Stoddard’s Gold, Part 2 of 3
by John Putnam

For the next two days Stoddard pushed us relentlessly, leaving me little doubt that he thought Raush was indeed following us, but I'd heard no mention of it among the other members of our party. I'd also talked with Anderson about wanting to go back to Nevada City. He pointed out that if I did I would run smack dab into Raush on the way. So I continued on, much like I had the first day, sharing time leading our mules or bringing up the rear of the column and keeping a watchful eye to our back trail.

We'd crossed the Middle Yuba late Tuesday and camped up the ridge on Kanaka Creek, named for the Sandwich Islanders from Honolulu who were mining there. And like so many others we had passed, the place had all the indications of gold, but Anderson urged that we press on, assuring me that Stoddard's mythical lake would, in the end, bring us a bounty we could find nowhere else. But I wasn't the only one who saw missed opportunity. The four men of the Natchez Mining Company had begun to openly carp over passing by so many prime locations to mine such easily available placer gold.

The next day saw more of the same. We were in the saddle before sunup, crossed a stony Oregon Creek at midday, then another high ridge beyond and by sunset were descending into the valley of the North Yuba River alongside a small brook that tumbled from rocky pool to rocky pool under a thick canopy of fir trees. After skirting a large boulder I led our four mules into a small clearing where I saw a stranger dressed like a miner talking with the men from Natchez.

It was clear right off that Ike and the rest of the Southerners were grilling the man about the amount and location of gold strikes along the North Yuba. News of gold in the California mines traveled by mouth faster here than it could on the new fangled telegraph wires back east. Practically everybody had heard how a Scotsman named Downie and the handful of colored men partnered with him had spent last winter at the forks of the North Yuba, and how they got snowed in and almost starved to death. Even the two Goodyear brothers, who'd worked a gravel bar downstream from the forks since last summer, had stayed the winter. Nobody would tolerate cold Sierra snows without a reason. Miners were pouring into this area now. That likely meant a lot of rich finds around here.

But if you cornered a miner working a good paying claim and asked him straight up, face to face, if there was much gold around, he'd hem and haw worse than an old mule bedeviled by a swarm of horse flies in the middle of August. And as soon as I got within earshot I heard the fellow rambling on about all the rich finds on Rock Creek and the South Yuba, or Kanaka Creek and the Middle Yuba, and how he thought that smart fellows like us should head back south where a lot more gold could be found.

"I see your point," agreed Ike, the oldest and cagiest of the Natchez boys. "But we've heard of a brand new mining town nearby and could all use a drink or two and maybe a good meal that ain't been cooked over an open fire before we go."

The miner stuck his thumbs into his waistband and grinned wide. "Oh, yes sir, we got a town alright," he bragged. "More saloons than you can count, bakeries with fresh bread, butcher shops with lean beef, a whole passel of tasty places to eat, a number of hotels, if you're a mind to sleep with the bed bugs, and everything here built since the winter snow melted. Some folks already call it Downieville, after the Scotsman."

He climbed up on a pretty mustang filly then looked back to Ike. "Heading there myself to play a little faro at Craycroft's Saloon. Look me up. Name's Tucker." He gave a quick tip of his beat up felt hat and rode off down the hill.

Ike watched until the miner was out of earshot. "Well, you heard what the man said. Is there anything else you need to know?" he asked the rest of his companions. When no one spoke out he continued. "Are we all of one mind then?"

To a man the three other members of the Natchez Mining Company sounded their agreement with him.

"Good," he continued. "We still have an hour or so before dark. Let's make sure we find the right spot to camp tonight," And the four of them rode off down the stream, leaving me feeling like a fly on the wall. It sure seemed like they'd made some sort of pact and were all agreed on doing something. Whatever it was must be pretty important because they'd been so wrapped up in it that nary a one of them had noticed me, even though Buddy and I'd been right behind them with all four of our mules for a good while.

Later, over a simple supper of beans and salt pork, I told Anderson about what Ike had said earlier to the Natchez boys and my suspicions that they had made a plan to do something that they weren't letting the rest of us in on.

"Micah, you worry too much," he'd told me in his warm but reproving way. "First it was the Indians, then Raush, and now it's the Natchez crew. You need to learn how to take things as they come. Worrying over what might be is nothing but a waste and causes a man too much unnecessary consternation. We've had a hard day and tomorrow is likely to be worse. Get some sleep." And with that he rolled over and pulled his blanket tight.

He was right about the hard day and likely about tomorrow too. Each day had been like that as we climbed up from the last river valley and over a higher and a rockier ridge. We were heading deeper into the Sierra and Stoddard said that now we would follow the North Yuba east directly into the high backbone of the mountains.

I snuggled dog tired into my bedroll, but sleep didn't come so easily for me. And, like Anderson had said, it was because of the worry that boiled and churned in my mind much like the water in the small stream beside our camp that sloshed and spumed as it scurried down the steep, rocky slope of the river valley. But my turmoil wasn't from Indians, or Raush, or even Ike and the Natchez boys. It came from a blue eyed, brown haired French girl who'd somehow stolen my heart with one fleeting kiss on a moon swept night outside the Bella Union, and whether she'd be waiting if I ever returned.

But at last my exhaustion overcame my fixation with the beguiling Michelle Reynard and all to soon I woke into the half-light before sunrise to the smell of wood smoke and the sizzle of bacon frying. Anderson looked over to me but before he could offer a morning greeting a string of wild oaths erupted from downstream where the Natchez party had camped in a small clearing separated from us by a large rock outcropping. Instinctively I grabbed my Colt revolver and cocked the hammer.

Anderson held up his flat palm to stop me. "Easy, Micah, that sounds like Stoddard and he's coming this way."

Trusting my friend I put the pistol down, but close to hand, and tugged on my boots just as Stoddard rode into our camp, his face as heated as the embers of the cook fire. "Did either of you see them damn Southerners sneak off last night?" he yelled.

Anderson glanced at me with a raised eyebrow then turned to Stoddard. "No, but I take it they're gone," he answered.

"Ran off in the dead of night like thieves. Ought to shoot 'em." Stoddard shouted.

Anderson grabbed the skillet in a gloved hand and, with one sure motion, flipped the salt pork to brown on the other side. Then he calmly asked, "What did they steal?"

Stoddard sat on his horse and spewed and sputtered, unable to answer.

So my wise friend stepped in to help him out, as was his wont. "I believe Ike and his crew have stolen nothing. They are all honest and upright fellows, but they did make an agreement to this expedition that they've reneged on. Since there was no binding contract there is little we can do. We still have enough men to find the lake, but I think an open and frank talk with everyone is called for before we start out today. And if any more of us wish to leave, there isn't much we can do to stop them either."

"But we're short handed now," Stoddard fumed. "What about the Injun's?"

"What about the Indians?" Anderson retorted.

"Yeah," I piped in. "Worrying about what might happen just causes unnecessary consternation." I said, suddenly seeing the truth in what Anderson told me last night exposed in the creases across Stoddard's face that read as clear as the lines in a book.

"But they killed my partner," Stoddard rebutted with fury.

"And you've never mentioned his name, have you?" Anderson countered. "Could he have also been a Raush, and could it be that it's his brother who follows us now?"

"Damn you," Stoddard yelled. "How do you know that?"

"I guessed, but now you've confirmed it. Do you care to tell us what happened?"

Stoddard's face paled, but he looked Anderson square in the eye. "My group crossed the Sierra by Lassen's northern route, a big mistake. We were starving. Two of us went hunting, got lost and wandered for days. Then we found the gold. I was high up the ravine when I heard his shot. He didn't have a chance. They were all over him, so I snuck away. Raush thinks I killed his brother for gold. I didn't, but I did run out on him."

And with that short speech I took pity on Stoddard for the first time.

Just before sunup we met with all the men who were left, except for Bird who wasn't around much anyway. Anderson did most of the talking and made as fine a job at it as any famous orator I'd ever heard of. He informed everyone about the Natchez crew's leaving for what they thought was the easy gold at hand around here, and then went on to explain why he believed in what Stoddard had said and how, if we just held together a little longer, we'd all have more money than some old king named Midas, who could turn anything he touched into pure gold.

Then Anderson did what he'd always done with me and told us that it was our choice and each man had to make up his own mind. He explained how nobody would hold it against anyone who backed out. I'd long thought Anderson had a quality that made him special, but now I saw firsthand how he held a power to persuade men to his way of thinking that was far beyond what most others could ever hope to achieve. Every man among us cheered and eagerly vowed to continue on no matter what lay ahead.

The sun still hung low above the mountains to the east when we came within view of the North Yuba. The dark silence of the forest was broken by the loud splash of water, white and fast, breaking over a host of boulders and snags in the riverbed then boiling together in great convulsions at the forks where the North Yuba, rushing in from the east, collided with the Downie River ramming into it from the north. At the edge of the Yuba stood a tall stand of fir trees with graceful willows on each side, and above them, across the flanks of the deep ravine, sturdy oaks interspersed with towering pines and a few white flowered dogwoods climbed high into a clear blue sky as broad as all eternity.

Nestled in the forest east of the Downie and just across the Yuba lay the town, a motley collection of several log buildings, a few crude shacks, and a number of tents in all sizes and shapes, and all mostly hidden by the trees. Yet to me, the tiny settlement exuded a wonderfully brave demeanor. Humbled by the majesty of the mountains, cowed by the shear power of the swirling water, and shrouded under the thick cloak of nature's foliage, the town seemed to bravely lift it's collective face to us and say, "I am here, built by the hand of man, and I intend to stay." Although there lurked an understated fragility to the place that led me to wonder if it would all blow away in a strong wind.

But in spite of the lure of multiple saloons, fresh meat, a soft bed—bedbugs excepted—or a more savory meal, we kept heading east along the river. By a unanimous vote of all who remained with us we had determined that the town, as tempting as it appeared, would only be a time consuming distraction likely to cause more problems than the small comforts it provided would be worth. And, after crossing to the north shore at the first good ford we found, we rode on, climbing ever higher into the mighty Sierra along the frothing torrent of the North Yuba River.

I soon realized we rode on a well used path and, judging from the amount of fresh mule droppings I came across, it must be frequented by the supply trains, often fifty animals long, that traveled the river valleys all the way from Bidwell's Bar supplying miners with food, clothing, tools and just about everything else a man needs to survive so far from civilization. It was a clear sign that more mining was happening upriver. But traveling along a well used trail was easier than cutting through the raw country like we'd done the first three days and we made good time.

It was near midday when I heard the hoof beats pounding from my rear. It sounded like one horse coming at a run. My old fears of Raush overwhelmed me and I spurred Buddy off the path and into a narrow defile in the steep side of the ravine. No sooner had I gotten turned back toward the trail than the hoof beats stopped and a chilling quiet descended over the forest. The birds stopped their endless prattle, even the wind refused to rustle the leaves; the only sound the deafening chatter of my teeth.

I looked all around me but saw no one. Sweat oozed from under my hat, stinging my eyes. The man on the trail had simply stopped riding and the only reason I could think of was that he knew I was here. Who was he? What was he planning on doing? Then came the unmistakable click of a gun hammer cocking. It had to be the most bloodcurdling sound I'd ever heard. I pulled out my new revolver then held my breath, hoping that would stop my whole body from shaking.

"I eat rattlesnake raw and rassle grizzlies with my bare hands," the rider yelled. "I can shoot the eyes out of a hawk and gut a deer quicker than a mountain lion. I know where ya are. Come out, 'fore I come in and get ya."

Oh, Lord, I'm dead, I thought. Then it dawned on me that I knew that voice. "Bird?" I asked in a weak but ever so hopeful tone.

A loud roar of laughter erupted from the trail. Bird was enjoying himself mightily at my expense. But right now I didn't mind a bit, so happy was I that he wasn't Raush or some other rapscallion. I nudged Buddy and rode out onto the path. Bird sat on his mustang, the bear gun across his lap, and wore the biggest grin I'd ever seen.

"How'd you know where I was?" I asked.

"Ya spend a lifetime in the wilds ya learn to read sign, son," he said and pointed to Buddy's feet.

Even I could see where I'd turned and left the trail. A heavy horse with a rider atop leaves a deep print in soft earth. "Okay, but how'd you know it was me?" I asked.

"Every animal, every man, leaves a clear mark on the land—personal like. Ain't hard t' see once ya learn how. Besides I been followin' ya all day."

Along the trail to California I'd heard endless tales of the mountain men and how they knew the wilderness nearly as well as the Indians did. It seemed a pretty good skill to have, especially in the midst of the rugged country we were in now. "Do you think you could show me a little about how you read these signs, Mr. Bird?" I asked.

He looked at me with squinty eyes and the grin he'd had turned suddenly sad. "The days of men like me are done, son. Won't be long 'fore the wilderness is gone, a lotta the animals too. The gold brung all these men to California. It'll bring others."

"But everyone I know plans on going back East as soon as the gold is gone. Most say it can't last more than another year." I offered, hoping to provide him some comfort.

"Men say a lot, then mostly do the opposite. They're here now. More'll come. They ain't going back. There's too much in California. It's a rich country, mighty rich. And it ain't just the gold."

He nudged the mustang to a walk and I rode alongside him since the trail was wide enough here. I wanted to learn more from this down to earth man who had such a deep love for the wild and seemed so convinced that his way of life would soon end. "What are you going to do then? I mean when the wilderness is gone," I wondered.

"Oh, men like me'll find a way to stay alive, but this ain't no time for a young, smart feller like yourself to turn to what I do. The world's changing and it's folks like you what's got to lead the way. Anderson say's you got a gift, say's you're special, and he's 'bout the smartest man I ever met. You'll be stayin' in California I 'spect, and like as not you'll do somethin' important too."

I felt the blood rush to my face. Back on the farm, Jacob had always told me how I didn't know anything, that I was stupid. Now Bird tells me Anderson thinks I'm special. Well, I didn't feel special. Here I was, just twenty years old, miles away from any but the most rustic trappings of civilization, a continent away from home, and feeling awful puny under the shadow of the mountains towering above me. But knowing that someone I respect as much as I do Anderson could feel that way left me feeling real pleased.

Still I had a lot of questions, so I started in. "How long have you been here, I mean in California?" I asked.

"Been a long time son. Started out working the Rockies twenty year ago, been here near ten. But it's been some good years," he said with a wistful sigh.

"How do you make money," I continued. Bird sure didn't look like he had much of it. Except for his felt hat and leather boots his clothes were hand made from deerskin. Still, he had a fine horse and saddle and, with the bear gun and the huge knife he carried, it all must've cost a pretty penny.

He eyeballed me with the same broad grin he'd had before. "Sort of had a job, son, trappin' beaver and other critters and sellin' 'em at the Hudson Bay Company's Fort Vancouver in the Oregon Territories," he said, sounding like a man who loved his work.

"But you just said you had a job," I pointed out. "What happened to it?"

"Things are changin' everywhere, son. Oregon is a part of the States now. Don't know what'll happen to the fort. Hudson's Bay Company's out of Canada ya know. Maybe I'll just take some of this here gold we're after and settle down somewhere. It's a hard life and I'm gettin' on in years." And then a strange sadness crept into his eyes.

"Do you know where Stoddard's lake is, sir?" I asked, to change the subject.

He looked to me again, the sadness replaced by a sudden sparkle. "I ain't sure, but it just could be I do," he boasted without a whiff of bluster about him.

The trail we were on had gradually climbed along the side of the ravine high above the level of the river. I'd been so enthralled in my talk with Bird that I'd paid little attention, but now, riding abreast of him, I realized how close to the edge of a shear cliff I was and how far down the rocky stream seemed. It gave me an uneasy feeling, a fall would be deadly, but I'd not had such a good opportunity to talk to Bird and I still had one abiding question for him for which my sense of survival demanded an answer.

And so I dared ask. "I wonder, sir," I began. "You just rode up pretty fast from behind me somewhere and without your mule, would I be correct if I thought you'd looked into Raush and the men with him? Are they still following us?"

A raised brow enhanced the sparkle in his eye, and he chuckled softly. "I can see how what Anderson said about you was right. You do have a way about ya, son," he said. "Raush is still behind us all right but—"

Then the chilling scream of a man came from the trail ahead, and another scream in a different voice that went on far too long and was mixed with the roar of some deep-throated and fierce sounding beast.

"Damn!" Bird exclaimed and immediately galloped off. I followed as best I could, afraid to ride fast so close to the sharp edge of the treeless cliff. In no time all hell had broken out, shouts, more terrifying screams, mules braying wildly, two gunshots, the appalling squeal of a badly hurt horse or maybe two horses, then the loud boom of a rifle—Bird's bear gun—and another deep-throated roar, a pistol shot, then another and finally only the bray of the mules and the voices of men trying to calm them.

Then the path widened and I came upon Anderson, feverishly trying to settle our four skittish mules and his own panicky horse. He waved me on without a word and Buddy and I managed to squeeze by. Next I found the Oregon boys, Carl, Thomas and Zeke, hard at work soothing their panicked mules and horses. All of them had faces as white as the stars on our flag. But here the trail had narrowed again so I tied Buddy to the branch of a small fir, checked my new Colt revolver and pulled out my rifle.

As I wound through the unsettled pack animals I looked directly at Zeke, "What happened?" I asked.

But he gazed back at me with blank eyes and slowly shook his head like he didn't want to talk about it, so I hurried on until I could see Bird's mustang standing twenty yards ahead in the middle of the path, completely calm and untroubled by the frightened animals all about, a remarkably well trained mount. Another thirty yards on Stoddard stood on the trail holding a rifle. Behind him his horse and three mules were tied to a branch, one mule I recalled as Bird's from that first day when he'd waited beside the rock outcropping where Bird and I had watched Raush and his men cross the South Yuba.

But I'd seen no hint of Lem, his father Jedidiah, or their animals. Normally they would be traveling between Stoddard and the Oregon boys. Then, as I passed the mustang, the scene that unfolded in front of me turned my stomach. Bird was bent over Lem, at least I thought it was Lem. The skin had been ripped from his face and blood was everywhere.

I turned my eyes from this spectacle of horror and saw Lem's pretty mare lying beside the cliff, guts spilled onto the ground, a gunshot wound in her head from someone who'd taken pity and ended her suffering. Just past the mare lay the brown body of an enormous grizzly bear who, on her hind legs, must have stood over twelve feet tall, and undoubtedly was the cause of this whole ghastly scene. Blood dripped from a huge hole in her head, a reminder of why Bird called his large bore rifle a bear gun.

As I stood there, trying to stifle an almighty urge to bring my breakfast back to the light of day, it came to me that I hadn't seen Jedidiah or any of their other animals. And though my mind was near numb from all the death around me, I knew without asking what else must have happened here. While it wasn't hard to look away from this scene of gore, I shook like a leaf in the wind as I walked to the edge of the cliff.

Loose flour, sugar and coffee covered the rocky face of the ravine. Tools, supplies, pots and pans were strewn everywhere along the descent. Jedidiah lay near the water's edge, dead without a doubt. No human body could contort itself in such a way. Close by him the rear end of a mule could be seen on the shore, it's head under water. A few hundred feet downstream another mule had hung up on a rock in an eddy. The rest of the animals were gone, likely washed away by the power of the North Yuba.

I raised my head a bit and gazed out into the emptiness of the ravine. Several small flat objects floated on the up drafts, playing cards that had fallen from Jedidiah's pocket. My mind, perhaps seeking escape, or relief or some simple semblance of sanity, harkened back to that last night of gambling with Michelle Reynard at the Bella Union. I could feel the pressure of her lips as she kissed me. I heard her voice, as clearly as I did that night, as she urged me to look for her when I returned from this fateful undertaking.

Her words, which had at first seemed a plea, now sounded more like a command that I should live in order to return and marry her, as Anderson had once suggested. And for a man who'd fled across the continent to avoid the oppressive orders of my own brother on a farm left to the both of us by our father, I suddenly felt this mandate from Michelle to be the very breath of life itself and the only reason for hope amongst all this despair. I would live. I would find the gold we sought, then I would find her again. She was now my reason to survive against Raush, the Indians, and the very wildness of the country we crossed, and what an enticing motive she was.

How long I stared into the void of the canyon, I don't know, but at last I heard Anderson. "Micah, we need you over here," he cried. "We have things to discuss."

I walked back toward where I'd heard his voice, back to where Buddy waited tied to a tree, and found all the members of our party already gathered except Zeke. The Oregon boys were adamant; they had had enough. The death of Jedidiah and the mauling of Lem were too much for any of them to digest. We all understood.

As we talked, Zeke was tending to Lem's broken bones and patching up his many gashes, including sewing his face back together. No one really thought Lem would live, except Zeke and he wouldn't leave his friend. Carl and Thomas would stay with their brother and meantime they would rope Jedidiah back up the cliff and give him a proper burial. Even Anderson agreed this was for the best.

Stoddard, however, was beside himself after Bird informed us all that Raush was still a half-day behind, but along the way more and more miners had joined his cause. Now there could be four of five hundred men with him. It was a testament to the vast pull of temptation that a mere tale of a lake full of gold could have on the minds of men.

With heavy hearts those of us who were left moved on, our numbers reduced from thirteen to four in less than a day. But I went with a new resolve. I would find the gold we sought and live to see Michelle Reynard again. It's what she wanted. I knew it now.