Salmon River Kid Read online

  While Samuel related his adventures, he noticed Mrs. Shearer eyeing him as if looking at someone back from the dead. She had not changed. Similar to Mr. Shearer, she was slender, her face was pleasantly creased, and gray streaked her dark hair. Of course she and the others had heard bits and pieces about Samuel’s accident and his encounter with the highwaymen, but his father and he had not visited with the Shearers since they had been through the previous spring.

  “It’s mighty fine to see you, Samuel,” Mrs. Shearer exclaimed, looking him up and down. “I do believe the high country has treated you better than I thought it would. You so remind me of my George when he was your age, before he went off to war—same color of hair and eyes—so handsome.”

  Samuel felt himself flush. Mrs. Shearer was a lot like Ma Reynolds back in Washington, always fussing over him.

  Charles briefly explained their plans. “We’re looking for a cabin below here. Raymond Hinley indicated he thought a couple of fellows had started a homestead and had an acceptable winter placer. He said he did some assays for them a few years back.”

  “I know of a place about four miles west of us. I’m not sure if it’s the same as what Mr. Hinley is thinking, but it might do you,” Frederick Shearer explained. To Samuel, he appeared older, his hair was thinner, and his face seemed more strained, but his features hid a strength gained through years of rugged life.

  “Two men spent a winter there. They might have been ne’er-do-wells. Never did come by our place after they got settled.” He shook his head. “I checked it out. It’s just a wide spot in the trail. Not enough land for a homestead. Don’t know about any placer gold, though it wouldn’t surprise me. There’s gold up and down this entire river, but it takes more effort than I’m willing to give to get any.”

  Early in the morning, they led the stock to the ferry landing. The river murmured below—silvery with black shadows, edged in ice. The muted grays of the surrounding rock and hillsides reflected in its waters. The river no longer scared Samuel, not like last spring when it was near flood stage, pounding with whitewater.

  Samuel helped lower the ramp and led the horses and mule aboard, where he tied them off. The ferry, a wide deck over two smaller boats, bobbed on the moving water. The animals stamped in nervous protest to its unstable movement. Samuel stroked Spooky’s muzzle, talking to him and calming him.

  “All set?” George asked, but not awaiting an answer, he took the sweep and angled the bow into the current. He struck up a conversation with Charles as if he had no cares in the world.

  The ferryboat shuddered and then began moving across, pushed by the current. Samuel recalled Mr. Shearer’s explanation, and he now understood how the current and angle kept them moving across without them slipping downstream and snapping the wire. “Mostly used for safety,” Mr. Shearer had explained about the wire.

  Samuel peered through the crystal water to the gravel and boulder-strewn bottom, watching for trout. The river was low, and they could have easily swum it with their horses, except their gear would have gotten wet. Some broken ice floated past. He shivered. Had they tried, they wouldn’t have survived in the frigid water for long.

  Leaving the ferry, they headed west and followed the river downstream. Like liquid night, it flowed silently through gray canyon walls, dismal and bleak. Neither summer light nor autumn color remained. The grass had bleached to muted tones, and the shrubs were naked and bare. The evergreens were dark, almost black. Rock formations stood stark and fractured, etched against the towering walls, and deep shadows filled the canyon.

  Ahead, the river swept gently north and then back to the west, entering a section of unbroken cliffs that plummeted steeply into the river. Samuel recognized this as the place where his father and he had first encountered Quinton Dudgin and Ramey Smith and their partner, Clay Bender. Images of Dudgin murdering Bender sent a clammy chill through Samuel. They tried to kill him as well since he had witnessed the murder. He was now convinced that Dudgin and Smith were the men who had held up the Chinese pack string a month ago and the same men that his father and Sheriff Sinclair had chased into the canyon. He hoped they were smart enough to leave the country. If not, Samuel feared they might try again to kill him.

  He gazed at the sullen river sliding beneath the cliffs and hesitated. His eye caught on a section of sandbar and rock ledge that seemed to have been worked. He peered uphill, up the brushy draw toward a notch above. At one time, it could have been a trail.

  “Pa, I think that cabin’s here.” He turned upward off the trail, forcing Spooky through thickets of elderberry and buckbrush toward a small flat.

  They discovered the remains of a cabin nearly hidden from view by heavy brush. A portion of it was dug into the hillside. The cabin roof was largely caved in. Pack rats had moved in and built nests under the puncheon plank floor and the old bed frames. A stove sat in one corner, although the stovepipe was missing. The shutter covering a glassless window had come apart, and they found the door off its hinges in the brush to the side. Blackberry brambles grew thick across the bench. Were it not winter, it would have been excellent cover for rattlesnakes. Samuel shivered. He had almost been killed because of a rattlesnake.

  “It ain’t a garden spot,” Charles said. He kicked at the door. “Guess it’ll have to do.”

  They unloaded their gear, turned the stock loose, and immediately began making repairs.

  Later, Samuel returned to the Shearers’ and procured a length of stovepipe and some nails. George accompanied him on the return trip and helped them rebuild the roof.

  “Might as well have built a new cabin,” George said when they finally finished.

  “Maybe so,” Charles replied. “I’d invite you to stay for a cup of coffee, but we’ve run out since Washington.”

  George laughed. “I’d rather offer you some. As well as anything else you might need—maybe feed for your stock. There won’t be enough grass up this valley.” George nodded up the brush-choked creek that trickled down past the cabin toward the river.

  “Much obliged. We’ll manage for a while.”

  “If need be, we can winter your stock. We have good pasture. And if the winter gets too severe, we can trail them out to Slate Creek. It rarely gets snow farther downriver. Most of the packers winter there.”

  Samuel knew his father would not accept George’s offer—not if they could manage things on their own.

  George turned to go. “Come on upriver anytime you want to visit. Being you’re a neighbor, there won’t be a fare. Even if you are a Yankee.”

  “Mighty obliged,” Charles replied.

  George Shearer had spent much of the war in Union prisons. Nevertheless, Charles and he had put aside their differences. As George had pointed out, “I rarely met a Yankee who was tolerable of the South, let alone one who actually fought in the war.” Most of the men who had come west did so to avoid the war.

  Father and son stood a moment, watching George ride off. The emptiness and silence of the canyon quickly surrounded them.

  “Guess we best get to work, son. We have a mighty big chore ahead of us before the winter clamps down.”

  They began putting in a store of firewood, which proved scarce. Only spindly, barren trees and briar-choked brush covered the grassy slopes above them. Eventually, they located a pile of driftwood caught on the upstream side of a sandbar along the river and hauled pieces to the cabin to be cut into firewood.

  A few days later, a driving storm bringing a mixture of snow and sleet down the canyon revealed that their horses and mule were dangerously exposed. They began building a pole-and-brush shelter near the small creek under which the animals could huddle out of the wind.

  Charles tossed more brush onto the shelter. “Maybe we won’t get any placer mining in. Maybe all we do is survive the winter and get ready for next season.”

  “If that’s so, I’d better get started hunting an
d bring in some meat.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Their cabin and the bar faced south. This gave them a few hours of winter sun during the day, which somewhat warmed the cabin and hillsides above them. Otherwise, the cabin was in deep shadows or the grip of night. Samuel already felt the bleak, gray days pressing in, and spring seemed an eternity away.

  After the storm, the snow evaporated from the exposed slopes, and the weather briefly warmed. Samuel discovered the remnants of a flume and sluice box scattered under the blackberry briars among the boulders where the men before them had been working the bank. Together they repaired the sluice and repositioned it near the excavation. A ditch had already been cut from the small creek across the hillside. They reopened it to bring water through a short wooden flume to the head of the sluice.

  They began first by working the old excavation, carrying buckets of sand and gravel to the sluice, tossing out the larger stones, and allowing the water to wash the smaller material through the box. Black sand accumulated behind the cleats, along with a few tiny specks of gold.

  The sight of gold sent a surge through Samuel, but he also recognized what he was seeing.

  “This is nothing but flour gold—too fine to add up to anything,” Charles confirmed.

  “I saved about a pound of quicksilver, Pa. We can run the black sand and check.” But Samuel knew what the results would be.

  “No need. We’d best stockpile it for now, but I’d hate to find out all we’ve been collecting is ten cents’ worth of gold a day.”

  Samuel nodded. They both knew. “What else are we going to do? It’s a long time till spring.” He piled the black sand under the blackberry brambles on some discarded boards. Maybe the gold would get better.

  Chapter 2

  THE TEMPERATURE CONTINUED to drop as the sun slid farther into the southern sky. It was well below freezing at night and frequently remained so throughout the day. A light snow soon covered the ground, and the water along the river’s edge froze.

  Occasionally, they visited the Shearers, purchasing some food and coffee and helping with chores whenever possible. They did some figuring based on supplies they would need to make it until spring. Unless they found more gold, the gold they had mined in Warren’s would not get them through the winter.

  Fortunately, game was plentiful, because animals moved out of the high country to escape the deepening winter snows. Mule deer came down into the draw above the cabin, and Samuel shot one whenever needed. Some days he hunted geese or ducks that gathered on the river. The first goose he shot seemed like a feast to them, but now they needed cornbread and beans and anything green to eat.

  On the warmer days, father and son continued to try to wash sand from the bar, but after a few minutes, their fingers and hands became numb, and the black sand clumped into frozen chunks.

  “I don’t know how they did it,” Charles said. “Supposedly, they mined these bars all winter.”

  “Then they must have built fires to thaw the gravel.”

  “Not enough gold to warrant that kind of work—not here, anyway.”

  “Maybe they concentrated on digging down to bedrock, and then during spring runoff, they washed what they had dug.”

  “We could do that,” Charles replied. “Nothing much in the upper sand anyway—at least nothing we can see. To blazes, I hope there’s some gold in all this.” He waved at the growing pile of black sand.

  They began clearing off a large area, shoveling the sand to the side, working downward to what they hoped would be gravel and rocks beneath.

  Before Thanksgiving, Samuel guessed the temperature was near zero. Snow from the last storm lay in patches in the draws and sheltered areas and crunched underfoot. The peaks above the river were blanketed white. The ice continued to creep outward from shore, seizing the water, until only a few black ribbons flowed free. Steam rose from the few remaining open areas, where a few ducks and geese huddled.

  They remained indoors, constantly tending a small fire, trying to keep warm. Although the sun shone, the temperature remained bitter cold.

  Samuel helped his father prepare some grouse, which was their contribution to Thanksgiving dinner at the Shearers’. The Shearers said not to bring anything, just to come. His father insisted otherwise. A day ago, Samuel had hiked up the draw behind the cabin until he had reached the spruce trees where he knew grouse liked to roost. He found and killed two.

  Later, they attempted baths since neither of them wished to be in a woman’s company in his present condition. Thus far, baths had been little more than splashing themselves with cold water. This day they heated some water and filled the tub, soaping and sponging themselves off and rinsing their hair as best they could. They washed their clothes in what water remained and hung them in the corner of the cabin to dry, assisted by a crackling fire to speed the process.

  “At least we won’t smell like a couple polecats,” Charles said, standing next to the stove. “Not so much, anyway.”

  That night, a frigid chill crept into the cabin and woke Samuel. Shivering, he rose and shoved a couple of pieces of wood into the stove. Frost coated the doorjamb. He quickly crawled back into his bed, pulling his coat over his blankets, his feet still stinging from the cold. He had never experienced temperatures this bitter.

  In the morning, steam lifted from the river, and hoar frost dressed the world. Grass blades bent into long, icy sprays. The brush and trees donned tiny frost needles along their lengths.

  The two waited until the sun flooded the canyon before taking to the trail. Even then, the sun seemed frozen, scarcely having enough energy to penetrate the haze of golden frost crystals. Buster and Spooky billowed clouds of steam into the air, crunching the soil under their hooves. Samuel thought of Warren’s camp, which was much higher and colder and, by now, completely buried in snow. He thought of Mr. Hinley, who would be doing assays all winter. He could picture him near the furnace, pushing at his red hair or adjusting his spectacles. At least he would be warm.

  When they reached the ferry, they waited for George to bring over the boat. The river flowed sullen and glassy, reflecting the muted gray winter colors. The ice reached out from the banks. Only the swift current kept it from freezing solid.

  The boat crossed with ease, breaking the ice near the landing.

  They led the horses aboard and tied them off.

  “Here, Samuel. You take the sweep,” George called to him.

  Samuel gulped but took the rudder. “You sure?”

  “I’ll help you find the angle.” George pushed the rudder against the current. The bow swung away from the landing. “The current’s slower this time of year, but it’s still there. Feel that?”

  “I think so.” Samuel could feel the deceptive power of the water beginning to push the boat.

  “Hold her steady, and the current will do the rest.” He released the rudder.

  Samuel held on, fearful at first that the water would push him back, but he discovered he could easily hold the angle by pushing the rudder against the current. Steadily, the ferryboat moved across.

  “Back off a bit when we get close to the landing so the bow doesn’t strike hard.”

  Samuel did, managing to bring the boat in with a soft bump. George jumped off and tied it.

  They lowered the ramp and let the stock off, turning them out into the pasture. George broke out some hay and threw it down. Buster and Spooky immediately began pulling it apart. “Some Thanksgiving for them as well.” George laughed.

  “Should have brought Molly,” Samuel said. “She’s having a hard go of it.”

  “We’ll send some leftovers home for her,” George offered.

  The dinner was more food than Samuel had seen since Independence Day. The Shearers commented favorably on the grouse his father and he had fixed, but Samuel knew it was no match for the roast chicken and ham Mrs. Shearer
had cooked. They had sourdough biscuits with raspberry jam, potatoes with rich gravy, beets, and beans. Then Mrs. Shearer brought in a pumpkin pie, topped with some whipped cream, and buttermilk to wash it down. Somehow, Samuel found room.

  He had not said a word.

  “Samuel don’t talk much, does he?” Frederick Shearer commented, winking.

  “Only when he’s not eatin’ or sleepin’,” Charles replied.

  Samuel looked up to their laughter. The look in Mrs. Shearer’s eyes said it was fine with her.

  “This is mighty fine fixin’s, Mrs. Shearer,” Samuel managed. “Thank you for inviting us.”

  “Son, you are very welcome.” Mrs. Shearer beamed and patted his hand. The other men murmured their belated thanks.

  Shortly, the men retired to the sitting room with their pipes and some whiskey. Samuel got up and helped clear the dishes, and Mrs. Shearer began washing them.

  “It’s sure nice to be here.” He took a plate from her and dried it.

  “I’m sure glad you’re here too,” she replied. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a youngster around, though I swear you’ve growed like a weed.”

  “I think it’s a good thing President Lincoln declared this time of year to be Thanksgiving,” Samuel continued. “God’s given us a great abundance in this land, and we should be thankful.”

  “Now where did you hear that about Mr. Lincoln?”

  “Eighth grade.”

  “I knew you were a smart one.” She smiled. “My George went to Tuscorara Academy in Pennsylvania. You’re going to go somewhere someday. I can tell.” She patted his head.

  Samuel almost ducked away but let it be. Sometimes it felt good to be fussed over a bit. Briefly he thought of his own mother and his younger sister, Elizabeth, back in Iowa.

  “I might go to China someday, but things over there aren’t so grand. Most of the Chinese coming here lost their land or are rebels hiding out.”

  “And who tells you that?”