The three of us, with Stoddard as a silent partner, built a wildly profitable business bringing up mining supplies on a steamer then hauling them by mule train to the remote camps strewn along the Yuba and Feather rivers. And now, after these three years, here was Stoddard, ranting on madly about his lake of gold until even the drunkest of his listeners left, and he began to mutter much as he had the last time I’d seen him.
“Stoddard,” I called. “I’m Micah Poole. Don’t you remember me?”
He gazed back through unfocused eyes, clothes in rags, hair and beard unkempt and littered with the straw he must’ve slept in last night. “I’ve got nuggets,” he mumbled and frantically searched through the pockets of a well-worn frock coat.
“Are you hungry,” I continued, knowing he must be.
His head bobbed up and his eyes finally found me, but he said nothing.
“My wife is an excellent cook and you’re more than welcome,” I added.
Then he shook his head, almost in fear, “No, no, I can’t. I’m not dressed—”
“You’re fine I’m sure. Michelle would love to see you.”
“Michelle Reynard?” he blurted, sounding as sober as a judge.
“Well, yes, before we were married, she’s Michelle Poole now.”
“A beautiful woman! It would an honor, sir,” he said and began to straighten his hair. “Have we met before?” he suddenly asked of me.
“Come along, Stoddard. We have a lot to talk about.” I replied then walked off toward my home. He followed like a puppy, appearing by any measure as the most down and out man in California, while, in truth, he was now among the richest.
Tales from the Promised Land: Western short stories from the California gold rush Page 9