oh my friend, a slip of the wrist to be sure. Here let me refund your purse with my deepest apologies.” He pushed Bill’s gold across the table with his free hand.

  Bill tightened his grip on the gambler’s right hand, twisting it painfully and lifting the man from his seat. He pulled the Bowie knife from his boot.

  Natchez Pete paled. He began to shake. “You’re right, friend. Let me sweeten the pot for you.” He reached into the pocket that held his winnings and rummaged his hand around.

  Bill’s eyes bore warily at the pocket that held Pete’s free hand. Bill heard the distinct click of a pistol hammer cocking and acted with the instinct of the wild. The knife lunged into Natchez Pete’s gut, then turned upwards, and settled in his heart. The gambler grunted. His head slumped forward, blood drooling from his mouth.

  Bill grabbed his purse from the table and reached into the gambler’s coat. He pulled out the pistol along with Natchez Pete’s winnings, and stuffed it all into his pockets. He pulled the knife from the gambler’s gut, wiped the blade on the black coat, and stuck it back in his boot. Then he strode out the door of the El Dorado and into the chill autumn night.

  To the east a large crowd of miners milled about in front of the Round Tent Saloon. To his left a wagon was parked on the south side of the street and a lot of animals were on the north, many of these mules from the burned out stable, tied to the rail near the boardwalk. One mule, a beat up old nag with a wide Mexican hat on her head, was standing square in the road.

  Shouts came from the door of the El Dorado. A gunshot zinged past his head as he mounted. The old miner he had paid to deliver the message to the redhead’s cabin sat on the edge of the boardwalk across from the mule, guzzling whiskey.

  “You, get that mule out of my way.” Bill pointed at the mule in the sombrero.

  The crusty old coot looked up drunkenly. “What? Oh, it’s you, mister. Yeah, I’ll move that stubborn critter for you.” Flapjack reeled off his duff and grabbed the mule’s halter.

  More shots rang by Bill’s head. He spun the horse and whacked its rump. More and more men spilled out of the El Dorado, intent on revenge for the gambler. He had to ride and ride fast.

  “Hurry with that mule, ya old coot,” he yelled as he sped toward the narrow gap between the wagon parked on the south of the road and the mule’s rump. Yells, shouts, shots came faster now from behind him. The mule wasn’t budging from the road. His horse had hit full gallop. He had no choice but to squeeze between the animal and the wagon. He yanked the reins to the left.

  The mule’s back feet lashed out, pounding the horse square in his forequarter in full stride, all four of his feet in the air. The horse crashed to the ground atop Bill’s leg. He heard a loud crack, felt the searing, unbearable pain roar up from his shin. He screamed.

  The horse jerked and kicked, trying to get to its feet, each movement rubbing the broken ends of leg bones together, sending more wracking pain to his brain. Bill screamed repeatedly.

  Men surrounded him, yelling, shouting. Fists pummeled his face. Boots slammed his side. The horse jerked again. Bill screamed louder. A gun butt smashed into his temple, then black.

  Memphis pushed his way past the crowd outside the Round Tent Saloon. He smelled deeply of smoke. He was covered with ash, but the flames were now under control. All evening he had kept an eye out for Tom or the men who lived with him in the house on Log Cabin Ravine, but none had been at the fire. It seemed strange. It was their stable, their mules.

  Shouts, then shots erupted from in front of the El Dorado. He picked up his pace. Since the fire started, he had carried an uneasy feeling that something was wrong, something big. He worried that Tom could be involved. Since he had been here, he had heard stories of murder, beatings, and worse, all centered around Maggie.

  There were more shouts, more shots, a mule honking, then blood-chilling screams. A man was in incredible pain. He broke into a run. The shots stopped, and there was only a bedlam of shouts, screams and honks. The screams stopped, then the shouts and only the braying of the mule continued.

  West of the El Dorado was the crowd, gathered in the center of Main Street. He slowed to a walk, huffing, wheezing. He couldn’t see past the men, but the same mule he had seen at the beef stew feed bucked and honked in the middle of the street. The same crusty miner he had seen that day held a rope, trying to control the animal.

  What was it Tom had called him? Yes, he remembered. “Flapjack!” The man turned. “That mule doesn’t like you at all. Let her go.”

  “You talking to me, mister?” Flapjack was drunk.

  “Yes, let the mule go! Now!”

  “Well, yes, sir. You ain’t got to yell so.” Flapjack dropped the rope. The mule snorted, shook her head, and trotted off. “Ornery damn mule.”

  “What happened here, Flapjack?”

  The old miner related the events that had caused the excitement, all the while edging around Memphis toward the El Dorado.

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “I ain’t never seen him. Never, I tell you. I got to have a drink.” Flapjack ran off toward the saloon. Memphis eyed him as he left. Flapjack’s answer had been abrupt, too abrupt.

  The hurt man had been pulled from under the horse, and four men carried him to the saloon. Memphis decided to follow them inside, but another shot rang out. A miner stood over the horse, a smoking pistol in his hand.

  He looked at Memphis and shook his head. “I can’t stand to see an animal suffer.”

  “Yeah, I guess not.” Memphis walked to the saloon, deep in thought. The El Dorado was crowded with miners and gamblers, all imbued with the excitement of the evening and drinking heavily. There would be no poker tonight.

  Memphis pushed his way past the bar and into the back room. The man sat in a chair in the corner, his hands tied behind, his right leg bent eerily outward halfway down the shin. Memphis walked closer. The face was familiar. It was the stranger from Coloma, the man who had asked Alberts about the redhead who Tom now lived with. He had known then the man was trouble.

  Next to him someone sprawled across a table, another drunk, no doubt. But this drunk wore a black frock coat. Natchez wore a black frock coat. He pulled the man’s head up. “Oh, my God!”

  He let the head settle back on the table, gently, and staggered to the bar. He had come here because of the stranger. Natchez had come with him. Now the stranger had killed Natchez. He grabbed the bar rail with both hands, shaking all over. He couldn’t stop.

  A glass dropped onto the bar in front of him. The barkeep filled it then put the bottle beside the glass. “He was your friend, wasn’t he, Memphis?”

  “Yeah, Henry, Natchez was my friend.” He looked down, nodding as he spoke.

  “A real shame. That rascal hit him so fast, like a rattlesnake he was. The bottle is on the house.”

  “Thanks.” He seldom drank, but tonight he needed the whiskey badly. He downed the shot and poured another.

  Yes, Natchez was his friend. It was hard for a gambler to consider another man a friend. It was the nature of the business. Gamblers couldn’t afford to get close to others. Yet Natchez had been different.

  He had spent time with Natchez, teaching him the skills a card player needs, hiding cards, dealing from the bottom, stacking the deck. Natchez learned quickly, and they had moved on to finer details, when to use each of his skills, and when not to. How to pick a mark and lead him in, let him win, build his confidence, then cut him down and take his money when the time was right.

  Natchez must have made a mistak
e, a slip like the one he had made on the Duke of New Orleans, except Natchez had paid for his lapse with his life. Memphis knew the same fate could easily have been his, could still be his. He tossed down another shot of whiskey. With each drink his anger, his rage, grew. A boiling fury filled him. The stranger, the killer of Natchez Pete, needed to die.

  A roar erupted over the clamor that filled the El Dorado. A scuffle had broken out between a miner and a gambler. Now both groups squared off, each yelling at the other. The gamblers wanted swift and certain justice for a killer of one of their own. They wanted the stranger hung as soon as possible. The miners argued that maybe the man had been cheated. Maybe he had a right to kill Natchez. They were for sending to Sacramento City for the sheriff.

  Sending for the sheriff would take days, maybe weeks. The stranger needed to die tonight. It would be an act of mercy, like the man who shot the horse to end his suffering.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” Memphis yelled out, but no one heard him over the din. He pulled his small pistol from his pocket and fired it into the ceiling. The room hushed.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, may I have your attention?” He waited for a beat, time enough to let all eyes find him. “We have a delicate situation here. We have to make a decision that involves a man’s life. Would it not be best to find out all we can about the events of this evening before we decide?” His suggestion was sound. He heard agreement all around.

  “Did anyone see what happened? Did any of you actually see him kill Natchez?”

  A miner stepped forward. “I seen it. I was sitting right down from the killer. They was playing monte. That feller grabbed Natchez’s hand, pulled a knife, then stabbed him quick. Never said a word.”

  “So he never accused Natchez of cheating?”

  “No! Like I said, he never said a word.”

  “Did Natchez say anything before he got stabbed?”

  “Well . . . yeah, he said he was going to sweeten the pot. That’s what he said. Then the guy just stuck him.”

  A gambler stepped forward. “That’s the way I seen it.” Several men cried out in agreement.