The Furies (31 page)

Israel spoke politely to the men in front of him. “We’re looking for a claim called the Ophir and we’ll be obliged if you permit us to go on our way.”

Ugly grumbles. Israel swallowed again, glancing around the ring of miners. He adjusted his grip on the revolver he was holding at waist level. Several men eyed the barrel apprehensively.

“I’m asking you all to stand aside,” Israel said.

“Shit,” a man grumbled, “the Pike ain’t worth gettin’ killed over. Let the nigger through, you boys.”

“Thank you,” Israel said quietly. The men fell back.

Dizzy for a moment, Amanda closed her eyes. “Come on,” Israel whispered.

“Hurry—I got the mules,” Plankveld said from behind them.

“I can walk,” Amanda said. “You ride, Israel. I know your legs are hurting—”

“Be that as it may, just lean on me till we’re clear—thank you, gentlemen, thank you—”

He led her past the miners and out into the open. After they’d gone a short distance up the street, he relaxed a little. “Well, we got out of that. For the moment. Sure wish you hadn’t killed that fellow—”

Infuriated, she wrenched away. “He was aiming that hide-out gun straight at me!”

The mulatto’s sad gaze accused her. “Yes, but it holds only one ball. Those men called it right—the Pike was full of whiskey, and wobbly. I think you could have dodged him.”

“That’s not your place to say!”

Israel glared suddenly. “Miz Kent, don’t you forget—I don’t have any
place
except the one I pick.”

“All right, all right—I’m sorry.”

“Never seen you so riled as when you pulled the trigger—” He sighed. “Guess it’s too late to do anything now.”

She held back a retort because she knew he was right. She’d lost control, aimed for the Pike’s chest when a leg would have served. But her pent-up anger and her desire to reach the claim had pushed her beyond reason. She was terrified to discover that she was capable of such irrational rage when she was opposed.

The Ophir Mineralogical Combine was a plot of ground thirty feet long and ten deep along the excavated bank of the stream. Plankveld led them to the claim’s boundary, stopping near a large tent. A piece of mining equipment stood on a sandbar three yards out from the bank. Constructed of wood, it resembled an oversized child’s cradle. A long chute jutted from one end.

The bedraggled German handed the reins of the mules to Israel, who kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. Amanda’s revolver was back in the holster, but she still felt the aftereffects of the shooting—which apparently had already been forgotten by most of the camp. Fiddle music and laughter drifted down to the claim.

“Madam,” Plankveld said, “take my advice. Do not go alone anywhere in Hopeful today.”

“Why not?”

“Scurrilous as he was, the Pike had one or two friends.”

“All right, I’ll do as you say. Israel will come to court with me. Where is it?”

“The Bear Hag Palace.”

“At five. Thank you for helping us, Mr. Plankveld. I’m sorry you got dragged into a scrape because of me.”

“The Pike—Armbruster, I think that was his real name—he was known for his bad ways—” The German picked at a gob of mud in his beard, then aimed a thumb at the lamplit tent. “Those boys won’t be too unhappy over what happened. The Pike worked for them four days, got drunk and smashed up their cradle. Cost Mr. Nichols plenty to buy lumber for another—”

“Mr. Nichols is one of the partners?”

“
Ja,
one of the three. Just two left now. Another, Mr. Kent, he went down to San Francisco and never came back. Too bad, you know? The Ophir, she’s one of the best. Starting to produce close to a thousand dollars a day—”

Amanda caught her breath. The tent flap lined.

“I say—someone there?”

She turned to confront a spare, rather handsome man of about thirty. He was bearded and dressed like the other miners. But one touch distinguished him—a bright sash of scarlet silk.

She answered the query in a voice still a bit unsteady. “Yes, my name is Amanda Kent—”

The man’s debonair smile faded. “Kent, did you say?”

She thought of Jared living with guilt all his days. She thought of the man who had caused that guilt. And suddenly, her own guilt over shooting the Pike vanished. She spoke with authority. “That’s right. A third of this claim is mine.”

Francis Pelham, the former draper from the British Isles, and Joseph Nichols, the rotund little Baptist from Georgia, welcomed Amanda into the tent. Nichols brought a basin of water and a few rags. After she’d cleaned her face and hands, they listened to her story. At the end, Nichols shook his head.

“I’m sorry indeed to hear of Jared’s demise, Mrs. Kent. You have my most sincere sympathy. Your cousin was a straight sort.”

“Can’t say the same for that rascal Armbruster,” Pelham remarked. “We took him on and later regretted it.”

“So Mr. Plankveld told me,” Amanda said.

The interior of the tent was crowded with shovels, pickaxes, three cots, crates, a small stove and a table with a crooked leg. A set of balances rested on the table. Amanda saw no evidence of gold. She asked about that.

“We have a sort of community bank in Hopeful,” Pelham explained. “Each miner pays a share to cover the wages of the clerk and three guards who work eight-hour shifts. Three other chaps watch the guards so they’re not tempted. As you discovered, the atmosphere in this camp borders on the unbalanced—”

“Damnation!” Nichols jumped up from the crate on which he’d been sitting. He squashed his palm against his left leg just above the knee. Then he blushed. “I beg your pardon for the profanity. We’re all afflicted with the quicks and slows.”

“Joseph means fleas and lice,” Pelham said. “Are you sure I can’t warm a biscuit for you, Mrs. Kent? You look a trifle pale.”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“And nervy,” Nichols said. “I ’spect you realize by now that you risked your life coming here.”

She shrugged. “I had no choice. I heard from miners in San Francisco that any man who gets killed or disappears forfeits his claim.”

“Entirely correct,” Pelham returned with a precise nod. “We had all but given Jared up for lost. I share Joseph’s grief at his unhappy end.”

“Well, that’s past,” Amanda said.

“Would you perchance like some coffee?”

“I’d like some whiskey if you have it.”

“We do—for medicinal purposes,” Nichols told her.

Pelham grinned. “And the Sabbath.”

Nichols poured. No mention was made of refreshments for Israel, who’d been standing silently ever since the four entered the tent. Nichols gaped as Amanda downed the half cup of liquor in four swift swallows.

The alcohol was cheap and raw. It hurt her throat and stomach at first, but quickly began to exert a soothing effect. Feeling a little stronger, she said, “Israel might like something—”

She didn’t miss Nichols’ frown. The mulatto noticed too. Amanda realized he was thinking of her welfare when he refused to turn the remark into an issue.

“Thank you anyway, Miz Kent. I’m not hungry or thirsty.”

Amanda nodded, addressed the partners. “To business, gentlemen. I came here principally because my cousin has a son in Virginia. I’ll probably be going to visit him soon—”

“You wish for Joseph and me to buy out your cousin’s interest?” Pelham broke in.

“No, I don’t. I intend to take over Jared’s third.”

Pelham frowned. “Absentee ownership is not too practical. Every partner must share in the work—”

She turned her head toward Israel, who was standing near the table. Despite the condition of his legs, his posture was erect. Amanda suspected that was probably for Nichols’ benefit. She knew what the effort must be costing the mulatto.

“Israel has agreed to act as my representative,” she said.

Joseph Nichols scratched his nose. “Well now, ma’am, I ought to caution you about one thing. Nigras don’t receive a very cordial reception in the diggings—”

“Do they anywhere?” Israel asked. Nichols looked flustered.

“Mr. Nichols,” Amanda said, “my cousin told me you’re from Georgia—”

“That’s true.”

“Do you object to working with a man of color? As an equal?”

After a moment Nichols replied, “I can’t pretend I’ve ever done it before. On the other hand, the Nichols family doesn’t support the idea that slavery is an immutable institution, or even a good thing. Not all southerners do, you know. Too much fuss about cotton at the expense of everything else has caused the south to lag badly in manufacturing—”

“I should clear up one point,” Amanda interrupted. “Israel is a free man. He’ll return in a few weeks and work as hard as either of you. For that, he’ll be paid a percentage of my cousin’s share.”

“Joseph—” Pelham confronted his partner. “Can you accept a colored man?”

Amanda shook her head. “There’s no question of
acceptance.
I’m asking how Israel will be treated by—”

“Please, Miz Kent,” the mulatto broke in. “Let him answer. If this is to be a going operation—”

Piqued, Nichols said, “It
is
a going operation.”

“All right,” Israel replied calmly. “Then if it’s to continue as one, we have to be honest about how we feel toward each other. I’ll do my portion of the hard labor—that I promise. But I won’t sleep outside, or take my meals anywhere but right here.”

Nichols reddened again. “I must say you’re mighty assertive for a nigra—”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Freedom
is
the law in California,” Amanda said. “I assume you know the new government down in Monterey adopted an antislavery clause in the state constitution?”

“Yes,” Pelham said, “though we were frankly too busy to vote on the constitution. Not that I could, of course—I’m still a citizen of Her Majesty’s country. But I do think it’s remarkable that California declared itself a state before your federal union did so—”

“The question remains,” Amanda said, “will Israel be welcome, or are you going to cause problems for him? If you are, you’ll have problems with me.”

Unsmiling, Francis Pelham answered, “Based on Armbruster’s fate, Mrs. Kent, I would take that for granted. The decision is really Joseph’s.”

Nichols scratched his armpit. Shook his head, rose and walked to the coffeepot. Painfully conscious of everyone watching, he poured a cup. Then, slowly, he walked back to Israel.

“It’ll take some effort, but I guess I can get used to it.” Abruptly, he thrust the cup forward. “You sure you’re not thirsty?”

With a grave smile, Israel said, “I believe I am now.”

“Then here—help yourself.”

Israel took the cup. “Thank you, Mr. Nichols.”

“You all have any name besides Israel?”

“I don’t,” the mulatto admitted. “Some slaves adopted the last names of their masters but I refused.”

Nichols looked startled. “You a runaway?”

“Many years ago. I was born on a plantation. My papa was a white man. My mama never told me his name.

She hated him, I guess. I ran away first chance I got. Is any of that important?”

“No, I ’spose it isn’t—”

“Definitely not,” Pelham said. “We’ve no time to dwell on past history—we’re too bloody busy. It requires four men to work a claim efficiently, you know. Two must dig. A third must alternately shovel the dirt into the hopper of the cradle you saw outside, and pour in water. The fourth man rocks the cradle to filter the dust and flakes down the chute. The gold is caught behind the chute’s transverse riffles, while the water and mud wash on—”

Israel nodded. “I’m familiar with placer mining, Mr. Pelham.”

“Ah, but Joseph and I don’t want to limit ourselves to placer mining.” He began to speak with more animation, waving his cup as he paced back and forth. Amanda decided she liked the cut of Jared’s partners. Israel too was interested in what the Britisher had to say.

“We’re drawing a fine profit out of the claim now. We can do better if we can ever hire a dependable helper.”

“Better than a thousand a day?” Amanda asked.

“In my opinion, yes.”

Nichols said, “I heard Chinee boys are showing up in some of the camps, Francis. Hard workers. Maybe we’d have better luck with one of them—”

“And I wouldn’t feel so outnumbered,” Israel said. Nichols actually chuckled.

“A possibility,” Pelham agreed. “My point is this, Mrs. Kent. If there is abundant gold in and along the rivers of California, it follows that it must wash down from somewhere. The Mexicans are undoubtedly correct when they speak about a
veta madre.
”

“A mother vein?”

“The boys around here call it mother lode,” Nichols told her.

“Go on, Mr. Pelham.”

“Men are already striking off for the slopes of the Sierras. The land’s for the taking—no one’s quite thrashed out the laws of ownership as yet. Separating gold from the quartz rock will require heavier equipment, however—”

“You’ve studied the subject, haven’t you, Mr. Pelham?”

“I have. I did not leave my relatives—the city where I was born—and the pittance I earned in the drapery shop in order to enjoy a holiday in America. I came here for a purpose.”

“Excellent.”

“As soon as Joseph and I—”

“And Israel,” she said.

“Quite so. As soon as we can lay up sufficient funds and hire trustworthy chaps to work
this
claim under the supervision of one of us, the other two will go to the mountains. As you undoubtedly know, the size of claims is settled by the common consent of those who arrive first. It’s my plan to locate a promising site no one’s discovered, and set the limits to suit ourselves.” Pelham smiled. “Naturally we’ll require your approval of such a venture, Mrs. Kent. But I gather from your remark of a few moments ago, you would not be averse to a speculative expedition—?”

“I wouldn’t. If there’s more money to be made, I insist you go.”

“Capital!”

“The one thing we aren’t going to do,” Nichols declared, “is squander gold from here
or
the mountains on alcohol, games of chance and traveling prosti—fast women,” he amended, beet-colored. “Like Francis, my home’s a long way off—and not worth going back to, either. A big combine from Atlanta put up a general store four times the size of the mine and just half a mile away. Drove me out of business. I suffered the miseries of the damned on the Overland Trail. I dosed myself with gunpowder and Dr. Zoril’s cure-all medicine and wore one of those blasted asafetida bags to prevent the cholera. Until I got used to the stinking alkali water, I thought a chamber pot would be my life’s companion. We never saw an Indian—not one—but I was always scared of being murdered by some fool handling a gun without knowing how. One man in our train thought he heard an Indian whoop, jerked his rifle out of the wagon barrel first and shot himself to death. Why, there were guns popping day and night!”