Auraria: A Novel (13 page)

His field of vision flashed with green light, and there was a rush of bubbles in his ears. He blinked the occlusion away, but not every point of light faded. In the creek, a thousand points of yellow brightness lit up with an electric flicker. Holtzclaw would have recognized gold even if Auraria had another name and reputation. Perhaps he’d taken too great a draught of Effervescent Brain Salts, or maybe the water was not as fresh as it tasted. But these questions were lost in the sudden wonder of gold.

What luck, then, that Holtzclaw now possessed a genuine Auraria hat, whose special genius was its inner gold pan. It would be a shame if the hat were used only for its sartorial potential. He waded a few steps into the creek, balancing on flat stones that broke from the surface of the water. He bent down and collected a handful of gravel and mud, which he then carried back to the bank and deposited into his inverted hat. Then grasping opposite sides of the brim, Holtzclaw lowered the hat into the stream. A few of the smaller stones floated, and the mud swirled below the brim, but little else happened. Holtzclaw supposed that shaking was required. He shook the hat to and fro, first below the water, then above it. This was less effective than the plunge. Holtzclaw stirred the mud and gravel with his fingers, cupping the bowl of his hat with his other hand. That felt even less useful. But he persisted through his ineptness because the yellow flakes winked at him like so many alluring eyes.

“This is private property!” called a woman’s voice from behind him. Holtzclaw whirled and saw a tall, slender woman in a riding suit. Her golden hair was drawn back and capped with narrow-brimmed straw hat, encircled by a blue-and-white ribbon. She wore boots, gloves, long sleeves, and a high collar. Her face was shaded by her hat, and a small glimpse into the shadow revealed dark deep-set eyes. There was another flash of green light, a rush of bubbles, but this time not from a strange draught. It was the sudden sight of loveliness, and he was trespassing against it.

Holtzclaw felt a pang of lapsed decorum. He should have doffed his hat for the lady or at least tipped it, but he was not wearing his hat; it was filled with mud.

“I stopped for a drink, you see, and something was gleaming in the river,” he said, which was a foolish introduction and not at all suggestive of strength and command.

The woman’s face softened, and through the narrow red fissure of her lips, Holtzclaw saw perfect teeth. “I shouldn’t have been so concerned,” she said. “It doesn’t look like you know what you’re doing.”

“I confess that, by trade, I’m not a miner.”

“What is it that you do then?”

“My name is James G. Holtzclaw, and I’m an agent of the Standard Company. My chief tasks here involve preparation for the extraction of scrap metal. Old narrow-gauge from the mines, ore carts, pumps, stamps, weights, and the like.”

“Has metal become so rare that you’d rather have it covered in rust than freshly melted from the earth?”

“Ah, but that requires miners, purification, and refinement. It’s sometimes better to obtain metal already worked, even if decades old.”

“Oh, you do go on, Mr. Holtzclaw,” said the woman. Holtzclaw recognized her well-practiced tone from conversation circles. It was a manner of speech cultivated to betray neither interest nor boredom.

“We have no one here to make introductions. Thus, I’m afraid I will not learn your name,” said Holtzclaw.

“It’s Elizabeth Rathbun,” she said, “or, now that we’re introduced, Lizzie.”

“Are you a relation of Dr. Rathbun?”

“His daughter.”

“Is he the owner of this property, the Amazon Branch?”

“No,” she said. “It’s mine.”

Holtzclaw fidgeted with his cufflinks. “Well, then, it’s good luck that I found you here. I must speak with you regarding a business proposition. As I said, I’m an agent of the Standard Company …”

“You looked such a fool panning a few minutes ago,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Shall I show you how it’s done?” Holtzclaw, silenced, gave over his hat.

First, she plunged Holtzclaw’s hat into the river and emptied it of its prior contents. Scrabbling at the bank with her gloved hands, she packed the hat with black sand. A few steps down the creek, she located a still eddy of water formed in the shadow of a rock. She dipped the hat into the water and swirled the contents in counter-clockwise circles, catching the lightest grains. The worthless sand from the upper layers floated away. Holtzclaw’s eyed followed.

Again and again, she worked the pan, her movements becoming more delicate as the material that remained was washed down to no more than a spoonful. Her last circling motions were only subtle turnings of the wrist, but these were the most glorious; they revealed a few shining drops of gold in Holtzclaw’s own hat. Such cleverness!

Ms. Rathbun, flushed, returned the hat to Holtzclaw. “This is called powder gold,” she said, “because each flake is so small. Each flake is called a color. Forty thousand colors of powder gold melt into an ounce of free gold. And in your hat, you have … eight. Eight colors.”

“But there’s gold here? In this creek?”

“There is gold in every drop of water. Gold in the lakes, gold in the seas. If you were to pan your bathwater, you might see a color or two. There aren’t many places where panning is worth your while, though. Here, it’s too much work for too little reward.”

“You are quite knowledgeable, Ms. Rathbun.”

“I wish I wasn’t. It’s impossible not to know about these things in Auraria. I can’t make a living on the Amazon Branch as a gold panner, and if I tried to take a little money from it, the cost would be much ravaging on my poor hands. They are not hands meant for work, are they, Holtzclaw?”

She took off one of her gloves, which she had not removed even when panning. From wrist to fingertip, her hand was a soft, unblemished white.

“And what is it that you should want money for, Ms. Rathbun?”

“I want to leave,” she said. “Auraria is a sad place, an old place. Where is it that you come from?”

“My offices are in Milledgeville,” he said.

“Ah, the old capital! I hear that it is so much more dignified than Atlanta. Better people. Older money. Do they have fancy-dress galas there? Do women color their faces and have gowns without sleeves? And do you go as well, Holtzclaw, with shoes polished so well that they shine like the moon?”

Holtzclaw stirred to hear mention of polished shoes. He had thought they’d ceased to matter in the mountains, but he was only among the wrong people. “You have romantic words for it, but yes, every night there is some occasion for dancing. Often they are quite enchanting.”

“Oh, I should like to be a part of that,” said Ms. Rathbun. “But I’m tied to this land, and in any case, I have no money of my own with which to establish myself.”

“I might then be of some assistance to you on both accounts. You would be a light to society.” Holtzclaw opened his purse where he kept the Harrisons’ gold coins. Ms. Rathbun’s eyes brightened, reflecting the color inside.

“I would need enough for travel expenses,” she said, “and several months’ lodging and board at a reputable guesthouse.”

“My conscience would not permit you to leave with less than sufficient for your comfort,” said Holtzclaw. She wanted to sell. He needed to find her price.

“Add to that enough for a ball costume, from shoes to gloves, even if modest.”

“I would think you would need at least two or three different outfits,” said Holtzclaw.

“Perhaps even a few more, and some jewelry besides, so as not to appear impoverished at these galas. I have to overcome the natural disadvantage of my rural education.”

“Four outfits, then?” That would be enough for a fine lady.

“Seven! Seven outfits! Because there is a ball every night of the week.”

“Then seven outfits.” Holtzclaw added another line to a running total that he was creating on a sheet of ledger paper. He realized he was tallying her expenses, not the features of the property.

“And how do the ladies amuse themselves when not at a gala?” asked Ms. Rathbun.

“They play faro or dominoes,” said Holtzclaw. “But we’ve started these negotiations incorrectly …”

“I have a set of dominoes, but they are made from cow bones! Can you imagine? It would be a laughing stock,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Would I not need a set of ivory dominoes?”

“Why, every woman in Milledgeville already has a set.”

“Then you would put me at the mercy of the charity of others? I suppose I should beg for my own food, then, too. My sole word in defense of my character would be that my patron, Mr. Holtzclaw, did not provide me with enough.”

“No, do not say I am your patron, nor the Standard Company. Tell the truth—that you are a woman of means from Auraria, who came by her wealth in honest dealings over land.”

Holtzclaw then quoted a price for her land that did not seem extravagant until it left his lips, and then he could not make the words die from the air.

Ms. Rathbun smiled despite herself. “Oh my, what a generous offer.”

The ache returned to Holtzclaw’s head; the cure of the Effervescent Brain Salts had been too short-lived. “Well, you have a new life to start in the old capital of our fair state,” he said. “And starting a life cannot be done with pennies.”

Shadburn had warned him countless times against the traps that sellers lay for buyers: social entanglement, pity, and nostalgia. Did this land deserve a higher price because its owner was beautiful? Was a farm worth more because its owners were poor? Was a homestead that reared a dozen children more valuable than if a bachelor owned those acres? No! But Holtzclaw had been snared. He’d paid an exorbitant price for the Amazon Branch and paid not with his own money, but with Shadburn’s.

Deeds were signed because Holtzclaw could not turn back on his word. He counted out stacks of bills and coins that left his satchel much lighter. The weight of the new deed was small compensation.

“Well, now you can pan as much gold as you’d like,” said Ms. Rathbun. “Best of luck, Holtzclaw.”

Holtzclaw had no hat to tip as Ms. Rathbun strode away. It was sopping wet from its bath in the river and still held eight colors of gold. The flakes looked pathetic compared with the wealth that he had surrendered. But these eight colors were gold—real money. He couldn’t let them float away.

At least, Holtzclaw consoled himself, the money would go to the establishment of a new star in the Milledgeville social heavens, not into the pocket of a hoarding miser. And perhaps she would remember his generosity to her, which in her great cleverness, she should recognize and appreciate. She should be flattered that he succumbed to her beauty and to her polished words—it was as near a compliment as one could make. And she must be extraordinarily clever, for she’d bested him. It was her talent, not his failing. A green spark leapt in his heart, guttered, leapt again. To light a fire is such a rare thing.

#

Holtzclaw tried another dose of Effervescent Brain Salts, mixing them with creek water from the Amazon Branch. No green light filled his vision, but as he drank, he heard a splashing noise. He did not need to raise his head before greeting the princess.

“I leave you for a just a few minutes, James, and see what happens,” said Princess Trahlyta. “You did all right at Walton’s, but what a scandal here at the Amazon Branch.”

“Are you, Princess, the Amazon after which this branch is named?” said Holtzclaw.

“No, that’s an old legend,” she said. “Some mining party was attacked here by a woman wielding an ax. A prospector lost his head.”

“I can’t see that from you.”

“You’re right, an ax is not in my nature. Besides, one was not needed to separate your head from your shoulders, James. Ms. Rathbun did that rather nicely.”

“I suppose she did. My employer will be put out. But he usually finds some cause to be put out, no matter what I do. At least, I managed to get her land.”

“What have you bought, James? A woman’s name on a piece of paper. How do you know it was hers to sell?”

Holtzclaw blanched. “I’ll sort it out. There are courts. Lawsuits. I will at least be able to get my employer’s money back. It’s one small part of the valley—perhaps not even an essential one.”

“Why do you think your employer wants all this land?” asked Trahlyta.

“It isn’t hard to guess,” said Holtzclaw. “He would only undertake such a project if there was a promise of tremendous profit. I think he has some new strategy to extract gold.”

The princess brightened.

“Yes, so much gold that one bad deal wouldn’t hurt the final profits,” continued Holtzclaw, rhapsodizing. “Imagine some sort of powerful water cannon that would wash away the hillsides and bring minerals down into the river, and a mill that would pulverize the runoff and let us take out the gold.”

Trahlyta shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. Your water cannon would wash away the entire mountain before you carved into the deep deposits. And I can’t let the waters be bent to such work.”

“If my employer wants to move a mountain and take out the gold, then I’ll make it happen, whether you wish it or not.”

The princess mused about this for several moments. “James, when you try to change the course of things—well, you cannot tell the rain to fall upwards into the sky. I will help you, James, as long as you help me—it will all be so much easier. We will flow together.”