Authors: Avi
Hard Gold (4 page)
October 1858
T
HREE WEEKS after Jesse left, we got a letter from him.
Dear Sister, Uncle, Early, and Adam:
Got to Council Bluffs. People all excited. Say getting Pike’s Peak gold is easy. Just there for pickinq up. Easy, Early, easy!
Jesse
Meanwhile, Judge Fuslin sent word saying that Jesse’s taking off proved he was guilty, so he was going to issue a warrant for his arrest. At the same time the judge again offered to drop charges if Pa sold him the farm.
Pa repeated his No.
Adam said, “Does Judge say he has any more proof that Jesse robbed the bank?”
“Just what he said before.”
“Then there isn’t any proof,” said Ma, who like me, always did side with Jesse.
“I bet I know why Jesse went,” said Adam. “An Iowa warrant isn’t going to hold in the territories. Fuslin will have to send someone out there to drag him back.”
I lost my temper. “You want him to be arrested, don’t you!” I cried.
“You do something wrong, you pay for it,” said Adam.
“He didn’t do it!” I shouted.
“That’s enough!” said Pa. “Things are difficult enough around here without you two snapping.”
I went out and chopped some wood.
The next letter Jesse sent came two months later from a place called Fort Kearny. Somewhere out in the Nebraska Territory. This time all he wrote was:
I’m gettinq close!
Still, it proved he was on the move, still heading west.
Then for three
months
there was nothing but silence from Jesse. Not a single, solitary word.
“Might have died,” said Adam.
I hated Adam for saying that. It made Ma cry, too. Pa told Adam to keep his thoughts to himself. All I could think about was how I was going to get out there and bring Jesse back.
Things went on, though it was dull without Jesse being about. Then, in March of 1859, another letter finally came from him.
Dear Brother Daniel, Sister Penelope, Adam, & Early:
I got gold! Enough to pay our debt.
But I am in danger from the blacklegs who would steal an honest man’s hard diggings. My life is truly threatened!
Jesse
Cherry Creek Kansas Territory
January, 1859
I was real excited that Jesse got gold, but knowing he was in trouble made me wild. “Pa,” I pleaded. “I have to go! Jesse needs me!”
“It’s too dangerous,” was all Pa said.
To which Adam added, “He should have listened to
'’
me.
Ma was upset, too, but she agreed. “Jesse will have to fend for himself. We need you on the farm, Early.”
“If we don’t help Jesse,” I cried, “save his gold, clear his name, and pay our debts, this won’t
be
our farm for long.'’
Adam said: “A king’s ransom can’t be paid by fool’s gold.”
“You just don’t like him,” I cried. “Always jealous of him. He was smart to leave!”
“Early,” said Pa, “you are
not
going.”
“Will too!” I cried, and skulked away, frustrated that I was the only one sticking up for Jesse.
But the truth was, even if I had had my parents’consent, I hardly knew how to get out to that Cherry Creek. There were those seven hundred miles to cross. Back then no trains were going west past the Missouri River. Far as I knew, a stagecoach had yet to commence running. To get there you had to walk, go by wagon, or ride an animal. I was stuck in Iowa.
But then, I got lucky.
April 26, 1859
W
HENEVER I could, I went to town with Pa, hoping to find another letter from Jesse. None came. Even so, I made certain to listen close because lots of people were talking about different ways of going west.
Mind, people talked a lot about going to Pike’s Peak. Actually, it was Cherry Creek where the gold reports came from—a place some eighty miles
north
of Pike’s Peak. I suppose there was something grand and powerful in a “peak,” more than just a “creek.”
What I learned was that Adam had one thing right: unless you had your own rig, or hired on, it took some two
hundred
dollars to pay your way to the diggings! Only one I knew with that kind of money was Judge Fuslin.
So there I was, packed as tight with worry as a wadded-up musket ball. Just as ready to explode with frustration, too.
Then two things happened, one stupid, one lucky. The stupid one came first.
Pa asked me to go to town with a pig he’d fixed to sell to the butcher. I hitched our mule to our wagon, got Senator Clay (the pig) loaded, and clattered the six miles to town. Dealt with the pig, then walked toward the post office, hoping for a Jesse letter. But who should come along? Judge Fuslin.
Fuslin always dressed fine, with shiny black frock coat, vest, and neck cloth. His buffed top hat (black) made him seem tall. Liked his Cuban cigars, too. Mind, nothing wrong with any of it. But knowing the power he had over us, knowing the way he’d threatened Jesse, I held him low. He was my enemy.
There was a big man walking with him, someone I didn’t know. So I didn’t pay much mind to him—not then.
And when I spied Fuslin coming along, I admit, I walked right by him. Only, he hailed me.
“Early!” he called. “Early Wittcomb!”
Had to stop.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m sure your parents would agree,” he said, one hand gripping his jacket lapel like he was a politician giving a dull speech, “it’s only polite to greet your elders.”
He had me there. As my ma was forever saying,
Being rude means you’re taking a rough road when you can just as well take a smooth one.
So I said, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. How do you do, sir?”
He considered me for a moment. “Any word about Jesse?”
Since he knew Jesse was gone, I took it he was really asking two things: where Jesse was, and whether Pa was talking about the deal he’d offered. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I wanted to push back. So I said, “Yes, sir, we just got word from the Pike’s Peak diggings. Guess what? Jesse’s got gold. Buckets of it. Enough to pay our debts and then some.” I suppose I grinned, too, as like to say,
We’re going to keep the farm. And he’s got away from you.
Fuslin paled. “Has he?” the judge said. “I’d hate to haul him back to face those theft charges.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “But I’m sure he’ll be staying out there.”
“He can be reached,” Fuslin said.
The man by his side looked at me fierce, as if to back up anything the banker said.
“Yes, sir,” I muttered and went off. I didn’t think too much about it, because right after that meeting something lucky happened. I went on to the post office, where I didn’t find a letter but something almost as good. Nailed to the wall was a notice:
PIKE’S PEAK!
Who wants to go to Pike’s Peak without costing himself anything? As many as four young men, of good character, who can drive an ox team, will be accommodated by four gentlemen who will leave this vicinity on the 2nd of May. We can furnish you beds and board and have your washing and mending done: and you shall give us your help as we require to get our families and effects to Cherry Creek. We have four wagons.
Come on, boys!
Ebenezer T. Bunderly, esq.
I felt like giving a hoot, a holler, and three hurrahs.
There it was! A way to get to Pike’s Peak and Jesse on my own without it costing a cent.
I skipped over to the postmaster and asked who this Mr. Bunderly fellow was and where I could find him.
“Bunderly? He’s that new barber who just came to town. Set up behind Morton’s Stables.”
I’d heard about barbers, but since my ma cut our hair and trimmed my father’s and Adam’s beards, I had never actually met one. Always seemed odd to pay someone to do what you could do yourself—or have your ma do for you.
Anyway, I found the barber in a shack behind the stables off Main Street. The space, just a tiny room, poorly lit, contained a chair plus a small table on which lay scissors, shaving brush, mug, razors, a sharpening stone, and strop. There was also a washbasin and some hunks of gray soap.
Mr. Bunderly—I guessed it was him—was sitting in the chair, legs up, reading a slim pamphlet, blue covered. Its title:
The Emigrant’s Guide to the South Platte and Pike’s Peak Gold Mines.
He was a tall weed of a man, all elbows and knees, with thin, reddish hair and beardless pink face. His hands, which held the pamphlet, were small, clean, and with no dirt under his nails, not looking as if they were used to much hard labor. You might say there was something pale and blurry about the man, almost watery.
This picture reminds me of Mr. Bunderly’s barbershop in Wiota.
“Yes, boy?” he inquired, peering at me with gray-blue eyes.
“Are you Mr. Bunderly?”
“At your service, sir. And I see you are in need of a haircut.”
“No, sir, it’s about your notice at the post office. You’re wanting some boys to go with you to Pike’s Peak.”
“I’m grateful for your inquiry, my boy, but the actual need is for young
men.”
“Yes, sir, only it did say, ‘Come on,
boys.'”
He put down his reading matter and considered me thoughtfully. “May I be so bold as to inquire as to your age?”
“Fourteen.”
“An unfortunate orphan, perhaps?”
His saying that, and my knowing he’d just come to town so he most likely didn’t know me, led me to do an awful and fateful thing: I lied shamefully. I said, “Yes, sir, I’m an orphan.”
“How do you manage to survive?”
“Hire around.”
“Do you have an abode to … sleep?”
“Nothing much. About five miles out of town.”
His soft eyes gazed at me. “Not by any chance running away, are you?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir!”
“Yet you desire to make the passage west?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Why is that?
“Get some of that Pike’s Peak gold.”
“I will allow”—he nodded—”it’s what everyone says.”
“Please, sir,” I asked, “are you going to look for gold, too?”
“Like so many others, my boy, these days I am financially embarrassed. I had thought to put down roots here, but to remain is to insure absolute ruin. Accordingly, I have resolved to move on and try my fortune in the Pike’s Peak region. Though I’ve little interest, or skill, in obtaining gold, it is my firm conviction that men of great wealth will desire their beards to be trimmed. Therefore, I shall put forward sufficient enterprise by which to mend my broken fortunes. I do believe, young man, that without endeavor there can be no progress—material or spiritual.”
Mr. Bunderly really did talk like that—planting words all around his thoughts, rather than weeding them.
“Now, then,” the barber said, “are you capable of hard labor? The rigors of a long and hazardous journey?”
“Yes, sir. I can drive an ox, gather eggs—and they don’t break, neither—and muster a rifle. Danger don’t dither me.”
“Your name, young man?” he asked.
“Early, sir.”
“Would that be surname or Christian name?”
“Works both ways,” I replied.
He pursed his lips. “I fear I’m not entirely convinced as to your veracity.”
I stood there, holding my eyes steady, hoping my silence could prop up the lie.
“Son,” the barber finally said, “you create a quandary for me. In my wagon will be my ailing wife, and young daughter. On one hand, I suspect you are not being candid. On the other hand, having failed here, I am obligated to go,
now,
short-handed though I am. As I say, my wife does not enjoy robust health. Rock fever, I fear. As for my daughter, she is, shall we say, somewhat undisciplined. Lacking a mother’s firm hand, I suspect. In conclusion, I am keenly in need of assistance. Shall I stand in judgment of you or take you at your word?”
“My word is pretty good, sir.”
He sighed. “It hardly seems wise to commence a long-term arrangement when doubt is deep.”
“I don’t doubt you, sir,” I put forward.
He grew thoughtful and gazed at me. “Mr. Early,” he said at last, “what is your knowledge of women?”