Chapter 15: Sluicing and Selling

 

At Huntington’s direction, Mac and Joel cut tall pines growing on the plateau above the valley. They built small rockers to use in the water and sawed longer timbers into pieces to build sluice boxes. Soon boxes lined the creek bed along their three claims. Most of the sluices were only about ten feet long and could be moved from place to place in the stream.

Each box had riffles every foot or so along its length—these wooden slats acted as dams to stop the gravel that settled out of the rushing water. The riffles filled with sediment, which the men scooped out to search for gold flakes and nuggets.

They diverted creek water into the top of the box, then scooped dirt into the sluice to be rolled downhill by the current, leaving gold flakes behind. It was faster than panning, but required more hauling and shoveling of dirt. There was no end of dirt and gravel to fill the boxes and no end of water from the fast-moving creek.

They built two long boxes reaching from the top of the hillside to the stream. To work these sluices, they channeled snow melt running down ravines on their claims into the boxes. When that water dried up, they used their pack mules to haul water to the top.

“These boxes’ll work better come spring,” Huntington said. “When the water runs fast.”

Mac grunted as he shoveled dirt into a sluice. “If we’re still here in the spring.”

“They’s more gold in the gulches,” Huntington said. “Easier to find flakes in the creek, but most of the nuggets’ll be up high. We need these sluices.”

As the summer days passed, the three prospectors worked their sluices. They toiled in the ravines in the mornings and evenings, and saved the labor in the cool river for the heat of midday.

By dusk each day, Mac’s bones ached, and he wondered if the wealth they were slowly accumulating was worth the labor. Mounds of discarded gravel tailings and muck near the sluices created an ugly mess. The claim no longer seemed one of the lovelier places he’d been.

Occasionally a miner or two passed on horseback, and more men staked claims in their valley. But only once did anyone stop to share their campfire. On a hot evening in mid-August, two men rode up and dismounted. One, a slim dandy with shifty eyes under a beaver hat, introduced himself as Tobias Jones. His companion—who gave his name only as “Smith”—looked like a boxer who won his fights through meanness.

“Finding much color?” Jones asked, as the men fried fish and johnny cakes over a campfire.

“You bet we are,” Huntington crowed, drawing on a pint of whiskey. “Best damn creek I ever seen.”

“Damned hard work,” Joel said, his eyes narrowing at Huntington. “Ain’t sure it’s worth it.” Now he’d found gold, Joel was as tight-lipped as Mac.

Huntington clapped Joel on the back. “You keep doin’ what I tell you, boy,” he said. “We’ll be rich.”

Mac seethed at Huntington’s loose mouth. He’d make them a prime target for thieves if he didn’t keep quiet. “We won’t know what we found until we have our dust assayed,” Mac said. “I do wonder if prospecting is worth the trouble.”

“Then you won’t mind if we stake out a claim upstream,” Jones said, flashing white teeth beneath his black mustache and beaver hat.

Smith hadn’t said a word, other than his name.

“Can’t stop you,” Huntington said. “But don’t dam the creek. Can’t run our sluices if we ain’t got water to put through ’em.”

By the campfire after Smith and Jones left, Mac wrote:

 

August 15, 1848. The valley is filling with other prospectors. Most men keep to themselves, but two rogues stopped by this evening. I have little reason to think them shifty, but I did not trust either one.

By late summer when the run-off from the mountains ebbed, the sluices in the ravines depended on infrequent rains to wash away the lighter grit and sand from the gold. The men spent more time in the creek. The arduous work yielded a growing cache of gold flakes and small nuggets, and Mac worried more about theft.

“We could pump water up the hills,” Huntington said as they sat by the campfire after supper one night. “Use the mules and horses to drive a wheel. Git more water up top than the beasts can carry.”

“But we’re finding flakes every day in the stream,” Joel said. “Why bother to build a pump?”

Huntington shrugged. “We can always build it later. With the sluices we got, we’s probably findin’ about a thousand dollars a week in dust. I’d bet on it.”

“No need to bet,” Mac said. “I’ll start for Sutter’s Fort tomorrow. Hate to store too much gold here. Someone might rob us.”

“Think I’ll go, too,” Joel said. “I’d like a few nights in a decent bed.”

“You be all right by yourself?” Mac asked Huntington. He wasn’t sure which was more dangerous—to be alone on the claim or to ride alone to the fort.

Huntington grinned. “I spent more nights alone than you’ve had days on the earth,” he replied. “More nights with women, too. You young’uns go sow your wild oats. Think the whores found their way to the fort yet?”

Mac’s face must have shown his surprise at Huntington’s ribald comment, because the old man guffawed and continued, “Now, boys, if they’s men with money, whores ain’t never far behind.”

 

August 25, 1848. Joel and I head to Sutter’s Fort tomorrow, leaving Huntington to fend for himself.

Mac and Joel set off early in the morning, each leading a mule laden with bags of gold. They’d divided their findings to reduce the risk of losing everything if one man was robbed.

“If someone jumps us, we’ll ride in opposite directions,” Joel said. “Meet up at the fort, if we survive.”

Mac wasn’t sure he liked the idea of separating, but he didn’t want to contradict Joel. He’d do what he thought best if the situation arose.

On the two-day trip to the fort, Mac saw men everywhere along all the creeks and in the hills. Their valley was quiet compared to the streams closer to the fort. Everyone was mining, with pans, rockers, and sluices. Small stores now dotted the trail to the fort, stores which hadn’t been there the last time Mac made the trip.

“Should we stop here?” Joel asked as they passed one store.

“We don’t know these folks,” Mac said. “I trust the assayer outside Sutter’s Fort. Nate. Didn’t you like him? Besides, you want that soft bed, don’t you?”

Joel grinned, and they rode on.

Sutter’s Fort and its environs bustled with even more people than on Mac’s last visit. Tent camps had risen like mushrooms all around the fort. Mostly men, but a few women, cooked on fires, while a few children ran between the canvas tents. Horses and mules stood staked near camp, cropping what little grass remained in the dusty meadows. Mac smelled fried meat and horse dung, bringing back memories of camps along the Oregon Trail.

“Doesn’t look like there’ll be much room in the fort,” Mac said. “Let’s talk to Nate, then see what we can find for room and board.”

Joel grunted, and they tied their horses outside Nate’s store.

Nate weighed their gold. “Two thousand dollars. A lot more than what Pershing here brought in last time,” he said, nodding at Joel. “How long it take you to gather this?”

“A month,” Mac replied.

“Huntington was off,” Joel said. “He said we’d taken in a thousand a week.”

The assayer laughed. “There’s so much gold in the fort now, prices are down. Back East you’d probably get twice as much.”

Mac and Joel sold their gold and added to their accounts at the store. They also set up an account for Huntington. Nate showed them their entries in his ledger and gave them receipts. “A lot of dishonest storekeepers around here these days,” Nate cautioned. “Only do business with men you trust.” He named two general stores in the fort. “Tell them I sent you. They’ll treat you right.”

“What about the stores setting up along the trail, closer to the gold fields?” Mac asked.

Nate shrugged. “If you trade there, make sure you see their books. Some are good men, some aren’t.”

“That’s the truth anywhere,” Joel said. “Any rooms to be had nearby?”

“You might get lucky,” Nate said. “A new saloon recently opened next door—the Golden Nugget. It has the best food in these parts. Cleanest whores, too.”

Joel gave a hoot and slapped Mac on the back. “Huntington was right. Let’s go.”

Mac and Joel left the assayer’s office. The bar and dining room of the Golden Nugget were crowded and noisy when they entered. At Mac’s inquiry, the proprietor responded, “Got one room left, one bed. You two want it?”

“Fine,” Joel said.

They dropped their now empty gold sacks and their saddlebags in the room, then ate supper when a table became available. After they ate, they sat with a bottle of whiskey between them.

“Buenas noches,” a soft voice behind Mac said. “Remember me?”

He turned. It was the Mexican girl from the San Francisco saloon. “Consuela, is it?”

She smiled, placing her hand on his shoulder. “You do remember.”

“Why did you leave San Francisco?” he asked.

She lifted one bare shoulder. “The men are here now.”

Joel ogled Consuela. “I’m Joel Pershing,” he said. “Traveled with Mac to Oregon last year. We’re partners on a gold claim now.”

“Partners,” Consuela said. “You should drink to your partnership.” And she poured them each another whiskey, before moving on to another group of men.

“How’d you meet her?” Joel asked.

Mac shrugged. “In San Francisco. Just like tonight, she poured me a drink and asked me to buy her one.”

“You take her upstairs?”

Mac shook his head.

“You taking her upstairs tonight?”

“Not planning to,” Mac said.

“Mind if I do?” Joel asked.

“That’s up to the lady,” Mac said, sipping his drink.

Joel left his chair and approached Consuela.

Mac sat at the table with his whiskey and watched them walk up the stairs. Consuela was pretty, not yet haggard from drink and abuse, with sad eyes like Jenny’s. He couldn’t take up with a woman who reminded him of Jenny.

He considered a buxom blonde named Ethel with a loud laugh. She looked nothing like Jenny. But he didn’t want to be the kind of man who used one woman when he wanted another.