Auraria: A Novel (14 page)

“What makes you think you can stop me?” said Holtzclaw. “Are you powerful? Are you rich?”

She knelt in the creek. The waters rushed past her waist. Her hands scrabbled in the mud before her; she withdrew them and held them up for Holtzclaw. He saw they were covered in flakes of gold, as though they had been gilded by a jeweler. Then she returned her hands to the water, scrubbed them together, and they were clean.

“To find gold is so simple,” said the princess. “Ridding ourselves of it is much more difficult.”

Holtzclaw stepped forward. The creek rushed over his shoes, flooding his toes. “Show me how you did that, Princess.”

“It can’t be taught.”

“It’s a trick, then. Sleight of hand. Are you trying to buy me off, like Moss? Are you plying me with fool’s gold?”

“Gold can’t help if it’s found by a fool. As I said, you’ll never settle into this valley if you are always looking for tricks.”

“I would vastly prefer if, instead of speaking to me in slogans and sayings, you would tell me the plain truth instead.”

“Would you believe me?”

She crossed to the far side of the Amazon Branch, splashing from rock to rock, and vanished into the woods. She moved with a lightness he could not hope to match. His clumsy feet would never catch up.

#

Holtzclaw heard the land before he saw it; as he approached the Terrible Cascade, his thoughts were drowned by the waterfall.

The Terrible Cascade was a confused tumble of water, a steep series of cataracts rather than a simple drop. The Lost Creek entered a narrow channel, gaining speed and anger as the gorge walls narrowed. Water leapt into space and fell against a jagged line of stones, made more perilous by a pike line of branches and metal detritus. The frothy waters raced for another hundred yards over boulders before crashing into a solid wall of granite, then turned like a hairpin, first to the north and then back to the south. Beyond this turn, the river regained its tranquility, as if all its rage had been shaken out in the journey. In the half mile that Holtzclaw could survey of the gorge, the waters fell at least two hundred feet. Here was the end of the mountains and the beginning of the spreading lowlands.

At the horizon line of the falls was a hut, and in front of the hut was a man. He was an amalgamation of clothing scraps that were held together by leather straps. Bandoliers supported knives, a bow, a quiver, and a long-barreled rifle. He looked like he was wearing boots, but upon closer inspection, Holtzclaw saw it was a thick crust of mud that coated the man’s legs halfway to the calf.

“Are you the Sky Pilot?” asked Holtzclaw, shouting over the noise of the waterfall.

“That’s what I call myself, and other folks picked up the habit,” said the man, shouting back.

“What does a sky pilot do? Are you a balloonist?”

The Sky Pilot shook his head. “I would never climb into such an unnatural thing. Doesn’t even have wings. A man came through here with a balloon one time. He wanted to take pictures. Thought he could see from up there where some gold was buried.”

“Did he see anything?”

“Don’t know. He and his balloon fell out of the sky, right into the gorge. The current got his body. They found it two miles down river at the Beaver Ruin. That balloon basket was pinned against some rocks for months until a freshet broke it up.”

“I’ve heard many stories in your town,” said Holtzclaw. “But yours is the most morbid yet.”

“Why, I’ve got half a hundred of them that are worse. What would you like to hear? Folks die in all kinds of ways.”

“What I’d prefer to discuss is a business matter. My name is James Holtzclaw. I’m an agent of the Standard Company. May we retire to your cabin for discussion?”

“If you like. Makes no never mind. It’s not any quieter, and that’s how I like it.”

The Sky Pilot’s cabin was little more than a corn crib. The chinking had been removed from between the logs so that the walls of the structure did little to separate the inside from the outside. Wind and sun blew through the structure, and the roar of the Terrible Cascade below was undiminished. A pleasant consequence of this drafty construction was that the Sky Pilot’s cabin did not possess a foul odor. Nature was allowed to sweep it out. There was no chimney, hearth, tables and chairs, or even a bed. But the absence of such cultural niceties was compensated by a plethora of savage artifacts. A variety of rifles and weapons were suspended on the walls; Holtzclaw was intrigued by one long-barreled gun onto which had been lashed a double-bladed woodsman’s axe.

Among the clutter, Holtzclaw could not locate a place to rest. The Sky Pilot sat on the skeleton of a crocodile that had been nailed on to a wooden scaffold.

“Did you kill that crocodile?” asked Holtzclaw.

“Where would I kill a crocodile? This is the Lost Creek, not the Nile. I got it from a roving tinker. I traded him a gorilla skull for it.”

“Are these objects part of the trade of a sky pilot?”

“No, just a hobby. A sky pilot’s work is to go all the way up to the top of the mountains. I know how to get up there, and I know how to get back.”

“What do you need at the top of the mountains?”

The Sky Pilot leaned forward. “Ice.”

“Ice?”

“Ice.”

“Just ice?”

“What’s ‘just ice?’ Everyone needs ice.”

“Well, it’s only water, of which your valley has plenty. And I’ve met another man that has no shortage of ice.”

“You mean Moss? That’s frost, not ice.”

The Sky Pilot approached the corner of his windy crib and cleared away debris and possessions to reveal two wooden strongboxes, made of burled maple with copper ornaments, which were much finer than their surroundings. Inside, protected by layers of straw and blankets, were cubes of ice. They measured a handspan in each dimension, and each surface was as smooth as if cut by a jeweler. The ice had no internal blemishes and only the faintest color. It was truly fine ice. But it was still just ice.

Holtzclaw continued, “I did say that I had some business to discuss. It is a matter of land. I represent the Standard Company, and we have a potential interest in the property that you own. I had wondered if you had considered the possibility of making your land available to me for purchase.”

“What do you need a place like this for?”

Holtzclaw could not think of a reason that corresponded to his cover story—nor any use at all. The property was no good for transportation since the Terrible Cascade was unnavigable. Agriculture was impossible and mining unsuitable given the proximity of the water table. The Terrible Cascade’s sole advantage was as a geographical oddity—it was the neck of the valley.

Holtzclaw told the Sky Pilot a slanted truth. “I don’t know why my employer wants the property. I’m a lower man, a functionary, and I’m not always told the full truth. My employer says, ‘Buy, Holtzclaw!’ and I buy.”

“I am glad I don’t have an employer,” said the Sky Pilot.

“It’s not a curse. He’s a good man, a visionary.”

“I’m sure.”

“If you sold your lands here, Mr. Sky Pilot, you could afford to buy some other lands. Better hunting grounds.”

The Sky Pilot shook his head back and forth. “I don’t believe I would give up this place.”

“Your land here is not vital to your profession.” Holtzclaw’s voice betrayed more urgency and weariness than he wanted. “Your ice comes from somewhere else.”

“Makes no never mind,” said the Sky Pilot.

“Do you have some special connection to the cascade? Were you raised here?”

“It’s the meanest waterfall in all the world. Plug ugly. If I never saw it again I wouldn’t cry.”

“Then what is your attachment? Why will you not even listen to my offer?”

“I have a friend here. He lives in a cave down in the gorge. He means no harm to anyone.”

Holtzclaw nodded. “And your friend wouldn’t move? He can’t be very comfortable in a wet cave.”

“He has lived in the same place for as long as I’ve known him. I think the cave suits him.”

“Do you think I can talk with your friend?”

The Sky Pilot thought for a very long time. He closed his eyes and dropped his head. Holtzclaw was at first worried that the man had fallen asleep and then that he had expired, but just as Holtzclaw was contemplating reaching out his hand, the Sky Pilot stirred.

“No, I don’t believe that you should talk with him,” said the Sky Pilot. “I think that you had best leave.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, sir. I speak for my employer, and I’m endeavoring to complete my duty to him. Please, let’s talk a little longer.”

“I don’t care,” said the Sky Pilot. “It is a rotten duty if you need to disturb my friend. Now, please leave.”

“I have federal notes, real money …”

“Nope.”

“How about gold? Local coins with pictures of groundhogs and bathing beauties?” Holtzclaw fumbled in his traveling satchel and pulled up a handful of the bright metal.

“I don’t care a whit about it. Gold is not my friend. It has no songs.”

“What do you mean, ‘no songs’? Gold can keep the piano playing all night.”

The Sky Pilot shook his head again. He pointed to the door.

Holtzclaw did not want this last property to escape him, but he eyed the long-barreled rifle lashed to the double-bladed axe. If he persisted, he might provoke the Sky Pilot to employ it. What could Holtzclaw do but leave as commanded? It was too much to hope that every landowner would sell on the first visit. His easy tricks were exhausted, and the more persuasive maneuvers needed time, of which Holtzclaw had none.

“Holtzclaw, you blasted fool!” Shadburn’s words echoed inside his head, drowning out even the roar of the Terrible Cascade. “You blasted, blasted fool.”

Chapter Eight

It was suppertime, already dark, when Holtzclaw returned to Auraria from the Terrible Cascade. He knew that he should find a carriage back to Dahlonega, report as summoned, and hope that Shadburn’s displeasure would be diffused by the six land deeds that Holtzclaw could present, rather than the one that he could not. But he knew he’d take a drubbing over it—any failure overwhelms every success.

From within the Old Rock Falls Inn, a warm firelight glowed. Abigail was no doubt preparing some roasted dish. At McTavish’s, a greasy, wet smoke rolled from an open window. Mrs. McTavish had created a culinary miscegenation, and Holtzclaw didn’t want to eat it. At the Grayson House, there was a chorus of what sounded like eleven fiddlers. He had not been inside there yet. Taking a meal there would be invaluable scouting for future negotiations, and perhaps he would hear how much the people of Auraria knew about his mission. It would be a half hour well spent, and the delay would make no great difference to Shadburn. Besides, Holtzclaw could better face his employer’s wrath if he were fed.

A man was napping on the Grayson House’s porch. It was Dan, the man who’d been asleep on the floor of Walton’s tower that was crammed with musical instruments. The fiddle music, crashes, and clinks from within the Grayson House were a fine lullaby for him. Holtzclaw stepped over the sleeping figure and into a whirl of motion.

Two dozen people capered in the room, which served as a bar, dining area, and gaming parlor. In the crowd, Holtzclaw saw familiar faces—Moss, from whom he’d bought the frosted springhouse; Bogan, the miner; Emmett, the druggist. It was dangerous that Moss and Bogan were together in the same place. Each, on his own, might be discreet about his transaction. But if they began to converse between themselves, they might discover that they had both sold their lands in the same day, to the same stranger. Holtzclaw needed to unset the snare. How many more incidents like this would occur while he was away in Dahlonega, attending to whatever blasted whims Shadburn had felt were more pressing than the main mission? It was bad business, thought Holtzclaw—bad business. How could Shadburn turn this one into a profit?

“It’s Jimmy!” called Emmett the druggist, approaching Holtzclaw. “Hi there, Jimmy! How were those Effervescent Brain Salts?”

“I think they may have impaired my judgment,” he confessed.

“Well, either you didn’t take enough, or you took too many. Supposed to work wonders for what ails you. Says so right on the label. In the meantime, we are having quite the night here. Moss over there is treating folks, which is right kind of him.”

Holtzclaw felt a sickening pit form just below his spleen. “Did Moss say why he’s being so generous?”

“Said he made a strike. Found some gold in his river. Can you imagine? He’s been digging for years and never got more than a sprinkle of powder, and now he’s talking about a nugget that he dug up, right by the Five Forks Creek.”

“A nugget? Well, I’ll be,” said Holtzclaw. “That’s a fine discovery, isn’t it? Goodness. Moss say anything else?”

“He might have, but I disremember. Finding a nugget is the biggest news there is. What could top that?”

“Has anyone else been free with their purse tonight?” said Holtzclaw, hoping that the question itself was not too suspicious.

“No one’s had to be,” said Emmett. “Moss is setting everyone up.”

“Oh, a buffet? What’s on the offering? I’m famished.”

“Setting up means drinks, Jimmy. You still got to buy your own food. See, buying someone a drink doesn’t insult their poverty. Everyone likes getting a drink. But you buy somebody food, and he gets offended. ‘You think I can’t buy my own food?’ he says. If you want food here at the Grayson House, this is what you have to do. You put out a bit of gold dust for yourself on this spot here.”

Emmett motioned toward a burned indentation in the surface of the bar. Each stool had such an indentation in front of it.

“Sampson’s shy, and the mistress says she’ll do whatever makes him comfortable. Put ten cents down for you and ten cents down for me. That’s just enough gold dust to cover up the spot.”