Zachary's Gold (26 page)

When proper daylight arrived I was no closer to deciding on our long-term plan of action, but I knew what was immediately necessary, and I forced myself from under my blanket just when I was starting to feel like sleep might finally be possible. Once I had the bundles of gold loaded on the mule (I discarded most of the rest of our supplies except for some bannock and dried venison), I returned to the fireside to find Rosh awake, and I explained our situation to him.

Someone might come looking for us at any time. We had no choice but to move out and try to find a hiding place as far from our present location as he could physically manage.

I gave him more water and another dose of his medicinal tea, and he stoically limped, with my help, to where I could lift him onto the ancient grey horse we had obtained from our attackers. He assured me that he was fit enough to ride, and I led the procession towards the wagon road, the horse on a short rope, the mule on a long one.

I toured the animals in a roundabout path, across the roadway, among the trees, and towards the creek, along whatever strips of gravel or hard pack I could find. When I reached the creek's banks I left the animals tethered to a snag, broke off a willow broom, and ran back the way we had come, erasing as many signs of our passage as I could see. If I had learned to recognize a track when I worked for Pinkerton's, I had also learned a trick or two for disguising one.

Back at the creek, I checked again on Rosh, who could still manage to affect a smile, then moved off downstream, walking either in the shallow skirts of the water or on the cobblestone of the flat banks. We travelled a weaving route, going east or southeast, but at that stage one direction was as good as another, as long as our footprints weren't easily seen and Rosh was able to stay on the horse's back. Periodically I asked him if he needed to stop and rest, but each time he shook his head in casual refusal. It seemed that he might actually be able to relax as he stretched over the animal's back, and I gradually lapsed into a sort of hypnotized plodding, watching my boots and concentrating on my own fatigue.

When we arrived at the little island in the stream, some three or four miles from our starting point, it was for my own benefit that I felt we must call a halt, but when I turned to speak to my partner, I found him gritting his teeth like a death's head, sweat mixed with tears covering his face. He did not respond to my voice, and once I had waded the pack animals over to our new landing, he almost caused the placid grey to bolt by refusing to release his iron grip on its mane and hair.

Seeing him in such a state made me suddenly alert and animated, but I knew that fatigue would soon recapture me, so I busied myself making the invalid a soft bed of reeds and rushes. Then I unloaded the animals, tethered them to graze on the far bank of the creek, and gathered a stock of firewood. While walking along the north bank, picking up dry branches, I was surprised to see an ox cart at the far edge of the meadow, only a quarter mile or so distant. The watercourse ran parallel to the wagon road through here, it seemed, so we had not actually put much space between ourselves and the main thoroughfare, which bothered me at first. We had done the best we could, though, and anyone looking for us had no reason to carry their search down this route.

When I returned to the island, I gathered tinder and twigs and started a small fire. It was not cold; in fact, it was pleasantly warm in the sunshine, but I hooked a cooking pot full of water onto its stand and fetched the little bags of powder and herbs in preparation for another batch of Chinese medicine. Rosh was still sleeping, but his breath came in hurried little puffs, and his forehead was hot.

I lay down and closed my eyes, trying again to envisage a trim white steamboat cutting a clean line across blue waters under a tropical sun.

When I awoke, the sun had changed sides of the sky. The fire was out, the water cold, and the cottonwoods cast shadows from one creek bank to the other.

There seemed to be no change in my partner's condition, although he had rolled from his back to his side, where he lay slightly curled, with one arm over his head. I covered him with a second blanket and set to work finding fresh tinder.

When the new bowls of Chinese liquid were at last prepared, I attempted to change his bandages and wash his wound without actually rousing him. He awakened gradually as I did this, mumbling to himself and shaking his head.

He was aware of my presence, but I am not sure that he knew who I was. In a desultory monotone he spoke quietly to me in Chinese, not inviting conversation, but rather as if to recite some sad story. I hurried the bowl to his lips at every pause. His lengthy speech worried me.

The clear sky and the breeze brought cooler weather that night, and protection from the elements was not an advantage that our island campsite afforded. I left both blankets covering the invalid, and lay as close as I could to the fire, covered by my coat and an oilcloth normally used for packaging the baggage.

I'm not sure which of us was the first to open his eyes, but before dawn was all the way down into the valley, I became aware that Rosh and I were watching one another across the fire's glow. He didn't move or speak, but I felt somehow that there was a bit more clarity to his aspect, and I was able to drift back to a more peaceful sleep.

When full daylight arrived, I found the change less substantial than I had thought. Rosh was awake and aware while I boiled water for tea and medicine and washed myself in the creek, but he made no attempt to communicate and showed no sign of vitality whatever. His fever was evidently not so consuming as it had been at its peak, but speckles of sweat still stood out like pox on his face. He stared sullenly at the ground beside him. After the twin bowls of medicine had been dispensed, he stretched out again on the reed bed and closed his eyes. For my part, I ate a slab of bannock and realized that our food supplies were almost totally depleted. The countryside around our little hideaway was mostly rolling desert, painted in bleak pastels with clay and sagebrush, and I was not too optimistic about what kind of game I might be able to hunt. There were probably deer in the pine forests farther up the hillsides, but I didn't want to travel that distance. Rabbits and gophers were around, no doubt, but it was quite doubtful that I would get close enough to shoot one with a handgun, and if I used the buffalo rifle, I might never find the fragments. I could put a couple of fishing lines in the creek, I thought, and check them from time to time while I kept watch over my sick companion.

I had cut my line into two lengths and was in the process of attaching them to a dead branch long enough to cross one arm of the creek when Rosh's eyes opened. He shifted himself so one arm was behind his head and spoke to me in our usual blend of words and gestures.

His voice was low and his movements awkward, so it took me a few moments to grasp his basic meaning. Ashcroft was not far away, he said, and he was very sick. I must leave him, and go on alone.

I growled my refusal and walked away, dragging my tree branch to set my fishing lines.

The layout of my equipment was poor. There were probably fish in the creek, but I saw no reason that they should be attracted to a pair of hooks so close to the surface in a quick-flowing channel. I could find no better arrangement or location within walking distance, however, and returned to the camp to keep the fire alive. I had passed an hour on my angling outing, but Rosh was still awake when I returned. He gestured for me to come closer, which I did, bringing a cup of water for him. He drank peremptorily, let the tin cup fall to the ground, and grasped my hand in his. His eyes seemed unfocused, but his grip was strong. With one hand he held me by the wrist, then reached across with the other and carefully placed the two coins symbolizing his share of the gold in the centre of my palm.

I didn't know what to say or do. Was it a sign of gratitude or one of fatalistic surrender? In the end, I said nothing at all, just stepped across to the water pot and busied myself with making tea. My hands shook, and I spilled half the water into the fire.

Once I was seated again with my cup of mud-brown tea, Rosh began to speak at length. “Ashcroft,” he said at one point, and held thumb and forefinger just an inch apart. “Go. Go. Go,” he told me in impeccable English, then lapsed back into Chinese. Quite irrationally, I found myself leaning forward, clinging to the rise and fall of his tone.

I was to carry on alone. That was the upshot of it all. I told him to forget the idea, adding a rather crude epithet that I trusted he would not be able to translate. I was staying here, I said. I would look after him. He would be fine.

We sat in silence for a few moments, until he interrupted my thoughts to add further argument.

I must go. Ashcroft was just over there. I should leave him my revolver.

Why did he want my revolver? I threw the dregs of my tea on the ground and went to check the fishing lines. They were empty and badly tangled, which was no surprise to me. The freezing water chilled my fingers, so it took me a long time to right them, but I kept stubbornly at it, trying not to visualize Rosh making a gun out of his thumb and forefinger.

Finally I left the fishing apparatus and walked the hundred feet to the downstream tip of the little islet, where I crouched on the gravel, throwing pebbles into the current.

After a half hour I returned to build up the fire and heat more water.

Now, just when I figured I had pacified the man, he burst again into a pleading monologue.

Ashcroft. I must go. Then he muttered fervently at some length in his own language, with the words “go,” “Ashcroft,” and something that sounded like “mang sang,” which he repeated several times.

I managed to keep my composure as I stood, setting the cup down on the ground within his reach.

“No,” I said quietly. “Drink up. Drink your stuff like a good fellow.”

He flopped back onto his bed and began to weep feverish, frustrated tears. I took my gun and started walking.

I was hunting, I suppose, or that is how I would have rationalized my lengthy wanderings down the stream bed, then up to high ground, travelling with my eyes fixed blankly on the ground before me. I passed an hour at this, or perhaps more.

When I arrived back at camp the fire was out, but Rosh was asleep, his breathing deep and even. His cup was empty, so presumably he had consented to swallow his medicine, but when I straightened the blankets over him I saw fresh blood on them, as well as on the tattered side and front of his shirt.

I didn't eat any supper, but it was about that time of day—nearly dark and rather chilly—when he awoke and spoke to me again. He spoke quietly this time, with less emotion.

“You go?”

“No,” I said. “I'm staying.”

He drifted back to sleep, muttering to himself. He didn't seem to find much comfort in my assurance that he and I would go on together. Perhaps he could detect the note of insincerity creeping into my voice.

I had to be thankful that the weather was remaining clear, although it was very cold once the sun had set. It would snow now, rather than rain, when the weather turned. I didn't think I could stand a wind-blown desert blizzard. I knew that Rosh could not. We had pretty much run out of time.

I felt very much alone in the starry black emptiness of the desert night. I tried to sleep, but that was impossible. Even in fantasy there was no escape. My picture of a steamship on a sparkling sea was two-dimensional and unattractive. Other people danced across the decks, but there was no place there for me.

I didn't sleep, but neither do I remember the arrival of dawn, only a stage of the early morning when I reluctantly recognized that it was time to load the mule. The baggage sat close to the water's edge. Rather than bring the animal across to the island, I carted the bundles one by one across to him, so as not to awaken Rosh.

I was in no hurry to speak to him because I had no idea what to say. Should I show him how sad I was to go? Should I thank him, or wish him well, or hide my feelings like some family secret?

As it was, I led the two animals around the camp and left them at the brink of the other channel of water while I went back to say goodbye to my partner. He was awake and smiled wanly when I strode up and calmly added a few more sticks to the fire. I placed the cooking pot full of hot water along with a cup where he could reach them, and set the two bags of dried medicine by his pillow. I also fetched him a piece of venison and some of the last of my bannock.

“Well, I'm going then,” I said. The expression on his face was tired and dreamy. I had watched him all night, and I knew his sleep had been hot and fitful.

“Ashcroft,” he answered and signalled that it wasn't very far. “You go. Go.” I could tell that there was more he wished to say but could not translate into hand gestures. He spoke again in Chinese—tantalizingly futile to my ear. At the end, almost as an afterthought, he pointed two fingers and cocked his thumb, with an enquiring look on his face.

I took the Colt .45 from my coat pocket, checked that all chambers were full, and laid it carefully on the ground beside his bed. Next to it I put a cloth pouch of small nuggets—fifty dollars or so.

Without looking at him again, I turned and headed south and east across the pale grey prairie, winding between the rocks and the great clumps of sagebrush. The night breeze had blown in a blanket of low cloud, and it felt like I was riding across a great low-ceilinged hall towards the roadhouse at Ashcroft.

I wondered why that little featureless stopover had held such a special significance for Rosh. From the start of our journey, he had referred to it whenever he needed a name for our destination, although by my recollection it had nothing of interest to recommend it.

I travelled rather aimlessly, halfway between the creek and the wagon road, and made good time, although it was more or less by accident. My mind was not on the business of travelling at all. It jumped from sour events of the past to sour possibilities in the future.