SAMUEL FELT BETTER in the morning but looked worse. His bruises were darker purple, and his eye was still nearly swollen shut. The constriction bandage helped his ribs feel more normal.
After breakfast, he headed out toward the O’Riley, anxious to get back to work. He still might not be able to swing a hammer, but his father should be ready to blast. At least he could haul ore. They should be doing the test run today, and he wanted to see it.
He heard the explosions from down the valley before he reached the O’Riley.
“Sorry, son, I couldn’t wait.”
“I’m the one sorry, Pa. I like seeing stuff being blown up.”
He jumped down into the pit to examine the exposed ore, feeling his side pain him when he did so. The vein was looking good.
It was now a good drop to the bottom. When they were finished mucking, it would be over eight feet deep. The vein showed strongly across the floor. Despite what O’Shaughnessy had said, it was getting wider and now measured fifteen inches across. Samuel washed it clean, exposing a stringer of gray metallic specks. If it carried gold, it would be even richer than the assays.
He began helping his father sack ore. An angry pain caused him to catch his breath, but he struggled on, reminding himself that he wouldn’t worsen the injury. He tried to haul one of the bags but stopped short in agony. His father noticed and took over the loading.
“I’ll keep mucking this until you get back. I might put in another couple charges to break out some more on the vein. Maybe you’ll be back by then.”
Samuel agreed. He could see that at this point, drilling into the vein and blasting might give them a few more pounds.
Samuel was near the steepest section of their trail when he spotted Rex’s horse wandering, limping, on a narrow ridge across from the one he was descending. His stomach turned and he felt his blood begin to boil. He checked the load of his rifle and put it across his pommel.
“Maybe I’ll be lucky and find someone dry-gulched the bastard,” he muttered.
Gently, he turned Spooky toward the horse, wondering what it was doing here in the opposite direction of the trail to the Salmon. Maybe Rex had stupidly thought he could go down the South Fork to reach the Salmon, taking a roundabout way back to Slate Creek.
He reached the horse. It had been fresh ridden. Long gashes were raked across its rear flank. Samuel figured it must have been tree limbs. It was a good chance Rex had been knocked off somewhere.
“I hope he broke his neck,” Samuel muttered.
Samuel began retracing the tracks. He reached the edge of the ridge and, from the marks in the soil, could see where the horse had struggled. It reminded him eerily of his encounter with the rattlesnake when he had been thrown and injured last year.
Though he felt Rex was near, he refrained from shouting. He left the packed animals and the trail and walked downward into the ravine. If Rex’s horse had slid down here, it was miraculous it had lived. He spotted flecks of blood on a rock. Could be the horse. He expected to find Rex’s body.
The man was an almost unrecognizable lump wedged against the trunk of several downed trees. He was awake, watching Samuel.
“You alive?” Samuel half expected him to pull his pistol and shoot him.
Blood stained the boulders where Rex lay, holding his knife.
At first Samuel thought he was going to use it on him when he drew near enough.
“Put it away, Rex, or I’ll kill you.” Samuel raised his rifle.
“N-no, Samuel. You gotta help me.”
“Get me up close to where you can slit my throat?”
“I-I was fixin’ to cut my leg free.”
Samuel felt himself go weak, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “Good, I’ll leave you be, and you can get back to work sawing on it.”
Rex glared at him. “You bastard.”
Samuel could now see the man’s leg pinned under the log, the boulders firmly holding it in place. His hands were bloody from trying to wedge the boulders free.
“You gotta help me,” he rasped.
Samuel could see where Rex had done some damage to his leg. It bled freely. Everything inside of him told Samuel to leave the man. If Rex bled to death, he would be deserving. Samuel stepped back.
“I’m fixin’ on leaving you to die.”
A frantic look flashed through Rex’s eyes. He began cursing, spewing out filth about Samuel and Bonnie. Samuel plugged his ears; squeezed his eyes shut; felt his anger rising. He could not handle it. He fingered the rifle, cocked, and raised it.
Hate feelin’s are the worse. He remembered his father’s recent words.
“No,” Rex pleaded. His face was white.
Samuel lowered the rifle, eased the hammer down. He grabbed Rex’s knife, pulled it from his hand. The man blubbered. Quickly Samuel sliced through the man’s trousers, cutting the cloth away, revealing the injury. It wasn’t deep. Samuel slapped the cloth back onto it.
“Got to stop the bleeding,” Samuel explained. “I ain’t gonna let you die, no matter how much filth like you deserve it.” He tied the cloth tightly in place, causing Rex to wince. “You ever cheat on Bonnie again, I’ll pray to God he lets the devil take me to blazes for allowing you to live.”
“I’ll be owin’ to you, Samuel,” Rex kept sobbing.
“Be owing to Bonnie. She deserves a good man.” Then Samuel could not help himself. “Others have said you could be a good man, Rex. I don’t believe it myself, but they do. Be good to Bonnie.” He found an ache in his throat.
He found a limb and wedged the boulders off the log pinning Rex. The man scrambled up. Samuel took his arm and managed to help him hobble back to the ridgeline where he had left the horses.
Samuel collapsed from the effort; the ache from the beating Rex had given him raked his body. His ribs throbbed in pain. He sat a moment, breathing hard. Rex had collapsed beside him.
“What … can I ask, are you still doing here, Rex? You headed out a couple nights ago.”
“Just wandering,” he said quietly. “Thought maybe I could get out to the main Salmon this way.”
“You can, but it’d take you a week longer.”
“I found out.” Shakily, he stood. “I got to get goin’.”
“That doesn’t make sense, you being out here.”
“No, it don’t.” He limped to his horse and tried to mount. His foot slipped from the stirrup. Samuel stood and helped him.
Rex peered down at him. “You should know. I wasn’t lookin’ to goin’ back after I laid you out. I knew Mr. Stromback wouldn’t look too kindly on me. I knew he’d cut me loose.”
Samuel had not thought of that. “You go back to the Strombacks’, Rex. I’m leaving in a few days. I won’t be seeing Bonnie, except maybe to say good-bye. At least own up to telling Mr. Stromback yourself.” Samuel choked. “At least tell Bonnie.”
Rex sat his horse, looking around. “Ain’t you headin’ back to Washington now?”
“No, I’m hauling ore to Bradshaw’s mill.” Samuel gestured at the packed animals. “Besides, I’m not up to ever riding with you again, Rex.”
Rex glanced away.
“Think you can find your way back?” Samuel asked.
“Head up over the hill.” Rex pointed to the timber-covered mountain above.
“Trail’s off to your left.” Samuel pointed.
Samuel watched as Rex disappeared into the timber, snapping branches and brush as he made his way back toward the ridgeline and the trail leading back to Washington.
I couldn’t do it, Samuel thought. If I ever had a right to take a man’s life, that was it. But he was thinking of Bonnie. He could not imagine meeting anyone finer than her. He had no right—he could not support her and start a family. It was just not his time. At least Rex would be there.
He gazed east. He thought of the Sheepeaters. Maybe theirs was a harsh life, but it seemed simpler. Gold did not mean anything to them. Even growing crops did not concern them. He thought of just forgetting about everything, just heading east—to see if he could find the Sheepeaters—not to even ask questions of them, but just to forget all he had been through.
This is crazy thinking, he told himself. He stumbled to his feet, mounted Spooky and began leading Buster and Molly back toward the trail to the Bradshaw.
Samuel heard the stamps from nearly half a mile away. A good sound, he told himself. They sounded steady. Thump, thump, thump. He imagined the five stamps rising and dropping, pulverizing the ore under them, turning it to powder, releasing the gold.
Stanton was cheering and shouting to O’Shaughnessy and Connolly, who stood on the catwalk, shoveling in pulverized ore.
Samuel greeted them. Everyone stared in return. Samuel was fully aware of what they were seeing. He briefly explained.
Connolly muttered, “I hope if ever you meet up with that cuss, you put lead in him. Not one of us would blame you if you did.”
Samuel said nothing but began unloading his ore. O’Shaughnessy must have noticed him struggling. He lent a hand.
“Thanks,” Samuel said. “Busted up my ribs pretty bad. It’s hard for me to swing much weight.”
“I find him,” O’Shaughnessy said, “by me soul, he won’t have anything left to swing.”
Stanton came up. “Anyone tell you that you look like hell?”
“Just about everyone.”
Stanton chuckled. “Well, the good news is my mill’s running perfectly. At least it appears to be. We haven’t checked recovery yet.” He waved at the strong stream of muddy white water running from the mill into a secondary sluice.
Samuel watched the wheel turning under the weight of water coming from the flume. What a sight it was. What a marvel.
“I might need to adjust the table angle to get better flow.”
“You gonna have enough time for that today?” Samuel asked worriedly.
“That’s why I agreed to run your ore, Samuel. If we miss it on yours, we still got time to fix it for ours.”
Samuel stood, dumbfounded.
Stanton laughed. “Just funning you, Samuel. It’ll do just fine getting your gold. I swear, by gum. But I’m testing the outflow throughout the day just in case.”
Samuel didn’t think the joke was funny. The mill could very easily be off. If so, it would mean losing everything in their ore—everything they had worked night and day for during the last several weeks.
“Here, have a gander.”
Samuel followed Stanton to where they could see the five-hundred-pound stamps, loudly pounding down.
“The wheel turns a camshaft with various spaced cams. As the shaft turns, a hook on each cam catches one of the stamps and lifts it,” Stanton shouted, demonstrating with his hands. “When it turns over, it disengages and allows the stamp to fall. Anything under the stamp is pulverized.”
Samuel watched the cams rapidly lifting the stamps, one after the other, allowing first one and then another to fall and then lifting them again.
“The cams are spaced differently so the stamps fall in a specified sequence. That allows the ore to be pulverized equally, and it prevents uneven wear on the shoes and dies—that’s the plate under the shoe.”
Stanton reached a large, inclined table that emerged from the bottom, a sheet of milky water flowed evenly over its surface. The noise was less.
“The pulverized ore is pushed out onto this table. Much like in a sluice, the gold and silver are trapped behind the cleats and amalgamated with quicksilver.”
“So I won’t be seeing any gold.”
“No. You might see a line of very fine gold, but nearly all of it is being drawn into the quicksilver.”
Samuel thanked Stanton. “We’ll be bringing in our last load soon.”
“We’re ready to go tomorrow.”
Samuel headed back toward the O’Riley. When he greeted his father, he didn’t mention anything about Rex. He intended never to do so.
“Did they get the mill running okay?” Charles asked. “You must have been watching—you’re running late.”
“Yep, it seems to be going good. Stanton doesn’t know how well it will recover gold yet.”
“I’ll assume it will, because our ore is going in,” Charles said.
“I told him.” Samuel inspected the remaining stack of ore. “Looks like we got a good amount.”
“The good news is we got quite a bit more than I thought we would from the last round,” Charles said. “The bad news is we might not be able to get it all hauled. Come on, I got two holes drilled.”
Samuel was elated. He lit the fuses with his father and then got out of range. Watching the final two explosions—and imagining Rex going up in them—was the best feeling he had had in the last several days.
They quickly loaded nearly seven hundred pounds and headed toward the Bradshaw, reaching it well after dark. The mill was shut down. Stanton gave them a place to throw their gear and spread out their bedrolls.
The thumping stamps awakened Samuel.
“Guess that’s our signal to get up,” Charles muttered. “They’re running our ore.”
Finally. An odd elation washed Samuel.
“See if you can give them a hand here, son. I’ll get the last of our ore before this is all run.”
Samuel tried to get up. During the night he had become so stiff, he could hardly move. He groaned, bit his lip, and tried to stretch a little. Turning on his side, he pushed himself up and then stood.
His father watched. “Still hurts?”
Samuel nodded.
“I ever run into that bastard again, I’m going to put lead into him,” Charles muttered.
Everyone but me is willing to put lead into Rex, Samuel thought.
They made up a quick breakfast. Charles headed back toward the O’Riley, and Samuel walked up the hill toward the mill. The thumping was almost more than Samuel could stand. He figured part of that was due to his head being pummeled by Rex.
O’Shaughnessy and Connolly were busting ore and shoveling it into the hoppers. From the O’Riley, he thought. Our ore. His heart quickened. A year ago he had found the ledge. It was finally happening.
“Well, the least you could do is give us a hand,” Connolly said. “This is yours.”
“I’ll be happy to.” Samuel scrambled to the pile. “Got another hammer?”
Connolly nodded toward one, and Samuel picked it up and began swinging. He stopped short. The pain wracked his side.
O’Shaughnessy noticed. “Maybe ye can help shovel.” He swung another shovelful of broken ore into the hopper, which angled down to feed into the bins behind the stamps. An opening near the bottom of the chute allowed a few fragments at a time to fall under the stamps.
Samuel shoveled some crushed ore into the hopper, grimacing.
Stanton came up to see Samuel. “You don’t need to be doing anything, son. You and your pa are paying me a percentage to do this.”
“I don’t like standing around.”
Stanton laughed. “I’ve noticed that about you, Samuel, and about your father as well.”
“How was your recovery yesterday?” Samuel asked.
“For the ore we ran, it seemed to be very good. Mostly I was just making sure everything worked, and it does.” He nodded and headed back down to watch the table.
Samuel pitched in again, despite what Stanton had said, and resumed shoveling some of their ore. “So whose ore looked better,” he asked Connolly, “yours from yesterday or ours?”
“To me, it all looks the same,” he replied. “It’s just rocks—big rocks that need to be made into little rocks.”
At length, Samuel spotted his father coming up the hill, leading Spooky and Molly, the animals heavily packed with ore.
“I almost overdid it,” Charles said. “I didn’t want to make another trip.”
“Do you think we have six tons?”
“Well over six. That should make Mr. Stanton happy.”
Samuel did a quick calculation. If the ore went three ounces a ton, they would have close to four hundred dollars—a decent amount.
Charles was soon at work with O’Shaughnessy and Connolly, cobbing and feeding the pulverized ore into the hopper. Stanton stood below, gauged how the stamps were doing, and directed the flow. He explained that it was important to have an even feed and not to allow any one stamp to hang up.
The men cobbed and shoveled, occasionally taking a break for water but nothing else.
A slurry of whitish mud washed over the copper plates below.
Stanton addressed Samuel. “This is probably the most efficiently it will be run all season. You sure you don’t want to hire on and help keep this thing running?”
Samuel shook his head. “You sure it’s working?”
Stanton ran his hands across the table. “The quicksilver seems a little frothy, so it’s definitely picking up some gold.”
Small particles that were trapped in the mercury and behind the cleats created small riffles in the smooth water. Samuel hoped it was all gold.
Toward evening, they had run their ore. Stanton rerouted the water, and the stamps went silent. Samuel returned to the table, where he could watch Stanton do the cleanup.
“You can give me a hand if you like.” Stanton took some paddles and scrapped the slurry and amalgam off the copper plate. He placed it into some cloth and squeezed out some of the mercury. “That’s the stuff that did not amalgamate.”
Samuel was surprised by the amount. “Did we get anything?”
Stanton laughed. “Oh, there is definitely some gold.” He hefted the cloth.
“You can help me collect the material from around the stamps.” He used the paddles and scrapped more slurry down across the table into a pan. Samuel worked around another stamp, doing the same.
“Most of this is just rock dust,” Stanton said. “But I don’t think you’ll mind panning it down with me in case there are some large particles of gold.”
“That means I get to help work it down?”
“Yep.” Stanton handed Samuel a pan. They took the fines to a couple of large tubs and began working them down with some mercury, much like the black sand Samuel had worked from before.
“I can retort the amalgam tomorrow and run it through the furnace. We can also separate out your silver—the only mill in the district that can do that.” Stanton smiled. “You and your pa can drop by in the afternoon. We should have everything by then. You’ll know how you did.”
Samuel and his father collected their gear and headed toward their cabin, leading Molly.
“It’s hard to believe we’re done, Pa,” Samuel said. He rubbed his arms. “I think I was actually building some muscle. Doc Sears thought so.”
“No question.” Charles eyed him. He clucked to Buster. “Maybe we can get a good yield and pay our debts and have enough proof to sell this mine.”
“Have you heard any news about Mr. Williams?” Samuel had not. He was beginning to believe the man had backed out.
“Nope.” Charles pulled his hat down more tightly. “Guess we just got to keep advertising.”