Uncle Harrison pulled me out of harm’s way. “They’re
almost ready to begin the process of hydraulic mining,” he said and pulled his
hat down to avoid the hot sun. “You’ll see. This is far better than panning for
gold in a creek bed.”
“I can already see how destructive it is, given the
run-off,” I said, eying the rivulets of dried mud that marked each treeless
incline. “I’ve read about how the farmers can’t irrigate their fields and
orchards due to the gravel and silt filling the rivers—”
Water suddenly gushed from two hydraulic nozzles in a
wide, powerful stream. The men’s bulging arm muscles strained their shirts,
their faces purple with the effort to control the water. I turned my gaze to
the ravaged earth. Mud washed down into the wooden sluices, where other men
worked at various points to spray quicksilver along the wide stretch. Others
worked at a frantic pace to keep the earthy silt moving.
An older man with a grizzled goatee and worn overalls
held out a canteen. “Have a sip while you’re waiting, miss,” he said. “A body
gets mighty thirsty out here.”
“Thank you.”
I sipped the cold, refreshing ginger-flavored liquid
that eased my parched throat. Dirt from the canteen streaked my gloves. Not
that it mattered. At least the spatters of fresh mud wouldn’t show on my black
mourning costume and riding boots. Two days of rain earlier in the week had not
helped.
The kind man offered the canteen to Uncle Harrison, who
brushed it aside with a curt shake of his head. Steaming, I bit back an
apology. The man had already headed back to his position near the sluices.
Bored of watching the ongoing work, I wandered over to
several horses that stood patient in the sun and patted their noses. A tooled
leather saddle sat atop one gelding’s glossy brown hide, and the silver-studded
bridle looked as rich. The horse gave a low whicker in greeting. If only I’d pocketed
a few carrots or sugar lumps from breakfast.
“You’re a beauty. I wish I could ride you for a bit.”
The gelding’s ears dipped forward. One of the men left
the knot of others in a huff. His dusty open coat swung around him as he
stalked, spurs jingling, and closed the distance. He passed by me with a mere
tip of his wide-brimmed hat and untied the reins. The horse pawed the ground,
jittery, as if sensing the man’s foul mood while he mounted. I noted his scowl.
Was he upset that I’d dared touch his property? A scruffy beard and thick black
mustache hid his mouth. He rode off, keeping the gelding’s gait easy, down the
gully toward the Early Bird’s entrance.
“Who was that?” I asked a miner.
The worker wiped sweat from his forehead with a sleeve.
“Señor Alvarez? He’s got a burr under his blanket as usual. Pay him no mind,
miss.”
I rubbed the remaining horse’s flank and glanced around
the mining site. My uncle continued to chat with the foreman close to the shack
near the head of the sluices. Another section of the wooden troughs was raised
from the ground further north at a different bank of earth. My curiosity
increased. I walked to the sluice and stared down at the filth in the bottom.
No glints of gold flecked the bits of rock and slag. I had no idea what
quicksilver looked like either. This whole business seemed crazy, although
Uncle Harrison disagreed.
In the distance, pines smudged the lower half of the
Sierra’s tiny white-capped peaks. To the west, gray clouds threatened the pale
blue sky. No doubt rain would soak everything again by morning. My uncle had
mentioned how winter was wetter here than back home in Chicago, or even St.
Louis. I hadn’t known what to expect for autumn in California. Now that it was
close to October, the stands of golden aspen on a ridge high above sported
various shades of green, gold and hues of orange.
Homesickness overwhelmed me. I longed to see the
brilliant shades of orange, red and yellow oaks, the thick forest of elms and
birches behind my father’s house in Evanston. To ride along the shoreline of
Lake Michigan’s navy waters, and watch the snow falling fast on a chilly
winter’s day. I wouldn’t even mind listening to Adele Mason’s endless chatter
about the latest dinner parties she attended with her many beaus.
It seemed like an eternity since I’d crossed two
thousand miles of prairie and mountains on the Union and Central Pacific
railroad. Donner Lake had resembled a sapphire jewel nestled among pristine
snow fields. Perhaps it was frozen already.
I shivered, remembering the darkness of Summit Tunnel.
It also brought back the delicious memory of feeling safe, nestled in Ace’s
strong arms. Feeling the sudden shock when his tongue sought my own…
“Miss? It’s dangerous standin’ that close to the sluice.
Over yonder is best.”
Guilt flooded my heart. Nodding to the man, I twisted
around and glanced in the direction he indicated. My uncle remained at the
shack. “Will they ever stop talking business?”
“Doubt it.” The miner was the same one who’d offered me
water earlier. He carried a roll of canvas slung over a shoulder. Shrugging, he
swiped his muddy goatee and cheek against his burden’s nubby surface. “Reckon
they’ll yammer on for a while more.”
“Thank you. I’ll be careful.”
“Sure thing, miss.”
He passed by and handed the canvas to a pair of men.
They unrolled it and laid the fabric inside the wooden sluice. I walked across
the shifting ground, trying to avoid the worst of the mud’s damp patches. One
claimed my uncle’s shoe when we arrived that morning. I fought hard not to
laugh aloud, watching Uncle Harrison hop about on one foot, so comical with his
blustery red face. At last a worker retrieved his shoe, mud up to his elbow,
half his face coated as well. My uncle had not thanked the man for the rescue,
either.
On higher ground, two workers held long snaking hoses
that spurted water at the high bank. Two others sprayed quicksilver over the
sluice. It didn’t look like anything but dirty water. I sighed. This entire
trip had been a waste of time. Uncle Harrison resented the questions I’d
peppered the foreman with and ignored my opinions on how the operation damaged
the countryside. Why had he suggested I tag along in the first place?
I should have stayed back in Sacramento. My sketchbook
drawings needed work. I had yet to finish anything I’d glimpsed during the
journey on the train. Etta had brought all my watercolor supplies from
Evanston, and most of my books too.
But I didn’t want to read or paint. A deep melancholy
robbed me of energy. Nightmares haunted my sleep, of the deep ravine and the
lizard I’d caught, of the sandy slope I climbed on Mt. Diablo, desperate to
escape my father’s killer. Of being trapped, with no way out, and facing death,
and of seeing that shocked surprise… and hearing the gunshot.
Self-defense, as Ace claimed. My uncle and the sheriff
agreed.
Poor Ace. He’d felt bad afterward, forced into a
cowardly deed. I had never shot anything except a badger with Father’s Navy
revolver. Missed, too. But I’d tried to protect my darling pet lizard’s clutch
of eggs in the garden back home. The thought of shooting a human being turned
my stomach. I suppose stabbing someone wasn’t any less of a sin. Heavy guilt
weighed on me. Had it been self-defense? I shuddered at the memory.
As Mother used to say, it was water under the bridge.
Nothing I might say or do now would change the past. But I’d rather avoid
making such a horrible choice again.
Instead I trudged toward the shack. The foreman held a
large piece of blueprint paper between his hands while my uncle pointed at
various sections. Two other men argued with them, their heated words carrying
over the whooshing of hoses and creaks and jolts of skeleton wagons over the
rutted ground. Most of their argument was peppered with technical jargon that
didn’t make any sense. Even Chinese sounded more familiar.
“We haven’t made enough headway,” said a man in a
tailored suit, whose gold watch chain glinted in the sun. “I say we dig out the
ridge all the way.”
“You take that ridge down any more than we have and
we’ll never get equipment to the furthest point of the claim, over here,” my
uncle said and prodded the map. “That was Alvarez’s advice. He knows this land
better than you, Williamson.”
“I agree, it’s too dangerous,” the foreman said.
“I’m the
engineer! Are you implying I don’t know my business?”
“I’m saying it’s stupid to undermine that ridge. You’re
being a stubborn coot.”
“You’re a fine one to call me stubborn—”
Good heavens. I reversed direction and headed back
toward the sluice. They were sure to argue for another few hours. I wanted to
ride that horse, even if it meant hiking my skirts to my knees and baring my
ankles. The poor animal looked like it a good run, or at least a trot over the
rough ground. I had to do something productive or I’d go mad.
Steering around the same boggy patch of mud, I cut close
to the sluice. A blood-curdling yell halted everyone. I whirled to see the
entire bank of earth, a huge avalanche of mud, rocks and two large trees
root-first, rushing straight for me.
