Working the Lode (8 page)

Ah. Cormack and she had rehearsed just this eventuality. Shrugging carelessly as she wiped off her chest, she said, “Oh, a very tiny sum, if that. I just play about in the riverbed while Mercy minds the store, then I mind the store while she does other recreational things. We take turns.”

“I’ve heard that you’ve been seen up by the mill with that corn-fed yokel, Bowmaker, ‘playing about in the riverbed.’ And that you’ve dragged Quartus into your gold-mining operations.”

“‘Gold-mining operations’?” Zelnora bristled at Brannagh’s styling of her flame. Whatever Cormack’s background, he had not always been a mountain man, one could tell that from a glance. Why, she had learned he was thirty and eight, and having only been “raising hair” in the mountains for ten years now, he had obviously done something sophisticated prior to that. Rising to her feet, she stood behind Brannagh as he opened the safe. “They are hardly ‘operations’ now, Ward. I do it just for the fun of it, to keep my mineralogy skills sharp. Mr. Bowmaker is helpful because he has the brawn and the stamina to keep filling the rocker all day long. I just stand there and point to where I think gold might be found. And you heard Captain Sutter. If we were to discover anything, we’d have to keep quiet about it.”

Brannagh faced her, tossing some silver
reales
in his hand. He cocked one skeptical eyebrow. “Brawn and stamina, eh?”

Perhaps those were not the most fortunate choices of words.

“Well, if it produces gold, I’m all for it. But as you know, Zelnora, if you make a significant strike, you’re to tell me first. Why, I’ll want a cut of that!” He tried to smile in a brotherly manner, but his effort soon vanished. “And I tithe ten percent of any income, so you’ll have to report it to me anyway. I won’t charge you for the gold you’ve found up to this point, but…” He pressed the
reales
into her hand. “Consider this an investment against future profits. Do you have the right tools?”

Glory be! Brannagh was fairly giving her carte blanche to go forth and make more placer strikes! Zelnora accepted the coins gladly. “Yes, we seem to have everything. In fact, I was planning to light out at once for a spot about halfway between here and Coloma, a spot no one has prospected as of yet. There is a sort of natural island created by the recent rains, and it seems logical it would bear the most auriferous minerals. If I’m right, it’s the mother lode of all placers, and I plan to call it…Lion Island, after you!”

Of course, this pleased Brannagh immensely, being modeled after a lion and being told the secret of this future gold strike. He gave her several more
reales
upon hearing this news. “By all means, then go! But report back to me immediately, and I will send some of our own brethren to mine the gold. You’re to stay away from that no-count Bowmaker hick, do you understand? You don’t need him. Take Quartus with you, he’s definitely got brawn and stamina.”

“Well, yes, his stamina could be useful. He can’t ride very well, so perhaps he can ride the packhorse. With the tools.”

So with Brannagh’s blessing, Zelnora soon struck out astride her strong square-built bay. With her
reales
and toilet articles in her possible bag, a packhorse was securely tied to the tail of her horse, bearing cotton duck for her shelter, picks and axes, mutton, graham flour, peas, coffee, Boston wine, whiskey, and brown sugar. Her Hawken rifle, newer and shinier than Cormack’s, rested across the horn of her saddle. She had never fired it, and could barely lift it, but it was better protection against bandits than her pocket pistol, which could only injure a fellow if he was immediately on top of one.

A mile or so out from the fort, Zelnora shouted over her shoulder to Quartus. She could only canter moderately with the packhorse. It would be sundown before they reached Lion Island, and they needed to “keep their eyes skinned,” as Cormack would say. “Dear Quartus, how are you doing? What was Brannagh saying to you before we left?”

“Oh!” Quartus giggled. “He told me to keep an eye on you, to make sure that nice Bowmaker fellow doesn’t come sniffing around your behind. What a silly way of phrasing things! As though Bowmaker is a dog. Ha ha, a dog! Imagine that!”

Fuming, Zelnora frowned and stared straight ahead. How dare he? Brannagh expected a share in something he put not one shard of effort into, and would allow Cormack to invest all the muscle and work, yet he would not tolerate Cormack “sniffing around”?

Quartus continued to chortle. “As though he would sniff your behind! I’ve seen him kiss you, but sniffing, bear’s ass, that’s another thing entirely—”

“Listen here, Quartus. Do as Brannagh instructed you. By all means, keep an eye on Mr. Bowmaker, but do not report any sniffing, do you understand? Just tell him that Bowmaker worked hard, and we had no contact with each other, do you hear me?”

“Yes, but…” Quartus whined. “That would be lying, Zel. We’re taught not to lie.”

“You’re also my husband, are you not? And spouses should do what the other desires, correct? Also, I have a nice, brand-new surprise for you if you do what your wife desires. Right here in my saddlebag, I’ve a brand-new drum, made especially for you by one of the fort’s Digger Indians.”

“A…drum?”

“Yes, and you can play it up at Lion Island. But you can only keep it if you promise not to report any sniffing, do you understand?”

Zelnora heard Quartus clap his hands together. “Oh, yes, that sounds like a very good plan indeed! A drum! It’s been so long since I’ve been able to drum on a real drum! Lion Island? Is that where we’re going?”

Zelnora sighed. She could only imagine the happiness of the mountain men when they heard Quartus drumming, but the bribe was worth it.

Chapter Nine

Lion Island

“Least you’ve got a gal,” Erskine said glumly, chawing on a piece of jerked beef.

Equally as glum, Cormack poked the fire with a stick. “She’s hardly a ‘gal,’ Erskine. I’ll stake you half my gold claim if she ever bucks off that slimy preacher.”

“She will if we strike it big enough,” Erskine pointed out. “She’s just sticking close to him because he’s her livelihood.”

Henry Bigler chimed in. “Oh, there’s plenty of families that could use a hale and lusty gal about their farm.” This news did not comfort Cormack, and he looked up at Bigler, expressionless. “Then there was that newspaper fellow in San Francisco. Sister Sparks worked with him when we first came here in forty-six, setting type and even gathering news for him to print.”

Cormack sat erect. “Newspaper fellow?”

“A-yep, this Ed Kemble fellow who runs Brannagh’s
Star
newspaper. A right smart young fellow, too. His father was a New York state senator. Fact, that’s who Isaac Eager went rushing off to see the other day, to show him the gold.”

Cormack angrily tossed his stick into the fire. “Ho, boy! There’s damp powder and no fire to dry it! Next thing you know every tomfool blockhead from California to Kashmir is going to be streaking it up here, jumping folks’ claims, creating a regular spree
—”

Erskine jumped in. “—raising hair, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch—”

“—diamond-brooched gentlemen running all over the country, taking advantage of the Indians!” Cormack was so angry he got to his feet and paced in little circles in the sand. Wild Digger Indians knew nothing about the value of gold and wondered what palefaces wanted with it. All they knew was they could trade an ounce of gold for the same weight in silver, a thimble of glass beads, or a glass of grog. Pointing heatedly at Bigler, Cormack demanded, “So why didn’t she stick with the newspaper fellow?”

Bigler shrugged. “He’s maybe ten years younger than her. And Brannagh ordered her up here to the store. Besides, I think he may enjoy the company of men more than women, if you catch my meaning.” He chortled lewdly.

This bit of levity was enough to take their minds off the subject of the newspaperman, for all three men were now obliged to laugh at the concept. Cormack didn’t personally find it so far-fetched, as he’d seen all manner of Plains Indians who acted as women and sometimes, well, when the pickings were slim and folks were half-froze for any human warmth…He would not rub out anyone who gratified his dry in that manner. Heaps of beaver to them. But in front of Bigler, well, Cormack had best be conservative.

“A goddamned sodomite.” Bigler chuckled.

As their laughter died down, Cormack pricked up his ears. What sounded like four or even five horses galloped up the muddy road about half a mile distant. Such a herd could not be Zelnora making their rendezvous, so the three men grabbed their rifles and waited silently, lying close to the ground on their elbows, hoping the herd would pass. Their own sturdy Californio horses were picketed nearby, securely hobbled against horse thieves. But the riders drove their jingling spurs into the horses’ sides and reined in toward their campfire. The three gold miners got to their feet and leveled their weapons, and Cormack, who could nearly see in the dark, was the first to note it was Wimmer from the mill, along with other Battalion fellows such as Mowry, Sly, and Nutting.

They picketed their mounts and told how they wanted to join up and mine this fertile strip they had heard so much about. How had anyone heard? As far as Cormack knew, Marshall still thought they were deer hunting, although by now it was a foregone assumption no one was actually hunting. Cormack had been attempting to devise a method for legally staking a claim. As of yet, the rule of the mines was that each man got fifty feet along a streambed, but Cormack was waiting for Zelnora’s arrival to advise him as to which fifty feet she deemed the richest. Up until the arrival of these dunces, he’d felt that he owned this entire length of river.

So the newcomers yammered, warming their hands by the fire and eating their jerky, while Cormack shouldered his rifle and set out toward the road. He splashed across the newly formed creek that had created the island on which they were encamped. He didn’t care—he wore his new miner’s boots that nearly reached his knee, stiff things he was unaccustomed to after years in moccasins, and he felt like a lumbering Frankenstein when he walked.

Claims should be marked out with stakes, he thought as he leaned against a tree, stakes decorated gaudily so it was obvious from afar that spot had been chosen. Up till now, men just left their tools along the river to indicate a claim. If this spot panned out, he’d go talk with Sutter about registering the claim. Although Sutter had no control over mineral rights, he was the closest thing to an alcalde, or mayor of the area.

He was wrenched from his reverie by ducks streaking it upstream from the fort. What brought ducks streaking it upstream if humans weren’t behind them? He eagerly perked up and listened for Zelnora’s horse, but the wind changed direction then, and something disturbed him. He sniffed smoke from a cook fire, but it was not his men, no, this came from the fort’s direction, although of course the fort was too far away to smell sign, about twenty miles. Indian sign? They’d be some pretty smart Indians to get hold of a side of beef. For Cormack scented beef, only a sign of white men or Californios.

Well, why shouldn’t a man have a cook fire between here and the fort? Cormack didn’t own the river. Maybe some more of his
compañeros
were “hunting.” So he kept his eyes skinned, and soon the beloved woman hove into sight, dragging that laughable husband of hers by her horse’s tail.

She waved wildly. “Cormack!”

He jogged up to her, taking her reins and placing a hand under her arm to assist her to dismount. “Hush,” he said quietly. “I smell white men sign about. Did you pass anyone on the trail?”

Her eyes widened as she slung her possible bag over her shoulder. “No, no one at all. That I could detect.”

“Someone’s grilling beef,” he muttered, and went to help poor Quartus, who attempted as usual to slither off his horse like a jar of jellied prunes. He untied the packhorse from the tail of Zelnora’s mount and took the reins. They placed Quartus between them as they stepped down the embankment.

“Where is…my drum…” Quartus mumbled.

“Why is he talking about a drum?” Cormack asked Zelnora in a hushed voice.

“Oh. I bought him a drum. Quartus, dear, I’ll give it to you when we reach camp. He used to love drumming,” she explained conversationally. “On the ship that brought us over here, he drummed constantly. Then the marines in San Francisco took his drum away. They claimed they needed it to help with their drilling, but I do suspect it was just driving everyone loco.”