Authors: Avi
Hard Gold (2 page)
A gig, such as Judge Fuslin had. Pretty fancy and expensive.
Most folks around Wiota used wagons to get around.
The judge tipped his top hat to Ma, and nodded toward Adam, my older brother. He ignored Uncle Jesse and me. Then, to my Pa, he says, “Mr. Wittcomb, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my friend”—meaning the fellow next to him—“Mr. Zebulon Bigalow.”
“Obliged, sir,” Pa said.
“Mr. Wittcomb, sir,” Mr. Bigalow proclaimed, “I represent the great Chicago and North Western Railway.”
The way he spread those words through the air, you could tell he expected us to bow down, put lips to earth, and cry “Hallelujah!”
“Yes, sir,” said Pa. “What can I do for you?” Being polite was our way.
“You’ll be glad to know,” said this Bigalow fellow, “that after careful surveying, our railroad requires your farmland for a right-of-way. It would be good for Cass County. Good for Iowa. Good for the whole United States of America. And very good for you, sir.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been authorized to give you two thousand dollars for an outright purchase of your land. What’s more, we’ll take over all mortgage debts.”
Knowing that was a whole pile of money, I looked to Pa to see his reaction. He was stony-faced.
The judge jumped in. “Daniel, may I be bold enough to advise that this is a good offer. A fine offer. You should take it up.”
Next moment, Mr. Bigalow reached into his carpetbag and plumped out a bulging fist of cash. Held it toward Pa.
A rare thing, but Pa turned hot. I even saw the tips of his ears get red. “No thank you, sir,” he said, a touch of tremble in his voice. “This farm is going to be left to my boy.” He meant Adam.
“You surprise me, sir,” said Mr. Bigalow. “This is a generous offer. I’m not a threatening man, but if you refuse, the Chicago and North Western Railway might well have to find a way to make you sell the land to them.”
“They do have strength, Mr. Wittcomb,” put in Judge Fuslin. “And you do have debts.”
That being a threat if I ever heard one, I started getting mad. I glanced at my brother Adam. He was red-faced, fuming, clenching fists. But he didn’t do anything.
But my uncle Jesse, he stepped forward and said, “Gentlemen, you heard what Mr. Wittcomb said. We’d be more than obliged if you’d leave. But if you don’t know how, I’d be happy to get my Sharps slant rifle and teach you.”
“Young man, do you know whom you’re threatening?” demanded Judge Fuslin.
“I sure do,” said Jesse. He was putting on some serious frowning, but I could tell by his bright eyes that he was enjoying himself.
“Jesse!” said Pa, but he didn’t say more.
I can tell you, I grinned when those fellows leaped into their gig and clattered off.
As we returned to the house, Adam said, “Jesse, you’re a fool to threaten those people.”
“You’re a fool not to,” Jesse threw back. Those two were always sparring.
“I’m just glad they went away,” said Ma.
Pa, as usual, didn’t say more than he already had.
Later on, Jesse and I talked about what had happened. Considering the railway man’s warning, I was pretty upset.
“Early,” he said, “don’t worry. It’s just Judge Fuslin on the hustle, wanting everything his own way. Nothing’s going to happen.”
But the truth is, because of Pa’s refusing to sell the farm—everything did change.
N
OW, HERE’S what you have to know about my two brothers.
Brother Adam, nine years older than me, was a strong, stocky fellow with a set of chin whiskers, of which he was proud. Worked hard, I’ll give him that; but he liked being in charge. The truth was, my folks were getting weary, with gray hair and as many lines on their faces as furrows in our fields. Toiling dawn to dusk in dust had left them worn and fretful. They weren’t just willing to let Adam run things—we all knew that some day he was going to inherit the farm.
“Don’t forget I’m your older brother,” Adam liked to say when telling me what to do, which he did pretty regular. Or if I fussed, he’d actually say, “Look here, Early, when the time comes, the farm will be mine, not yours.” Didn’t like him saying it, but I had no choice. I just worked.
Now, Jesse—he was completely different. Most folks hear the word “uncle” and you think, an
older
fellow. Truth is, though Jesse truly was my uncle—my ma’s brother—he was just nineteen years old, a whole lot younger than Ma and only six years older than me.
See, soon after Jesse was born, he became an orphan. Ma raised him up by hand, so to speak. While Jesse had a different last name than me, he was my real brother as far back as I could remember. In fact, he called me “little brother.”
Five feet eight inches tall, he had wild golden hair and an ambling, shambling walk I could have picked out in a crowd of a million. He had a
golly, good morning!
smile that made me glad he was around, especially since my family wasn’t given much to smiling. Clean shaven, too. “Who wants to look like a goat?” he’d say, winking at Adam, who sported that dangling beard.
Adam envied Jesse. Jesse had real good hands, hands that could split a rail in three whacks, shoot a flying pigeon at fifty yards, or turn a willow stick into a whistle in the time it took a fellow to spell Mississippi. Wasn’t it Jesse who taught me how to ride, fish, and shoot his own slant-breach Sharps rifle? We bunked in the same room, too, and great glory, how he made me laugh with his jokes and stories! I have to admit I worshipped Jesse like he was a hero made of gold.
And the thing is, it’s
gold
that this story is all about.
September 1858
L
IKE I said, my folks were paying our mortgage with their savings. Thing was, those savings were going fast, because the drought hadn’t eased. So Pa and Adam hitched the mule to our buggy and clattered to town to meet with our banker to make some kind of arrangement. Who was that banker? None other than that Judge Fuslin I already told you about. Jesse went along for the ride.
They came back with bad news. Judge Fuslin was not going to budge: unless the mortgage was paid, we were going to lose our farm. The only positive thing was that the folks had about twelve months of money left in their savings.
That night we sat around the kitchen table staring with sad eyes at the whale-oil lamp, burning low like a last hope. There didn’t seem to be much doubt about what was going to happen. I never saw my parents so discouraged. After all their toilsome work, too.
Well, anyway, we were sitting there silent as snow, not knowing what to do, when Jesse pulled out a newspaper—the Kansas City
Journal of Commerce
—which he’d found in town. “Look here,” he said with that cheerful grin of his, “we should consider this.” He held up the paper so we could read the headlines:
The New Eldorado!
GOLD IN KANSAS TERRITORY!
The Pike’s Peak Mines!
The First Arrival of Gold Dust in Kansas City!
He went on to read the story under the headlines:
“We were surprised this morning to meet Monsieur Bordeau and company, old mountain traders just in from Pike’s Peak in the Kansas Territory. They came in for outfits, tools, etc., for working the newly discovered mines on Cherry Creek, a tributary of the South Platte. They brought several ounces of gold, dug up by the trappers of that region, which, in fairness, equals the choicest of California specimens.
“Mr. John Cantrell, an old citizen of Westport, has three ounces which he dug with a hatchet in Cherry Creek and washed out with a frying pan. Monsieur Richard, an old French trapper, has several ounces of the precious dust which he dug with an ax.
“Kansas City is alive with excitement, and parties are already preparing for the diggings!”
Soon as Jesse read that I knew exactly what was on his mind: this Kansas gold might be something we needed to find out about. After all, the Kansas Territory was just southwest of our own Iowa state. My parents, though, they looked at Jesse as if he’d just announced he was placing a five-dollar bet on a three-legged ox in a six-mile horse race.