Hard Gold (5 page)

“Women, sir?” I said, surprised by the question.

“My beloved wife can be … complex,” he suggested. “And my daughter …” Words failed him. Then he said, “Miss Eliza is nobody’s fool. She can skin a snake alive.”

“I’m sure I’ll treat them with respect, sir” was the best I could come up with.

He was silent for a while, then sighed and said, “Mr. Early, we intend to depart next week—Monday. In the morning.”

“I can manage that, sir. I’m sure I can.”

“You’re absolutely positive you’re free to go?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

He held up one of his fine hands as a caution. “Some conditions: We shall keep the Sunday Sabbath by not traveling. There will be no liquor, tobacco, or speaking with profanity. Can you abide by that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Today is Tuesday. I repeat: we leave Monday morning. And since no better prospects than you have come forward, I shall depend upon your being honorable.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” I cried. “You won’t regret it, sir. You won’t!”

I went outside and truly jumped into the air. “Goodbye, Judge Fuslin,” I shouted. “Jesse! Here I come!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I Leave Home

April 27–May 2

M
Y JOY did not last long. I was too weighed down by my sinful lies. Didn’t matter that I told myself,
I’m doing it to help Jesse so he can save the farm.
I’d put forward an awful untruth, and I was about to run away from home and family. Hardly a wonder that as I made my way home, I was excited one moment, close to tears the next.

At the farm, everything looked strange to me, shaped and colored by my knowing I was about to depart. Though the farm was where I’d lived every day of my life, it was as if I were seeing it anew. If a boy can be homesick before leaving home, that was me.

It was unsettling, too, to be with Adam, Pa, and Ma that night. My secret head kept thinking,
If only you knew what I was going to do.
The next moment, from some way they looked or said something to me, I’d think,
Jiminy! They’ve guessed my plan.

Naturally, I wondered what they would think of my going. Naturally, I couldn’t ask.

Over the next few days, I found myself wanting to throw my arms around Ma and say,
Forgive me for going. I have to help our Jesse. Give me your blessing before I go.

Or I’d take note of Adam’s scowl and think,
You’re going to see what I can do when Jesse and I save the farm!

When I looked at my pa, my thought was,
I’m doing this for the farm, Pa. Please understand.

But not one word escaped my lips. I kept all within like a bunged-up barrel of rain in a long dry spell.

The night before I was to leave and we were all at the table, I was unable to contain myself. “I really think I should go help Jesse,” I blurted out.

Adam frowned. “Early, how many times must we say it—you’re needed here.”

Pa added, “Costs money to go, Early. We’ve none to spare.”

“With Fuslin after Jesse,” said Ma, “maybe it’s better he’s gone.”

“Do you think he robbed that bank?” I cried.

“We always think the best of Jesse,” said Ma.

I gazed at them in wretched silence and thought,
What would you say if I told you I’d found a way to go for nothing and was leaving in the morning?
Oh, how much I wanted their consent that I might feel better about my leave-taking.

All I said, though, was “Jesse really needs me.”

When no one replied, I cried, “He’s in danger, isn’t he? Don’t that go for something?” My eyes welled with tears. “He says he got gold, didn’t he? He only went to get it for us so we could pay our debts and save the farm. How’s Adam going to inherit the farm ‘less we can find a way to keep it? It’s all for the family!”

“Early, no more!” snapped Adam. “You’re too young to go! It’s my job to find a way to save the farm.”

His saying that righted things a bit. I yelled, “Jesse’s done more than you!”

Ma reached out and put her rough hand on mine and said, “Early, Jesse will have to care for himself.”

“Jesse’s gone,” agreed Pa. “No point talking about him.”

So there was no more that night.

I got ready in secret. Wasn’t no fuss to it. I’d wear leather boots, my baggy linen trousers, wool undershirt, and shirt. I stuffed an extra set of trousers and shirt in a flour sack. Winter being over, I wore no socks, but I did wear a vest, which had a fine pocket. I knew the clothing would hold up even for a rough journey since Ma had not only sewn them, she’d woven the cloth from which they’d been cut.

When I added my old broad-brimmed felt hat to keep sun and rain off my face, I was ready to go.

It was Monday, May 2, 1859, just before dawn when I got up. It had rained some the night before, so the air was sweet as gooseberry pie. But my heart was heavy, and I was sorely tempted to go where my parents lay abed and bid them a fair good-bye. Instead I left two notes. One, under my bed blanket, that read

W
ENT TO
C
HERRY
C
REEK TO
R
ESCUE
J
ESSE AND
B
RING
BACK THE GOLD
.

EARLY

And another on the table.

GONE FISHING. EARLY

I hoped that that last one would keep them from looking for me for a while—least till I was well gone.

With dawn just a pink promise in the eastern sky, I stepped from the house and began running down the road toward town. My heart was heavy, but my resolve high.

Would I have gone if I’d known what raw trials lay before me?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lizzy

May 2, 1859

I
GOT to Wiota as fast as I could, only to discover that many people had come out to watch the wagon-train leave-taking. Needing to make sure that the folks who knew me wouldn’t guess what I was doing, I ambled about trying to look as if I was just curious. It was easy enough to find what I was seeking—four covered wagons lined up on the town’s short main street. On one canvas wagon cover someone had boldly painted

PIKE’S PEAK OR BUST!

The wagons were about sixteen feet long, five feet wide, built with white oak, and covered with rounded white canvas covers held up by hickory wood loops. Only one wagon looked new.

The canvas bonnet could be rolled up along the sides to let in air and had drawstrings front and back to keep out rain. Plus, the canvas was daubed with oil to make it waterproof. It was the whiteness of the sail-like covers and the slightly bowed bottoms of the wagons (to keep goods from rolling out) that made people call them “prairie schooners.”

Each wagon had four large wooden wheels, which were rimmed with iron to make them last, with the front wheels smaller than the back ones and mounted on an axle that could be steered left and right. The brake lever was on the left side, reachable by the driver. The wheels turned on wooden axles, their hubs smeared with tar and fat to keep them moving cool and easy. If you didn’t tar the hubs, the wheels screeched something awful. That’s why a leather tar bucket was hung on the doubletree for easy access. In fact, some people called the wagons “tar grinders.” Not nearly as pretty sounding as “prairie schooners,” maybe, but I always thought that described them better.

A good diagram of the kind of wagon the Bunderlys had.
They were strong, generally waterproof, and could float.

Up front, harnessed to each wagon’s tongue, were four yoked oxen. A pair of saddle horses was tethered to one wagon. Two milk cows were under the care of some young boys. A few chickens in cages were tied to another wagon. I even heard the squeal of a pig. The wagon train was a rolling barnyard.

I found Mr. Bunderly pouring drinking water into the barrel affixed to one side of his wagon.

“Ah, Mr. Early! How pleasant to know your name is equal to your promise,” he said by way of greeting. “I bid you a most hearty welcome to our great adventure.” He took my hand in his two and shook it as gravely as if I were joining a funeral procession.

Turning to the small woman seated on the front wagon seat, he said, “Dearest Mrs. Bunderly, this is the orphan boy—Early—I spoke to you about. He will accompany us and no doubt provide a great deal of useful assistance.”

Mrs. Bunderly—dressed in formless, plain linen-peeked out from deep within her Shaker wire-framed bonnet. Her face, what I could see of it, was small and sallow, with large, anxious eyes. As it was, she barely looked at me, offering hardly more than a nod of acknowledgment, though she did extend a delicate hand that barely touched mine, only to withdraw as if fearful of contagion.

As Mr. Bunderly led me away, he whispered: “As I have already intimated, Mr. Early, my darling wife languishes in poor health. But I have heard reliable reports that the Cherry Creek air is sufficiently salubrious as to provide a potential remedy. We shall anticipate the best, shall we not? Enterprise feeds best on joy, not despair.

“Now, then, young man, you shall meet my daughter.” We started off only to halt while he grasped my shoulder. “Do not,” he whispered, “let her intimidate you.”

Mr. Bunderly led me to a girl who was leaning against one of the large wagon wheels. She was gazing at me with much boldness.

“Mr. Early,” said Bunderly, “this is my delightful daughter, Miss Eliza. Miss Eliza, this is the plucky orphan lad who will be offering us needful aid.” That said, he walked away—in haste, I thought—leaving me alone with the girl.

She was a tall, skinny girl, dressed in a long, not-too-clean calico dress. No hoopskirt for her. Around her neck hung her bonnet in slovenly fashion. Her face had bold green eyes that were almost saucy and a smudged, pug nose. Her hair was long and as red as any I’d ever seen. Her boots, men’s and neither left nor right, had wooden soles, and were surely too large, which made her taller than I was. Her hands were big, almost bony.

In short, she was no beauty. I guessed her to be about my age, though for all I knew she could have been much older.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Eliza,” I said, more to my toes than to her face.

“Mr. Early, I can’t say I share that pleasure,” she returned in a voice I thought excessively loud.

“Beg pardon?” I said, taken by surprise.

“My father has taken you on because he doesn’t think I’m capable of anything. And my mother,” she said, tossing her red hair back with a smart snap of her head—a gesture I would come to see many times—“doesn’t
want
me to be capable. She thinks capability is unladylike.”

“I’m sure your father will know what to do,” I murmured.

“Mr. Early,” she said, “if there is bravery in ignorance, you may be sure I have the bravest family in the whole world. My father brings along a pepperbox pistol about which I’m sure he knows not where the six bullets fit.”

I stood there like a lump of mud.

“Do you know about guns?”

I shrugged. “My uncle taught me to use a rifle.”

“Mr. Early,” she said, giving me a rude poke in the ribs, “my pa said you’re an orphan.”

“Yes, ma’am, I told him that,” was my careful reply.