Chapter 22

For days clouds were building in the sky and both men checked on them repeatedly. Chance, who’d worked a long time in the cloudless Midwest, wondered about such thick layering. Of course, not all the clouds could get over the mountains so it started to rain daily. Everything became damp and they had to spend an inordinate amount of time drying things. In between, work went on. They found little, and sometimes a day went by with nothing at all. Still, Hawthorn insisted there was “something” there. Chance, who hadn’t entirely sold his soul for gold, was at times close to calling it quits but didn’t want to leave his partner in the lurch. So doggedly they kept at it.

A week of rain turned them both morose. When not working, they sat around the fire, trying to warm up. Still Hawthorn, in the face of all disappointments, spun his daydreams. “When we strike it rich, I’ll... we’ll hire a crew to work the claim, build real sluice boxes, and go at it professionally. Not only get rich but get written up in the paper... Pay someone to lug our supplies in. Build a chalet right here on this spot, and serve imported wine...” He kept himself warm with such reveries.

“Jeremiah, what would really happen if we were to strike it rich?”

Hawthorn stirred the fire, gazing at the glow of the uncovered embers. “I don’t rightly know. This ground’s been picked over pretty good. I think anything found now would be considered an isolated windfall. Still, we would get an influx of the less knowledgeable looking for their pot of gold.” He spat into the fire; Chance recognized the look. Hawthorn was out of tobacco, in fact they were running short of things again and this time it would be up to Chance to hoof it to Bear Claw trading post. “And you can bet we’d get some confidence men trying to sweet-talk themselves into a deal. Never fails, flies to honey. Both the good and the bad. I’ve seen it many times. But it’s so exciting... to find something... to dig something real out of the ground. You don’t understand because you’ve never experienced it. I’ve been to the Fraser rush and up to the Cariboo fields. I tell you there’s nothing like it. Just once more in my life I’d like to feel it again.” He was willing to put up with every hardship just for that.

Chance took out the picture of Emily and gazed long at it. He wasn’t locked in on gold, but he was sure locked on her. Where was she? Was she happy? Did she think as much about him as he did of her? Would they ever meet up again? Oh he hoped so. More fervently than Jeremiah hoped for his gold.

Later Chance was washing their few dishes in the spring. Looking at his reflection disturbed by the flow of water, he froze, seeing Emily’s face gazing back at him. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes she was gone. He was sad, but his heart was thumping. It wasn’t the first time this had happened; a while ago, staring at the sky, he thought to have identified Emily’s profile in a cloud formation.

It rained too hard the next day either to work or to start on a trip to get supplies, so they holed up in the tent, watching the rain come down. The creek grew, its voice turning angry. The mountain slopes were hidden by the curtain of the continuous downpour.

Jeremiah, chewing some bitter leaves in lieu of tobacco, spat a stream of green juice into the rain. They didn’t talk; there was nothing new to say. They knew each other’s stories too well, at least the ones Chance was willing to confess. This time a storm was brewing on the horizon and they watched with apprehension as the lightning flickered through the clouds. Soon the thunder was upon them. The winds picked up, and the sides of the tent flapped around vehemently. Chance swore and crawled outside into the driving rain, hammering in more pegs and piling more rocks on the canvas to anchor the tent.

He crawled back inside to join Jeremiah, shivering in the damp.

“Shit!” Jeremiah cursed; his tent had just blown down. The fire was out. They spent a miserable night watching the storm move over them. Near dawn, they smelled smoke.

“Lightning strike,” Jeremiah explained. “Starts a fire, but the wetness will stifle it. No need to worry.”

In full daylight, smoke was still visible, rising from the next valley. In the aftermath of the storm the rain had stopped, but everything was soggy wet. Jeremiah cursed as he sorted through his things and set his tent up again. He cursed some more when he discovered that what little flour was left had turned into paste overnight.

“Well that tears it. You’ll have to start today.” Chance packed up; rightly said, he just took an empty pack and set out.

“And get a newspaper if you can find one,” Jeremiah called after him. “And tobacco...”

The going was tough over slippery slopes, moisture was still dripping from the trees. The ground was soft with water and squished under foot. Even the rocks were dangerously slick. More than once Chance stopped and cleaned his gun before wrapping it tightly in canvas again.

Further down he stopped at the miners’ camp. No one was working as the stream of water was too high from the runoff and both banks were flooded.

McPhee spit into the water moodily. “It’s hardly worth it anymore. Barely pays our expenses. Certainly nothing for all the discomfort. A few have packed up; maybe they’ll try somewhere north. More are planning to leave.”

“We’re not doing much better. I’d have left myself, but Jeremiah’s like an old dog looking for a bone.”

McPhee nodded his understanding, “Once it gets into your blood...” He shrugged his shoulders. Chance finished his hot cornmeal and coffee and got up to go.

“By the way, thanks for your help with the water. Shame it was all for nothing.”

Chance continued on, spending an uncomfortable night in the hollow of an overturned tree. He didn’t have the patience to coax the wet wood to light a fire. He woke numb with cold, chewed on the last of his hardtack and slogged on, finding it easier going when the country evened out a little. The next night he spent a little more comfortably, finding shelter in a shallow cave, using the dried leaves blown in by the wind to build a fire.

He arrived late afternoon at the trading post. Surrounding the place were several camps occupied by Indians, trappers and a few prospectors. He was invited by a grizzled miner to share his campsite. Chance accepted gratefully. The man, who introduced himself as Ben something from Delaware, even shared his supper of beans and bacon. It tasted great, as Chance had eaten little on the trip.

“I tell you, it’s not worth grubbing around in old tailings of past gold mines. And there’s nothing new anywhere else. Some go as far north as Alaska, but so far I’ve heard nothing. Have you?” And he looked with hopeful eyes at Chance.

“No, nothing.” Chance shook his head. “We’re not finding much, just a little color here and there, hardly worth the risks.” Seems like this had solidified into a standard statement all the prospectors made.

The other scratched his beard. No doubt he’d been bitten by the gold bug and could do nothing else in life. He’d work just long enough to get together a grubstake and try again.

On the other end of the campsite, the trappers kept to themselves. They looked Chance over and shut him out of their company. The Indians were no better, sitting around the campfire like stoic statues wrapped in colorful Hudson Bay blankets. Only the children ran around and poked into everything.

“You have to watch them. They don’t have any sense of private property and anything not nailed down could be gone. It’s not really thievery, it’s their way of sharing,” Ben said scratching his crotch. Chance wondered if the man was infested and whether he’d be better off to sleep in the woods. But he spent the night in Ben’s camp and wasn’t bitten once.

After waking and a breakfast of hot oatmeal, Chance walked into the trading post. Inside he was greeted with the familiar smells of leather, wax, and dried pelts.

The first thing he bought was a Henry repeater and cartridges. He wasn’t ever going to be caught short again. On reflection he bought another one for his partner. Then the supplies.

The trader was happy, not often selling so much. After all, with mining down, the turnover wasn’t all that great. Sure there was a logging camp on the other end of the valley, but not the constant stream of prospectors for whom he had set up this place. That was now just a memory.

“Any news,” Chance asked, “of the world?” The trader just shrugged; what went on with the rest of the world didn’t matter here. Chance disagreed. The Canadians were building their own transcontinental railroad that would bring a flood of settlers, miners and loggers who’d change the world around here. But he said nothing. He found that the farther west he went the more conservative people became, but definitely hardier and more self-reliant.

“How’s business?” Chance asked as he was packing up his purchases.

“Not so good since the gold petered out,” the trader replied sourly. “But you should’ve seen it back then. Busy as a railroad station in New York. A steady stream of miners heading into the wilderness.” The man’s eyes sparkled briefly at the memory. “I hang on with a bit of fur trade, but most trappers take their catch to a Hudson Bay post. No one wants to come this way anymore. Now, I can hardly get my supplies.”

“Won’t Indians bring it in for you?”

“With a white man bossing them, maybe. But on their own, they’d stop at every relative along the way and wouldn’t get here until next Christmas. That’s the way they live, but I can’t run a business that way.”

Chance hefted his pack, finding it heavy. With a resigned sigh he settled into the harness, said good-bye and walked outside. He made one more stop by Ben’s camp to thank him.

“Nothing to it partner, we miners must stick together.”

Chance handed him his Sharps and his remaining cartridges and caps. “It shoots straight and accurate. But it weighs too much for my journey.” Ben accepted the gift, thanking him.

Thus loaded down, it took Chance almost four days to reach the prospectors at Dog Leg. It had rained most of the way. McPhee was gone as were about half the others. Those who remained went about their tasks without any enthusiasm; there wasn’t much life left in this bunch and hardly worth the complicated deal he’d worked out for them. And to think it had nearly come to violence. Chance pushed on.

It was the next day that Chance arrived back in camp, sardonically named Hollow Hope by Jeremiah in one of his more despondent moods. Gratefully, he cast down the heavy pack, feeling like a suddenly liberated bird. Jeremiah dove into the pack and extracted the large package of tobacco. Soon he had his pipe going and with a beatific expression was sending plumes of smoke into the air. It was a while before he examined the rest of the load. He worked the lever of the repeater checking how it loaded and ejected the cartridges.

“I think you should go shopping all the time, you do a much better job of it.” It had cost more too, Chance thought, adding it all up, but he didn’t mind staking a little more on their endeavor.

“Anything worthwhile?” Chance asked.

“A little more color. Enough to almost fill our jar up. But I swear there’s more. Has to be...” Chance whistled. They estimated that a full jar was worth close to a thousand, depending on the purity. It had taken them most of the summer to scrape together that much, but that was still more than enough to repay their investment, even if it didn’t match their hopes... that is, Jeremiah’s hopes, as Chance had no great expectations.

A spattering of rain came down and both men cursed. It had rained steadily now for nigh unto three weeks and the ground was thoroughly saturated. Jeremiah then unveiled his secret. He’d found a small cave upslope, enlarged it a bit and set up camp there. “At least we can keep our stuff dry.”

The cave was just big enough for the two of them and all their stuff.

“We can leave your tent where it is and use it for preparing meals. This cave’s a little small for fire,” Jeremiah reasoned. Then he unveiled his next surprise. He’d bagged a buck and had smoked the meat in a lean-to he’d built.

“You’ve been busy,” Chance praised. They ate well that night. After, they retreated into the cave and spent half an hour in the flicker of the oil lamp. Chance read the Old Testament a bit, about Jonah and the fish and in the closeness of the cave, he felt swallowed up. He ended by looking at the picture of Emily’s profile and had a funny feeling: Emily Carmody had that very same look in profile. It had tickled him at the time but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. What a coincidence. Was he always going to run into an Emily who looked like the original? Maybe it was all in his head. He concentrated hard on the picture, comparing. No, there was an astonishing resemblance.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jeremiah called from his side of the cave.

“Pretty nearly...” Chance murmured as he carefully folded the picture and put it away with the Bible. They blew out the lamp and settled down for the night. Chance definitely felt more secure in the cave; any attack could only come through the opening which he’d covered with his new repeater. On the way back he’d practiced with the weapon. Because of the shorter barrel it didn’t have the range and accuracy of the Sharps but close up, it was very effective. When the wolves started howling in the next valley, it didn’t bother him in the least.