The Love of Gold
by Greg Camp

The pine forest was thick in the bottomland, but the bed of needles cushioned the man's feet. He'd been walking for miles — a month's worth, at least — ever since his horse gave out. The animal had carried him a long way, many more steps than were good for either of them, and it was a sorry thing that the cold of a mountain pass did what lead, iron, poor diet, and hard deeds couldn't.

Hunger gnawed at his stomach. A squirrel doesn't keep a man for long, and there weren't many of those out yet, anyway. When the sun came up that morning, a plume of smoke followed it up out of the valley downstream, and he hoped to find something to eat beneath it. He'd traded his saddle and dead horse to an Indian going the other way for a blanket and a wheel of cheese a while back. The blanket was still wrapped around him. But the weather was getting warmer, and he had a few other trinkets that might buy him a meal or two.

Pushing himself forward — weary step, eager step, weary step, eager step — he worked his way along the bank of the stream. He'd seen only smoke, but an empty belly can turn a wisp into an ox roasting over a roaring fire in a grand hotel. He'd be glad for a grizzled prospector, though, an old man cooking beans over a few dry branches.

In the gaps between the trees, he glimpsed a clearing. So it was a cabin. He couldn't see that yet, but a patch of open ground lay before him. The owner would plant a garden there as soon as the days were warm enough.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind told him to be careful, but his stomach ordered him forward. He shoved a branch aside and strode out of the trees into the opening. There was the cabin, some fifty yards away on the other side with a smokehouse near it, making the fire all the more promising. A movement caught his eye, and he looked to the left at a pile of logs. Was someone gathering firewood?

His hands moved toward the butts of the Colt's Navys in his belt, but he stopped them. Having been in the wilds since before winter began, he must look a fright, but hungry or no, he wasn't the sort to kill a man for a plate of victuals. He would face the owner of the cabin and ask the man to take him in as an honest guest.

He walked quickly across the field and was nearly at the cabin when its owner came back around between the log wall and the woodpile and pointed a Hawken rifle straight at his chest. But his eyes cheated him, or he was a plain fool. The person behind the weapon was something that he hadn't seen in a long time, except in his tortured memories:

A woman.

He raised both hands, palms forward.

"Ma'am, I'm not here to make trouble. I would appreciate it if you'd lower that rifle of yours."

The hammer was cocked all the way back.

"Who are you?"

She hadn't moved, and her finger rested on the trigger.

"My name's Dowland, ma'am."

"That's what your father gave you. Did your mother add anything to that?"

"She called me Son, mostly, not being too pleased about my father naming me after his Uncle Henry."

"Henry Dowland, then."

The woman's finger twitched, and she swayed from the weight of the rifle.

"I've never heard of you. What brings you to my valley?"

"I'm on my way to the coast. I was born near one ocean, and I figured that I'd enjoy seeing another before I leave this life."

His arms warmed and would soon ache, but she looked as determined as a young tree.

"Ma'am, that rifle's still pointed at me. If you plan to shoot, would you mind getting on with it? I'm hungry, but I see no reason to die with my arms tired too."

The hard stare that she had greeted him with held for a moment longer, but then her eyes softened, and she lowered the Hawken before pulling off the cap and easing the hammer down.

"I've given you my name. Perhaps since you're letting me live awhile longer, you could tell me yours."

Since she wasn't just a muzzle pointed at his heart anymore, a flash of pretty shone around the edges of her scowl. Her raven hair, bound in a bun, contrasted with the pale blue of her cotton dress.

"Sarah Belle Loftis."

Her voice wasn't harsh, but she didn't smile. The rifle and the cap were still in her hands.

"As I mentioned, I'm just passing through, but I would enjoy a plate of food, if you're willing to feed a stranger. I —"

"Not doubt you would, and no doubt you'd enjoy the pleasure of my company and then my bed. There's never an end to it."

"Ma'am, I mean no offense. If you wish, I'll continue on my way. But these limbs here," he said, pointing at the woodpile, "won't cut themselves. I'd be pleased to trade the work for a meal."

Loftis looked at the wood and back at him. "There's a saw and an axe on the stump behind me." She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. "I remind you, though, what the Apostle Paul told us. If a man won't work, he shall not eat."

With that, she turned and went around the cabin.

The wood was mostly branches and twigs. Dowland lowered his knapsack and carbine to the ground, collected the tools, and set to work, sawing the three trunks into logs that he would chop in half later and the limbs into pieces that he stacked on the far side of the pile. The scent of pine resin made him think of honey, and the sun, standing three quarters of the way to noon in the southeastern sky reminded him that he'd yet to eat breakfast.

But the work wasn't finished. One by one, he set up the logs on the stump and brought the axe around in a full swing to split them in two. With nothing in his stomach to balance him, he fell into the arc each time and each time put a little less force into the motion. On the last log, the axe wedged in only a third into it. He stood, hunched over, staring at the axe head in the soft wood, then pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow, still holding the handle in his left hand.

This log was not going to defeat him. He wrapped both hands around the handle, lifted the axe and log into the air, and brought them down onto the stump. The log split and fell aside, and the blade bit into the flat surface of the wood beneath.

Dowland wiped his brow again and picked up the remaining pieces to put on the stack. He then pulled the axe out of the stump and wiped off the pine sap from it and from the saw.

He turned to go put away the tools, but the sky swirled around him, and he sank onto the ground. In the fog of his vision, a patch of pale blue floated toward him.

"Mr. Dowland, drink this."

She held a cup of water to his lips, and he drank.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Leave the tools, and come sit with me."

A cloth spread across the grass near the cabin. A basket sat on it, and the smell of fresh bread invited him on the light breeze. How could he have missed seeing her setting all of that out?

She held out her hand, and he took it to stand.

"I shouldn't have been so harsh, but you've done a fine job anyway."

His legs wobbled, but he forced himself to walk over to the blanket and then forced himself to stand until she sat.

"Sit, Mr. Dowland, and don't worry about ceremony."

She sliced off bread from the loaf and pieces of ham for him.

This was the first proper food that he'd had in days, but he was so hungry that he barely tasted it.

"I do love to see a man appreciate his meal." She smiled at him.

"It's been a while."

The ring on her left hand glinted in the sunlight. How long had she gone without seeing a man eat?

"You're wondering what I'm doing out here in the wilderness?"

"Ma'am, my mother taught me that a woman will tell a man when she wants him to know her purposes."

She stared at the hills in the distance.

"I came with my husband, so it's his purpose that you'd have to know."

A faint disappointment of something that Dowland hadn't realized he wanted tightened his stomach.

"He's in those hills?"

"Yes, he is."

A tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

"He was working our claim when a part of the mine caved in. His partner came to tell me about it. He's somewhere deep inside."

"How long ago was that?"

"A month."

The sandwich dried in his mouth. He coughed and drank water from the cup.

"I am sorry, ma'am."

"There's nothing to be done but to go on living."

She gazed up toward the hills again.

"But you would have me do something anyway. I can see it in your face."

"No, Mr. Dowland. I would not."

Her eyes refused to meet his.

"Ma'am, I was raised by one woman and grew up alongside another, God rest her soul. What can I do for you?"

With her hands clasped in front of her, she closed her eyes and lowered her head.

"I never saw his body. It grieves me that he wasn't given a proper burial."

"He's likely covered in rock, ma'am."

"You speak hard words."

Dowland looked straight at her until she met his gaze.

"I speak the truth. I never was a good liar."

Another tear dropped along her cheek.

"You may be right, but it would comfort me to know."

"Then I'll go have a look."

She pulled a pie from the basket. "First, you'll finish your meal and have a rest."

He smiled at her.

"I think I will, ma'am. I think I will."

The mouth of the tunnel opened into the cliff face. The light of the morning sun showed the first few steps inside, but deeper in, all was black. Dowland struck a match and lighted a pine knot torch. Lines from an old poem came to him, lines about losing hope at the mouth of hell, but he'd promised to go in.

He walked up the incline till the floor levelled. In this swaddling of stone, the world shrank from the wide skies down to a small bubble of light from the torch. Every little bit, wood timbers braced the ceiling. He stopped at one and touched it lightly with his forefinger, only to jerk his hand back. The weight of the mountain above pressed down on him.

But he had a body to find, no matter how much he felt the earth wanting to bury him. He pushed forward, deeper into the mine. There was no way to know the passage of time, other than to count his footsteps. At one hundred, he paused to look at a streak of gleaming white quarz that cut through the dull grey stone.

After fifty more steps, the air in the tunnel brushed past him, drawing the smoke of his torch forward and upward. The flat slap of his feet on the stone floor broadened with echoes from ahead.

The mine opened out into a sloping fissure in the rock. Terraces had been dug into it, some shallow and some deep. Ladders leaned into the rock on the deeper cuts. Wooden beams stood at intervals, bracing the slanting rock above. A powder keg rested against one wall on the highest shelf.

A wheelbarrow sat near the keg. Dowland walked over and held the torch above it. The dust inside sparkled back at him. He turned and waved the flame over the levels below. On each, white rock flecked with gold glistened, hurting his eyes after so much darkness.

But something else played at his senses. The air in the fissure at first had felt fresher than the heavy staleness of the tunnel, but in the gentle flow upward, there was a hint of death below.

He climbed down the terraces. The ladder to the lowest one creaked, and he gripped a rung till the feeling of falling backward passed.

After stepping off the ladder onto the solid stone floor, he took a deep breath to calm himself, but the smell made the bile rise in his throat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face.

The scent of death gathered at the bottom of the fissure, and puffs of it floated upward. With each one, his mind fell back to endless fields of bodies after a battle was over. In a trance, he held the torch in front of him and stepped to the edge of the terrace. Twenty feet below where the floor and ceiling of stone came back together lay the body of a man.

Dowland wavered on the rim of rock. The man was close, yet infinitely remote, since there was no way to reach him. Dowland had no rope.

He stared into the dead man's face. Two empty sockets stared back. But the hole in the center of the forehead drew his attention. This man hadn't been killed by a cave in.

The climb back out of the fissure was hard. The weight of what he had to tell Miss Sarah Belle pulled him downward.

But anger drove him up, rung after rung and landing after landing. The partner that she mentioned — that man had much to answer for.

The tunnel passed in a blur and opened out into the brilliant white of the midday sun. He followed a dry creekbed down out of the hills, all the way dreading what he had to tell her. There was no way for him to move the body. It was too far gone. He'd have to bring rope and lower himself and enough rock to bury the man where he lay. Somehow, he'd also have to keep her from coming along.

Then what? He'd hunt down the partner. Miss Sarah Belle had given him food, and he'd do this for her.

His feet carried him down the loose rock, but his mind turned inward. He tried to make himself believe that he only sought justice, but her face kept floating through his thoughts.

He waved his hands in front of his face. The glare of sunlight off the pale rock hurt his eyes, and he had too many visions of dead men from a war and the trail. It would be a joy to leave it all behind.

The land levelled and grew green along the banks of the river. A cool breeze wafted along the water, pulling Dowland's thoughts back to the mine. No matter what hopes the future held, the past would not be ignored.

But there she was, moving about the clearing near the cabin. What would she look like if she traded that pale blue cotton dress for one of scarlet silk? A vision of him dancing with her in a ballroom clouded his eyes.

How could he tell her what he'd found? She knew that her husband was dead. Wasn't that enough?

No, he had to tell her the truth. That murdering partner would come back soon. The mine had gold, and that man would think of Miss Sarah Belle alone in the wilderness, too.

His feet slowed to a stop. Could she stand the blow of the hard words?

She hadn't been steady on her feet when he first saw her. His stomach having been filled, his memory could tell him what he hadn't noticed before. He shaded his eyes to have an appraising look at her. She stumbled up the clearing, a pot of water held in front of her with both hands. He was too far away to be sure, but she seemed to be gasping for breath.

The scene froze him in place. Like a story in a book, he took in what he saw with the dull sense that he could do nothing.

She stumbled again, this time falling. The pot splashed its water across the ground in front of her and rolled a few feet.

This shook him out of his trance. He ran toward her, fearing she had died. He reached the spot where she lay and dropped to his knees beside her shaking body.

"Miss Sarah Belle! Can you hear me?"

She was alive, but gave no sign other than her shallow breathing. He turned her over and felt her forehead. Her skin was flushed and warm.

He lifted her up and hurried for the cabin with her cradled in his arms. She was lighter than the impression that her iron will gave him.

The inside was small and neat. No sign showed that the woman who lived there had just lost her husband and was left to live alone in the wilderness, no surrender to grief. Her made bed stood in one corner on the opposite wall from the door.

Holding her in one arm, he pulled back the covers with his free hand and laid her on the mattress. His mother would have words to say to him about kneeling alone at the bedside of a beautiful woman, but this was no time for scruples.

A basket filled with folded rags sat on the table in the middle of the room. He took one cloth out and moistened it in a water pot to cover her forehead.

The coolness woke her.

"Mr. Dowland, I don't know what's come over me."

Her voice was thin, and speaking drove her into a coughing fit. She struggled to lift herself up, but couldn't manage, so he helped her and then supported her with one arm while rubbing her back with the other.

Her skin tensed under the cotton of her dress with each cough, but the fit subsided, and she patted his arm. He lowered her back and tried to smile at her.

"This morning, I accused you of wanting to share my bed with me, and now this."

"Ma'am, I have no intentions that —"

"I know. I know."

Her hand reached for the rag that had fallen beside her, and he put it back on her forehead.

"You must tell me what you found."

His chest tightened. He'd hoped that she'd put what was in the hills out of her mind.

"In the mine, Mr. Dowland. What did you see?"

He stood and reached toward the table for a chair to sit on.

"I found him."

Did he dare to tell the truth? She frowned and coughed once more.

"I found him where he'd been struck by a rock fall."

Her face relaxed, and his insides twisted from guilt.

"I covered him and said prayers."

"Thank you, Mr. Dowland."

Words formed in his mouth to bury the lie, and he turned away. "I'll make it look better when you're well and give him a headstone."

He turned back to see if he'd been believed. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open, breathing in slow and shallow drafts of air.

She'd need something hot to eat later. He'd never counted himself as much of a cook, but he could make a passing stew. He'd have to fetch some water in the large pot that she'd dropped outside, if he could leave her to sleep while he was gone.

Her chest barely moved as she lay on the bed. He leaned down to put his ear next to her mouth. A slight puff teased his skin.

"Miss Sarah Belle, I'm going for some water. I'll be back soon. Don't you leave me while I'm gone."

The light of the sun made him blink after the cabin's dimness. On the path to the stream, a dark shape approached and resolved into a wiry fellow with a scraggly beard.

Dowland's hands went toward his Navys.

"Stranger," the man called out, "what's your business here?" He held a rifle in the crook of his elbow.

"I haven't heard yours. I'm here by leave of the lady of the house."

"That so? I aim to speak to her."

"You'll speak to me."

The man laughed a braying cackle. "She didn't wait long to take up with a new man."

A wave of understanding rolled over Dowland. He wrapped his hand around the butt of Alpha, his right-side revolver.

"I wouldn't do that, Mr. Johnny-come-lately." The man tilted his head toward the trees on the edge of the clearing. "I put a feller with a glass-sighted rifle over there to keep an eye on the doings."

Dowland glanced to his right to see a glint of light by a tree and knew that he was had. The murderous partner of Miss Sarah Belle's dead husband stood in easy pistol shot of him, but he dared do nothing but glare at the man.

"You'll want to talk to the lady of the house, as you called her, about me. So tell her Sam Bilby stopped by."

"I'll remember you," Dowland said. "Don't you doubt that."

Bilby smiled. "I don't, 'specially since you'll see me again soon enough. Yup, real soon, I 'magine." He worked the lever of his Henry and fired into the air. "Count on it."

The sharpshooter in the trees came out into the open, and Bilby backed a few steps, an evil grin on his face, then turned to walk away and join his man.

Dowland's fingers twitched to grab his guns and shoot, but the rifleman kept looking his direction. And a tightening in his stomach told him to go back to the cabin.

He ran back to the door and threw it open. A pale blue mass lay on the floor near the bed.

"Miss Sarah Belle!" He sank to his knees beside her.

She was motionless on her left side. He put his ear next to her mouth. His own blood and breath froze in hope, but no sound came from her.

Frantically, he turned her over onto her stomach and pulled her arms under her head. He'd seen a man pulled from the James River and saved from drowning. It had to work.

He rolled forward and back, forward and back, again and again, the world and time shrinking down to that motion. Her body shifted under his hands, but didn't move on its own.

Bilby's shot must have killed her. Dowland fell back against the wall and shook with grief. She must have leapt from her bed in fright and fallen in an apoplexy.

Bilby. He said that he'd come back. That snake would come back for the gold in the mine.

Dowland jumped up. He had no time for grief now.

He had work to do.

He sat by his small fire next to the mouth of the mine, warming himself in the early evening. The sun floated low over the hills on the other side of the valley. The flames flickered, and he added another branch. He had to keep at least some coals going for later.

Below in the creekbed, Bilby and three others worked their way toward him. It had been three days since Miss Sarah Belle died, and after burying her, Dowland readied himself and waited, guarding the entrance, and as he expected, the greed ran true in those men.

Bilby was a tiny fellow, but he clearly favored large friends. The two right behind him were of a pair, built more like great oxen than men, except for their piggy eyes. One of them had been the sharpshooter, but they were too much alike to decide which one. The fellow at the rear, though, looked to be a younger version of Bilby — his kid brother, perhaps.

All four of them spotted Dowland. The two bulls stared stupidly. Bilby squinted, then cackled.

"I figured you'd be off hiding with the lady of the cabin."

As before, he held his Henry loosely in his arms.

Dowland stood. "We considered the matter and decided that you deserved a share."

"A share," the right-hand ox snickered and poked his twin.

"Is that so?" Bilby asked. "Just like that?"

"Why not? You've earned it." Dowland pointed toward the mouth. "I have torches for us in there. If you'll follow me —"

"Oh, no, there'll be no following." Bilby laughed again. "I know what's to be seen. Fact is, I've got a job for you. You get to keep an eye on my little brother here."

"And leave you three alone in the mine?"

"That's right. Three of us, and one of you. What'cha got to say about it?"

The two bulls had moved to Dowland's sides, and he glanced at both, then returned his gaze to Bilby.

"What's the kid's name?"

"I'm Billy," the boy said. He couldn't be more than twelve.

"Yup," Bilby added, "his teacher always figured him to be stammering — Billybilby, Billybilby, Billybilby —"

The child's face contracted into a frown.

"That's enough," Dowland said.

Bilby looked at his brother, then back to Dowland. "Feel sorry for him, do yeh? That's good, seeing as how you're gonna sit here with him."

Dowland shrugged.

"I thought so. Come you two." Bilby waved at his bulls, then turned back to Dowland. "You mind if we use those torches?" He pointed at the opening of the mine.

"Help yourself."

The bulls sniggered. Bilby picked up the pine knots and held them over the fire till they caught the flame.

"We'll look over the gold for you now." The little man paused, then fished in his pocket for a dollar gold piece that he threw down at Dowland's feet. "That should cover your share." He cackled and led his men into the mine.

Dowland sat unmoved by the fire. The flames danced, and sparks rose up into the darkness.

"Mister, you don't want that?"

The boy's bright eyes shifted back and forth from the coin to Dowland.

"I know what it's trying to pay for."

"What's that?"

"How well do you know your brother?" Dowland hadn't counted on dealing with Bibly's young relation.

"He's hard on me."

"Where are your parents?"

The boy pointed toward the west. "Sacramento."

"Why don't you go back to them?"

Billy lowered his head and rubbed his leg.

"I tried that, but I got a beating for it."

The crackling of the fire brought Dowland's attention back to it for a moment. He put another branch on.

"Do you have horses?"

The boy nodded. "By the stream."

"Go. Take the horses and go home."

"But . . . " Billy pointed at the mine's opening.

"Don't you worry about him. Just take the horses and go." Dowland held his hand up. "But take that coin with you."

The boy glanced at the dollar, then up at Dowland. He stood, darted for the money, and took off down the path toward the bottom of the valley.

Dowland snorted. "Family."

He turned around to look at the moon rising above the trees on the ridge. Bilby and his bulls must have reached the gold in the fissure. Their eyes would gleam with greed in the sparkling light, and not a remark would they make about the dead man below the terraces.

Enough of that. Dowland pulled a burning branch from the fire and held it in front of him, contemplating the flame. With his hand curved around the back of it, he took the branch over to the mouth of the mine. A thin line of black grains stretched into the darkness, a line that he had drawn to a pile of covering timbers halfway along the tunnel.

He touched the grains with the branch. A gout of flame shot along the line into the mine. Its brilliance dazzled him and held his eye, but he shook himself free of the fascination and dashed along the cliff face toward cover under an overhang, where he squatted and pressed his hands over his ears.

The blast roared out, a jet of smoke and dust stabbing into the air. A shower of rocks tumbled down the cliff. Dowland bent low, the splinters of crashing stones flying around him.

The night fell silent. He stood and brushed himself off, then picked his way through the rubble to what had been the opening.

"Miss Sarah Belle," he shouted into the dark. "I couldn't save you, and for that, I'm heartily sorry. But you rest easy now."

He turned away from the cliff and worked his way down toward the valley. He still had an ocean to see, even if he'd get nothing else out of this life.