Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (13 page)

A scant minute later Weiser saw Waltz and Roberts coming toward him. Roberts was toting an empty but ample saddlebag with a padlock on it. Without a word Waltz seized Weiser’s gold and dumped it in Roberts’s saddlebag.

“Wait a minute, that’s my gold!” Weiser protested.

“No it ain’t,” Waltz said. “You an’ me are still partners, an’ I’m still in charge of our gold. I was only letting you keep these nuggets until I had a safe place to keep them.”

“Listen here,” Weiser cried out, grabbing Waltz’s sleeve. “I picked up that gold without any help from you. It’s mine an’ I want it, damn you!”

Waltz shook off Weiser’s grip and said, “You can lock it up now, Roberts.”

“It ain’t right for Roberts to be in charge of my gold!” Weiser screamed. “What’s to stop him from running off with it?”

“Nothing except his self-respect,” Waltz said in a tone of withering scorn, “and that’s a quality you wouldn’t understand.” Leaving Weiser without a backward glance, he and Roberts walked away.

In a rage at Waltz’s behavior, Weiser shook his fist after their retreating backs and shouted, “You can’t get away with treating me like this. I’ll make you regret this, Jacob Waltz. You won’t live to spend my gold.”

Waltz spun around and, in a voice dripping with venom, snarled, “You don’t have the guts to follow through with that threat, you little weasel. You think you’re a big man, but you’re nothing but a little sneak. The only man you could kill is one who thinks you’re his friend, an’ I ain’t making that mistake anymore.”

That evening, Weiser’s immediate concern was taking care of Adam Peoples, now that Hutton was out of the way.

Six days after Waltz found Rich Hill, Weiser found his opportunity. The initial excitement of finding Rich Hill had subsided and the men were ready to slow down and have a nice dinner of fresh fish with their beans. In the twilight hour, when fish are believed to be most easily fooled, Adam Peeples picked up his fishing pole and headed toward the creek to bring home some trout.

After making a show of retiring, Weiser waited until the others were busy with sorting their gold before sneaking out of his tent and surreptitiously following Peeples.

On reaching the creek, Weiser hid behind a scraggly mesquite as Peeples got out his fishing lure. There he waited patiently until Peeples was intently attaching a fishing lure to his line. Then he rushed at him, slashing viciously with his hunting knife until Peeples was dead. He quickly separated Peeples’s scalp from his skull, just as he’d done to Joe Green. To get rid of the scalp, Weiser buried it in the sandy soil around the stream’s bend and stole silently back to his tent.

When an hour had passed and Peeples failed to show up with the fish, Waltz became anxious as well as hungry. Enlisting Roberts as backup, Waltz picked up his rifle and went cautiously toward the creek. There he discovered Peeples’s scalpless body lying face down at the edge of the stream.

Waltz was sure it was Weiser’s work. There were just too many murders for it to be the work of random Indians. This was someone in the group, and Weiser was the only logical choice. But the man had been in his tent all evening. The man was slippery as an eel, and there was really no way Waltz could prove his suspicions without catching him in the act.

Moreover, Waltz knew that Roberts would be reluctant to accuse a member of their group of murder. He wanted to put the blame on a renegade Apache, even though there’d been no sign of Indian trouble up to now. It was possible that their sudden presence there had offended the Indians and brought on this attack.

But in his heart, Waltz knew Weiser was the killer, regardless how it appeared.

Whether it was because of loose lips on the part of one of the prospectors while on a supply run or simply the observed presence of an encampment suddenly springing up in the middle of nowhere, news of the group’s bonanza at Rich Hill soon swept the prospecting world like wildfire. In less than a week the hill was swarming with newcomers. It was so crowded, it made Sutter’s Mill look uninhabited. And nuggets you could pry up with your bare hands were only a memory.

Pauline Weaver rode down to Maricopa Wells for supplies, where he encountered so many prospectors heading for Rich Hill he decided not to go back.

Alarmed by the flood of new prospectors, combined with the rising body count, Abraham Peeples packed up his gold and retired to a ranch in a picturesque valley south of Prescott.

The day of Peeples’s departure, Gideon Roberts took his own gold from the lockbox, stuffed it into stout burlap sacks, secured them to his saddle, handed the key to the padlock on the chest they’d shared to Waltz, and headed to Colorado, leaving Waltz and Weiser alone together for the first time since they’d joined the wagon train in Texas.

In 1863, an exploring party led by William Bradshaw had explored the mountains north and east of Rich Hill, found some gold, and named the mountains after him. Convinced this was the best place to prospect next, Waltz led Weiser and their pack mule north along the spine of these mountains. Inevitably, each man was constantly on the lookout for sneak attacks by the other. Or by Apache Indians, who were growing increasingly aggressive in their assaults on white men.

They were too far from civilization for Weiser to make his way to safety without Waltz’s help, leaving him no choice but to submit to Waltz’s high-handed behavior.

For his part, although Waltz was pretty certain Weiser was a killer, he still believed he could make Weiser work for him without fear of retaliation, as long as he watched his back. He took pleasure in ordering Weiser to stop each time he saw a chunk of quartz he liked the look of. And even more pleasure in sitting comfortably in the shade, while Weiser sweated in the sun breaking that chunk of quartz into smaller pieces. And if those pieces of quartz showed the slightest trace of gold, Weiser had to dig up all the surrounding rocks until Waltz was satisfied there was no gold in the area.

Weiser’s hands were callused, his fingernails split, and his body one continuous mass of pain from the top of his sunburnt head to the tips of his toenails. At night, seeing Waltz sitting in the moonlight smoking cigars, Weiser dreamed of revenge.

Moreover, by the time they were twenty miles north of Rich Hill, Weiser woke up and realized that the danger of Waltz exposing the murders no longer mattered. Abraham Peeples and Gideon Roberts were the only others from their original group still alive and kicking, and the chance of encountering either of them was fading with every mile. “I can kill old Waltz any time I want,” Weiser thought, “and nobody’ll give a damn. But there’s no need to rush it: Waltz is pretty damn good at finding gold, and I might as well stick with him until he finds at least one more decent strike.”

In midsummer, they reached Lynx Creek, an idyllic mountain stream that makes its way south through a mixed forest of piñon pine, alligator juniper, and quaking aspen. They dismounted, led their horses down to the creek’s bank, and drank greedily of its clear, cold water.

As Waltz bent over the creek, he saw a gleaming gold nugget below his nose and nearly choked. The damn nugget looked too good to be real. Sputtering, Waltz reached down and picked it up. It had to be three ounces, he estimated. Maybe four.

Weiser saw Waltz pick up the nugget. Looking more carefully into the water at his knees, he also saw chunks of gold. Not as large as Waltz’s, but still a pretty good indication they’d found an area to stay in awhile. On the assumption placer gold’s source is bound to be upstream, they went a couple of miles farther before settling in to start digging.

As Weiser worked another grueling day in the unforgiving sun, he became aware that Waltz’s persecution, although undesired, had toughened him, and now he was confidant he was tough enough to survive by himself. Furthermore, they had nearly enough gold now for him to start planning Waltz’s permanent disappearance. Back at Rich Hill, Weiser’d heard men talk about the new settlement on the Salt River, south and east of where they were. It sounded like a good place to lie low for a few months before he went back to San Francisco.

For his part, Waltz remembered his doubts about Joe Green’s death. And his growing conviction that Weiser had been responsible for Oscar Hutton’s fatal fall. Hutton had been as sure-footed as a mountain goat, hardly likely to stub his toe, tumble down, and crack his skull.

Nor was any Indian apt to sneak up on Adam Peeples and kill him when Pauline Weaver was around. Taking his thoughts one step farther, Waltz believed Coho Young would still be alive if Weiser hadn’t talked him into following Chief Tenaya.

“If I’m right,” Waltz thought, “I have to kill Weiser before he kills me!”

A week later, Waltz awakened early as sunlight filtered through the long, slender needles of a tall ponderosa pine. A red-tailed hawk passed overhead, swooped to pick up a small squirrel, and rose to soar out of sight. He lay a few moments in the warmth of his bedroll, breathing in the sweet fragrance of piñon trees beside him. And he realized how sweet it was to be alive.

Then he turned and saw the lump of blankets that was his murderous partner, and the seriousness of his situation rushed back into his mind.

Waltz jumped to his feet, moving stiffly at first, then more smoothly as his joints woke up. He splashed water on his face, gasping at its icy tingle, toweling his whiskers dry, and making sure to keep a constant eye on Weiser.

Weiser heard Waltz moving around and pulled his blanket more securely over his ears. “It’s too damn early to get up,” he thought, and went back to sleep. There would be plenty of time to figure out how to kill his partner later when the sun was warm.

Waltz looked down at Weiser sleeping peacefully and felt his belly churn. He felt like strangling Weiser right there where he lay. “It would be easy to kill him right now,” Waltz thought. “Just whack him with a rock an’ finish him off with his pillow.” But an inner voice stopped Waltz. “If you kill Weiser in cold blood, you’re no better than he is.” Waltz sighed in frustration.

A good smoke often helped Waltz solve a problem. He walked over to his rucksack and rummaged through it until he found his box of cigars. Selecting one, he sat down on a log and lit a wooden match, taking his time to light the cigar by slowly rotating it with his fingers and carefully toasting the tobacco on the foot. Still rotating the cigar, he placed it in his mouth and continued to touch it with his match as he puffed gently. When at last the cigar was lit to his satisfaction, he removed it from his mouth. Good, he thought, it’s burning evenly. Waltz inhaled a mouthful of smoke, made a circle with his lips, and blew a series of smoke rings. Happy with his smoke, he turned his attention back to Weiser.

Half an hour later, Waltz put out his cigar, relieved himself at the edge of the clearing, and prepared to go to Prescott. Or, more accurately, prepared to pretend to go to Prescott.

Waltz brought last night’s fire back to life, shoved in a split log, and added twigs for kindling. Satisfied with the small blaze he got going, Waltz propped an iron grill over the flames and put a pot half-full of the previous night’s coffee on to heat.

Weiser felt Waltz’s presence and opened one eye. “Up early, ain’t you?” he observed caustically.

“I’m going to Prescott,” Waltz said smoothly, ignoring Weiser’s sarcasm.

Weiser sat up and looked around. Waltz’s horse was saddled and ready to go, but the pack mule was still tethered on his picket. “Ain’t you taking the mule?” Weiser asked.

“Not this time,” Waltz replied. “I’m just going to register this strike. I’ll take the mule next time, when we run out of grub. You stay here an’ mind the gold.”

Weiser frowned, hiding his delight. “That’s right,” he grumbled. “Just go on without me. Leave me here to keep the buzzards company.” He lay back down and pulled his blanket over his head.

Keeping a straight face at Weiser’s pretense of being unaware of the opportunity he’d just been handed, Waltz couldn’t resist teasing Weiser. Instead of climbing on his horse, Waltz ambled over to the fire, picked up the coffee pot, filled his cup, spooned sugar into it, and sat down on a log.

Impatient to be rid of Waltz, Weiser stuck his head out from his blanket and said, “Ain’t you gone yet?”

“What’s the hurry?” Waltz said. “You looking to get rid of me?”

“No, of course not,” Weiser said quickly. “I just thought you should get going if you’re wanting to be back before dark.”

“You worried about my safety?” Waltz said, raising his bushy eyebrows in mock surprise. “That’s a first.”

“You’re my partner,” Weiser responded, not bothering to hide his bitterness. “I’m always concerned for your welfare.”

Waltz’s brows came down and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he said, “Well now, Weiser, that sets my mind at rest.” Taking hold of his horse’s reins, Waltz stuck his boot in the stirrup, hoisted himself into the saddle, and started northeast in the direction of Prescott.

“Something ain’t right,” Weiser said to himself as he watched his partner disappear down the trail. “Leaving me with the gold is an open invitation to grab it an’ take off. But hell, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Instead of grabbing the gold and departing, Weiser fixed himself a fresh pot of coffee, made a panful of biscuits, doused them with honey from a comb he’d kept hidden from Waltz, and sat down in the shade to wait for Waltz to double back and try to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar.

While Weiser waited, Waltz rode slowly along the trail toward Prescott, crossing gravel-bottomed washes and winding his way around clusters of giant granite boulders worn smooth by winds and winters. He welcomed the autumn sunshine. As he passed, a bright-eyed grey squirrel with a bushy tail and impudent tufted ears looked up from the pine cone in his paws, studied Waltz briefly, and went back to his cone.

A small stream joined the trail. “Time for a drink, boy,” he said to his horse, as he dismounted. Side by side, Waltz and his horse went to the stream’s banks, lowered their heads to its swiftly flowing water, and drank deeply. While he was on his knees, years of prospecting prompted Waltz to scoop up a few handfuls of its gravel. “Don’t see no gold here,” he said, with a tinge of regret. The horse shook drops of water from his muzzle as if commiserating.

Closing his eyes, Waltz breathed in the sweet smell of the forest. “Weiser was a pretty good partner when we started out,” Waltz thought, “but them days is long gone. He turned into a liar and a cheater. Maybe I stuck with him longer than I should of, but, goddammit, he’s a murderer and its only a matter of time before he follows through on his threat. It’s time he got what’s coming to him.”

Back at their campsite Weiser reckoned it was time to prepare for Waltz’s return and went down to the creek. As he sat beside the tumbling water, he remembered a similar stream running beside Whiskey Flat, and Waltz’s attempt to kill him. He chuckled, thinking he had to give the man credit for a good idea. It would of worked, too, if Peeples hadn’t of showed up.

Humming softly, Weiser went back to their camp and rummaged in the bottom of his pack for a tiny pouch of gold flakes. After checking to make sure it was full, he put it in his pants pocket and went over to their mining supplies, where he picked up a spade and placer pan before going back to the creek. He knew that once Waltz realized Weiser did not fall for his trap, he would search him out down there.

Sure enough, an hour later he heard the clink of Waltz’s horse’s bridle and the soft thunk of Waltz’s boots as he dismounted at their campsite. This was Weiser’s cue to wade a little way into the stream and scoop some gravel into his pan. Moving back to the bank, he laid his shovel down beside him and drew the pouch of gold flakes from his pocket. A rueful smile lingered briefly on his lips as he regretted sacrificing these flakes to his scheme.