Salmon River Kid Read online

  “About a dozen families,” observed Samuel. “Not exactly a town.”

  “The only one close enough for us to reach.”

  The street was empty except for a hitched wagon patiently awaiting its owner, the first wagon Samuel had seen since Fort Boise. There was not a trace of snow, although the temperature was well below freezing.

  “Come on, Samuel,” Charles said. “We’ll stable the stock and take a room in the boardinghouse.”

  Samuel glanced up, wondering about the cost.

  “Either that or we camp out again. Think of it as a Christmas present. That’s why we’re here. Besides, the animals could use the feed.”

  Samuel could not believe his ears. They entered Slate Creek House and spoke to Mrs. Wood about a room.

  “I got one,” she said cheerily, “but anyone else arriving will have to use the barn.”

  Their room was not fancy—a kerosene lamp on a table with a washbasin and mirror, a large bed, and hooks on the wall to hang clothing. A portrait of George Washington hung on the striped wallpaper. A window peered out toward the river.

  “A real bed, Pa.” Samuel flopped down. “I could get used to this.” He bounced a moment.

  “Mrs. Wood will serve dinner at dark. Between now and then, we can get haircuts and a bath,” Charles said.

  “A real bath this time,” Samuel observed.

  They had arrived early Christmas Eve morning. After they had cleaned up and got their clothes washed, Charles told Samuel he would be looking up some men about the O’Riley.

  Samuel wandered into a store that had red ribbons and bells hanging in the window. A sign said Freedom Post Office. Samuel looked around. Shelves were piled with mining gear and ranching tack, and bins held dried onions and cornmeal. He decided the store was much like Scott Alexander’s Mercantile back in Washington.

  “Can I help you, son?” The clerk, a man with black hair, appearing to be in his midthirties, came over.

  “Just looking for a present for my pa.”

  “Yup, how about some new pipe tobacco?” The man indicated a canister on the counter.

  Samuel liked the aroma. “Probably not. Maybe some socks. My pa’s are about plumb wore out.”

  “Haven’t seen you around before.”

  “Just came in for some civilization and Christmas dinner.”

  The man nodded. “Well, welcome to Slate Creek … or Freedom, as some folks are insisting.” He showed him where the socks were piled. “Where you coming from to reach civilization, pray tell?”

  “We’re out of Warren’s camp, wintering on the river a few miles down from Shearers’ ferry.”

  “You should have wintered down here out of the snow. Maybe could have got work at one of the ranches.”

  Samuel glanced at the bleak, grass-covered hills. “It does look like good ranching country. No gold?”

  “Nope. Plenty in the bars along the river, but here? Nary a flake. People first thought the slate rock held gold. It didn’t. Turned out to be something different than slate anyway. But the name Slate Creek stuck. Some of the rock had some sulphurets and copper and such, but no gold. So after a bunch of holes were punched, they gave up.”

  “How come everyone’s still here then?”

  “Slate Creek’s now the jumping-off point for the trail to Florence.” He pointed northeast toward the mountains. “About thirty miles.” Then he shook his head. “Pretty wild town, Florence is. It’s better a kid like you is in Washington. I understand a couple decent families summer in Washington at least.”

  “Yep,” Samuel offered. “The Manuels and Osborns have little children.” He found a pair of socks. “How much?”

  “Four bits. Anything else?”

  “I could use a cup of coffee. Maybe sit for a while and stay warm.”

  The man laughed. “You’d be welcome. The coffee is on me. You can catch me up on the doin’s up at Warren’s camp.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Samuel took the coffee and handed him his gold pouch.

  The man looked up. “No coin?”

  Samuel shook his head. “Everyone at Washington insists on dust.”

  The clerk opened the pouch, took a small pinch, and examined the gold. “You mining this?”

  Samuel nodded.

  “Pretty good gold. Looks to be about sixteen dollars an ounce.”

  “That’s what I was figuring,” Samuel said. Gold was worth twenty dollars an ounce, but he knew native gold was naturally alloyed with silver—more so up at Warren’s than on the river.

  The clerk weighed out the appropriate amount and added it to a small canister behind the counter. “Reminds me of Florence gold. Now that was somethin’. Gold was everywhere just under the soil. Some folks got as much as seven or eight ounces to a pan.”

  Samuel almost choked. “Guess we shoulda gone there.” That amount of gold in a single pan was impossible. The man had to be funning him.

  “Nope, Florence is done. The placers are dried up. There were no quartz ledges to speak of. Just Chinese moving in there now.” The clerk wrapped the socks in a square of paper, tied it, and pushed the package toward Samuel. “Warren’s camp … now that’s the place to be for long-term prospects. Yup, seems to me they have some paying quartz mines. That means Washington will stick around for a while. That means Slate Creek might survive as well.”

  Samuel raised his eyes.

  “Freight still comes through here. We’re the main supply town this side of Lewiston. Of course, all the freight comes out of Lewiston and goes up to Mount Idaho. From there, some goes across the Milner Trail to Florence, but most of it now comes down White Bird Hill and across to here and then on up to Florence. After Florence, the pack strings drop down and cross the Salmon at the wire bridge and then head on up into Washington. If Florence dries up, it will all just come through here and follow the river—same as the way you came down—and then on up to Washington and some of the other camps up that way.”

  “Miller’s camp?”

  “Yup, and some along the Secesh that might be opening up.” The clerk took the lid off a jar that held colorful, striped candy sticks. “Have one. It’s Christmas.”

  Samuel could not resist. “Thanks.”

  “You’ll notice most of the pack strings winter here. We got good grass on the hills. Lots of hay. Good climate for growing some vegetables. Now some orchards. Mr. Wood planted apple trees when he got here in ’61. He’s getting some good fruit now. Yup, I think Slate Creek will stick around. We have a good future.”

  Samuel tasted his piece of candy—cherry. He savored the sweet flavor. It had been this past summer when last he had had a piece of candy—from Sing Mann. “Lots of Chinese are moving into Washington as well, but I think you’re right. The quartz mines are starting to do okay. Running night and day. Both the Charity and the Rescue mines are running crews all winter. The Chinese don’t work the quartz mines; they don’t know how. And I think more quartz mines will be found. I even found a ledge.”

  The man peered at him. “Now that’s somethin’.” He laughed. “Men look for years without making a strike.”

  “I thought I was going to be looking for years as well.”

  “How’s the gold?”

  “So far, it looks real good,” Samuel continued, half wondering if he should share anything more. “The assays went over three ounces of gold and seven ounces of silver.”

  “Yup, I’d say it’s good.” The man whistled. “Sixty dollars a ton is good. Even got decent silver. Got any investors?”

  “My pa and I aren’t sure what we’re going to do with it yet,” Samuel replied. “We’ve got it up for sale, but I’d like to work it. I think it’s going to get richer, but it takes a lot of gear—drill steel, hammers, powder. We’ll have to build a trail and haul out the ore. Pay someone to crush it. All that.”

  “We
’ve got mining tools here.” The clerk gestured toward the overflowing shelves. “I’ll be more than happy to grubstake you. ’Course, you have to pay for freighting it in.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Samuel replied, emptying his cup. “I’ll tell my pa.”

  “Keep me in mind if you need an investor.” He reached out his hand. “Name’s Ralph Clark.”

  “Samuel Chambers.” They shook.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Clark, and Christmas joy to you.”

  “Christmas joy to you, Samuel.”

  So this is Slate Creek, Samuel thought as he left the store, cherry candy in his mouth, a ranching town that exists to support the mining camps.

  His father met him back at their room.

  “Got an investor in the O’Riley, if you want,” Samuel said.

  Charles raised his eyes. “I thought that’s what I was doing.”

  “Did you?”

  “Maybe, but you go first.”

  They talked. Charles mentioned he had met a rancher that had some interest.

  Later, they gathered for dinner. They recognized a couple of the miners from Warren’s as well as Warren Hunt.

  “Is that the Chambers?” Hunt said, almost booming, coming over and sitting. “You guys left your cabin for a bit of civilization?”

  “Exactly.”

  Hunt settled down and began spreading butter on a thick slice of wheat bread.

  Charles addressed him. “Anyone in Slate Creek hear anything about the Chinese pack string that was jumped a while back?”

  “Nothing more than what you heard. I expect those men are long gone. Like those outlaws Samuel jumped.”

  One of the men nearby looked up. “You’re the kid that jumped them highwaymen?”

  Samuel nodded. He was surprised they had heard.

  “Heard about the man they killed. You’re mighty lucky they kept going,” the man added, returning to his meal.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hunt remarked. “There’ll be some more to take their place. Kind of the way it is when gold’s involved.”

  Charles added, “You should know. I hear you’ve been chased around the country a bit by some.”

  “More than once. I swear those scallywags can smell whenever a gold shipment is going out, and then they wait for me. Worst time was when Florence just opened up, and I was about the only one carrying out the gold. I had a shipment of well over two hundred pounds of dust to take out to Lewiston.”

  “Two hundred pounds!” Samuel nearly spit out his spuds; a numbing sensation flooded him. He could not envision two hundred pounds of dust. “That’s gotta be … gotta be around forty thousand dollars!” Ralph Clark had not been kidding when he said some men panned out seven or more ounces in a single pan.

  Hunt looked at him. “That’s about right, Samuel. That’s pretty good ciphering, I’d say.

  “Anyway, the miners in Florence noticed a couple drifters hanging around, so they gave me a heads-up. I got nervous, so I had a friend take the gold out during the day. I wrapped my saddlebags in a gunnysack and strapped them to his mule. He took it to the next station, where I’d normally be changing horses. I snuck out after dark, picked up my gold, and went straight to Lewiston. Didn’t stop for a thing ’cept to change horses.”

  Hunt eyed Samuel. “You sure you don’t want to take up my job? I’m gettin’ ready to retire. Coming across Camas Prairie in this snow and then climbing through it up to my ears to Florence and Warren’s is about all I can handle anymore.”

  “Nope.” Samuel remembered Hunt asking the same question when he raced Spooky last Independence Day. “I’d rather be finding gold.”

  Hunt shook his head. “That’s called gold fever, Samuel. Anyone ever tell you it gets in the way of a real paying job?”

  Christmas morning, Samuel gave his father the socks. “Christmas joy to you, Pa.”

  “And to you, son. Thanks.” He unrolled them. “They feel real nice.”

  “I know you push it on the socks. Maybe these’ll last awhile.”

  “Here, here’s a little something for you.” Charles handed him a scarf. “I know you can use this around this time of season.”

  “Thanks, Pa.” Samuel swung it around his neck and was silent a moment. “I wonder how Ma and Elizabeth and everyone are doing.”

  “They should have received the money we sent. I told her to buy everyone something. I told her some of the gold came from the Sweet Mary, named after her. Maybe that’ll take her mind off of all that’s been going on.”

  After breakfast, people cleared the room of the tables and set out all the chairs they could find for Christmas service. Someone had decorated a tree with colored paper and popcorn strands and set it up near a small table with lit candles. Reverend Nathan Earl arrived shortly to a packed room. Several people remained standing. Samuel tried to offer his chair, but they declined.

  A woman began playing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” on a badly tuned piano. Samuel joined in, remembering the words he had learned at school. She continued on to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” but that one tested his abilities. He croaked a time or two on the high notes and gave it up.

  Reverend Earl read the Christmas story. When he came to the part about the shepherds standing watch, Samuel reflected on the stars from a night ago. When he talked about how difficult it must have been for Mary, being young, unmarried, and pregnant—perceived as the worst of all possible moral failings—Samuel found his thoughts on Miss Lilly. How was it some people found love and others never did?

  A girl his age with beautiful golden hair and sparkling eyes stepped to the front. She sang the most beautiful “Silent Night” he had ever heard. The congregation was asked to join on the last verse, but Samuel could not. He concentrated on picking out the girl’s voice from the others. He shivered. This is the girl that Jenkins mentioned. He wished he knew her name. He quickly slicked his hair, wondering if she had noticed him. It did not matter what his father had cautioned before about women. He suddenly knew he was in love—never mind that he had not spoken a single word to her.

  Samuel heard no other words of the service until it concluded. He found where the girl was sitting—behind him on the far side of the small room with a man and woman and some younger children.

  His heart pounded. He had to say hello, but he could not just walk up and say hello. Somehow, he had to meet her.

  People lined up, filing past, thanking Reverend Earl. Some congratulated the girl. He caught her name—Bonnie. He said it to himself and listened again to make certain before he headed her direction, nearly tripping in trying to get across the room.

  He addressed Reverend Earl. “Thank you, Pastor. I haven’t heard such good preachin’ for a long time.” He pumped his hand.

  Reverend Earl looked up, a bit puzzled. “Why, thank you, son.” He pulled back his hand. “You must be a newcomer.”

  “Yes, sir.” But Samuel avoided adding anything more and continued toward Bonnie. And then he stood in front of her—an angel with startling green eyes and flowing golden hair with a hint of red. His knees felt weak. “Really good job, Bonnie,” he blurted. He tried to shake her hand. He saw a flash of puzzlement in her face. “I mean, you sounded—” Samuel felt himself being pushed out of the way.

  “Bonnie McCracken, you sung that just beautiful, just beautiful.” A huge man who was pushing his tiny wife before him shoved himself in front of Samuel. Others crowded behind, and Bonnie was quickly lost.

  Before he could work his way back, she was gone, whisked away. Frantically, Samuel looked around for her—but no Bonnie. Others stood around visiting. Mrs. Wood had the room set back up and brought out coffee and platters piled with cookies and cakes.

  Samuel stepped from the hotel and searched the streets. His father came up to him.

  “You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying.”

/>   He looked at his father. “That was her, Pa. That was Bonnie. Did you hear her sing? Did you ever hear such a voice so beautiful? Have you ever seen a more beautiful girl?”

  “Only one,” he said, “and I see some of her in you.”

  Samuel still had not heard a word; he continued searching the street for Bonnie.

  Chapter 5

  THE MORNING AFTER CHRISTMAS, Samuel was surprised when his father invited him to take a ride. “I told you about the rancher who’s interested in our quartz mine. He’s invited us out for further discussion.”

  “Does he want to buy it?”

  “He didn’t say that. I told him how it was you who found it. He said he’d like to meet you.”

  Samuel was taken aback. “He wants to talk to me?”

  They saddled up, headed north a short distance, and then turned east along Slate Creek, a broadly flowing stream. A modest ranch house appeared amid a copse of cottonwoods. Apart from it stood several outbuildings. A fence surrounded a rather large garden, and an orchard grew at the far end. Cattle and mules were scattered across the hillsides.

  When they turned up the track toward the house, a couple of ranch hands rode up.

  “Howdy,” Charles greeted. He rocked forward in his saddle. “Paying a visit to Mr. Stromback.”

  “Welcome. They’ll be at the house,” the older hand, a man with a weathered face and graying hair, replied.

  The other man, maybe nineteen or twenty, with dark stubble and a rough face, carefully studied Samuel, making him feel uncomfortable.

  “You guys aimin’ to stay a piece?” the younger man asked, directing his question more at Samuel than at Charles.

  Samuel wanted to ask him what business it was of his.

  “A short business visit is all,” Charles replied.

  The younger man nodded but kept his eyes on Samuel—gray-looking, fidgety eyes.

  “Take care, then,” the older man replied.

  They rode past the men to the low-slung ranch house.

  “Pa, it looks like our old home. See, you can see they even have roses by the door—prairie roses.”