Tales from the Promised Land: Western short stories from the California gold rush

by John Rose Putnam

  She snuggled closer and mumbled something I took to mean that she was listening so I continued, “Then they had to send more troops back into Kabul to put a stop to those Afghan renegades who killed Major Cavagnari. The Khan there, Mohammed Yakub, abdicated and the British plan to send him to India.” I let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s been quite a mess all over the world for those Brits.”

  “Oh, war and fighting! Don’t men think of anything else?” she whispered but still managed to sound petulant.

  “Well, it is important, dear.” I thumbed back a few pages. “But there is another story here about Thomas Edison. Remarkable! He says he’s found a way to light up a room with just a little glass ball. He thinks it will completely replace the lamps we use today. Of course there are those who say it’s all just a parlor trick. Still—”

  “Watsonville!” the conductor yelled from behind us. “Watsonville in two minutes. Passengers to Santa Cruz transfer here. Watsonville, two minutes!”

  “This is our stop,” I offered but Charlotte had already sat up, pulled out a small mirror and was straightening her beautiful brown hair that she had pinned in a bun under a black velvet hat with a tan brim that curled up sharply on each side. The hat, and the charcoal gray polonaise dress she wore that accented every turn in her shapely figure, were the latest fashion from Paris and had cost me a small fortune, but she did look stunning.

  Through the window beside her I saw houses now where before there had only been empty fields. The whistle blew and Charlotte quickly dabbed at her face with a pad, but no matter how much powder she applied it couldn’t cover the worry that was etched in her eyes. I had taken time off from my work in San Francisco at her insistence, but in spite of my best efforts all I could get her to say was that her Uncle Charley was sick and she needed to see him right away. I’d never heard her mention Uncle Charley before. In fact, aside from a younger stepsister, I knew little of her family.

  Steam vented from the engine with a loud whoosh and was quickly followed by the screech of brakes as the train began to slow. A drummer, pushing his way to the front of the car with a large sample case in one hand and a small carpetbag in the other, stumbled forward awkwardly at the change in speed. Charlotte was fidgeting, eager to join the crowd in the aisle but I took her hand. “There’s no hurry, dear. We have a carriage waiting at the station and a porter will take our bags to the hotel. There are advantages in working for the railroad, you know.”

  She looked at me, her face blank. “Thank you, Caleb, for being so patient. I wish I could explain things to you, but I simply don’t know how, at least not yet.”

  I gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “Well, I’m sure we’ll have this resolved by tomorrow morning. Our train leaves at seven.”

  “Yes, dear,” she sighed in the same petulant tone she’d used before. We’d had this discussion earlier, just after the Palo Alto station. She wanted to stay another day, maybe more, though she knew I had work to do. Try as I might, I simply could not convince her that without my job there would be no new dresses from Paris.

  Charlotte was a remarkable woman, but something about this Uncle Charley had consumed her. Since she’d received the letter two days ago the look of worry, or fear, or whatever it was hadn’t left her eyes. It was all she had talked about, and then only when prodded. Frankly, I was deeply concerned about her, but I did have my position to consider. Several new, important contracts sat on my desk awaiting approval.

  The station appeared in the window. The whistle blew, brakes squealed, cars clattered into couplings, and our coach rolled to a stop in the center of the platform just as the engine exhaled the last of its unused steam with a great wheeze. The aisle cleared quickly and we made our way to the front. She took a firm grip on me just above my elbow and we stepped down from the train together. A porter rushed up with my valise under an arm and one of her two suitcases in each hand.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Brandon,” he said to me but his eyes quickly moved to my wife. “Ma’am,” he mumbled, looking completely ill at ease around such a lovely, fashionably clad woman.

  “Sam, this is Mrs. Brandon,” I said to cover his awkwardness.

  ‘”Pleased, ma’am. Mighty pleased,” he muttered then put one suitcase down and, with a slight bow to Charlotte, doffed his cap.

  “How do you do, Sam,” she replied.

  “Is our room available?” I asked and Sam pulled his eyes back to me.

  “Oh, yes sir. I’ll be taking your luggage over for you. And the carriage you wanted is waiting just behind the station. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

  “No, Sam, thank you,” As soon as I spoke a thought came to me. “But then maybe you could help out with some directions. You see we’re here because one of Mrs. Brandon’s relatives is ill, a man named Charley—”

  “Oh, you must mean Six-gun Charley.” Sam exclaimed with a bright smile that suddenly melted as he realized his gaff. “I beg your pardon ma’am. It’s just that—”

  “I understand, Sam. I haven’t heard that before. Please, tell me how he came by such a name?” She graced Sam with a polite smile, the first I’d seen from her in days.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he began. “Charley drove a stagecoach, you know, one of the best with a four-in-hand there’s ever been. It was maybe twenty years ago when a bandit called Sugarfoot held up Charley’s stage. Well, that didn’t sit right with Charley so he got himself a .44 Colt and practiced every spare minute. Then a few months later, when old Sugarfoot tried it again, Charley plugged that rascal right in the heart. Sugarfoot caused a lot of trouble in these parts back then. That shooting made Charley a hero here.”

  Charlotte frowned, and I spoke before she could respond. “Thank you, Sam, but do you know where Charley lives. We’d like to get there while it’s still light.”

  Sam glanced into the clear December sky. “It’s mid-afternoon now. You can make it there and back by dark if you hurry.” He picked up Charlotte’s suitcase again. “Charley lives in a cabin on the Hardin place. That’s about six miles down the road toward Santa Cruz. You can’t miss it. Follow me, sir, ma’am.” He led the way to the back of the station where a shay pulled by a fine looking buckskin stood waiting.

  After I gave Charlotte a hand into the buggy I rummaged through my pocket for a gold five-dollar half eagle coin then turned back to the porter who waited on the rear platform. “Sam,” I said in a quiet voice, “I don’t know this Charley fellow but there seems to be something very troubling about him. Tell me, do you know of anything this man has done that might cause harm or embarrassment to my wife?”

  “Oh, no sir, Mr. Brandon.” Sam exclaimed in a confident tone. “Least nothing I ever heard of. Sure Charley drank some but not near as much as a lot of men. He did love an occasional cigar and, like most stage drivers, he enjoyed a good chaw. Fact is, some of the churchwomen in town say the tobacco chewing is what caused the cancer in Charley’s tongue, but I don’t hold with that kind of talk. Most right thinking men don’t.”

  “So it’s a cancer he has.” I reflected. “Well, I still have an uncomfortable feeling about this Uncle Charley. And I don’t want my wife hurt in any way. I would appreciate very much, Sam, if you wouldn’t mention Mrs. Brandon’s relationship with him to anyone. Can I count on you?” I reached out to shake Sam’s hand, the gold coin shining in the center of my palm. My meaning was clear.

  The porter’s eyes widened, he dropped the suitcase again and quickly shook the offered hand. “Oh, no sir. I won’t say a word, sir. You can count on Sam Barksdale.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” I said with a nod, then climbed into the buggy, snapped the reins over the buckskin and Charlotte and I were off to see her Uncle Charley.

  For nearly an hour we rode past fields that looked no different than the ones I saw from the train, but then we entered a sweet scented pinewood filled with the chirp of small wrens and bushtits. Charlotte, who had said almost nothing since the station, perked up as if she knew where we were going, he
r eyes scanning the road from right to left.

  “There it is,” she blurted in a voice much too loud and filled with more excitement than I’d heard from her in days. Her left arm pointed to an open, wooden gate with ‘Hardin Ranch’ written on a faded sign nailed to one post. I turned the buckskin into the drive and the pinewoods gave way to the deep and solemn power of majestic redwoods. Charlotte sat on the edge of her seat now, the anxiety she had carried with her for the last few days pasted clearly across her face.

  A large ranch house stood at the edge of the trees to the left, but just ahead the road split, with the fork to the house looking the more often used. Charlotte pointed firmly to the less traveled route. “That way,” she declared as assuredly as I had ever heard her speak. I didn’t question her choice but turned the shay deeper into the quiet afternoon peace of the redwoods.

  In a short while we came upon a rustic cabin in a small clearing. A mare, harnessed to another shay, waited patiently near the steps of a covered porch. Inside a window to the right of the door a lamp burned, and the filigree of lace curtains could be seen as dark shadows against the glass. Walls of overlapping redwood planks rose to a roof thick with cedar shakes that surrounded a brick chimney from which thin wisps of smoke curled gently upward to filter away into the trees. Someone was home.

  I gave Charlotte a hand down from the carriage and she turned and slumped into me, her fingers clutching my shoulders. Then she kissed my cheek just to the side of my mustache. I wanted to pull her even closer and give her a proper buss but the door to the cabin swung open and a man in shirtsleeves, tie undone and a splash of gray in his hair and moustache stepped out holding wire-framed spectacles in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. He stopped on the porch and began wiping the lenses with the cloth, waiting politely for our embrace to end.

  “Good afternoon.’ I said. “Is this the home of Charley—?”

  “Are you Charlotte?” the man asked, rudely interrupting me.

  At his words Charlotte spun to the porch. “Dr. Rutledge?” she queried.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Please, come in. Quickly.” Dr. Rutledge tucked the handkerchief into his pants pocket and hooked the spectacles over his ears while I reluctantly walked Charlotte to the steps. “Not you Mr. Brandon,” He said as soon as the glasses were fitted. “I’ll have to ask you to wait outside, if you don’t mind.”

  “But I do mind,” I replied with some force. “This is my wife.”

  “Charlotte will be fine, I assure you,” he said in calm voice but the look on his face was as serious as any I’d ever seen.

  She turned to me. “I’ll be okay, Caleb, please do as he says.”

  I heaved a grudging sigh but nodded.

  “Thank you, dear,” she whispered as she squeezed my arm, then walked alone up the steps. Dr. Rutledge ushered her into the cabin and closed the door.

  Suddenly I felt quite abandoned while at the same time my worry over Charlotte peaked. I had no idea what she would find inside and could only hope it would provide some comfort to the tribulation this whole affair had caused her. A pair of wicker chairs beside a small, glass-topped table with a flowered porcelain ashtray placed atop a lace doily occupied the end of the porch opposite the window where the lamp burned. I pulled the magazine from the inside pocket of my brown frock coat and sat.

  In the sports section I found an item about how, at the recent meeting of owners in Buffalo, the National League had voted to adopt the reserve clause which gave teams exclusive rights to their players. As a resident of San Francisco I had little use for east coast dalliances but it would keep my mind from Charlotte and whatever was happening in the cabin behind me, at least for a time. The author went on at length about how this new rule would solidify rosters, boost team rivalries and undoubtedly increase the appeal of baseball in the eastern cities.

  I pulled my watch from the right pocket of my vest, flipped the lid and checked the time. If we were to leave now we would barely make it to our hotel before dark, but I saw no sign that Dr. Rutledge was done with Charlotte. So I thumbed through the magazine again until a headline caught my attention, “Dayton saloon owner invents incorruptible cashier,” it said. The device seemed interesting and might well be something that could save the railroad a small fortune. I read on.

  James Ritty ran a high-class dining and drinking establishment and took in large sums of cash daily, some of which his employees would simply pocket. While on a cruise, Mr. Ritty saw a mechanism that recorded the number of turns of the screw propeller on the ship. He adapted this idea so that by pressing a key designating a certain amount of money his incorruptible cashier would record the sale. It seemed a fabulous idea. I had long harbored a deep feeling that a few of our employees were also dipping into the till when possible and resolved to get in touch with Mr. Ritty as soon as I could.

  A glance at the sky between the redwoods told me clearly that the sun would soon set. I checked my watch again to be sure. My patience was near its limit as the good Dr. Rutledge and Charlotte had been tucked away inside the cabin for the better part of an hour. Already I could feel the chill of the late afternoon sea breeze from the Pacific Ocean, not too many miles distant. I stuffed the well-read magazine into my coat and stood, determined to inquire after my wife.

  As I reached for the latch the door swung in and I stared into the somber face of Dr. Rutledge. “Mr. Brandon, your wife is a strong woman,” he began, “but this has been difficult for her. If you truly love her, and she believes you do, then you will listen carefully to all she has to tell you, no matter how inexplicable you find her situation. She needs the understanding of her husband now more than at any time in her life. I must ask for your word, sir.”

  “Of course, I will do anything, anything at all, for Charlotte,” I declared as my anxiety grew. “But what is it? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Charlotte is as healthy as she can be, but I trust you will be better able to accept her explanation than mine.” The doctor took a step back and motioned for Charlotte, who must have waited just behind the door.

  She stopped beside the doctor. “Thank you,” she whispered to him softly.

  He pulled the wire-framed spectacles from his face and nodded. “You take care now,” he replied and the trace of a reassuring smile crossed his lips.

  “I’m sorry I was so long, Caleb,” she said to me as she walked onto the porch. Tucked tightly under her arm she carried a package wrapped loosely in brown paper.

  “We have time,” I assured her as I walked her to the shay and helped her in. With the buckskin at a steady trot we soon turned south onto the main road to Watsonville. Charlotte sat erect, unmoving, her arms clutching the bundle tight to her bosom as if the brown paper wrapper held a fortune in bank notes or securities and she was desperately afraid of losing them. Her red, puffy eyes evidence of tears shed recently.

  I held my tongue in spite of both my heightened concern for her and my unbounded curiosity. Perhaps heeding the warning of Dr. Rutledge, or maybe a hidden instinct deep within my own heart, I waited for her to speak first and unfold to me the mystery of her Uncle Charley and what she had discovered at his cabin.

  After a mile or so, without warning, she began. “There’s a book in this package, Caleb, an album. It’s filled with news clippings about me, from the announcement of my birth through our wedding, our children, even your promotions at the railroad; practically everything in my life is here.” She spoke in a flat voice, as if all the emotion had been wrung from her like water from a cloth. But I knew her too well to believe that.

  “There’s a pair of baby booties and a tiny dress, too. They were mine.” Her voice cracked. With pursed lips she fought tears that now gathered, unstoppable, inside her.

  “There’s a letter to me that explains everything,” she bravely went on. “You see, Caleb, Charley wasn’t my uncle. Charley wasn’t even a man. Charley’s real name was Charlotte. She’s my mother. I held her hand. She smiled at me, and then she died.”r />
  “My Lord!” I whispered, almost under my breath.

  “She loved me so much, but she also loved driving a stagecoach. She was one of the best. But she couldn’t live that life and still raise me to be a lady, so she gave me to a wonderful woman who could. The funeral is day after tomorrow. Caleb, please?”

  “I’ll telegraph my office in the morning,” I vowed, my own voice breaking as I pulled her close. Tears flowed freely, and fell as easily from my eyes as hers. And yet, through these bleary orbs, I could see clearly now why I loved her so deeply.

  Payback at Murderer’s Bar

  Some things are more important than all the gold in the world

  Sunshine suddenly flooded through the open door of the cabin. I picked up the crutch my eldest, Enos, had fashioned from an alder branch and limped outside. Thick, dark clouds still roiled above the river as far as I could see, but off to the west a small gap between heaven and earth had given the setting sun a last brief opportunity to remind us of the glory of its existence.

  It was a welcome sign. Rain had fallen in a steady downpour since yesterday morning, starting just after we’d finally finished work on the flume. All summer long nearly four hundred men, most new to California, had toiled together to this one end. We’d even hauled a horse-powered sawmill up from Sacramento to turn the trees of the canyon into lumber. When it looked like we weren’t going to finish on time we’d toted piles of canvas in by mule back and painstakingly stitched it across a wooden frame twelve feet wide by three feet high that stretched more than a mile downstream.

  Using more heavy timber reinforced with rock, we’d built a wing dam a hundred yards upstream that crossed to the gravel of Murderer’s Bar where it hooked up with the flume. The whole thing was carefully contrived to direct the water down the canvas-covered chute so that we could mine the riverbed. Men had already pulled most of the gold from the bars and gullies above the waterline but an unimaginable bounty still lay at the bottom of the stream. During a short break from the rain this morning two men had dug out over nine pounds of gold before breakfast. Everyone was eager to get started.