Salmon River Kid Page 6

  Samuel recalled the men and a couple of others like Peter Beamer, who played the flute and wrote the music. They were hard to beat anywhere in the county. He had danced to their music a time or two at the stag dances, and he would defy anyone to sit still during their playing.

  “Much else going on at Washington?” Samuel wanted to know.

  “About thirty men are still working around the clock at the Rescue. Though I hear it’s headed for shutdown. Another legal issue.”

  Samuel laughed. The Rescue might have had more gold pulled out of it than any mine in the district, but it was always in litigation. The only men making real money on the Rescue were the lawyers.

  “I don’t know what the miners will live on if they do shut down,” confided Hunt. “It’s been a terrible winter up there. Like I said, supplies are already running low.”

  “What about the other mines? Any good strikes?”

  “I know the Hic Jacet, Charity, and Keystone are all operating. The mills are running, and more ore is being stockpiled for milling this coming summer. Seems winter is the best time to be underground. There’s no water in the mines.”

  Samuel remembered that. He also remembered that a deep snowpack was essential for a good placer season, and this winter, it was deep.

  Hunt drained his cup. “Thanks for the coffee. If you want a letter going out, I can pick it up in a few days.” He headed back out into the blustery, cold day.

  Samuel turned to his father. “Washington ain’t the only place running low on supplies. We gotta get some more coffee, Pa. I don’t want any more parched grain or spruce needle tea.”

  After Hunt left, they read both letters. One was an elated answer to last autumn’s announcement they were coming home. Any money they could send in advance would be a blessing. Everyone was looking forward to their return.

  The second was in response to the last letter Samuel wrote when they departed Warren’s and explained they would winter on the river.

  My Dear Charles and Son, Samuel,

  I was so grieved to hear you will not be returning until sometime next spring. We had so hoped to see you by now. The weather has been raw, and we have had bouts of snow and rain; however, we are holding up the best as can be expected. My mother seems not to be faring any better. She talks always about missing Father. I try to have Elizabeth help her with little chores and such, mostly to keep her from dwelling too greatly on Father. I feel if you both were home, she would fare more lively. Especially you, Samuel. She misses you so.

  However, I understand, my dear husband and son, your decision to winter. The good Lord has always provided for us, and I feel, as you surely must, that He has in store a buyer for our mine. I will pray you will be able to return to the camp early and finish your work in time for spring planting.

  If you should find gold where you winter on the Salmon River, I would ask that you consider this: I know you would agree that I should begin making inquiries on land. In this light, Uncle Jake and I have investigated a parcel of land not too distant from our farm here, and we find it quite suitable for raising crops. If agreeable, and you could send as little as two hundred dollars, we could hold this parcel until your return this spring.

  For my son, Samuel. I have cautioned you before about the Chinese. Their beliefs and customs are quite contrary to ours and may easily lead you into severe temptations. I pray you understand and will abide by my cautions. Treat them with human decency when required, but it will serve you better to avoid any associations.

  Finally, I must say how joyous it was to receive the money you sent in your last package and letter. You would have taken great satisfaction with the looks of deep appreciation on everyone’s faces on Christmas Eve when they received the gifts I was able to purchase. I did spend something additional on Elizabeth for a doll and on Cousin Daniel because he has been such a fine help to Uncle Jake and to me. You would be proud of your cousin, Samuel, for all the assistance he graciously gives.

  I shall write later, but must rush to post this. I will pray for an early spring and for your health. God bless you and keep you.

  Your loving wife and Samuel’s mother,

  Mary Chambers

  His mother’s words made Samuel feel her presence and brought forth images of the cabin they shared on the family farm. His uncle Jake hobbled around on his one leg, having lost his other to a Minié ball, but he managed to keep things going. Samuel knew he belonged in Iowa and should be helping as well.

  In Samuel’s reply to his mother, he told about meeting Bonnie and Christmas at Slate Creek. He avoided making Christmas sound like too much fun. He told her that he might help on the Strombacks’ ranch for a while before returning to Warren’s camp. He wrote glowingly about the O’Riley—how he could actually see gold in the rock, and that it would only be a short time before they proved up and sold the mine.

  Chapter 7

  THE DAYS BEGAN LENGTHENING. A warm chinook evaporated some of the snow along the canyon floor and trail. Samuel and his father began operating the sluice again. The gold remained tiny specks of flour gold. Only occasionally could they scrape out some coarser pieces.

  Finally, Samuel amalgamated some of the fines with the small amount of mercury they had. He hoped to be surprised by more gold in the fines than he suspected, but after several hours of panning, he had only a few small, frothy clumps.

  “Doesn’t appear to be much, Pa.”

  His father shook his head. “I was afraid of that. We’ve mostly been wasting our time.”

  “I say we forget about running any of this and keep digging deeper. Eventually, we gotta hit bedrock.”

  Samuel also took to hunting and exploring the canyon. Besides the mule deer, bighorn sheep came down the cliffs across the river. Samuel often spotted them in the mornings, particularly where steam rose from a warm seepage and saltlick.

  “If it wasn’t so rocky over there, I’d try to get Spooky down to where I could get one,” Samuel said. “I don’t understand why they aren’t over here where I could get one.”

  “Nor do I,” Charles said. “I’d welcome something besides venison.”

  Another day, when Samuel walked upstream along the river, he noticed a bald eagle on the shore pulling apart a salmon carcass. It ripped out chunks of meat, gulped them down, and gazed intently about itself. A second eagle swooped down from a snag, landed nearby, and hopped over toward the salmon. The feeding eagle allowed it to rip out pieces as well, so Samuel figured it was its mate. Both stared intently at Samuel almost as if daring him to try to take their meal.

  Shortly, the first bird spread its wings and hopped away to the river’s edge, where it pecked at another carcass until it could get a grip. Pulling it from the water, it dragged it across the cobbles, having little trouble in moving the three-foot-long salmon.

  Something must have spooked them. They squawked and leaped upward, beating their wings, lifting themselves off the gravel bar in mighty strokes, heading upriver and dipping down as their wings swept back and then rising as they came forward, powerful and majestic. Samuel felt his heart race at their beauty. They turned and winged their way back past him, nearly directly above, crossed the river, and settled in another tall snag.

  He was surprised to see a young bighorn ram poke its nose out of the willows and walk to the river for a drink. Several ewes followed.

  Samuel laughed to himself. There were bighorns this side of the river. The sheep paused and drank awhile. They appeared in no hurry to turn back to the safety of the canyon walls. Instead, they wandered along the riverbank, pulling at the withered grass.

  Samuel watched until they began heading back. The land sloped steeply back from the river and swept up toward a barren, rocky ridge. A few pines hugged one side of it. The ridge continued upward and merged with another, more densely forested one. He figured the bighorns might be bedding near the rock outcrops and working t
heir way across the nearby grassy ridges for forage.

  Quickly, he made his way back toward the cabin for his rifle. He greeted his father near the sluice.

  “Saw some sheep upriver a bit,” he said. “I’m going to see if I can get one.”

  “They on this side?”

  “Yes, sir, just above the bend.”

  “In that case, go ahead. We need the meat.” He leaned on his shovel. “Watch your footing. These hillsides can be mighty treacherous.”

  “Right, I don’t need a broken leg.”

  Samuel retrieved the rifle, checked it, put a couple of rounds in his pocket, and grabbed a length of rope and a piece of biscuit.

  Heading back to where he had seen the bighorns, he began a steep traverse up out of the river bottom. A small draw entered just beyond. He traversed back to gain elevation and then back upstream, cutting across the top of the draw, rounding the corner, and checking the next draw below him. He did not see the sheep.

  He traversed back again, climbing higher, now reaching the broken rock he had seen from below. He changed direction, heading upstream, cutting beneath the rock outcrops. A broad-leaved plant he did not recognize, its leaves withered to grayish brown, crackled loudly as he brushed them. He climbed to avoid the plants.

  At the top of the next draw, there was still no sign of the sheep. He feared they had heard him. He sat for a moment, watching, trying to catch movement. The slopes upriver appeared starkly barren. He gazed downriver, not looking directly to where he thought the animals could be, but trying to catch movement from the corners of his eyes. If the bighorns were still below him, he was in a good position to catch them, figuring they would climb the small ridge he was on. The sheep preferred bedding on the small knolls from where they could see approaching danger.

  Samuel caught movement above the rocks and spotted the sheep angling away from him. They had climbed more quickly than he had figured and were now almost beyond range.

  Rising, he moved off the ridge into the draw and began traversing his way upward. His breath came hard. This country was incredibly steep. Several times his legs went out from under him. He caught himself and then gazed downward at the sheer slopes below, shivering at the thought of tumbling.

  He edged around a knoll and unexpectedly encountered the sheep a few yards away. He had lucked out; the wind moved upriver during the day, and they did not see or smell him.

  Bracing himself, he carefully chambered a round, muffling the click with his body. He aimed at a large ewe, behind her front shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. The explosion sent a shockwave through the canyon silence. The ewe went down, tumbled, and then began sliding.

  Samuel watched in dread. The animal would tumble to the bottom, breaking every bone in its body, mangling the meat. The remaining band of bighorns scattered, moving swiftly, almost flowing, up and out of sight among the rocks.

  The ewe caught on a shrub, spun around, and slid to a stop.

  “Thank you, Lord,” Samuel breathed.

  Carefully, Samuel made his way to the animal, dragged it to a safer spot, and tied it securely to some brush so he could dress it.

  He paused a moment to study his position and was surprised at how high he had climbed. Deep snow and timber carpeted the peaks across the river. This side of the river was sunlit and barren where the snow had melted. Upriver, the Salmon wound its way silently toward him, a silver ribbon winking where it ran fast over the rocks.

  He gazed downriver, following the sweep of the bends of the mighty river—the River of No Return, people called it. The river glinted, flowing steadily eastward through the sun-drenched canyon. At the junction with the Little Salmon it swept north, eventually flowing past Slate Creek. Miles beyond, it swung west and briefly southwest to where it emptied into the Snake. From there, the Snake flowed northward past the city of Lewiston to where it picked up the waters of the Clearwater. Swinging west, the Snake eventually emptied into the Columbia, which flowed west to the Pacific Ocean. Samuel thought of the salmon that returned each year to this river—many hundreds of miles from the ocean.

  He gazed back toward the mountaintops, one piled on the other, an endless sea of broken peaks enfolding the majestic river below. Except where the river cut small gaps, the mountains lay unbroken, heavily carpeted in timber and snow, rocky crags clawing at the sky. Lord, I can’t think of a more beautiful yet treacherous land, he mused.

  Samuel finished dressing the ewe and saved the heart and liver. When he wiped his knife on a grass tuft beneath some exposed rocks, something about the rocks caught his eye. They were stained red and orange like the rich gold-bearing ledge where he had encountered the Sheepeater Indians. He thought of the Sheepeaters—the ghost Indians, as some referred to them. He had never told his father about the ledge. He gazed north. The Sheepeaters lived somewhere in an unexplored canyon beyond the mountains. A feeling tugged at him—a feeling that he should return.

  The narrow quartz stringer ran for several feet up the steep hillside. He followed it, checking pieces of rock, finding some that were stained blue and green. He wedged some of the pieces from the earth and broke one. His breath caught at the sight of metallic yellow. Gold! Heart pounding, he examined the chunk. Several fragments were locked in the quartz, but then he recognized the brassy color and angular habit. Sulphurets. Blast it to blazes. Disappointment flooded him. He remembered Mr. Hinley telling him that many times pyrite could bind with gold and silver, so he collected several pieces for a possible assay.

  Samuel looked around, becoming almost dizzy from the height. Even if this rock held valuable minerals, no one could ever mine it. But he was curious about the bright blue-and-green stains. Mixed in around the bright brassy-colored chunks in the quartz, they were quite striking. He took a piece. Pa might like this.

  Later, as they ate freshly roasted portions of mountain sheep, Samuel spoke. “I like this country, Pa. It’s harsh, but it’s got promise. It’s got an abundance of wildlife. It’s got beauty.”

  “You’re telling me that it doesn’t remind you of Iowa.”

  “Not in the least.” Samuel laughed. “Chen says the Chinese call America the land of the golden mountain. They’re sojourners. They came to find gold to send home to their families and hopefully to someday go back home. I guess you and me are like sojourners. We’ve come here seeking our fortune. This summer, we’ll go back.”

  “I guess you can look at it that way.”

  “Kinda not right, is it,” Samuel stated. “Most of the miners won’t stay. But folks like the Strombacks and the Shearers, they want to stay. They want to make their livings here.”

  His father pointed with his knife. “You gotta remember something, Samuel,” he said. “The wealth in this country isn’t going to last. The gold will run out someday. When it does, people will drift away. Right now you see people moving into this country, taking up homesteads along the river, trying to build towns, maybe someday even some churches and schools. They want a future for themselves and for their families. But there ain’t any level spots for real farming. Not like Iowa. So they need the gold.” He speared a piece of meat.

  “I predict people who’ve come here won’t stay,” his father continued. “Even the Indians don’t live here. Sure, they come through hunting and fishing and such, but they don’t live here. They’re pretty much all sojourners, as you’ve put it, using the land for a short time and then moving on. We’ll all leave this canyon, I predict, at some point. I guess you can say from wilderness it came, to wilderness it will return.”

  Samuel did not like his father’s prediction. “I understand what you’re saying, Pa, but I hope not. Maybe the quartz mines will continue to get better. Mr. Hinley estimates they’ve taken out over five thousand ounces from them just in the last three years. And I figure someday someone will figure out how to get to the deep gravels under the meadows. Everyone says there’s twice as much gold unde
r the meadow than all the gold that’s already been mined. I think about it every time I look at the hillside near the Sweet Mary. There’s a lot of gold there, Pa. We just need a way to get at it.”

  Charles grinned. “You figure me out a way, son, and I’ll pull up stakes and live here myself.” He shook his head and put his plate aside. “I must say, some of Mr. Hinley’s optimism is wearing off on you. You may be right. The quartz mines might continue to get better. The O’Riley might even surprise us. If so, the hardrock mines would certainly provide a future. But you know as well as I do, developing the mines will take capital. I went to Slate Creek partly to seek out local investors. Investors aren’t going to come into Warren’s from the outside. The main problem is access. The mines have been open for ten years, and all you still have are trails. There isn’t a wagon around for miles. You can’t haul in heavy mining equipment on the backs of mules. Because of that, the mills are hardly efficient, and none of them can process silver.”

  “Mr. Bradshaw’s will.”

  “And until it does, mines like the O’Riley won’t mean much.”

  “You make it sound pretty grim, Pa.”

  “Just calling it like it is. We’ll be long gone in any case.”

  Samuel quieted. He was not sure he wanted to be a sojourner.

  Mr. Hunt came by the following morning and found them down by the excavation. “Either you have nothing better to do or you think there’s gold down there.” He was holding out a letter.

  Charles glanced up. “Mostly, nothing better to do. I think we’ve sewed everything there is to sew at least once and fixed our gear at least twice. Might as well chase some of this flour gold.”

  Samuel took the letter, noting it was from his mother. He wondered about it because she had not had time to receive his last one.

  “Do you have a moment for a cup of coffee?” Charles asked. “Pretty cold today.”