Mr. Sterling puffed up like a turkey gobbler. “Sheriff Coulter, you are paid to protect every citizen in Goldtown. I expect protection for my property, as well. Hire the deputies you need. Do I make myself clear?”
Pa gave Mr. Sterling a curt nod. “I will do my best, sir. But I can’t promise anything with the mood the miners are in.” Without another word, Jem and his father left the parlor, hurried down the hallway, and saw themselves out of the Sterlings’ home.
When they stood on the front porch, Jem sagged. “Mr. Sterling’s awful mad.”
“No, Jem,” Pa told him, clapping his hat on his head. “He’s just awful scared, and I can’t say I blame him. He has a pile of decisions to make in the coming weeks. And none of them will be easy.” He looked around. “What happened to the wagon?”
“It’s probably ’round back,” Jem said. “I hope Nathan unloaded the wood.”
They made their way to the kitchen entrance and found Nathan and Ellie stacking the last of the order in the woodshed. Ellie slammed the door, latched it, and skipped over to Jem.
“All done.” It looked like a dozen new freckles had popped out on Ellie’s cheeks this afternoon. Drops of sweat glistened on her forehead. “It wasn’t so bad,” she bragged, grinning.
“Stacking wood is the easy part of the firewood business,” Jem reminded her. “It’s the chopping and splitting that wears you down.”
Ellie lost her grin. She wrinkled her forehead, bit her lip, and gave her brother a resentful look. “I guess you’re right about that.”
Nathan brushed the dirt and scraps from his hands and wandered over to stand by his cousins. He looked in worse shape than Ellie. His greased hair stuck straight up, dust covered his face, and his white shirt was smeared with pitch and fine bark dust.
Pa pushed back his hat and whistled. “Rosie won’t like seeing your Sunday shirt in that condition. Pine pitch is sticky and lasting. I’m not sure even boiling will get it out.”
Nathan didn’t seem to care. “Can we go home now? I’m hot and tired.”
“Soon as I collect our pay,” Ellie said. She darted to the back door. A minute later she returned with a fistful of coins and a small brown bag. “The money’s for you, Jem”—she dropped the silver in her brother’s hands—“and the doughnuts are for all of us. The Sterlings’ cook is a wonder.”
The doughnuts smelled fresh and hot. Warm grease soaked through the paper sack. Jem’s mouth watered as he reached for his share of the treat.
“You get two,” Ellie told him, “on account of you being hurt an’ all. Isn’t Cook the nicest cook in the whole world?” She bit into her doughnut and sighed. “I’d deliver firewood in trade for doughnuts any day,” she mumbled, her mouth full of the hot, tender pastry.
Jem chewed silently and studied the coins in his hand. Fair’s fair, he decided. He divided the money equally into thirds and passed Nathan and Ellie their shares. “It looks like you’ll have to deliver the load to the Wilsons too,” he said. It hurt only a little to slip the small amount of leftover money into his pocket. “But just this once. By next week, I’ll be fine.”
Ellie gaped at the coins in her hand. “Thanks, Jem! This is more than you give me for catching frogs.” She looked up at her brother. “Stacking wood was heaps more fun than sitting around upstairs, playing with Maybelle’s silly dolls. All she wanted to do was talk about the time she went to San Francisco to see the opera. She sang me one of the songs, and I’ll tell you this: Maybelle is no nightingale. More like a screeching crow.”
Jem burst into laughter. So did Pa. Even Nathan cracked a smile.
“Enough,” Pa finally said. “We’re finished here, so let’s load up and get going. I need to collect my horse, then I’ll drive you to Wilsons’.” Pa shook his head when Jem opened his mouth. “No, you are not driving this wagon anywhere. Not with your injury. Besides, the Wilsons live in town, and I’d just as soon you didn’t deliver wood there alone today.” His voice turned somber. “In fact, I want you kids to stay away from town for a while.”
Pa didn’t have to tell them why. Jem knew. Goldtown was a rowdy, rough-and-tumble gold camp, but most days it was safe to walk the streets. But now? With nearly a hundred restless miners out of work, the saloons would overflow. Uncertainty about the future would lead to more arguments and fistfights—maybe even robberies and gunplay.
Goldtown’s sheriff would have his hands full.
Please, God, Jem prayed as Pa turned the wagon around and headed back down the hill, let the mine reopen soon. I’ll never complain about that noisy stamp mill again. Don’t let Goldtown turn into a ghost town!
CHAPTER 6
Cripple Creek
Young’un, if ya don’t stop fussin’ over me, I’m gonna toss ya down the nearest mining hole and leave ya there.” The scruffy prospector glared at Jem from under shaggy eyebrows and reached for the contraption sitting next to him. He curled his fingers around a long handle and set the wood box on rockers into motion. Back and forth, back and forth, the cradle sifted gravel, water, dirt, and—hopefully—a gold nugget or two.
Jem dropped the bucket he was carrying. Water sloshed over the lip. “Hang it all, Strike! Panning for gold is hard enough when a fella has two good arms. How do you expect to do it with only one?”
Strike rose from his hunched-over position next to the rocker. He let go of the handle, slung a droopy suspender back in place, and lifted the pail. “Like this.” Steadying the bucket on one knee, he tried pouring the contents through a screen on top of the rocker. The bucket tipped and wobbled. Most of the water missed the target and splashed on the rocks and back into Cripple Creek.
Jem shook his head. Strike-it-rich Sam was as hard-headed as his donkey, Canary. But his stubbornness was probably the only reason the miner was still alive. A little over a month ago, Strike had been left to die out in the middle of nowhere. No wonder a “little thing” like a broken arm couldn’t keep him down.
“If you let me help, I wouldn’t spill a drop,” Jem said. “I’ll pour, and you can rock.”
“Nothin’ doin’. You got your hands full with that cousin of yours,” Strike muttered, letting the bucket clatter to the ground. He went back to working the rocker’s handle with one hand. His other arm lay wrapped and splinted in a makeshift sling. He used his chin as a pointer. “Lookee there. I don’t think the tenderfoot’s got the hang of it yet. Leastways, he doesn’t look serious.”
Jem glanced at the creek in time to see Nathan take another tumble into the water. He heard Ellie’s high-pitched giggle and watched the two of them turn their gold pans into weapons of war. An all-out water fight followed. Whatever gold might have been in their pans was now halfway down the creek.
There probably wasn’t more than a sprinkling of gold dust anyway, Jem thought. He thrust his hand into his pocket and felt the soft, worn leather of his half-empty gold pouch. During the past week, he’d spent every afternoon at Cripple Creek, with Aunt Rose’s blessing. She had clucked and fussed over Jem’s injury, then let him off from any heavy chores around the ranch for a few days.
“Sitting next to the creek and swishing a gold pan is no work,” she’d told him. Which showed Jem that his aunt knew nothing about the business. Panning for gold was plenty of work. “It even sounds restful,” she’d said. “Hurry along and heal quick. I need you, now that Matt is gone so much.”
Jem knew the ranch was suffering, but he’d obeyed before Aunt Rose changed her mind. My dream come true! Or so he thought. But his heart was not in it. The silence of the abandoned stamp mill kept Jem’s mind on the fate of the Midas mine—not on how much gold he could coax out of Cripple Creek. He’d found only a dozen gold flakes and four pea-sized nuggets this week.
“Pa doesn’t tell me a thing,” Jem complained. “He eats breakfast, grabs his hat, and rides off to town every morning.” He picked up a rock and pitched it in the creek. “Nothing gets done at home. The spring calves haven’t even been branded yet.” He turned to see if Strike
was listening. “Pa promised to teach me this year. What if they—”
“If you want to make yourself useful,” Strike hollered over the rattling of the rocker, “you can fetch me a cup o’ coffee.”
Jem rolled his eyes. Strike hadn’t heard a word he’d said. But at least he wants a little help. Jem was eager to give his friend a hand, even if it only meant getting coffee. He scrambled up the creek bank and over to the ring of blackened stones surrounding the prospector’s campfire. It had burned low, so Jem stirred the coals and added a piece of wood. He found Strike’s battered tin cup, reached for the ladle in the coffee pail … and stopped.
Something soggy and dark gray hung over the edge of the simmering bucket of brew. He peered closer. A sock? Careful to keep from getting burned, Jem pinched the edge of the sock and slowly lifted it up. Thick, dark liquid dripped back into the bucket. Jem brought the sock to his nose and sniffed. Ugh! It was stuffed with coffee grounds.
As if Strike’s bitter brew wasn’t disgusting enough! Jem was pretty sure the new coffee recipe did not include a clean sock. Strike had no clean clothes. I bet if I look inside his boots, I’ll find only one sock.
Jem shuddered and dropped the sock back in the pail. “What kind of tomfool idea is this?” he wondered aloud.
“I can tell you.”
Jem whirled at the laughing voice. A boy he’d never seen before stood several yards away. He was taller than Jem, and stockier, with black hair and bright blue eyes. A wide-brimmed hat perched on his head, and his fists were planted on his hips.
“Who’re you?” Jem challenged.
The boy dropped his arms and hurried over. “Chad Carter. And you?”
“Jem Coulter.”
Chad’s eyes opened wide. “Your father’s the sheriff.”
Jem nodded.
“I met him the other day. Seems like a decent sort.”
Jem bristled. Pa was a whole lot more than just a “decent sort.” Then he let it go. Clearly, this strange boy was only trying to make friends. Don’t be so touchy, Jem told himself.
“Where’s my coffee?” Strike’s raspy voice carried clear from the creek below.
“Coming!” Jem yelled back. He quickly ladled the thick, black drink into Strike’s cup.
Chad pointed to the steaming pot. “The sock keeps the coffee grounds from getting in the brew. That’s the way our hands make it on the trail.” He grinned. “Cowboy coffee.”
“Strike’s not a cowboy,” Jem said. He dropped the ladle back in the pot and started toward the creek.
Chad easily kept up. “Let me have a swallow.” He reached for the cup.
Jem shook his head, but he was smiling. “I don’t think my pa would want me to poison a guest first thing. This is not real coffee. It’s … well … just believe me. It’s not drinkable.”
The new boy laughed. “It can’t be worse than the stuff Cooky brews on the trail.”
Jem eyed the boy, then shrugged and gave in. “Suit yourself.”
With a nod of thanks, Chad took a generous swallow … and gagged. His eyes bulged. He choked, coughed, and spewed the rest of the drink on the ground. “I was wrong,” he croaked, handing the cup back, “this is worse.” He wiped his mouth and shuddered.
Jem howled with laughter. I like this kid, he decided. “C’mon.” He waved at Chad to follow. Together they made their way over piles of old diggings and down the creek bank. “There’s a dirty sock in your coffee,” Jem remarked when Strike grasped the cup.
“Yep.” Strike took a swallow and turned back to his rocker.
Jem and Chad exchanged amused looks.
“Who’s your friend?” Strike asked, peering at Chad from under his slouch hat. His hand continued to rock the cradle. Gravel rattled and bounced around on the screen.
“Chad Carter,” Jem said. “I just met him, so I don’t know where he’s from or what he’s doing here. Chad, this is Strike-it-rich Sam, a friend and my partner. We sometimes prospect together.”
Strike pierced Chad with a keen look. “Carter, eh?” He stopped working his rocker and reached for a beat-up gold pan. “You reckon your pa and Sterling will get the mine up and runnin’ again?”
Chad shrugged. “I reckon they’ll do their best.”
Jem’s thoughts whirled. This new kid was the other mine owner’s son? How did Strike know that? Dumb question. Strike-it-rich Sam wandered up and down the gold fields, all his worldly possessions piled on Canary’s back. He scraped together a meager living and kept to himself. But behind the miner’s odd ways and scruffy appearance lay a mind as quick as a steel trap. Of course he would know who owned what in Goldtown.
Strike grunted his opinion of Chad’s answer and splashed his way into the creek to pan what the rocker had separated.
Jem let him go without offering to help. If Strike wanted to wear himself out working his pan one-handed, then Jem would let him. A few more weeks in the splint, and his partner’s arm would be good as new. Maybe Strike’s cussedness will disappear too, and he’ll be back to his cheerful self.
Jem hoped so. He turned his back on Strike and motioned Chad over to where Jem’s gold pan lay abandoned. By now, Nathan and Ellie had tired of their water fight. They sat resting at the edge of the creek.
Before Ellie could open her mouth, Jem introduced the new boy. “He’s the other mine owner’s son,” he finished.
“Are you as rich as the Sterlings?” Ellie blurted.
Jem gasped. “Ellie!”
“Richer,” Chad teased, plopping to the ground.
“Pay her no mind,” Jem muttered.
Chad burst out laughing at Ellie’s round eyes and red cheeks. “I’ve got a sister your age,” he told her. “Wish Father had brought her. You and Kate would get along like bread and butter. She’s mouthy too.”
Ellie pressed her lips together, snatched up her gold pan, and stomped back into the creek.
Jem felt a sliver of guilt for letting the new boy tease Ellie, but roasted rattlesnakes! Why would she ask such a rude question? He flicked a glance at Nathan, warning him to keep any personal questions to himself. Nathan shrugged his understanding.
“Does she really pan for gold?” Chad asked, staring at Ellie. She was knee deep in the creek, working her pan around and around.
“What? Oh, yeah. She’s pretty good.” Jem dug into his pocket and drew out his leather pouch. “Look.” He loosened the strings and emptied the contents into his free hand. “This is what I’ve panned so far this year. It’s not much, but—”
Chad whistled, and his blue eyes gleamed. “It looks like a lot to me.” Then he sighed. “Owning a mine isn’t the same as panning for gold with your own two hands.” He picked up Jem’s largest nugget. “Is it yours? I mean, do you get to keep what you find?”
“Of course!”
“Lucky. I wish …” Chad’s voice trailed off. He dropped the nugget into Jem’s hand and shrugged.
Jem returned the gold to his pouch and stuffed it back in his pocket. Did this rich boy wish he could get his hands dirty panning for gold in an icy creek? It didn’t make sense. Will Sterling wouldn’t be caught dead digging in the mud and gravel for a gold flake—not when his father owned a mine full of gold. Correction, Jem reminded himself. It used to be full of gold.
Chad Carter seemed different. Jem wondered what he was doing out here. It was a long walk—or ride—from Belle Hill to Cripple Creek. What had lured Chad away from his hosts?
Suddenly, Jem knew. The Sterling hospitality had most likely worn off, and Will’s annoying ways had sent Chad running in the other direction—any direction. Chad was probably used to riding far and wide on his ranch. Being stuffed into a fancy mansion would suffocate anyone, rich or poor.
“Listen, Chad,” Jem offered. “If you’d like to try your hand panning for gold, you can use my pan. I’ll show you a trick or two.”
Chad snatched up the gold pan that lay at his feet. “What are we waiting for? I’d be happy to find anything … any little flak
e will do.” He paused. “Is it hard to learn?”
“Depends.”
“If Jem can teach a greenhorn from Boston how to pan gold,” Nathan put in, “then he can surely teach a cowboy from the Valley.”
Jem grinned at his cousin’s words. “Nathan’s right, Chad. I’ll have you panning for gold in no time.”
CHAPTER 7
Gold Fever
It took Jem a few minutes to find just the right spot in the creek alongside the Coulter gold claim. It took another minute to shoo Ellie and Nathan away. “One teacher is all Chad needs,” Jem decided. “You’ll just muddy the water and get in the way.”
Ellie scooted out of the creek, plopped down on a rock, and hiked her knees under her skirt until just her bare toes poked out. She rested her chin on her knees and sat perfectly still.
Like a hungry coyote eyeing a field mouse, Jem thought with a frown. “Hang it all, Ellie!” he shouted from where he and Chad stood in the creek barely a stone’s throw away. “You don’t need to watch.”
“I’m not watching,” Ellie yelled back. “I’m drying out. Nathan soaked me, and I’m cold.” She pushed a shirt sleeve up past her elbow. “See? Goose bumps up and down my arm.”
“I’m not watching either,” Nathan said. He sat down next to Ellie, pulled his knees up, and grinned.
From the nearby claim, Strike let out a hoot of laughter before going back to his own business. “Yes sirree, Jem,” he cackled, “you got your hands full today.”
“Don’t pay ’em no mind,” Jem told his new friend. “They’re like a couple of fussy ol’ schoolmarms. Soon as they see you do something wrong, they’ll leap up and holler at you to do it their way.”
Chad laughed. “Let ’em holler all they want. I’m used to it. I have an older brother, a younger one, and two little sisters.”
Jem took the gold pan from Chad. Dipping it in the stream, he brought up a mixture of gravel, sand, and water. “You pick out the big rocks and pitch ’em back in the creek,” he instructed. “Then you swirl the pan around, add more water, and wash the sand and little chunks out. The heavier gold stays at the bottom of the pan—so long as you don’t go too fast and wash the gold out too.”
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