CHAPTER 15
Tied Up Tight
“Bonjour, enfant. Make no sudden moves.”
Jem didn’t intend to make any moves—sudden or otherwise. He stood frozen, his fingers curled around the strap of his canteen. Looking down at him from under familiar black eyebrows, Frenchy seemed taller than his six feet two inches. Jem felt like David standing much too close to the giant, Goliath. And a canteen is no sling!
Jem swallowed and said nothing. He could not have spoken even if he wanted to. His throat felt drier than dust. Jean-Claude “Frenchy” DuBois was the last person Jem expected to meet in the middle of nowhere. By now, the miserable claim jumper should have been miles away—maybe clear to Stockton or San Francisco—not within hanging distance of the town that had banished him and his partners weeks ago. If anyone saw them still lurking in the area, the miners’ court would not be so forgiving.
Frenchy swept open his long, black overcoat and holstered the revolver out of sight. “Did I frighten you?” he asked with a grin. His teeth showed yellow and broken through his coal-black beard.
Jem wondered if a nod counted as a sudden move. He decided to keep still and let Frenchy think he was just surprised. As long as he kept his hands from shaking, and his legs didn’t turn to jelly, Jem might even believe it himself.
Frenchy reached out and gripped Jem’s arm. It hurt plenty, but Jem’s tight throat kept him from yelping. “I know who you are. You are the sheriff’s son.” Frenchy spat, as if the word sheriff left a bad taste in his mouth.
Which, Jem figured, it probably did. Frenchy had caused trouble in Goldtown for years. His banishment had been just a matter of time. No doubt the new sheriff—uh, that would be Pa, Jem thought bleakly—had been instrumental in making it happen a lot sooner.
It didn’t look like Frenchy expected an answer, so Jem gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm, clutched his canteen, and stumbled along beside the giant. He was not surprised when they began following the flume downhill.
“I heard barking earlier,” Frenchy remarked. “Thought maybe somebody found their way up here. Then I saw you nosing around, peeking out from behind the brush. Got your curiosity tickled, oui? Enough to blab about what you saw?”
Frenchy sure likes to hear himself talk, Jem thought.
“What are you doing up here?” Frenchy asked. When he received no reply, he squeezed Jem’s arm. “Answer me, enfant.”
Jem didn’t like being called a child in any language, but the pain loosened his tongue. “I’m just killing an afternoon,” he said with a gasp.
“You hiked up here from town?”
Jem nodded.
Frenchy’s black brows rose into his hairline. “That is a long walk for a boy! I think maybe you rode. Yet, I see no horse. So, I wonder … where is it?”
Jem gritted his teeth and focused on staying alert. He felt reassured to see that they were still following the flume. The wooden trough was the best trail marker Jem could have hoped for.
“I think your horse is tied up someplace else,” Frenchy rambled, yanking Jem to hurry him along. “Perhaps near that nosy old man—”
Jem’s sudden intake of breath gave him away.
Frenchy nodded. “Oui, oui, I should have guessed. The old man is a friend”—he chuckled—“or should I say he was a friend? By now he has probably bled out from his accident.”
Boiling hot rage drove every ounce of fear from Jem. He slammed his heels into the ground, twisted his arm, and wrenched free from Frenchy’s grip. Before he could take three steps, though, the man was upon him. He pinned Jem’s arms to his sides and lifted him in the air. The canteen went flying.
“You tried to kill him!” Jem shouted, kicking and thrashing.
“Maybe so,” Frenchy said with a laugh. “But he was too nosy for his own good, poking around where he does not belong. No one would miss an old miner off prospecting.”
“I missed him!” Jem wiggled and squirmed, but it was no use. Frenchy held him fast.
“Shut up and mind your manners.” He dropped Jem to the ground and grasped a handful of dark hair. Jem winced. “The claim is just beyond those trees.”
Anger could keep fear away for only so long. As Jem was led to the torn-up parcel of land Frenchy called a gold claim, dread washed over him. He looked around. The flume ended abruptly, spilling water into a long sluice box before it splashed down the hill in a newly gouged-out gully. Where the water went from there was anybody’s guess.
A large mining hole took up a good portion of the ground just in front of Jem. He peeked over the edge and sucked in his breath. It was a deep hole, dark and dank. A windlass stretched across the top, supported by two posts.
Jem watched a rough-looking miner turn the crank on the windlass. A length of rope wound around a wooden cylinder, and a bucket of dirt and gravel began to slowly make its way up to the surface. As soon as the contents were dumped into a wheelbarrow, the bucket fell back into the hole. Jem stepped back, but not before catching a glimpse of two men at the bottom of the hole, picks in hand.
“We’ve pulled thousands of dollars of gold from that hole,” Frenchy hissed in Jem’s ear. “All we needed was water to wash it.”
Thousands of dollars! Jem gulped. A rich strike indeed. He counted the number of men working the claim. Half a dozen at least. A nice little operation they had going here. No wonder they needed water. Hauling the diggings up the side of the hill to the creek would have been nearly impossible. Without water to wash the gold from the dirt, the claim was worthless.
Frenchy yanked Jem away from the mining hole and shoved him to the ground next to a campfire. A large, black pot hung from a tri-pod over the flames. In spite of his terror, Jem’s stomach turned over in hunger. Whatever they had cooking in that pot sure smelled good! His mouth began to water.
Frenchy squatted beside Jem and gave him a smack across the head. It didn’t hurt—much—but it sure got his attention. “What are we going to do with you, boy?”
The other miners shuffled toward the campfire. They formed a ring around the young intruder and glared at him. “I say we call it quits and hightail it outta here,” one said. “This claim’s playin’ out, anyway. We’re washin’ only a quarter of what we were before. A couple more weeks and it’ll be gone.”
Frenchy scowled at the grime-encrusted miner. He obviously didn’t want to leave any gold behind. “What about you, Jerky?” he asked the man nearest him. “You want out?”
Jerky scratched behind his ear. “I think it’s too risky to stay now. Maybe nobody missed the old man, but I betcha they’re lookin’ for this kid.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice into the fire. “We knew it couldn’t last. Somebody was bound to get curious and come lookin’ for a reason the creek dried up so soon.”
“But not a snot-nosed kid!” Another miner cursed and kicked a rock. It went sailing across the fire pit. “Let’s tie him up. We finish bringing out what’s in the hole and get it washed. Then we pack up and head for Nevada at first light. I say we dump the kid in the hole on our way out. That’ll keep him from blabbin’ to his pa too quick.”
Jem grew cold inside thinking about being trapped in the miners’ hole. One way in. No way out. He dropped his head in his hands and took a long, deep breath. His thoughts turned into a desperate prayer for safety and deliverance … mostly for deliverance. And please, God, don’t let these skunks find Ellie. Maybe I can hold out ’til Pa finds me. In spite of his prayer, clammy fingers of panic clutched his insides.
A swift kick to his leg brought Jem’s head up. Frenchy stood above him, holding a length of rope. “You heard my partners. We cannot let you go. You understand, oui? Now, get up.”
Jem slowly got to his feet. Half a dozen evil gazes bore into him, daring him to make a run for it; wanting an excuse to rough him up and keep him subdued. Jem took one last glance at the pot of grub he had no chance of eating. Then he let Frenchy haul him away from the fire and toward a row of trees at the edge of the claim.
In the di
stance, a new round of Canary’s forlorn “singing” made Jem ask, “Why haven’t you untied the donkey? It’s cruel to keep him tied up out there.”
Frenchy shrugged his indifference. “You should worry less about that baudet and more about yourself, oui? I will find a use for him sooner or later.” Dangling the rope from his hand, he motioned Jem to the ground, then shoved him tightly against the trunk of a young pine. “Which is more than I can say about your usefulness.” His beard split in an ugly grin.
Jem stiffened when Frenchy pulled his arms around the trunk. His shoulders felt like they were being wrenched from their sockets. He clenched his teeth against the searing pain but didn’t make a peep. The scratchy rope bit into his wrists and made them burn. He wiggled his fingers to take the pressure off, but it didn’t help. A pins-and-needles feeling slowly began creeping into his hands.
“Au revoir,” Frenchy said, ruffling Jem’s hair. Then he was gone, back to the cheerful blaze a dozen yards away.
Jem did not return Frenchy’s good-bye. Instead, he sagged against the tree trunk and tried to find a comfortable position. He no longer cared about escape. All he wanted was relief from the pain. His arms ached, his wrists and hands were asleep, and his left shoulder screamed at him. The bark of the pine tree jabbed him in the back. His stomach clenched into a knot tighter than the knots binding him to the tree.
Jem knew that by morning he would be unconscious from the pain—or groggy from lack of sleep, on account of the pain. He didn’t know which was worse. I have to loosen this rope, he determined. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. It did nothing to ease the rope’s bite. It only made the pins and needles stab more viciously.
Jem stopped struggling and leaned his head back against the tree. Against his will, tears sprang to his eyes. The miners had tied him up and left him alone without another thought. They were too busy eating, drinking, and bringing up the last bucketfuls of gold from their hole to care about a frightened young boy tied up in the shadows just beyond their camp. In the morning, they would abandon him with as little conscience as they had when they left Canary tied up to starve.
All that mattered was the gold.
Over the years, Jem had seen gold fever infect plenty of men. It was scary to watch the miners fight and steal, driving themselves to near death as they struggled to strike it rich. They didn’t let anyone stand in their way. They were a law unto themselves, and even the miners’ court was not always effective. Whippings and banishments worked only part of the time. Hangings worked, but only as a last—and permanent—resort.
Thankfully, Jem had never suffered from the effects of gold fever. When the Coulter claim began to play out, Pa didn’t drag his family to the next muddy gold camp, or to the one after that. Instead, he bought a ranch and set out to make a new life.
“Does that life mean taking a job as sheriff too?” Jem asked aloud. It was a new thought—one Jem was reluctant to admit to himself. “Maybe Pa became sheriff to make Goldtown a safer place for us—for Ellie and me, and Nathan and Aunt Rose. And all those others who are tired of letting folks run wild.”
Jem’s gaze turned to the dark shapes grouped around the campfire. “Pa became sheriff to keep me safe from men like them,” he whispered in sudden understanding. Stinging tears pricked his eyes. Of course Pa must know being a sheriff was dangerous! But he was willing to do the job anyway—for his family.
The sky began to darken. The pine’s branches blocked Jem’s view, but he could imagine the first stars of the night dotting the sky. Perhaps the moon would rise too. If so, Pa would not wait until morning. Shivers of hope raced up and down Jem’s spine. “Please let there be a moon tonight,” he whispered. “A full one, lighting up the whole sky.”
Jem waited, but no moonlight turned the forest into shadows. The glow of the campfire soon became the only light Jem could see. His spirits drooped as the fire burned down. Occasional laughter told him the miners were drifting off. It was getting late.
Jem yawned. In spite of the constant burning in his arms and hands, he felt drowsy. Perhaps he could forget his pain and fear in sleep. His head lolled onto his chest.
Scratch, scratch … rustle.
Jem’s eyes flew open. His head snapped up. Fear flooded his mind. Bobcat? Wolf? Bear? The miners had left him alone to be eaten by wild animals! He filled his lungs with air for a shout that would surely get their attention.
“Shhhh!” Ellie’s hand clamped over Jem’s mouth.
The shock of seeing his sister made Jem’s heart race with hope and relief. Then dismay, terror, and red-hot anger took over. He was helpless to do anything about it, though. Ellie’s hand still covered his mouth. He pierced her with a furious glare.
“You can yell at me later,” Ellie whispered, removing her hand. “Do you have your knife?”
Jem nodded. “In my right pocket.”
Ellie dug around in Jem’s trouser pocket. She pulled the knife out and snapped it open. Jem could barely make out her face. Night had fallen, black and heavy.
Without a word, Ellie slipped around to the back of the tree and began to cut her brother loose.
CHAPTER 16
On the Run
Jem shook the pieces of rope from his wrists and staggered to his feet. He didn’t waste time rubbing the feeling back into his arms and legs. Who knew when Frenchy or another miner might check up on their prisoner? He looked around. It was so dark that Jem could barely see three feet ahead.
Ellie whispered something, but Jem hushed her and grabbed her hand. He stumbled along as fast as he dared, away from the glow of the dying embers in the miners’ camp.
They hadn’t gone more than a dozen yards when something huge and black rose up in front of them. Ooof! The force of the impact slammed Jem backward. He clutched his shoulder and groaned. He hadn’t seen that tree, and now he was paying the price for his haste. How will we ever get away? he wondered, sucking in deep breaths.
Ellie whimpered. Jem reached for her hand. “I’m fine,” he told her quietly. “Nothing’s broken. Let’s try it again, but slower this time.” He forced his voice to sound light, but Ellie probably saw right through his attempt to reassure her.
Jem clenched his jaw against the pain and carefully circled the tree. He was the big brother. He had to take charge, even though he was scared silly. He wished Pa was here. His father would make everything all right. But Pa’s not here! I have to keep Ellie safe until he comes for us.
“L-let’s go back to Strike,” Ellie begged. She was shaking, in spite of the warm night. “We can follow the flume to the creek. The stars will give us a little light. Maybe the moon will come out too.”
“We can’t take the chance,” Jem whispered. “We have to stick to the woods.” Right now his only goal was to stay out of sight and get as far away from Frenchy and his ruffians as possible. Direction didn’t matter, and deeper into the forest seemed like a good choice. He kept a tight grip on Ellie’s hand and kept walking.
They crept cautiously through the woods, but it was impossible to avoid every hazard. Jem could not keep back his yelp of shock and dismay when he tripped over a fallen log and sprawled on the ground.
Ellie landed in a heap beside him. “Please, Jem,” she sobbed, “let’s find the flume. It’ll take us straight to the creek. Please? I don’t want to get lost.”
Jem scooted over and sat down on the log to rest and think. Maybe Ellie was right. It was darker than a stack of black cats in the forest, and his aching shoulder reminded Jem of the dangers of being careless. There were worse things than trees to guard against. One false step in the dark, and they could easily find themselves falling into a deep ravine. Or becoming hopelessly turned around in the vast, wooded foothills.
“All right,” Jem said at last. “Let’s find the flume and head for the creek. Maybe the miners are asleep by now, or too drunk to bother checking up on me.” He cocked his head and listened. Although he could see nothing in the dark, murky forest, he could hear the flume. The
steady sound of splashing raised Jem’s spirits. He squeezed Ellie’s hand. “This way. Come on.”
Jem kept them creeping along for what he figured was about twenty minutes, although it felt more like an hour. Every few minutes, he stopped and listened for sounds of pursuit. He could hear nothing over the noise of the leaky flume. It was now their constant companion, a broad trail marker through the woods, even in the dark. The trees had been cut down to make room for the wooden trough, and the water splashed and gurgled past them in a friendly, familiar manner.
Ellie tripped, forcing Jem to stop and yank her to her feet … again. It was the third time she’d stumbled in the past ten minutes. Before he could take three steps, she slumped to the ground and refused to budge. “I’m tired.”
“We can’t stay here,” Jem reminded her. “It’s not safe. We haven’t come very far, what with having to creep around like a couple of snails.” He knew that Frenchy and the others would find them as soon as the sun came up. Worse, Ellie would be caught this time. “We have to keep moving.”
There was no answer. Jem dropped to the ground. He wrapped his good arm around Ellie and gave her a little shake. “Hey, don’t go to sleep.”
Ellie laid her head against him. “I’m tired,” she said, sniffing back tears. “And … and I’m scared. I want Pa.”
“I know,” Jem said. He wondered how long she’d been quietly crying. “Betcha he’ll start out even before the sun comes up. He’ll bring along deputies and plenty of lanterns and torches—enough to light up Cripple Creek so they don’t slip and fall or lose their way.”
Ellie rubbed her eyes. “You really think so?”
“You bet! And Nathan will be with them, of course. He’ll show Pa just where we left the creek. Then they’ll gallop up the hill, over the rise, and find Strike.” He paused. The thought of his injured friend spending another night out in the open made Jem frown. “I hope Strike’s all right.”
“He’s not alone,” Ellie said. “I told Nugget to stay with him.” She sniffed back her tears and took a deep breath. “All right, Jem, I’m ready. You can yell at me now for coming after you.”
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