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## Fool's Gold

### Steve Stroble

**Fool's Gold** Copyright c 2016 by Stroble Family Trust. All rights reserved.

Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

This book is a work of fiction. As such, it refers to some historical events and people. All other people, places, events, and situations are the product of the writer's imagination. Any resemblance of them to actual persons, living or dead, places, events, and situations is purely coincidental.

"For the love of money is a root of all sorts of evil" (1Timothy 6:10)

"The lust for gold is a root of a whole lot more evil." (Unknown miner, California, 1849)

1

Thomas' thirst began in his soul and stopped at his mouth and throat. His father, Helmut Schmidt, allowed him only one beer per meal, which for Thomas included breakfasts. So on Saturday nights he went to the nearby village's _Gasthaus_ away from his father and farm to at last fully sate his thirst with the beer that he loved. The following morning's hangover would be treated with worship at church where the unrepentant like Thomas would doze off, only to awaken when a wife's, mother's, or sister's elbow jabbed their ribs.

Ludwig I ruled the Kingdom of Bavaria, homeland of the Schmidt family. Nostalgic, he brought back the old names for his kingdom's regions, which delighted his older subjects. The younger ones though wanted the states of the German Confederation to become a nation, even if it meant a revolution. France and America had been transformed in the previous century. The elders and their offspring argued such matters as they drank. Words were spewed, and blows followed as the drunkest ones battled.

"Ludwig is doing all he can to keep Prussia and Austria from dominating us." The eldest one seated at the _Gasthaus_ announced to anyone willing to listen.

"But when do we get to choose who rules over us?" Thomas challenged him.

"Bah! I was alive when France had their revolution. Where were you?" He eyed the lad suspiciously.

"But you never even listen to me!"

"If I had spoken to my father or anyone his age the way you speak, he would have beaten me or sent me away."

"My father is not here." He clenched his fists.

"Why are you so angry all of the time?"

"Because here in the German Confederation each king rules their own little kingdom. Even Russia has only one czar."

The old man slammed his beer stein on the table. The resounding thud quieted all of those in the steamy, smoke-filled room. The most timid dropped his pipe and the spilled tobacco sent up a tiny cloud of smoke from the tabletop. No other conversation resumed until the old man and Thomas finished theirs.

"I suppose we should let you rule Bavaria?"

"I'm not saying..."

"And where were you when Napoleon waged his war against us, Austria, Russia, England, and Spain?"

The youth stared at the worn oak floorboards. Two knotholes reminded him of the old man's eyes. A swirl of wood grain below the knotholes made a toothless grin. The imaginary face mocked him.

"I fought against that monster and his armies." The old man rose to his feet. "I saw too many brave Germans die." He collapsed back into his chair. "At least Ludwig opposed Bavaria's eventual alliance with Napoleon."

"But none of us want to be ruled by a Napoleon."

"My God in heaven!" The aged warrior lifted his stein in a mock toast. "Thank you for giving at least a little sense to this child. Do you know what spawned that monster?"

"No."

"The French Revolution. All this talk of uniting all of the states of the German Confederation will end in disaster." The veins bulged on his neck. "If you have your way and we become a nation instead of a confederation, who will rule us?"

"Ludwig, I guess."

Once again the old man lifted his stein toward heaven. He then thrust it toward Thomas as if it were a weapon. "If we have to unite as a nation, let it be Ludwig."

Many voiced their endorsements.

The most drunken one yelled the loudest. As usual he overflowed with the generosity of his drunkenness. "Long live Ludwig, future ruler of all Germany! Frederick, another beer for everyone here. On me of course."

The Gasthaus' owner sighed with the weariness known by those who serve alcohol. To a multitude of his customers he was a confessor; for others, a surrogate friend, brother, father, or son, depending on the drinker's missing relationship. Frederick had cleaned up too much blood and vomit during his 32 years at the Gasthaus. He no longer knew which was worse – the inevitable fights or sickness. But he was certain of one matter. He would not honor the request.

"You haven't even paid for your last beer and you expect me to do what you say? You are poor because you drink too much, swine."

The drunk rose to his feet to protest but immediately crumpled to the floor, which caused laughter that shook the room's timbers. Frederick motioned to his two sons, who promptly carried the limp figure outside. They deposited him in back of the building, the established location for those who needed to become somewhat sober before finding their way home. By the time the sons returned inside, the old man had pulled out the worn money pouch that he always carried.

"I will buy one drink for all of you if you promise it won't make you join our friend outside."

Once again laughter, this time accompanied with cheers, echoed through the room. For the remainder of the night, the old man bared his soul. As his deepest fears spilled out a few nodded. Others walked away.

"If we unite as a nation it will bring disaster to France and its allies. The wounds from what the French did to us are much too deep. They will never heal. As a nation we will do to the French what we did to the Romans when they marched into our land so long ago." He placed the stein on the table and rose to leave.

The youth had moved outside next to the one who had passed out. Thomas joined them because many of them were close to his age of 17. What interested him most of all were the girls from the village, especially Frederick's daughter Anna. She worked for her father serving beer and wine. When she came outside to walk home he ran to her side and offered to accompany her. Before Anna could answer a rival forced his way past him, took her arm, and belittled the other suitor.

"Come on, Anna. You will be safe with me. Thomas is a dumb head and will get you both lost."

The insult, coupled with a long night of drinking, fueled Thomas' anger. He leapt at the one who had mocked him. They rolled to the ground. When they staggered to their feet they began trading punches. Stronger than his opponent, Thomas eventually landed a right hook that felled the rival. The blowhard smashed his head on a rock as he hit the ground. When he did not rise, one of his friends rushed to him and shook him. Then he noticed the pool of blood that was growing larger from the wound to the head of the motionless body.

"You fool! You killed him! Someone get the village policeman. Hurry!"

As beautiful as Anna was, Thomas was unwilling to go to prison for years in hope that she might wait for him. He bolted as quickly as the deer that he loved to hunt often had. Within ten minutes he was creeping through the gate toward the front door of his home. Because his father was 60 years old and had been working later than usual when Thomas had left for the evening he knew that Helmut was most likely fast asleep. Scenes of his family life played out in Thomas' mind.

"I go to the Gasthaus on Fridays because there are fewer people then and so less fights," Helmut had said when turning down invitations to Saturday night merrymaking.

For Helmut, drinking beer and wine was a way to escape the turmoil of running a farm that had been handed down from father to son for almost 400 years. A devout Catholic, he had abandoned religious norms by marrying a Lutheran, which had made him somewhat of an outcast to his family.

"You should have married Katrina, instead." Helmut's mother had wailed this sad refrain until her dying day.

Marrying outside of Catholicism was not as much an issue to Helmut's father. "Marta's family will always resent you for being a Catholic. Our family will always resent Marta, but at least you are both German. I can't imagine if you had married an Italian or a Frenchwoman!"

So Helmut and Marta endured the pious meddling that comes from those who are certain that they know what is best for others. His wife especially resented it. Marta tried to invoke her denomination's founder but it did little to hide her anger.

"If Martin Luther could take persecution from Rome, then I can stand your family." She had informed Helmut again and again.

"I wish God would make a place where people such as us could live in peace." Helmut had dreamed aloud.

"Mother is right, Helmut. You are only a dreamer. That is why you will never leave this farm."

Marta and Helmut's five children, three sons and two daughters, mostly had ignored the strife. Of the five siblings, Thomas most of all, had inherited their father's melancholy nature and took it to heart. This melancholy now made him fear the worst. He wondered if running away would at last sever him from his parents' lack of peace.

Seeing no lights inside of the farmhouse, Thomas crept from room to room to look at his family. He then went to his room, now empty because his two older brothers had married and left home. He threw two changes of clothes into the knapsack that he used when hiking in the nearby forests and grabbed the money that he had saved since his days as a child. At age five he had discovered that those leaving the Gasthaus sometimes dropped money as they stumbled home. He had made a habit of searching for such treasure every dawn and saved every coin, even the Pfennings.

He went to the kitchen and took a loaf of dark bread and a large wedge of goat's cheese that his mother had made. Rubbing the flint in his pocket, he took another glance at each face of his slumbering family. A gift from his father, the flint was Thomas' most valued possession. The front door latched behind him without a sound.

Because the Schmidts dwelt in the westernmost part of Bavaria Thomas fled toward the Rhine River. He hoped it would take him far enough away that he would never be caught for his crime of manslaughter. First he had to pass through farms, meadows, and forests. His knowledge of the moon's path helped him to plot a direct route toward the river. In happier times he had imagined the heroes, villains, and witches from the tales of the brothers Grimm lurking behind each tree or over the next hill. Now he envisioned those from the law or his victim's family lurking there. Because he had started around midnight he traveled the first 20 miles under the cover of darkness. His heart beat faster when he heard a wolf howl. Dogs from nearby cottages answered the wolf with barking.

_Oh no! Hounds!_ The thoughts came one on top of the other. _What if they search for me with hounds? I'll never escape if they do._

Even worse was his image of what his victim's family might do if they found him before a policeman did. Vengeful relatives had been known to return from other searches for fugitives with a lifeless body and the claim that they had been attacked. By dawn he switched to the dirt roads leading westward. He feared that if anyone saw him cutting across fields they might become suspicious. This made his route much more indirect and slowed his escape.

His family awoke to the pounding on the front door of their cottage. Helmut answered it. There stood the brother of the one who had provoked the fight.

"Yes, Rudolph. What do you want so early?"

"Is Thomas here?"

"Wait here. He's probably still asleep because of all the beer he drinks every Saturday."

Helmut took a few steps and opened the door to Thomas' bedroom. Finding that the bed had not been slept in, he called to his wife and daughters.

"Have any of you seen Thomas? It looks like he didn't come home last night."

"No, Father," the older daughter answered him.

Their mother yawned as she entered the dwelling's main room. "What has he done now?" She yawned again. "Where are your manners, Helmut? Come in, Rudolph. I will make you coffee. Are you hungry?"

"Yes, maybe bread please." As he ate and waited for the coffee, Rudolph described the events of the previous evening. After hearing the tale, Helmut sighed loudly.

"He should have talked to me."

"He is too rash," Marta replied. "He is either on the way to Switzerland or Austria. He's wanted to leave home for the longest time. Now he has an excuse."

"But Mother, Thomas always talked of going to America. He said..." The younger sister remembered.

Rudolph nodded in agreement. "That's all he ever talked about when he was drunk. I will look for him at the Rhine. That is the quickest way for him to go."

"America? But that is too far away. If he goes there we'll never see him again. He'll come home." Marta pleaded. "Won't he?" She gazed at each face, all of them looked away.

"I am wasting my time here." Rudolph stood. "I know you believe in justice, Herr Schmidt. I need that painting of Thomas." He pointed at a recently painted family portrait.

"But what if he never comes home?" Marta's tears hit the floor. "That is the only thing I have left to remember him by."

"The only way he will ever return is if Rudolph finds him." Helmut reasoned. "You can take the painting only if you promise not to hurt Thomas."

"I swear I won't hurt him but only bring him back. And whether I find Thomas or not I will return it. My father said I must come back for the harvest."

"But you can't take it. It's too big." Marta pled with hands folded as if she were praying.

"Then take it out of its frame!"

"But..."

"Do as I say!"

Rudolph was well known for being short tempered and the most given to anger in his family. It was little wonder that it was he who had shown up at the Schmidt's once much calmer home. His anger fed his impatience. His impatience caused him to repeat himself.

"I promise I will not hurt Thomas for what he did to my brother. I promise I will only bring him back."

Thomas' father thought that any search for his son would be in vain without Rudolph being able to show a likeness of the fugitive. Helmut took the portrait from its frame. Marta sobbed until it was safely in Rudolph's pack.

Then she grew silent.

# 2

Thomas arrived at a small village on the Rhine moments before the last watercraft for the day headed north on the mighty river. Running from Switzerland to the North Sea, the 820-mile long waterway would carry him north and then west as he sought refuge in a strange land. He had heard much about America. The stories of intrepid explorers sometimes fighting and then coexisting with savages had inspired him since he was a boy. Those who gathered at the Gasthaus had read letters to him from ones who had prospered in the new land. If nothing else, going to America would eventually make him a wealthy man. Then he could return and buy his freedom by hiring a lawyer.

During the first part of his river journey he passed ancient castles and crumbling fortifications left from the days of Roman rule over the land that they had called Germania Magna. Vineyards terraced the surrounding hills on both sides of the river and were known for the wines produced from their grapes. The peaceful scenery only partially hid the inner turmoil every fugitive knows. Thomas spent his days looking over his shoulder and wondered what to say when fellow travelers questioned him. Further from home than he had ever been before, he was less certain of how to behave with each passing mile. After many stops to take on and unload passengers and freight, the boat turned west into the Netherlands and docked at Rotterdam.

The city's population of about 80,000 in 1838 overwhelmed Thomas and the other first time visitors. Thousands of transients – sailors and travelers and those emigrating from Europe – resembled a restless tide of humanity. As he walked through the strange city Thomas spied a handbill tacked to a fence. Written in French, German, Polish, and Russian, the words on the paper promised free passage to America in exchange for indentured service. Because he hoped to enter America with the little money leftover after his passage on the Rhine he decided that the handbill was a Godsend. Finding another who spoke German, he repeated the address listed on the handbill. The courteous stranger pointed and explained the easiest route to take. Within an hour Thomas arrived at the dockside location and found a portly gentleman seated outside puffing on his pipe.

"America," was the only English word Thomas could utter to make his need known.

"Another Schwanz, eh? Follow me." After years of plying his trade, he could usually tell one's country of origin by a trace of an accent. Thomas' heavy accent left little doubt.

Thomas obeyed and took a seat at the small bare table with three chairs. The trafficker in human cargo shouted for his wife.

"The last one's here."

A thin middle-aged woman came downstairs. She stared at Thomas. Her husband smiled when he saw that Thomas had passed her initial inspection. Other prospects had not.

"He's a German, judging by his accent. Please answer his questions and have him sign the paper." He turned toward a cabinet as his wife greeted Thomas in German.

"Good day, Herr..."

"Schmidt." Thomas appreciated the title of respect and welcomed the sound of his native language.

"So you want to go to America?"

"Yah."

"You sign this contract to work five years on a farm there and your master to be pays your fare there."

"Okay." He quickly signed the contract that she had slid across the table's worn top.

"Let's drink to your new life and my commission!" The go-between placed a bottle of cheap rum and two glasses onto the table. "Forgive the missus, she has a habit of one drink a day. But I always says no deal is complete until the ink is on the contract and the drink is down the gullet." He raised his glass in a toast.

Thomas clinked his glass against the one extended his way. Because Thomas filled the quota of indentured servants the host decided to invite him to supper. Most of those whom the old retired sailor signed up were mere cargo to him but Thomas' bewildered expression pricked what little remained of his conscience.

"Set a third plate, my dear. And tell the boy he's staying to eat."

She quickly translated the offer, which brought a huge smile to Thomas' worried face. He longed to be sailing away to his new home but could not resist the offer of a home cooked meal. He had eaten only one meal, his mother's bread and cheese, since his journey had begun. Scraps of food tossed aside by others had taken the place of all other meals.

"Thank you, _Frau_...."

"I'm Andrea Thompson. And this here is my husband, Arnold. I translate for all those that come here. Of course, I can't understand all of them. But if they're from Russia, France, Poland, or where you are from, we get by."

"I have never met anyone who knows so many languages."

Andrea began preparing their supper, all the while translating the conversation between Arnold and Thomas. To help her, Thomas used his flint to light the fire inside of the iron stove. Arnold's continued pouring from the bottle of rum and Thomas' weariness slowed down their conversation considerably. Arnold rarely waited for answers to his questions; any answers to Thomas' questions proved to be lengthy.

"Isn't she a beauty?" Arnold pointed at Andrea. "You probably already noticed that she be the brains of me business. She does all the books for me. She can tell me how much we made and what we spent it on, down to the penny."

"You have a good wife."

"You can thank the German nanny and French cook she had growing up in London town."

"So you and your wife are English."

"Used to be. But they abolished slavery about five years back. So we moved to America and became Yanks. I'd had enough of hauling slaves on the sly, anyways. So's I went to work finding white slaves, uh, I means servants."

"You were a slave trader?" Thomas had learned of the practice while at school. He knew that with England and America officially out of the evil business the Arab nations were now the main participants and that smugglers still brought slaves to the United States. "Why did you stop?"

Arnold's head drooped. "Guess me conscience died a long time ago, boy. I would tell meself because we was buying the African slaves from other African tribes which had captured them it was okay. Thank the Lord me wife only agreed to go to America if I gives up slaving for good. They still smuggle in slaves on the sly into America you know."

"But what about what you do now?"

"Indentured servants is all different. You buggers agrees to work for yer food and shelter. No one makes you do it. But the demand for indentured servants be drying up now. You be the last one I ever be signing up for it. Me and the missus are sailing for America as soon as I can buy our fare."

Andrea dropped the wooden spoon that she was using to stir the chowder into the pot's boiling liquid. Tears rolled down her cheeks faster than she could dry them with her apron. Startled by the break in Andrea's running translation, the often-mercurial husband turned toward his wife of 33 years and stammered.

"Sor...sorry, my dear. Guess I forgot to mention it, as usual. You and me both know that it's time to get us a little farm where's we can spend out the rest of our days."

Thomas stared at the couple. Although he did not understand Arnold's last few sentences because Andrea had ceased her translation, he nevertheless sensed the love flowing between the two. It reminded him of his parents. A wave of homesickness washed over him. Sadness filled his soul. Regrets of not listening to his family's pleas for him to tame his huge thirst for beer tormented him.

The ensuing silence allowed Andrea to complete the meal. She sat down after Thomas had delivered the simmering pot to the table. Arnold offered one of his usual prayers.

"Dear God, we ask Ye to bless this food, then. And help this boy here find his pot of gold there in America."

They ate quietly, except for Arnold, who wove his tales of a sailor's life. Afterwards Thomas questioned Andrea nonstop about America. Somehow her descriptions of a rather tame New England seemed dull to him. Gradually his trust in the couple blossomed. They were the only ones whom he had met in the past few days whom he believed he could trust.

Before he sailed Thomas explained his real reason for going to America and begged them not to tell anyone who might come looking for him of his whereabouts. Because Arnold had been in trouble as a lad he agreed. Andrea usually could ferret any liars in her midst. Thomas seemed much too sincere and naïve to be one. Eventually she likewise believed the death to be an accident.

# 3

Rudolph traveled more slowly than Thomas, as he had often stopped to show the portrait to strangers to pick up the trail of his quarry. At first everyone shown it only shrugged or shook their heads to signify they had not. Then a farmer nodded his head yes and said that he had seen such a lad traveling west on the same road that Rudolph was traveling. When he learned from a stevedore that one who resembled Thomas had boarded a boat bound for Rotterdam, he followed by taking another one.

Why am I even doing this? He stared at the constellation of Orion after he rolled onto his back on the deck of the boat in a futile attempt to sleep. I know it is the honorable thing to do. But what if I come back empty handed? I'll be the laughingstock of the village as usual. At least he ate better than the famished Thomas had. Equipped with money from his father, Rudolph sampled the cuisine at each place the boat docked.

During his second day in Rotterdam, he spotted one of Arnold's handbills lying in a gutter. But by the time Rudolph arrived at the docks Thomas was at sea. He cursed at his bad luck of being a little late. He began to wonder if Thomas' grieving mother had placed a hex on him.

"You missed him, mate." Arnold informed the searcher as he placed the portrait back into his pack. "His ship sailed out of here this morning."

"Where?" Rudolph spoke minimal but fractured English. He could understand more of the language than he could speak.

"America. And once he gets there then he's headed off to a farm either in New York or Massachusetts." Arnold lied. He knew that Thomas was bound for Pennsylvania. "That part of the bargain is up to those that meets the boat in New York. You family of his?"

The weary pursuer scowled. He understood only about a fifth of the words but he could fathom that Thomas was on his way to America. Reckless, he made a split second decision that years later would haunt him.

"I friend. I go America, yah?" Rudolph held up the tattered handbill.

"But I thought that Dutch boy I hired got rid of all me handbills. The missus and me sail for Boston in a few days. I'm out of the servant trade. Thomas was the last one."

Rudolph could sense from Arnold's expression and gestures what he could not understand from his words. "Oh." His downcast expression bothered Arnold.

"Come in and sit a minute while I talks to me wife."

As he sat down Rudolph surveyed the small lodging with its ramshackle furnishings and surmised that Arnold's profession had not made the couple well to do. He sensed a degree of compassion from the old man. From the number of words coming from his unseen wife he was uncertain of how much, if any, compassion she had toward him. Finally the heated conversation upstairs ended. Arnold reappeared and introduced Andrea as they came down the stairs. She remained unconvinced that Arnold's plan would keep this stranger from finding Thomas.

"And this is Rudolph, my dear."

Andrea examined Rudolph with the aloofness that comes with repeated association with those who talk much but produce little. "What is your trade?" she asked in German.

Relief flooded Rudolph when he heard his native tongue. "I worked on a farm until last year. I now work in a brewery."

"A brewery! My God! That's all I need. Arnold already tips the bottle too much now. Can't be having you around getting him discounts on beer all the time." She studied Rudolph and sighed. Her reservation began to subside as she continued in German. "I guess I could help you learn more of the Queen's English. We're originally from England, you see."

"Ah, yah. England."

"Anyway Arnold here is retiring. I was beginning to think he'd die before he got around to it. He's had his eyes on a little farm in Western Massachusetts. He says it needs a bit of work. That's probably why no one except him will buy it. We can pay your way to America if you can work for us until the farm is turning a profit. I keep the books so I'll know when that happens."

When Arnold saw her point to the ledger book next to him he sensed what she was saying in German. "She keeps the books down to the penny. Her father was a banker and taught her the meaning of money. I'd be a filthy beggar without her, I would."

Rudolph jumped to his feet. "I will do it!" He grabbed Arnold's hand first and then bowed as he shook Andrea's.

Ever the businessman, Arnold had Rudolph sign the obligatory contract before he shared the remainder of his last bottle of rum with him. "Here's to one last voyage across the Atlantic for me and the first for you!"

"Room on _das Boot_?" In his excitement Rudolph mixed the two languages that he knew.

"Don't worry, son, there's always room for one more when you knows the captain like I does." Arnold swallowed his drink, licked his lips, belched, and refilled his glass. "Don't you worry none now. I can get you on for free. Of course, you'll have to work a wee bit as a helper to his crew. But it'll be good experience. Not only will you get yer sea legs, you'll be a full-blown sailor by the time we docks in Boston town!"

Rudolph remembered his promise to be back to help with the harvest at home. His guilt spurred him to at least contact his family. "I write letter?"

Andrea fetched paper and pen for him and said that she would walk with him to the post office when he was finished. "It will give Mr. Thompson here a chance to sleep off his drinking. As usual, he's downing three drinks to every one that a guest has. And you can sleep down here until we sail. No sense in you having to share an inn with a bunch of drunken sailors. Besides, they might kidnap you to be a part of their crew."

"She be the queen of the seven seas. Can't be having you getting yerself shanghaied. That's all we need. Happened to me once, you know. I was minding me own business in a pub down by Bristol and..."

"Oh, shut up for at least a while, Arnold." Andrea scolded him. "You go and take a nap. I'll wake you up for your supper."

"Okay, woman. Keep your bloomers on." Arnold danced a jig as he climbed the stairs. "To listen to you you'd think I don't knows what's what in this world."

Rudolph smiled at their antics. He then penned what he hoped would be adequate:

_Dear Mother and Father_ :

I am here in Rotterdam. I discovered that Thomas sailed for America. The man who told me is also helping me to go to America if I will work for him to get his farm established.

_I know I promised to be gone for only two weeks but fear that I cannot come home yet. I must go after Thomas. Otherwise, there will be no justice. I hope you will understand. One day I will return to visit or perhaps you too can come to America. I fear there will be a revolution in our homeland. Too many speak of how everything must change there. I am glad that America already had their revolution so I will be safe. Tell everyone there I miss all of them very much. Please tell Marta I am taking good care of her family portrait. And if she put a curse on me please ask her to take_ _it away. So far my luck is bad. Do you think she has cursed me? I hope not._

Your son,

Rudolph

As Andrea led the way to the post office she talked to Rudolph as his mother had. This made him wonder if Andrea had unofficially adopted him. She spoke in German to make the conversation easier.

"So you are certain going to America is right?"

Rudolph fidgeted. "I...I don't know. But I know that I must go there to find Thomas."

"But don't you think your family will miss you?"

"Yah. But don't you think your husband would miss me helping him on your farm?" He pondered whether Andrea was trying to convince him to return home. If so, he decided he would appeal directly to Arnold. But that could prove difficult without Andrea acting as translator for them. _More bad luck_ , he fumed silently. Her reply surprised him.

"I guess I should be thankful that the good Lord did send you our way at that. There is no way we could do it ourselves. Even after you leave us we will still need help."

"But by then you will have enough crops coming in you can sell. Hiring someone will be no problem for you then."

"I guess you're right about that."

Andrea turned into the tiny room that served as a post office. The Dutch clerk's understanding of German ensured that the transaction went smoothly. Rudolph thought out loud as they left. He needed to relieve at least a part of the turmoil that boiled inside of him.

"I guess my father will be angry." He tried to picture him reading the posted letter. "Even though I worked hard at the brewery he still needed me for every harvest. He always feared the weather would destroy the crops. Being a farmer is so hard all the time."

"Well at least the weather where we're going shouldn't be too very much different than Bavaria. Did you get lots of snow there?"

"Sometimes."

Andrea steered their course to one of Rotterdam's many fish markets. She carefully searched through the piles of fish that had been taken from the North Sea or the delta that stretched to the east. She smiled when she found a plump cod and frowned as she haggled with the fishmonger until a deal was struck. It took a few moments for Andrea to get the bargain she believed was rightfully hers.

"Don't ever pay what they be asking." She lectured Rudolph as they headed home with their catch. "Not many things in life are worth what people be claiming."

# 4

"So how's yer sea legs holding up?"

Rudolph kept vomiting his breakfast into the roiling waters as Arnold calmly tapped out the ashes from his pipe and refilled it with the Dutch tobacco that he loved. Even the smell of unlit tobacco made Rudolph queasier. He wiped his mouth with his dirty shirtsleeve.

"I wish not on _das Boot_." The tobacco smoke quickly sent him from the downwind to the upwind side of Arnold. " _Ich bin Krank._ "

_"Krank_?"

"I sick."

"Well, don't fret yourself none now. Happens to the best of us. You'll get used to it."

Dehydrated and dizzy for days, Rudolph clutched on to no such hope. "I die, yah? Only feel little _besser_ on deck. Below deck always _Krank_."

"Don't be saying that. It be bad luck if the crew be talking that way." Arnold grabbed Rudolph's chin and turned his head. "Guess you're sorta green about the gills at that. Tell you what. I'll run along now and chat up the captain. Maybe he can have you work up on deck for the rest of our voyage."

_"Danka, Danka, mein Herr_."

Half boat, half ship, the vessel that the Thompsons and Rudolph traveled on used both steam and wind to propel it across the stormy North Atlantic. To pay for his fare, Rudolph had been banished to what the crew called the dungeon: the belly of the ship where he and others fed coal into the fires that created steam to power the huge paddlewheel. During his first shift Rudolph had renamed the dungeon as hell. Fortunately most of the crew befriended the newest member of those who did their best to keep both Captain and passengers safe and content.

"Rudolph? We should be calling you Samson instead." The one assigned to teach Rudolph his duties had said during his first shift. "I've never seen anyone shovel coal as fast as you do."

After days of losing most of what he ate due to the ship's constant swaying, Rudolph's strength had waned and the one who had nicknamed him tried to comfort him. "Now you're acting like Samson after Delilah cut off all his hair. But don't you worry none now mate. We ain't Philistines down here. The passengers think we are but we ain't. We be civilized as them. We won't poke out yer eyes like happened to Samson. Wouldn't be fair not to let you see all them cute little gals that be there in Boston town."

Rudolph smiled forlornly at such talk. His thoughts were now focused on either the past, which had been much easier than feeding a fire for six hours at a time, or his future, which he vowed would never include another crossing of an ocean. He longed for the sweet and sour odors of the brewery that he had deserted without notice. His dehydration made him dream at night of tasting the many kinds of beer that he once had brewed there. Even the toil of farming was preferable to the tortures of sailing. At times he pondered how his family was handling the harvest without him. Now, as he sweated and cursed, he wondered why he had traded a happy life for the agonies of a boiler room.

Meanwhile, Arnold pleaded his case. "You know we goes way, back, Captain."

"What do you want now, you scoundrel? You stuck me with a landlubber who sails for nothing so's he can be puking up his guts every five minutes. I'd be better off hooking up with Davy Jones than you, you buccaneer."

"But Captain Smith, sir. You knows I can't afford the fare for the boy. Have mercy on him, Captain. For old times sake, eh?"

The captain gritted his teeth. "You know, I don't think anyone except maybe Jesus Himself ever had to endure more fools than I have."

Arnold choked on the smoke that he was puffing from his pipe. Whenever the captain mentioned Jesus it only meant that his anger was rising faster than any barometer.

"Maybe I best be going?"

"No, no. Let's get this over with. That's probably blasphemy, what I said about Jesus. But even poor old Job only had to endure three fools for friends. His wife didn't treat him any better, either. Me? I have more such so-called friends than I have toes and fingers put together. Everyone wants something for nothing, by God! Especially you." His bony finger jabbed at the one petitioning him. To Arnold it appeared to be a cutlass about to sever his head.

Arnold cleared his throat. "You're right, Cap. I ought to be ashamed of meself."

Captain Zebulon Smith arose and began to pace in the confines of his small cabin. The rhythmical sounds produced by his shiny black boots as they hit the oak floorboards calmed both of them.

"All this reminds me of the first time you were on one of my ships."

"Thanks be to the Almighty that it was you as me first captain. Anyone else would've thrown me overboard to feed the fishes."

"Sometimes I wish that I had. But you were only ten. Besides, like a fool I promised your dear old mother to watch over you."

Arnold shifted in his chair. "Was I all that bad of a cabin boy then?"

Smith's head shook with laughter. "All you did was listen to the crew tell their yarns of where they'd been and what they'd done. I'd probably have been better off if I'd stationed you below deck with them. Of course then you might've become a pirate like some of them did later on."

"But what a voyage it was, Captain! The way you took us around the Cape. The crew feared we were all going down with the ship. But you showed them. I still remember that trip to India."

"Aye. That was one hell of a blow rounding the tip of Africa." His mind dwelled for a moment in the shadows of his memories. "That reminds me. I've been meaning to ask you why you ever went into slaving."

Arnold shuddered as the memories he had tried to kill off with drink once again haunted him. "Damn. If there's one person that I can't fool with lies, it be you, Captain. Well, maybe my wife, too."

"Good wives are like that, you know. They keep you walking the straight and narrow instead of walking off of planks after mermaids or barmaids. Anyway, why'd you do it?"

"I..." Arnold's trembling slowly subsided. "Oh what the hell? I be too tired and old to lie about it anymore. I don't know why I did it. But I wish to me dying day I never had."

"Are you trying to forget your slaving days by drowning yourself in a bottle?"

"That's what me wife says. Sometimes I be thinking I'd be better off dead than having the memories torment me all the time. Maybe if I was from a family of privilege I could've been a captain like you. You weren't that much older than me when you were me first captain."

"I was 18. There were some even younger than that who became captains. I started at eight years old as a cabin boy, you know. Seems like a lifetime ago, it's been so long ago." The captain sat back down. "So I suppose this boy of yours wants to be a cabin boy, too. Bit old for that isn't he?"

"He be 20. It wouldn't work if he was in your cabin, either. Says he can only get his bearings if he can be looking out at the horizon for a spell."

"One of those, eh? Okay, okay. I'll put him up on deck to pull watch. But if he falls overboard you don't get his half fare back. That's what you owe me, in advance, before you drink it up, instead." He held out his hand.

Arnold winced as he counted out the payment. "Aye, you're still the captain that runs the tightest ship on all of the seven seas. You mind if I go below and bring him up for air? I needs to get food down him so he can be getting his strength back."

"Go ahead. Bring him up to the wheelhouse."

Arnold held on to whatever was within reach as he navigated the deck and the steps down to the boiler room. The temperature grew increasingly hotter as he approached it. He quickly found the sailor in charge.

"The captain wants to see Rudolph."

"And who might you be?"

"Arnold Thompson, my good man."

The gaunt sailor ignored Arnold's extended hand. "We don't be letting no passengers down here. They might trip and land in the fire. That would make a terrible smell and stink up the whole ship." He poked Arnold's fat belly.

"Well, no worry there, matey. I sailed three of the seven seas with your captain, that I did."

"All right, all right then. No more of your talk. Rudolph!"

The seasick coal shoveler stumbled over to his boss. "Yes?"

"Go with this man to the captain. He might have to carry you up, you look mighty green around your gills again."

Rudolph swayed and grabbed Arnold as they went topside. The blast of cold spray reminded him of the water that his family members had tossed on his face to revive him from his many drinking bouts. Arnold shoved a loaf of bread into Rudolph's hand.

"Nibble on this. And eat the rest of your meals up here on deck right before you goes on watch. That'll help you keep them down. It took quite a bit of doing but the captain will be having you on deck to pull watch from now on."

The first hope that he had felt in days lifted Rudolph's spirits. "Danka. Danka. Now I not buried at sea."

"No way, son. You're like me very own flesh and blood. All the missus and me have is three daughters. You be like me son I never had."

When they reached the wheelhouse the captain shook his head. He quickly dismissed Arnold.

"Good day, Captain. Be seeing you at supper, then?" Arnold did not wait for an answer. The captain's scowl chased him out through the door.

The captain addressed Rudolph for the first time. "So the boiler room's not your kettle of fish then?"

"Sorry, _Herr_ Captain. First time ocean." Rudolph gazed through the window at the horizon, which helped to restore his equilibrium.

The captain's expression softened. "Well there might be a duty more to your liking. I want you to pull watch up on deck. It'll be six hours on and six hours off. The rest of the crew will appreciate that since they'll have less watch to pull. Okay, then. Report to First Mate Roberts."

"Aye, Captain." This phrase was the first that the crew had taught Rudolph.

"And maybe think about staying on land from now on. In all my years of sailing I've never seen anyone get as seasick as you."

"Aye, Captain."

Captain Smith had served on eight vessels and commanded three of them. When he first sailed as a cabin boy, every vessel depended on the winds and currents to carry it to the desired ports. Now the introduction of steamships would gradually render the great sailing ships as slower, more expensive means of hauling passengers and freight. He reluctantly had signed on as captain of this ship. Doing so made him long for the days when he and his crew were at the mercy of the sea and its ever-changing weather. Even though the vessel that he now commanded was touted as safer and superior to the ships that he fondly recalled, he was leery of the dangers that many ignored. On a previous voyage one of his crew had died, and two were badly injured when a boiler exploded.

His wife was weary of his continual absences and looked forward to his last voyage. "Don't ever marry a sailor." She told her three daughters. "Unless you don't mind the loneliness and worry that comes with it." Such talk had not kept any of her five sons from going to sea.

Rudolph slowly regained his strength as his appetite returned and food began to stay inside of him. By the third day of his new assignment he was wolfing down every meal. He found that pulling watch for six hours and then being off for six hours to be a strange work schedule but not being dreadfully seasick more than made up for it. As he settled into the new routine he occasionally found time to chat with Arnold.

"Looks like you're getting your natural color back, me boy."

"But some passengers sick." Rudolph glanced toward a poor soul whose head hung over the ship's rail as she lost her evening meal.

Arnold shrugged. "Be happy when you get peaceful waters. Life has too many storms as it is."

Such philosophizing meant little to Rudolph. The only thing that he now hoped for was the sight of land, land on which he could abandon ship forever.

# 5

Thomas enjoyed an easier trip across the Atlantic. Two other indentured servants, a Frenchman and a Pole, accompanied him. The three were fluent only in their native tongues; but each knew a bit of English. The Pole and Frenchman also had studied German as schoolboys. Thus, they were able to carry on passable conversation, which they used to pass the time. The other two willingly told Thomas what seemed to be their life stories and even parts of their ancestors' lives.

The one from France spoke of how a handful of his forebears had their lives end suddenly strapped face down on the guillotine even though they had been on the front lines of the French Revolution. They had angered someone who found revenge by labeling them enemies of the revolution. Their headless bodies had been tossed into a mass grave and their heads stuck on pikes and paraded around Paris to terrorize any who might entertain second thoughts about the revolution. Such violence had caused his as then unmet parents to be to flee from Paris to the countryside. Otherwise they may have never met, he concluded. This emigrant from France believed that a better life awaited him.

The one from Poland told stories of how his ancestors too often had been caught in the middle. First it had been the czars of Russia dominating his country. After that Napoleon's armies trampled over it on their way to and from Moscow. He ruefully explained that his country's geographic location invited trouble. It was not a question of if another invasion would happen but only of when. After long discussions with his parents they all had concluded that such treatment of their land and its citizens would probably continue, maybe the next time from the Germans. He gave a sidelong glance at Thomas to see how he might react to the mention of his homeland and its potential for aggression.

Thomas merely smirked. Looking for common ground, he said that Germans had not liked Napoleon either. He was now thankful for the history lessons that he had absorbed over the years from the old man at his village's Gasthaus. As for future invasions of Poland, Thomas said it would be the Prussians who would do it, not those from his homeland of Bavaria. Resigned to his life as a fugitive, Thomas had concluded that the more vague he was about his past the less likely he was to be caught and sent back to Germany to stand trial. When his turn came to tell his story and especially the reasons for his being desperate enough to become a servant, he painted a sketchy tale. He did this by constantly shifting the focus back to his newfound friends. He spoke in simple German for their sakes.

"You smart." He pointed at them in hope that gestures would help their understanding. "What you leave not good. America good, yah?"

"Why you go America?" The Frenchman prodded.

Thomas frowned as he sifted through his past for a safe altered version of reality. "Tired of farm. Work, work, work. Go America. Not work much, yah?"

The others stared, first at Thomas, then each other. Then they broke down in howls of laughter.

"You slave in Germany?" asked the Pole.

"No. I..."

"You slave now. Five years."

The laughing returned. Thomas blushed as he stifled his anger, which had led to his exodus. He had resolved to not come to blows ever again for fear of killing another. To do so he knew that his consumption of beer now would have to be minimal. Having regained his composure, he tried at least to identify with one of them.

"In France, you say, C' la...?" Thomas gestured for help.

"C'est la vie!" The Frenchman exulted. "How say in German?"

Thomas thought. "Mach nichts."

The Pole remembered the phrase as being one that his neighbor had used often. A transplanted Jew from Germany, the neighbor had repeated it until it became a greeting between them. Both thought it helped them face down life's turmoil, especially the trouble that being Jewish seemed to ensure was their lot.

"Mox nix!" He elbowed Thomas.

Thomas grinned. He cared little that his companion had mispronounced the phrase that meant, "It matters not."

What was important was to be able to relate to the two whom he had met only a week ago. Socially awkward as a child, Thomas had withdrawn ever further from others as they teased him for having parents from two different religious traditions. He now feared that he might not be able to adapt to the societal norms of America. He also feared that teasing would make his anger boil over as it had at school. The most vicious of the taunts that had been slung resurfaced in his mind:

"Do you know which saint Thomas prays to?"

"Saint Martin Luther."

"Ha, ha, ha. Listen. Why did Thomas nail his homework on the schoolhouse door?"

"Why?"

"Because he was pretending to be a carpenter."

Guffawing and hooting had followed. Then another had piped up.

"Why did the teacher say the homework Thomas nailed to the door was terrible?"

"Tell us!"

"Because instead of attacking the Catholics, the paper attacked Lutherans!"

Remembering his pain only caused him to withdraw whenever he was the butt of jokes now. Thomas sought to focus on his future. After serving his indentured servitude, he planned to move to a large city. His journeys to Munich had been fun; his short time in Rotterdam had enthralled him. The smells, differently dressed people, buildings, and sounds of the port city remained etched in his mind; he knew that only another large port city in America would be adequate for him.

Even though he would be isolated from his dream because of having to labor on a farm he planned to learn about his future options by study and inquiry. Therefore he spent hours studying the map of America given to him by Arnold. Next, he made a list of possible ports that he could eventually move to: Portland, Portsmouth, Boston, Providence, New Haven, Bridgeport, Stanford, New York, Philadelphia, either one of two Wilmington's, Baltimore, Washington, Norfolk, Charleston, Savannah, Jacksonville. He needed help to shorten his list. After much searching Thomas found a passenger who had lived in America for 29 years and spoke German. This acquaintance graciously instructed Thomas on what to expect once they docked. More importantly for Thomas he helped to pare the long list down to three possibilities.

"Well I imagine you want to live in a state. You see the land where Jacksonville is isn't a state yet."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It is still quite a wild place. The mosquitoes there are as big as birds, the alligators eat anyone foolish enough to go near the waters inland, the sharks do the same to those who swim in the ocean, and the Indians..."

Thomas' eyes grew wider as the descriptions unfolded. Then his mentor smiled.

"Do you remember Baron von Munchhausen?"

"That fraud? I remember he said he single handedly defeated the National Assembly during the French Revolution and that he saved Marie Antoinette." Thomas chuckled as he recalled the baron's wild tales. "And that he killed monsters and flew threw the air on cannonballs."

"Yes. Let me warn you, Thomas."

Thomas stopped laughing.

"In America there are those who would make the baron's adventures sound boring."

"What?"

"Many Americans like to exaggerate. Especially the politicians. The lies they tell make the Baron look honest."

"What do they say?"

"That if they are elected they will change everything to what people are wanting. The worst of them love to continue to blame everything on those who were in office before they were elected. They especially try to get new immigrants to vote for them. To hear them speak you would think they are God. You know how they win office?"

"No."

"By feeding our hopes with impossible nonsense that they never intend to do. They lie better even than the Baron."

"It is that bad?"

"I'm afraid it is. Anyway, what I said about East Florida is mostly true. Except the mosquitoes aren't as big as birds."

"What about the Indians?"

"The Seminoles are a fierce tribe. They wrestle alligators for sport."

"You're beginning to sound like Baron..."

He grinned. "That's the problem with living in America. There are so many parts that remain mysterious."

"So should I take Jacksonville off the list?"

"Yes. Do you like hot weather?"

"How hot?"

"Very hot. Some of the cities on your list can be over 100 degrees in the summer."

"Is it desert there?"

"No. I have traveled to Savannah and Charleston in the summer. It felt as if the air was made of water. You can't cool off."

"Please." Thomas motioned for the list. He then crossed off the names of the three cities that were southernmost.

"Do you want to live in a large or small city?"

"A large one, of course. I liked Rotterdam."

"Hmmm, how many cities would you like to shorten your list to?"

"I think three. You are wise like my grandfather. Please choose three for me."

"New York." He waited as Thomas circled that city on his list. "Boston." He hesitated as he struggled to name the third. "How about Philadelphia?"

Thomas finished marking his list. "Thank you."

"Please wait here. I have something to help you."

Thomas watched as the man walked to his cabin, which was one of the ship's few first-class lodgings. He wondered if someday he also might travel with such accommodations. Such daydreams made the present more tolerable. The cramped room that Thomas stayed in housed four others as well; it was built for two. Those who traveled below deck, emigrants from Russia and Europe who paid the lowest fare, risked not completing the voyage. Smallpox, typhus, dysentery, and other diseases thinned their ranks on many voyages. Their tight quarters ensured that infections spread easily and rapidly. Thomas stood when the man returned and thrust a book toward him.

Thomas took the well-worn book. "What's this?"

"One part of it translates German words into English. The other part translates English words into German. It is yours."

Thomas clutched the book as if it were gold. "Thank you, thank you. I don't have enough money to buy such a book."

"And here is my card. I own a store that specializes in German foods and drinks in New York. I have to return to it after we finish our holiday. If New York is your choice five years from now come visit me, please. I will give you a job."

Thomas took the card and read it. "My mother must be praying for me. I can't believe my good luck."

When the ship docked in New York, the indentured servants learned that they had the same final destination. All Arnold had told each of them was to look for a man holding a sign with his name on it. They were surprised to see only one man holding a sign that read: "Mr. Arnold Thompson's indentured servants." They were even more startled by the appearance of the one who met them. He looked to be about their age and dressed in currently fashionable attire complete with hat. His skin was ebony as his African ancestors' had been. He waited until all three had gathered around him before speaking.

"All of you alls sent by Mr. Thompson?"

They nodded.

"Welcome to America. I be James." He held out his hand toward them and shook each one of theirs.

"I Dominic."

"I Thomas."

"I Andre."

"Sounds like good names to me. Let's hope them government peoples we has to talk to thinks the same. They get fussy sometimes."

"Hello, James." The ship's first mate strode toward him. "Here's their contracts."

James took the documents. "How's the voyage this time around?"

"Not bad, really. Only three passengers died on the way over. Buried them at sea."

James studied the contracts. "Okay, Mr. Latour, Mr. Feldman, and Mr. Schmidt. Let's mosey on over to the government peoples and get you all signed up."

He led his charges to the immigration office. The ground seemed to move under the departed passengers' feet even though James' gait appeared to be normal. They held out their arms to steady themselves.

"Is the earth moving?" asked Andre.

"Nope. Your body be feelin' likes it still be back at sea," James explained. "You all gets over it in a few days."

Four hours later James led them back out of the immigration office and to their waiting wagon. He fed the two horses an apple and three carrots each and then reattached their bits and bridles. The horses whinnied as James spoke.

"Sorry to be pushing you so hard, hosses. We gots to make tracks as soon as these new fellers gets on board." He turned his head. "Toss your bags in the wagon. Only one of youse can be riding up front with me." His gestures helped them to understand.

Andre and Dominic hopped into the back of the wagon to take a nap as Thomas climbed up on the seat. He had been able to study the German/English dictionary for long hours and his grasp of English had grown even though his thick accent remained. He pulled it out of his pocket because he wanted to learn about their destination from James.

"Farm far?"

"Oh, a little bit more than a hundred miles or so. Mr. Bates' place be over yonder there in Pennsylvania. Near a town called Cochranville. Biggest city in them parts be Philadelphia. It about 35 miles from the farm."

"Philadelphia?" Thomas pulled out his list and pointed at the word "Philadelphia." James glanced at the list.

"That be places you be thinking of running off to? Well, you best be forgetting that craziness right now. The last fool tried that got hisself a rump full of buckshot from Mr. Bates' fowling gun. It was least five, maybe even six months before he be sitting down with no pain, tell you what."

Only able to understand a little of the English that he heard, Thomas tried to make his questions short in hope that the answers would be simple enough to understand. He flipped through his dictionary constantly. James had learned English as a toddler and could understand any level of it if the accent from any foreigner's native tongue was not too severe.

"Herr Bates be master, yah?"

"Yep."

"You slave?"

"There ain't no slavery in Pennsylvania no more. They done outlawed it. That be why I runs away from Georgia."

The word Georgia sounded familiar to Thomas. He pulled out his list of cities once more and saw that one of them was in Georgia.

"Savannah in Georgia, yah?"

"Yup. Nice place, too. Plantation I was on was south of Savannah."

Thomas nodded.

"But I plain gets tired of being head negra for the master. I be bossing all the ones who be working for him. So he be getting mad at me when they does something wrong. And all the slaves be mad cause I be bossing them and saying what the master wants done. So I run off to Florida."

"Jacksonville in Florida, yah?"

"Shore is. Anyway, the injuns down there still be fighting the white man. They be helping slaves who comes there."

"Fight alligators, yah?"

"Sometimes. They ain't afraid of nothin'. Them Seminoles help me out. They teaches me how to live in the swamps. But there be too many getting killed by the soldiers cause they don't want to leave there and be living somewheres else."

"They die?"

"Yep. I likes them injuns but don't want to be fighting no wars. Besides I needs to be getting away from them crazy backwoods peoples in the South. They likes to be lynching each others."

"What lynching?"

James used one hand to simulate a rope being placed around his neck and then tilted his head to the side. He stuck out his tongue and his eyes bulged. "You knows. They takes a rope and be hanging each other from a tree. Sometimes they whips each other. Never sees white peoples be hurting other white peoples so much."

Thomas looked up the meaning of the word run. "You run to Herr Bates' farm?"

"Not directly. First off I makes my way down there to Jacksonville. I sneaks on a ship that someone tells me be going to Philadelphia. I hides behind the cargo. When we get there I wait till it dark and jumps in the water and swims to land. That water was cold as a witch's teat in winter."

"How find farm?"

"Well, I go to where the freed slaves be staying in Philadelphia. They say there be farms to the west so next morning I starts to walking. None of them first farms is needing me. But when I gets to Mr. Bates' farm he takes a liking to me right off. I been there about six years."

"How old?" He pointed at James.

"I be 27. How's about you?"

Thomas looked quizzically at James.

"How old you?" James copied Thomas' broken English and pointed at him.

Not proficient in English for numbers, Thomas first held out ten fingers and then seven.

"That's good. Mr. Bates working his workers hard. You best do what he tell you. Else you get a whipping."

They were a short distance into New Jersey when dusk fell. After another mile James guided the horses off of the road to a stable that he had used on previous travels. The owner greeted him.

"Hello, James. How many it be this time?"

"Two hosses and four peoples."

"Okay. I'll take care of the horses. We'll settle up in the morning."

James led the way into the barn and up a ladder to the hayloft. He carried a satchel of food. Once in the loft, Thomas and Dominic arranged hay into a mattress and pillow. Only Andre seemed unhappy.

"No inn?"

"Not for us. Mr. Bates don't spend that kind of money on peoples like us," James said. "Just be glad that the road's good. We get there in a couple of days."

James pulled the smoked ham from his sack, sliced it, and passed around the pieces. Then he gave each one a loaf of bread. "Now this here is for tonight and breakfast tomorrow. If'n you eats it all now, you don't eats again 'til noontime. Mr. Bates only gives me money for food for you all starting on that part of the trip."

The next morning only Andre did not stir when roosters greeted the dawn. James tried to rouse him.

"You best be getting up," James said.

"I hot."

James drew closer and studied Andre's face. Then he climbed down from the loft. When he returned he held a long stick that allowed him to stand five feet from the groaning man. He used the stick to lift his shirt.

"Lord, Almighty. Andre got the pox. You fellers get on back."

"Mein Gott!" Thomas lifted his shirt and saw none of the disease's telltale markings.

Dominic did the same.

"Usually it be poor peoples down below deck that dies. Andre be going down there?"

"Yah. Lady there."

"Well that explains it. I has to tell the owner about this mess."

The stable's owner paled as he learned of Andre's condition. He quickly sent one of his daughters to fetch a doctor, who arrived six hours later. His diagnosis was grim.

"He might pull through. I have to quarantine him. A smallpox outbreak is not what we need."

"Doctor, sir. Can you please write me a letter says all that? Mr. Bates be thinking I lets Andre run off."

"Surely."

After James had the note in hand he told his remaining passengers to climb aboard the wagon. "I imagine Mr. Bates be back here real quick. Thank you, doctor, for the letter."

The doctor shook his head as the wagon jostled down the road. He had tended many immigrants during his years of practice.

"These poor bastards must be desperate," he said to the stable's owner. "They're lucky if the ship doesn't go down in a storm. Then lots of them die at sea from every disease under the sun. Then once they're here they end up in a filthy city like Philadelphia or New York."

# 6

Even though they had left days after Thomas' ship had departed from Rotterdam, the Thompsons and Rudolph arrived at Boston on the same day that the other ship had docked at New York. Rudolph marveled at the number of ships entering and leaving its port. Arnold noticed his fascination.

"I've seen that look before, boy. You've got the itch to sail the seven seas."

"I go sea when ship not make sick." Rudolph struggled with the luggage. He no longer struggled as much with his English because of Andrea's refusal to speak German with him.

"That'll never happen. Guess you're doomed to the life of a landlubber, then."

Arnold led the way to the immigrations office and they sat down before an official. "It's me and the missus and our friend Rudolph here. We've been away on business."

The governmental agent eyed them. "And what business might that be?"

"Why the farming business of course."

"Where's he from?" The official pointed at Rudolph. His silence, dazed expression, and clothes revealed his European origins.

"Bavaria. He's me new manservant."

"Was ist los?" He turned to the new arrival.

Rudolph smiled as he answered in German. The agent grilled Rudolph about the conditions in their homeland while he filled out the necessary documents. After a few minutes, the Thompsons excused themselves and moved to sit at the hard benches along the barren wall. An hour later Rudolph joined them.

"We see daughters?" Rudolph was certain they were beautiful. Even if they were as feisty as Andrea he was ready to court them.

"Aye, lad. But first we visit me favorite pub in all of Boston."

Arnold led the way to a place that served fish fried and ale brewed, as he had tasted them during his years in England. Within an hour he had consumed more than Andrea and Rudolph combined. As a result he was patting his bloated stomach and singing when they left the pub. Amused passersby turned and pointed at the wobbly ex-sailor. Arnold sang his favorite tune.

Yankee doodle went to town

Yankee doodle dandy

Stuck a feather in his hat, called it macaroni

He quieted down only a little upon reaching his daughter's brick cottage in Boston's west end. During introductions, Rudolph was disappointed to learn that all of the Thompson's daughters were married. The next morning they made their way to the railway station.

In their infancy, the railroads connecting the North American continent consisted of numerous companies, a few had long stretches of track; others, very short stretches. Most of them were still unconnected. The Boston and Worcester Railroad only carried them as far west as Worcester. The remaining miles required the use of a stagecoach. Rudolph's journeys to Oktoberfest had always been by walking and riding in open wagons. The new forms of transportation that he now used allowed for greater comfort. The gentle swaying and rocking motions of the train and stagecoach were much more pleasant than the violent tossing of the steamship had been. The stagecoach's movement reminded him of when his mother had held him as a toddler and rocked gently and sang to comfort him.

The coach was bouncing along the road between Northampton and Pittsfield when it suddenly lurched to a bone jarring halt. Arnold poked his head out of the nearest window. He saw two shadowy figures. One of them menacingly barked out a command.

"Hop down off from yer perch up there!" A strange voice ordered. "If you don't we'll shoot!"

The driver obeyed. Arnold silently shuffled through the small bag that he had carried inside of the coach, retrieved his pistol, and motioned to the other passengers to crouch down. He hoped that the two masked highwaymen had no other accomplices. The closer of the bandits was also the larger of the two that Arnold had seen. He became the target. The ball from Arnold's single shot pistol entered the center of the bandit's chest and knocked him to the ground. Arnold then jumped from the coach and hurled the empty pistol at the second criminal, whose ducking motion caused the thrown weapon to sail over his head. Not waiting to see what else the noncompliant victim might do, the vagabond fired his pistol. Because he was still moving Arnold suffered an off-center wound to his right shoulder.

By then the driver had tired of being an observer and used his whip to slap the miscreant senseless. This allowed Arnold to pounce on the dazed villain. As Rudolph reloaded Arnold's pistol and aimed it at the surviving thief, the driver bound him hand and foot. Meanwhile Andrea alternated between scolding and tending her wounded spouse.

"You crazy old fool! You could've been killed." She tried to stifle her tears as she tore off enough of her dress to bandage him.

"But those pirates were going to kidnap you, dear. I had to shoot them. Don't be using too much of your dress to fix me up now. Then I'll only have to buy you another one."

Andrea wiped away a tear. "It's a good thing you didn't get killed. Then I would've finished off the one's who still alive myself."

Rudolph and the driver helped the now bound robber to the roof of the coach and used the remaining rope to tie him to it. The driver then deputized the passenger as his temporary assistant.

"If he tries anything, shoot him. You'll be riding out here until we get to the next town. There's a doctor there to tend to your friend. Had to drop an ailing passenger off there one time."

Before long the coach was once again bouncing along the narrow, winding dirt road. Six miles later the driver halted it at a small community for an unscheduled stop. He and Rudolph unloaded their prisoner while the passengers helped Andrea get Arnold out of the coach. The town's lone tavern became a temporary jail and hospital. Its owner locked the still bound highwayman in his storeroom. Then he sent the employee to fetch the nearest doctor, who lived a half-mile away. Before long the driver and other passengers were saying their goodbyes to Rudolph and the Thompsons.

"God bless you for saving us from those hooligans." A young businessman shook Arnold's left hand. "I'm carrying more cash than I should have," he whispered.

"Glad to be of help, my boy."

"I'll send the constable from Pittsfield to get the one you got all locked up." The driver yelled as he climbed back aboard his stagecoach.

Rudolph watched the stagecoach rock back and forth until it disappeared behind a stand of maple trees. Tired and hungry, he went back inside the tavern. The smell of stale ale and tobacco smoke reminded him of his village's Gasthaus in Bavaria.

"Would it be possible for us to get something to eat?" Andrea asked.

"Well, I usually don't serve any food until towards evening." The owner shrugged. "But since you're heroes by ridding us of two bandits, I'll be glad to serve you now."

"Of course we'll pay. No use in us treating you like those bandits did. Arnold, pull out enough for us to eat on."

Arnold fumbled with his money belt by using only his left hand. He soon gave up. "Guess you'll have to do it, dear."

Andrea also struggled to remove the hidden belt. She grunted until it broke free.

"Ouch!" Arnold groaned. "You almost took part of me belly with the belt."

"That's because there's so much there. Your belly that is. The money belt certainly feels lighter. Especially since you paid half fare for Rudolph."

"Hush! I told not to be squawking about that no more, woman!"

Rudolph stared at the bickering couple. "But...but I work. You not pay, yah?"

Arnold sighed. "Well, you see, because of yer change of duties, ol' Captain Smith made me pay half fare for ye. He's a hard one. Learned the ways of doing business from him."

"Humph." Andrea interrupted them. "You could've learned a lot more if you'd listened to my father. If you had, we'd be rich by now instead of living out our days on a rundown farm you found on one of your wild goose chases all around the American wilderness. It had better be everything you said it is at that farm you always brag on and on about."

"Oh woman, give me peace. If this wound doesn't hasten me death, you surely will."

"Well, it's a good thing there were only two robbers. Any more and they would've gotten your belt and our life savings. Why couldn't you leave them in that bank in Boston? You could've had the bank in Pittsfield take a check to move it over, you know."

"But we must move quickly to buy the farm. I figured cash on the barrelhead would help move things along. It would take at least a week, probably more if I had to be moving the money among banks."

Rudolph tried to intervene. "I...I sorry I problem. Wish I stay by boiler."

"Don't worry boy. What's done is done. Don't be crying over spilt milk as the farmer says. That is what we be now, farmers. Our sailing days is over for good."

The tavern owner placed a tray of bread, butter, and three ales on one of the tables and called to his guests. "Here you go. It's not much but I won't have no meat till my wife gets here and cooks it up."

The famished wayfarers gathered to eat. Arnold asked their Maker to bless the simple meal. They were almost finished with it when the doctor arrived.

"I heard someone's been shot?"

"That be me."

The doctor set down his bag next to Arnold. He slowly removed the blood soaked makeshift dressing that Andrea had applied and examined the wound. It caused him to frown.

"Well, the ball's still in there. Looks like the shoulder bone stopped it from going all the way through you. That ale you're drinking won't be enough to kill the pain while I fix you up. He'll be needing a large glass of whiskey, Tom."

The tavern keeper delivered the requested anesthetic. As Arnold drank the whiskey the doctor took a bottle of alcohol from his bag and poured from it onto the wound to help deaden the pain. This made his patient jump.

"Hope it won't be hurting that bad after you're done."

The doctor waited a few minutes for the general and local anesthetics to take effect. He then probed the wound for the projectile that was partially buried in Arnold's flesh and bone. As he pulled the ball out pieces of shattered bone and muscle and connective tissue came with it. So he washed the wound several more times with the alcohol to remove as many other fragments as possible and to further lessen the pain. He had Andrea watch as he sewed up the wound and applied the dressing.

"I want you to change this bandage everyday so you can check on the wound. If the wound gets worse get him to a doctor for bloodletting or else he might die. And pour alcohol on the wound for any pain. I've found that works quite well over the years. Helps to kill most pain."

"I ain't planning on dying, doc. Tell me, will I get the use of me arm back? I need to run our farm."

"I doubt that even a surgeon could put you back together again. You're like Humpty Dumpty."

"Threescore men and threescore more, cannot place Humpty Dumpty as he was before." Arnold repeated his favorite lines from the nursery rhyme.

The doctor was glad to see that his patient still maintained a sense of humor. "Luckily the shot missed your arteries. You'd be dead by now if it had hit one. How big is your farm?"

"Forty acres. It's on the other side of Pittsfield."

"I'm sorry. You can't work that much land with one good arm."

"I hope it's sold by the time we get there. Whole thing was another one of his crazy daydreams anyway," Andrea muttered. "I knew we should've stayed on there in Boston."

The doctor's eyes sparkled. "You don't own the farm yet?"

"No."

"Listen. One of my patients is really getting on in years and can't manage his orchard any more. I finally convinced him to sell it and use the money to live out his days somewhere where the weather won't make his body ache so much."

"An orchard? But I don't know a thing about all that. Me father grew field crops in England, you see. Wheat, rye, barley, and the like."

"His place has apples mostly and a dozen walnut trees. His wife makes the best cakes you ever tasted every Christmas. She harvests walnuts by the bushel basket to put in them. It's only five acres. You, your wife, and a hired hand could make it work out. I'm guessing that's who he is, your hired hand?" He pointed at Rudolph.

"He is. But an orchard? I don't know..." Arnold's voice cracked. The emotions that he was feeling were similar to the time when a ship he had sailed on as a youth began to take on water. The ship had sunk. Most of the crew had survived in the lifeboats but a handful of them had gone down with the ship. "I had hopes of Rudolph here using his knowledge of farming to help me at the farm. You know about apple trees, Rudolph?"

"No. I learn. Make apple brandy, yah?"

Arnold laughed for the first time since he had been shot. "Oh, you're a genius, my boy, a genius." Visions of spending the rest of his life sampling the brandy to ensure that it was of the highest quality before its sale excited him.

Andrea groaned. "Wait a minute, you old sot. I only agreed to not live in a city like Boston because you said the farm we were buying is close to Pittsfield. It's a small city but that's better than living out in the woods in the middle of no where."

Arnold stared at the floor. "Actually my dear, the farm's really about ten miles on the other side of Pittsfield."

"Ten miles! It might as well be 100 miles. It would take me all day to go there, do my shopping, and then come back home again."

"You got me there, dear."

Andrea turned to the doctor. "How close is this orchard to Pittsfield?"

"Oh, about two, maybe three miles. It's right off the road between here and Pittsfield."

"You mind showing us this place?" Arnold asked. "Just in case the other farm is sold already?"

"Glad to. First I have to look in on a patient here in town. Come to think of it, it's been a while since I visited Jeremiah out at his orchard. I can take you by his place about an hour from now. I can kill two birds with one stone that way."

As the doctor left on his call, Andrea motioned Rudolph over to her side. "I'm afraid I need to straighten matters out with Arnold. Do you mind stepping outside for a few minutes?"

This was the first time in days that Andrea had spoken in German to Rudolph. Thus, he realized that he better move quickly. Once outside, Rudolph studied the tiny village. I've seen cities of America, now I will explore a village. I wonder if the girls here are as pretty as the ones in Boston were. It's a shame that all of Arnold's daughters are already married. He would make a good father-in-law for me. I have never met such a generous man.

Inside of the tavern Andrea began her inquiry. As practical as Arnold was careless, she knew that if she did not discern the bottom line quickly they might end up back in Boston. To return there would suit her. However, she knew that Arnold would be miserable. Long ago she had concluded that marriage, as with most of life, was a long painful series of compromises. The ledger in her memory showed that Arnold had made most of the compromises thus far. He had agreed to give up his part in the illegal smuggling of slaves, to move to America, and most importantly, to at long last retire. Even if this retirement were only partial, it was preferable to the rigors of living on two continents, acquiring indentured servants, and traveling across the Atlantic twice a year. She sighed as she weighed the alternatives. At last she spoke to Arnold, who was picking at his bandage to try and relieve his throbbing pain. He had hoped that his wound would distract Andrea. It had not. She immediately spoke her mind.

"Well, let's get down to brass tacks."

Arnold knew that that phrase had been learned from her father. They only used it to preface any discussion of finances. It's all over now except the crying.

"How much have we gone through since leaving Rotterdam?"

"I'll need paper."

"Never mind." Andrea pulled a scrap of paper from her purse and borrowed a pencil from the tavern keeper. "You give me the figures. I'll add them up."

"Let's see. There was his half fare. Then the meals once we got to Boston, the night's stay along the way here, the tickets on the stage and railroad..."

"I said the amounts would do." She tapped the pencil on the table.

Arnold rolled off the figures as Andrea jotted them down and then totaled them. "One hundred and seventy seven dollars! More than I thought it was."

"It always is. I can't help if everything keeps on costing more and more every year."

"So how much do we lack for the farm on the other side of Pittsfield?"

Arnold shifted nervously. "Umm...that would make us lacking $200 or so."

Andrea sighed. "Well, that settles that. If we like the orchard but the owner won't be taking what we have left, minus about $50 to furnish it, then we're on our way back to Boston. Tonight."

Arnold knew she would compromise no further than that.

On his walk Rudolph spied the teacher writing at the chalkboard inside of the schoolhouse, customers shopping at the store, and several passersby who tipped their hats and offered greetings to him. Most of the females appeared to be his age; they all looked suitable.

Now I have seen women from the cities and villages here in America. I like both kinds.

A shout ended his leisurely stroll. "Rudolph! The doctor's back. Let's go."

Rudolph trotted to the doctor's wagon and hopped up into its bed. He rested his head on the luggage and daydreamed about the female variety of Americans. His reverie lasted until they reached the orchard.

"Good day, Jeremiah." The doctor called out to the one who had appeared on the porch of the small dwelling with a musket in hand.

"Oh, it's you. Thought you were one of those bandits that's been holding folks up."

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Thompson and their hired hand Rudolph. They were riding the stage until a couple highwaymen waylaid it. Mr. Thompson here sent one of them on to the next life. But the other wounded him."

"Well, good for you. It's getting so it's not safe around here cause of all the crooks. Come on in." He opened the front door and ushered them inside. "Emma, we gots company."

Both fireplaces, one at either end of the home, were blazing inside of the 700-square foot abode. Emma seated the guests as the doctor finished his introductions. She quietly served one of her apple and walnut cakes and a pot of tea.

"Well, I'm sure this isn't a social call, doctor. Are you here to tell Jeremiah to move again?"

"Well, yes and no. You see the Thompsons are fixing to settle here abouts. I told them all about your place."

Jeremiah cackled. "The old doc must be getting tired of tending to sick folks. He wants to start helping folks to buy or sell their places instead. Tell you what. It's at the point where I has to sit in front of the fire for an hour 'fore I can get moving every morning. And it's only autumn. By winter I has to sit by the fire for three hours to thaw out. Maybe you're right, doctor. I started thinking about moving to Virginia. I knows a few left over from the war that's down there."

"War of 1812?" Arnold wondered out loud.

"Well it sure was not the Revolutionary War. How old do I think I am anyways?" He groaned. "Yes, sir. A British cannonball took my leg plumb off. That's how I got this." He placed his wooden peg leg on the table and patted it.

"And I thought you got it fighting pirates."

"You talk like a sailor. You a navy man in the war?"

"Not exactly. I was still an Englishman back then. I was sailing the ships to supply the English. Guess we didn't bring them enough." Arnold laughed nervously.

Jeremiah's eyes narrowed. "So I suppose you be fresh off the boat, then? Here to steal our land? Damn British ain't never going to stop invading us."

"Actually we moved to Boston years ago." Andrea came to Arnold's rescue. "We're Americans, not British now, thank you."

Jeremiah shrugged. "Eh, what the hell? My pappy hailed from London town, himself." He howled with laughter. "Always swore I'd put a musket ball in any English artilleryman I come across after the war was over. Since you ain't one I guess I'll let you off the hook for now."

Arnold exhaled slowly. "You mind showing Rudolph and me your trees? Neither one of us is acquainted with growing apples."

"Glad to. I haven't had my morning walk yet."

While Jeremiah took his guests on a tour of the dozens of apple trees, Andrea let Emma show her the house. The doctor contented himself with finishing the last of the cake and tea. A generous man, he only charged what his patients could afford. He made up the difference in meals and other offerings. He would be leaving later with either apple cider or baked goods.

As they walked through the rows of trees Rudolph was the first to point out the deer munching on the apples of a lower branch. "Look! Eat crop!"

"Don't get upset. They only eat what they can reach. Besides it fattens 'em up. When we need meat I come out and shoot one."

"How do you harvest the walnuts?" Arnold asked.

"Simple. Get old sheets or blankets and lay them down under the branches. Then you whack the branches with long sticks. It be raining walnuts during the harvest." He paused and leaned against a tree. "Look, I got no time to be dilly-dallying with the likes of you. The pain's so bad sometimes that I feels like putting my musket to my head and pulling the trigger. I even feel pain where my leg used to be sometimes. Can't figure it out. Must be what they calls ghost pain."

"Maybe you stopped someone else from dying when you took that cannonball." Arnold mused.

"You been talking to Tom Fletcher?"

Arnold cocked his head. "Who's he?"

"The fool was standing up firing at the British so I jumped up off the ground and pushed him down. A second later the cannonball took off my leg. He always says that I saved his life. He be one of the folks I knows down Virginia way. Says he'll help me build a cabin on his land for us to live in. Says we can stay in his house till we gets it built."

After walking the entire property, the three sat on the porch to rest. Jeremiah used his usual method to establish a price for whenever he sold anything.

"Well how much you got?"

Arnold pulled out his money belt. He had refastened it to his belly loosely after his ordeal of Andrea removing it at the tavern.

"Here. Let me count it up." After receiving the belt, Jeremiah counted its contents. "Looks to be a little bit short. Tell you what. Either of you ever fix a wagon?"

Arnold pointed at the wagon and turned to Rudolph. "You. Fix. Repair?"

Rudolph frowned. "Fix" and "repair" were not yet a part of his English vocabulary.

"You know. Make it gut." Arnold used one of the few German words he knew.

"Yah. I make gut." Rudolph nodded as he wandered over to inspect the broken down wagon. He had a feeling that working on such a small orchard would be easier than his days of growing up on his father's large farm had been. And making repairs were nothing new to him.

"Good. Okay, then. If you fix our wagon and lets us have half of the apple crop to give to our kids and gives me all the cash you're carrying the place be yours."

Arnold stuck out his hand to seal the deal. They moved back inside to the large kitchen that also served as living and dining rooms for the small home. He was certain that Andrea would rejoice because this property was much closer to Pittsfield.

"We's got us a deal. Ain't gonna turn down cash any day of the week." Jeremiah informed Emma, who smiled. She had been ready to move for years. Being in Virginia would place them much closer to their children and grandchildren.

"I must say you seem to have finally at long last changed your mind, Jeremiah." The doctor observed. "Every other time I brought possible buyers out here, you wouldn't even show them around."

"That's only 'cause you always brought by the wrong ones, you ninny."

"What?"

"Emma and I need someone to fix our wagon before we can move away from here. Any fool can see that, plain as day. What's the matter; don't your glasses work no more? Arnold here already has Rudolph checking over the wagon."

"Oh."

"Another thing. Arnold here is the first one that's got any where near the money our place be worth. We talked turkey while we walked. If he gives us what be in his money belt and lets us take half of this year's apple crop to give to our children and all of the cider left over from last year then we has ourselves a deal."

Miffed that her husband had left her out of the final transaction, Andrea began tapping her fingers loudly on the table. Jeremiah noticed it first.

"Now I never wants it said that I were the cause of strife between a husband and wife. I got enough strife of my own with my wife. No sense in me creating any more of it, right? Arnold and me made one of them kind of preliminary deals which be subject to the approval of Mrs. Thompson of course."

Arnold wiped his sweating brow. "Thank you, for mentioning that, Jeremiah. Well what do you think, dear?"

"I think you're like a chicken with its head cut off." Andrea wagged her finger. "Every chance you got you were running around New England for the last five years looking for a farm while I was stuck in Boston with our daughters. Now you go ahead and buy a place without even talking it out with me. And how will we be furnishing this place?" She folded her arms and sank down in her chair.

Jeremiah vaulted from his chair and started dancing a jig. His peg leg tapped out the rhythm. "That be your only worry?" He danced toward one of the jugs that lined the shelf along the north facing windowless wall of the home. "It be almost time to switch from being fall to being winter. If we gonna make it to Virginia in one piece we has to be traveling light, real light. Half of the apple crop will fill up the wagon so's we has enough room left for our clothes and such things. We be leaving every stick of furniture here. All my friends and kids down Virginia way been telling us they got extra furniture for us when we gets there."

Andrea's head jerked backward as if it had been slapped. "But..."

"And there's no way possible we can carry all of my preserves," Emma said. "We'll take what we need for the journey."

Andrea's jaw dropped. She earlier had complimented Emma on her large larder. "But there's a year's worth of preserves enough for three people you have stored up." She pointed at them.

"The jars would break if we took all of them. Then the preserves would spill out and be useless. Even if we could pack them so they wouldn't break it would make the wagon too heavy for the horses. You can have them. I'll be leaving my canning pot with you. My daughter wrote to say she's buying me a new one. Canning is long, hard work. Most haven't taken to it yet. But I'll teach you how if you want me to."

"And I'll be taking enough deer jerky to get us by on the trip. I'll leave you the rest of the buck that's hanging in the smoke house. He dressed out about a hundred pounds or so." Jeremiah set his largest jug of what he called sipping cider on the table.

This time Arnold's head jerked as if it had been slapped. "It's the best meat I ever tasted in me life and I've tasted meat from many a land. He gave me and Rudolph a piece to sample when he showed us the smoke house, dear."

"Secret to that is you got to smoke it slow, real slow like. Brings out the flavor. Doesn't matter if it's deer, squirrel, fish, duck, geese, you name it. Smoke it slow." He glanced around and lowered his voice. "That and the wood you use to smoke it. I only use wood from the apple tree pruning and any that falls off from the walnut trees. Don't go telling no one. That be our secret, okay. Once you starts getting low on what's in the smoke house, shoot yourself another buck. Their meat be real gamy tasting and full of muscle and hardly any fat at all. Tastes way better than doe or fawn meat any day of the week." Jeremiah placed tin cups on the table.

"Well it's getting late. I need to run these folks over to Pittsfield so they can get a hotel room." The doctor glanced at his pocket watch. He knew from experience that there was no such thing as one round of drinks in this home if Jeremiah was the server.

"What in tarnation for, doc? Now I knows you needs to get your glasses fixed. Anyone with regular good vision can see we got ourselves two bedrooms. The wife and me don't fight so much that we sleep in both of them. The Thompsons has to stay here so Rudolph can get the wagon fixed and I can show Arnold how to run the cider press and teach all of them how to harvest the apples and how to prune the trees. Should be out of here and heading south in no more than a week. 'Fraid poor Rudolph has to sleep in the barn till we leaves though. Speaking of him, where is that boy?"

Arnold rose and called through a window to Rudolph. In a few minutes he came back inside with a list that he handed to Andrea. He sat down to partake in the second toast offered by Jeremiah.

"Here's to the Thompsons and Rudolph. Welcome to your new home."

"What did the lad write down, Andrea? It looks to be German from here."

"It is. It's a list of the parts he needs to fix the wagon."

"I knows a smithy in Pittsfield that can fashion anything out of iron." Jeremiah motioned for everyone's cups so that he could pour the third round of his cider. "He can forge the hubs and everything else we need. Once Rudolph puts it all together me and Emma will be on our way to our new home."

# 7

When Mr. Bates learned that only two-thirds of his expected cargo was with James he raged as one of the nor'easters that batter New England every year does. They were introduced to the dark part of Bates' soul, which loved money more than God or man. It was the stormiest introduction either Dominic or Thomas yet had experienced.

"What do you mean he got the pox?" Bates waved his hands above his head. "Did you take him on off to a whorehouse?"

"These two fellers says he took up with a girl on the boat, sir." James shrugged.

"Damn. I don't get my money back if he makes it as far as America. He best still be alive. Where'd you leave him at?"

James produced the note from the doctor who had attended to Andre. Unwilling to endure any more of Bates' wrath that day, James excused himself after giving the location of Bates' absent servant. "Okay if I takes the new boys to their lodgings, sir?"

Bates did not look up from the note. "Yes, yes."

"Come on." James gestured to Dominic and Thomas. "Let's be going now."

"Master angry always?" Thomas asked once they were inside the simple hut.

"Depends on how things goes. If weather be good and crops be good, he be happy. If things be bad he ain't happy. No different than most folks be acting. You sees his last servants now be long gone. They got in their last harvest and heads off for Philadelphia. Won't ever never be seeing them boys no more. Their servant days all over with now."

"He not need us till time to plant?"

"Don't you wish? Mr. Bates always, always, always be finding something for us to do all the time. You'll see."

It took Bates two days to reach the stable where James had left Andre. By then he had died and been quickly buried to prevent any spread of the disease that had killed him. In typical fashion Bates journeyed on to New York, partially to renew his business contacts for the furniture that he sold at wholesale but mostly to carouse and enjoy the lure of the big city. It would be three weeks before he returned home. By then Thomas' command of English would almost double, thanks to James and Mrs. Bates. She daily taught English to both him and Dominic and gave them the books from which her children had learned to read. What confused Dominic and Thomas the most was the variations of English that seemed to depend on where one dwelled.

"Maybe it same in Germany?" Dominic wondered.

"Yah. We say some words different in Bavaria than in Prussia."

James did his best to help them. "Look here. I been studying this map of America. This be where I be born." He pointed at Georgia on the map. "They speak one way there. And this here be where we be now." He pointed at Pennsylvania. "They be a ways apart so it be no wonder they talks different up here, right?"

"What it mean, 'youse?' You say it, yah?"

"Oh. That be like I be telling you. There be folks up around these parts be saying that. Not sure which country they be from. But I reckon I hears it enough times that I start saying it sometimes. It means 'you.' Now down Georgia way they likes to say 'you all' and 'all of you all' instead. Guess the more places you lives the more words you knows."

Such distinctions were mostly amusing to the newcomers. They were concerned more with how to please their new master. His absence gave them time to learn how and when to express deference. James taught them the best way to avoid his wrath.

"Just be sure you don't ever never be sassing him. One of the indentured boys done that one time. It be the only time he does it. Master Bates beat the living tar out of him so bad he be laid up for a week."

Dominic and Thomas gulped. Both had heard tales of men from their hometowns with temperaments similar to Bates. They had administered similar punishments. When Bates finally returned home he assembled his newest servants and James for his customary telling of his expectations.

"Now listen close, you two. Whatever you don't understand because of your lack of English James here can explain to you later. He be real good at getting you newcomers used to things around here." He patted James on the shoulder. "First off as you most likely have already deduced, your friend has died off on me. In addition to paying his fare and Arnold's commission I also had to pay his last doctor bill. So now I have plenty a dollar invested in someone I'll never even lay my eyes on."

"Mmmm mmm mmmm," James intoned. He knew where the conversation was headed.

"Anyways that means you two has to do the work of three. But I be a fair man. I'll cut your length of duty to me to four years instead of five if you work hard."

"Since all your experienced servants done finished with being here and is now long gone, I gonna has my hands full training these two new boys, you know."

Bates cleared his throat. "Not to worry, James. Mrs. Bates told me she be willing to keep giving them English lessons. She never did that for any of the rest of the indentured servants and that probably be what made every last one of them was so slow and dimwitted. She says these two be working hard at learning their English. That can only mean one thing and that's that they be working hard at whatever you and me tells them to do. With you in charge you know I sleep easy at night, James. You be worth your weight in gold. Go ahead and get them started in the woodshop. I lined up orders while I was off in New York." He handed a list to James.

Over the years James had progressed from being a simple woodsman to a skilled furniture maker. From being barely able to swing an ax, he used saw, hammer, chisel, awl, drill, and screwdriver to build quality dressers, tables, chairs, and cabinets that showcased only the finest china. The only phase of such projects that he avoided was staining or painting the pieces. The fumes emitted by the chemicals gave him headaches and made him nauseous. He delegated that step to his apprentices.

They rapidly became a team. Thomas had spent years wielding an ax when his father had expanded the fields of his farm by cutting into the surrounding forest. It soon became apparent that for every tree Dominic or James could fell, Thomas could drop two. As Thomas felled the trees and led the horses that pulled the timber to the small sawmill James and Dominic cut the wood to size. More detail oriented than the other two, Dominic made perfect cuts to the lumber. A running joke kept them laughing as James and Thomas would say, "I don't know how Dominic does it. Every time I try, I cut the piece of wood twice and it's still too short." When enough lumber was ready they met in the woodshop. Here James patiently taught his apprentices the craft of furniture making.

"Just remember to takes your time," he said. "Better for everyone including the buyer if we makes ten pieces of furniture done right instead of 12 or 13 pieces with something wrong."

Over the long frigid winter they assembled the orders that Bates had taken. By late spring they had completed more pieces of furniture than James and the three former indentured servants ever had during any comparable period of time. Hard to impress, Bates grinned in wonder.

"Are you certain neither one of you two ever made furniture back in the old country?"

"No, sir," Dominic answered. "It because James good teacher."

"Yah." Thomas added, happy to receive even off-handed praise.

"Well, you all did good. I didn't expect it all to be ready until the middle of summer. Nice sized order this time around. We'll be taking four wagons to New York to deliver it. So's as soon as I borrows three other wagons all of us will be heading up to New York."

Dominic and Thomas almost grabbed each other to dance. They shared a common goal of living in the distant city one day. Any chance to visit it was a dream come true. Seeing their excitement, Bates grinned again.

"Thought you'd be liking that. But it still be raining heavy and the rain would soak through the tarps down to the furniture on the way there. So while we waits for sunny days to dry out the roads there's only one thing to do. Have a party to celebrate your excellent work."

Only the finest pieces would be taken to New York. The rest Bates would first deliver by himself to a Philadelphia furniture store that he had done business with for over 30 years. A man of economy and efficiency, he planned to return with three barrels of beer from a Philadelphia brewery. He put Mrs. Bates in charge as he left to make the delivery and pickup.

The Bates' last party had been a sullen affair. Husband and wife had quarreled during the preparations for a gathering to celebrate Christmas. The couple's simmering anger had poisoned the celebration. It ended with Mr. Bates retreating to the servants' quarters and drinking with them until he passed out into oblivion. This left Mrs. Bates to entertain the guests, who surmised that Mr. Bates had taken ill. Both Dominic and Thomas wondered if they were going to view a repeat performance of that failed Yuletide cheer.

"She said she should kill him," Dominic recalled. His and Thomas' long hours of English lessons with Mrs. Bates now allowed them to converse freely, which they enjoyed. Their new land and its inhabitants were a constant source of bewilderment and entertainment for them.

"Don't you all be a feared none." James chuckled. "You knows Mrs. Bates only fights fair and square. She only be bopping him on his head when he be awake and can defend himself."

The male servants were sent to the main house to help prepare it for the party. They scrubbed every floor, washed every window, and dusted everything in the large two-story brick house. Then Mrs. Bates supervised the menu's preparation. While Dominic and Thomas peeled three bushels of potatoes, James and the two maids collected eggs that the free ranging chickens had scattered throughout the farm's 80 acres and next turned milk into butter and cream with the wooden churn. Mrs. Bates then told James to slaughter the largest steer from the herd of 57 cattle. None were sad to see it die because it once had used its thick horns to rip bloody gashes in James' legs after he momentarily had turned his back on it while feeding the herd. After the attack it had been castrated but become only slightly more docile.

James used one of Bates' pistols to shoot a ball into the beast's head after enticing it next to the fence with a pile of hay. It took all three male servants using a thick rope to pull the dead behemoth into the air. After it was dangling by its feet from a massive limb of a 40-foot tall oak tree, James slit its throat to drain its blood into a large bucket. He then eviscerated the still fierce looking animal. All of its abdominal and thoracic organs fell into the wooden trough that had been moved directly under the dangling carcass. James quickly separated the intestines and pushed them to one end of the long trough.

Bates' pack of 17 dogs knew that this might be their only chance to join in the feasting to come. They paced and barked expectantly as Dominic and Thomas cut the stomach, kidneys, liver, heart, lungs, and other organs into pieces. The entire pack was salivating by the time the two began delivering handful after handful of the offal to the begging canines.

"We got to give each one of them hounds a little at a time," James told his assistants. "If'n we lets all the guts spill out on the ground like I seen other folks do, them dogs be fighting each other trying to get the biggest piece of the innards."

The process was slow but peace was maintained. As the happy dogs left to find shady spots in which to nap and digest their meals James explained the next step to his assistants.

"Now that I got all the crap pushed out of the intestines and into that hole you all dug, we got to clean them up real good. This be a real important thing," James said. "I sees folks who be skipping this part be getting sick to their death after they eats whatever they be cutting up. Start bringing the water on over while I fills up the hole with dirt."

They shuttled buckets of boiling water taken from a huge kettle that had been suspended over a large fire that was near the trough until James was satisfied that the cleansing was complete.

"Now that it's had a real hot bath we can be cooking them. Help me to put them into the pot." After the transfer to the pot had been made, James led them to the pump next to one of the farm's wells. "Okay, let's wash up real good. Got to get all the blood and guts off of us before Mrs. Bates puts us in our uniforms."

James removed the large apron that had protected his clothing during the butchering. He took off his shirt and washed every inch of his torso, hands, and arms with the fine sweet smelling soap Mrs. Bates had made from olive oil. He then had Dominic pour a bucket of water over his head and shampooed his blood-splattered hair. His assistants copied him. Refreshed and smelling much more pleasant, the trio returned with three buckets of water from the well and added it to the simmering pot of intestines.

They next turned their attention to the swaying steer. As his helpers slowly lowered it James guided the bovine to a position atop the trough. The legs that dangled over the sides of the trough until the hooves touched the ground and the head that flopped over one of its ends amused Dominic.

"He is still alive!" He cried in mock horror. "He's going to get his revenge by sticking his horns in James again."

"Now look here." James snapped at the grinning Dominic, who had placed two forefingers on his head as fake horns. "Some things be funny but some ain't." He pointed at his still scarred legs. "I be limping the rest of my life cause of this bad boy. I wish Mr. Bates let me shoot him right off after he run his horns into me. Instead, Mr. Bates only lets me cut his balls off."

Dominic blinked and retracted his wiggling horns. "I'm sorry."

"It be okay. You be thinking hard before you be joking about other people's pain, okay?"

Thomas changed the subject. "Why you cook that part of cow?" He pointed at the stewing intestines.

"Well up here in these here parts, they calls it tripe. Mr. Bates has us cook it cause some peoples 'round here be liking it better than the rest of the cow. Back down in Georgia there be mostly pork to eat. So we be taking the pig intestines and making chitterlings out of it. I eats it one time. Got so sick I was crapping out of one end and upchucking out of the other. After that I decides that maybe the Lord don't wants us to be eating no part of animals that spent its days holding and pushing crap." James pinched his nose. "Enough of this jabbering. Use those saws to cut off its legs at the knee."

The helpers took only a few moments to remove them.

"Okay, now one of you saw off the head while the other cuts off the tail."

"You cook head, yah?" Thomas wondered if Americans ate that portion of cattle also.

"Nah. Take the brains out and give it to any hounds still be hungry. Then let 'em play with the head."

James then skinned the animal. "Mrs. Bates be sewing a real fine coat for Mr. Bates out of this here cow hide. Now don't you be telling him, it's gonna be a surprise for Christmas. I gonna smile every time I see him wearing it. It be nice to see him wearing this cow's hide."

Next James skewered the corpse with an 11-foot long piece of iron. With James and Dominic on one end of the skewer and Thomas on the other, they carefully positioned the main course for the party over the glowing coals of a second fire that James had lit two hours earlier. It usually was not for Mr. Bates' company that partygoers assembled at his home; rather it was to taste and enjoy James' culinary masterpieces. Now came the moment that he would fully initiate the apprentice butchers and cooks.

"Okay, now I be telling you my secret as long as you both be swearing you never ever tell no one else."

Dominic and Thomas nodded their vows of secrecy.

"First off, it ain't just Mr. Bates' sauce that be making peoples come from miles around to his parties. That only be one reason. The way you cooks meat is real important, too. So's what you does is cook it real slow. This here beef take a while to cook. That means the three of us be taking turns feeding the fire and turning the spit. Now cooking it real slow ain't all. Lots of folks knows all about that. The other thing is the kind of wood you be using to make the heat and smoke."

"Ah. You used oak to build big fire. You use oak to cook cow, yah?" Thomas asked.

"Well, the oak is to get it started cooking. What we be adding now is all them pruned branches I been saving up in the barn. You knows the ones I talking about?"

The cook's helpers nodded.

"Good. Now you go and brings all of them branches out of the barn over here."

It took them a quarter-hour to carry the remnants of cherry, apple, walnut, apricot, and hickory trees back to the sizzling beef.

"But isn't this too much wood?"

"Nope. We cooking this here beef from now until tomorrow afternoon. A whole day and night." James then lowered his voice to a whisper. "It be the smoke from these kind of tree branches that gives the meat mighty fine flavor for sure."

James took the first four-hour shift of feeding the three-foot by seven-foot bed of coals. The following day he was applying the last coat of Bates' sauce to the steer when the master pulled through the gate with the barrels of beer.

"Good Lord, Almighty, James. I've been a smelling that beef cooking for the last half-hour. I would've made the horses go faster but then the barrels of beer would've bounced out the back of the wagon. The smoke be drifting quite a ways. I know the party ain't for another hour but I can't wait, by thunder." Bates jumped from the still moving wagon and ran to the sizzling beef. The meat fell from the bone as he stabbed at it with his cutlass, a gift from a retired navy officer. Bates carefully balanced the morsel on the shiny blade. He drooled as it slid down his throat. "James, this be even better than last time." Bates sheathed the weapon back into its scabbard. "Where's Dominic? I got to show him how to serve the beer."

"He gets fancied up in his costume."

"Good. You best go get dressed too. The guests will be showing up soon."

James joined the other two in the main house. They had already donned the used servant's attire that Mr. Bates had purchased two decades ago. Somewhat outdated, the outfits included shiny black shoes with silver buckles, long white silk stockings that covered their calves because the tight fitting white pants only extended to right below the knees, and dark blue blazers adorned with gold buttons. Mrs. Bates was adjusting the powdered white wigs on the squirming Dominic and Thomas. They felt like schoolboys being dressed for the first day of the school year.

"Don't they look fine?" James smiled as he walked to the large combination dressing room and closet where the outfits were stored. "Get on over to where Mr. Bates is setting up the beer, Dominic. Looks like you all get to be the barkeep today. Don't be sampling too much." He closed the closet door to change into his uniform.

"I think I belong back in France when the kings and queens ruled," muttered Dominic as he and Thomas made their way to Mr. Bates.

"If I look as silly as you do, you are right." Thomas shrugged. "But this be easier than working in fields and making furniture, yah?"

Bates greeted them as they approached. "I hardly recognized either of thee. Those servants' uniforms be one of the best investments I ever made. Got them at an estate sale when one of the richest men in Philadelphia died. Okay. You two help me unload the beer barrels on the table here. Be careful. They be as heavy as any piece of furniture you be making."

Bates deftly tilted the upright barrels one at a time and rolled them on edge to the end of the wagon bed. Dominic and Thomas guided each one onto the sturdy table that stood almost as high as the bed of the wagon. Bates joined them on the ground. He next practiced the art of running a beer tap with Dominic. Satisfied that the neophyte dispenser knew how to handle the 50-gallon barrels of brew, Bates left him with a final admonition.

"You see, if we let them fill their own glass they waste half the barrel by letting it run all over down onto the ground. And remember if they've already had a couple of glasses of beer, start filling up the rest only half way. Otherwise they start sloshing it all over themselves and the ladies they be trying to impress. Then their wives start clucking away like wet hens at them, which only be spoiling all our merrymaking. Okay, Thomas my boy, you follow me."

Bates led him to where the long dirt lane from the main road ended at the rail fence that surrounded the house, pastureland for the cattle, pond, and meadow for the horses.

"I'm giving you the most important job of all, Tommy lad." Bates only used this variation of Thomas when he had assumed a substitute father role. "You be the one the guests first meets so's the very first impression of my party they gets is from you." Bates' finger thumped on Thomas' chest. "And the last one too."

"Yes, sir."

"First they parks their wagons and carriages out here." Bates motioned to the one-acre patch of land that could accommodate dozens of the conveyances. "Then you unhitches their horses and take them over to the meadow so they can graze. They be mighty hungry after the trip and this be too long a party to leave them hitched up. I see you got all my horses safe and sound in the barn already."

"Yes, sir."

"Here's the other thing. They can't hold their crap and piss that long. So's if we leaves them all hooked up out here by the time the party's over it would be plenty nasty where the gents and ladies be coming out to get their rides home. Any of them gets the nasty mess on their fine shoes or clothes and that'll be all they remember about Mr. Bates' party. We have to be making the best impression possible. These be only the most important people coming out here today."

"Do not worry. I do it."

"Good, boy. Now I have to be rushing back to the house to change into me Sunday best. The guests will be here any time now."

Thomas gazed wistfully at his cohorts. On the one hand he wished he could trade places with James. His task was to carry huge platters of the tasty beef for the tables set up for the guests. As James made his deliveries to the kitchen he could grab a plateful of the rest of the meal: mashed potatoes; gravy; freshly baked bread and churned butter; and a variety of pickled vegetables from the garden. Fine wines would enhance the meal's flavors. There was ice cream for dessert. On the other hand, Thomas longed to trade places with Dominic. He surely would be able to imbibe at will, he surmised. Remembering that it was his penchant for beer that had caused him to come unexpectedly to America, Thomas grudgingly concluded that Bates had been wise not to place him by the beer.

The meal went splendidly. After the last of the ice cream was consumed, the men excused themselves and marched outside to the beer table. The women contented themselves with tea and conversation in the spacious living room; they planned to rejoin their spouses and beaus when the dance would begin outside several hours later.

Such a well-planned event should have ended as it had begun. Bates was intent on impressing those whom he thought needed such manipulation. He had invited all of the important people from the surrounding area as he used such occasions as much to create new or reinforce existing relationships as he did to socialize. Therefore, the pastors of the area's two largest churches had shown up. Bates also reluctantly had invited his own pastor; Mrs. Bates had insisted on it. Bates had balked at his pastor's presence because it meant his very best behavior, which required minimal drinking on his part. A local judge, a state legislator, a nearby mayor, and sundry councilmen also had come. Rounding out the guest list was anyone whose land holdings were at least as large as Bates' was. He saw no advantage in inviting anyone beneath his position.

And all did go splendidly until the third barrel of beer had been tapped. The warm humid weather caused all to sweat profusely; the men reasoned that the beer was needed to keep them cool but its alcohol had the opposite effect. And it did nothing to cool down temperaments. Rather, the liquid refreshment served only to inflame them. Slowly the mood for many began to change. The tenor of the conversations alerted a few to this shift. The most sensitive began to formulate excuses to leave early before the dance began. Cordial conversations eventually gave way to opinionated speeches by a handful of the guests. Unwary revelers were sucked into the growing Maelstrom one by one. The wary backed away.

"I tell you, anyone would have been better than Van Buren." The mayor fumed. "With five candidates running for President, we could've elected someone else!"

"Such as Daniel Webster?" The state legislator sneered. Being a member of President Van Buren's political party, he felt duty bound to defend him. "The Whigs are such fools. Whoever heard of one party running four candidates for president at the same time?"

"You know very well that our strategy was to throw the election over to the House of Representatives. Then they could have picked one of our four candidates, any of whom is superior to Van Buren in every way. It almost worked, too. In any case, whoever heard of so many wars going on at one time? George Washington must be rolling over in his grave. The war against Santa Ana and his army was one matter. But what about the Mormon War out in Missouri? I hear that Joseph Smith is appealing directly to President Van Buren! The Mormons' influence extends all the way to the White House!"

Overhearing the mention of the Mormon War and Joseph Smith caused the three reverends in attendance to change their conversation. They had been debating about the merits of what theologians had called the Second Great Awakening. It had swept through much of the young nation for sometime but was now beginning to fade. The mention of the new denomination that they considered heretical and its leader whom they labeled a false prophet caused one of the reverends to pale while another turned beet red in his face.

"I don't know how many members I've lost to those Latter Day Saints." The crimson-faced pastor raged.

"Oh, my!" The other trembled. "I thought all of the Mormons moved west long ago."

"Well some of my members followed them out west, by God. They sold their farms or businesses and followed Joseph Smith out there. He says they are going to build the city of Zion or some such foolishness."

"I'll say this for him. Smith knows how to appeal to the downtrodden. He opposes slavery, you know."

"Maybe that's the real reason that so many oppose him."

"Bah! All that is mere conjecture." The third pastor weighed in on the new topic. "What matters is that he is stealing our sheep. That is the unforgivable sin!"

Bates quickly evaluated which group most needed his guidance. He knew that the reverends would not likely come to blows; one had abstained from alcohol that afternoon, the others had drunk one glass of wine each and no beer. The battling politicians, however, were a different concern. The state legislator had defeated the mayor in their run for higher office and always seemed to find not so subtle ways to remind the loser of that election. Bates maneuvered toward them.

Dear God in heaven, please don't make me be their referee. I knew I shouldn't have invited both of them. The only way they'll ever bury the hatchet is in each other.

Bates settled on a diversionary tactic. "We'll be starting the music soon, gentlemen. The ladies are on their way outside now for the dance. Can we please...?"

"Gladly, sir." The legislator smirked. His expression was born out of his firmly held belief that he was superior to all who dwelt in Pennsylvania. His victory in the recent election had only strengthened that conviction. "The conversation here bores me to no end. Only sore losers care to rehash old elections. Ha ha!" He smirked again.

"And whom will you be dancing with?" The mayor fired his best salvo. "Your hero Martin Van Buren isn't here for you to kick up your heels with."

Within seconds the two feuding politicians were face-to-face and screaming epithets at each other as their arms waved overhead. Bates did his best to steer them away from the rapidly growing semi-circle of onlookers. Somehow all three of them stumbled through the gate, which was ajar, and into the meadow where the horses were grazing. Ordinarily this would have presented only a small problem, if any. However, one of the 18 fenced-in horses was in no mood for company, either human or equine.

Having spent 24 years as a stud, Sam no longer had much interest in the females of his species. A beautiful filly had paraded around him all afternoon but Sam had paid her no heed. Grazing on the tender shoots of freshly sprouted grass appealed more to him than she did. Tired from the nine-mile journey of hauling his masters and their neighbors earlier, he had little motivation to move as the tempest of humans swirled his way. But when they crashed into him he turned and bit the one who was closest to him, which happened to be the mayor. The searing pain to his now bleeding face propelled him forward and he knocked the other two to the ground. They all landed in piles of freshly produced manure dampened by urine that the filly and Sam had deposited during the last five hours. The state legislator, whose mouth was usually open anyway, yelled as he fell. Thus he ended up with a mouth full of horse dung. The mayor and Bates escaped with soiled clothes.

As the episode had unfolded every partygoer had adjourned to the fence. This afforded one and all a clear view of the proceedings. Upon seeing physical horse manure flying out of the state legislator's mouth instead of his usual verbal variety, the spectators broke down into uninhibited laughter, finger pointing, and knee slapping. A few imitated him. The mocking enflamed the legislator even more than the recent argument had. Standing to his feet, the object of their derision pulled his glove from his pocket and slapped the mayor.

"I demand satisfaction!" He spoke the words of one seeking a duel.

The jeering crowd grew silent. The mayor was a marksman with any firearm; his opponent had never been able to even wound any of the wildlife at which he had aimed; however he was a master swordsman. The mayor knew nothing of handling blades except for his table knife. Because the one challenged could pick the weapons to be used for the duel, the mayor at last responded with a compromise that he deemed as fair.

"I choose fists."

It was the opponent's turn to laugh in a callous attempt to shift the ridicule from him to the mayor. "Fists? My good man this is to be a duel to the death. Have your second contact me after you have overcome your cowardliness and are able to decide exactly how you are to die." His pride only momentarily restored, the offended lawmaker strode to his buggy and yelled at Thomas. "You there. Fetch my filly. She's the one standing next to the horse that bit the mayor. Instead of biting his cheek it should've bitten his tongue off."

Thomas snapped to attention and obeyed. After retrieving and hitching up the horse he turned around swiftly to help conceal his suppressed laughter as the legislator and his wife rode away. Now that the main event of the party had ended the dance proved to be anticlimactic. The next day tongues wagged in every church attended by the partygoers. The more adventuresome and speculative placed bets on the upcoming challenge to the death.

The mayor chose the smallest bore pistol that he was certain would only wound his opponent's arm that would be holding an identical weapon at the duel. By the time his second arrived at the opposing duelist's home with news of the choice of firearm to be used, the microorganisms transmitted into the state legislator from the horse crap were already rapidly multiplying throughout his body. The viruses and bacteria attacked him without mercy. The parasites that he had ingested did the same. All of them worked to reduce the once potential candidate for the U.S. Congress to a wasted shell of what he once was. Unable to even summon enough strength or clear vision to aim his weapon on the day of the duel a week later, he sat motionless in the chair brought along to support him. In response the mayor fired a single round six feet above his head.

Still finding no satisfaction, the one who remained seated demanded that his second stand in for him. Unwilling to die or be wounded because of another's foolish pride, the second shook his head and walked away. The duel ended many friendships. As the wretch wasted away he made no peace with God, friends, or his rivals. Instead he cursed them all until his dying breath.

After the sorry affair was over Thomas wondered if he would someday face a similar duel from an avenger who had hunted him down on behalf of the one he had killed. He thought it would be a brother or maybe an uncle of the deceased who finally came calling.

# 8

Settling in at the orchard was quite an adjustment for its new occupants. They spent their days harvesting, pruning, and checking the trees. Any dead ones were chopped down and the wood stored in the barn to dry for later use in the fireplace. A new tree was planted in its place; Jeremiah had left behind many seedlings from which to choose. Recreation consisted of hunting, fishing, knitting, reading, and visiting nearby Pittsfield's post office, tavern, citizens, and stores. Meals consisted of apples, venison, fish, wildfowl, and whatever could be made from flour, walnuts, and more apples. They were only able to use part of the remaining crop after Jeremiah and Emma took away the first half of the apples. Something about the remaining fruit seemed odd to Arnold.

"It looks like they took all the big juicy apples and left the small ones for us." He observed.

"Yah. Jeremiah said these need time for get bigger."

Luckily, there already was enough seasoned firewood stored in the barn to get them through the first winter. After the harvest the men spent their time making cider. Meanwhile Andrea used every imaginable recipe she could recall or invent that called for apples – pies, cakes, jams, sauce, tarts, cookies, muffins, breads, and other items that she could not even name because she was certain that she had concocted them for the first time ever. The following spring and summer was spent establishing markets for her baked goods and the cider.

Working with material that had been discarded by the nearest brewery, Rudolph had built a rudimentary distillery. It was not until the fourth year at the orchard that he was confident that he at last had produced a brandy worthy of sale. His first attempts had produced a strange liquid that tasted more like apple beer than brandy. It was not until he had traveled with Arnold to Boston and spoken with a master whiskey maker that he had learned how to mix the right ingredients and process them correctly.

"Making brandy is trickier than beer." He confided to Arnold. "But I think this is the best batch yet. Here, taste a cup."

Arnold sipped it and closed his eyes. "Well, I prefers rum but that's leftover from me days of sailing the seas. The landlubbers will like this brandy good enough to be buying it, boy. Now we be bringing home good money. You notice it no longer has that rusty taste it used to?"

"Yah. I think the used parts that the whiskey maker in Boston gave us are better than the old parts I first used."

That fall Arnold and Rudolph worked 12 to 15-hour days, six days a week as they harvested the apples and converted them to cider and brandy. Arnold wanted to supply as much as possible for the neighbors' upcoming Christmas and New Year's celebrations.

"It seems that's when these New England yanks be drinking the most," he said. "The rest of the year they be clutching their money pretty tightly."

"It is different in Bavaria. We like to drink the most for Oktoberfest."

The two kept busy with their work and were tired when not toiling so neither one noticed the change in Andrea. The previous autumns she had worked as many hours as they. Now she seemed to spend as much time lounging in her favorite rocking chair as she did baking. This continued until December when Arnold realized that she only had made half as many baked goods as the previous Christmas season.

"You feeling okay, dear?" He asked her three weeks before Christmas Eve.

She stared blankly. "Of course."

By January Andrea worsened. Now she was unable to sleep. By February she began wandering off into the woods and getting lost. Concerned neighbors always returned her. When she started cursing and yelling at anyone who came within her sight, Arnold dragged her to the doctor. After examining her, the doctor sent her to another room to sit with Rudolph.

"What is it?" Arnold pleaded.

"Some sort of problem with her mind. You said she forgets who you and Rudolph are sometimes. Well she doesn't remember me either. I'm afraid her mind is going."

"But..."

"I'm sorry. Treating those with such problems is outside my training and knowledge. The medical profession is beginning to help a few whose mind gives out. There's still too much we don't know yet. It's the cases like this that make me feel helpless."

"What can I do? Rudolph and me have to take turns watching her all the time."

"There's really no telling when she might swing to the other extreme."

"What?"

"A doctor friend of mine works at a hospital for the insane in Boston. He told me patients behave like Andrea is now for days or weeks at a time and then they calm down, say nothing, and spend most of their time sleeping. The bad cases try to kill themselves or someone else."

Arnold's face lost its color.

"I'm sorry. I have no medicine except laudanum to calm her down so she won't wander off as much. You are going to have to think of placing her in a hospital. The best such place I've seen is in Boston. I know it's hard. Believe me it's hard for me as well. The worst part of being a doctor is when you can't help cure a patient."

Once home Rudolph waited to speak until after the laudanum had placed Andrea into a deep sleep. "I know I am only your servant but I am afraid what happens to Andrea."

Arnold sighed as he puffed on his pipe. "Well two of our daughters are still in Boston. I guess at least they could take turns with me visiting Andrea at the hospital until she gets better and comes home again."

Rudolph's head sagged. Back in Germany all those whom he had heard of with similar problems never came home once they entered a place to care for them. He doubted that it would be any different in America for poor souls whose minds were giving out bit-by-bit, memory-by-memory, until there was no grasp of reality at all.

"I could stay and run the orchard. Maybe once I find Thomas he will want to return here and help me. Between the two of us we could keep it going for you and Andrea."

Arnold gagged on the smoke from his pipe. "But I thought you wanted to get revenge on Thomas for what he done to your brother. Thomas told me he didn't want to kill him when he slugged him. I believed him and still do."

"No, no. My brother woke up after a few hours. We only thought he was dead. I only search for Thomas to tell him he can go home. I have to let him know the truth."

"I'll be damned! All this time I've known where Thomas is but I've been a feared of telling ye because I was sure you'd be running him through with a knife or saber or putting a lead ball into him. That's why I pretends not to know where he be."

"Where is he?"

"He signed on with Mr. Bates. He's got a farm down near to Philadelphia."

"If I help you take Andrea to Boston can I go to Thomas? How far is he from Boston?"

"Not far. Once you catch the train it's smooth sailing. Unless you crave another sea journey." Bates smiled wickedly.

Rudolph still had occasional nightmares of his long past crossing of the Atlantic. He was not ready even for a short voyage from Boston to Philadelphia.

"No. I will keep my feet on land."

"Okay matey. Let me get a letter off to me daughters in Boston, then. Let them know we be coming."

# 9

Rudolph's rail journey took him as far as Philadelphia. He then transferred to a stagecoach, which carried him to the town closest to Bates' farm. Closing in on the object of his long search, Rudolph set out to walk the final six miles. He smiled when a buggy happened by during the first mile of his hike. Its driver offered the weary traveler a ride after inquiring about his destination. He also gave his passenger a detailed account of his mighty adventures.

"Harlan's the name."

"I'm Rudolph Stein." He shook the man's hand.

"Lucky for you I came by. Not too many people on the road this time of night. Mr. Bates' place is a ways off too."

"You are kind to stop."

"Guess it's a trait I learned from all my travels abroad."

"You have been to the German Confederation?"

"Asia is my claim to fame."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I traveled to India and China back in 1820. When I came back home I got engaged and we were to wed after my next voyage. But while I was back in Calcutta my finance married someone else."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Swore I'd never return to America. Never would have had to, had things gone my way, which they seldom do. I enlisted with the British East India Company. We fought some really bloody battles in Burma but after the war I grew bored with it all and left the company. I went back and stayed on in India. Then I offered my services to Shuja Shah Dunani. Ever hear of him?"

"No."

"Doesn't surprise me. Americans are mostly ignorant about Asia. They're only concerned with Europe all the time. Especially with England."

"I am German."

"Oh? How long you been in America then?"

"Almost four years now."

"Well, your English is better than most of your kind that I've heard talk. Lots of them don't even bother to learn English, you know. They all congregate together and speak their German and drink their beer and dance their polkas. They even have their church services in German. Like in Germantown over by Philadelphia. Ever been there?"

"No. I learned a little English when I lived in Bavaria. Then masters I work for teach me more." Rudolph knew he better remain polite or his ride might come to an end. Another one who thinks he's better than we Germans. Most of these Americans are such dumb heads.

"I see then. Well you have a lot less of an accent than most of your kind I've met. Those masters of yours did a good job. They from Philadelphia then?"

"No. Boston. You were talking about serving someone? You were an indentured servant?"

"Guess you could call it that. I did what he wanted and he took care of me. That's what no one here in America believes when I tell them my story. A lot of the so-called heathens there in India, Burma, and Afghanistan treated me a whole lot more righteously than those damn British did. It's a fact. It's the British that are making a mess of the world."

Rudolph stared straight ahead. He had listened more than once as other Americans had castigated the English. He dismissed it as residue from when America was only a colony and the revolution that had followed. Maybe the bad feelings between the Americans and British are like those between the Prussians and Germans.

"Anyway Shuja Shah Dunani is an Afghani ruler who is kicked out of power." He reverted to the present tense because the story was still so fresh in his memory that he relived it almost daily. "So he gives me money to depose his rival. I travel all the way to Kabul to the job. But the rival, Dost Mohammed is his name, seems too entrenched so I hightail it on back to India. There I meet a Maharaja who makes me a governor. I tell you they can recognize a good man over there. It's not that way here. I'm even having troubles getting my book published. Can you believe that? No one wants to hear the truth." Harlan shook his head. "Later on I decide to help Dost Mohammed fight against a nasty warlord and slave trader. If you can't beat them, then join them, I always say. You see you have to pick your battles smartly. I had over 4,000 troops at my command." He waved his arm as if the army were spread out before them. "When we took the Citadel of Saighan most of the locals want to be our allies. The most powerful one of them is the prince of Ghor. Guess you could say we mutually impressed one another. When it came time to leave he says he'll make me the Prince of Ghor and he'll be the vizier."

"A prince?" Rudolph never had heard of such a rapid climb in social status, especially by an American in a foreign land.

"Yes, sir. He tells me to raise him up a new army to expand his kingdom. That's the way they do business over there. Things are going great guns. Some of the natives even say I'm a god. But then I get the surprise of my life. The British army occupies Kabul and is getting ready to go to war. They refuse to recognize my power. Instead they bring back a king they like to power. They ruined everything so I came home."

"Too bad. Maybe you would be a good prince."

"Except for the fool British. But I'll have the last laugh. My book is going to tell the truth about those bloody imperialists. I'm one of the few that is willing to take them to task. I'll show those bloody blighters a thing or two. Sorry for my nasty words but at least I call them by their own names."

Tired of the driver's rants, Rudolph tried to learn more about him on a personal level. "Did you ever find a wife?" Surely domestic issues would promote a more positive response he thought.

"Not yet. I'm a Quaker. And since they kicked me out for not being a pacifist when I was in Afghanistan not very many of the Quakers have anything to do with me, including the women. But they make the best wives so I'll bide my time. Has to be one of them who'll take me. You would think that they could forgive and forget. They need to understand that when in India, you do as the natives do."

Harlan then listened to Rudolph's tale of hunting down Thomas. Impressed, he praised him. He then warned him of what awaited him at his destination.

"Be sure to watch your step with Bates. If you're not careful he'll talk you right into staying on at his place. Don't do it. He can be a mean one. He would have made a good general in my army over there."

It was late evening when Rudolph jumped down from Harlan's buggy at the entrance to the Bates' farm. Several dogs howled and awakened James, who hurried outside to see what was provoking them. He spotted Rudolph, who was trying to befriend three of the canines that had come over to inspect him.

"What you want this time of night, stranger?" James lifted his lantern to get a better view of the intruder.

"I am looking for Thomas Schmidt, sir."

"And who might you be?"

"Rudolph Stein."

Two months earlier James had listened to Thomas' version of the fight and his fears that a family member of the deceased might one day track him down.

"You got a dead brother that Thomas kilt in a fight?"

"That's why I am here. I have to tell Thomas that my brother was only hurt. He didn't die."

"Hmmm. You wait here." James called out to the dogs to follow him.

"Okay. I won't move." What a day. First that woman on the train would not be quiet but had to tell me all about her children. Then Mr. Harlan gave me a history lesson of the faults of the British. Now this slave does not believe me. I wonder how Thomas will act. I hope he can stay calm while I explain everything to him.

James returned to the small house that he shared with the male servants. After rousing Thomas, he repeated what he had been told.

"Maybe he is saying that so he can shoot me when I go out?"

"Could be. Tell you what. I'll go first and hold a pitchfork on him. He try anything and I poke him before he can shoot you."

"Okay."

James stopped at the tool shed and armed himself with the biggest pitchfork. He then returned to Rudolph and pointed it at his chest.

"Thomas and me ain't convinced yet. So you hold your hands up real high so he can talk to you and be safe."

"But..." As James jabbed the pitchfork toward his belly Rudolph complied.

Thomas crept forward and spoke from a distance in German. "Hello, Rudolph."

"Thomas. How are you? I thought I would never find you." He replied in English.

"How do you know English so well?"

"I have been in America for almost four years. My master's wife Andrea taught me."

"Andrea? Your masters are the Thompsons? Speak German, please. It is easier that way."

Rudolph obeyed. "Yes. Arnold told me where to find you."

"Is it true that your brother is still alive?"

"Yes. I had to come after you to tell you so you could return home. My family wrote me and said that your family still has not heard from you."

"I didn't want anyone to know where I was." Thomas came nearer. "It's all right, James. I believe him."

"You sure?" James saw Thomas nod. "Okay. I'll be getting on back to bed then. You all do your talking outside and keep it down so's you don't wake no one else up, you hear?"

Thomas lowered his voice. "How did you get here?" He led the way to the pond.

"A Mr. Harlan gave me a ride. He told tales that made him sound like an American Baron von Munchhausen."

Thomas sat down on the bench. "He is not like the Baron. From what I've heard, Harlan is quite famous here in America."

Thomas told of how he had become a skilled furniture maker. Rudolph laughed as he detailed how he had built what Arnold called "the best distillery in New England." He then explained how Andrea had slipped into madness for which there seemed to be no immediate cure. Then he asked Thomas to join him at the orchard.

"It is such a beautiful land with many forests and snow in the winter, like Bavaria."

"Ah, Bavaria. How I miss it. Funny, isn't it? We hardly knew each other there. Now we talk of working together. But don't you want to go back home?"

"I would not survive the voyage. If the seasickness did not kill me, disease would. We had four die on the way over. You know we would never be rich back in Bavaria. Maybe I could work all my life in the brewery there. But here I can work hard and one day own my own brewery. I already have customers for my apple brandy."

"It's that good?"

"Of course. There is much demand for furniture where I live. Much of it comes from Boston and is very expensive because of the freight charges. You could make much money."

"I don't know. Sometimes I think I should go back to Bavaria."

"Wait until you see the women in Pittsfield. That will convince you to come to the orchard. There is one who even likes me."

They broke into laughter. Then they discussed other possibilities until dawn. The crowing rooster alerted Thomas that his long workday had arrived. But breakfast came first – hot griddlecakes with butter and syrup, ham, eggs, biscuits, buttermilk, and cup after cup of coffee. They kept talking nonstop as they ate. Their use of German unnerved James.

"I think they plans for Thomas to run off." James shook his head.

Only able to understand bits of the conversation, Dominic asked Thomas, "Are you leaving?"

"My time is over here in six months. Then I will go. I'm not sure if it will be back home to Bavaria or to stay in America."

"Well, now that you ain't worried 'bout someone chasing after you least you can do is write your mammy and pappy," James said.

"Yes, I should. I will give you a letter to send to them from Philadelphia, Rudolph."

"Maybe you should ask them to come to America. I am writing my family in Poland to come here," Dominic said. "I still plan to go to New York."

"Neither one of you all wants to stay on and work as hired help for Mr. Bates no more? Once your time as indentured servants be over he starts to pay you like he pay me."

They shook their heads no.

"I tell you what." James lowered his voice. "I been the head negra for Mr. Bates for long enough. What they call me in Georgia be the same thing I be here. One of you all takes me along? I tired from running things around here."

Thomas and Dominic began to argue. Thomas knew his success in the furniture making business would be ensured even if he took James back to Germany. His skill rivaled that of the woodworking craftsmen back in Bavaria. Dominic wanted James to be his paid servant to impress his family when they arrived in their new land. Their debate amused James.

"Can't remember nobody ever be fighting over me."

Frustrated, Thomas told James to choose an offer.

"Well, my bones be aching all the time from working in the cotton fields starting when I was five." James held up his hands, their joints swollen with arthritis. "Not too much furniture making left in these hands no more."

"Do you really want Dominic to be your boss?"

"Well he be telling me how his people the Jews be getting the short end of the stick for thousands of years. Even showed it to me in the Bible. Them mean ol' Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, and Romans don't be messing around when they fights his people. So maybe even though he be white maybe he be treating me better than the plantation owner or Mr. Bates treat me."

"But you'll be his only servant. You'll have to do everything."

"That only be temporary. We gonna be living in a mansion in New York. Won't be long 'fore I be bossing the butlers, cooks, maids, and buggy drivers around."

"But I thought you didn't like being in charge of other servants."

"Not on a plantation or farm I don't. That be hard. But in a mansion? That be easy as pie. No more working in the fields in the rain and cold and heat. Shoot. Up there in New York you don't even has to butcher your own meat. They gots butchers everywhere does it for you. Don't have to milk no cow, neither."

"A mansion?"

"He already showed me the neighborhood he gonna live in the last time we took furniture to New York."

Thomas smirked. "Well I'll talk you out of it by the time I leave."

"Nothin' to be talking 'bout. Dominic's got money."

"Money?" Thomas stared at Dominic. "But we never get paid."

"Ol' Dominic ain't no fool," James explained. "Every time he goes to Philadelphia for supplies he takes along the toys he and me be carving out of scraps of wood left over from the saw mill. Then we paint 'em."

"But I thought that was your hobby."

"Mighty powerful one for making money. Dominic here got the nose for business like a hound dog got the nose for a bear or coon or possum. He talks a blue streak till the shop owners be buying every last one of them toys. While you be getting drunk and chasing girls in your time off, him and me be carving up a storm. We got us a good chunk of money all saved up for when we leaves this here place."

Thomas pouted. He abandoned his plan of taking James with him. Instead he spent the last of his free time at the Bates' farm writing letters to his family and Rudolph, waiting for their replies, eagerly reading them when they arrived, making plans, and then dreaming about them day and night. When he left his first job in America he headed northeast toward the fortune that he was certain awaited him at the orchard.

# 10

Working in the orchard was an education for Thomas. Listening to Rudolph's new bride was even more of one. By the time Thomas arrived there, Rudolph had married a local woman whom he had pursued for over a year. Jane's religious beliefs rattled Thomas. Her sincerity meant little as her dogmatic recitation of her doctrines grated on his nerves. To avoid her Thomas spent his days in the orchard, the small distillery, or in town delivering their products. He depended on a knowledgeable tavern owner to explain the eccentricities peculiar to Americans in 1843.

"It is much simpler in Bavaria," Thomas said. "We were Lutheran or Catholic. Here there are so many different churches."

The tavern keeper filled a mug with beer and handed it to Thomas. "Well, here in America we have every kind of belief and then some. You've got people who separate themselves from everyone else to live in their own little communities. They say they are making a utopia on earth. Then there are the spiritualists who say they can contact the dead. They call themselves mediums. Then there are the revivalists like Charles Finney who preach hellfire and brimstone. But there's a whole lot more churches with Catholics and Lutherans than all of them other ones. So what's your problem?"

"My friend's wife goes to a church that says Jesus is returning to Earth any day now. I never heard such a thing in Bavaria or even here in America until now."

"Must be one of those Millerites." He pulled out a stack of tracts and newspapers that he kept under the bar for when the conversation turned to religion. That, politics, and women were most often discussed by his customers. After searching through the publications he found one that quoted Miller. "Here it is. This is what Miller says: 'My principles in brief, are that Jesus Christ will come again to earth, cleanse, purify, and take possession of the same, with all the saints, sometime between March 21, 1843 and March 21, 1844.' So according to Miller, it could be any day now." He folded the paper. "Amazing how many have been jumping on that bandwagon. Some of my customers even gave up drinking my booze because of his prediction." He handed the paper to Thomas. "Here. Maybe this will help you understand your friend's wife. Hope so. The way I see it is if Jesus didn't tell the year that He'd be coming back, what makes Miller and his bunch think that they know? What makes them that special?"

Thomas spent a few days studying the paper before giving it to Rudolph. "All I'm saying is they could be wrong."

"Shhh. Don't ever let her hear you say that. And whenever you want to talk about her beliefs, speak in German so she can't understand us."

"But her idea of abandoning the orchard makes no sense. I can't work it by myself."

"I...I don't know anymore." Rudolph shrugged. "Maybe she will change her mind."

"I doubt it."

By early autumn Jane had convinced Rudolph to move to Elmira, New York to be part of a church that believed as she did. When March 21, 1844 passed and Jesus did not return as had been predicted, several new dates were offered. The one most believed was October 22, 1844. On that day thousands of expectant believers at dozens of locations stood outside, many on hilltops, looking heavenward for their Savior. They became part of what came to be known as the Great Disappointment. Rudolph was disappointed enough to travel alone back to the orchard to see if his family, which now included a son, could return. By the time he reached it, it had been sold.

Andrea had died from influenza a year after entering the hospital in Boston. When Arnold had gone back to the orchard to see if Rudolph and Thomas wanted to buy it he found everything in disarray. Not wanting to be reminded of his loss of Andrea by the place of his happiest memories with her, Arnold quickly had sold it so that he could return to Boston. Thomas stayed on as a temporary caretaker and was due to vacate the land a week after Rudolph returned.

"I wish I had stayed." Rudolph moaned. "Won't you please come to Elmira with me? I need a friend there. All of my wife's friends consider me an unbeliever because I don't believe what they do. Most of them are already setting new dates for Jesus' second coming. I can't stand it anymore. I'm going crazy from listening to them."

"I'm sorry. But I can't listen to any more of it, either. They were wrong more than once. Why can't they live a normal life?"

"I wish I knew."

Instead of heading west with Rudolph Thomas turned southward to seek his fortune in New York City. Although populated by almost 400,000 people of Irish, English, Italian, Norwegian, Swedish, Dutch, French, Polish, Portuguese, Spanish, German, Russian, African, Chinese, and other heritages, New York in 1844 contained more animals than humans. Millions of rats infested the sewers, docks, alleys, and tenements, which made cats a practical choice as pets. Birds nested at will in trees, especially on Long Island, and atop buildings. Tens of thousands of horses hauled people and freight along every street. Thousands of pigs ate the garbage that littered Wall Street.

"They say it costs less than having men pick it up," an acquaintance told Thomas.

He marveled at how each nationality had maintained an identity when its people congregated in neighborhoods where the businesses, restaurants, churches, fraternal organizations, and language or accent left little doubt as to the origins of its inhabitants. Each neighborhood also had gangs, almost all of them based on ethnicity. They guarded their turf with such a vengeance that Thomas did not venture far from his neighborhood after dark. He missed the tranquility that had been his in Bavaria where he had wandered freely, day or night.

Klein Deutschland or "Little Germany" along the East River became Thomas' home. It reminded him enough of his homeland to keep him from returning to Bavaria. This was providential when the German Confederation eventually had its revolution in 1848 during which thousands died. That revolution ended his remaining desire to return to Bavaria. He feared that more strife would erupt there. Even then none of Thomas' family accepted his ongoing invitation to join him in New York. Gradually the letters to and from them tapered away.

It took him quite a while to grasp the political structure that ruled the city. The politics of New York were explained this way to Thomas: "Tammany is a fraternal organization that gets the immigrants work, housing, and helps them become citizens. Then they vote for all the politicians Tammany wants elected. You know – scratch my back and I'll scratch yours."

"Ah, kratzen Sie meinen Rücken." Thomas repeated the phrase in German. He began to understand that human nature varied little from country to country, especially in regard to gaining and keeping power.

When he found the grocery store that his benefactor of the German to English dictionary had spoken of during his voyage to America, Thomas discovered that the kind old man had died. A boastful Prussian who now owned the market hired him based on a qualification of which he often reminded Thomas. This only humiliated the new employee.

"I only hired you because you can speak Low German, which most of my customers know. They are too ignorant to speak High German, as we Prussians do."

After four years of such insults, Thomas grew bored with supplying customers with the fruits, vegetables, sausages, hams, wursts, beers, wines, and baked goods that they craved. Attending one of PT Barnum's shows only heightened his longing for adventure as Thomas gaped at the exotic animals, freakish humans, and other wonders. One was Mr. Hales, eight feet tall and 500 pounds. Another was Major Little Finger, billed as "much smaller than Tom Thumb." An even deeper need for adventure replaced his once insatiable thirst for beer.

In December 1848 during his noon meal while at work, he read of something that seemed to promise what he desired. At home that evening he read the newspaper story to his wife of two years: "The perilous stuff lies loose upon the surface of the ground, or only slightly adheres to rocks and sand. The only machinery necessary in the new gold mines of California is a stout pair of arms, a shovel and tin pan. Indeed, many, unable even to obtain these utensils, are fair to show up with a shingle or a bit of board and dig away quietly in peace of mind, pocketing their fifty or sixty dollars a day and having plenty of leisure."

Descended from English stock, Harriet had learned painfully that Germans such as Thomas could be even more stubborn than her fellow British. She tried to smile. But fear gripped her. She had seen such looks in other husbands' eyes right before they abandoned wife, children, and friends for similar misguided promises of adventure. The wives' ensuing grief had been difficult for Harriet to bear.

"You know they exaggerate to sell papers. Don't believe it."

When Thomas grumbled about currently making only $30 a month instead of $60 a day she thought that was the end of the matter. It was resurrected in an unexpected way. The couple attended a Methodist church, a compromise between Harriet's Anglican and Thomas' Lutheran upbringings. Unfortunately for Harriet their pastor had latched onto Manifest Destiny, a doctrine popular from the White House to the pulpit to the street corner to the workplace to the saloon. Thomas's fate was sealed by the sermon a few Sundays later.

The pastor's voice rose from a whisper until he thundered: "The Lord Himself has kept the gold from the Mexicans and their church in Rome. They already have enough treasures that they plundered from the Indians. Now it's time for the common man to succeed as our nation expands to the mighty Pacific Ocean. It's time for them to take the gold that awaits them in California. It's progress. It's our destiny. Spain took California from the Indians, and then Mexico took it away from Spain. And now President Polk and our armies have taken it from Mexico! And remember that it was the President himself who said the stories from California are to be believed because genuine reports about the strike from public officers have been sent directly to him. Perhaps the gold there will even exceed that gathered by King Solomon himself from the mines of Ophir!" The reverend drenched two handkerchiefs with sweat that morning instead of his usual one.

Thomas shook the pastor's hand especially hard at the church's door after the service. "Thank you, pastor. Thank you. You are an answer to prayer. Your words have inspired me. Now I'm sure I should go to California. I believe that the Lord spoke to me through you this morning."

"Uhhh..." He had meant his sermon in only a general way, with no intent of losing members who took it too seriously. "But Thomas, I don't think you should..." He gazed mournfully at Harriet. She glowered back at him. That morning was the first time that Harriet did not shake his extended hand.

Thomas was oblivious to the turmoil between the reverend and Harriet. "When I return I will have enough money to help you build the big new church you always talk of."

"Yes, yes, of course." From long, bitter experience the old pastor knew that it was useless trying to dissuade any who made plans that included the work of the Lord.

Thomas summarized those plans over his favorite Sunday dinner of Sauerkraut, Snitzel, and Pom Frittes or as Harriet called it: sour cabbage, breaded pork, and fried potatoes. His calculations were that it would take only five or six weeks total by steamship to Central America, then overland to the Pacific Ocean, and finally on to San Francisco by one of the many ships that stopped at the ports on the west side of Central America. He calculated that to travel the 4,000 or more miles by the circuitous overland route would take far longer.

"From what I've heard, it's at least five months to travel from Missouri to California, sometimes even longer. And it's probably at least two weeks for me to get from here to Missouri. The worst part is that the wagon trains don't leave until late April or May so the soonest I would be in California would be October. I can't wait that long."

"If you got there at all. I won't let you go by land. The Indians or disease will kill you on the prairie. I've read about what it's really like."

"That's why I'm going by steamship. I won't have to buy a wagon and horses to pull it and all the supplies for such a long trip. There are no dangers on a steamship. It'll be like when I first came to America except instead of a sailing ship I'll go by steamship. So much better and so much faster."

Thomas' distant gaze alerted Harriet that she was losing him to his dream. "And how are you going to buy the ticket?" Her pale green eyes narrowed.

"You know your father offered to buy us a farm near his. I'm sure he will give me the money instead to go to California. I will even pay him back after I am rich. With interest."

Harriet now wished that she had seconded her father's offer, which had been made at her wedding. Instead she had succumbed to the lure of what New York offered.

"I think we should tell Father and Mother we have changed our minds and want a farm near them after all." Even the harsh winters of upstate New York and the painful life as a farmer's wife were preferable to an absent husband 3,000 miles away scrounging for gold with thousands of other fools. Thomas had been in favor of accepting his father-in-law's offer on his wedding day two years ago. By then Thomas had already longed for an escape from his job and the crowded city.

No matter. That is all water under the bridge now. He continued to daydream of picking up gold nuggets from California's rivers. This time there was no doubt about becoming wealthy. Even his pastor and the President had said as much. He had let his wife decide their fate once. Now it was his turn.

"No matter. It is too late. I already sent a telegram to your father. Here is his answer. I wasn't going to show it to you until you agreed but since you are always so stubborn..." He handed the paper from his pocket to her. Her cheeks flushed as she read it:

Will finance your trip on one condition. Harriet and Helen must move here to be with us while you are gone. Reply soon.

Mr. Theodore Mills

"But Father does not have enough money for you."

"I only asked for $1,000. The farm he wanted to buy us cost more than that. The steamship ticket is only $90. To get across the narrow part of Central America will take no more than $30 I've been told. And the last part from there to San Francisco should only be another $50 or so. I'll have plenty of money left for food and supplies until I find enough gold to buy anything we want for the rest of our lives. If it makes you feel any better I've written and asked Rudolph to accompany me. I should hear back from him soon."

"Rudolph!"

Harriet had witnessed the drunken best man dancing wildly at her wedding and then endured a visit from him last year. The tomfoolery that ignited between Rudolph and Thomas frightened her. Her hopes of Thomas at least returning home in one piece continued to fade away. With Rudolph at his side, Thomas would either die or fail, she feared. She was not sure which would be worse.

# 11

xxRudolph's answer arrived a week later:

Dear Thomas:

I have already joined a company here in Elmira to travel to California for our share of the gold. When I asked if I could invite you to join our company I was told no. They say that people from New York City are too soft for such a journey. I know that is not true of you.

We leave sometime in spring and are making our final plans at our next meeting. From the newspaper stories I have read, it takes many months to get there. I pray we are not like the Donner Party by becoming cannibals and stuck in the mountains in winter. I plan to spend Christmas in Sacramento. Look for me at the hotel on Front Street. It was advertised in a Sacramento paper sent to our company.

Rudolph

p.s. I could not have gone by ship to the gold. Even thinking of the sea makes my stomach ache. When my wife objected to me going to California I told her that it she could get me to stand on a hill waiting for Jesus to return, then I should be able to do what I want to now. Why does Harriet also object to your getting rich? What is wrong with our wives? Don't they know we are doing this for them?

Afflicted with the same gold fever that infected Thomas, Rudolph and dozens of others had formed a company in October 1848 in Elmira. For the first three months the 73 members met weekly to drill and form a plan. A set of much discussed by-laws was approved by the remaining 62 members in January 1849:

1. Each member will receive an equal share.

2. If a member dies after gold has been found his share up to that point in time will be used to bury him. All of his remaining share will be sent to any survivors he has named.

3. Any member who is found to be lazy or a coward can be voted out of the company by a majority vote. Such a member forfeits his share in total.

4. Any member who decides to leave the company after gold is found and before the company has dissolved will only receive a half-share of what has been found up to that point in time.

5. The company is not liable for any injuries, wounds, or death suffered by any member. All such occasions are the responsibility of the individual members and not the company.

They also decided to begin their trek from Elmira in the third week of April and travel by wagons to Pittsburgh and then take the horses and wagons by riverboats down the Ohio, Mississippi, and Missouri rivers. Independence, Missouri, the most popular starting point for wagon trains headed to Oregon and California, was also chosen. The committee formed to find a guide for their trek found only one candidate, a mountain man called Dan Beaverman. The company's president introduced him at the next meeting.

"Men, this here is Dan Beaverman. He made a trip by wagon train to Oregon in 1845 and then trapped furs in the Rockies before returning to Elmira to visit his aging kin folks."

"Beaverman? What kind of name is that? I heard tell you mountain men are part animal! Show us yer front teeth and beaver tail!" The member most given to heckling during meetings tested the candidate. More polite members told him to shut up.

A bearded, grizzled, buckskin clad man rose from his seat, removed his beaver skin hat and faced the crowd. "I don't use my birth surname no more. Dan is my birth name. Beaverman is what the injuns calls me because I trapped so many beavers. Just so I don't be wasting yer time about whether you wants me to take you to Californy let me tell you that there has to be three little changes made 'fore I agrees to do it. First off you add this to yer by-laws: 'Whatever the guide says goes.' I ain't about to git myself kilt because a bunch of green tenderfoots decides to do what's not best. Second, your itinerary is all wrong. You need to be heading out of here in March instead of April. Otherwise you could end up like the Donner Party. Third, horses ain't a good choice to pull wagons. They need feed in addition to the grass they eats. Feed weighs a lot. So they be pulling too much weight, which only makes them eat more feed. It's what folks call a vicious circle. Now, back to when's best for leaving. Believe me, boys. You're better off facing a possible late winter while traveling here back East than facing a possible early winter trying to dig through snow twenty foot deep in the Sierras." The weather-beaten man sat back down.

The would-be prospectors absorbed his words in silence until one yelled out. "I move we hire Mr. Beaverman before someone else does."

A chorus of "I second the motion" filled the room. The vote was 60 in favor and two opposed. The newly elected guide rose again and thanked them.

"Let's go to the saloon to celebrate and buy our guide a drink!" The thirstiest attendee was already at the door.

Most nodded in agreement. Others headed to the door only to be stopped by their new guide's raspy voice and upraised arms.

"Hate to spoil your fun, boys, but we're running out of time. March'll be here in two months. We got to get ready and pronto."

All returned to their seats.

"First off, you want to go by wagon or pack train? You know, by using oxen or mules to git all of you there in one piece."

"Which is faster?"

"Well, you'll save a month using a pack train but it's hard work. And mules cost three times as much as an ox. But with mules you save on the cost of a wagon. But then again you got to load up them mules every single morning and unload 'em at night. And if any of you gits sick or hurt, you git left behind cause there's no wagon to carry you in. If you're lucky maybe some other wagon train might come along and take you aboard 'fore a bushfish bites you, coyotes or wolves eats you, or injuns steal your clothes and boots and you freeze to death. Of course that might be better than going real slow like from what ails you."

"What's a bushfish?"

"A rattlesnake. Lots of them be crawling all over the place all along the trail. They be lowdown and sneaky. If you can hear their rattles a rattlin' then it's probably too late for you. Better say your prayers. They be good eating if'n you're hungry but their bite has poison in it that'll put you six feet under."

A murmur spread through the crowd.

"Sounds like you likes wagons better. Good choice. I knew you fellers were smarter than you looks, though sometimes I wonder. Now to get a wagon and livestock to pull it and supplies to put in it will run about $450 fer each of you."

"But I can't raise that much."

"Don't you worry yerself none. If you only packs what I tells you, two of you can share a wagon. You need another $100 or so for ferry tolls and what you buys at the forts and Salt Lake City. I charge $10 per wagon to guide you. That's the going rate so I thinks it's fair."

"Can we bring our wives along?"

Dan pulled a well-worn book from his coat's pocket and flipped through its pages. "This here is called Guide to Oregon and California. An expert wrote it a few years back. This is what it says about womenfolk on the trail: Your mama, sisters, wives, and daughters can't help you out none on the trail. You gots to drive stock through every kind of weather, over mountains, deserts, and rivers while you're on foot gitting blisters. There's snakes, bugs, injuns, bears, coyotes, wolves, buffalo stampedes, and all sorts of disease." Dan paraphrased what he read to drive home his point. "Now I knows you loves your wives and all but you can't be bringing them along. All the experts say so. You can read it for yourself if you want." Dan handed it to the one who had asked the question.

"So we'll be bringing a stove, the tools to dig the gold, and tents, then?"

"Only if you want to end up tossing out most of it by the trail. Listen, it's more than 2,000 miles or thereabouts from the Missouri River to the gold fields. You haul too much stuff along with you and yer animals give out and fall over and die on you for sure. I saw lots of dead stock along the trail when I came back here last summer. They give out and you're left with only the food you can carry on yer back. You can buy all your gold digging tools once you git there. Only bring the tools you need to repair the wagons with. And no water barrels. They're ox killers. The water plumb weighs way too much. Bring two changes of clothes, two guns and lots of powder and caps. Or bullets if you got one of them new fangled kind of guns. I been thinking of getting me one. And 250 pounds of food per man."

"But I've heard that the other wagon trains are taking at least 300 pounds of food for each person."

"And leaving some of it on the trail to rot. We got to travel light as possible. That reminds me. Each one of you bring at least one box or suitcase full to the top of newspapers and as much silverware as you can wrangle. They don't weigh much but be worth their weight in gold out on the trail, boys."

Many in the crowd stared quizzically at the guide.

"Folks at the forts and Salt Lake are starving for news from back east. You can trade the papers for fresh grub instead of the usual salt pork, stinky dried up beef, biscuits, beans, and coffee you'll be eatin' on the trail all the time. The silverware is to trade with the injuns. They'll give you fish, duck, geese, deer, or buffalo meat for a spoon or fork. Nothing tastes better than fresh game when you're walking the trail." He smacked his lips.

"Can't we buy the silverware before we leave Independence?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell ye. We'll be leaving from Kanesville, not Independence."

"Why?"

The entire gathering squeezed toward a sidewall on which hung a map of North America. One man pointed, first at Independence, Missouri, and then Kanesville, Iowa. Within three years Kanesville would be renamed as Council Bluffs.

"But it's a lot farther north if we start way up there."

"Which only means that there'll be a whole lot less people." Dan winked. "If we leave from Kanesville and travel on the north side of the Platte River we'll have less wagon trains always trying to get ahead of us. On my way back from the Rockies last summer I saw maybe a couple thousand people heading west on the trail. This year there'll be ten times as many I reckon, on account of the gold strike."

His estimate for 1848 was fairly accurate. In that year about 400 souls successfully traveled the California trail, while many more went to Oregon. By the end of 1849 over 25,000 would head west by wagon to California. The following year about 44,000 would travel on the trail.

"Besides if we leave from Independence there's five or six more river crossings and three or four more if we leave from St. Joe," Dan said. "Look, boys. I'm only trying to make it easier on you. People and livestock drown while crossing water sometimes, especially if they ain't never learnt how to swim."

One by one the members' objections, fears, and reservations were met; their questions answered. A half hour later the guide announced his immediate need. "All this talking has me as dry as noontime on the trail on the Fourth of July. How's about that drink?"

At the next meeting it was decided that the company would leave Elmira on March 28 so that they could meet Dan in Kanesville sometime in April. The guide would go on ahead to begin purchasing the wagons and livestock that would take the 62 adventurers westward. Twenty of the company insisted on bringing their own wagons from home. They planned to sell the horses that hauled the wagons on the first leg of the journey in Pittsburgh and then ship the wagons on the riverboats that also would take them to Kanesville. There they would buy oxen. Independent spirits, they also planned to carry a few items that Dan had advised against. Their ringleader, Mr. Smithton, planned to haul more contraband than the other 19 combined. Rudolph was elected to travel with Dan to ensure that the entrusted money would be spent on oxen, wagons, food, and equipment at Kanesville and not gambled away or drunk up on a riverboat.

On February 27, 1849 Dan and Rudolph left by stagecoach and then train to Pittsburgh. They had to wait a week for the ice to melt enough on the Ohio River for the steamboats to start their routes southwestward toward the Mississippi River. It was slow going as the steamboat's pilots dodged the ice flows. By the time they reached Cairo, Illinois and the junction with the much wider Mississippi, warmer weather had eliminated part of the ice. They boarded another steamship headed north and in a few days arrived in St. Louis.

Dan felt obligated to introduce Rudolph to every saloon and dance hall. Anxious to keep moving, Rudolph ended their sightseeing by convincing Dan that the sooner they arrived in Kanesville the better deals they would get on their purchases.

"The prices are sure to go up as more people show up there." He hoped he could convince the lackadaisical guide. "I think it is called demand and supply."

"Huh? Hadn't thought of that. Good thing they picked you to come along, boy. You got the smarts. I got the knowledge. We make a team, huh?"

Next they traveled due west on the Missouri River, which bisected the state of the same name. Rudolph grew increasingly anxious when over half of the ship's passengers disembarked at Independence, the first choice for those heading to Oregon or California. Another large contingent got off two days later in St. Joseph. Here Dan and Rudolph transferred to a smaller riverboat, which was headed still further north up the Missouri. When over half of those passengers went ashore at Old Ft. Kearney, he could contain himself no longer.

"I have heard the passengers talking on every boat we've been on. All the ones who say they are going to California have gotten off at Independence, St. Joseph, and now Old Ft. Kearney. They said the further north you go the more dangerous the Indians are. Others have said only Mormons take the trail from Kanesville."

"So?" Dan ignored his anxiety.

"But are you certain that is the best place to start?"

"Look, son. The Pawnees and Sioux along the first part of the trail we take ain't no worse than the Cheyenne, Shawnee, and Delaware that the wagon trains on the trails out of Independence, St. Joe, and Old Ft. Kearney run into at first. Besides our trail merges with all of them other trails once we get as far as Ft. Laramie. You can swap stories 'bout injuns and such with those you heard gabbing on the steamboats once we git to Ft. Laramie."

"Uhhh.... But won't they all get there before us? They'll all get to the gold first. Our company won't be to Kanesville for another five weeks."

"No one in their right mind starts out on the prairie 'til the spring rains lets up. If they do they git their wagons stuck in mud up to their axles. They'll wear their livestock out in the first 100 miles because the grass won't be high enough to feed 'em."

"But what about the Mormons? They say they are dangerous."

"Boy, you think too much, which makes you worry too much, which makes you talks too much. What about them? The only ones of them I ever met who was hostile was on account of them being run off their land back east. If'n you lets 'em knows you got no beef with 'em they lets you alone, like most folks act. Can't ever figger out how come they wants more than one wife, though. I always had enough trouble with one at a time, whether they be injun or white." Dan saw that his companion still worried. "Look boy, every guide I talked to last summer complained about how crowded the Oregon Trail was. It's only gonna be a whole lot worse off this year. Trust me."

Kanesville was much smaller than Independence but demand had brought in outfitters who imported wagons and livestock to sell to those headed west. In addition the numerous farms surrounding it had farmers who knew that supplying all of the Argonauts would be a steady supplemental income. That income cushioned the uncertainties of trying to make a living on the high prairie land by growing crops that the weather could either sustain or destroy. Dan and Rudolph experienced such weather a month after arriving in Kanesville. The day had started pleasantly enough without a cloud in the sky but by late afternoon dark clouds unloaded chunks of ice that sent both man and beast running for cover. The new growth of the farmers' first plantings was obliterated.

"What is it?" Rudolph yelled over the din of the storm.

"They calls it hail. Be glad we ain't out in the open." Dan hollered. "The big chunks can take yer skin right off."

The two spent their days buying the wagons and five head of oxen for each one. "One's a spare that you ties to the back of the wagon," Dan said. "Most trains take two spares per wagon but you usually don't need both unless you push them so hard one of them dies or the injuns rustles off the stock at night. Ox is slow going but that's a good thing for a company of tenderfoots. I'm going to let your partners buy their own grub. Ain't going to have them howling at me for months and months cause I picked out what they don't like to eat."

By the last week of April the company arrived at Kanesville. Their numbers had now dwindled to 60. One had suffered a case of cold feet at the last minute in Elmira and another had fallen or been pushed, no one was sure of which, off of a steamboat on the Mississippi and drowned after a night of gambling, carousing, and fighting. No one had noticed that he was missing until the following evening. His fellow members held a memorial for him on the steamboat's deck.

"He just would've bin a heap of trouble on the trail, anyway." Dan shrugged and shook his head when he heard the news.

# 12

Then blow, ye breezes blow

We're off to Californio

There's plenty of gold

So I've been told

On the banks of the Sacramento

Dominic led the singing of the ditty that many of the Argonauts traveling by sea sang as their vessels pulled away from the docks of New York City. He had arranged a farewell party for Thomas, something that he came to regret as James used the occasion to announce his intention of going with Thomas to California.

"But haven't I been good to you?" Dominic shed a tear. "Stay and I will pay you more."

"Yes, sir. You been good to me all right. But it ain't the money. It only be a matter of time before the North be fighting the South 'cause the abolition peoples and slave owner peoples never ever going to see eye to eye. I figger the best place to be is as far away as I can go. You can't git much further away than California."

After coming to New York Dominic had gone into business as a middleman helping immigrants to get work. He learned about the businesses that needed cheap labor and became adept at finding who the employers needed – whether men, women, or children. In a couple of years he owned a mansion similar to the one that he had predicted he would. At first James had enjoyed bossing the other servants from the comforts of the mansion but he gradually tired of it. In secret he had begun saving to one day go where the grass was greener, wherever that might take him. An opportunity came unexpectedly. He had sought out Thomas four days before the party and convinced him that "two are better than one" when it came to finding one's fortune. Thomas agreed mostly because James had treated him kindly during his years as an indentured servant. Besides, he needed James' vast knowledge of Americans' behavior if he was going off to such a mystical place as California. Who knew how they might act there? Having James along would surely result in an even greater fortune.

During the party Thomas sat next to one of Dominic's cousins, who was one of the extended family of 23 that Dominic had helped to bring to New York. He enjoyed Thomas' company.

"America good, yes?" The cousin toasted Thomas with the choice wine Dominic had brought up from his wine cellar. "Back in old country we Jews like donkey dung to Gentiles. Here we live better. Here we like donkeys, not dung."

The merriment continued as the party accompanied James and Thomas to their steamship. As it pulled away from the waving and cheering throng on the pier James scanned the city's buildings. His waves seemed to be more adamant than Thomas'.

"Better look real hard, boss. Might be the last time we ever sees that big ole city."

"I'll come back a rich man, James. So will you."

The March weather stayed calm until they reached Havana to take on wood and other supplies for the rest of the journey. Tropical storms buffeted the steamship the rest of the way to Nicaragua. Remembering the often-rancid tasteless food that he had endured while crossing the Atlantic ten years earlier, Thomas had brought along 20 pounds of beef jerky and a suitcase filled with Harriet's biscuits, which he shared with James when he could no longer stomach the ship's cuisine.

"Sure nuff we not be traveling no first class. The food is too nasty. Make you sick." James commented as they peered at the approaching coastline of Central America.

"Be thankful we aren't going around the Cape. That way takes as long as five to eight months."

"How long you think going this way take?"

"Only a little more longer than a month. We'll be finding gold in no time. What is that you've been reading?" Thomas pointed at the open pages of a publication that James held.

James folded the magazine. "The Gold Bug by a feller called Edgar Allen Poe. It be about finding treasure and such, like us."

Once ashore in Nicaragua they located a man who promised to get them to the Pacific Ocean side of the country faster than anyone else. This part of the journey alternated between mule and canoe. Along the way nine of their party of 24, including Thomas, caught malaria. The nearest available quinine was only to be found in the coastal cities. James recalled a folk remedy for the disease that he had seen used by the Seminole during his time in Florida. After much coaxing and the handing over of his buckskin knife, James convinced their Indian guide to have the next medicine man that they encountered treat the feverish Thomas. Four of the party died during the trip after they caught dysentery in addition to their malaria.

A seemingly worse situation awaited the survivors once the pure blue water of the Pacific came into view. The gold rush had swelled the population of the ports along the western side of Central America as thousands waited for ships to take them north to the gold fields. Three weeks passed before the now mostly recovered Thomas and James boarded a whaling ship whose owner knew that there was more money to be had by ferrying gold seekers than hunting down the huge mammals. With stories of desperate fortune hunters paying as much as $1,000 to sail on to San Francisco commonplace, James and Thomas felt fortunate to pay only $450 each, the lowest fare to be found that offered shelter from the elements.

For the remainder of the trip the menu was a hash of salt pork, onions, and potatoes, or fried pork or mushy ham. All of it was fried in whale oil. The drinking water tasted bitter. The sleeping accommodations for Thomas and James were on the floor below deck. Only the highest paying passengers slept on a bunk with a thin mattress. The lowest paying passengers slept up on deck and were exposed to sun, wind, cold nights, rain, and occasional waves that drenched them.

When they stopped in Los Angeles, Thomas felt a strange tugging at his soul. It reminded him of similar feelings as a lad while studying maps of America. He dismissed the sensation as being the result of his and every other passenger's desire to be off of the vessel that was never intended to transport people but instead whale blubber, which would become oil to light lamps. The odor of the fat and blood of hundreds of slaughtered whales had penetrated much of the ship. It was that smell that had caused Thomas to disembark.

Thomas studied the small community as he walked on shore during the ship's three-hour stay there to take on water, food, and passengers. This place has nothing at all for me. Look how small it is. Only if it had gold would I consider it.

As they pulled into San Francisco Bay during the last week of May an eerie sight of what appeared to be a ghost fleet greeted the anxious passengers. Dozens of ships of every kind and size stood at anchor, all of them abandoned. A few seemed to be in good condition, others had begun to list or been stripped of usable lumber, which was almost as valuable as gold due to San Francisco's frequent fires. The sails were in tatters on those that had been abandoned the year before.

"But where are their crews?" Thomas asked a nearby deckhand.

"Off digging gold. They all jump ship once they get here."

"They desert their ships? Why don't the captains send the police after them? I thought desertion is a crime."

"Fat chance, sir. Even the army and police have deserters that ran off looking for gold here in California. You best be sure to get yourself out of here as quick as you can."

"Why?"

"If you stay anywhere's near the water you're likely to be shanghaied and forced to be on a ship's crew against yer will. That's what happened to me last month. This is my first and last journey from San Francisco to Nicaragua and back again. Soon as the captain turns his back I'm going over the side. Maybe I'll see you up in the diggings, mate. Good hunting. I only hope there's gold left by the time we get up there."

After going ashore Thomas bought a few newspapers to determine where the best destination in the gold fields might be. One paper that he read contained an obituary for the publication itself due to the now almost nonexistent readership in the mostly abandoned city. The frustrated editor wrote:

The whole country from San Francisco to Los Angeles, and from the sea shore to the base of the Sierra Nevadas, resounds with the sordid cry of "gold! Gold, GOLD!" while the field is left half planted, the house half built, and everything neglected but the manufacture of shovels and pickaxes.

# 13

Two thousand miles to the east Dan Beaverman had faced a similar problem of desertion. Late spring rains had delayed the company's start. An ever-increasing contingent was calling for the firing of him and joining one of the wagon trains that had been departing daily for the last week. One company member had even quit his companions and joined another wagon train three days prior.

He was the most bullheaded of the lot so Dan did nothing to stop his leaving. That one's wagon was filled with about 1400 pounds of provisions, most of it mining equipment that the guide had warned them not to bring. The rest was 500 pounds of food instead of the recommended 250 pounds. More of a businessman than miner, this impatient deserter calculated that he could sell the equipment once in California and get rich even if he never found a single gold nugget. He had not yet decided if he would grant discounts to members of his former company.

The wagons that the Elmira Company's members now depended on to carry them thousands of miles varied greatly. Those who had shipped wagons from home possessed the larger type found on farms in that part of New York. Once delivered to Kanesville, they had to be fitted with metal ribs that supported the white canvas to cover the beds. The wagons purchased in Kanesville by those who had heeded Dan's advice were smaller, weighed less, sat lower to the ground and were much easier for the oxen to pull. They came equipped with the covering canvas.

Regardless of size all of the wagons were built of wood, usually hardwood such as maple or oak. The sides of the wagons rose about a foot and a half to two feet above the flat bed. The wheels' wooden spokes numbered from 12 to 14. They ran from a metal hub encased in a wooden ring outward to thick bent curved slats that formed the outer wheel. A metal rail covered the wooden outer wheel. Thick axles connected the wheels. The wheels' metal rails often lasted the duration of the trail, the wooden components rarely did. Rocks, ruts and holes in the dirt trails, river and stream crossings, and the stress applied to the locked wheels as they skidded down steep hills all combined to splinter and break the parts made of wood. Much time would be spent on making repairs. Fortunately, at times parts could be scavenged from wagons along the trail that had been abandoned after they had proved to be not repairable. Those who performed routine maintenance, such as greasing the hubs of the wagon wheels and examining the axles and wheels for damage before a breakdown occurred, had a much easier trip.

The two teams of oxen were connected to a long wooden tongue that jutted from the front axle. Even though the wagons came with a board that served as a seat big enough to seat two comfortably, it rarely was used. The driver walking alongside the lead team would guide the oxen as he called out commands to them, thus sparing the beasts from the extra weight of any riders. As the miles wore on any extra weight could prove deadly to the faithful animals.

With everything and everyone but Dan ready to roll, the men grew increasingly restless with each passing day. They were given to action. The long delay only made them worry and fret over whether they had hired the wrong guide. That the company had at least already forded the Missouri River by ferry did little to quell the rebellion. The only happy souls seemed to be the oxen and horses that spent their days contentedly grazing on the lush fields of grass along the river's western banks. The extra fat that they put on would serve them well as grass became scarcer along the trail. As far as they were concerned, they could remain there for the rest of their days. They pitied their kind who departed daily pulling heavily laden wagons down muddy trails.

Being able to lodge in any of the abandoned dwellings built by the Mormons who had wintered there in 1847 while Brigham Young and his advance party went on ahead to find their Zion in the wilderness did nothing for the morale of the company's members. Young had assumed command of the Mormons after founder Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were murdered in 1844. They were being held on charges of treason in an Illinois jail when a mob had broken in and shot both to death.

The constant reminders of death did not help the company's morale either. The nearby cemetery with its hundreds of Mormon departed who had been felled by disease, weather, and starvation served as a warning of what lay ahead on the trail. Finally, almost as weary as Moses had been while leading a much larger horde of ungrateful souls through the wilderness, Dan at last declared it was time to start. The increased hunting parties of the local Potawaname and Omaha Indians were one sign for him. Dan knew that the natives could predict the weather much better than the settlers and that any hunter preferred to track game under sunny skies. There was a second sign.

"Why now?" Rudolph asked him.

"Well last night at sundown the sky was red. You know what they say:

Red sky at night, sailor's delight

Red sky at morning, sailors take warning

It should be good weather for at least a day or two. That will dry out at least some of the mud for us. Plus enough wagons left in the last week to pack down at least part of the mud. And we'll know where the mud's still too deep by the wagons they left behind stuck in it."

So in mid May 1849 the band of New Yorkers and their guide joined the rush west. Their party of 60 men, 10 horses, and 205 oxen waved, whinnied, and mooed goodbye to the late arriving wagon trains which were floating across the river by ferry. All of the Elmira company felt the excitement that comes from setting foot into the unknown with the promise of riches as a reward for their boldness.

By the third day on the trail the amount of waste, both animal and human, was common enough to create a smell that made pulling off of the trail at least several hundred yards to camp each night a necessity. The number of humans and their livestock combined accounted for over 100,000 in 1849 on the trails west. This ensured that the stench remained even weeks after the last wagon had pressed on westward. Only the swarms of flies did not mind. Rotting dead livestock added to the misery.

The route along the north of the Platte River was dubbed the Mormon Trail; the one to the south of the Platte was called the Oregon Trail. As the first couple of waves of Mormons had traveled the trail named for them work crews were always in advance leveling and shoring up the road as needed, removing rocks, and even building bridges when possible. All who followed greatly benefited from their labor.

Many of those hostile to the Mormons had refused to do business with them as they journeyed to the Missouri River. This resulted in a shortage of wagons for the Latter Day Saints still on the trail to Salt Lake City. Constructing handcarts pulled by men and pushed by women and children solved that problem. They were so devoted to their cause and anxious to flee the hostile Gentiles whom they had endured in the east that the fastest of those with handcarts covered up to 30 miles on good days. Horse-drawn wagons usually averaged 25 miles daily, ox-drawn wagons about 20 miles.

By the fourth day of travel the trailside graves started to appear. Most of those buried in them had died from cholera, malaria, and dysentery. Others died from sheer exhaustion caused by constant exposure to scorching days, clouds of choking dust kicked up by the wagons and hooves of livestock, cold nights, and drenching rainfall. This was especially true for those whose journey by wagon had started further east than the Missouri River. On the sixth day the party came upon a wretch who looked to be well on his way to joining those who were already in the ground. The one who had deserted the company a week earlier had in turn been deserted by the wagon train that he had joined. His overloaded wagon had become mired in mud up to its axles.

"Thank God you're here!" He waved his arms until the lead wagon pulled to a stop.

Dan Beaverman had already ignored the pitiful know-it-all and ridden past him without a word. Luckily for the abandoned one, his former compatriots had been on the move since before sunup and had already gone a respectable 13 miles. Now that it was close enough to midday the kindest among them were able to convince Dan that it was a good time for nooning, when two hours or more would be spent for the day's largest meal. Grass, water, and rest awaited the stock. The guide reluctantly agreed. He feared that he would never hear the end of it if did not let his charges at least partially decide the wayward one's fate. After the livestock had been unhitched to graze, Dan came to the point.

"Okay, boys, let's git it over with. First off you all votes on whether we help the poor fool out. If you votes yes then I gits to set the terms for him to rejoin our party."

Those who had pleaded with Dan breathed a sigh of relief. They had feared that he would ignore their pleas for mercy. The rest of the company either nodded or shrugged, depending on their interest in the drama that they were drawn into. All the while the outcast paced nervously around and around his immobile wagon. The vote was 41 to 18 to allow him back into the fold. Those who had known him the longest and had built up sufficient defenses against his selfishness tended to vote yes. Those not yet immune to his parasitic ways tended to vote no. Dan then called him over and set down the terms for his rejoining the company.

"All right, Mr. Smithton. You might be the richest one of this here party but you are also the luckiest and the dumbest all at the same time."

"Why, thank you." Broken, the miscreant never again questioned what Dan said, at least until they got to Ft. Laramie.

"Here's the deal. Your compadres done went and voted you back in. Why is beyond me. Now it's my job to git all of you tenderfeet to Californy less some of you decides to join another train, turn around and head back home, or up and die on me. To be successful we can't be hurtin' both ourselves and the stock pullin' you out of the mud. We got to do it as easy as possible and only this one time and never again."

"Yes, sir."

"So's first off, throw off all the mining equipment you brought along and then break out the meat you got in there. We'll feast on that today and tomorrow to celebrate that there's still 61 of us alive and well. Usually there's at least a few that don't make it through the first week."

At first Smithton balked at sharing food and jettisoning his precious cargo. But when Dan pointed at the vultures circling over a dead horse further up the trail and then walked over to the wagon and pulled out a choice cut of beef that was covered with maggots, he relented. While five of the men cooked the first meat that they had seen in a week the rest went to work unceremoniously tossing the mining equipment by the wayside. They then dug out the wagon's wheels from the half-hardened mud. It took only four oxen to pull it free.

Dan allowed camp to be made early that night, an hour before nightfall. "This'll be a good spot to rest on up tomorrow." He informed them. "It'll be Sunday."

"But I always thought the wagon trains traveled seven days a week."

"Some does, others don't. What I noticed is the ones who rest up a day a week has stock that be in a lot better shape once they git toward the end of the trail. The ones that don't rest up leaves a lot of dead animals behind. And more dead people, too."

The few that protested about resting that first Sunday did not protest by the second Sunday. They welcomed the break from rising before dawn and not bedding down until after dark on travel days. The hardest working among them never had tested their endurance as it was now. Even building a fire was tiresome. Earlier settlers had long since cut down the few trees that once grew near the trail. This meant that fuel for fires to cook over had to be scrounged from anything made from wood that had been tossed along the trail to lighten the load. Plows, books, tools, wheelbarrows, pianos, beds, bookcases, guns, ammunition, stoves, mattresses, clothes, safes, and anvils were to be found. There was also a seemingly endless supply of buffalo chips for fires. But the chips were scattered far and wide.

Some of those who discarded possessions along the trail still clung to them in their hearts. Their envy was so great that they made sure no one else would benefit from them. One dejected forty-niner wrote about such excess baggage:

"We were compelled to throw away a quantity of iron, steel, trunks, valises, old clothes, and boots, of little value and I may observe here that we subsequently found the road lined with cast-off articles, piles of bacon, flour, wagons, groceries, clothing, and various other articles which had been left, and the waste and destruction of property was enormous. In this the selfish nature of man was plainly exhibited. In many instances the property thus left was rendered useless. We afterwards found sugar on which turpentine had been poured, flour in which salt and dirt had been thrown, and wagons broken in pieces or partially burned, clothing torn to pieces, so that they could not be worn, and a wanton waste made of valuable property, simply because the owners could not use it themselves and were determined that nobody else would."

The first two hunting parties of Lakota Sioux that they had spotted produced panic among the Easterners. They scurried for their weapons and jumped into the wagons awaiting the order to fire. However, Dan knew enough of that tribe's language to ensure that his party's oxen would not be rustled or its pace slowed by overzealous bartering from the Native Americans for about the next hundred miles. He gave them a handful of silverware to seal the deal. During the third week of the company's travel, the trails out of Independence, St. Joseph, and Old Ft. Kearney had merged to the south of Dan's party, which was about 15 miles to the north. With dozens of wagon trains now clogging the single artery of the Oregon Trail, it stretched to ten miles wide at points to accommodate the hundreds of wagons and thousands of two- and four-legged creatures. Pushing west to get there first was their shared goal. The clouds of dust that they produced were visible to those traveling on the less congested Mormon Trail.

"Look at that dust storm!" Rudolph said when it first was sighted. He had become what Dan called his "right-hand man" and was constantly at the guide's side on a horse that Dan had picked out for him from a farm near Kanesville.

Dan chuckled. "That's a manmade dust storm, boy, cause of all the wagon trains down there on the Oregon Trail. Bet yer glad to be up here where the air's cleaner and there ain't near as much of what the stock drops to have to try and step over all day long. I came back east on that Oregon Trail south of here last summer. It smelled a whole lot worse down there than this here trail does."

The landscape was covered with high prairie vegetation such as tall grass and thousands of wildflowers due to the late spring rains. Butterflies, birds, crickets, and grasshoppers flew and jumped everywhere. High above soared the crows, owls, buzzards, and other eaters of dead flesh that feasted on the livestock that fell by the wayside. They had to compete with wolves and coyotes. Because quicksand was hard to spot Dan carefully led the wagons along the tracks of those who had started out earlier. The Platte now in spots had up to a dozen channels that surrounded sandy islands. Swollen streams, sloughs, and rivers that fed into the Platte made them dangerous to ford. The company lost no one – man or beast – while crossing them because its late start had allowed the waters to recede to safer levels.

This was not so for the first one they met who had turned around and was headed back east and home. He had been part of one of the first wagon trains to head into the prairie that year. Only one yoke of oxen pulled a battered wagon with missing parts. When Dan halted the company everyone hurried forward to hear why someone would abandon the trail westward this early.

"What happened partner?" Dan asked.

The weary man sighed. "I give up. I guess my wife was right. She told me not to go. Wish now I'd listened."

"You lose part of your oxen?"

"Yeah. Two of them drowned and I lost most of my possessions and food when we tried to get across a stream that was too high and running too fast. That left me with only these two sorry beasts. But somehow they seem happier now that I turned around. They probably got more sense than anyone headed west."

"Where you headed in particular?"

"Back to my farm in Iowa."

"Did the rest of your train git across the stream?"

"After we waited five days for the water to go down far enough. After they saw what happened to me they all wanted to wait. I was the first one to try. After most of them were across I had had enough time to think it over and decided to quit. Folks in my wagon train were all saying how sorry they was for me but that they couldn't spare any of their food. We plumb left too early. The first couple of weeks we only made five to ten miles a day because the trails were so full of mud. Us always stopping to pull wagons out of the mud wore our oxen and horses out. Us too."

"How many days ahead before we git to that stream?"

"About one. Chances are you might even catch the wagon train I was with once you get across it. Your stock looks to be in a lot better shape than what ours were. There were a bunch of trains backed up there waiting to cross but they'll probably all be across by the time you get there."

Dan's wisdom in delaying their start slowly dawned on the company. He shared more wisdom as the eastbound man prepared to leave.

"Be careful. The injuns sometimes will go after a lone wagon. Easy pickings."

"Oh? Then you mind if I turn around and travel with you until we meet the other two wagons that I saw headed back to Kanesville? I can travel with them even though they're going slower than molasses going uphill in the middle of winter. Don't want to become another set of bleached bones out here."

"Sure. Better for you and them other wagons both."

It was late afternoon before they met the other two wagons heading east. One contained a family that had been bound for Oregon. Its father and husband had died from cholera. The other wagon held two young men who had had their fill of wind, rain, hail, dust, hot days, cold nights, unsavory food, and no girls their age for company. Dan quickly explained to them how three wagons traveling together was safer than one or two.

The usual music and storytelling was absent that evening. Instead Dan and the others asked the eastbound contingent about what lay to the west and their plans.

"Lots of strange rocks ahead. There's Courthouse Rock. Looks like one. We got as fur as Chimney Rock." One of the youths lamented. "Even wrote our names on it. When the cholera started killing off some of us, my friend here and me volunteered to help these poor children and this poor widow woman who lost her husband git back as far as Kanesville. We figger we can sell our wagon and stock there to some other fool and then travel by riverboat on down to New Orleans then take a boat to Panama to git to California. We had enough of traveling by wagon. Going by boat makes more sense, don't it?"

Within a week Rudolph and the others also were writing their names on Chimney Rock. Almost 500 feet tall, the monolith appeared to its viewers as a church steeple, a lightning rod in a haystack, or a funnel turned upside down. After that they entered the sand hill country of Western Nebraska, the most difficult stretch of trail thus far. One such hill had a sign that warned, "Ox killer." Dan ordered a half-day's rest before marching the beasts and wagons up that treacherous slope and a two-hour rest once they made it over the hill and found suitable grazing. The grass was now becoming scarcer, and sometimes miles from the trail. Gone were the beautiful prairie flowers in fields of tall grass.

At Scott's Bluffs the sight of Sioux hunting parties chasing buffalo so inspired Rudolph that he volunteered for the company's two-man hunting party the following morning. Up to this point in the journey the natives had kept the herds of buffalo far off of the trail to discourage the white man from hunting them. They were angered by the habits of those white hunters whose practice was to shoot buffalo, cut off choice pieces of meat, and leave the remainder for the wolves, coyotes, vultures, and insects.

Rudolph and Douglas ventured north before dawn. By 10 a.m. they had found a herd of hundreds of bison quietly grazing. The hunters each felled one of the huge beasts before their shots stampeded the rest of the herd to safety. They were loading the kill, minus the heads, hides, and legs, onto the third horse that they had brought along when a band of 11 Sioux hunters appeared. Its leader pointed at Rudolph and Douglas, then the buffalo meat, then at their rifles, and lastly to himself. The offer of letting the two whites keep the buffalo meat in exchange for the two rifles produced fear on one side and then anger on the other because of the rejection by the buffalo hunters. To teach what they considered trespassers a lesson, the Sioux leveled their bow and arrows at the offenders, grabbed their guns, and forced them at gunpoint to disrobe. Satisfied, the Sioux departed with two more horses, saddles, clothing, boots, and the rifles. They left behind the third horse loaded with the buffalo meat as a token that they bore no hard feelings.

The would-be hunters of the plains did not stumble into their company's new camp until long after dark. A large bonfire ordered by Dan had guided them to where they related their embarrassing misadventure. The two had never been as humiliated.

"Yer lucky they weren't Crow, Apaches, or Comanche. They ain't as friendly as the Sioux," Dan tried to put the incident into perspective. "Then we would've found you without your scalps."

After that Dan severely limited such hunting parties from the company. Two days later, spirits revived when Ft. Laramie came into view. The men welcomed the first sign of civilization in 525 miles; the stock smelled the fresh water and abundant grazing that lay around the fort and picked up their pace. The U.S. Army had bought the fort, which had been built 16 years earlier by fur trappers as a trading post, from an agent of the American Fur Company for $4,000 in June. The transition was complete when three companies of cavalry troopers arrived at the fort that same month.

It was a place to buy food and other items. If one could not find what was desired inside the fort then the large number of Sioux camped around it was another possible source.

The fort itself was not large but nevertheless it was tall and imposing. Its exterior walls towered about 20 feet above the surrounding prairie. The North Platte flowed near one of its walls. The Platte flowed alongside another. They served as moats to dissuade any attackers. Perhaps most impressive to the weary sojourners was the flagpole and huge American flag that flew from it. Over 50 feet tall, the pole and the flag it boasted appeared as a lighthouse of sorts. They could be spotted miles before the fort itself came into focus. The fort served as much of an emotional boost as a physical one. Smiles returned to faces that had worn only frowns for weeks.

Rudolph ventured inside of the fort immediately. Within its walls army troopers, trappers, Sioux, and travelers bound to the west and east traded freely. He was struck by what was available. There were items that he had only dreamed of for weeks. First he bought a meal of fresh warm bread and buttermilk. He could not recall any meal that had been as delicious. It was as if his life now consisted of two parts – that which had taken place before he had headed west from Elmira and what he was now experiencing, a life where every day was different from the last. Next he traded two newspapers for a pair of trousers to replace the one that had been stolen. Even though the news that they contained was months old the soldier who now carefully read them acted as if they had been printed that morning. Outside of the fort Rudolph had a hard time trading silverware for a pair of moccasins to replace his stolen boots. He walked from teepee to teepee without success. Their inhabitants were willing to trade for buffalo meat or hides or other game such as deer but had no moccasins that they were ready to barter. In fact, many of them were barefoot, which seemed most unusual to Rudolph. Little did he know that Mr. Smithton had already tried to corner the market on the comfortable footwear.

Even though Smithton had reluctantly parted with his precious mining equipment hundreds of miles back to rejoin the company, he still had 100 pounds of silverware hidden under his wagon's false bottom. From that stash he had bartered for dozens of pairs of moccasins. One who feared the future; he had overheard someone from another wagon train say that no matter which route was taken westward from Ft. Laramie, there would be long stretches without water. His plan was to trade the moccasins for water as the precious liquid became scarce. Because only the sick or injured were allowed to ride in the wagons to conserve the oxen's strength and the remaining eight horses were only used for hunting or scouting ahead, Smithton calculated that all gladly would trade with him later on down the trail as thin boot soles let the hot earth burn feet and rocks bruised and cut them. He quietly hid his new stash beneath the false bottom.

Others from the company bought liquor, tobacco, food, gunpowder, shot, items of clothing, or hats to replace those lost in windstorms or crossing streams or the Platte to reach the fort. Meanwhile, Dan was trading drinks for information. Trappers who recently had been around Salt Lake City gladly accepted his offer of liquor.

"Good God Almighty! There's thousands of them there Latter Day Saints down there by the Salt Lake. Must be 'cause of all the wives they have." One who had spent the winter trapping in the mountains east of Salt Lake exclaimed. "They already got themselves a city laid out with canals and huge farms everywhere. They be busy as beavers building dams or bees making honey."

"They willing to offer a fair price for food, mules, and such to Gentiles like us?"

"Nope. Old Brigham Young told them to not trade or sell to any that ain't Mormons. Of course if you waits till no one's looking the lukewarm ones are willing to trade or sell. You have to be sneaky about it, is all."

"I see. Thanks for the information."

Dan spent the two-day layover at the fort searching among the Mormons for those who appeared to be the most desperate. Finally, he found one family whose handcart had worn out. Dan offered to let them spread their possessions among his company's wagons for transport in return for them putting in a good word for him when they reached Salt Lake City. A deal was made. As word spread of the newcomers whom Dan had invited to join them, the rest of the company convened a meeting without him. All of their worst fears were vented.

"I tell you, he's a Mormon, too. He'll probably abandon us once we get to Salt Lake for the six wives he has got waiting there."

Dan walked up and joined his independent minded companions. "Something I need to know about, boys?"

Mr. Smithton broke the silence. "Mr. Beaverman, we're concerned on why you want to travel via Salt Lake City. Most of the other wagon trains we talked to are taking Sublette's Cutoff and then heading on to Ft. Hall before heading south to California."

"And a few other trains are taking Hudspeth's Cutoff instead of going north to Ft. Hall." Another member, usually given to silence, spoke. "Either way they miss Salt Lake by at least a hundred miles."

"I tell you what. If you want to pic 'n' mix that's okay with me but you owes me $5 if you leave now or $6.50 if you leave when the trail forks south and west at the Little Sandy. That's about 300 miles or so from here so it be giving you plenty of time to decides."

"What's pic 'n' mix?"

"That's when you leaves one company fer another. Usually starts pretty quick on the trails out of St. Joe and Independence. Always somebody not happy about something or another." He glanced sideways at Smithton, who ignored him. "Now that all the trails are mashed into one for a while and we got Lord only knows how many wagon trains going who knows whichever which way it'll be happening more and more all the time I reckon." Dan turned to go. "And for the record, I ain't no Mormon." He hollered over his shoulder. "The ones I be helping will be our ace in the hole later on. You'll see." He winked, which he always did to show that no offense was taken.

The U.S. Army continued a tradition that the trappers at the fort had established years before by taking a census of those who passed by its gates. It was at Fort Laramie that a number would become "quitters" or "turnarounds" as they decided to reverse course and retrace their steps back east. While there were a few turnarounds from other wagon trains during the layover, none deserted the Elmira company. This caused Dan to boast to the commanding officer of the fort that all under his care were "present and accounted for."

To that the commander replied, "There's a good chance that they will not be all present after the next couple of hundred miles or so. Good luck, Mr. Beaverman and Godspeed."

The rise in elevation had been gradual from Kanesville to Ft. Laramie. After the fort the trail led into the Rockies, an ascent so steep that whatever furniture, tools, stoves, beds, and so on had not already been tossed out now was. Even food was discarded to ensure that the livestock could make the climb. It took the company 11 days to cover the 130 miles from Ft. Laramie to the crossing of the North Fork of the Platte as the trail grew rougher and no more hugged the river's edge. Much time was spent heading up and down hill after hill.

Crossing the North Fork of the Platte was a disaster. With the water too deep and swift to ford, the company turned their wagons into ferries. Two men and eight oxen drowned. Now Dan led only 58 and their Mormon guests. The resulting funerals depressed most of them.

As if in tribute to the recently departed the landscape became even more barren after crossing the swollen river. Now rocks seemed to outnumber the foliage. Gone completely was the prairie grass. In its place grew greasewood and sage, which could at least be used for fires. The occasional mosquitoes on the trail earlier now swarmed everywhere. They made those with the most bites look as if they had the measles, chicken pox, or perhaps a strange disease from the prairie not yet known back east. Then the road turned to sand, further slowing the wagons. The springs near the trail were bitter, sometimes poisonous, as the water contained alkali. Bones and the stench of decaying carcasses and occasional signs warned of which of the pools of water were deadly. The dust also was made of alkali, which seemed to be as thick as fog at times and capable of choking everyone. The relentless sun and lack of water led to mere heat exhaustion and sunburn for the fortunate and heat stroke and death for those not so fortunate. The slow pace made all long for the relative ease that crossing the prairie had been. Worse was yet to come but for now there would be a reprieve.

The company finally reached the Sweetwater River. They rejoiced by its pure non-alkaline water. The trail now paralleled this welcome source of water ever higher into the Rockies. Pines and cedars now grew along both sides of their path. To get to the South Pass they followed the Sweetwater and its valley, which ensured them of drinkable water and grass. The surrounding Rockies' high ridges and peaks provided hours of shade, which had been sorely missing on the flat high plains. The only drawbacks on this stretch of trail were the cold nights that left a sheet of ice on their buckets of water and the stampedes. Many of the wagon trains starting out from Kansas had brought along herds of cattle for food both on the trail and once they reached their destination. The plentiful wolves, bears, snakes, and any Sioux, Crow, or Blackfoot Indians who preferred beef instead of buffalo easily spooked them into running amok.

Four miles past the South Pass at Pacific Springs, the weary travelers from Elmira found the wagon train that had been about two miles ahead of them stopped, even though hours of daylight remained. Music filled the air; the most jubilant were dancing or clapping their hands. When the company had pulled alongside, they wandered into the neighboring train's circled wagons. One of the more excited celebrants grabbed Rudolph's hand and led him to a nearby creek. Rudolph stared blankly.

"Don't you get it, boy? It's flowing west instead of east!" The stranger yelled. "We're at the top of the trail. It's all downhill from here. At least till we get to the Sierras. But by then we'll be in California!"

Because the hordes that had already passed this way had turned the once beautiful springs into a muddy meadow of bad water, Dan urged his company to push on for a better spot to rest, water, and feed their livestock. Pacific Springs was a landmark in more ways than one. Those heading on to Oregon claimed there was a sign at the springs that read "To Oregon" for that trail because its travelers could read. They said a pile of gold-bearing quartz marked the California Trail for those unable to read.

Changes were plentiful on the other side of the Continental Divide. Now there were deer and antelope to hunt; the buffalo range had ended at South Pass. By taking the Mormon Trail the company had avoided the warring Pawnee and Cheyenne who roamed along the Oregon Trail to the south. However, now they would encounter war parties of Sioux and Snake, who at that time were more interested in each other's scalps than the white man's. Remaining neutral became a necessity.

Dan also did not tarry at Pacific Springs because he knew that they were only a day or two from "the parting of the ways" at Little Sandy Creek, the point at which one could head on to Oregon or on to California either via Salt Lake City or by bypassing that city by instead following the Oregon Trail for a stretch. He hoped to get through with that ordeal of decision making by his city slickers as soon as possible. Two days later at nooning time, Dan gathered the company together.

"Well, this here is the turnoff south to Ft. Bridger and then on to Salt Lake City. If you want to pic 'n' mix now's yer chance. There's bound to be wagon trains that'll take the cutoff west that you can hook up with."

Two of the company stepped forward and gave Dan $6.50 each for guiding them this far. They offered their goodbyes and then pulled their wagons out of the long line to join another wagon train that would take them on a route that bypassed Salt Lake City. Dan shrugged as he pocketed the money and told the 56 of the company that remained and the Mormon family traveling with them to move out. Tired of his life as a guide, he longed for a break at Ft. Bridger.

The Mormon husband and father liked to walk along the lead wagon to help Dan whenever necessary. Today the wagon Rudolph helped to guide was first. Its owner had sprained an ankle and lay in its bed. Wagons were rotated daily so that those toward the front did not always have to eat the dust suffered by those further back in the long line. They talked as Rudolph walked alongside and called out to the team of oxen. Now horseless due to the botched hunting trip, he would cover the rest of the way to the goldfields on foot.

"Dan's right to head to Salt Lake, Rudolph."

"You sure, Jim? Or are you saying that because you are Mormon?"

"I'm sure. Your company will be able to eat well and revive your stock there. And reprovision. The wagons heading west by the cutoff have to go more than 235 miles before they reach Ft. Hall. For us it's only 110 miles to Ft. Bridger and then another 120 miles to Salt Lake City. Our route's easier. When you reconnect with the California Trail west of Salt Lake you can talk to those that went the long way around by going west, then north, and then south. I bet they won't be in as near good of shape to get across the Nevada desert to the Sierras."

"But didn't the Donner Party go by way of Salt Lake? Someone told me that's why they got to the Sierras too late."

"That was three years ago. They didn't have a clear-cut trail from Ft. Bridger like we do now."

"How do you know so much about all the trails?"

"I was part of the Mormon Battalion during the war with Mexico. We marched all the way from Kanesville to Ft. Leavenworth and then to Santa Fe. Then we were ordered to cut a wagon trail to California. But the war was over by the time we reached San Diego. After we were mustered out, part of the battalion headed east. The rest of us went north and were working for John Sutter when gold was discovered at his mill. But we missed our families greatly so we found enough gold to outfit us so we could go back to them. We headed over the Sierras to get to Salt Lake. We had to build a road to get our wagons through.'

"You had time to build a road?"

"We had no choice. It was the only way to get the wagons over the Sierras. To clear out the rocks in our way we built fires on them until they cracked into small enough pieces for us to dig out. Usually it took three or four fires to clear a stretch of rock. It's a rough road but I believe it to be better than the trail to the north of it that goes through Donner Pass. We cut our road through the Carson Pass." Jim made cutting motions with his hands. "I have already told Dan about it. It'll save you time crossing the Sierras. That's important. Your company's running a little late. You be careful in the Sierras. Three of our scouts were killed and then put naked into a shallow grave. We gave them a proper burial. We named the place Tragedy Springs for them."

Rudolph gulped. That they had valued family over gold bothered him. He knew that the opposite was true for him. But getting away from a wife whose obsession with the Second Coming had made him miss the chance to own the apple orchard and distillery with Thomas motivated him more than any guilt. I had no choice, he reasoned silently.

"The rest of you made it to Salt Lake in one piece?"

"Yes. We arrived there safely. By the time some of us went on to the Winter Quarters near Kanesville for our families it was too late to travel back to Salt Lake. So we waited until now to bring them there. I believe it was divine providence that my family ended up with your company. It's a relief not to be pulling a handcart. Now I know how oxen and horses feel."

At the Green River a ferry trip run by Mormons cost $7 per team of livestock. The more cautious paid it; others had their oxen swim across. Here the company watched a group of foot weary Argonauts desert the trail for a lengthy river route. They took the lumber from four wagons and built a raft. Their plan was to float it down the Green River to the Colorado River to the eastern border of Southern California.

"It's downstream all the way. Once we get to California, we'll head north to the diggings. This way we don't have to cross the Sierras." One of them detailed their route for Rudolph.

"They'll still have the Mojave Desert to cross by foot." Jim remembered his own crossing of the furnace-like wasteland. "Maybe they'll make it. Hard to say."

At Ft. Bridger Dan reminisced with mountain man Jim Bridger, who asked if being a guide was tougher than being a trapper. Dan pointed toward those of his company whom he feared.

"Depends on who's in yer company." He shrugged. "Seems like it kin be easier dealing with injuns instead of greenhorns and tenderfoots who wants to follow their own ignorant ways of doing things. Seems like they're plain hell-bent to git themselves kilt at times. And me along with them."

Little was bought at Ft. Bridger, as the prices for most items were high. This fort was much smaller than Ft. Laramie, only a few log cabins and a makeshift fence, and the number who tarried there on layovers was also less. Mountain man Jim Bridger and trader Louis Vasquez had built it in 1841. The fields of grass and many streams surrounding the fort provided better for the livestock than what the outpost provided for the humans passing that way. What was considered essential was purchased: tobacco and liquor for some, food and clothing for others.

As was the case with most mountain men Bridger could spin tales or give advice that needed to be taken with a grain of salt. One of his favorite stories concerned the time that he claimed 1,000 fierce Cheyenne warriors were pursuing him. He would say that he arrived at a cliff's ledge with no chance of escape and then dramatically pause the tale. When asked what happened next, he invariably replied, "They killed me."

When Mormon Prophet Brigham Young had stopped off at Pacific Springs in June 1847 during his trek to find a place to build his Zion, Bridger met him there and convinced him that the land surrounding the Great Salt Lake would be perfect for his holy city and new headquarters. But it was rough going for the Mormons to reach it. Mean spirited Gentiles from Missouri who beat the Mormons to the Green River did not bother to tie up the rafts that they used to ferry across the swollen waters. Because the rafts were swept away the Mormons were delayed while they built new ones. Such delays beset them until they entered the Salt Lake Valley a month after heeding Bridger's advice. For whatever reason Young was not grateful to the mountain man. A feud developed between them to the point that Young in 1853 banned Bridger from trading in Mormon territory. He even sent a posse of the faithful to arrest the mountain man. But for now in 1849 tensions were minimal between Mormons and those Gentiles passing through Salt Lake.

After leaving the fort the Elmira company passed over a 7300-foot summit down to the Bear River, which was 50 feet wide, rapid, and cold. A man had to ride each head of livestock, one at a time, across the Bear to keep them from being swept away. Dan had a huge bonfire going on the other side to warm the shivering ox and horse riders after their ordeal. The plentiful wild berries and grass along the river and fish in it also helped to warm bodies. Dan paused to let all feast and regain their strength. He especially encouraged the company to eat as many berries as possible to fight off scurvy, which had already struck a few whose gums were bleeding. Cholera was no longer as big of a problem on this section of trail, but Rocky Mountain Fever now was.

They then had to ascend another 7200-foot summit before the descent into the Salt Lake valley. Both of the summits surrounding the Bear were slightly higher than the South Pass had been and the thin air made each little step a chore. But this route was watered at many points. The cutoff trail taken by the two pic 'n' mixers who had left the company included a two-day stretch with no water. More importantly, thanks to the thousands of Latter Day Saints who had traversed the road from the Little Sandy to Salt Lake City – the strongest more than once – this stretch of trail was in good repair.

At the valley's edge was a quarantine station that Brigham Young had set up. The doctor there took his time carefully examining each one in the company. He concluded that four had Rocky Mountain Fever; two had malaria, and nine, diarrhea and not the dysentery that they had feared was afflicting them. He surmised that an overindulgence of the berries was to blame for their incontinence and then declared that the ones with Rocky Mountain Fever and malaria could go no further.

"But we can't wait for them to git better!" Dan protested. "Hastings's Cutoff is on the other side of Salt Lake City. What if we took 'em straight through to the cutoff without stopping?"

"Sorry. I have my orders." The doctor shrugged. "You could leave them here with one of your wagons for them to stay in. After you're through with your business in Salt Lake you can come back for them and then head northwest from here to the Salt Lake Cutoff. It'll take you straight to Cathedral Rocks."

Dan studied his map. He had updated it at Ft. Laramie and Ft. Bridger as he had received new information.

"Where's that Salt Lake Cutoff at? Don't see it nowhere on here."

"It's a new route. Only opened up last year." The doctor traced his finger on the map from his quarantine station's location to the spot marked Cathedral Rocks.

Dan quickly used a borrowed pencil to draw the latest addition to his map. He then convened a meeting of the company.

"Well you heard the doc, boys. What he says is law around here. Can't blame the Mormons for keeping sickness and disease from the trail from coming in among them. Here's how it's gonna be. Those of you with the Rocky Mountain Fever and malaria got to stay here in a wagon."

"They can use mine." Smithton volunteered. He feared that there were likely greedy Mormons who certainly would discover his stash of moccasins and steal it. Not a religious man, he secretly hated any who were.

"Okay. The rest of the wagons and oxen who is in good enough shape will go into the city where we'll trade them for mules and food."

"What?"

"I don't want to give up my wagon."

Dan motioned for quiet. "Look, boys. The rest of the trip till the Sierras is all desert. Wagons and oxen will have a really hard go of it from here on out. But if we trade them for mules it'll be a whole lot easier for all of us."

The argument raged on. Dan told of how mules could drink the alkaline water of the desert and eat the cottonwood bark that grew next to the few water sources. Oxen could drink or eat neither one. Gradually he understood that the oxen had become as pets, substitutes for the dogs and cats left at home. The most liked oxen even bore names. Dan made a plea on behalf of the oxen's fate.

"What would you rather see, your poor oxen die slow painful deaths 'cause of no water under the hot blazing merciless desert sun that will cook them alive till they're laying there dead or your mules plod through it with nary a problem? Slow oxen kin mean a lot of you dying off too."

The options silenced those who still remained unconvinced. When the company left for Salt Lake City, they were of one mind to trade for mules. The rapidly spreading city impressed them. While the helpful stayed with Dan to trade the oxen and wagons for mules and food, others brought out their remaining cache of newspapers to barter with the locals for hot meals, hot baths, or other luxuries seldom found on the trail. A handful from the company attended one of the Mormon's worship services. None were converted. Many inwardly questioned the worshipper's focus when they sang this of their leader:

Only so that you closely follow

Your leader Brigham Young

They all had numerous questions for the men afterward about the benefits or downfalls of a life with more than one wife. The Mormon men were more interested in showing off the vast irrigation system that was turning desert into farmland. While talking to one of the Mormon farmers, Rudolph asked why those of his faith were seemingly uninterested in gold. The farmer chuckled.

"You should've seen it. When the first group brought us news of the strike hardly any believed it. But when the second group showed up later on carrying a bunch of gold people went crazy. They started yelling, 'To California – To the Gold of Ophir our brethren have discovered! To California!' Then they hightailed it out of here headed west. The Prophet told them not to go but they were in no mood to listen. Samuel Brannam even has a place out there they call Mormon Island. He went back to California before the gold strike when he couldn't convince the prophet to settle out there instead of here. Now some say he's an apostate for not sending the tithes he collects out there back here to Salt Lake."

Not even Brigham Young's exhortations to the departing faithful that they were bowing the knee to Baal and deserting God's Zion in the desert were enough to dissuade them the farmer said in conclusion. Rudolph wondered why Jim had left this incident untold. Maybe he was trying to convert me. He determined from then on to always talk to more than one adherent of any faith before converting.

As it turned out Dan's insurance policy of helping the Mormon family to travel from Ft. Laramie to Salt Lake City was unnecessary. During 1849 over 10,000 gold seekers would pass through there on their way to California. Contrary to what Dan had been told the Argonauts were able to buy or barter for tools, mules, horses, oxen, wagons, clothing, food, and drink from the Mormons. While Ft. Bridger had been a disappointment and Ft. Laramie a slight taste of civilization, Salt Lake City was as heaven on earth for those who passed through it even if they did not convert. True entrepreneurs, the 5,000 plus Mormons there offered every convenience that was lacking along the trail. There were dances with pretty Mormon girls aplenty. After months of little to no female companionship most of the men were beside themselves. A few carnal ones even decided to convert based on the available women rather than the faith's doctrines. Those weary of sleeping inside of or under wagons could rent a room or even an entire house. Best of all there was food as good or better than what they had tasted back home. Fifty cents bought a large meal.

When the company returned to the quarantine station it had transformed from a wagon train into a mule train. Its sole remaining wagon brought forth a new argument. Dan wanted to barter off the wagon; Smithton would have none of it.

"But we need it for any sick, wounded, or injured. I've heard that the Indians in the desert are much more fierce than the ones on the Plains." Smithton gestured wildly.

"It'll slow us down." Dan again pointed out his number one objection to taking wagons through the desert.

Smithton turned his pleas to the company. "You remember how he told us that mule trains can't carry any sick?" His voice rose. "They all get left behind to die. Mr. Beaverman is more concerned about oxen dying out there in the desert than us dying." He pointed at the over 600 miles of desert that stretched to the west.

The sweat pouring from his face and accompanying wild-eyed gaze drove home his contention. A murmur of agreement swept through the company. Sensing that his continued reasoning was as if he were beating a dead horse, Dan shrugged and walked away.

"All right, all right. You win. Bring the dang wagon if it makes you feel better. Only don't be bellyaching to me when it slows down the mules. You can go whine to Mr. Smarty-pants. It's a good thing we left two extra teams of oxen with you 'cause they were too wore out to go on to Salt Lake. That gives you eight oxen for yer dang wagon. You're gonna need them when they start dropping like flies."

Smithton wiped the sweat from his face with one of the lace handkerchiefs that his wife had embroidered for the trip and smiled in triumph. He had waited many a mile for such a victory over the guide. Sure of himself, he called to his allies to help him bring the oxen to hitch up to the wagon.

I'm holding all of the cards now. Not only do I have the moccasins to trade for water, I have meat on the hoof also. Four of the oxen are mine. So what if they die? I'll sell off the meat to the highest bidder.

The 100-mile Mormon Cutoff ultimately proved to be an easier route than traversing the desert south of the Salt Lake via the Hastings Cutoff would have been. There were creeks along the first part of the Mormon Cutoff, the last being Box Elder Creek. Next was a desolate waterless plain until they rejoined the California Trail at Cathedral Rocks. Here they met wagon trains that had bypassed Salt Lake City by going to Ft. Hall to the north.

"It was terrible." One of their guides told Dan. "Those running Ft. Hall were hoping to buy supplies from us. They were out of just about everything. That made everyone in my train madder than hornets being smoked out of their nests. They've been complaining about how far we went out of the way for nothing. You fare any better at Salt Lake?"

Most of those heading to California that year came to the Nevada Desert sometime between the end of July to the end of August, which was also the hottest time of year to cross it. Waiting for the weather to cool off could mean ending up trapped in the Sierra's heavy winter snowfall. So they pressed on into the desert. Crossing the mountains to Goose Creek, the wagon drivers found that the road was so steep that they attached small trees to them to slow them down. Other drivers locked the rear wheels to slow their descent. The more cautious ones locked all four wheels.

The stretch of trail from Goose Creek to the Humboldt River belied what lay ahead. It even caused the optimistic to remark that the desert was not as bad as they had feared. For the next five days small streams supplied water and grass. Gone were the bear and deer. Only a few antelope and coyotes, lizards, snakes, waterfowl, and rabbits replaced them. Gone also were the tribes earlier encountered. Now there were Shoshones, Ute, Bannocks, and Paiute. All were nicknamed Diggers by those passing through because these tribes would dig up roots for food to survive in the hostile environment.

At the headwaters of the Humboldt River the water was tepid but clear and the abundant grass satisfied the grateful livestock. By now the Digger Indians were stealing horses, mules, cattle, and oxen. The settlers and their livestock had blocked the Diggers from the Humboldt River, which they depended on for water, plants, fish, and animals to survive. Stealing from the invaders appeared to be only fair to the regions' residents. For the next 365 miles of the trail along the Humboldt, the Diggers were a constant irritation to the Argonauts.

The company occasionally was able to bag ducks, rabbits, and sage hens to vary the monotonous meals of beans and corn meal. By now the wagon trains and livestock ahead of the company had trampled or eaten most of the grass along the river. Sand, rock, and sagebrush remained. After the first 80-mile stretch along the Humboldt, they reached Stony Point. Here the water was so alkaline that even the mules did not like it. Dan told the company what to do.

"Look for lizards, snakes, frogs, and any other critters down by the river. That's where the water is good enough to drink."

The trail of dead livestock thickened now. More gruesome were the human skulls and bones that remained from the corpses dug up and eaten by wolves and coyotes. Buzzards devoured whatever they left. There seemed to be more graves everyday. Everyone grew weaker. After coming over 1500 miles their bodies and souls were breaking down and mirages and hallucinations became common. These misinterpretations of reality caused more than a few of them to question their sanity. They were tired of the bland food, the heat, the Diggers, but most of all this monotonous stretch of trail. Then, as if in answer to their grumbling, one day the Humboldt River became the Humboldt Sink, a checkerboard of ponds, meadows, marshes, sloughs, and alkali lakes.

"This must be where the damned make their way to hell." One of the more pessimistic seekers of gold noticed that the surrounding terrain all sloped downward into the sink.

Now came a long stretch of waterless sand, rock, and sparse vegetation. Those who headed across the Forty Mile Desert from the north end of the sink would reach the Truckee River; those who did so from the south end of the sink, the Carson River, if they made it. After much discussion Dan convinced them that they stood a better chance if they traveled to the Carson River and then took the Carson Pass by using the road blazed by the Mormons the year before. The Forty Mile Desert was known to take its toll in lives lost. Numerous wagons were abandoned, livestock left to die, and graves dug for those who succumbed to heat stroke or disease. One of its crossers suggested that the hellish stretch be renamed Vulture Ville because the birds' presence was ensured by the constant supply of dead flesh.

The strategy taken by Dan was to travel straight through it. He estimated that it would take between 20 to 30 hours. Only a few short rest stops were to be allowed. To stop any longer was considered too risky by all whom he had consulted, including Jim, the one who had crossed it from west to east with his fellow Mormons a year ago. In preparation seven containers were filled with water at the sink and loaded into Smithton's wagon. He had only been able to barter six pairs of his moccasins for water thus far but he calculated that the heat of the 40-Mile Desert floor would cause more of the men's feet to blister through the thin leather hole ridden soles of their boots. Then they would gladly make the trade. For him making the deal had become even more desirable than drinking the water for which he traded.

After a day's rest the company left about eight p.m. as the sun dipped below the Sierra to the west. At the halfway mark was Salt Creek. Its waters were deadly. Dan stood guard at the creek, his rifle leveled while he threatened anyone who slowed and headed toward it to drink. The company's remaining six oxen pulled Smithton's wagon and had averaged about two miles an hour till now. They gradually slowed down until after sunup the next morning. Then the road turned to sand and their pace was halved. The company stopped for a 20-minute rest, long enough to give the mules and oxen a drink and a small meal of the grass that had been cut back at the sink.

Then the plodding continued. When the morning temperature climbed to 96 degrees, Dan inspected the oxen. Two had tongues hanging out of their mouths and eyes that appeared to be sunken into their skulls. Their skin was hot, dry, and blistered. Dan halted the company.

"Unhitch these two." He pointed at the most distressed stock.

"But why?" Smithton complained. "They're still moving."

"The other ones are dragging them along." Dan waited as more compliant ones unhitched the suffering beasts and led them behind the wagon.

Dan joined them. He talked softly to them, patted them on their heads, and thanked them for their faithful service. Then he shot each in the head and cursed himself for taking his job as a guide. To him there was nothing worse than animals dying for no reason other than a human's stupidity. As one from the company hitched the remaining oxen to the wagon he grumbled about Smithton's moccasins.

"What'd you say?" Dan interrupted him.

"Just that Smithton here should give some of them to the oxen. Their hooves feel like they're on fire."

"I told you not to tell him about them." Smithton wagged his finger.

"How many pair of moccasins you got left?"

Smithton knew that it was useless to lie. "Three dozen or so, I suppose."

"Let me see 'em."

Smithton removed the wagon's false bottom and Dan studied the stash of the silverware and footwear.

"Let's see, we got four ox left and they got four feet apiece. How many feet is that?"

"Sixteen."

"If we put moccasins on their hooves it'll keep them from burning so much so they kin pick up the pace and git us to water. Give me 16 moccasins."

"But they won't fit."

"I'll make 'em fit." Dan waved his Bowie knife in Smithton's face. "I'll cut 'em along the top and then lace them back up."

Smithton howled. "But that'll ruin them."

"If you don't give 'em over the oxen can't keep up with the mules. Then we're gonna have to leave you behind with yer dang wagon. Then you kin keep company with the oxen while all you dies off, one by one."

Smithton cursed. Then he threw the 16 moccasins at Dan and stomped off to see what cuts of meat he could salvage from the two dead oxen. Once the soft leather was attached to their hooves, the oxen's pain eased and their morale and pace both rose. The rest of the day was filled with mirages, hallucinations, swearing, hysterical laughter, longing glances at the snow on the distant Sierra's peaks, and promises and bargains made with God if He would only help them reach the river.

By nightfall four of the men who had gone ahead on horseback returned with all of the company's canteens full of water from the Carson River. A short rest and the water revived the men and animals enough to endure the last four miles. When the livestock smelled the Carson River they began to outpace all of the men until, at last, all were drinking from it. During their travels through Digger country, the company lost two horses, one mule, and four oxen to the natives' arrows, the unrelenting sun, and bad water.

The first sign of something resembling civilization since Salt Lake City was a group of tents along the Carson River called Rag Town. Some of its inhabitants were honest. The rest were little better than the carnivores that raided the graves along the trail. Card sharks, outlaws, dishonest traders, and others waited to take advantage of the bone-weary westbound trekkers. A handful from the company felt right at home there and spent the last of their money gambling and drinking. Dan knew there would be nothing to collect for his services from them once it was time for him to part company with the Elmira Argonauts.

Dan shrewdly traded with the other wagon trains to get better deals than could be had from the dishonest Rag Town predators. First to go were ten of the mules in exchange for food. Dan next wanted to barter with the wagon and four oxen but Mr. Smithton refused. Having heard of the trials of hauling wagons over the Sierra, Dan tried to reason with him.

"Look. This here company, leastwise what remains of it, is plumb wore out. They ain't gonna push, pull, grunt at, curse at, and die fer yer getting a wagon over the Sierras. If'n you wants to be keeping it so bad, you can pic 'n' mix again, I reckon."

"That I will. Good-bye and good riddance you worthless excuse of a guide."

"Wait a dang minute, you polecat. You owe me $8 for getting you this far."

Smithton cursed as he counted out the money. That was the last any of the company saw of Smithton until he arrived in the gold fields two weeks after they had. By then he was riding his one surviving ox. One of the other three had been rustled away by hungry miners; the other two had died when his wagon tumbled off of a slippery mountain road with turns so sharp that only one pair of oxen could be used on it. Ironically, if he had left the moccasins on their hooves the oxen would have had enough traction to climb the steep grade instead of falling to their deaths.

The company now numbered 55 as they left Rag Town and headed west along the Carson. Then, to their surprise, the trail veered off from the river to enter the Twenty-six Mile Desert. At least the water that they carried across this last stretch of desert was fresh river water instead of the brackish water that they had hauled through the Forty Mile Desert. The trek was also made easier by the absence of Smithton's wagon and worn out oxen. Once again they chose to overcome the barren wasteland in one long haul with only short rest periods. When they got to the Carson Valley with its plentiful watered green meadows, the peaks of the Sierra overpowered the rest of the landscape. The summit they would have to cross dwarfed the previous ones that they had climbed in the Rockies. They would have to climb to almost 10,000 feet before they laid eyes on the western side of the Sierra.

Now there were small game to be shot and fish to catch. They traveled this last easy stretch for two days before reaching the place dubbed The Canyon. The only trail through it included a few simple bridges that had been built by the Mormons. The Canyon was only a five-mile long segment but it seemed to be the longest five miles of the trip. Very narrow and extremely steep, it was full of rocky obstacles, some small that could be moved, others huge immovable boulders. The company's remaining six horses and 37 mules had a much easier time than those who still traveled with wagons. Because of Dan's strategy the company would eventually reach the diggings before every wagon train that had left from Kanesville before it did. Most of them had taken the Donner Pass, which lay to the north. That route was even more treacherous and unforgiving to livestock, be it horse, mule, or oxen. It was in The Canyon that Smithton lost his wagon and two oxen two days after his former company safely had passed through without losing anything.

Next the company reached the Devil's Ladder, an ascent a mile long where slick granite forced oxen to their knees. The company sat and watched as the wagon train ahead of them crawled up the so-called ladder. First the wagons had to be unloaded. Then the goods were packed on the backs of men, women, children, horse, and ox to the top of the steep grade. Finally, chains, block, tackle, and men's muscle and curses aided the exhausted oxen at they pulled the empty wagons to the top of the first pass. If a wheel came off or an axle broke, the broken wagon was pushed off of the narrow trail to the canyon's floor below. With other wagon trains backed up at this bottleneck there was no time for repairs. Dan and his company passed the train that had been ahead of them as its wagons were being reloaded and livestock rested. The more sure-footed mules would pass more than one wagon train on the journey through the Sierra.

Next to be climbed was The Pass, 9,500 feet above the Pacific, which lay about 200 miles due west. Once the company reached this summit they stopped to catch their breath and take in the view, which stretched hundreds of miles in every direction. Then a tiny dot far off downhill caught someone's attention. It was traveling uphill from the west. The company cut short their rest and headed down the steep trail to meet whoever it was that they thought must surely be going the wrong direction. They speculated ever more as the figure drew closer.

"It looks to be a miner, him and his mule."

"If they're coming up this high to get gold maybe we best stop here and start looking for gold right away real quick like before any more of them show up."

"You're right! If we wait too long there won't be any gold left for us."

The shabby looking man of 33 was leading his mule slowly up the steep trail. When the panting stranger was almost abreast of him Dan yelled for the company to break early for nooning. The guide had no idea of where best to lead the company to from this point on; the choices were far too many. His contract called for getting its members as far as Sutter's Fort but that could be changed if a majority agreed to it.

No one grumbled about stopping early. All wanted to hear about the diggings from one with recent firsthand knowledge. Dan introduced himself to the tired and sweating miner as he came alongside and invited him to dinner.

"Dan's the name. How's about dinner with us?"

"Reckon so." The stranger studied the company's members for a moment.

"Didn't quite catch your name."

"Sometimes it might be best to keep that to yourself. Especially when everyone's got gold fever."

As the beans and flatbread cooked over the fire, Dan got to the point at hand.

"So, stranger, what brings you up this high? You're a stone's throw from where you'll be on the east side of the Sierras. Is there gold up this high?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I don't know and I sure as hell don't care no more neither." The miner gobbled down the beef jerky that had been offered to him as an appetizer.

"Well, then why you be up this high for?"

"If you got to know, I'm heading to the east slope of the Sierra. Down near the bottom of course. That's where the rivers and creeks and streams like to deposit the gold."

Some of the company froze, others moved in closer so as to hear his every word. All began to wonder if there had been a new gold strike somewhere near to where they had journeyed for the last two weeks. Dan broke the silence.

"Why? All the gold already gone down there that a way?" He pointed to the west.

"Nope. There's still gold to be had if'n you can git a good enough claim to work on. That's the main problem. There's plumb too many miners back down the hill."

"Uh, how many?"

"Tens of thousands I reckon. Maybe hundreds of thousands. Who knows? From what I been told the whole city of San Francisco went looking for gold. They also be coming from far away as China and Australia and them South American countries. Even met a couple dandified gents from England. They shore talk funny. They even showed up at the diggings still dressed in their fancy duds. Looked like the pictures I seen in a Charles Dickens' book I read once."

Uneasiness descended on the company. The faint-hearted began to wonder if they had risked life and limb only to arrive too late. A braver soul spoke.

"So where were you?"

"Oh, down Monterrey way originally. Sometimes I get to thinking I should've stayed on there. Lot more peaceful than the diggings. I was fishing for a living. I never saw so many different kinds of fish and other sea life a waiting to get caught. There even be lots of crabs and something they calls abalone. Tough as leather. You got to beat it with a hammer or rock to make it tender. But does it ever taste good!"

"You found gold there?"

"Nope. I was minding my own business helping unload the catch for the day when a sailing ship comes into the bay there. Some old sailor is hollering from the deck about gold getting discovered over at Sutter's mill. You should've seen it. Men started running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. All of the ones from my boat hightailed it off the dock and took off for the American River. That left only the captain and me. When we got done unloading the catch he paid me extra cause he didn't even have to pay the other varmints that took off before finishing up."

"So you went to the American River too?"

"Nope. I like to mosey into things sort of slow like. My ma always used to say, 'haste makes waste.' So I gets me a map of California and takes it over to this feller that knows about rocks and such."

"A geologist."

"Yeah. That's what he said he was. So's I asks him what he thinks about gold being found. He says that if it's in the American River then chances are that it's in at least part of the other rivers coming down out of the Sierras. So I figger why go all the way up north to the American? So I head straight east to the San Joaquin River. Didn't find too much gold there. So I go up to the Merced River and do a little bit better. Didn't hit real pay dirt till I headed north even more to the Tuolumne, Stanislaus, and Calaveras, though. There's real diggings in those rivers. Listen boys, the first rule of gold mining is you got to be in the right place at the right time. Otherwise you're a day late and a dollar short. I know firsthand."

"How much did you find?"

The miner laughed as his eyes glazed over. "At first you could pick it out with a knife. We were pulling in four, sometimes five ounces a day. The spring and summer of '48 we was gitting $14 to $15 an ounce, too."

A few of the listeners gasped or jerked their heads backwards; others stared toward the diggings that lay to the west. Back in New York many of them had made in a month what a single ounce could bring.

"Then by last fall the price dropped to $8 to $10 an ounce." The miner moaned.

"Why's that so?" Dan asked.

"Oh, them that thinks they understands such things claimed that when there's a whole lot of something to be had the price for it goes way down. Sort of makes a kind of sense, I guess. They calls it supply and demand."

"But what's it going for now?"

"Did my last trading down there back in Jackson. They give me $14 for an ounce of my poke. Had to sell five ounces to provision myself proper for my trip. Still got a little left in case I need to get something from Rag Town on the other side of the hill." He patted the leather pouch that was hidden in his pocket.

"Could we see the gold?" Rudolph begged. "Please?"

"Sure."

The miner pulled out the pouch and sprinkled half of its contents onto his palm. Two small nuggets, 13 flakes, and a pile of fine dust glinted as the sun's rays struck them. The entire company rushed forward, which left those in the back climbing on the backs of those in front.

"Settle back down, you rascals," Dan ordered. "You're acting like a bunch of piglets fighting for their mama's milk. Make a line over here and you all kin file on by one at a time to drool over what took you 3,000 miles from your nice warm, dry homes and families back in Elmira."

The men obeyed. As they lined up and then moved forward to examine the yellow metal that some of them had sold their souls for, the more curious asked questions, which the miner patiently answered.

"What's worth more, the nuggets or dust or flakes?"

"They be worth the same if'n you be trading for something. But I hear tell that jewelers and collectors be giving more than the going rate per ounce for nuggets."

"How hard is it to get a claim?"

"Getting' harder every day 'cause more miners is always showing up everywhere you go. They're like fleas or ticks on a dog. The new miners are multiplying as fast as a bug does. And they be even bigger bloodsuckers than fleas or ticks."

"How do you know if a claim is good enough to buy?"

"You don't. Sometimes the greedy ones selling a claim salt it."

"What's that?"

"That's where they sprinkles dust around the claim to make it look rich when it's already been played out and picked clean. Saw one varmint salt his claim by shooting gold dust out of his shotgun into it. Worked too. Sold it an hour later, he did, to a yahoo from back east."

"But why didn't you warn the buyer?"

The miner sighed. "If I had the miner might've bushwhacked me the first chance he got. Boys, miners ain't civilized folks. Maybe they once was but once they got gold fever you best be watching your back."

"How much gold did you find since you first got to the diggings?"

"Probably five, six pounds worth, I reckon. All went for food for Alice, and me though. Got to give her a treat like sugar or coffee once in a while to keep her from getting bad tempered." He motioned at his mule, which stood grazing nearby on the scant vegetation.

"But why'd you spend it all on food?"

"So's I wouldn't starve, boy. Mining's hard work. If you don't eat you can't work a claim. Boy, you fellers from back east shore be slow sometimes. That's why I left from there and moved out west here in the first place. Did you all catch some kind of fever that cooked yer brains? Or was it the sun out in the desert that fried them up like an egg in a skillet on a hot wood stove?"

"But surely one ounce of gold would buy you at least a month's worth of food, right?"

The miner rolled his eyes. "Maybe back where you come from. I saw one egg going for a dollar. Flour's been running almost $40 a barrel. Salt pork is $200 a barrel. Sugar is $2 a pound, onions anywhere from two to four bits each; potatoes are around $30 a bushel. If you like to drink tea it's about $4 a pound. That sure made those English gents mighty upset. They had their tea time every afternoon, rain or shine."

The line stopped moving as those in it shouted out their objections.

"That's not possible!"

"No one would pay that much!"

The miner shrugged. "Listen here. You get hungry enough and you'll pay whatever they ask for food. I seen miners even eat their horses or mules when they couldn't find enough gold."

"How much do other kinds of supplies cost?"

"Oh, a new tent can run you $70, blankets are $11, pistols run anywhere from $50 to $75, and boots around $30."

"But I only paid $12 for my pistol back home!" One man cried out as he pulled it from his holster and waved it above his head.

"Old Smithton will make a killing once he gets his moccasins to the diggings!" Another groused, who along with the others was unaware of Smithton's recent disaster at The Canyon.

Dan sensed the dark mood now that the economic reality of what gold mining in the Sierra's foothills entailed had been revealed. That reality bore no resemblance to anything that the newspapers back home had printed. After the line had passed by the miner, the company broke up into small groups. Shouts and curses arose from two groups; shrugs and blank stares from others. Dan brought a plate of beans and bread to hand to the only one who could help him now.

"Look, pardner. I seen the same kind of thing when I was trapping fur in the Rockies. At first it was great. Then more and more folks kept showing up making the injuns madder and madder so I give it up to be a guide. Guess what? Being a guide is even worse than trapping ever was. At least when you're trapping you can move around to git away from those that be wearing you down to death. I been stuck with this bunch for months and months now. I got to leave them in peace or I might not be leaving them at all with the money they promised me. Some of them be down right mean."

"I sort of got that feeling, too."

"I ain't no miner. You are. Trappings what I know best. I need yer help real bad."

"Depends on what you need."

"I'm supposed to deliver these here yahoos down at Sutter's Fort afore they pay me. But I'm a feared after what you been telling them they might not pay me everything or even anything at all."

"I git the picture, friend." The miner nodded. "If I was you I wouldn't take them all the way down to Sutter's Fort. Then they has to backtrack back up to the diggings. Besides his fort got overrun real bad during the first rush. The miners passing through there ruined all of the crops around the fort. There's something about gold fever that makes men lawless and mean and crazy and greedy and wild and evil all at the same time. It's bad enough when a man is only one of those. That's why I'm heading over to the east slope. I've had a bellyful of what I left behind. You can have it. All of it. And any gold you find, too."

"Well where do you think is their best chance to find at least a little gold, then?"

"They won't be finding much of anything till the fall and winter rains wash more gold down from the mountains to the foothills. If I was you I'd either take 'em down to Sonora or Angel's Camp or maybe over to Dry Diggings, some place like that."

"Where about they be at?"

"To get to Sonora or Angel's Camp keep heading southwest from here till you get to Jackson, then you go south."

"Where's Dry Diggings at?"

"To get there you take that trail the Mormons cut last year where it turns off to the northwest a ways down the hill from here. I can draw you a map."

"I'll be needing it. This be my first time to Californy. Furthest west I ever got was to Oregon."

The miner's laughter caused Alice to hee-haw in response. "Your first time here? And you're guiding a whole company of greenhorns? Man alive I always hear tell that you mountain men like to take risks but you plumb takes the cake, friend."

Dan lowered his voice. "Well I been on the Oregon Trail both ways and trapped up and down the Rockies. I figgered that give me the smarts to be a guide. Figgered I'd pick up what I didn't know along the way. Like I'm doing with you now."

"Nothing wrong with that." The miner handed the empty metal pan to Dan. "Got any more of them vittles? Haven't ate since breakfast before sunup this morning. Walking uphill is hard work, you know. It's even harder than mining is."

"Sure thing." Dan fetched another heaping pan of food and brought it back to his guest.

"Which place of the three you told me about you think to be best?"

"Well, I hear they be getting ready to change Dry Diggings name to Hangtown on account of all the hangings they does there. Maybe your boys being city slickers and all would feel more at home where there's at least a little bit of law and order?" The miner continued wolfing down his best meal in days. He motioned with his empty cup for a refill of coffee. Dan obliged him as he again lowered his voice.

"Just between you and me. Has there bin a strike where yer heading now?"

"Finding gold is like playing cards, I guess. You has to take what you is dealt. Ain't no choice. Comes to think of it I guess life be that way too. I think the secret to prospecting is like the secret to any other business. You got to know when to throw in your cards and move on. If there's gonna be any strike where I'm a headed I aim to be the one who finds it first."

Dan arose, stretched his sore muscles, and surveyed the 55 men still under his care. A few sat alone eating dinner. Others sat in pairs as they ate. The rest had forgotten dinner and were still gathered into five groups. One group consisted of the banker, businessmen, and lawyer from the company. A second was made up entirely of farmers; a third, of skilled carpenters, bricklayers, blacksmiths, and the like; a fourth, of the youngest members of the company. It was the fifth group that most concerned Dan. In it were those most given over to drinking, cursing, gambling, grumbling, and fighting. They were louder than the other four groups combined as they passed around what liquor, bought at Rag Town, remained.

"I got a favor I need from ye, real bad."

"First you need help. Now you need a favor. You must be in real big trouble, friend."

"I'll give you $13 if you take these hotheads off my hands and along with you." Dan shoved the money toward him. "It's all I got left. Spent most of it in Salt Lake."

The miner smiled kindly. "Don't ever believe in taking a man's last dollar. Give me $10 and I'll do it." He winked. "I know a trick."

After all had finished eating Dan called the company back together. He explained that based on the advice that he had received from the miner a place called Dry Diggings might be as far as he should take them.

"I hear tell that Sutter's Fort is pert much destroyed by squatters, thieves, and such." He continued his pitch. "Besides if you stops at Dry Diggings it'll save you from having to walk another 50 miles down to Sutter's Fort. If you go all the way to the fort you have to backtrack back up to the gold fields. And they got so much law and order at Dry Diggings they be thinking of changing the name there to Hangtown. You all would fit right in there, seems to me. What do you think?"

This plan seemed acceptable to all but the group of hooligans that Dan hoped to be rid of with the miner's help. Their self-proclaimed leader snorted as a buffalo whose territory has been invaded. His boots dug into the ground as they shuffled back and forth. His fists punched the air.

"Ha! We think you knew all along how bad it was gonna be. I ain't paying no dollar for one egg."

"Now boys. I only bin to Oregon and then trapped the Rockies. This here is my first time to Californy like the rest of you. I had no idea what it'd be like once we got here. I believed what the papers said about the rivers being full of gold."

The miner came to Dan's rescue. "Give Dan a break, boys. He might be a mountain man but he shore ain't no miner. But if he got you this fur least ways he's some kind of guide."

"He ain't neither that much of a guide." The neer do wells' leader jerked his head backward and let out a mocking laugh. "It was him that told us to travel light. We should've brought tents and such from home where they don't be costing a arm and a leg!" He fingered his revolver. That caused Dan to cock his rifle.

The miner stepped in between the two. His boldness and outstretched hands seemed to stop the rising tension. "Tell you what. I could use men to help me work the claims I aim to be settin' up real quick like. But I kin only take five honest hard workingmen along with me. Any more would slow me down too much."

The ringleader turned and counted his companions and then himself. They quickly formed a powwow. The most level headed of the rest of the company immediately shook their heads no as they had no desire to retrace their steps back through The Pass, Devil's Ladder, and The Canyon. Those with less commonsense talked it over among themselves before likewise rejecting the offer. The meanest bully of the company rejoined his conversation with Dan.

"Who needs you?" He sneered at the guide. He turned toward the miner. "Me and my boys makes five so you'll be taking us along to your next big strike. We'll get rich way before these other jackasses ever does." He then drew his gun and glared at everyone. "Any objections?"

Heads shook from side to side. Only a few answered.

"Nope."

"It's all yours."

"Not me."

An hour later the miner handed Dan a detailed map showing their present location, Dry Diggings, Jackson, Angel's Camp, and Sonora. "Just in case you decide to go where it's a mite bit wilder," he explained. "Or maybe your bunch won't like the looks of Dry Diggings. They shore is a temperamental bunch, ain't they?"

"Shore hope I didn't go and burden you too much with those five yahoos." Dan glanced at the ones who were slowly sobering up for their trek back across the Sierra with the miner.

"Don't worry. I seen their type trying to mine before. They'll git tired real quick and probably wander off to Rag Town for the winter. Or maybe they'll try to head back across the Sierras before it snows. Either way some of 'em most likely end up dead. Keep yer powder dry, pardner."

"You do the same." Dan shook the outstretched hand. He concluded that in all of God's creation there was at least one miner as righteous as mountain men were.

The first lake that the company passed during the descent was Silver Lake. Its fish proved to be tasty. By one of the springs that overlooked the lake, they found a huge mound of rocks. The story behind the mound had been carved in a nearby tree the previous summer: "To the memory of Daniel Browett, Ezra H. Allen, and Henderson Cox, who were supposed to have been murdered and buried by Indians on the night of the twenty-seventh of June, A.D. 1848."

"This is the place Jim spoke of," Rudolph whispered. "They were the scouts for the Mormons."

The company's members removed their hats and lowered their heads before moving on to drink from Tragedy Springs. These dead strangers' bravery humbled those gathered by the memorial. They were thankful for the road that the Mormons had built with their sweat and blood. None of the company ever again would fall asleep while on guard duty, as had been their habit on the plains, in the Rockies, and in the deserts. There would be many nights of such duty for those who returned home by land.

# 14

It took James and Thomas six days to travel from San Francisco to Sacramento. Steamboats were not yet plying the Sacramento River, the Delta, and the bays between California's two largest cities. One could either go by foot, stagecoach, horse, rowboat, raft, larger sailing vessel, or a combination of them. The smaller sailboats appeared to be the least expensive and quickest to the two, whose combined funds had dwindled to little more than $200 because of the expensive passage from Nicaragua to San Francisco on the converted whaler. With the winds often contrary and at times nonexistent, their vessel, which was a lifeboat rigged with a sail and piloted by an enterprising barber from San Francisco, made slow progress. Its captain told of his abrupt change of professions.

"When there was no one wanting a haircut because they all took off to the gold strike I went out of business. So I bought this lifeboat from one of the abandoned ships. My wife sewed the sail from part of the sail that I was able to salvage from the same boat. The caretaker for the ship threw that in for free. Sort of had to jerry rig the mast, though, as you can tell."

The mast consisted of four red and white barber poles nailed together between two ten-foot long two- by four-foot boards. A barber chair served as the captain's perch as he navigated the maze of islands, rivers, and marshes that made up the route. It fascinated James and perplexed Thomas.

"This looks like parts of Georgia and Florida." James admired the almost jungle-like vegetation and beautiful wildlife of the Delta.

"It looks like a slow way to go to Sacramento." Thomas fumed. "It's taking too long."

"Sorry you feel that way," the captain replied. "But I have to pull off the river and into the delta at night. Otherwise one of the bigger ships that travel the river at night might run right into us. There's fewer pirates back in the delta, too. They love to do their thieving at night on the river." He offered Thomas a free shave and haircut to try and satisfy the anxious passenger.

After docking in Sacramento Thomas bought a newspaper and tried to determine the going rates for horses, picks, shovels, and pans in which to swirl the sand and gravel that hid the gold. They eventually decided that better deals might be had for equipment and livestock by approaching anyone that appeared to be heading away from the gold fields. Besides, if they paid the advertised prices, there would be no money left for food or blankets. The fifth store that they visited had lower prices than the others that they had perused. Happy for the bargains, they purchased two backpacks, two blankets, two metal plates and spoons, one frying pan, and as much food as they could cram into the packs.

"That'll be $57.25, sir." The owner held out his hand.

"Why is everything so much more expensive in California?" Thomas handed him three $20 gold pieces.

"We can't keep enough goods in stock. If the crews would only quit deserting their ships and taking off to the diggings then we would have five, maybe ten times as much merchandise to sell." He gave Thomas the change.

"How come you charge less than the other stores we go to?" James wondered aloud.

"Simple. You notice that my store is the one furthest from the river. So I'm at least five feet higher up than the other stores you went to. When it floods they lose part of their goods and sometimes have repairs to make to their building. Not me. See that watermark there by the door?"

James and Thomas turned to see the four-inch high mark.

"Yes."

"Well that's as high as the water ever got for me. I piled everything on top of the counter and barrels 'til the water went back down. Didn't lose a thing." He helped them pack their supplies. "By being at this spot on the east side of town I'm also the first place lots of the miners heading into Sacramento from the diggings stop at. So I get their business, too. Most of them are starving from the long walk."

"Maybe you can help us. Our money is almost gone and..."

The storekeeper lifted his hand and shook his head. "Sorry, son. I don't do any grubstakes. A mite too risky for my blood."

"Grubstake? What is that?"

"That's where someone gives a prospector money for what he needs in return for a share of whatever the miner finds. Only works if the miner's honest and is good at finding gold. You two look honest enough but my guess is that both of you are brand new to prospecting. You look like you just stepped off of boat from back east. Especially the way you're dressed. Your clothes aren't worn out like those who come overland by wagon."

"Never heard of grubstake. Sorta sounds like sharecropping." James frowned. He knew that having to split their gold with a third party would only complicate their venture.

"Me either," Thomas said. "What I was wondering is do you think we could buy two horses and a tent from a miner for $100 or so?"

"Not too likely. Last tent I sold was for $65 brand new. Horses, at least the ones with some miles left in them, are going to cost a lot, especially if they throw in the saddle and tack and all. Why do you need a horse anyways?"

"To get to the gold. We were told that the closest diggings are 50 miles from here."

"Look here. You'd be better off buying one mule or donkey between the two of you. You can load your supplies and equipment on it and walk to the gold fields. If the ones coming overland can walk at least 2,000 miles, you can at least walk 50 miles, can't you?"

Thomas had done little in the way of long hikes since leaving Germany. One of his main reasons for not going overland to reach California was because he had heard that most who did ended up walking most of or the entire trail. He grimaced at the thought of a 50-mile hike to reach their goal. His years as an indentured servant and store clerk had left him soft and flabby.

"Don't you worry, Thomas." James tried to cheer him. "Every place we goes we get the people to draw up maps. That way we know all the shortcuts and get there quicker with less walking."

"Where you headed from here?'

"Sutter's Fort."

"You don't need a map for that. It's no more than three miles from here. Go left on the dirt road when you leave here."

When the fort's thick adobe walls came into view through the oak trees that surrounded the road Thomas broke into a trot. He slowed as he came closer and saw the destruction. Fields that had produced great harvests now were mostly mud or caked soil. The few remaining livestock rooted around the fort as they searched for anything edible. The inside of the fort was in disrepair. It took Thomas a few minutes to find his hero, John Sutter.

Arriving in California in 1839 after escaping from Germany and his angry creditors, Sutter was more of a visionary than businessman. Several of his earlier pursuits elsewhere in America also had ended in bankruptcy. Persuasive wherever he went, Sutter then had convinced the Mexican governor of California to grant him 50,000 acres around the juncture of the American and Sacramento rivers in return for his becoming a Mexican citizen. He had built his fort as the headquarters of his kingdom. In less than a decade that empire had included 1,000 hogs, 2,000 horses and mules, 10,000 sheep, 12,000 cattle, and yielded almost 40,000 bushels of wheat a year.

In 1847 he had a sawmill built 50 miles northeast from the fort to supply lumber to build a mill for processing the wheat into flour. It was there in 1848 that his employees had discovered gold. The resulting hordes of fortune seekers acted as predators and parasites toward everything that Sutter owned. All of this Thomas sadly learned as he sat inside of Sutter's office. Born and raised in Switzerland, Sutter spoke German. As he and Thomas spoke in their native tongue Sutter held nothing back. The more that Sutter revealed the sadder Thomas became.

"When the miners came they were like locusts. No, an invading mob of Mongols might be a better description. They stole everything. My sheep, hogs, cattle, mules, horses. They took my millstones, canons, and hundreds of my salmon barrels. The heathen even stole two of the fort's bells and all the flour I had for sale."

"But where were the police?"

"There's little in the way of law and order in the West, Thomas. I learned that the hard way. I had dreams of making my lands an example of what can be done with the land here in California but they trampled and ruined all of my crops. I lost about $25,000 worth at Natoma and over $10,000 at Coloma. I now live at Hock Farm."

"Where is that?" Thomas hoped that it was near the diggings so that he could visit occasionally with his newfound friend.

"North of here by the Feather River. I'm only down here to settle all my debts. To do that I'm giving up 100 city blocks and over 100 lots."

Thomas sighed. All that he had read or heard of Sutter and his fort had been filled with adventures: of those settlers who had ended their overland journey there or of those snowbound in the Sierra who had been rescued by search parties that had been sent from the fort. To see and hear of its devastation overwhelmed him. Even more disturbing was the brokenness of his hero. After a few moments of silence, Thomas asked if Sutter knew where he might buy a donkey or mule. This brought a smile to the old man's sad face.

"You're in luck. They don't taste as delicious as the rest of my stock did. Let's go to the stable and see what's left there."

James and Thomas spent the remainder of the day talking with anyone with fresh knowledge of the gold fields. One of the fort's last remaining employees told them that most who had passed this way had gone to the Middle and South Forks of the American River. A miner on the way back to Sacramento told of how crowded those two forks had been.

"Might want to try the north fork instead," he advised.

Armed with a map of how to get there, James and Thomas loaded their supplies on the newly purchased mule the next morning. James convinced the impatient Thomas to wait a little longer to buy equipment.

"If'n we finds someone who's struck it rich they ain't gonna want to be carrying all that equipment all the way back to Sacramento so they can whoop it up. And since they be rich now, they sell it real cheap."

Thomas nodded. "Between the two of us, we're going to get rich. What I don't think of, you do."

"And if'n we meet someone who's done give up on finding gold and being rich the rest of their lives and who's hungry and ain't got no money at all left, we buy his equipment real cheap. Either way we be turning out like fat rats."

Sutter had one of his men row James, Thomas, and their mule to the north side of the American River. Their map kept them on a northeasterly course about half of a mile from the river so that they could avoid its many twists and turns. Daniel, the newly christened mule, set a leisurely pace. They stopped once for dinner about 11 a.m. At twilight they had come to steep bluffs that rose high above the American River. James pointed to the campfires down by the water.

"Think we should see who be down there?"

"Okay." Thomas held out his arms to balance himself as they descended the steep hill.

"Who that be?" Someone demanded when they were about 200 feet from the closest campfire.

"We be a couple gold seekers like you all."

As James and Thomas drew closer in the fading light they were surprised to see two black men approaching them.

"Is your camp all like you?" James asked.

"Yeah."

"Tell you what, Thomas. Let me go on and talk with 'em. Might be best if I meet you back on top of the hill."

"Uh, yes." Thomas had learned to rely on James' judgment, especially when dealing with strangers.

"See you in a bit."

Thomas led Daniel back up the hill and unloaded the burden off of his back. While Daniel feasted on the dry grass and leaves from the bushes and lower limbs of the trees Thomas prepared supper. He gathered nine stones and formed a ring for the fire. Inside of the ring he placed a mound of dry grass. On top of the grass he laid ten handfuls of twigs. He then broke up a few dead branches by bending them over his knee, stepping on them, and banging them against the ground. From that supply of wood he built a small teepee over the bed of grass and twigs. He then retrieved the flint from his backpack. Taught years earlier by his father in the art of building a fire, Thomas expertly handled the flint until the resulting sparks lit the grass. A few exhaled breaths of air spread the tiny flame. The fire began to send plumes of smoke and flames into the night. Thomas added two larger stones on which to rest the skillet at either side of the fire.

Using the light from the fire to see, Thomas found the frying pan and the choice piece of beef that Sutter had given them as a gift. Tonight they would feast. The three pounds of beef sizzled in the large frying pan as Thomas cut up an onion and four potatoes and placed the pieces in the skillet. After he turned the meat over he added half of the water from his canteen to the pan. Steam rose from it as he stirred the vegetables that boiled around the meat. For the next half hour Thomas fueled the fire with more dead wood and turned the meat, potatoes, and onions every ten minutes. Halfway through cooking the meal he added a handful of flour to thicken the gravy of the stew. It and the coffee were ready by the time James came trudging into camp.

"Something sure smells good."

"I guess it's the first meal cooked by me on our adventure."

James sat down and thanked the cook as he handed him a metal plate that was filled with the stew. Thomas loaded a second plate and sat down next to him. He waited a moment for the stew to cool.

"What did they say?"

"All sorts of things. That place down there has quite a bunch of people like me staying there. They all be looking for gold, too. Says they feel safer staying together like they doing."

"Why?"

"They say there ain't hardly nothing in the way of police or sheriffs to keep law 'n' order way out here. They say it be something they call vigilante law."

"What's that?"

"They say that where anybody who done feel like it gits to be the law. One feller told me he saw a bunch of miners catch someone they think be a claim jumper. So they gits up a trial with all the other miners being the jury. They say he be guilty. Then they hang him. Whole thing took less'n an hour."

"I didn't know it was like that here."

"And that ain't all. Some folks has got slaves they done bring along with them. I was thinking there be no slaves way out here."

"The way I heard it, that won't be decided until California becomes a state."

"Anyways from what they tell me down there one ol' master bring his slave out here. Seems the slave keep on dreaming 'bout gold being under a cabin nearby where they be staying at. Then the master has the same kind of dream so he up and buys the cabin. Then they tears out the floor and starts to digging. They find more than $20,000 in gold in the dirt they digs out!"

"Twenty thousand! You been having any dreams? I only dream about home."

They shared a laugh.

"Nope. My only dream is to be where there ain't no slaves and to have myself 'nough money to live off of."

"They say anything else?"

"Yup. Best to be avoiding the South Fork of the American River. They says there a place nicknamed Hangtown right close to where they first find gold last year. Guess it a good thing we was told to go to the north fork instead."

Thomas nodded.

"Another thing they say is the white miners lately be getting mighty nasty at any foreign peoples like Mexicans or Chinese peoples. They don't like my kind neither."

"Maybe they think there isn't enough gold."

"Maybe. Anyway you slice it I got to stay on. I stay up here with you tonight. But tomorrow I best head back on down there. A feller the name of Paul says I can join them. Says I be living longer if'n I do."

Thomas frowned. "But I need you."

"I figgered you say that. I'm real sorry but I only be making it harder if'n I stay with you. Best this way."

"You sure?"

"Yes, sir. They tell me there be a whole mess of Mormons living together not too far up this trail. You probably pass by 'em tomorrow. Best I kin tell, it be the same everywhere you go. People naturally be with their own kind. Remember back in New York how all the peoples from your country be in the same place? Same for all the Ireland and Italy peoples. Same way with my people. Besides I figgers if white miners be hanging other white miners like they tells me then it ain't safe for me to be going on."

Thomas sighed. "I was hoping it would be different here."

"It be the same all over. I remember how much you talk about how nasty yer old boss in New York be."

Thomas blushed.

"And he even be one your peoples."

"He was Prussian! They're the aristocrats even here in America."

"Don't fret none. Be the same where my folks come from. When I ask them how come they don't fight against the white slave traders who comes to steal them from Africa they just shrug and say some other tribe in Africa be the ones catching them and selling them to the white folks who come in the big boats."

In the morning they shared a quick meal of flapjacks and coffee. They parted as friends do, with a handshake and a promise to reunite, if possible, at a later time.

"You are one of the few people I know I can trust," Thomas said. "I feel lonely already."

"You know I feel that way about you."

James sauntered down the hill with a backpack of food, a blanket, metal plate and spoon, and $26. Because the mule had cost $50, the skillet $2, and James had put up half to buy them Thomas had given him back his investment. That left Thomas with only one $20 gold piece. He wondered how long it would last for him. A sense of loneliness crept over him, alone for the first time since leaving New York. So he did what countless miners before and after him have done, he conversed with his mule.

He told Daniel that at times he wondered if all the trouble that he had gone through so far was worth it or if he was merely one of untold thousands of foolish would-be prospectors. He asked the beast if he knew of the best places to look for the shiny metal. Daniel plodded along. He occasionally turned his brown eyes toward his master. This was acceptable for Thomas. He had never met any person who listened as well as this mule. They had gone a little less than a mile when off to the right Thomas spotted the Mormon settlement James had spoken of the night before.

Thomas studied his map and judged that the amount of time it would take to alter his course to the wooden structures and tents was not worth his while. He still wanted to delay purchasing tools until he could buy them for as little as possible, especially because he only had $20 left.

Besides it would put extra weight on Daniel if I buy them now from over there. And that would slow us down from getting to where the gold is at.

His path became steeper as it twisted into the foothills of the Sierra. After seven more miles he stopped for a short lunch. While Daniel grazed on the shrubs Thomas ate cold flapjacks leftover from breakfast. He sprinkled them with sugar to add a little more flavor. While he was finishing the last one two miners, headed downhill to Sutter's Fort, came into view. Thomas was amazed at how tired and skinny that they looked. Their clothes were filled with holes.

"Howdy, lad," the elder one said. "Have ye got any vittles you can spare for us?"

"Vittles?" Thomas' grasp of English did not yet extend to the strange forms of the vernacular that it took in America.

"You know. Grub. Chow. Food." The miner gestured as if he were eating.

"Oh. Yes. You can have flour, yah?" Thomas walked over to Daniel and retrieved the bag of flour from the makeshift saddlebag. "Do you have something to put it in?"

"Sure do. Plop it in this here frying pan after I grease it on up. Ronnie, you git us a fire going. If we don't eat right quick now we'll faint dead away 'fore we reach Sacramento."

"Okay." The lad of fourteen obeyed.

While he built the fire, his companion pulled out a jar from his tattered backpack and gazed at his most valued possession. He opened the jar and spread the rancid bacon grease into the pan. After the fire was going and the grease had liquefied the cook added the one and only course. Into the pan went small balls of flour dampened by enough water to turn the white powder to dough. Thomas glanced sideways at the concoction.

"You want some, too?" The stranger pointed to the frying meal. "Not real tasty but it's better than starving."

"No thank you. I have to go." Thomas walked toward Daniel.

"Where to?"

"I'm headed up to the north fork of the river."

"Hot damn! That's where we just come from. Name's Ken. This here's my nephew Ronnie. You look like you came by boat. I can tell 'cause you still got fat left on you. Where your home be at? We hail from Indiana."

"New York." Thomas returned to the fire and sat down. He calculated that he could spend a short time in conversation. What I learn might help me. "Why don't you have any tools?"

"We used to. Had to sell them. We got to the diggings last fall. It was good at first. Real good. Found quite a bit along the south fork. When that got too crowded we moved over to the middle fork. Built us a cabin with three other fellers and spent the whole winter there. But before winter was even over the middle fork was crawling with miners, too. Looked like ants picking the bones off of a dead cow. So a couple months back we moseyed on up here to the north fork."

"Did you find a lot of gold there?"

"Nowhere near as much as we did last year down on the south fork. Not enough to survive on. Huh, Ronnie?"

"Amen, Uncle Ken. We ain't found our pot of gold yet. Shoot, we ain't even found a rainbow to lead us to it neither, tell you what. This here gold business be like trying to catch a greased pig."

"Like I was saying, we was down to this here last jar of bacon grease when you comes along. Boy, you're like an angel from the Lord. My stomach's been growling like a bear for a day now."

"Mine too." Ronnie grabbed for another fried ball of dough.

Thomas hesitated but then acted. "Wait a minute before you eat that, Ronnie. I have something to make it taste better." He returned to Daniel and fetched his bag of sugar. "Please put it back in the pan."

"Okay." Ronnie dropped it into the pan. His eyes widened as Thomas poured a little more than a cup of sugar over the remaining 11 balls of dough. "Oh, my God! He sure as hell has got to be an angel! Who else out here is so damn generous?" Ronnie grabbed Thomas' arm and felt it. "Uncle Ken, is angels supposed to have flesh and bone? I thought they be spirits."

Ken's laugh echoed off the nearby hills. "Don't rightly know. All I knows is that this boy's an answer to prayer. For the past five miles I've been talking to the Lord. You know, silent like so's you couldn't hear, Ronnie. I was a pissing and a moaning and a groaning and a crying the worst I ever has in all of my 48 years. I told the Lord straight out that if'n He didn't bring us some kind of food, any kind of food our way real quick like that you and me be goners for sure. You know I ain't no godly man at all, Ronnie. But all I knows is that the Lord done gone and answered my prayer."

Between mouthfuls of the sugary makeshift donuts, Ken spent the next half hour giving an education to Thomas. He passed on all that he knew about gold mining in general and doing it along the North Fork of the American River in particular.

Thomas learned that in excellent yielding areas claims often were limited to as little as ten square feet. At poorer locations claims as large as 100 square feet were allowed. Any miner leaving his claim usually had to place his tools on it to mark it as his, otherwise another could come along and claim the spot. Most mining camps had laws posted. They usually defined the boundaries of the camp, the allowable size of claims, how many claims per miner, reasons a claim could be forfeited, and acceptable ways to mark a claim (such as stakes and a written notice). There were rules governing companies of more than one miner, and procedures to settle the disputes that would invariably arise. Ken told Thomas to read all of them carefully and ask that any that he did not understand be explained to him.

"Otherwise you might end up swinging from a tree." Ken pointed to a nearby Digger Pine. "I seen it happen three times. Most dangerous part of mining is getting lynched. No offense boy, but I kin tell you be some kind of foreigner. Your English be sounding good but you still got one hell of an accent. If you can find one of your kind who speaks what you talked back in the old country ask them to explain the dos and don'ts of where you be mining. I'd hate for you to end up dead 'cause you didn't know the camp's laws."

The miner went on to explain the difference between pyrite, known as fool's gold to most miners, and the genuine mineral. The worthless imitation would shatter if pounded; gold would flatten. Fool's gold would feel gritty when bitten, gold smooth. Lastly, real gold would shine evenly while fool's gold would have an uneven shine. Most importantly, Ken shared where to look. Soil with a red color was more likely to yield pay dirt. The top of hills and their bottoms were also good spots to stake a claim, he said.

"Look for a small stream or creek bed that runs off a hill down to the river. Even if it be all dried up sometimes there could be gold lodged up at the top that the winter and spring rains didn't get a chance to push all the way down the hill. And there should be lots of flakes and dust where the creek bed runs into the river." Ken grinned. "And if you want to buy a claim, beware of the gun that won the West."

"Yah. A cowboy I met showed me his Colt revolver. He used to be a Texas Ranger. He said it would be the gun to win the West. So I will beware of the miners that have them."

"No, no, no. That cowboy feller is talking about being in a gunfight with some desperado that be thinking he's faster on the draw than you. That's real bad all right. But what I'm talking about is when a skunk of a miner loads his shotgun with gold dust and shoots up a worthless claim with it. Then the buyer thinks he is gitting a good claim. Another thing I forgot to tell you. Once you git yerself a claim, work it. Don't be like Ronnie and me. We got ourselves lump fever more than once and took off where the grass was greener."

"Lump fever? That is like scarlet fever?"

"No, no, no. Sure ain't no doubt you is still a babe in the woods when we be talking mining and such stuff like that. Lump fever is when you believe every tall tale, story, and rumor comes along about how good a new find is and you quit your claim and take off for the new find. Take all of what you hear with a grain of salt. Some people like to tell whoppers so they kin look real important. Other people tell tall tales for the pure pleasure of telling a whopper. Then there is those who does it 'cause they got nothing better to do, I reckon." Ken stood and patted his stomach. "Finally quit growling like some fired up hungry grizzly bear that just woke up after hibernating all winter. Well, we best be heading down the hill to Sutter's Fort and then Sacramento. Old Sutter got the place back in shape yet? When we passed that way last year all the dishonest miners were tearing it up real bad."

Thomas' head sagged. "No."

"Sorry to hear that. Terrible when a man pours his heart and soul into something like he did only to have a bunch of morons come along and destroy it. Thanks for breakfast. Right kind of you."

"Where are you going next?"

"Up north, I reckon. There's a whole lot of forks of rivers there. They feed the Feather, the Yuba, and the Bear. If they don't pan out there's always the Trinity River further on up."

"If you go by the Feather River, you might see where Sutter has moved to. He said it's called Hock Farm. He told me he fires a cannon off every time a boat goes by on the river."

"You got to talk to Sutter? Boy, you must got a way with words. He wouldn't say 'boo' to me. Can't say I blame him. He must be thinking I was like the rest of the ones tearing his place up. Well, good luck to you."

"Good-bye. And thank you for all your advice."

Having passed the confluence of the south fork with the rest of the American River a few miles back, the portion that Thomas now followed was about half the width of what it had been. He now found dozens of miners working their claims instead of the handful that he had passed earlier. Referring to his map, he saw that he would not reach the confluence of the middle and north forks until the next day. When he did reach it the following morning, he was amazed at the number of miners at the confluence. They had surmised that there would be large deposits of gold where two forks of a river meet and dug down five, six feet, and even deeper on their claims.

Thomas veered off to the left and followed the north fork's northern bank. He saw no reason to cross over to the other side, as there seemed to be as many miners on either side of it. The borders of the river were now deep rocky canyons instead of hills covered with foliage. Boulders, from ones that were immovable even during the rapid spring runoff down to those that could be removed by miners and mules working together, covered much of the banks and parts of the waterway. About half of the snow pack upriver remained so the icy cold water was still flowing at a dangerous pace. Thomas passed groups of Chinese, Mexicans, and whites as they worked their claims. None seemed to even notice the stranger who had wandered past their worksites. Occasionally he passed signs stating which claims were for sale. He continued uphill and upriver for two miles before finding spots where he might stake a claim. But then he realized that he still had no tools. Sheepishly, he made his way back downriver. None of the 19 miners whom he queried was ready to sell a single one of their tools. Then he spied a sign that read, "Claim 4 Sale."

He approached the claim's two occupants, an older miner who looked to be 65, maybe even 70, and his Chinese helper. "How much for your claim?"

"Depends. How much you got?" Noticing Thomas' startled look, the miner extended his hand. "Just joshing you, boy. I'm Lucas McBride. That there is Mr. Yee."

Mr. Yee tipped his broad brimmed circular hat. Their friendliness relieved Thomas somewhat.

"We'd need $100 to pay part of our way through the winter down in Sacramento," McBride continued. "Like to take it easy away from the diggings for a spell."

"But winter is a long way off."

"True. Mr. Yee and I would take our time heading back to Sacramento. The way I figure it all these miners stirring up the gravel and sand are bound to be pushing gold dust into the water. The way the rivers running right now at least part of that dust has to get pushed way downstream. We'll stake claims as we meander downstream. That is if we ever can find a buyer." His steely gray eyes searched Thomas' bewildered expression.

Thomas stared at his boots. "I...I only have $20 left. It cost almost $500 to go from Nicaragua to San Francisco."

"So you come by sea, eh? No matter. Can you work a long tom or a sluice?"

Thomas straightened up as he tried not to betray his ignorance. "I can learn."

"Yes. Same as the rest of us had to. Tell you what then. You can buy into the claim for $20. But you'll have to work twice as hard as normal. Usually there are at least four people who work a long tom or a sluice."

After pocketing Thomas' last coin, McBride introduced him to the sluice, a contraption that was almost 20 feet long and which gradually narrowed from 18 inches wide at the top to 12 inches at the bottom. Two-inch by ten-inch pieces of lumber ran along the sides, nailed to two-inch by 12-inch boards on the bottom. Every foot along the top of the two by twelve's lay slats one inch wide and high. This created pockets for the heavier gold to be trapped in as sand, dirt, and gravel were shoveled into it and water washed through the sluice, beginning at its most elevated point.

The water and lighter of the sediment exited out of the bottom. This left behind the weightier materials. To provide the water necessary to flow through the sluice, Yee and McBride had raised the water level next to their claim by building a small dam of rocks. Twigs and thick mud were packed into the crevices between the rocks. They then had dug a trench next to the damned up water. The trench connected to the end of the sluice, which ensured a constant source of water to flow through it. As the river would recede as the summer wore on, the dam, trench, and sluice would be moved ever further into the river to tap its water. This in itself was a Godsend, as it would allow the diggers to search for ever-newer potential deposits of gold. The operation was crude. The work was back breaking. But thus far the claim had yielded a little more than 70 ounces of gold in its three months of operation.

The two and a half-day walk to get to this claim had left Thomas with sore feet and tired legs. His first half day's work on the sluice left him with a sore back and neck, cramped arms, splitting headache, and huge appetite. Supper was typical miner's fare of beans flavored by small chunks of pork. After Thomas had described his flight from Germany as an imagined fugitive, indentured servitude, short stint at the orchard, work as a store clerk in New York, and marriage, he learned about the others. Yee had come to America to make his fortune and then return to China to marry his promised bride.

"No like America. White men smell bad. Eat too much meat. Make smell bad." Yee pinched his nostrils with his well-manicured thumb and finger.

"Lucky we have Mr. Yee to help with the cooking. He always scrounges up some kind of wild vegetables or fruit to add to the pot," McBride said. "Prevents scurvy, you know. He can also tell the deadly mushrooms from the ones okay to eat. That be extremely valuable when living off the land."

"You seem a lot older than the other miners." Thomas scrutinized his deep wrinkles and missing tooth.

McBride laughed. "Glory be, boy. I'm only 55."

"Oh. You look much older."

"Well that's because I've been chasing my pot of gold for 20 years now. If that don't age you before your time, nothing will."

"Where are you from?"

"Well, me dad hailed from Scotland. His parents settled in Ireland. So he falls in love with an Irish lassie. God! What a combination. The only two things the Scots and Irish got in common is their hatred of England and their love of whiskey of many types."

Having listened to the story more than once, Yee excused himself and headed to the tent. McBride continued his tale.

"A Scot married to an Irish is frowned on in Ireland so me parents did the smart thing and come to New York City in 1790. I was born four years later. They raised me right, they did. Went to good schools to become a doctor."

"A doctor?"

"Aye. Had a good living in a small town in New York, too. But then they find gold down in Georgia in 1829. Stayed there for almost ten years 'til the gold got too scarce. We must've dug up the whole Appalachian Mountains down there. Only thing that kept me alive was the gold I got paid to be a doctor to the miners. They get injured and sick quite a bit. Especially when they get to drinking."

"Then you came west?"

"Yes. I thought that since the Spanish conquistadors never found their Seven Cities of Gold that it was up to me to find at least one of them. There was an old prospector I met in Georgia who told me all about them and where to look for them. Went over to Texas. It wasn't even a state yet. They called it a republic. Looked all over it and couldn't find any city of gold anywhere." He took a swig from his jug and passed it to Thomas. "Isn't beer such as you Germans favor but it'll still warm your insides."

Thomas accepted the jug and gulped down a mouthful of its foul smelling contents. He coughed violently.

"It's homemade, as you can tell. It's sort of strong, I guess. Anyway, then I wandered on up into the Plains still looking for the seven cities and stayed with a friendly tribe of Indians a while. They laughed when I asked about the cities of gold and said that instead I needed to go out into the wilderness and not eat any food and pray to the Great Spirit until I got a vision. I was hoping their Great Spirit would show me how to find one of the cities of gold. I'm not greedy; I was willing to let others find the other six. On the fourth night I dreams of two great armies on a battlefield that looked miles long. One army had blue on; the other army wore gray uniforms. I still haven't had time to figure that dream out. But I thought that such a dream was close enough to a vision. When I told the Indians about my dream they shook their heads and said it was a bad omen for the white man. Then I heard they hit pay dirt out here in California so I went to that strike down in the mountains near Los Angeles. Getting there was a trip and a half. There was a lot of desert to cross and Apaches and Comanche to avoid. They aren't as friendly as the Plains Indians are."

"When did they find gold there?"

"In 1842."

"But why didn't we hear about it?"

"It was small potatoes compared to this strike and the strike down there in Georgia. Most of the miners who showed up didn't hang around too long. Once again I made more gold from doctoring than from mining. At least the weather there was much better than here or Georgia. Even stays warm and pretty dry in the winter there. So I stayed down off the mountain and in the valley there after the gold was gone. Then we heard about the strike over in Coloma so I traded my mule for a horse and rode up there. Boy it was easy pickings at first. Seemed like gold was everywhere. But then is seemed like it snowed miners. Thousands showed up last fall down that way so I kept walking 'til I got this far. Mr. Yee and I have been here since March. We went in together to stake out this claim."

"So in 20 years of looking for gold, you never got rich?"

"No. Always the same old story. There's never enough food and clothes and equipment out where the gold is. So everything costs a pretty penny. There's no way to keep from spending the gold you find to survive."

"But why do you keep doing it?"

"I guess once you get gold fever most keep it until death. I've seen sick folk get over typhus fever, ague fever, all kinds of fevers. But hardly any ever shake the gold fever unless maybe they got something better to go back to. How about you? You have anything worth more than gold to you?"

Thomas cringed. After only a half-day of digging endless shovel full after shovel full of dirt, gravel, and sand to fill the sluice he was already wondering why he was three thousand miles from home. They had only found half an ounce by sundown. He could only shrug to answer McBride.

"That's okay, lad. You'll have plenty of time to sort things out when you're not digging for gold. That'll be in your dreams mostly. I best let you get to bed. Mr. Yee brings a fresh batch of pine needles twice a week for our mattress inside the tent. You got a blanket?"

"Yes."

"Good. If you think the beans will be giving you wind try to sleep so's your arse and legs are poking outside under the tent flap. That'll keep the smell mostly outside. Otherwise, Mr. Yee might wake up and start cussing at you in Chinese like he's done to me before."

McBride's and Yee's early rising did not rouse Thomas. Nor did the smell of flapjacks and coffee; the odor made Thomas dream that he was back home enjoying his wife's wonderful cooking and his family's company. As the sun crept over the ridge, McBride shuffled to the tent and gently kicked the slumbering newcomer.

"Time to rise and shine, Tommy boy. We work the sunrise to sunset shift around here. That means we need to eat breakfast before the sun comes up and supper after the sun goes down."

Thomas rolled out from under his blanket. The previous two mornings only the lower half of his body had ached. After seven hours of shoveling yesterday his entire body pained him. He grunted as he stumbled out of the tent and searched for a spot to relieve himself.

"Don't forget to go at least a hundred feet from the river." McBride reminded him of his number one rule for the company. "All of us have to drink from it."

"Yah, yah." Thomas still reverted to his German pronunciation when agitated or tired. He stumbled toward a group of bushes only to find two other miners already there. One of them asked if Thomas could spare any newspaper. "No. Sorry," he replied.

When Thomas returned to the tent for his coat McBride handed him a cup of tea. "It's from the meadowsweet shrub. It helps with pain. The way you're moving you'll need two cups to get started working." During breakfast McBride outlined the day. "Well, I have to head off to get supplies today. We're almost out and your $20 gold piece is burning a hole in my pocket."

"Are you going back down to the Mormon settlement?"

"Nah. That's too far away. There's a settlement about 1,000 feet straight up there." McBride pointed toward the ridge to the north. "It's getting big enough that they're talking about naming it Auburn. Anyway, you and Mr. Yee can take turns shoveling. I'll show you how to sift through the sluice to find the gold."

McBride spent a quarter hour teaching Thomas the art of collecting gold flakes, dust, and the rare nuggets from a sluice. Satisfied that the novice would not let too much gold wash past him, McBride hopped on his horse and led Thomas' mule out of the camp to the steep trail. Yee and Thomas worked all morning without a break. Thomas was beginning to wonder if his partner would even bother to stop for dinner. A half hour later, Yee held up his arms and waved.

"Stop! Eat!"

Thomas gladly dropped the shovel, which now felt as if it weighted 50 pounds because of the cramps in his arms. He found the coffee pot in which McBride had left a new batch of meadowsweet to steep. Because the initial two cups that morning had provided relief, Thomas drank the entire fresh pot of the boiled herb during the noon meal.

As Thomas lay by the fire he tried to stretch his muscles in such a way to make the pain depart from them. He watched Mr. Yee check the fishing lines that he had set out that morning. His mouth watered when he saw Yee retrieve a two-pound trout. Yee deftly cleaned the fish, chopped it into small pieces, and added it to the boiling pot of rice. Thomas was thankful when he saw the main course.

"Thank God, Mr. Yee. I am already sick of beans. They remind me of when we were on the ship to San Francisco. Nothing but pork all the time. Now it's beans every day since we left San Francisco."

Yee shook his head. "I come boat. Only rice."

They ate in silence with Thomas enjoying every moment away from the sluice. Nothing from his past -- the farm, the furniture shop, the orchard, or the store -- was as hard and wearisome as hunting for gold. In the previous jobs he had been able to take occasional breaks. How he now missed being able to stop for a moment and chat to his family while toiling in the fields, to Dominic and James as they built furniture or did routine chores, to Rudolph as they ran the orchard and distillery, or to customers who came to the grocery to pass the time of day with him as they shopped.

He recalled his favorite customers who had found a haven inside the store away from the jostling throngs that filled New York's sidewalks and streets. There was Frau Katz who would proudly tell him of the successes of her children and grandchildren. Their relationship grew until she also spoke to Thomas of her worries and feelings of loneliness now that they were only infrequent visitors to her home. There was Herr Braun, an abrupt man of 65 who minced no words when he informed Thomas of what he believed to be wrong in New York, America, and the rest of the world. Then there was little Freda, whose mother daily brought her to the grocery to fetch what was needed for the day's meals. Freda tagged along through the aisles as Thomas filled the order and placed the meat, produce, and beverages into a box. She would sing German folk tunes with such perfection that anyone within earshot grew silent. Even the store's grumpy owner would open his office door to listen. Often a group of customers fell in line behind the clerk, mother, and little girl. They pretended to shop so they could listen to the crystalline voice that carried them back to their homeland. Some even asked Freda what day and time she would be returning to the store. Her mother answered casually for her daughter. But her smile revealed her pride.

Thomas hummed one of those folk tunes as he ate. Yee shook his head.

"America music strange."

"I guess it's because it comes from so many lands."

The memories helped Thomas to endure the daylong drudgery that pervaded the mining camp. It was typical of the hundreds of such sites that dotted the rivers, streams, and creeks of California. Miners seemed to work their claims nonstop, except when darkness came. Many toiled alone, others in pairs, still others in larger groups. The population of such places could fluctuate daily. New arrivals were common, those departing less common. Reasons for leaving varied according to each one's temperament, fortitude, and luck. Those given to anger and melancholy were often the first to give up. The former would abandon a claim with curses; the latter in despair. The more jovial and steadfast often were better suited to such work.

The miners' responses when they hit pay dirt varied. Some would holler, "Eureka!" or "Gold!" and start dancing or digging furiously. This would bring at least a few others over to view the reason for such behavior. Sometimes they would leave with taunts of "It's fool's gold, you fool" or "That ain't no strike, it's not even enough to write home about." Other times the spectators would stare at a deposit unlike any they had seen. The more enterprising immediately would offer help: "That's so big that you want to dig it all out today; otherwise it might rain and all get washed away. If nothing else you need someone to guard it all the time while you're gone or asleep. How about we partner up right now? I'll help you out fer a share." The less enterprising would return to their own claim and wonder when they would ever stake such an abundant gold producing claim.

Wiser and more introspective miners did their best to conceal any significant find. of them would quietly work a claim and never tell how much it was yielding. When they were certain that most of the gold to be dug from it was safely theirs they would depart for another mining camp or Sacramento or San Francisco. A few were satisfied enough to head for home.

The more stubborn miners worked the gold fields for years and a few of them for the rest of their lives. Gypsy like, they would only leave their claim if it had played out or they could sell it. The less stubborn would give up; some after weeks or months; many after one season. Those less willing to admit to failure simply roamed through the West, eventually finding work as farmers, ranchers, railroad builders, lumberjacks, cowboys, sailors, carpenters, deckhands on riverboats, or stevedores. The more independent of them started businesses. Those with a longing for something familiar that was so strong that it outweighed their sense of failure returned home; either retracing the long trails, this time to the east or if they had enough gold left, by ship.

After lunch the two returned to the sluice. At first Thomas had thought that only Yee worked nonstop. But as the day wore on he noticed that other miners kept up the same pace. Only the sick or older miners moved more slowly. Thomas was embarrassed that he could not keep up with those who worked faster than he. It seemed that the more experienced miners were more machine than men. Their movements were efficient and methodical to the point that watching them had a soothing effect on the newcomer. As he copied their motions he developed a rhythm that made him feel at one with the strangers that all shared the same desire to get rich.

They were back to work for only an hour when a great roar arose downstream. Fearing that a makeshift jury was being assembled for a preordained lynching, Thomas dropped the shovel and ran toward the rapidly growing throng of miners. He quickly decided that he would try to intervene for the accused.

Maybe if I tell them of how I ran away when I thought I was guilty, they will listen and be fair in their verdict.

When he came close enough to see who was at the center of the crowd, his aching body grew even tenser. It was McBride on foot leading his horse and the mule. Thomas feared that McBride was the accused. Then he noticed that not a single miner was looking at McBride. Their gazes were all fixed on the one riding on his horse. She was the magnet who was stronger than the lure of gold.

"Three cheers for the lady, boys!" A miner hollered as he tossed his hat up into the air.

"Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!"

Many of the miners had not seen a female for months. They cheered the loudest. Even those who made a weekly trek to one of the nearby communities with stores and saloons where men usually outnumbered women ten or even 20 to one cheered. Any distraction from the dull routine of searching for gold day in and day out was indeed most welcome. McBride lifted his hands in an attempt to restore order. He relished his role as emcee.

"Gents, may I introduce to you the lovely Charlotte Edwards."

Dozens of hats came off of greasy, dirty, heads of hair, many crawling with lice. This was followed by greetings, all of them sincere and respectful, such as:

"Afternoon, Miss Edwards."

"Thank you for coming, Charlotte."

"How de do, ma'am?"

McBride continued his introduction. "While up doing my shopping I learned that Miss Edwards will be performing there Friday and Saturday nights this week only. She asked that I tell all of you about it but fortunately I was able to convince her that she could get a far bigger audience if you were to get a sample of her talent firsthand."

With her introduction complete, she reined in the nervous horse to still it and then handed the reins to McBride, who patted the mare to calm it. Without alighting, she launched into song. A reverent hush descended on the gathering. The soothing voice quieted her mount. The gruff men grew even more silent than they were at the occasional funerals or makeshift worship services that they attended in the diggings. She sang a number about home and those whom they longed to see. This brought back sweet memories for most of them. By the time that she had finished half of her audience was in tears. The rest stood motionless with eyes closed or heads bowed as scenes of better days replayed through their minds. Finally a transfixed miner came out of his reverie. He loudly disturbed the hush and yelled for an encore.

"You better sing us a happy song this time, lady. If'n you sing another one like that last one we're gonna have to hightail it on back to kinfolks or friends or maybe even kill ourselves, by God!"

A noisy chorus of affirmations filled the air. She next sang an old English pub tune about drinking and fighting that made the men clap and dance. When the song ended the miners passed around a pan that one miner had not dropped as he had run from the river to the visiting beauty. Into it went gold of every shape and size. McBride presented her with the offering of thanks.

Then he asked if someone could accompany her back to the saloon that would be her venue that weekend. He explained that he had spent half the day away from his claim and needed to "make hay while the sun is still shining."

Miners rushed forward to volunteer. Unhappy with all the competition, the more aggressive began to pummel whoever happened to be next to them. A few miners rushed back to their claims to change their clothes and grab a mule or horse for their heroine to ride. One of them even took a quick plunge into the river's icy waters. The hasty bath removed a few layers of dirt, grime, and the accompanying stench. Within minutes a procession of eight miners accompanied the singer back up the trail. Five other miners, still dazed from the pummeling they had received, abandoned their chivalrous intentions. The entire trip to the saloon consisted of men young and old, short and tall, handsome and plain, jockeying for position to be next to the newfound object of their affections.

As was his habit, McBride had returned with a bottle of whiskey. He patiently waited until after work and supper that evening to bring it out. One of his few rules for the claim's partners was that no drinking was allowed until after dark.

"What is the occasion?" Thomas asked before he took the first swig. When he gave the bottle to Yee, he smelled the alcohol, shook his head no, and handed it to McBride.

"White man smell bad from bad drink!"

"That only means there's more for Tommy boy and me," McBride smiled. "The bottle is to celebrate your first full day of mining. I know your body must be aching from head to toe so what you drink is also medicine so you won't feel the pain as much. If today is any indication, bringing you aboard our claim is going to work out. The amount of gold we got today is decent." McBride drained half of the remaining alcohol in two gulps before passing it back to Thomas.

"Ahh." Thomas was so pleased by McBride's assessment that he swallowed much of the remainder. Only one last drink remained for McBride. After he had finished it he stared at Thomas.

"Tell me, boy. Why were you talking and tossing in your sleep so much last night? Only a troubled soul makes a man do that."

Thomas started to repeat his sanitized cover story of why he had come to the gold fields. He stopped in mid-sentence. "If I tell you the truth can you keep it a secret?"

"Aye."

Thomas then recounted the true motives that had brought him to California, how he hated working for a Prussian, was tired of the filth and gangs that plagued New York City, and felt henpecked by his wife. Most of all he told of his desire to find gold and a life of ease. He was relieved to bare his soul. He had not done this since parting from Harriet. Despite all their differences, his wife had been the first one Thomas had trusted enough to share his innermost thoughts.

"I'm tired of always working for someone else. He ended his tale.

McBride stared down into the empty bottle. "Can't say I blame you. I've heard such stories many a time from many a miner." He then unburdened himself of his past, at least part of it. "I never told you the whole story last night about me. I got married at a young age. We had us a fine son. Then me wife got sick and died..." His voice trailed off. "That was the real reason I left my doctor's practice in New York and headed to the gold fields in Georgia. I had to start over. I was too saddened to go on. If a doctor can't save his own wife who can he save?"

"What about your son? Where is he now?"

"Well, he is with the Lord and his mother."

"Oh."

"Yeah. He got the wanderlust like I did. When he got to be almost 18 he told me he's leaving. He said he's GTT."

"GTT?"

"Gone to Texas. Not too long after that all hell breaks loose between Mexico and the Americans in Texas. Of course he joins up to fight and got himself killed." A tear formed under McBride's right eye. His voice cracked. "That's what happened."

"I'm sorry. Your life has been harder than mine. Much harder."

That summer passed slower than any other had or ever would for Thomas. After five weeks of the same routine his body had adapted to the rigors of living and working outdoors. He noticed that those who had taken the overland trails to California came to the diggings better able to endure the conditions. Most of those who came by ship, as he had, often were physically unprepared and sometimes emotionally also.

The tent provided scant protection from the chilly nights so he used his first earnings to buy two more blankets to keep him warm. Most of his share went for food and drink. The food was that found in any camp: flour, beans, occasional pork or beef, and coffee. Fortunately Yee's tasty rice dishes and the fish that he caught supplemented the diet. Yee's huge conically shaped gold sifting pan doubled as a cooking utensil. Ever thorough, Yee used the pan to catch the silt and gravel that exited the sluice to sift through it one last time for any gold that had escaped from the sluice.

As the snow higher up in the Sierra receded to mere patches, the river slowly grew narrower. This allowed the miners to extend their claims further and further out into the river course that had dried. For most of them the results were no better. For others conditions improved. Such was the case for the company of McBride, Yee, and Thomas. Their ten-foot wide claim happened to parallel a series of boulders in the river. On the upstream side of the rocks they began to find pockets of gold that had been deposited there during previous rainy seasons. By the start of autumn 1849, the three had amassed six pouches of gold, almost a pound and a half. The rest had been spent for supplies. Thanks to the payments he had received for his services rendered as a doctor, McBride also held another 11 bags. As October stretched on toward November McBride called a meeting.

"Mr. Yee and Mr. Schmidt, I am happy to report that the good Lord has smiled down on us. We have a good enough poke set aside to get us through at least part of the winter."

"We will keep working the claim, then?"

"Well, Thomas, once the rains start and the weather turns cold it's too risky." The doctor shook his head as he remembered the previous winter. "Everything turns to mud. The rocks get slippery. If you fall in the water now, it's slow enough and there are enough miners around to snatch you out. Not so from once it starts raining until next March or April."

Thomas scanned the riverbanks. Already fewer miners were working their claims.

"A lot of the claims are empty of gold so they have already sold out or abandoned their claims. Some companies leave a man or two to guard the claim while the rest head off to Sacramento or San Francisco for the winter. The rains will push more gold down this far from the mountains. Then the miners will be back. So we have to decide whether to sell this claim or stick it out here for the winter."

"Sell it?" Thomas could not believe that to be an option.

"When I got here last spring it was plenty cold. The miners told me they even had a dusting of snow once or twice last winter. If we were staying the winter we'd need to build us a cabin and quick. My skills are for doctoring. Mr. Yee's are for cooking. I know you can swing an ax, Thomas. But none of us are lumberjacks. It'd be hard since all the nearby timber's already has been cut for firewood and cabins. Any cabin would have to be right near the claim to do us any good."

"Could we find another claim next spring?"

"Hard to say. By then there'll be thousands more miners up here. The newest miner up here told me there's regular transportation running between San Francisco and Sacramento now. They're bringing in riverboats. The miners are going to come in more and more now. Mark my words."

Thomas frowned, which he often did when faced with a decision. "I don't know what is best."

"One other thing. Spending the winter up here in the foothills brings sickness and disease and death to the miners. Even the healthy ones can catch a disease. Being in Sacramento means we would be warmer, drier, and eat a whole lot better. Food there costs less than half of what it does up here. How about a steak or chops or stew at least once in a while?" McBride smacked his lips. "That's real chow, real eating! The grub up here has gotten mighty old. If we didn't have Mr. Yee cooking to spice it up, I'd a quit a long time ago."

Thomas' hesitation mattered little. Old enough to be the other two's father, McBride was much more susceptible to the windy, damp, and at times foggy winters of Northern California. His joints and bones often ached and his lungs grew congested in such a climate. The only relief came from taking frequent hot baths, sitting near a hot woodstove, and imbibing in his favorite Scotch or Irish whiskies. All of those comforts could be found about 50 miles downriver.

The stagecoaches and ships running between San Francisco and Sacramento had at times helped to push the latter's population beyond that of the city by the Pacific. Most of the incoming horde dwelled in makeshift tent cities that lay planted around Sacramento's outskirts. McBride's plans were to spend the winter in one of the city's hastily erected hotels, regardless of Yee or Thomas' decisions.

If push comes to shove I'll trade my doctoring to the hotel staff and their families to keep my room.

Yee was all for selling the claim. He had amassed enough gold to return home. When Thomas still balked, McBride reached a compromise. He presented it hesitantly.

"Okay. Mr. Yee and I will head down to Sacramento. You stay here until the claim sells and then come and meet us there. Sell the tent and tools, too. That way you can ride Daniel back to civilization and meet us even sooner."

"But what if it does not sell?"

McBride shrugged. "Then it's yours. You can pay Mr. Yee and me for it out of your share that you earned. If you don't show up in Sacramento within three weeks, Mr. Yee and I will assume you decided to stay on here. Deal?"

Thomas was stunned. He easily could remove the "Claim 4 Sale" sign once the other two had left and then continue to milk the claim indefinitely. He knew that McBride understood all of that. And yet, the veteran of three gold strikes trusted him. Thomas felt a strange mixture of pride and opportunity. Pride because no one – be it family, friends, or employers – ever had trusted him to such a degree. And he sensed opportunity because even if the claim were eventually to sell, he secretly planned to continue to work it until such a sale. He had grown envious by always thinking about McBride's extra gold earned from his doctoring. Thomas was certain that his plan would give him extra bags of gold. Maybe that would sate his envy.

As McBride and Yee left the next morning, the former gave Thomas final instructions. They had changed from the ones that he had issued yesterday.

"Try to get $50 for the claim. That's a fair price. Tell any buyers how the gold gets deposited every year by the boulders, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if it doesn't sell in two weeks abandon it. Forget what I said about it being yours. And don't go looking for another claim!" He wagged his finger in Thomas' face. "I couldn't sleep last night thinking about you. I don't want you to stay here and be catching something that kills you. You better not make your wife a widow. I don't want your blood on my hands. I already have my wife's blood on them."

"Don't say that. You tried your best to save her." Thomas welcomed the change in subject. He was certain that he could pull at least three more ounces of gold from the claim in two weeks. That was better than nothing.

There were other diehards. One miner put it this way in a letter written to his wife in September 1849:

I suppose you have read large stories about the mines but they are not half of them true; no two men tell the same story. Some men make $16,000 in one day, but it is only one chance out of a thousand; the average is from ½ to 2 ounces per day...I shall stay up to the mines all winter, if I can make an ounce a day.

After Yee and McBride had started down the trail, Thomas went to work. It was slow going. First he had to fill the sluice with dirt and then sift through the gravel that lay trapped on its bottom after the water washed the sand and dirt away. Finding a little gold dust after the first such routine convinced him that he was right to continue working the claim. For the next week he kept on working at least ten hours a day. The sun was now coming up much later and going down much earlier than it had during summertime. In the second week it rained daily, sometimes only a brief shower, other times a downpour that lasted for hours. Thomas donned his raincoat and worked.

Being alone, eating cold food for most meals, and working in poor weather soon gave Thomas a case of what might best be called canyon fever, which was similar to camp fever and cabin fever. Some suffered from camp fever on the long trek west to the goldfields. The close confines with their fellow travelers would wear them down until one day they erupted into a fight or abandoned their wagon train for another. Such behavior was understandable. Back home they had lived in separate residences. Those who were farmers or dwelled in the country had been a good distance from their nearest neighbor. Not so on the prairie, in the mountains, or in the desert as part of a wagon train. Snoring, burping, farting, and drunken ramblings could often disturb sensibilities at night and deprive the offended of much needed sleep. The miners who spent the long cold winter in cabins near their claims could come down with cabin fever. For them it seemed as though the four walls were closing in on them. The only known remedy for cabin fever was time away from the cramped quarters. This was not always possible when cabins became snowbound or the rain lasted for days. Then sick jokes about ending up as the Donner Party had would fray the more fragile one's nerves even more.

Thomas' case of canyon fever involved two stone walls instead of four wooden ones. As each day passed the canyon seemed to grow progressively smaller and the stakes higher and higher. At the same time his lust for gold grew ever larger. He dreamed of striking it rich nightly. The lack of human contact did not help either. By now only a handful of miners remained working their claims. Most were of Thomas' greedy bent and thus loathe to talk with their neighbors. So driven was Thomas that he began to think that he should ignore McBride and abandon this claim in search of another better yielding one. Now lump fever was wracking his soul.

If others had found gold while engaged in pursuits totally unrelated to prospecting maybe he could be as lucky he reasoned. A hunter near Angel's Camp had hit pay dirt in an unusual way. He had poked his ramrod into the roots of bushes to flush out any game hiding there. Instead of meat for the table he found gold bearing quartz. Forgetting about his search for rabbits, he used the rod to pull out $700 worth of gold before nightfall. Returning with pick and shovel, he found $2,000 worth the second day and $7,000 on the third.

Such dumb luck astounded Thomas. Why has all of my hard work not paid me such dividends? Life is not fair.

Salvation for him came unexpectedly. Toward the end of the second week a miner representing his company from Ohio stopped to talk.

"How much you pull from it so far?"

"I got here in June." Thomas motioned for the miner to step inside of the tent and out of the foggy mist that dampened everything. "The original owner staked it out last March. His last reckoning was that it yielded fourteen or fifteen pounds since then. He and the other partner left me here to sell it. Look, I'm still finding gold, even working in this bad weather. There will be plenty more when the winter rains swell up the river. Then the water will push down even more gold from the mountains. That's the way it works, I've been told."

The miner examined the leather bag that Thomas had half filled on his own. "Hmmm. Not bad. I represent a company that came out here. The rest of 'em is camped out in Sacramento for the winter. They sent me on ahead to buy up claims we kin start working come spring. How much you want for it?"

"Fifty dollars."

"I'm only allowed to give you $25 since I have to buy up at least seven or eight claims for us all to have enough to work on. It's the best I can do. Honest to God."

Thomas' sore throat, aching body, advanced case of canyon fever, and new infection of lump fever rendered him unwilling to haggle. "Okay."

The buyer threw in another $5 for the two shovels and $30 for the tent, which became his base of operations as he searched for more claims to buy.

Thomas did not wait for morning. He quickly filled his backpack with his few clothes and bag of gold. His lust for the metal was temporarily forgotten. The only goal now was to reach Mormon Island by nightfall and find a warm room with a bed, a luxury that he had not enjoyed since leaving the steamship that he had taken from New York seven months earlier. His last act at the claim was to sign a crude document that transferred its ownership to the company from Ohio.

Thomas rode Daniel until his rear end began to bother him. He hopped off of the mule and tried readjusting the makeshift saddle of blankets but that only slightly relieved his discomfort. His poor diet had given him constipation, which had led to piles. In addition, his daily intake of beans and the wild mushrooms that Yee had added to the rice and his alcohol consumption had given him a bout of gout. The gout had subsided; the piles had worsened. Dismounting again, he began to lead his friend. This lessened his pain.

"Maybe we'll even be able to find a stable for you, Daniel." He tried to coax the mule along. Other than the buyer from Ohio, Daniel was the only one that Thomas had talked to in days.

It was dark by the time Daniel was chewing hay in a Mormon Island stable and Thomas was eating a hot meal at a small hotel. After dining both of them fell soundly asleep and did not hit the trail until two hours after daybreak. Mormon Island had grown since Thomas had seen it in June. Samuel Brannan had transformed the small camp into a community. However, many chafed at his insistence that its Mormon residents pay a tithe to him. Although now officially not a part of the Mormon branch headquartered in Salt Lake City, Brannan still retained some of its practices. He would go on to make a fortune from the stores he set up at Sutter's Fort and elsewhere.

As Daniel and Thomas retraced the path that they had taken from Sutter's Fort last spring, the full extent of Thomas' fatigue began to worry him. He had never been this tired, not even after working six days during harvest time on his father's farm and then a long night of drinking. He concluded that living in a tent for five months, eating a diet sorely lacking in the fruits and vegetables he had grown up on, working seven days a week, and worrying that he would not strike it rich had combined to drain him both physically and emotionally.

"Once we get to Sacramento, I will only work five or six days a week." He confided to Daniel. The mule sensed his master's distress but could only stare at him with his sad eyes. He occasionally shook his head in response to let Thomas know that he was paying attention.

As the miles wore on, Thomas felt his last reserves fade away. He now wished that he had followed McBride and Yee's habit of resting every Sunday. The two had warned him of the folly of working every day.

"The gold will still be there tomorrow." McBride had said weekly.

"Why you greedy?" Yee had added.

"The early bird gets the worm." Thomas had retorted more than once. "Go ahead and take your Sunday naps. I'm the one who'll make us rich!"

It was the stories of those who had struck it rich that had spurred Thomas on to work without a day off. During the first days of the mining around Auburn, not far from McBride's claim, a mere four cartloads of dirt had held $16,000 in gold. Those early miners were often digging up $1,000 or more worth of gold a day.

The story of the German miners who found $36,000 worth in only four days on a tributary of the Feather River also irked him. They had stumbled on the spot while taking a short cut when they spotted gold glittering in the crevices of rock lying on the bottom of a creek bed. At first they used knives, spoons, and bare hands as tools to dig it out. Before long so many miners showed up that claims were limited to ten square feet at what rightly came to be called Rich Bar. Even panning, which often proved to be unfruitful elsewhere, paid off at Rich Bar. A $1,500 panful was nothing to brag of at first. Legend had it that the best panful yielded almost $3,000. It was the old story of being in the right place at the right time because the discoverers of Rich Bar had not even been prospecting when they accidentally came across the strike of their lives. According to some accounts, they had given up on mining and were going back home when they found the location of their dreams.

The story of a strike near where Thomas had lived for almost half a year especially irritated him because he knew that it had kept any of that deposit from washing down to where his company had toiled. Now these tales and other similar ones ate away at his soul.

By the time that Daniel and Thomas reached Sutter's Fort, fever and chills were wracking his body. Before the first waves of gold seekers had devastated the fort and its surroundings there had always been a doctor on hand to treat both Sutter's employees and the settlers who were constantly passing through it. Now there were only random visits by doctors there. When Thomas stumbled into the fort's interior, the first one to greet him was a "Doctor" Samuel Ringer, whose framed medical diploma adorned the outside of his wood paneled wagon. Ringer had purchased the diploma in Chicago before heading west after someone had told him of the lack of doctors in California. He was headed to the diggings with a wagon filled with medicines guaranteed to cure all ills and ailments from arthritis to whooping cough. After listening to Thomas' list of symptoms he produced a bottle of tonic, the kind he prescribed for everything. Its ingredients of alcohol and opiates gave Thomas eight straight hours of slumber.

The next morning it took Thomas a little over an hour to reach Sacramento. By the time that he found McBride at the hotel, his symptoms were raging once more, only now the alternating fever and chills were even more intense. Thomas begged for another bottle of tonic. McBride's mining partner now became his patient.

"Into bed with you." The doctor pushed Thomas that direction as he continued his questions. "What have you been doing the last couple of weeks to be in such bad shape now? You were in good enough condition when we left you up at the claim. What happened?"

Thomas fumbled with his boots as McBride, seated in the modest room's only chair, watched. The patient waited until he felt safe under the covers before answering.

"Umm...I kept on working a little."

"Every day as usual, I bet."

"Well...I was still finding gold and nobody was buying the claim. I had to do something, right?"

McBride sighed. "I warned you that if you weren't careful you would get scurvy, typhoid fever, dysentery, or Lord knows what else. I'm not for certain what is ailing you. But whatever it is, you're not getting out of that bed till I say so. I've watched too many miners die in too many different places already. If you go ahead and die in this bed I won't be able to sleep in it anymore."

"Yes, doctor." Thomas knew better than to argue. Besides, he had no strength left with which to disagree.

"Well at least you are calling me what I am for you now. Did you slip and fall in the river then?"

"No. Once or twice I slipped on the rocks along the riverside. They were always wet from the rain and fog."

"Did you even bother building a fire to dry out by?"

"Uh, sometimes. I was finding so much gold that..."

"Never mind. How much did you get for the claim and tent and equipment?"

Thomas fished the money from his sweat filled shirt and handed it to McBride, who silently counted it. He cared little for how much Thomas had sold everything. His concern now was to keep him from dying. He regretted leaving the novice all alone in the wild.

"Not as much as we hoped for but no matter. Truth be told I should've brought you down from there with us. No amount of money is worth enough to be ruining your health over. That reminds me. Now I need your help to keep Mr. Yee from ruining his health."

"Is he sick too?"

"The worst kind of sickness. He's got a broken heart because he got a letter from his girl's father. He got tired of waiting for Mr. Yee to return to China to pay the dowry to marry her so he sold her off as a prostitute."

"What?" Thomas recalled all the times Yee had carefully removed his beloved's picture from its hiding place and gazed at it.

"Don't go and get yourself all self righteous now. They've got famine going on there in China. Lots of 'em are starving to death. From what I've been told it's all too common for the daughters to be sold off so's her family can survive."

"Where is he?"

McBride shook his head. "Haven't seen him since he took off yesterday. My guess is that he's laying low in an opium den."

"Opium den? But he never smoked any of it at the claim. He said it would make him lazy."

"That was before he got the letter. Everything's changed now."

It was another two days before Thomas had healed enough to help McBride find Yee. During his time spent with Yee McBride had obtained a smattering of Chinese words that he now used to search for his missing friend. He and Thomas only walked a block from their hotel before finding a business that had black Chinese characters printed across the storefront. Once they were inside of the store an elderly man dressed in traditional Chinese garb greeted them.

"Hello" His English was marginal.

"Hello." McBride answered in Chinese. "Look for friend." Unsure of the Chinese word for opium he resorted to gestures.

First he stretched out his hands to the length of an opium pipe. Having rescued a couple of other patients from opium dens years earlier, McBride had a passing knowledge of the habit and its consequences. Then he formed his hand into the shape of a pipe's bowl and used the other hand to pretend that he was placing something into the bowl. Next he kept the two hands on the imaginary pipe. Then he pretended to puff it.

"Yes." The storeowner interpreted the stranger's reference to "friend" as meaning opium and gestures as the need for a pipe in which to smoke it. He left his wooden counter and went through beautiful silk curtains to the backroom that served as storage and office for his store and living quarters for him and his wife. In a moment he returned. He thrust a beautiful long-stemmed pipe over the counter toward McBride. "Only $5."

McBride took a step backward. While he was trying to regain his composure, Thomas intervened. Somewhat of a ham, Thomas had been in every school and church play since he was five years old. He pointed at McBride, squatted down to Yee's height, and pointed at himself and said, "Friend." Then he grabbed the pipe and pretended to smoke it. Cocking his head to one side, he half-opened his mouth and let his eyelids droop. He handed the pipe back and said, "Find friend."

"Thank you, Thomas." McBride frowned. "But isn't that what I already told him?"

The proprietor grimaced as he placed the pipe under the counter that separated him from customers, especially strange ones such as these. "Want opium?"

Exasperated, McBride gave up on trying to use his rudimentary Chinese. "No." He spoke in English. "We want to find Mr. Yee. We think he's in an opium den."

"Opium den? I take." He turned toward the curtains and called to his wife. After explaining to her that he would be gone for five minutes, he shuffled out from behind the counter and motioned for his weird customers to follow him. This was not the first time that white men had asked him for opium. Usually they had enough courtesy to buy a pipe in exchange for his directing them to a source.

He led them two blocks down the rickety wooden boardwalk that served as a sidewalk above the street's mud and water. Turning left between a saloon and another store, he continued on to a small building that was tucked away between a fence and the buildings that faced the street. A woman opened the door and poked her head outside after hearing a knock. Thinking that her business was about to receive two new customers, she smiled at all who stood at the entrance. McBride dropped a dollar into the storekeeper's hand as he turned to leave. The opium den's owner lost her smile when she learned that McBride and Thomas were not there to smoke her product but only to rescue someone from it.

"He smoke too much." She held out her hand.

McBride sighed and dropped a dollar into her hand. He knew that Yee had paid in advance and that the dollar was compensating her for lost business due to the unexpected early departure of one of her customers. Thomas and McBride entered the lost world of the den. A dozen men, half of them Chinese and the rest white miners, lay flat on their backs or propped up on one elbow. A few were puffing on their long stemmed pipes. The rest of them were dazed to the point that they could no longer inhale the drug that was burning to smoke and ash in the pipe's bowls. Lost in the unearthly dream state that opium produces, Yee was only vaguely aware that two people were carrying him out of the den that he had lain in for days. He thought that he was floating through the air above the streets of Sacramento. His senses did not return until hours later. By then he was lying in the bed in McBride's hotel room.

"Why I here?" he asked his rescuers.

"Because I need a cook when I return home," McBride answered. He handed Yee a cup of strong coffee. "Drink this down. Then you're going to eat. You're nothing but skin and bones, you poor sot, you." A tear ran down the doctor's left cheek.

"Be cook for you?" Yee was amazed that anyone appreciated his culinary skills so much. He drained the cup of coffee and asked for more. "You pay?"

"That's right. I've had a bellyful of this cold, wet, foggy climate here and busting my back for gold." McBride refilled the cup from the pot of coffee that he had ordered from the hotel's kitchen and handed it back to Yee. "And I'm sick to death of always trying to save the likes of you and Thomas. I'm ready to go home to the sun in Los Angeles for good. Only problem is that I don't have the pile of gold I promised my wife I'd come home with. Oh well. You know what they say, 'you can't please everyone all of the time.' I am no exception. Do you think she will scalp me because of it?"

Yee spit out the coffee as he laughed. Picturing a woman holding the doctor's freshly severed bloody head of hair was too much to bear. He slowly rose from the bed and searched for his belongings, which he had left behind when he ran away to the opium den.

Thomas stared at McBride. "Wife? But you said she died."

"Well this one's my second wife. I met her while I was down South in the Georgia gold rush." His countenance softened and his eyes twinkled. "I promised her I'd only keep mining up here if I got a really good claim. It was a good one until it played out."

"But what about the rivers up north?" Thomas had no desire to head back next spring to the gold fields without an experienced miner as a partner to ensure his success. He had recovered from his physical ailments but the gold fever still lingered in his soul.

McBride shook his head. "I've spent the last two weeks doctoring and listening to miners from up there. It's the same story I've been hearing from those from the American River diggings or the other rivers south of Sacramento. A few miners have hit pay dirt. But as soon as word gets out hundreds more miners show up. Before you know it the place is overrun."

"Are you sure there's no place left to get rich?"

McBride let out the cynical laugh of one who has seen and done more than he should have. "Probably is. My guess is they'll find gold in the Rockies eventually. They're so big there has to be gold in them somewhere. They stretch all the way from Mexico up into Canada. In the meantime I best be giving up mining. My wife has been through too much already."

"What do you mean by that?" The doctor's last statement made Thomas wonder what turmoil he was inflicting on Harriet. He thought of her constantly now that he did not have the distraction of searching for gold.

"Her father hails from the Choctaw tribe originally. That's one of the Five Civilized Tribes, you know."

"Oh. I heard something about that. The other tribes are the Seminoles, Cherokees..."

"And the Creek and Chickasaw." He hastened the conversation along as he packed his only suitcase. "Their biggest mistake was their fighting on the British side during the war. That came back to haunt them in a big way. Anyway my wife's dad saw the handwriting on the wall when a medicine man had a vision of the Choctaws being led away by soldiers. So he hightailed it out of Alabama and left his tribe in a hurry. He came up to Cherokee territory in Georgia. Took up with a Cherokee squaw and they had a daughter. Then two years later they passed the Indian Removal Act of 1830."

"How did you meet him?"

"He was supplying deer meat to the miners in exchange for gold. We bought it from him every time he came around. We were all mighty sick of beans and flour. Things went fine for a spell. But after they moved the Choctaws over to Indian Territory in 1831, they went after the rest of them. Luckily they didn't go after the Cherokees until 1838. They took the Seminoles, Creek, and Chickasaw before they got around to the Cherokees last of all."

"What happened to your Choctaw friend?"

"Well he was a survivor, for the most part. When he heard that the Cherokees were the next to be moved he made a deal with me. He offered me half his gold if I would take him as far as Texas. He thought he and his wife and kid could pretend to be my slaves. I had the itch to be moving on anyways so I agreed."

"Didn't the army stop you?"

"More than once. But I had a lawyer fix up an official looking document saying that I had bought them fair and square. That cost me most of the gold he gave me to smuggle them out. At least it fooled all the soldiers."

"So they made it to Texas?"

"Yeah. We all did. But then the parents both took sick and died. Lots of the injuns they marched off to Indian Territory died the same way from disease."

Thomas searched his memory of recent American history. "They called it The Trail of Tears?"

"That's right. Anyways, I took Little Hawk under my wing after her parents died. I gave her that name because she's so feisty. She sure came in handy whenever I run into injuns on the way to California. She can speak Choctaw, Cherokee, and a couple other tribes' tongues too. When she doesn't know a language she gets by on sign language."

Thomas' mind raced ahead to the only possible conclusion. "She's the one you married? But she's so much younger than you!"

"Now don't start getting evil thoughts. At least I waited until she was 17. I didn't touch her until we got hitched either. One of the padres saw how I was all the time looking at her and told me we had best get married. Now, listen. They shoot injuns for sport here in California. I don't need a drunk skunk of a miner shooting me or cutting me up with his knife because he hears how I married one." McBride winked.

"Do you have children with her?"

"Yes, indeed. One that I've seen and another that I haven't laid eyes on yet. That's one more reason for me to go on back home."

Thomas felt his resolve melting away. Being a prospector for gold was totally different from the accounts he had read about a year earlier. However, his expectations of wealth were undergoing a slower death than his resolve. His only hope now lay in Rudolph. Perhaps their planned meeting on Christmas day would bring good news that the company from Elmira had hit a bonanza. Thomas was certain that Rudolph could help him join in their good fortune. McBride sensed his hesitation.

"So this is where we part company, Thomas?" He closed the full suitcase. "I've cashed in the gold we found since you joined us last spring, minus what was spent of course. That plus what you got for the claim and equipment leaves each of us with $53.33." McBride counted out Thomas' share and handed it to him. He then reached for his doctor's bag. "This room's paid up until next week. You can have it. Before we go, let me listen to your lungs one last time."

He placed his stethoscope on Thomas' back and ordered him to breathe deeply. After listening intently for a moment, he gave Thomas a final warning.

"Your lungs aren't real bad but they sound like they're still struggling a wee bit. There's a chance you've had pneumonia or maybe you're still carrying it."

"What's that?"

"A disease that can kill you if you aren't careful. Any work you do this winter has to be done inside out of the rain and cold so you can heal up fully." The doctor wagged his finger. "It'd be best if you came along with Mr. Yee and me to Los Angeles. The climate there is warm and dry. That's what you need to recuperate properly."

Yee had finished dressing and packing his suitcase.

"But you said the gold is gone from the mountains there."

McBride sighed as he put the stethoscope away and stood up. "Thomas, don't be a fool like me. I've spent almost half my life looking for gold. Go back to furniture making and farming. You won't be rich but you can still be happy. I have met very few rich people who are happy. I know the rancho owners around Los Angeles. If you, Mr. Yee, and I go in together we could buy a chunk of land from them. You could bring your family out here. Mr. Yee can cook for us. You can farm and make furniture. I can doctor. We'd get by. The rancho owners have money. They'd buy your furniture."

Unwilling to commit himself before talking to Rudolph, Thomas begged off. "I appreciate your kindness." He grabbed McBride's hand and shook it, then Yee's. "I will think on it, as you Americans say. You have so many funny sayings in English."

"Mr. Yee, you mind going on downstairs and ordering us a late breakfast?" He handed Yee a couple of dollars. "Can't be traveling on an empty stomach, you know."

Having ingested nothing but opium smoke and that morning's coffee during the last three days, Yee readily agreed. McBride waited until he could no longer hear Yee's footsteps going down the hotel's third floor corridor.

"Sorry to be pulling out of here so quick, Tommy. But the sooner I get Mr. Yee away from Sacramento and its opium dens the better off he'll be."

"There aren't any opium dens in Los Angeles?"

"Only one that I knew of when I left. But that's been a while ago. Los Angeles is more like a sleepy little town than a city. There's hardly any people down there compared to Sacramento."

"How will you get there?"

McBride stood and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. "We'll catch one of the riverboats from here down to San Francisco. Then we'll hop aboard a ship headed to Central or South America to pick up any Argonauts headed up here. Most all of the boats stop off in Los Angeles." McBride tipped his hat as the door shut behind him.

Thomas felt completely well within three days. He spent the next five weeks working odd jobs around Sacramento as he pined for Christmas and his long-awaited reunion with Rudolph. His favorite employment was sweeping and cleaning buildings or tents with wooden floors. Yee had done such work until he read of his would-be bride's fate. He had told Thomas to dump all of the dirt swept up from the floors into his backpack and to take it back to the hotel room where he could use the wash basin to sift through the dirt for gold. Usually gold dust or flakes would be recovered.

With thousands of transient miners in Sacramento using their gold to buy everything they desired or showing it off to brag about, invariably part of it ended up on the floors of saloons, hotels, stores, gambling dens, or theaters. Yee had said that the best time to sweep was after a brawl because during the fight the gold would often spill from pouches or card tables where it had been placed as bets. Thomas had even swept up small nuggets after lengthier fights that had involved more than two customers. Gradually proprietors of the businesses caught on and started to sweep the floors themselves.

Christmas day arrived at last. Dressed in a recently purchased secondhand suit, Thomas sauntered over to the appointed hotel to meet Rudolph. He barely recognized the muscular, gaunt, and bearded man who approached him in the lobby. At first Thomas believed him to be a stranger, another miner perhaps.

"Mein Kumpel!" Rudolph yelled the German for "my friend" as he came toward him.

"Rudolph? Is that really you?"

Rudolph grabbed Thomas' hand and shook it as if he were pumping a well's handle. "Don't you remember me? Has gold fever ruined your mind?" He reverted to English.

Thomas grinned. "But you look so different."

Indeed he did. Gone was almost 30 pounds of fat that he once had carried, replaced by 25 pounds of hard muscle. The thousands of miles he had traveled by foot to get to California had transformed him, mentally and emotionally as well as physically. While Thomas had been more dominant in their relationship back East, it was Rudolph who now took command as he steered his friend toward the dining room and ordered two steaks and baked potatoes.

"Steak?' Thomas' eyes grew wide. "You have become rich then? Can I join your company? I've lost my mining partners. I can't wait to join you. Where is your claim?"

Rudolph grabbed his glass of beer off of the tray before the waiter could place it on the table. He raised it in a toast as the waiter set another glass in front of Thomas. Two huge gulps later Rudolph's beer was gone. Thomas ignored his brew and waited for an answer.

"Rich? Ha! I'm lucky to be alive!"

Thomas ate his dinner in silence as Rudolph detailed his months' long journey from Elmira by stage, rail, riverboat, horseback, and foot first across the Midwest and then plains, mountains, deserts, and too many rivers, streams, and creeks to recall all of them. Instead of dessert Rudolph ordered two more beers. Anxious to know how he had fared in his quest for gold, Thomas interrupted Rudolph's saga at the point in which the company was cresting the Sierra.

"But what happened after you got here? You found much gold, right?"

Thomas' impatience humored Rudolph. He seemed as a child compared to himself. "Ha! It was a disaster! Once we got to Hangtown, our guide was paid and he disappeared. He said he would never guide another wagon train again. It seemed like no matter where our company went, other miners had already staked their claims. Half of our company wanted to buy enough claims for us to work. The other half wanted to find our own claims. So we split into two companies."

"Which did you go with?"

"I was too tired to keep walking who knows how far to find our own claims. So I stayed there and we bought 11 claims near each other."

"How much gold did you find?"

"Very little. It was already October by the time we started working. The miners who have been there longer than us said our claims wouldn't have much gold until after the winter rains have washed more of it down to them. They said we should hope and pray for heavy rains." Rudolph smiled and pointed out the window at the downpour that was pelting the city and turning the streets into seas of mud. "If this rain keeps falling like this, there will be plenty of gold on our claims by spring. I think I can have them let you join us. Two of them have already said they are going to strike out on their own. Three others have said they are going back to Elmira as soon as enough of the snow in the Sierras melts so they can get through. If one of them doesn't change his mind there will be room for you. Our cabins are crowded but they are warm and dry."

Thomas smiled as his hopes of returning home as a rich man were born anew. The friends talked on until their waiter informed them that although he hated to break up their Christmas meal and cheer other customers needed their table. Rudolph left only a penny as a tip in reply.

"Americans are too hasty and rude." He growled as they left. "I miss Europe. Their people are more civilized than these barbarians ever will be."

They spent the rest of Christmas day in the lobby of Thomas' hotel. While four other of the hotel's occupants played cards on a small table the reunited friends reminisced about past Christmases and wondered how their families were faring without them.

"You have two children now, so I guess you have more to miss than I do," Thomas said.

Rudolph's tense face softened. "Yes. I never thought I would miss them and Jane so much."

"Sometimes I think we expect too much from life. I remember how my father would say that if we can't learn to be happy with what we have, we will only be miserable always trying to get what we want."

It was not until suppertime that Thomas convinced Rudolph to stay as his guest. He had rented an extra mattress for the cramped room so that one of them would not have to endure sleeping directly on the hard pine wooden floor. His hopes of Rudolph staying until spring because he needed a roommate to help pay for the expensive room were soon ended.

Rudolph explained that if he were gone from the claim longer than two weeks he would be considered a deserter and lose his membership in the company. So he only stayed for two days and nights. That was ample time for them to plan on how to make their fortunes in a hurry. When Rudolph heard of McBride's assessment that it would be slim pickings for miners in California from now on, he agreed that one more season of mining would either make or break them. Both were thankful that at least they had established claims to return to come springtime and that the continual heavy rains ensured that a good quantity of gold would be deposited on them. Rudolph guaranteed Thomas that he would be able to join his company.

"They have no choice. When some of them leave next spring we need replacements or we won't be able to keep our claims active. We are lucky that we got here now," Rudolph said. They wished each other one last "Merry Christmas" and said good night. "Those who arrive next year will be too late. There already are too many miners now."

When Rudolph returned to his company Thomas continued working around Sacramento. Sometimes he ignored McBride's advice and worked outdoors when such work was all that he could find. He loaded and unloaded steamships, helped to re-erect tents that had blown down, and dug small ditches around structures to keep them from flooding. Such diversion of the continual rainfall was adequate until January 1850. Then the Sacramento River, swollen by the Mill, Rock, Butte, Feather, Bear, Cache, Grindstone, McCloud, Deer, Cottonwood, Yuba, and unnamed seasonal creeks to the north, overflowed its banks, as the rainfall for Northern California in the winter of 1849/50 was higher than that of average years.

Once the flooding started in Sacramento tens of thousands were left to decide whether to sink, swim, or move to higher ground. The able-bodied pitched tents or built shacks on any high ground that they could find. The less able-bodied fared more poorly. Many of the sick patients unable to walk ended up floating on their cots atop the raging waters. Some of them were saved; others drowned. Even those who were not ill drowned as they misjudged the depth or speed of the floodwaters. The flood was no respecter of the dead, either. As the rains kept saturating the ground coffins floated to the surface of cemetery lawns. A few of them lodged against trees and buildings, others were swept into the swollen river and not found again until springtime far downstream.

Overnight the most available job became levee building. Thomas joined in as rock and dirt were used to bury debris that the river had delivered. Much of the debris had been washed downstream from miles away; other was freight from Sacramento's docks. The levees were thrown together haphazardly but no one cared as long as they held back the immediate flood. Little thought was given to the durability of the levees; such foresight would have to be implemented at a later time. Weeks went by before the structures closest to the river were no longer flooded. Even then the low spots, such as streets, looked more like creeks or quagmires. This made the squatters who had taken refuge on higher ground unwilling to abandon their crime of trespassing, no matter how far the waters receded or how high the new levees rose. They reasoned that the hastily erected levees could easily be breeched by another series of storms, especially if heavy rains fell during the snowmelt from the mountains to the north. Starting in the Klamath Mountains, the Sacramento River stretched for hundreds of miles between the Coastal Range on the west and the Sierra Nevada Range on the east. This ensured a massive runoff from three mountain ranges, all of which were buried under tons of snow every winter.

Adhering more to the philosophy and spirit of the French rather than the American Revolution, the squatters tried to legitimize their disregard for the rights of the property owners by calling themselves Free Soilers. "If it's got the word free in it, then it makes us sound more like patriots than a bunch of lazy no good moochers!" one claimed. The name stuck.

They found allies in the pages of the local newspapers. Publishers Richard Moran and James McClatchy became the Free Soilers' heroes as they defended and glorified squatters' rights in their newspapers. The Free Soilers proved to be even more selfish and lawless than those who had ransacked Sutter's Fort and the land around it a few years earlier. For while the decimators of John Sutter's property at least had the common courtesy to move on, the Free Soilers showed no such inclination. They reasoned that if gold in abundance was not to be their lot then the next best thing was free land, no matter who owned it.

The chaos grew and McClatchy and Moran were jailed. This enraged the Free Soilers and they marched as a seething mob to where their heroes were behind bars. A fight erupted that left the Sacramento City Assessor and a Free Soiler dead. Others were injured. One of the squatters' leaders, a doctor by trade, was charged with murder and jailed. But before the trial could take place, he was elected to the State Legislature.

All of this anarchy made Thomas ponder if California would now descend into the revolution that was wracking his native Germany. He longed for the relative safety of the gold fields. At least there anyone squatting on a claim not belonging to him would likely end up at the end of a rope.

By the first week of March he was ready to depart Sacramento for Hangtown to join Rudolph and make their fortunes so that they could return home in triumph. Although Rudolph and those who had trekked overland were more physically and mentally prepared to hunt gold, Thomas was certain that he could be of service to the company from New York. After spending the winter in a warm hotel room and eating a more varied diet, his strength had returned and he felt ready to return to the sluices and long toms of the claims. He was making his final preparations to leave Sacramento when Rudolph showed up at his hotel.

"You didn't have to come for me." Thomas said. He was unwilling to believe that something was awry. "I could have met you there."

"You don't understand. I need a beer. Follow me. Now."

"But..."

Thomas mutely followed his friend down the stairs and out of the hotel. Rudolph's angry expression worried him. He knew that such an expression always presaged news of a bad development, of plans gone haywire. His mind spun with possibilities. It settled on the one that he thought to be most likely – the company had refused to let Thomas join it. This caused his mind to scramble for alternatives: strike out on his own for the gold fields, look for a band of discouraged miners who were preparing to head east and join them, or go to Los Angeles and make furniture at Dr. McBride's place until he could raise enough money to return to New York by ship. The last alternative appealed to him the least because he would have to admit that McBride had been at least partially right. His foolish pride would not stand for that.

Leading the way, Rudolph turned into the first saloon that he came to even though it was only 10 o'clock in the morning. He ordered two beers at the bar and carried them to the only empty table. Thomas sat down and studied his beer as Rudolph gulped down his. After finishing his brew, Rudolph gestured at Thomas' still full mug. Thomas shook his head no. That at least brought a tiny smile to Rudolph's dour expression as he grabbed it and continued to swallow the foamy liquid. He finished half of it before he began his tale of woe.

"Do you believe in luck?"

"I guess so."

"Yours and mine is bad. Very bad."

"What happened?" Thomas braced himself.

Rudolph slammed the now empty mug down on the table. Every drinker, card player, and hanger-on looked his way. The bartender reached for his shotgun in case that it would be needed. "The rain. I have never seen so much rain in my life. It made the river so high that it came all the way up to our cabins."

"It's been bad here too. We've been finding coffins from the graveyards without bodies in them." He shuddered as he recalled his helping to retrieve coffins and corpses.

"At least you have levees here."

Thomas smiled. "Like dumb heads we didn't build them until after the city flooded. Did the river damage your cabins?"

"No. But it swept away all the stakes and other markers for the claims. And it moved the rocks around and even changed its course in places. Now it's too hard to tell where the claims were."

"But isn't there a miners' committee to settle any disputes? We had a committee at our camp on the north fork."

"That's the other problem. Our committee always likes to settle disputes in favor of their friends!"

"Oh."

"That's not the worst of it. When I asked about the company taking you in, they voted against it. Only I was for it. They said they couldn't let anyone else join because it would cut down on their share of the gold."

"I see." Thomas bowed his head. "No matter. I'll find someone else to take me in on their claim. I like the stories I've heard about the rivers to the north. There have been big strikes not too far away. You can go back to your company. It's all right."

"No, I can't. I quit the company. But at least I made them buy out my share." Rudolph patted his money belt. It bulged significantly more than it had at Christmas time.

"Good. Then we can both go north together."

"Not me. I've had enough of all this nonsense. Gold? Bah!"

Thomas leaned back in his chair as he watched the will to continue the hunt for gold temporarily flow from Rudolph's body.

"Listen." Rudolph lowered his voice to a whisper. Thomas had to lean forward to hear him. "I heard of a farmer who made $25,000 in only one year by selling vegetables to the miners. We have a much better chance of getting rich if we supply the miners with food like that farmer did."

"But we have no land."

"Don't worry. I heard of a perfect place for us to go to."

Those who sat at the nearest tables ceased trying to eavesdrop and returned to the business at hand. As if on cue their bodies stopped leaning toward the one who whispered. All hunched back over their cards or drinks. Once they were certain that Rudolph had no news of a gold strike but only discussed plans about farming any interest in the hushed conversation lapsed.

# 15

James lasted somewhat longer in the goldfields than Rudolph and Thomas did. But by August 1850 he also had had enough of the miner's life. He left it behind with gold in his pocket.

When he first came to Negro Bar he had imagined that he could prosper among those of his own kind. Surely they would all work together as one. Even though it consisted of a few shacks and tents, James reasoned it had potential. He was right. Within a few years its population would reach 700. But for now being close to those such as he increased his safety from drunken or hateful white miners from slave states who resented black men taking gold from the American River. Or maybe even one from a free state. James had seen too many nasty looks in California for all of them to belong to those from the South. But, like most illusions, this one of unity and harmony soon crumbled. The worst of it was that James was resented for being a runaway slave, something he felt no responsibility for at all.

The more cautious of those who were not runaway slaves at Negro Bar seemed to be convinced that slave owners' avarice knew no bounds. In their minds, slave hunters could show up at anytime with wanted posters bearing the likeness and description of those who had fled the plantations. That meant trouble for everyone. Although far from the slave states, California had not yet declared itself free or slave. One standing on its soil had no guarantee of freedom.

This led James to avoid those who believed him to be a liability. Unwilling to toil alone and believing that birds of a feather flock together, he joined forces with two other runaways. Neither one had ever enjoyed respite from slavery that James had at the Bates' farm in Pennsylvania.

One was named Billy. He had worked the cotton fields of an Alabama plantation until age 23. At that point he figured that he would rather try working for himself instead of slaving and being poor. He also reckoned that being killed because of fleeing was better than living and dying on the plantation.

He took a circuitous route before finding the place that suited him. First he rode the Underground Railroad all the way to Minnesota. By then news of the gold strike at Sutter's Mill had traveled that far. From Minnesota he snuck into Canada. After traveling the Canadian plains, he reentered the United States at the Oregon Territory. Then it was south to the goldfields. His trip was long and treacherous, part by foot, the rest by mule, horse, and wagon. He often traded labor for food, rides, or whatever else he needed along the way. Worn out but joyful, he had arrived at Negro Bar a week before James.

The other partner was Paul. He had served his master as a butler for years and was accompanying him on a voyage to San Francisco. Unfortunately for the master they arrived at San Francisco shortly after word of the gold strike at Sutter's Mill had reached the city. When Paul watched the crew of the ship, except for the captain and two officers, desert he decided that it was now or never for him. While his master fretted about his return voyage to New Orleans on the deserted ship Paul plotted his escape. He simply took off as soon as his master was sound asleep in his hotel room. He crossed the San Francisco Bay by helping a group of greenhorn miners row their boat.

After rowing and walking most of the way from San Francisco to Sacramento, he had replaced much of the fat with lean muscle. He was one of the first to arrive and take up residence at Negro Bar. He believed that this made him an expert on all matters related to prospecting for gold. For instance, he insisted that the three-man company's claim be staked as far downriver as possible. He was certain that that way they would catch all the fine gold dust stirred up by the miners upriver. Billy thought that meant that they would miss out on the flakes and nuggets upstream. James did not care either way. He went to work and hoped for the best.

After his first few days at the mining camp James saw one man teaching others at Negro Bar how to read and write. He approached him. "I can read and write okay but some says I talk funny. You help me out with that any?"

The teacher in residence agreed gladly and began to teach James grammar, diction, and pronunciation. A quick study, James improved with every passing day. However, his new language skills did little to maintain peace between his coworkers.

Billy and Paul had come from the two different worlds of the slaving experience. Billy readily acknowledged that he had toiled in the fields. These slaves lived in shacks, ate the poorest food, worked the longest hours, wore the shabbiest clothes, and died the youngest. This caused many of his caste to resent those who served as slaves in the master's house as servants, cooks, maids, or butlers. There the living quarters were better, the food tastier and more abundant, the clothes newer, and the work easier.

It especially angered Billy that Paul had been a butler, which he considered the best job to have. He also resented that Paul had only fled for little over one hundred miles while he had traveled thousands to get to Negro Bar. Their constant bickering reminded James of the way most of the indentured servants had resented him for being their boss in Pennsylvania and the other slaves had despised him for being in authority on the plantation in Georgia. Problems especially arose when one or both of his partners took to drinking, which seemed to be most miners' favorite pastime in every camp throughout California.

"You be so high and mighty, Mr. Butler Man, always bossing us around!" Billy yelled after drinking a bottle of cheap whiskey imported from nearby Sacramento. "Nothing ever changed for you. You still thinks you be workin' from the house while me and James be your boys workin' the goldfields. You probably don't even think it stinks when you goes off into the bushes and pulls down your pants and squats down to do your business!" He did his best to imitate what he called "Paul's flowery way with words." The imitation caused Paul to shake. "I bet what you leave behind smells so pretty and nice the flies don't even come around to eat on it."

Paul had kept his temper in check until the last remark. Then he exploded.

"Take that back, or I'll...I'll..." He stopped shaking his fist and tried to think of a suitable punishment.

"You'll what?" Billy mocked him. "Whip my butt? I don't think you can." He assumed the fighting stance of a bare-knuckled boxer. "Come on! I'll give you a worse whooping than your mama ever did. Sometimes I wonder if you even had a mama."

As usual James stepped in between the two. When Billy kept up his tirade, James banged him over the head with a shovel so that he could sleep off his drunkenness. The next morning Billy complained that his hangover was worse than it usually was. Despite their differences, the three members of the small company did fairly well as they pulled an average of an ounce and a half of gold a day from the American River. In time Billy and Paul stopped their fighting, much to James' relief. The two even concluded that their calling was to be miners the rest of their lives. This proved to be at least partially prophetic. After most of the diggings played out a few years later both of them progressed into the next phase of extracting gold, hard rock mining in tunnels burrowed deep into the Sierra. Billy died in a cave-in along with two other miners. Paul eventually drifted back to Sacramento where he opened his own clothing shop, which prospered handily.

James seriously considered whether he shared their purported lifelong calling. Working for himself had given him a level of accomplishment that he had never before experienced. But after more than a year of the thankless life of prospecting James decided he had had enough. He sensed that it was slowly wearing him down. His arthritic hands had continued to deteriorate. Both Paul and Billy pleaded with him to stay; they had come to admire their partner for his level headedness. But even their newfound peaceful co-existence was not enough to convince James.

Instead of drinking away his gold, James had saved it. He traded half of it for a horse, saddle, and tack and headed to Sacramento. I walked to the gold. At least I'm riding out with some of it in my pocket. He smiled as his horse plodded toward the city. And I didn't end up dead, either. He tipped his hat as he rode past those who were buried at Negro Bar.

He remembered that Thomas had spoken of meeting Rudolph for Christmas at a hotel in Sacramento. Unsure of the hotel's name but nevertheless hoping to find out where they might have ventured next, he talked with whoever happened to be at the hotels' front desks as he methodically visited each one. The third hotel that he walked into had what he wanted.

"Yeah, Thomas left here last spring," the hotel clerk replied. "He said something about heading down to Mudville."

"Where's that?"

"About 50 miles south of here. Sits right next to the San Joaquin River. You can't miss it. Say, I got something for Thomas. You can take it to him." The clerk disappeared into a back office. He returned with a large box filled with letters. After shuffling through it he pulled out one of them and handed it to James. "It got here last week."

# 16

James no longer bore the appearance of a miner as his horse carried him southward. Gone were the miner's typical shabby, worn clothes and unkempt grooming. He had abandoned them for a clean shaven face and attire that made him look more like a cowboy than anything else, especially with the wide brimmed hat that kept the sun from shining in his eyes and the revolver and bullets that hung in his gun belt. Thus, when he rode up to Thomas and Rudolph's farm they thought he was probably another cowpuncher either looking for work or passing through. Thomas did not recognize him until James called out to him.

"Hello, Mr. Thomas. I have a letter for you. Most folks who deliver mail to the diggings want $1 or $2 to deliver a letter from Sacramento or San Francisco. But because you're down here in the valley, I'll be glad to waive the fee."

"James?" Thomas dropped his hoe and ran to greet his friend. "I didn't recognize you. You look so different. You even talk differently. What happened? How much gold did you find?"

James swung down off of his horse and grabbed Thomas' outstretched hand. "I guess you might say that I got more of an education about English than in finding gold since I last saw you."

"How did you find us?"

"That took a while. The hotel clerk where you stayed said you were in Mudville. When I got there a man named Weber told me where you are. He said that the name of his place would be changing to Stockton pretty soon. One thing about California, they sure like to change the names of their towns."

Thomas grabbed the letter from James and told him where to find water for himself and his horse, as the temperature was 109 degrees and still rising. "Rudolph, James is here," he hollered as he ripped open the letter. Thomas met them under the shade of a massive oak tree.

Rudolph smiled at their visitor. "So how did you do in the diggings? Looks like you found enough gold to buy nice clothes."

"It's a long story." James shook Rudolph's hand.

"Maybe you can tell us a shorter version."

James smiled. "I'd be glad to." He gestured at the 20 acres of crops. "Looks like you and Thomas switched to farming instead of mining."

"There's more money to be made supplying miners than there is in being one." Then Rudolph turned toward Thomas, who had finished reading the letter. "You know our agreement. Whoever gets a letter has to read it to the other." He turned back to James. "That way it feels like we each get twice as many letters."

"It's from Dr. McBride." Thomas sat with his back resting on the oak's trunk. "He says:

I hope this letter finds its way to you. Mr. Yee and I have settled in fairly well. He has only reverted back to his opium pipe once since we left you so I think he can do well here. We are living with my family in a small adobe hut on a rancho of a friend of mine. He is willing to sell as much as 100 acres to myself but I am too old to do anything with so much land.

It is good for farming and the weather is such that you can grow crops all year. So please reconsider moving here. There is enough land so that you can build your own house for your family.

It has been quite an adjustment living once again with my wife and children. Little Hawk says she will stick a knife in me if I ever go off looking for gold again. She is right. My gold mining days are over. I think it's a change for the better. I have enclosed an address that you can write to.

Sincerely,

Lucas McBride."

Thomas refolded the letter and placed it in his pocket. "Why won't he stop asking me to move down there?" He turned to James. "How much gold did you find?"

"Enough to buy my horse and the duds I'm wearing. And this." He pulled his revolver from its holster. He handed it to Rudolph, who inspected it carefully.

"This is what we need, Thomas. As soon as we sell our crop, I'm getting one."

"Do you think you'll go back to mining, James?"

"No. Negro Bar was the only place I felt safe enough for me to look for gold. But there were problems. There were freed slaves and runaway slaves there. The freed slaves were afraid that those who hunt runaway slaves would show up and make trouble."

"Why do you sound so different now?"

"There was a freed slave there whose former master was from England. He called himself Sir William. His former master brought William along when he moved to America. When the gold rush started, William came out here on a ship. He had classes there at Negro Bar to teach reading. I could already read so he helped me with speaking English during every meal we ate together and then at night around the fire."

"Sounds like he did a good job."

"And it looks like you're doing a good job at farming." James studied the rows of corn, melons, tomatoes, onions, and carrots.

"I've never seen such land." Rudolph marveled. "The soil is so loose and deep. We only had to dig down a few feet to get water for the crops. The water is so close to the surface that the melons send their roots down into it. I've never seen crops grow so fast."

James accepted the invitation to stay for dinner. They walked a quarter mile to the small shack that served as shelter for the two farmers.

"It's not much but it's home for now." Thomas patted the doorframe. "We built it from scrap lumber."

"If all goes well we'll only be here another few months," Rudolph said. "After we sell our crops we will leave for home."

James was impressed with the freshness of the bread, butter, meat, and cheese that was served. They were a welcome change from the often stale, rancid, or insect ridden food that he had endured as a miner. "Mighty tasty food you have here."

"Mr. Weber's store has all we need," said Thomas. "This is his land. He's letting us farm it for a share of the crops."

James slapped his knee. "You're sharecroppers. I haven't seen any of that since I left Georgia." He went on to describe the system that employed many impoverished white farmers in the South.

As they finished eating, Rudolph changed the subject. "You know, James, we need you here. Thomas is sick and..."

"Don't speak again about me being sick."

"It's true. Any fool can see you are. The way you can't breathe sometimes gives it away."

Thomas stared at the dirt floor.

"I remember how you caught malaria when we were in Nicaragua." James reminded him. "Do think it came back?"

"I don't think so. My lungs don't seem as strong anymore. Dr. McBride warned me about something called pneumonia. I'll be all right. Rudolph worries too much all the time. He's like my mother."

"I have no place to be heading in particular. I'd be glad to stay and help you out. Besides farming I can roast pig or beef for us, too."

Remembering the delicious meat that James had cooked at Bates' farm swayed Thomas' reluctant mind. "You think you can make Mr. Bates' secret sauce for the meat?"

"Sure can. You have most of what I need growing right here. I can probably get the spices I need from Mr. Weber's store over in Mudville. I got old Mr. Bates to tell me the way to make the sauce when he was drunk one time." James winked.

Rudolph recalled the huge breakfast that James had cooked the morning after he had located Thomas at the Bates' farm. "You have arrived just in time, James. Thomas' cooking is slowly killing me."

"And your cooking is any better?" Thomas laughed. "It's a good thing Mr. Yee isn't here with us. The food you make turns into gas once it is inside of anyone who is brave enough to eat it."

James shook his head. He wondered if these two would behave as Billy and Paul had up at Negro Bar. Before long James made the transition from miner to cowboy back to farmer. For the remainder of the summer he helped the others to water and weed the crops. His culinary skills caused the other two to gain about five pounds each. In his free time he practiced with his revolver until he could hit cans 55 feet away. As the crops ripened they were harvested and loaded into a rickety old wagon. Then Rudolph, being the best at selling, hauled the produce to the mining camps to the east. San Andreas was the closest, about 40 miles from the farm. By the time he returned more crops were ready to harvest and sell. This cycle continued until October. After paying Weber and James their shares of the profits, a little more than $7,000 remained for Thomas and Rudolph, which they divided evenly.

With California admitted into the Union as a free state in September, James decided that he would make it his new home. "There's really not much for me to go back to," he told the others. "My family is probably still slaves down there in Georgia. Maybe they have already died. Being a slave can kill you off before your time."

"So can being a miner." Rudolph frowned. "I was a fool to come to California."

Rudolph originally had planned on looking for work for the winter in San Francisco before heading back East to his family the following spring. The lack of workers in the city due to the Gold Rush would ensure that he received top dollar for his labor. But Thomas' questionable health caused him to delay his departure until he could at least find a doctor to treat him. After his examination the doctor told Thomas that he had a mild case of pneumonia. His prescription was much rest, a good diet, and permanent relocation to a warm, dry climate, all of which seemed to echo Dr. McBride's words from the year before.

"Thank you." The doctor accepted payment for his services from Rudolph. "You have to get him on the other side of the mountains south of here. Down at least as far as Los Angeles." He turned to Thomas. "San Diego's climate is even better for you. Don't live too close to the ocean. The air there is too damp for your lungs. People that get this almost always have damaged lungs for life. Do what I tell you or it might kill you. You might not survive another winter up here in these parts."

Instead of going to San Francisco Rudolph agreed to accompany James and Thomas as far as Los Angeles. From there he now planned on taking either the Santa Fe or Gila trails east and home. His abhorrence of traveling by sea and unwillingness to backtrack 400 miles to the north to travel the California trail eastward left little choice. He and Thomas purchased horses and weapons for the overland trip south. Before leaving Mudville they consulted with a cowboy who had journeyed from Los Angeles.

"It's about 350 miles or so from here to there," he informed them. "Yer horses appear to be in good enough shape so you'll probably make between 25 to 30 miles a day. Your saddles sure look worn out though. You best be replacing them once you get down there. The Mexicans there are real good at making saddles. They are damn good cowboys too. You'll see. I bought this here one before I left out of Los Angeles." He patted his latest investment for his trade. It was ornately crafted and lightweight enough that his horse much preferred it over the bulkier one that he had worn previously. "Should only take you two, maybe two and a half weeks if you ride straight on through. Worst part is the mountains right north of Los Angeles. Might be easier for you greenhorns to cut over to the pass in the mountains that runs north and south by the ocean. Then you can hook up with the mission trail and follow it on down to Los Angeles. Yeah, that would be a whole lot easier way to go. I'll draw you a map so you can find the pass if you buy me a drink."

Rudolph led the way inside of a nearby bar. He ordered the cowboy's preference and then waited for the map before going back outside to rejoin James and Thomas.

"What is a greenhorn?" Thomas asked as they climbed onto their horses to leave for Los Angeles.

Rudolph spent the next few hours explaining the meaning of greenhorn, tenderfoot, and the dozens of other words that he had learned during his months with Dan while on their trip from Elmira to Placerville. The two Germans agreed that English must be the strangest language on Earth.

That night they added two arms full of wood to keep their campfire burning as they bedded down next to its warmth in the chilly fall air. Its flames alerted another band of riders. Tired of holding up stubborn miners who always fought back, these highwaymen had decided to try their luck at lower elevations in the valley. They figured that flatlanders would be pushovers compared to the pugnacious miners whom they had encountered. Besides, the miners always seemed to outnumber them. Down here in the valley the odds could be stacked considerably in their favor.

One of them was an outlaw wanted in Missouri for bank robbery and murder. The second was an Arkansas native wanted for robbery. Their leader was a scofflaw who had shot 11 men and had an evil attitude to show for it. He was shrewd enough that no wanted posters bearing his likeness had appeared yet. Recently unsuccessful, they were hungry and thirsty for alcohol. Sure of themselves, they did not even bother to dismount as they rode into the camp. Two of the bandits drew their weapons as the leader roused those asleep by the fire. He loved to exert power over others, especially innocent victims such as these.

"All right, boys. It's time to rise and shine." He waited until his prey had awakened before announcing their fate. "No one gets hurt as long as you cooperate. All we need is your horses, guns, and food in exchange for us letting you live."

In response James fired his revolver through the blanket that still covered him. The first round hit the nearest intruder in his chest, which caused him to fall off of his horse. Spooked, the now rider-less horse bolted for safety. As James fired again the other outlaw with drawn gun fired at the same time. The bullet meant for him lodged in the ground inches away from James. His shot wounded the assailant in his shoulder, which made him drop his weapon. By then Thomas and Rudolph were scrambling for their guns. The outlaws' leader fired once and a bullet grazed Rudolph in the leg as he reached for his gun at the foot of his blanket. The bandits still on horseback reined their horses around and galloped off in a hasty retreat. Their curses filled the night as they chased after the horse of their fallen companion. They knew that they could sell it, preferably to a tenderfoot at a greatly inflated price.

James kept his gun leveled as he went to inspect the motionless criminal who remained behind. "This one's dead. I think I hit the other one in the arm. You two okay?"

"Yes."

"I think the bullet went through me." Rudolph unbuttoned his long johns and examined his bleeding wound by the campfire.

"It took off a bit of the flesh," Thomas said. "I'll find something to make a bandage to help stop the bleeding."

The next few days Rudolph was more attentive as James shared more of his insights. That is, until the truth hit too close to home. Cocky after his first time defense against outlaws, James rambled on about his companions' shortcomings.

"To hear you talk it sounds like you are runaway slaves like me. You're always complaining about how the Prussians boss everyone else around back in Germany. Thomas even thinks they're in charge here in America."

Rudolph and Thomas gazed at each other and shrugged.

"It can always be worse," James continued. "Take me, for instance. What if the tribe in Africa that made my mammy and pappy into slaves sold them to the Arabs instead? They might have made Pa into a eunuch and I never would have been born."

"But how is that like us?"

"What if you didn't run off because you thought you killed Rudolph's brother? Then instead of me jawboning with you and Rudolph in the beautiful countryside here in California, I'd probably still be working for Mr. Bates. Maybe even for life. You see I was praying for a long time for a way to get away from Mr. Bates' place. You and Dominic had to be answers to that prayer."

James' way of viewing events and their results humored Rudolph and perplexed Thomas.

"He's right, Thomas. If you hadn't been such a dumb head and hit my brother then we would both still be in Germany."

"Maybe, maybe not," James said. "That revolution there in Germany a few years back killed thousands of your people. One or both of you could've been killed too if you were still there then."

Thomas and Rudolph thought of those from their village who were victims of the revolution and of whom they had read in letters from family. This caused them to grow silent as James said his "goodnights" and prepared his bedroll. The conversation was renewed over breakfast the next morning.

"What James said yesterday has made me think." Rudolph yawned. "It's all your fault that I came to this crazy country with its wild men who will kill you for a horse."

"My fault? You didn't have to follow me here, Scheiskopf!" Thomas wanted to wallop Rudolph even harder than he had struck his brother 12 years earlier outside of the Gasthaus. But when he stood to launch his attack he collapsed. His illness had weakened him to the point that rising suddenly to his feet made him dizzy enough to faint. As James helped Thomas back to a sitting position, Rudolph continued to vent his long bottled up emotions.

"Yes, if it weren't for you, Herr Schmidt, I'd have married that barmaid from Munich or maybe a nice girl from our village and be happily making beer for a living." He sneered.

This time Thomas' response was one of resignation. He simply let his head droop in shame and gave no answer. Equipped by his Maker with the ability to sense others' emotional condition, James knew that Thomas was as low as a bare-knuckled boxer laying face down for the count. Yet Rudolph continued to flail away with words that wounded until James intervened.

"Mr. Rudolph, please. Thomas is hurting. Please let him be."

Rudolph snorted. He then stood up and kicked dirt into the fire and began to clean the pan that they had used to fry their eggs and bacon. Thomas slowly raised his head.

"I'm sorry." It was the first time he had said those words to Rudolph.

Rudolph snorted again and clenched his fists.

"You are right. It is all my fault," Thomas said. "A lot of nights when I can't sleep I try to imagine how different everything would be if I hadn't run away."

"Well, you know what they say. You can run but you can't hide." James tried to put the matter into perspective.

His companions frowned as they attempted to understand yet another saying that they never had heard in their native tongue. This time Rudolph directed his scorn at James.

"Is that what the tribe that made you into a slave told you? That you could run but not hide?"

James smiled. "Not exactly with those words. They were too busy strutting around like the cock of the walk because they knew they were getting what they want by trading us to the slave gangs from the ships. Their selling us to the slavers was no different for them than hunting down a lion or any other beast."

"Cock of the walk?" Rudolph shook his head. James' expressions were more of an irritation than an education. "The sun is almost up. Let's get going."

That morning's journey was mostly silent as Thomas stung from the inner wounds that Rudolph had inflicted. Meanwhile, Rudolph stewed in his own inner turmoil as he ruminated on how much better his life could have been if he had not tried to do what was honorable and chase Thomas across the ocean. James simply enjoyed the scenery.

The inhabitants in the valley that stretched for hundreds of miles to the south were mostly those from various Indian tribes and Mexicans who had remained after the war had ended two years earlier. Few of the recent immigrants had settled there yet. The hundreds of thousands of Americans, Chinese, Mexicans, Central and South Americans, and Europeans who had flooded into California were concentrated where gold had been found or in the cities and towns that served as conduits to the gold fields. They were uninterested in the agricultural potential of the Sacramento and San Joaquin valleys. This soil would eventually yield every crop from almonds to rice, cotton to pistachios, grapes to oranges, wheat to hops, and support every kind of livestock. They were Argonauts, their only ambition, to find gold.

The Indians that they encountered mostly fled when they saw the three riders approaching. Tales of others being murdered by the surge of immigrants to California had passed from tribe to tribe.

Because they journeyed through the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, the trio's first encounter with outlaws proved to be their last. Most of the bushwhackers, thieves, bandits, card sharks, and other troublemakers preyed on the mining camps or those journeying to and from them. The tales of Rattlesnake Dick stealing horses and Joaquin Murrieta robbing stagecoaches in the Sierra filled newspapers nationwide. Later on Black Bart would rob 28 Wells Fargo stagecoaches and become a legend as he left works of poetry at the scenes of his crimes. One such work eventually led to his capture as the paper on which it was written revealed his whereabouts.

They did their best to play the part of cowboys as they moved south. While none of the three wore the trademark wrinkles and weather-beaten face of genuine cowboys, they all sported hats that resembled what many cowpokes wore. That and the guns around their waists gave them enough of an appearance to hide their farming and mining backgrounds somewhat. When they passed through an expanding cattle ranch near the center of the state they were even offered jobs by a foreman who invited them to dinner. He cooked up thick slabs of beef for supper.

"Listen boys, I can use all three of you. All of my cowpokes deserted me for the diggings. I can tell you all are still sort of green around the edges. But I can teach you everything there is to know about being a cowboy. Once you got that down you got yourselves a job no matter where you mosey on to."

"We appreciate your kind offer but I am sick," Thomas confided. "My doctors have told me I must get to warmer weather or I might die."

"What's ailing you, then?"

"They say it's pneumonia."

"Oh. Well there's no way you can be sticking around here then. The winter rains will be hitting us soon. How about you other two?"

"I have to get back to my family in New York." Rudolph explained his change of heart. "I've had enough of California. I'm sorry that I ever came all the way out here. I am sorry that I came to America. I belong back in Bavaria."

The disappointed foreman glanced at James. He felt his possible new hires slipping away one by one.

"I'm with Thomas, sir," James said. "I feel obligated to help him reach his doctor in Los Angeles."

He turned over the slabs of meat to cook their raw sides and stared at the flames. The fire spit and crackled as the fat from the beef dissolved and fell into it. After rolling a cigarette and lighting it he offered tobacco and papers to his guests. All but Rudolph declined. He had picked up a tobacco habit while mining around Placerville. After the meal the generous host offered the empty bunkhouse to the weary travelers. The next morning he fed them a breakfast of fried eggs, steak, and coffee. As they ate he gave his reasons for leaving Texas.

"It's too wild down there. Too many gunslingers and other yahoos shooting up the place all the time it seemed like. I started out when I was 14 running the Beef Trail to New Orleans. That was okay. Once in a while we'd lose a few head in the swamps in the quicksand." He smiled as the memories came back. "Once a gator that looked to be 15 feet long even snatched a cow in his mouth and drug him away underwater. We all shot at him but it seemed like the bullets were bouncing off his thick alligator hide."

"Fifteen feet?" Thomas was sure the cowboy was imitating the German Baron.

"Well, maybe ten feet. But he really did get him. Then I started running Texas Longhorns up into Missouri way. We took them all the way to St. Louis, Springfield, and Baxter Springs. Those were the days. I came out here because the grass is always greener like they say. In some ways it is. It's a whole lot easier driving cattle a couple hundred miles to Sacramento than it was driving them a thousand miles from Texas to Missouri."

"The more I meet people like you the more the cowboy way of life appeals to me," Thomas said.

"Me, too." James agreed. "But why didn't you take off for the diggings too?"

The old cowhand smiled. "A man's got to do what he does best. For me it's herding and driving cattle. If what you said about being a cowboy is your real feelings you both got a job here if you heal on up and decide to come on back."

The land grants, first given out by Spain and later, Mexico, had minimally impacted the valley. Now a U.S. territory, California had yet to be overrun by settlers who wanted to homestead. Most settlers who wanted to farm instead of prospect had followed the Oregon Trail to that state's rich fertile valleys. It was the hordes of itinerant miners who drifted from one mining camp to another who had invaded California.

Down in the valley elk, deer, and antelope roamed at will and their herds multiplied because of the plentiful water and grazing. Enough rivers, creeks, and streams emptied into marshes and ponds at the bottom of the valley that ducks, geese, pheasants, quail, and other birds nested there by the millions. When their bacon, beans, and flour had been consumed the southbound travelers hunted for their meals. Memories of the meager, repetitious, and at times rotten food suffered on the way to and at the gold fields faded away as they feasted on fresh meat. When they first spied the huge mountains that seemed to rise out of the valley floor as a barricade to their destination, Thomas could not contain himself.

"They remind me of the Alps!" He exclaimed after viewing them through his puffy eyes.

"They are only half as tall!" Rudolph countered. He was for continuing straight ahead over them. James pointed out that the tops of the mountains were already dusted with snow even though it was only the middle of November.

"It'll be mighty cold going that way. I don't know if Thomas can take it." James shook his head. He had noticed the other's worsening cough.

Thomas, weary of the guilt that he bore for being the reason that Rudolph had abandoned his home and future there, acquiesced and said that he could make it over the 60-mile ascent and descent into Los Angeles. He believed that he owed Rudolph anything that he could offer.

"Let's keep going south," he said.

Desperate, James sought a compromise. "I know you're all fired up to get to Los Angeles so you can get on back home to New York, Mr. Rudolph. But Thomas can't handle those mountains. That cowboy back there in Mudville said that if we follow his map and go west first the mountains are smaller and narrower and easier to get over through the pass. Then we can head south along the ocean and don't have to worry about any more mountains."

The longer James talked the darker Rudolph's expression grew. His anger exploded.

"Going your way is at least 50 miles longer. I don't care if it's easier. I'm wasting time here. Here's the map from that cowboy if you still want to go by the long way." He opened his saddlebag, grabbed and then threw the map at James before urging his horse southward.

"But..." was all Thomas could manage before Rudolph was out of earshot. He glanced mournfully at James. "Maybe you should go with him. I can take the route on the map by myself. I am too much trouble."

James took his time dismounting. "Don't talk such foolishness. You and me have already been through too much for way too long for us to split up now. I won't let you ride off by your lonesome. Besides I'm mighty hungry. Let's go and find us a place to camp and finish off this elk meat. Besides the horses are all worn out after us riding them all day long. They need food and water too. Look at them."

The horses snorted. They always sensed when James was referring to them. Thomas glanced toward where Rudolph had gone. By now he appeared to be a small ball bobbing up and down as he had forced his mount into a full gallop. He believed that Rudolph was riding out of his life forever.

"Don't fret so much about Mr. Rudolph." James assured him. "He's so angry and fired up that nothing is going to keep him from making it." He studied Thomas's still worried expression. "Rudolph will write you a letter once he gets back home to New York."

# 17

Between them, James and Thomas were able to decipher the crude map and found the pass that led from the immense valley and on through the Coast Range. Their first view of the Pacific in over a year revived memories of their voyage on the converted whaling ship. James kept reminding Thomas of how he had survived malaria when others had not as they crossed Nicaragua. The first settlement they came to on the western side of the Coast Range was Mission Santa Ines.

Founded by Father Junipero Serra and his band of Franciscans, the 21 Alta California missions were strategically located near the coast from San Diego to Sonoma, which was northeast of San Francisco on the other side of the inland bays. Mission Santa Ines had been set up in 1804. In 1833 the Mexican Congress had passed a law to secularize the missions and gave their land as grants to settlers. Most of the missions were then abandoned by the Franciscans and had fallen into varying states of disrepair. Nevertheless, they still provided enough shelter for Thomas to sleep inside away from the cool and damp weather.

Located about a day's walk from each other, the missions proved to be logical stopping points for them because of Thomas' condition. They moved south to Mission Santa Barbara and then to Mission San Buenaventura. They spent two days resting at each mission to allow him to regain his strength before pushing onward.

By the third mission Thomas had become too sick to ride his horse any further. For a week James scoured the homes near the mission and bargained with their inhabitants to rent them a wagon for the final trip to Mission San Fernando Rey de Espana in Los Angeles. The wagon's owner insisted on acting as a guide, not because the trail was hard to follow but to ensure that he got his wagon back in a timely manner from these two odd looking gringos. By the time that they reached the mission and Los Angeles, Thomas had lapsed into a state of fitful sleep alternating with periods of semi-consciousness.

James quickly sent for McBride. He feared that with Thomas saying, "You were right, Dr. McBride," over and over in his delirium, the doctor might be Thomas' last hope of survival. He arrived at the mission a few moments after midnight.

"Well, you must be James, then," he said as he was ushered into Thomas' sickroom. "What's that smell?"

"The padre put a poultice of onions and mustard on Thomas chest." James pointed at the sticky mess. "He's also been giving him dandelion tea to drink."

McBride felt Thomas' hot forehead. He then rolled his patient over onto his side and listened with his stethoscope to his lungs. He quivered as he placed the instrument back into his bag.

"It's no wonder his breathing is so weak. His lungs sound like they're swimming in water. Help me prop him up so he can breathe easier. There's no medicine that can cure pneumonia. And he's so bad off I don't think bloodletting will help him out. Seems like most my patients get worse when I bleed them anyway. Maybe the poultice will help."

James helped the doctor place pillows and blankets under Thomas' head and upper back until it was higher than his lungs.

"I'm afraid that he's more dead than alive, James. If you be a praying man, you best be praying for Thomas now. He's so sick I can't even move him to my house. I'm afraid he might die on the way there."

# 18

They placed Thomas in the care of a Franciscan who had returned to the mission in hopes that the United States would allow the order to regain control of it. He checked on Thomas hourly and changed his poultice three times a day. During his momentary times of lucidness, Thomas was served soup, tea and wine made from dandelion, or other liquids. When not caring for him the Franciscan prayed on his behalf. Though raised Lutheran, Thomas now cared little that it was a Catholic whom he heard praying for him. Hovering between life and death, he was willing to accept prayers on his behalf from any who said them in faith. At one point the shivering patient pulled out his flint and handed it to his caregiver so that he could start a fire. It would be two weeks before the still weak Thomas could move to convalesce with the doctor at his home for the next six months. As he left the mission he pushed the flint into the padre's hand and asked McBride to explain that it was to thank him for all of his care.

"Vaya con Dios," the padre said as they left.

McBride had hosted James at his small adobe house. The thickness of its walls and the simplicity of its structure fascinated him. He was even more dumbfounded at how the house would stay warm when the nights turned cold but would remain cool during the warm days.

"Sure better than any house built of wood, eh?" McBride beamed. "Not so hard to build either."

James had been even more amazed to find Rudolph still there. He had assumed that his and Thomas' slow pace would mean that Rudolph would be on the trail that headed east by the time they arrived in Los Angeles. Instead he found him at work on a house a short distance from McBride's.

"Can't say I expected to ever see you again." James said to greet him as they met for the first time in weeks.

Rudolph lay a hammer down and motioned for James to sit. "It's a long story." He sighed. "If you help me build this house I'll tell it to you." He paused. "I am sorry for the way I treated you and Thomas. I was in pain." He pointed at his right leg, which was missing from below the knee. "I guess that bullet did more damage than we thought. Dr. McBride said I had gangrene and that if he didn't take the leg off right away I would die."

James had not noticed the missing portion of the limb. Now he understood why Rudolph had been leaning against the wall's frame as he swung the hammer. The empty pant leg hid the amputation; only if one stared at where Rudolph's foot should be did it become apparent that there was only one boot instead of two. James picked up a saw and went to work.

In exchange Rudolph told his tale. Finding a pass through the mountains at first had proved difficult. Seemingly promising routes often had ended in box canyons or suddenly twisted to the east or west. During his second day in the labyrinth of gullies, hills, mountains, trees, and brush, he had stumbled onto a trail that appeared to head to the south. It had been worn down enough to make it easy to follow, until it had brought him into the basin that contained Los Angeles. Not knowing Spanish, he had pointed at his bloodstained pants and said "Dr. McBride" to every one whom he met. Finally, one whom McBride had treated earlier smiled when he heard the doctor's name and led Rudolph to him.

He first had informed the doctor of Thomas and James' roundabout route and of how Thomas would most likely need his medical skills also. He then had lifted his pant leg to reveal the rotting flesh that surrounded the wound. Even after the amputation, which had taken place within an hour after meeting the doctor, Rudolph had spoken of his intent to return home. McBride had shuddered.

"And I thought us Scots-Irish were stubborn. Lad, those with two legs are lucky if they can make such journeys. There is only one way you could do it, by taking a ship back home."

Rudolph had pondered the doctor's advice for only a moment. "Then I am stuck here forever. With only one leg to balance myself I would get even more dizzy and seasick than the last time. I would then stumble around until I fell overboard."

He then sank into a dark mood for two days. Only McBride's optimism saved him from putting his revolver to his temple. The good doctor spun tales of better days ahead when both would finally hit their strike in the mountains to the north. McBride claimed he could only do it with Rudolph helping him. Rudolph had no choice but to rehabilitate, the doctor said.

The doctor's orders included Rudolph walking as much as possible with wooden crutches. McBride had seen too many amputees stay in bed until they wasted away and died. During one such walk, McBride sensed Rudolph's still unfulfilled dreams of finding gold in abundance. So the doctor promised to occasionally take him to the best sites that he had mined during the small gold rush about a decade earlier. Because those mountains could be seen from the proposed 100-acre purchase that the doctor was willing to share as home sites and farm with any partners, Rudolph eventually had succumbed to the generous offer and handed over one-third of the purchase price.

"You know what they says," McBride had intoned. "Two's better than one. So that can only mean that three's better than two. With you, me, and Thomas working together we'll be able to live out the rest of our lives maybe a wee bit happier than if we goes our separate ways. Especially you. You're tough enough that you won't ever let the loss of your leg slow you down much. Anyone can see that. But, by God, having friends nearby is worth more than a whole mountain of gold. You know you got that here. Believe me when I tell you I speak from bitter experience. There's been many a time I wished I still had the friends from my youth close by me now." He stared at the waves of the Pacific as his mind wandered back to them and their faces appeared from his memory. "Come to think of it that must be why I've taken to you and Thomas so much. You both remind me of them, you really do."

It was Thomas' condition that convinced Rudolph that staying was the right decision. McBride told him that it was unlikely that Thomas could survive any journey, by land or sea, back to his family. Even if he did survive the journey the cold damp winters back east would kill him instead. Rudolph wrote to his wife and asked her to join with Thomas' family and journey to New York City and then around the southern tip of the Americas by steamship. He promised that homes would be awaiting both families when they arrived.

The letter took six months to reach Jane. She immediately sent a return letter. After she had telegraphed Harriet to tell of their husbands' condition, the two wives sold everything but clothing and a few precious items and met in New York. Less than two months later the two women and their children boarded a steamship that would deposit them and their eight steamer trunks filled with keepsakes and clothing in Los Angeles about five months later. By then the houses had been finished and James was crafting the beds, tables, dressers, cabinets, and chairs that would furnish them.

James mostly supervised his employees at his thriving furniture shop; his arthritis left him little choice. Once the first rancho owner had shown off his new furniture, orders from his neighbors started to pour in to James. It was he who had carved Rudolph's first set of permanent crutches. He was visiting Rudolph the day before the steamship with the families would arrive. Rudolph was certain that Los Angeles would never grow as large as the cities on the East Coast. By his reckoning it would never have as many people as Sacramento or San Francisco or even Elmira, for that matter.

"It's almost like desert here," Rudolph said. "Most of the rivers empty into the ocean instead of lakes and then go dry when the rains stop. The north part of California is where many people will settle. There's more than enough water and fertile land there to grow anything. Too bad that it's impossible to move any of that water from there to here. But there is no way on earth to get it over the mountains that surround Los Angeles."

"Just hold still a minute while I measure you for your new crutches." James set down the pair that he was working on. "You sure tore up your old ones looking for gold again with Dr. McBride."

# Epilogue

Mr. Yee returned to China and bought his beloved out of her enslavement as a prostitute. Tired of the mayhem that accompanies gold strikes, he brought her to New York City where they began several successful businesses that their children inherited.

James met his match in a former slave who had come west with her parents. He worried for a time when the California Legislature passed a law in 1852 concerning fugitive slaves who had entered California prior to 1852. If caught, they were to be returned to their masters. But he weathered the law and no one arrived at his door looking for him. One of James' sons preached occasionally at a small church on Azusa Street during the period when God the Holy Spirit showed up in most unusual ways.

McBride, semi-retired, continued to treat all who came to him for help. His son became a doctor and his daughter a nurse.

Rudolph spent much of his free time in the mountains that loomed north of the farm. Annoyed by his absences, his wife and children often accompanied him. Soon such excursions included camping and enjoying the views of the Pacific to the west and deserts to the east and the magnificent sunrises and sunsets when the sunlight transformed the land and seascapes into unearthly shades of color. They were moderately successful during the gold strike of 1860 in those mountains. His grandchildren were very successful when they sold off their share of the farm after World War II.

His lungs ruined for life, Thomas worked, the little that he was able on the farm. His wife and children filled in as necessary. Thomas kept an abridged copy of The Miner's Ten Commandments on his kitchen wall until the day that he died:

Thou shalt have no other claim than one.

Thou shalt not make unto thyself any false claim.

Thou shalt not go prospecting before thy claim gives out.

Six days thou mayest pick or dig all that thy body can stand under.

Thou shalt not think more of all thy gold and how thou canst make it fastest, than how thou wilt enjoy it, after thou hast ridden roughshod over thy good parents' precepts and examples.

Thou shalt not kill thy body by working in the rain.

Thou shalt not grow discouraged or think of going home before thou hast made thy pile.

Thou shalt not steal a pick, or a shovel, or a pan from thy fellow miner.

Thou shalt not tell any false tales about "good diggings in the mountains" to thy neighbor

Thou shalt not commit unsuitable matrimony, nor covet "single blessedness," nor forget absent maidens, nor neglect thy "first love;" but thou shalt consider how faithfully and patiently she awaits thy return.

# Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading this story.

Thank you to my wife Jean. She has endured my dream of writing ever since I banged out the first manuscript (never published) on a typewriter on our kitchen table in 1976. As always she offered valuable input for this book.

Thank you to James, GoOnWrite.com for the cover.

Thank you to those from the Lodi Writers' Group that critiqued the first three pages. Their recommendations were used throughout the book.

Lastly, thank you to Rick Tanquist. His edits brought it all together.

Any errors that remain are mine.

Some of the books read for research include the following:

The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich by William L. Shirer and Adolph Hitler by John Toland provide insights into 19th Century Germany even though their main focus is on the following century.

Migrations and Cultures by Thomas Sowell details African, European, and Russian migration to America.

Robespierre by Otto J. Scott examines the French Revolution

Wagons West by Frank McLynn and The Oregon Trail by David Dary chronicle life on the trails in the 1800s. The Age of Gold by H.W. Brands and The World Rushed In: The California Gold Rush Experience by Howard Lamar record the experiences of miners during the California Gold Rush.

The Man Who Would Be King: The First American in Afghanistan by Ben Macintyre is the true story of an American adventurer who inspired Rudyard Kipling's The Man Who Would Be King.

The Millenial Maze by Stanley Grenz offers a levelheaded analysis of eschatology, an area where too many Christians end up greatly disappointed.

For a sample of some free short stories, please visit https://shortstorystop.wordpress.com/

