Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (12 page)

For his part, Weiser was shocked at the boldness of Waltz’s attack, but not ready to cut and run. He hadn’t come this far to leave with nothing.

As renegade Indians increased their attacks, rumors of new goldfields in the Arizona Territory reached Whiskey Flat, motivating Gideon Roberts to organize an expedition into this uncharted region.

Weiser almost choked on his cigar when Waltz signed them up to go along. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going with you,” Weiser exploded. “I’ve had enough of these goddamn wilderness adventures.”

Waltz shrugged and said, “I don’t give a damn if you go, Weiser. I’m going with Roberts an’ I’m taking my lockbox with me.”

“You ain’t taking my gold!” Weiser shouted, not caring who heard him.

Waltz’s mouth tightened into a sadistic slit as he said softly, “I’ll do as I damn well please with your gold, an’ you can’t stop me. If you try, I’ll tell everyone you killed Webber. I’ll get your gold anyway, while you’re hanging from the nearest tree.”

There was nothing Weiser could do but ungraciously follow his impounded gold and vow to kill the others one by one. For a weapon, he bought a roll of wire and hid it in his pants pocket.

Roberts hired Pauline Weaver to act as their guide. Weaver was a successful prospector, so well-known the first mining district in the Territory had been named after him. He was also a man who inspired confidence in his men. Spirits were high on that brilliant April morning in the year of Our Lord 1863, as Weaver and seven men from the original Roberts group crossed the Colorado River into the dangerous and previously unexplored Arizona Territory.

Weaver led the way in his high-domed, wide-brimmed hat, fringed buckskin jacket, and leggings. Gideon Roberts would have liked to ride beside Weaver, but dropped back after an hour of silence from Weaver. The Peeples cousins shaded their heads with broad-brimmed Mexican sombreros; Oscar Hutton wore a handsome black military hat decorated with a peacock feather; Weiser had somehow acquired a stylish, high-crowned Stetson; and Waltz brought up the rear wearing a battered, yellowish-brown miners hat with a wide brim.

Dust rose lazily from their horses’ hooves and brittlebush bloomed bright yellow, stretching like a carpet toward a distant green stripe that suggested a stream. Jackrabbits watched them pass and didn’t bother to run. On the horizon, mountains rose boldly to a cobalt sky, and streaks of skinny white clouds cast no shadows on the rocky, grey-brown desert floor.

The second day crossing the seemingly endless desert, Weiser noticed Adam Peeples and Oscar Hutton riding side by side ahead of him. “You couldn’t miss Hutton in that ridiculous hat,” Weiser thought. “But since when was Hutton an’ Peeples good enough friends to ride together?” He couldn’t recall seeing them drinking together back at Caldwell’s in Grass Valley. In fact, now that he thought about it, you didn’t see Peeples at Caldwell’s hardly at all. But here he was riding with Hutton and the two of them looking back at him every so often, like maybe they knew it was Weiser who killed Green. Maybe they were going to do something about it. Weiser sucked in his breath sharply as an inner voice asked what if they suspected he had something to do with Webber’s death too? “I’d better keep an eye on those two,” he thought, “because now it’s a kill-or-be-killed situation here.”

They camped that night and the next without seeming any closer to the mountains. Apache Indians lurked on all sides, but did not attack because they respected Pauline Weaver from his earlier trapping expeditions.

On the fourth afternoon, the terrain began to rise. Grey-green chaparral grew closer together, slowing their progress, and tantalizing traces of gold gleamed on the dusty earth. The distant green stripe became a swift-flowing stream that they followed into a forest of mixed pine and juniper. Antelope appeared among the trees, the first fresh meat they’d seen in weeks. Pauline Weaver promptly named the area Antelope Hill, and shot three young bucks that were drinking in the stream that tumbled past.

As the men made short work of the first fresh meat they’d had in weeks, a pair of pack mules wandered off to forage. No one bothered to chase after them, as they could be trusted not to stray far.

After dinner, Weiser saw Adam Peeples and Hutton with their heads together again, looking over at him and whispering behind their hands. There was no doubt now in Weiser’s mind — they were plotting against him. Weiser fingered the wire in his pocket and the corners of his mouth tightened.

The next morning, Waltz and Roberts got up early and went looking for the wayward mules. Tracking was difficult on the hard ground, but ahead was a hill that promised a good view of the area. They each took a different side of the hill to search. The spicy scent of juniper filled the early-morning air as Waltz crested the hill and looked down the far side into a small arroyo. Waltz saw no stray mules, but the sides of the gully were covered with peculiar-looking rocks that looked like potatoes. As he gazed on this odd-looking hillside, the rising sun’s rays struck the potato-rocks and they began to glow. Waltz rubbed his eyes in disbelief as they took on the semblance of gold. “This is crazy,” he thought. “You don’t find gold nuggets near the top of a hill.”

The missing mules were forgotten as Waltz stooped and picked up a medium-sized potato-rock. It was too heavy for an ordinary rock.

As the sun rose higher, the entire hillside began to sparkle. “Mein Gott,” Waltz whispered to himself, then louder, “MEIN GOTT! THESE ROCKS ARE GOLD!”

Roberts heard Waltz shout, and ran to see what he was so excited about. He found the usually unflappable Waltz jumping around and waving his arms like a crazy man.

Roberts squinted at Waltz’s antics and said, “Have you lost your mind?”

“Come up an’ see for yourself,” Waltz shouted. “This whole goddamn arroyo is covered with gold. Take a look at this!” Waltz picked up a rock that looked like a yellow potato and gave it a vigorous push, but instead of rolling downhill, the rock barely moved.

Astonished at the obvious density of that rock, Roberts climbed up and stood beside Waltz. Awestruck, he bent and picked up a potato-rock, examined it closely, and said in a hushed voice, “You just found the most peculiar, richest hill I ever hope to see!”

Weeping tears of joy, Waltz grabbed Roberts’s arm and whirled him in a dizzy circle, laughing and whooping. His shouts awakened the other men, who jumped out of their bedrolls and ran to see what the excitement was about. Reaching the summit, they came to a screeching halt. At their feet was a hillside covered with gold rocks gleaming in the morning sun. Stunned at what they saw, they picked up rocks and hefted them in disbelief. These rocks were just as heavy as the purest gold any of them had come across in all their years of prospecting!

Once again, no one bothered to wake Weiser. They just grabbed their picks and shovels, and ran to the hill.

Accustomed to the usual early morning sounds of men waking up hawking and spitting, making coffee, and grousing about it taking too damn long to find a decent strike, Weiser stuck his head out of his bedroll and looked around.

The camp was deserted.

But he could hear laughter and excited shouts.

“Goddammit,” Weiser thought, “somebody’s found a strike an’ left me out again.”

His eyes narrowed to slits as he pulled on his pants and headed toward the laughing and cheering. “If these men think they can get away with this, they’re sadly mistaken. They won’t be laughing when they’re dead,” he muttered as he approached the foot of the hill.

The morning sun was blinding. Shielding his eyes with his hand, Weiser peered up and saw his companions waving their arms and prancing around like madmen.

Climbing as fast as he could, Weiser topped the rise and saw the entire hillside sparkling in the sun. This couldn’t be real, could it? He bent over to pick up one of the loose rocks with his right hand, but it was too heavy. The damn thing actually took two hands to lift; it was gold all right, no doubt of that.

For the most part, these “potato” nuggets popped loose with little more than a nudge with a pocket knife. Weiser watched as the men filled their pockets with smaller nuggets, afraid their eyes were betraying them and the treasure would disappear.

But the nuggets were the real McCoy all right, and there were plenty of them. Caught up in the excitement, Weiser ran back to camp, grabbed a bucket, and ran back to get his share.

In the excitement of picking up these nuggets old hostilities were temporarily forgotten and Waltz didn’t confiscate the gold Weiser gathered that day.

It wasn’t until later that evening, after the sun had set and he was sitting at the campfire with the others, that Weiser’s earlier anger began to return, and, like an incurable cancer, it festered as he asked himself why no one had bothered to wake him up when they first found the gold.

He looked at the other men stuffing warmed-over pinto beans into their mouths, and his comradely feelings faded. They’d showed their true colors this morning, and he wasn’t fooled by their feigned friendliness around the warmth of the fire.

The next day, the group went to work trying to collect as much gold as possible before the rest of the world found out about their find. Although it might have been more efficient to set up a bucket brigade and hand buckets of nuggets down the line, the sight of that much gold gave every man an overwhelming craving for his own personal treasure chest. The flame of communal cooperation flickered and went out, and it was every man for himself.

Working more enthusiastically than he had ever done up to now, Weiser filled his bucket to the brim. To his dismay, the bucket was too heavy to lift, much less carry back to his tent. What should he do? If he divided the nuggets and took half the gold to his tent at a time, he would have to leave the other half untended — an open invitation for someone to steal it. He put his hands on his hips and looked around. What if he dug a little hole and put half his nuggets in it? Unable to come up with a better plan, Weiser proceeded to do just that, too blinded by greed to recognize the irony of his actions.

The third morning’s gold gathering was nearly as frantic as the first two, but by mid-afternoon, Hutton was ready to take a break. Oblivious to Weiser and his hostility, Hutton settled down for a nap under a pine tree, out of sight of the group but only a short distance away from where Weiser had buried his gold.

“Why is he resting here, so close to my gold?” Weiser thought. He had grown even more determined to protect his share, and his life. He remembered how Hutton and Peeples had kept staring at him on the road. Now he was convinced Hutton obviously knew something and was purposely spying on him. Having made his mind up to end the threat, Weiser took his wire in hand and made his way up to a nearby bluff, where he ran the wire between two trees.

Hutton was a simple man, incapable of distrust and probably the only man in the group who didn’t hate or suspect Weiser. So when Weiser called down to him, “Come here, Hutton. You gotta see these nuggets I just found up here, they’re big as ostrich eggs!” Hutton picked up his offending hat, placed it on his head, adjusted its feather, and started up the hill without a thought.

But before Hutton had taken three steps, he discovered there was a rock in his right boot. Hutton sat down, took off his boot, and fished out a small stone. Weiser scowled impatiently and waited. Just then a bird’s call filled the air. Hutton loved birds. He raised his head and scanned the area for this one. Weiser’s mouth twisted into a grimace. Was this bastard ever going to fall into his trap?

Disappointed at failing to find the songbird, which had flown away in alarm the minute Hutton raised his head, Hutton finished pulling his boot back on and resumed his climb. But on reaching the crest of the hill, he couldn’t see Weiser or any nuggets. “Where are you, Weiser?” he called. “I don’t see any gold.”

“Over here,” Weiser called, moving back and stretching his invisible coil of wire taut between two trees. “Hurry it up, Hutton. You ain’t going to believe this!”

Hutton quickened his pace and failed to see Weiser’s wire. It caught his ankle, causing Hutton to lose his balance. As he teetered at the edge of the steep slope, Weiser stepped forward as if to help Hutton, but, instead, looked him square in the eye, then gave him a shove that sent him tumbling head-over-heels seventy feet down the hill.

In the blink of an eye, Weiser undid the wire, rolled it up, tucked it neatly in his pants pocket, and made his way down to Hutton, who was lying below. Stunned and confused, Hutton was still breathing. He opened his eyes and saw Weiser bending over him. “What happened?” Hutton whispered. “Why did you push me over?”

Weiser answered his question, only not how Hutton had hoped. “You just lie still,” Weiser said.

Hutton looked up at Weiser and saw the narrowed eyes and fanatic scrutiny of a killer.

Weiser bent and picked up a jagged hunk of quartz lying at his feet, turning it over in his hands to get the best grip.

“Come on, Weiser,” Hutton said, hoping to talk his way out of the precarious position he was in. “Stop fooling with that rock an’ help me up.”

“I’m not fooling,” Weiser said, although the corners of his thin lips twitched in what might have been humor in other circumstances. “An’ don’t bother to call for help. I’ve had enough of you an’ Peeples plotting against me.”

“We ain’t ...,” Hutton began.

“Don’t argue with me,” Weiser interrupted, “I don’t have time. You’re finished, Hutton!” He raised the piece of quartz and viciously smashed Hutton’s skull.

As soon as Hutton stopped twitching, and keenly aware he could be discovered any minute, Weiser artfully arranged the quartz next to Hutton’s bleeding head, wiped his hands on the victim’s now bloody shirt and made a last check of the murder scene. He considered moving Hutton’s hat nearer his body, but decided it was more convincing to leave it where it had landed.

Satisfied with the scene, Weiser strolled back to their base camp, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down in the shade.

But he didn’t rest long. It wouldn’t have looked right to stay away from the action. Reluctantly, Weiser left his seat in the shade, picked up a bucket, and rejoined the others harvesting gold. And as he filled his bucket and hauled it back to camp, he realized uneasily that Waltz had been leaving him alone since the morning he’d found this amazing goldfield. Was Waltz going to let him keep the gold he’d harvested?