The Dead Spend No Gold Read online

  Enough of this, Jameson thought. I hate it. I feel dirty, inside and out.

  Most of the men who’d arrived with, after, or even before him were as destitute as when they’d begun. More destitute, really, for they still owed on their equipment and their grubstakes.

  Old Johnson, who had been the first to stake a claim on this small tributary, had sold out the previous week for pennies, only to watch the new owners strike it rich a few days later, almost without breaking a sweat.

  Peterson, who dug harder and faster and smarter than any other miner on the creek, was worn down and discouraged. “I’m going home to Utah, boys,” he announced. “Tilling the soil is easier than this, and at least it feeds me in return.”

  Halsey and Planter had died from the same smallpox that killed many of the local Indians. Holliday had frozen to death inside his tent that first terrible month. Salazar and Estes were better off than most. They’d joined the big mining cartel down by the main digs, where they earned hard laborers’ wages.

  Jameson was the only one in his group still healthy and still willing, and he was teetering on the edge of giving up before his tiny gains were depleted. They may have gotten here sooner than most, but for most of them, it was still too late.

  The stories of finding gold lying on the ground were still told around the campfires and in town, but Jameson doubted them. He’d seen nothing of the sort with his own eyes. Meanwhile, more and more men showed up every day, staking claims on sites that had most of the early, more experienced miners rolling their eyes. What was maddening, though, was that a few of them had gotten lucky.

  Jameson rose from the muddy creek bank, hearing his bones crack with the effort.

  He wandered away from the others, following a dry gulch up to a crumbly cliff. It was soft clay, not the most promising surface, but Jameson had taken to hacking at most anything with his pickaxe out of idle curiosity. Or maybe he was just mad at the earth and it made him feel good to gouge holes in its once pristine beauty.

  He sank the blade deep into the clay and pulled it away. The whole bank seemed to come with it, and he jumped back, barely avoiding being buried. He closed his eyes, coughed, and waited for the cloud of dirt to filter to the ground.

  When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing at first. Light glared into his eyes, but the sun was behind him. It was a golden light. He stepped forward, filled with a wild hope, his heart pounding its way up into his throat. He glanced behind him nervously, but he could hear the others exchanging desultory chatter down by the creek.

  Beneath the clay surface was solid granite, and down the middle of it was a seam of gold, gleaming in the afternoon light. A chunk of quartz hung by a shred of clay. He plucked it free and turned it over in his hand. There, shining like a lightning bolt down the middle of the translucent rock, was a thick vein of gold.

  Jameson wanted to shout, to jump up and down, to show the world his discovery. He only barely managed to stay quiet. He looked down at the clumps of dry clay and had a wild impulse to glue it all back to the face of the cliff.

  He filled his pockets with all the gleaming gold he could carry, but no matter how much he shoved into his pockets, there was more, each nugget bigger than the last. He replaced his first gleanings with bigger nuggets, burying the discards under loose clay. Just one of the discards would have sent him into a state of euphoria only hours before. Finally, most of the surface gold either filled his pockets or lay buried under the clay.

  He knew—he just knew—that if he was to take his axe and strike at the vein of quartz, he’d find an even bigger lode.

  Jameson could barely stand, he was shaking so badly. How long had he been away from camp? If he didn’t get back soon, they’d send someone after him. Nevertheless, he sat down on the clay and put his head into his arms.

  My God, he thought. What am I going to do? My God…my God.

  He couldn’t rush off to town—that would raise suspicions. But how long would it take until one of the miners wandered over to water one of the nearby trees and saw the quartz vein?

  My God, how long before one of them comes looking for me?

  Trying to compose himself, Jameson rose to his feet. His pockets were bulging, but that wasn’t unusual. Most miners filled their pockets with likely looking rocks, examining them later in the evening by firelight. Once or twice, someone would cry “Eureka!” and produce a little pebble of gold.

  Jameson tried not to laugh, because he suspected that if he started laughing, he wouldn’t be able to stop. The others would recognize the sound of triumph and come running. Darkness was falling. He’d leave early in the morning, get to town, and stake a claim before the others were done with breakfast. With any luck, he’d be back with a loaded pistol and a fresh mining kit before the others even knew he was gone.

  I can’t do it alone, he thought. I’ll offer Peterson a small share if he’ll go in with me—which will still make him richer than any other miner. Maybe old Johnson, too. Old sot deserves a break.

  * * *

  “You all right?” Peterson asked when Jameson walked back into camp.

  “Sure,” Jameson said. He turned his face away, pretending to be examining the digs.

  “You don’t look it. You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “No…I was just thinking how lucky I’ve been compared to some of the others.”

  “Jesus, fellow,” Peterson exclaimed. “Don’t never say such a thing out loud! You want to jinx yourself?”

  Jameson managed to keep his laugh from sounding hysterical.

  It wasn’t quite real. Nothing was quite real. Everything looked dirty and shameful somehow. All the backbreaking labor, the grubbing he’d been doing, and for what? A few dollars of gold dust. In his pockets was enough for him to go home. He’d never have to come back, never have to spend sleepless nights worrying about protecting his claim.

  An even louder laugh escaped his lips.

  Peterson also laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Can’t be much more jinxed than we already are.”

  Strange how ambition suddenly changes, Jameson thought. I don’t want to be a little rich anymore. I want to be a lot rich.

  Peterson was eyeing him doubtfully. “You could come back with me, Jameson,” he said. “I’m leaving in an hour. We can go part of the way together.”

  “Hey, why don’t you hold off until tomorrow?” Jameson said. “Then I’ll go with you, OK?”

  Peterson stared at the ground, looking discouraged. “Wait a day for the company? I can do that. Company is all I’m coming away with from this pit of hell.”

  The others were giving up for the night, wandering back to the camp, too bone-tired to do much chatting. The miners skipped the usual small talk about nearly making the big strike, just missing it by a few feet; all the ones that got away. All nonsense. Most of the rich strikes were down on the main Plumas River, on claims surrounded by fences and guards.

  We’re small-timers, and we all know it, Jameson thought. But that’s about to change.

  By God, he’d hire all these fellows and give them a good wage. He wouldn’t work them like damn slaves; he’d share the wealth.

  Just as soon as he got enough for himself and his family.

  Not much.

  A few million, that’s all.

  * * *

  Jameson wasn’t sure what woke him. Whereas normally he fell instantly asleep after a hard day, this time he’d been too excited to sleep until long after the camp was filled with the snores of the others. Before he’d gone to bed, he’d dressed to leave early in the morning and surreptitiously transferred his gold to the bottom of his rucksack. Finally, he’d dropped off, and strangely, dreamed of being home in his modest farmhouse, happy with his wife and children, content with his meager life.

  He opened his eyes as a strange cry faded away.

  Old Johnson sat bolt upright, clutching his blanket to his neck like a maiden protecting her modesty. “What was that?” he hissed. His fac
e was white and his mouth had dropped open. Night spittle ran down his chin into his scraggly beard. It was almost a full moon, but it was also cloudy, and the moonlight came and went.

  The call came again, a booming voice from the top of the cliff. It wasn’t a wolf or coyote, nor was it shrill enough to be a mountain lion. Bears sounded nothing like that. More than anything, it sounded like a man’s voice, but deeper, garbled and echoing, as if the voice was somehow that of many men inside one throat.

  He glanced over at Johnson, but Johnson wasn’t there. Where he had been, a huge boulder had landed with a ground-shaking, wet thud. Jameson could see only the soles of Johnson’s boots, pitted with holes that were leaking blood. All the men were on their feet now, snatching up their rifles; half were clad in long johns, half in their work clothes, having fallen asleep fully dressed.

  Jameson sensed something moving toward him, and he jumped away at the last second. It was another boulder, this one even bigger than the one that had squashed Johnson, a boulder so big that it should have taken three men with long levers to budge it.

  Indians? Jameson wondered. We were warned not to come here. Sacred ground to some local god of theirs.

  Even as he thought it, the voice resounded again, echoing down the narrow valley. It sounded as if it was on the cliff on the other side of camp, which was impossible unless there were two of the creatures.

  The first voice answered, and another thud shook the ground. A strangled cry abruptly ended. Something splattered across the ground, hitting Jameson’s face, and he knew as he wiped it away that it was blood.

  He suddenly understood that guns weren’t going to do them any good and that they were all going to die.

  Abandoning everything else, he grabbed his rucksack full of gold and ran downstream. He had gotten no more than a few steps when a boulder crashed into his primitive little lean-to, smashing everything within.

  He ran.

  He didn’t look back, just kept running, tripping once on a dead body and slipping on the man’s entrails. He cried out, looking frantically in every direction. It had grown quiet. No more rocks pounded the camp into the ground; there were no more screams. Dark clouds slipped across the moon, and it was as black and silent as a tomb.

  Keep going, Jameson told himself. Don’t stop.

  He stood rooted to the spot, like a child hiding under a blanket, as though, if he didn’t move, he was somehow hidden from the monsters. It wasn’t Indians, he was sure of that now. He would have heard their war whoops, or seen their arrows riddling the bodies of the dead, or heard their gunshots.

  No, this had been the crash of falling rocks, each bigger than any man could throw, big enough for a siege engine to use to demolish a castle. The human body was terribly soft and vulnerable to such an onslaught.

  An awful stench reached him. He gagged, and the sound of his own coughing broke his paralysis. Because he’d made a noise, he sensed, he was no longer invisible. He ran, and the stench became overpowering. The earth shook with a shuddering drumbeat.

  The clouds drifted away from the moon, and Jameson saw a huge, human-shaped figure only yards away. The monster had a large, shaggy head and fur covering its blocky body. It was twice the size of any man, with huge eyes and long canines that glistened in the moonlight.

  The creek ran fast through this part of the narrow canyon. One of the men had been swept away by the current, never to be found.

  Jameson didn’t hesitate; he jumped into the swirling water. A massive hand snagged him by the hair, and he hung over the edge of the creek bank, his feet caught in the current, which twirled him around and around, and he realized the creature was on the verge of plucking him out of the air and throwing him back on the bank like a grizzly catching a salmon in mid-leap.

  His hair grew tight at the roots. He pulled out his knife and slashed at his scalp. There was a flashing pain, and he fell into the rapids and was dragged under. He was swept down a narrow chute and slammed against protruding rocks. He sank all the way to the bottom, and he realized it was sandy there, that the savagery of the current couldn’t reach him.

  He’d been so frightened that he hadn’t taken a breath as he was falling, and now he felt an overwhelming urge to breathe. He slammed against the sides and bottom of the gorge, tumbling so that he couldn’t tell which way was up and which way was down. It was darker than the darkest night at the bottom of the creek.

  Jameson slammed hard into a rock and took a huge breath of cold liquid that shocked him into immobility. Then…he gave up, and let himself flow. It was peaceful as he bumped along the bottom.

  Am I still holding my breath? he wondered as the strain in his chest eased. He felt as though he was breathing. I should let the backpack with its burden of gold go, he thought idly.

  His final thought was I will die rich and no one will ever know.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tucker’s Journal, Day 10

  The child sleeps near me, and despite the stench, its warmth is welcome.

  There is raw meat beside me when I awake, but so far I have resisted eating it. Kovac’s canteen is also always by my side and always seems full, though I never see Grendel fill it.

  Yes, I named the monster Grendel, but I am no Beowulf. I have not tried to confront the creature, nor tried to escape, for it would be useless. When I finally looked into the eyes of the beast, I saw its intelligence. It has an angry countenance, as if it longs to kill me. But when Grendel looks toward the child, its expression softens, and I can almost see humanity in the monster.

  I am dying. My body fails more every day. Something in the air is killing me, or perhaps it is the infestation of insects, rats, and other vermin that scurry over my slumbering body, feeding on me while I sleep. My legs are too weak to stand, so I crawl to the corner to relieve myself.

  What I didn’t notice at first is the young one is injured. There is a wound on its shoulder, which was covered by a kind of mud. Today the mud fell off, revealing the wound, undoubtedly from the bullet Kovac fired trying to escape.

  Now I understand the murderous look in Grendel’s eyes. I suspect my continued survival rests on keeping the child happy.

  I’ve started speaking to the albino. I point to myself and say, “Friend.” And strangely, I’ve begun to think of it as a friend. Here in Grendel’s cave, surrounded by gold, I’ve reverted to my old occupation. My teacher’s instincts have arisen, and I speak to the child as though it is one of my students.

  Today it looked at me and said, “Friend.”

  The sound was so strange that my heart seemed to stop for a moment. And then I did something even stranger; I smiled and gave the little monster a hug.

  “You are Hrothgar,” I said. It might seem odd to give the child the name of a king, but somehow it fits.

  * * *

  Thomas Whitford put the half-breed, Hugh, in charge of tracking.

  “You sure we can trust this Injun?” Dave Martin, the Newton ranch foreman scowled. Henry Newton seemed to attract men who had grievances against the Indians. Martin had lost a brother on his trek West, and made it no secret that he thought the Indians should be banished from California, and if they wouldn’t leave, should be killed off.

  Patrick whirled on the man. “You leave Hugh alone,” he cried. “He’s one of the good ’uns.”

  Frank shook his head at his brother’s angry shout. No one hated Indians more in general, but less in particular, than Patrick. It was as if his mind had decided against the Indians, while in his heart he was still in love with them. What’s more, he seemed completely unaware of the contradiction. Frank couldn’t help but wonder what his brother would think without Newton’s influence.

  They reached the Plumas River, and the sight astounded Frank. He remembered this stretch of the river as a meadow lined by aspen trees, with a soft layer of flowers that looked as if they’d been painted there.

  Now it was all dirt and mud. Gone were the gold miners who had used picks and shovels, replaced by teams of me
n working like ants. The skin of the earth was peeled back, leaving a raw, deep wound. The hills above were stripped of trees, the lumber used to build crude fumes and dams, trestles on stilts, stealing the life’s blood of water from its channels, imprisoning the flow as if it was their slave. The water struck against the earth, washing it away, leaving piles of gravel and boulders. The terrain was pockmarked and defaced, and alongside the devastation were the mounds of waste pilings.

  The ranchers were silent as they passed the diggings, exchanging wordless greetings with the miners. Patrick went over and had a few brief words with a some of them, but none had seen Oliver or James.

  The searchers rode on, a vague disquiet in the air.

  It troubles all of us, Frank thought, this desecration of the land.

  But it was none of their business.

  The search party continued up the waves of foothills and deeply cut canyons until they reached the base of Thompson Peak.

  Hugh held up his hand. “They stopped here,” he said. He got off his horse and walked the perimeter of the small clearing. He knelt down and pulled a cow skull out of the dirt. “They found the remains of one of the rustled cattle, but…” He shook his head.

  “What’s the matter?” Frank’s father asked.

  “These remains are fresh, but they’ve been completely picked clean, broken and scattered. I do not know what creature would do that…” He stopped and shook his head, as if suddenly realizing he might know after all. “There are no tracks,” he said.