The rock slammed into Scarface’s shoulder, the same one he had stabbed. The killer yelped, dropped his aim, but quickly brought the gun back up.
Tom was ready. He had another rock in his hand, a sparkly one with all the rough, sharp edges. He flung it as hard as he could, right at the killer’s head.
Wham! The throw hit home, popping into the right eye of Scarface. The gun went off again. The ball smashed through the front window. Scar-face roared in pain and grabbed at his eye, blood and thick watery goo draining down his face. Tom hurled another rock, thumping it off of the killer’s chest.
Another pained roar. “I’ll kill you, you useless brat!” Scarface charged straight at him, an empty hole where his eye had been.
Tom had no time to think, no time to throw. He flipped the last three rocks into the killer’s face and ducked under Scarface’s arm as it flew up to protect against the stones. There was nowhere to go except into his room, and he was out of rocks to throw, without any weapon at all now. He looked back to see what scar-face was doing.
He saw Joshua. He was awake, propped up on one hand, shaking his head. He looked groggy, battered, bloody. Maggie’s little pistol was right by his fingers. Joshua didn’t see it.
Scarface saw Joshua too. He was going to shoot him again. Tom charged the killer, yelling as he ran, “Joshua, the gun, by your hand!”
Scarface spun and punched him in the gut, hard. Tom stopped cold, doubled over, his breath gone just like when he was under water at Weber Creek. Scarface grabbed him by the neck and wheeled back to face Joshua.
Joshua’s eyes were fogged, unfocused. His head reeled. His left leg didn’t work right. Blood was everywhere. The stench of gunpowder filled his nose. Where was he? It felt like a battlefield. It smelled like a battlefield. It must be San Pasqual. He forced himself to a knee. God, it hurts! Stay awake! Breathe! Breathe!
He found a gun by his hand and leveled it at the blur in front of him. The blur had to be the Mexican lancer, leering, laughing, ready to kill him. He couldn’t be sure.
He heard someone gasping, heaving. “Five . . . shots!”
Breathless words. Who said it? Joshua frowned. What did it mean?
“You shoot and the brat dies!” Another voice, a familiar voice, but whose?
A woman screamed, “Don’t shoot, Joshua, he’s got your gun. He’ll kill Tom!” Why was a woman at San Pasqual? Who was she? He was confused. His head hurt.
“Five . . . shots!” Someone called in the same breathless voice.
“I’ll do what you want, Jack. Let him go!” The woman again. She was sobbing, pleading. He should know her. She said Jack? Jack . . .
A small crack appeared in the fog. He could see the lancer holding Tom by the throat. The Colt, his Colt, was at the boy’s head. If he fired, the boy would die, but why was the boy at San Pasqual?
“Five shots . . . Joshua, shoot!” The breathless voice again. It was Tom. Five shots. The Colt at Tom’s head was empty.
Joshua took another deep breath. The fog broke. His eyes focused. The lancer was Jack! Jack was holding Tom. He squeezed the trigger. The little gun popped, smoked, and tumbled from his hand.
The fog flowed back. Darkness engulfed him. He teetered, falling.
Another scream.
“Maggie.”
22 The Gold on Hangtown Creek
It was one of those sparkling days that came to California while other places were still locked in the bitter grip of winter. The sky was clear, deep blue, and stretched far beyond the snowcapped Sierra. The air bristled with the feel and sounds of spring. Wrens chirped from the early blooming manzanita and flittered from shrub to shrub. Squirrels chattered in the oaks, rustling the foliage as they scrambled through the limbs.
At the top of a rise he pulled off the blue forage cap and wiped his forehead. It wasn’t burning hot like summer, but, like the mules, he had worked up a sweat. He looked hard at the cap before he put it back on. Sure, it was battered and worn, but it held a lot of memories. To him the hat was a badge, a medal he was proud to wear, real proud.
Down the trail someone sat on a log. He couldn’t see a horse or a wagon nearby. Whoever it was could be in trouble.
“Whoa, mules. Whoa, now.” He pulled the brake as the wagon rolled to a stop. The guy climbed to his feet and waved. He was young, maybe seventeen, and already looked tattered, tired, the struggle to survive worn into his clothes and face.
“Can you give me a ride to Hangtown? I come all the way from Coloma. I sure would be grateful.”
“Throw your gear up and get on. The town’s just ahead.”
The guy tossed a bag aboard then climbed onto the seat. “I’m happy to see you. I been walking since dawn.”
He cracked the reins over the team and let loose the brake. “Get up, mules. Let’s go.” The wagon rolled easily down the slope. “Been in Coloma long?”
“Since early fall. Came up from Sacramento City after my pa died. Tried mining till I ran out of money. It was tough after that. Everybody’s talking about Hangtown, how it’s growing fast. Maybe I can find a steady job there.”
“Coloma can be a hard town sometimes. You better hang on. The trail’s been washed out with all the rain. It’s pretty rough from here to town. Gee, mules, gee! Come on now, gee!” Dodging the potholes and exposed rocks took all his concentration and his energy. He wasn’t of a mind to break an axle or get stuck in a rut. It was too close to suppertime.
Back and forth he swung the heavy wagon, riding the brake, tugging the reins, yelling at the mules. At last the road leveled, and they broke out of the cover of the forest into a long, narrow valley, a stream before them, a town to the left. “Well, we made it.”
His passenger perked up and looked about. “Wow, this is Hangtown? Then that must be Hangtown Creek.” The lead mules splashed into the water as he spoke.
“Yeah, that’s what they’re calling it now.”
“Holy smokes, folks say a whole lot of gold come out of there.”
“They’re still mining up and downstream. Most of the gold’s in the ravines.” They splashed through the water, and he began to gently turn the wagon up Main Street.
“Where did they hang those two guys anyway?”
“On up a ways, by the hay barn.” Everybody talked about the hanging. It was a night he would rather forget.
The street was busy as miners gathered for their one night of recreation before a Sunday of rest. His rider was busy gawking at the sights and thankfully asked no more questions about that night. The new stable was just ahead. Though built on the same spot, it was a lot bigger than the old one with a hayloft and a room for a stableman to live in. Folks said that the money came from the Injun guy that got hung. Henry at the El Dorado had it done because Eban helped him out once. He pulled the wagon inside.
A man came running up. “Good to see you, Mister Tom, yes, it is.”
“Afternoon, Obadiah. This here’s—” he turned to his passenger. “Say, what’s your name anyway?”
“It’s Link, Link Holcombe.”
He turned back to the old stable hand. “Obadiah, if Link is willing to work, he can help you with the mules, then you can unload this brandy in an empty stall. When you’re done, come down for supper. Link can sleep in the loft tonight. Tomorrow he’ll be riding with me.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Tom. Right away, oh, yes, sir.”
He hopped to the ground and strode to the doors. Behind him he heard Link ask Obadiah, “But he’s a kid. Did he just give me a job?”
“Yes, he did, Mister Link. He may be young, but Mister Tom’s the boss here and a real good one too. A real good one.”
As he walked down the street, he felt sort of bad. He had been barking orders like Hank did when Pa wasn’t around. He was bone tired. It had been seven days a week from well before sunup until way after dark for too long. He needed more help. The freight line was growing too fast for him to keep up.
A lamp burned in the new freight office as he passed. He h
urried on to the café. A sign in the window said Maggie’s Café—opening Monday. The bell on the door jingled when he walked in. He called out anyway, “Maggie, you here?” He left the door ajar, walked to a table near the counter and sat.
A pot of beef stew steamed on the stove. The smell of bread baking filled the room. Maggie appeared in the door to the kitchen. She looked great. Her face had healed up without any marks at all. “Tom, oh, you look exhausted. I’ll get you some coffee.”
She put a steaming mug in front of him and took a seat across the table. “Do you feel any better about delivering the brandy now that you know it came from Mr. Vallejo’s rancho?” She smiled at him. Her smiles always made him feel better.
“I guess I was just tired and grumpy. I’m sorry I yelled. I like Mr. Vallejo a lot, and we’ll get more business from him. Joshua likes brandy, and I like him a lot too so—”
The bell jingled and Eban walked in. “I like brandy. Do you like me too?”
Tom shrugged up a grin. Eban looked better every day. Sure, he was thin and gaunt and his salt and pepper hair had turned full gray, but he worked in the freight office now. It was a good sign. “Sure I like you, Eban. You know that.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Feeling better too. I’ll be driving in a week. That ought to take some of the load off you.” He sat down at the table. Maggie went to get more coffee.
“Take your time, Eban. Make sure you’re really ready. I hired a new guy today. We can start him on the Coloma run in a couple of days.”
“What do you mean by hiring someone without talking to the owners, Son?”
Tom gulped. It was Joshua, standing beside the door that Eban had left open. He had a stern look on his face, helped a lot by the new black suit and flat-brimmed hat he wore. “Ah, I thought . . . ah . . .”
“You thought that since you’ve been doing all of the work for so long you could do as you please. Well, we’ll see about that.” Joshua hobbled over to the table, leaning heavily on the walking stick he needed now. The scar-faced guy had shot his left leg up real bad. Maggie wasn’t sure it would ever work right.
As Joshua struggled into the last chair, Maggie put a mug of coffee down for both Eban and Joshua then went behind Tom and put her hands on his shoulders. Tom looked up at her and stammered, “I was just trying to . . .”
“No excuses now,” Joshua interrupted. “We’ve talked it over, Maggie, Eban, and I, and we’ve decided that from now on only owners will make decisions that affect the business. I had a paper drawn up to that effect and we need you to sign it right now, Tom.” He pulled a folded sheet from his coat pocket and pushed it across the table.
He thought he was doing the right thing for everyone, and now Joshua was mad at him. “I won’t do it anymore, Joshua, honest.”
Maggie reached back to the counter and picked up a pen, dipped it into the inkwell and gave it to him.
Joshua pounded his finger on the place where he was supposed to put his name. With another gulp, he signed. He didn’t know what he had done wrong. He was doing the best he could, trying to keep things working.
“Maggie, put the paper on the counter and let the ink dry. We don’t want anything to happen to such an important document.” Joshua yanked the paper from him and gave it to her.
She took the pen as well and put both on the counter. Suddenly she ripped the army hat from his head and threw it into Joshua’s face. “Joshua Stone, I swear that black suit is making you as mean as Lucifer. That’s enough.”
Eban started to chuckle, then Joshua joined in. Tom’s eyes went from one man to the other. Everyone had been mad at him just a second ago, now they laughed. He looked back to Maggie.
She smiled and shook her head at the same time. “Tom, these two have been pulling your leg, and it wasn’t a nice thing for them to do.” Both men roared with laughter now. “That paper you signed made you a full partner in the freight line. We all thought you deserved it after everything you’ve done. I don’t know why Joshua decided to act like a child about it.”
“Me, a partner? Wow!” They had been playing a joke on him, pulling his leg like Jess used to do, but Jess never made him a partner in anything. He grinned.
Maggie leaned over and gave him a hug. “Oh, Tom, that night, if you had left when I wanted you to, all three of us would be dead now. But you didn’t. You stayed, and we are all so grateful you did.”
Joshua stifled his glee. “Maggie’s right, but then you had the sense to count the shots in my Colt. You were the only one who knew the gun was empty. And you had the brains to tell me it was empty. Otherwise I would have had to put Maggie’s little gun down.” Joshua reached out and stuck the army hat back on Tom’s head. “You’re a real hero here, Tom.”
Eban quit chuckling and turned serious. “I missed all that, Tom, but the first day you got here, I said you was going to be a big help. Well, the freight company is doing four times the business it was, and that’s all because of you. You deserve to be a partner. You mean more to us than all the gold on Hangtown Creek ever could.”
Tom looked around the table again, staring deep into the eyes of his new friends, his new family. They meant it. They made him a partner. It wasn’t just a job anymore. It was a life, with a future, and with people he loved. “Holy smokes!”
He thought about Pa and Ma, Hank and Jess too. They were still with him. He could feel them. But now he had new friends, a new family, a new life. Pa had said he would be a man someday. Well, that day had come. He knew it now.
He started to laugh. He couldn’t help himself. Maggie joined him, then Joshua and Eban started up again. They laughed long and deep. The stress, the fear, the hardship boiled from their souls, purging the poisons of the past from their hearts, and welcoming hope into the void. They had survived. They had won . . . together.
THE END
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John Rose Putnam
About the Author
John came west as a young man and settled in Berkeley where he graduated from the University of California. He still lives and writes there and often gives a talk on the California gold rush to the gang at the Freight and Salvage.
He spent a lot of time digging into that gold rush too and many of his stories take place back then. John's characters are so real they'll jump right off the page and talk to you; his villains have hearts as cold as midnight and his heroes almost always do the right thing in the end.
He's working up quite a reputation for his knowledge of that era too. His blog, My Gold Rush Tales, attracted the interest of some TV folks and he appeared in a segment for the Travel Channel about Henry Meiggs, the man who built San Francisco's famous Fisherman's Wharf.
While his first novel, Hangtown Creek, a story of adventure, romance, and coming of age in the early days of the gold rush, was published in 2011, his brand new book, Into the Face of the Devil, moves between Hangtown and the sawmill where James Marshall first found gold, and pits a young man in love for the first time against a killer so evil he could pass for Satan.
Find more great titles by John Rose Putnam here.
Hangtown Creek: A Tale of the California Gold Rush (A Tom Marsh Adventure Book 1) Page 28