The Dead Spend No Gold Read online

  Frank shook his head in amazement, the carnage at the mining camp still fresh in his mind. “I’ll fetch them,” he said.

  Patrick nodded. “We need all the men we can get, but if they won’t come with you, to hell with them. They’re on their own.”

  Frank wheeled his mount, passing by the other riders, who looked at him curiously but didn’t question him. He arrived back at the miners’ enclave just in time to glimpse Billy and Jonathan Jordan pull a body out of the river. Unlike the scattered remains of the other miners, this body was whole, as though the man had drowned. The brothers were rifling through the dead man’s pockets, looking excited. The other two brothers joined them, and whoops of excitement drifted up the narrow canyon.

  When they saw Frank approaching, they turned their backs to hide the body from his view, then plastered fake smiles on their faces as they greeted him.

  Frank sighed to himself. This wouldn’t be easy. For all their simple, fun-loving ways, the Jordans were clannish and insular, and barely acknowledged the outside world except for their cousins, the McCarthys.

  “What are you fellows up to?” Frank asked in a friendly tone.

  Jake, the youngest brother, scowled.

  “We were heading out when we saw a body in the river,” Jonathan said. “Thought we ought to give him a proper burial. Go on without us, Frank. We’ll catch up later.”

  Jake had something in his hands, and the sunlight caught it at just the right angle and it flashed, almost blinding Frank. By the time his eyes recovered, Jake had hidden whatever it was, and his three older brothers were glaring at him.

  “Look, fellows, I don’t care if you found gold,” Frank said. “I won’t tell anyone. You can come back later, but it isn’t safe here.”

  Jonathan seemed to believe him, because he changed tactics. “Come here, Frank. You need to see this.”

  Frank stared down from his horse, trying to gauge whether he was being lured into a trap. But the Jordan brothers, for all their clannishness, had always been forthright in their dealings with others. He sensed no deceit.

  He dismounted and approached Jonathan, who picked something up off the ground beside the body of the drowned miner. He turned around and held out a fist-sized rock that looked to be almost all gold. “This is the purest concentration I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Whoever these miners were, they hit the big one. Someone killed them for it.”

  “Congratulations on the find,” Frank said. “But you have to realize there were at least a dozen miners here, and they were wiped out to a man. What chance would you four boys have? Come back with us, stake the claim, borrow the money to do it right. I’ll vouch for you. Hell, I’ll talk my father and brothers into backing you.”

  “And take how much for yourself?” Jake demanded.

  “Fine,” Frank said. “I’ll vouch for what you found and you can make a deal with someone else.”

  “We don’t need no one else,” Jake blustered. “We can do it ourselves.”

  “Someone killed these miners,” Frank reminded them.

  Billy spoke up. “They weren’t on guard. Hell, they only had three rifles in the whole camp.”

  “That we know of,” Frank pointed out. “How many do you carry?”

  Billy waved off the objection. “We’re armed and alert. We’ll be ready for them.”

  Frank looked at the huge boulders half-buried in the flat ground.

  Who can be ready for something like this? he wondered. But he saw the gold fever in the four brothers’ eyes and doubted they could be dissuaded. “Fair enough,” he said. “But what’s the hurry? Why not come back to town with the rest of us and make a claim? If you don’t want me to, I won’t tell anyone what you found. On my word of honor.”

  The fourth Jordan brother spoke up. Frank couldn’t remember his name because the man rarely spoke. He was smaller than the others, but despite his silence, there was a sharpness to his gaze that made Frank think he was the real leader of the clan.

  “We figure that whoever jumped this claim is already in town doing the paperwork. So we’re going to stick around and get as much gold as we can get until they show up.” He smiled grimly. “And when they show up, we’ll show them that a piece a paper ain’t worth nothin’ when the stake is already being worked.”

  “That won’t matter. You’ve got to own it legally,” Frank said.

  The scrawny Jordan brother shrugged. “Then we’ll take the gold before they get here.”

  Frank looked down at the treasure. His pulse hadn’t even quickened when he saw it. The Jordan brothers must have sensed his lack of interest; otherwise, who knew what might have happened? He shook his head at the mystery of his own disinterest and mounted his horse.

  “Don’t be telling no one,” Billy Jordan warned. “If you do, we’ll be defending this claim with every weapon we have.”

  “Be careful,” Frank said. He motioned toward the devastated camp. “This may not be the work of men.”

  He got puzzled looks in response, but left them without speaking further. He turned onto the trail and was about to spur his horse to catch up to the others when he spotted a small tent, out of sight of the rest of the camp, nestled among some young trees. Unlike all the other tents, it was undisturbed. He rode over to it, leaned down, and lifted the flap.

  There were four barrels of gunpowder stashed inside. Next to them was a box of the new friction-type matches. Frank had used them in the East, and it made sense that the miners would have a supply of them.

  Frank knew that some of the miners were starting to use explosives to unearth gold. It was extraordinarily dangerous, and thus they had prudently stored the gunpowder away from the camp. Frank frowned. He looked back to make sure the Jordan brothers couldn’t see him, then got down and started breaking the smaller branches off the surrounding trees and leaning them against the canvas of the small tent.

  Satisfied that the Jordan brothers wouldn’t find the gunpowder and blow themselves up, he hurried to catch up with the rest of the party. He wasn’t sure why he’d done that, but he had a feeling that the gunpowder might come in handy later.

  Why am I immune to gold fever? he wondered. Frank knew his own brothers would act no different than the Jordan boys if they had a chance at a rich claim. Something about living among the wealthy students back East had changed his attitude toward wealth.

  Frank didn’t care about money. He wanted only enough to get by. When the time came, he’d tell Father to give his shares of the ranch to Patrick and James, so he would be free. Going back East had given him a taste for travel. Frank didn’t want to be a rancher, stuck in one place. He wanted to roam.

  * * *

  The Jordan boys got nervous when darkness fell. They decided to camp further downstream from the destroyed encampment and not to light a fire.

  “You take the first watch, Jake,” Jonathan commanded. “Wake me at midnight; I’ll take the next.” They crawled into their blankets fully clothed and close together. The gold was in the middle of the group, as if it was most important thing of all.

  It was nearly morning when Jonathan awoke. Billy and David still slept beside him; Jake was nowhere to be seen. Scratching his head, he built a cook fire, waiting for his youngest brother to return.

  The sun was well overhead before the three brothers finally admitted that Jake had disappeared.

  * * *

  The search party had left churned-up tracks where they’d ascended the mountains, making it easy for Frank to track them. Instead of returning the same way, the group kept going on a northern route, and Frank knew, with dread, that they were approaching the Miwok summer camp.

  They were taking the longer, easier route, though, giving Frank a surge of relief. He could still get to the Indian camp first, if he hurried. He split off from their trail a few hundreds yards downslope and headed off cross-country. There was a steep but negotiable path through the forest and cliffs, and he reached the Indian camp quickly.

  He stopped a few h
undred feet away and gazed at the village. The Miwok cabins were mixed with lean-tos and tents, giving them a semipermanent encampment where some of the women and children lived all season long.

  At any one time, most of the adult men were off in hunting parties. At the moment, the village looked peaceful, with women and children going about their activities. No guards were posted. If the Miwok were on the warpath, they showed no signs of it.

  Frank rode into the camp, expecting to be challenged, but he was among the Indians before they noticed him. They continued to go about their daily tasks in blissful unconcern. They didn’t seem alarmed by his sudden appearance, but instead seemed pleased to see him, waving and smiling. He slid off his horse. A small boy ran up, took the reins, and led the horse toward the creek. By then, Frank was certain that the Indians were innocent of the havoc at the mining camp.

  Chief Honon emerged from a nearby tent, followed by Hugh. The chief was a tall man, gaunt and weathered, but when he smiled, he looked like a man half his age. He held out his arms. “Franklin!” he cried. “It has been too long since you have come to visit.”

  Despite the urgency, Frank couldn’t help but smile and return the embrace. Over the chief’s shoulder, he frowned at Hugh, raising his eyebrows as if to ask, Why haven’t you warned him?

  Hugh wasn’t smiling, nor did he look relaxed. “I told the chief about the mining camp, but he said he already knew.”

  Honon overheard this. “Yes. They disturbed the Ts’emekwes,” he said. “Now the white man will learn to stay away from this land.”

  “The Ts’emekwes?” Frank asked. “Who are they?”

  “Creatures of the mountains,” Hugh said. “Our tribe has lived near a family of them for many generations. The children call them the Skoocooms. Your people must stay away.”

  “Does he understand that my people think the Miwok killed the miners?” Frank asked, exasperated. “That they won’t believe supernatural creatures did it?”

  “The Ts’emekwes are real, I assure you,” Hugh said. “But, yes, I’ve told him. He says that your father is his friend. That Thomas Whitford would never believe that of the Miwok.”

  Frank turned to the old chief, who was still smiling at him. “My father is not himself,” he said urgently. “Oliver and James are missing. I implore you, send your women and children into hiding, just to be safe. If you must stay, let it only be the men.”

  Chief Honon shook his head. “Thomas will not hurt us,” he said.

  “You don’t understand!” Frank practically shouted. “You are in danger. Your people are in danger!”

  The chief reached out with a steady hand and put it on Frank’s shoulder. He looked into Frank’s eyes. “What would you have me do, Franklin? We are old men and women. We cannot run.”

  “You can hide!” Frank said.

  “We will not hide. It is too late.”

  Frank saw that it was useless. The Indians had seen the madness that gold instilled in the white man, but they still found it hard to believe that men would kill for shiny rocks.

  The chief looked concerned at Frank’s distress. He reached out with his spotted and wrinkled hand. “We will turn to stone,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” Frank said.

  Honon just smiled sadly and nodded.

  “I’m going to try to intercept them,” Frank said to Hugh, “to try to talk some sense into my father. But in the meantime, you must do your best to get these people to safety.”

  Hugh nodded curtly. “I’ll try.”

  Frank strode off toward the creek to get his horse, but it was nowhere to be seen. He looked down to the far end of the meadow and saw that his horse was in the stockade, its saddle and bridle removed.

  Frank calculated the time it would take to get his horse ready, turned on his heel, and jogged up the main path to meet his father and the others. If he could get to them in time, tell them that the Indians were peaceful, unarmed, and most likely innocent, maybe he could defuse the situation.

  He glanced back to see Hugh leading a small group of women and children away from the camp. Whatever ruse the man was using was working, though the group seemed in no hurry to leave.

  Turning back to the trail, Frank shook his head. Too few were leaving too slowly. He suspected the search party had turned into a vigilante mob.

  He feared their arrival.

  * * *

  Patrick urged his father to hurry, before the men’s anger dissipated.

  Henry Newton was right. Why couldn’t his brothers and father see that? Clearly, the Indians must vacate these mountains and valleys once and for all. The Whitford ranch was bordered on all but one side by other ranches; they couldn’t expand anymore in that direction without buying more land. No, the only way they could grow was to go upward, into the mountain pastures. The Miwok were in their way. They did not even utilize the land properly, neither growing crops nor raising livestock.

  Now, with gold found on their land, the Miwok would have to change or leave…or die.

  Can’t they see it’s inevitable? he wondered. The Indians were in the way, not just in the Sacramento Valley, but throughout California and the greater West. The native population would have to join the white man’s culture: go to school, dress properly, and learn Christian values. Or they would need to be removed, taken someplace out of the way.

  Even his father couldn’t seem to see the necessity of this. He still saw things as they were when he’d first arrived, one of the early settlers, when there had been plenty of space for both Indians and ranchers. Old man Newton saw things the way they were now, unfettered by sentiment or old loyalties.

  Patrick looked over his shoulder. Frank hadn’t returned, which was probably a good thing. His stepbrother had come back from the East Coast changed. He was soft, unwilling to do the hard things that needed to be done—which surprised Patrick. Of all people, his brother should understand the necessity of moving the Indians out.

  Instead, Frank seemed to be clinging to his childhood fascination with Miwok culture, naively believing that the two peoples could live side by side without clashing. Patrick had been just as glad when his brother had decided to return to the mining camp to look for the Jordan boys. Frank would have tried to calm the situation with the Miwok, whereas Patrick was hoping to get the men riled up enough to do something.

  Though he wouldn’t have admitted it to himself, Patrick also wanted to hurry because his own rage was eroding into a growing sense of doubt. His mind’s eye went back the miners’ camp, with the boulders embedded into the earth as if they had been dropped from above.

  Which was impossible. No doubt they’d been rolled downward, hit some impediment, and been thrown upward. But even that would have been difficult to accomplish, given the size of the rocks. Could the Indians have done that?

  He remembered the story of the Skoocoom from the time the Miwok village had been a second home to him and Chief Honon a second father. Once, when he’d spent several days with the Indian children, they’d glimpsed a huge form moving through the trees. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it and had always assumed that it was a grizzly bear. But now a vivid memory came to him of huge eyes staring at him curiously, with intelligence.

  It was a strange irony that Patrick seemed to be the only one to remember the story of the towering, apelike beast, and even more ironic that there was a piece of him that wanted to believe it. In his daydreaming, he drifted further back into the pack, so when shouting broke out up ahead, he was forced to push his way past the others to see what the commotion was about.

  Henry Newton stood on the trail, holding a bloody pistol in his hand. Patrick dismounted, practically throwing the reins into the hands of the nearest man. “That’s Oliver’s,” he said as he approached.

  Newton nodded and looked up with an anguished expression. “I gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday.”

  Patrick looked around for his father and saw him slumped in his saddle, head down. Oliver and James had been
together, and they had probably met the same fate. He felt his rage returning, and all doubts about the Skoocoom disappeared. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, reached down, and lifted up a torn and bloody Indian blanket. He held it over his head, making sure the men could all see it. He didn’t need to say anything. Everyone could see it belonged to an Indian, and that it had been lying within a few feet of Oliver’s bloody gun.

  “The savages have him!” Dave Martin shouted, and the others immediately added to the mounting outrage.

  Newton stood as if frozen in the middle of the trail. His shoulders were rounded, his head down. He looked a broken man…then he raised his head and howled a wordless scream of anger. The men stood still, watching him. Newton raised his arms, encompassing them.

  “I was a fool,” he rumbled. “I let others advise patience. I waited too long.” His voice rose into a scream. “But no longer! The savages must be removed. Who’s with me?”

  The men responded, shouting for blood, even those who had expressed doubt before.

  One of them galloped down the trail, and the others followed, shouting war whoops.

  To his amazement, Patrick saw that it was his own father leading the charge. Preacher MacLeod was right behind him, brandishing his rifle with a whoop, and Patrick spurred his horse to stay with them. They were still riding at a gallop when they rounded a bend in the trail and thundered into the Indian village. Frank was there, standing on the trail in front of him, waving his arms, but Patrick didn’t slow, and his brother leaped out of the way lest he be trampled.

  Chief Honon stood at the edge of the village, raising his palms in peace, as if he could somehow stop the onslaught.

  Someone raised a pistol and shot the old Indian in the head.

  After that, Patrick couldn’t have controlled the situation if he had wanted to. It was all gunshots, screams, blood, and dust. After a couple of minutes, someone within the village finally returned fire. Everywhere Patrick looked, he saw only women and children and old men. They ran away, cowered, or begged for mercy. None fought back.