AS THEY HAD AGREED, Charles began work at McLane’s placer, and Samuel arranged with Scott Alexander to deliver supplies to some of the outlying mines, mostly tools and hardware.
“Not a lot for this trip, Sam. Take some orders,” Scott said and handed him the list.
“Sure will.”
Samuel mounted Spooky and headed out, leading Molly. He met Chen at the trail intersection. Scott may have guessed Samuel would accompany Chen, but Samuel did not make it apparent. He sensed that Scott was becoming less tolerant of the Chinese. They were excellent merchants and brought in fine produce, along with chickens, eggs, and fish. An increasing number of white miners were buying from the Chinese, and the Chinese did not hesitate to deliver the merchandise. What miner could refuse fresh vegetables when he was miles outside the nearest town? Samuel had picked up the idea from Chen last season, and Scott had allowed Samuel to take out supplies—mostly mining tools, but also buttermilk, cheese, and bread, all items the Chinese were less likely to peddle.
They turned up Steamboat Creek, and though they passed a couple of placers up in the trees, Samuel and Chen intended to visit other areas. Samuel tried to make deliveries based on requests coming in to Scott from the miners. Chen customarily rotated among areas.
Unlike last season when Chen insisted on leading his packed mule, he now rode. He had two wicker baskets that straddled the mule and towered behind his saddle. Sometimes, Chen put his feet up on the saddle yoke and leaned back into them. The mule plodded onward, following the trail.
Molly followed Spooky without protest. Most mules had their own notions about where to go and how fast to get there, but Molly had seemed to have given in to her fate of following the horse.
“So, do you have any holidays coming up?” Samuel asked. He reflected on the Festival of the Moon.
“Sure. We have fourth of youlie,” Chen laughed.
“I mean Chinese holidays.”
“Maybe. Maybe we have feast for dead.”
Samuel was intrigued. “What’s that like?”
“You come see. I will tell you when.”
They rode in the direction of Burgdorf’s hot springs. Movement on the hillside startled Samuel, and his heart caught. Immediately, he ducked into the brush, hissing at Chen. “Off the trail, Chen.”
Chen did so and studied Samuel, concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong, Sam?”
Samuel studied the timber, seeking the flash of sunlight off metal or something that would tell him it was a man and hoping it would not be. “My pa and I have some men who may be wanting to dry-gulch us.” He pulled his rifle.
“They are the bandits?”
“Could be. We slung some lead at each other last winter on the river.”
“Not good, Sam.”
“Nope.” He studied the brush for a while longer, finally deciding it had been nothing. He knew if he was dry-gulched, he would likely never know it was coming.
“Guess we’re good, Chen.” Samuel urged Spooky back onto the trail.
Beyond Burgdorf’s place, they soon reached a new trail, turning off Lake Creek. Several new two- and three-man placers, known as Willow Creek, were situated to the east along some of the smaller tributaries leading into Lake Creek.
There was hardly a trail. No one had cut more than a horse width through the dense timber, and Samuel and Chen painstakingly threaded their way around and over downed trees. Both mules protested. Samuel led, pulling Molly. The sun beat down, and with the recent rains, the humidity was high. Sweat trickled from Samuel’s brow, stinging his eyes.
“Maybe we do not come here again,” Chen muttered.
“Maybe we raise our prices,” Samuel suggested.
Chen laughed. “Yes, good idea.”
Wherever they found the small camps, the men came out of the timber and up from their sluice boxes along the creek, cheering. Samuel thought it was often more for an excuse to take a breather than for any other reason. Besides picking up a few badly needed supplies, the miners were eager for any news and goings-on back at Warren’s camp and the other placer diggings.
It was the way in the camps: Each miner was anxious to hear if anyone had hit it big but secretly happy to hear when no one had. It assured them their chances were a mite better where they were. The fewer the miners who made big hits, the more likely it was it could soon be their turn. But if news came in that someone had made a good strike, then they were torn between leaving their own strike and trying to cash in on richer ground elsewhere. Often those who tried were disappointed, and often they left better diggings behind. Mining was a battle of nerves and second-guessing. It was a fear only a miner understood.
Samuel sold canvas, nails, two pans, an ax, and a pick—all items that Scott knew the miners would need at the new diggings. Chen sold most of the vegetables. Deftly, the two took the men’s gold and weighed it on a hand scale. Chen figured that the gold was richer than most and gave fifteen dollars an ounce for it. Samuel agreed. He had now seen enough himself to be a fair judge of its purity.
Somebody muttered, “That’s the way to get rich. Sell vegetables for their weight in gold.”
Another miner countered. “Well, if you want ’em, nobody but the Chinamen can seem to grow ’em.”
“Be thankful these two are willing to bring us anything at all.” The man, skinny, ragged, turned to Samuel. “Thanks, lad.” He giggled.
Samuel recognized Andy Stephens. His blond hair was darker, rattier—his beard, more scraggly. He wore the same tattered vest.
“I know you,” Samuel called after him.
“By gum, I thought it was you, lad,” Stephens grinned, showing his missing teeth. “Me and my partner paid you a visit down on the river when you and your pa struck it good a while back.”
“How you doing? I see you made it in. Where’s Mr. Boston?”
Stephens glanced away. “Just me, now. Clint didn’t make it.”
Samuel felt as if the wind was knocked from him.
“It’s okay. He knew he wasn’t gonna make it. Got caught in snow, we did, by gum. Got wet, he did. Just sort a went to sleep. Afore that, he had tolt me if he didn’t make it, just to bury him on a hill overlookin’ the river. That’s what I did. I know that was fine by him,” Stephens said brightly. “And you, you’re lookin’ good. Your pa?”
Samuel kept fighting the realization that Boston was dead. He knew death happened. It happened a lot, but he could not shake it.
“Uh, he’s fine.”
By late afternoon, they had finished visiting the scattered camps and had headed back. Thunderheads were moving over the ridge.
As before, they found an area to camp near the main trail. Samuel considered continuing on to Burgdorf’s. He longed for a swim in the hot springs, but he knew Chen would feel uncomfortable. He also didn’t have the money to spare, although Mr. Burgdorf might not charge him.
Samuel felt strange to be peddling merchandise with Chen. All last season he had prepared to leave, never expecting to be doing so again. Now he was back. The feelings warmed him. He no longer felt uncomfortable with Chen’s strange customs as he had when they first met. He accepted Chen’s company and his strange ideas. Samuel appreciated Chen’s passion for life in his own manner.
Chen boiled water for rice and tea. Samuel had cold cornmeal mush and venison.
They talked while watching the sun set, catching the tops of the thunderheads and turning them orange. Occasionally lightning lit the clouds, and muted thunder reverberated from the mountains.
“Might get caught in rain tonight.”
Chen studied the clouds. “No. Tomorrow, late maybe.”
“The placers are doing better this year because of more water.”
“Yes, all men do well. Chinese do well. We have good gold.”
“But it will dry out soon.”
“Maybe by then we all get rich and go home.” Chen laughed.
“Will you?” Samuel wanted to know if Chen still intended to go to China. He had trouble understanding why Chen felt he had to go, other than that his relatives were there, but none of whom he personally knew. At least Sing Mann told him he had relatives. Chen had said they had written. Samuel wondered, but he knew no reason Sing Mann would mislead Chen unless he wanted to provide him with some hope for his future.
“Not for long time. Not Sing Mann either. We give money to tong.”
Often there were disagreements among the tongs—fraternities of Chinese somewhat like competing gangsters—but Chen’s tong included the merchants, and as near as Samuel could determine, the other tongs tolerated the merchants because they brought in the supplies.
“Well, after more claims open up and more people come, you can sell more stuff.”
Chen frowned slightly and shook his head. “Not as many new claims. Most are Chinese. White miners do quartz.”
Samuel could not deny Chen’s observations. Scott and others often reminisced about the boom days when gold was everywhere. Everyone now realized Washington would prosper only if the quartz mines began producing.
Chen pulled out his flute and played for a time. Samuel enjoyed listening to the hollow, melancholy notes. It brought to mind China, a faraway land he could only imagine, but one he somehow had come to know by knowing these people and their customs.
The mountain air chilled. Samuel pulled out his bedroll and found a fir under which to sleep. Chen found an area a few yards distant.
In the morning they were soon back on the trail and intersected the main trail that ran beside the Secesh.
Samuel immediately noticed a pungent odor and spotted the tracks and droppings. Spooky pricked his ears forward.
Chen laughed. “We in trouble now. Kan Soo bling in pigs.”
Samuel could see the churned up earth where apparently dozens of animals had passed. He could make out the small cloven prints, as though a bunch of small deer were in front of them. They followed until topping a rise, where they spotted a long string of pigs stretched out, clambering, grunting, and squealing. The pungent stench enveloped them. Several Chinese were jogging alongside, all with long switches, directing and prodding.
“How in blazes do you herd pigs?” Until now Samuel would not have thought it possible.
Chen laughed. “One man have corn. Pigs start to follow. When on trail, they keep going.”
Samuel noticed a man with a gunnysack.
They soon found themselves trailing behind the pigs. Chen called out to the closest man. They waved and chatted. Chen and Samuel kept pace, wondering if they would ever get past the swarm of animals.
“Maybe soon they let us go past.” Chen hollered to the Chinese man again. The man turned and waved and smiled but kept walking, switching at the rumps of the pigs. The pungent odor grew more intense.
They followed a good half an hour before the Chinese with the gunnysack enticed the pigs off the trail and down toward the creek. The animals immediately spread out, rooting around, grunting, splashing into the water, guzzling. The Chinese paused along the trail, waving and bowing as Samuel and Chen passed. Chen greeted them and chatted for a moment.
“Good to get by,” Chen said. “Even better to see pigs. Good to eat.”
Samuel was more pleased to be able to breathe.
At Alexander’s Mercantile, Samuel returned the few remaining items. Scott offered him some coffee and took out his pipe.
“I see you went with the Chinaman boy again.”
“Yep, but don’t worry, Scott. He sells things you don’t.”
“Maybe I’d sell what he’s selling if he wasn’t.”
Samuel knew better. The Chinese had the vegetables—what the miners wanted and needed, especially after the long winter. “At least I’m out there making some sales that he isn’t.”
“True.”
Then Samuel remembered. “How about some pork? Some Chinese are herding in a bunch of pigs.”
Scott straightened. “Jay DuBois might object, but most likely it won’t matter. Pigs are Chinaman food for sure. They aren’t about to let any go to us.” He smoothed his moustache. “Oh, don’t mind me, Sam. Things seem to be turning down around here. I really don’t know how much longer this old camp will keep providing a living.”
Samuel felt disheartened. Scott seemed less optimistic than last season. “I’ll find a new strike, Scott. You’ll see. We’ll have a new rush.”
“I hope you do, Sam.” He tapped his pipe.
Samuel met his father back at the cabin in time for dinner.
“Figured you might be back, so I thought I’d come on in from McLane’s and see how it went,” Charles said. “You seem to have a knack for attracting trouble.”
“I did good, Pa, but you remember Andy Stephens and Clint Boston, those guys who tried to get in over the snow early?”
Charles straightened, nodding.
“I met Mr. Stephens at a new placer. Mr. Boston didn’t make it. He died in the snow.”
“That’s a shame.” Charles shook his head. “I remember you and I worried about those two fellows. Boston was the skinny one, wasn’t he?”
Samuel nodded. “How’d it go for you, Pa?”
“So far, it’s good. I’ll get paid at the end of the week, about the same as last season.”
“You finding any nuggets?”
“We’re still trying to get down to the pay streak, but good color is showing in all the boxes.”
“That’s what I like most about the Sweet Mary—seeing the gold in the sluice.”
Charles heaped some stew onto a plate and handed it to Samuel.
“You want to head up to the O’Riley and check how things look? I’d have you start hauling some of the ore out, but it makes no sense until we have a mill to haul it to.”
“Any word on it?” Samuel took the plate. The stew was good and hot and had better than usual flavor.
“Last I heard, it’s still at Mount Idaho,” Charles said. “Maybe you should take a trip over to the Hic Jacet and see about them running our ore. We might have to get in line.”
Samuel shook his head. “That’s another six or so miles past the Summit Lode. We better hope Mr. Bradshaw gets his mill.”