Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (5 page)

Not suspecting Weiser’s injury was a sham, Waltz carried on by himself until the crushed rock was reduced to pea-sized pebbles.

Only then, when the hardest work was complete, did Weiser limp bravely down to the stream and, with frequent stops for rest, make a show of working beside Waltz as they set up the sluice Edward had loaned them. Waltz’s goal was sixty pounds of ore, which was as much as their mule could carry.

As soon as they had their sixty pounds, they hurried back to Spartanburg and Brown’s store. Weiser stayed discretely in the background as Waltz marched up to the counter and proudly plunked a sack of ore on Brown’s counter. Brown poured a handful of the ore onto his scale, studied it for a moment, peered intently at Waltz, and said, “Where did you get this ore?”

“Same place as the last we brung in,” Waltz replied.

“How much do you have?” Brown asked.

“Six sacks just like this one,” Waltz said proudly, hooking his thumbs into the sleeves of his vest.

Brown rubbed his chin thoughtfully, pursed his lips, and said, “Well, Mr. Waltz, seeing as how you’re a friend of Ed Peeples, I’ll give you $500 for this lot.”

Waltz shook his head in disbelief and said, “That’s less than half what you paid last time.”

“I was doing Peeples a favor. But I ain’t in business for my health — $500 is my best offer.”

More puzzled than angry, Waltz said, “This ore looks the same to me.”

Brown adjusted his spectacles and said sternly, “Are you questioning my assessment, Mr. Waltz? I’ve been in this business for twenty years.”

Embarrassed by what he thought was his own ignorance, Waltz said, “No, sir. I guess you would know better than me what our ore is worth.” Uncertain for the first time, Waltz turned to Weiser, who had been conspicuously silent, and said, “What do you think, Jake? What should we do?”

“You know what I think we should do,” snapped Weiser. “Go to California. But if you really want to stay here and work this hard for this little, I will support you one hundred percent.”

Later that evening, Edward was surprised at Brown’s price, but he had no reason to suspect it was anything other than a fair assessment. “Making a living prospecting gets harder each year,” he admitted. “That’s why I invested my own gold in a grocery store.”

Supper that evening played second fiddle to fresh news of gold at Sutter’s Mill in California. Tomato bisque cooled in its dish while Edward ignored his wife’s gimlet-eyed gaze and regaled them at length with Adam Peeples’s tales of men from all over the world abandoning their careers and rushing to Sutter’s Mill. It took Charlotte Esther’s removal of their plates to bring Edward back to reality, and he added, albeit wistfully, “I would never in a million years leave my own precious family to go west.”

After supper, the gentlemen retreated to the veranda. The sweet scent of honeysuckle filled the air as they leaned back, each man lost in his own thoughts. After a time, Waltz looked at Edward and said, “What would you do, sir, if you was us?”

Edward took his time answering. When he did, his tone was melancholy. “I’m truly sorry you gentlemen are disappointed with Brown’s price, but it may be a blessing in disguise. The American South is no place for men who want to get rich. It’s a place where family men go prospecting for a hobby. If I was you, I’d be on my way west this minute.”

Waltz looked at Weiser, but Weiser’s full attention was on his cigar. After a minute, Waltz said, “What do you think, Weiser?”

Playing his self-appointed role as Waltz’s subordinate to the hilt, Weiser replied, “You are my partner, Jacob, and your dreams are my dreams. I’m just as eager as you are to settle down and buy a sweet little farm, but there aren’t any sweet little farms around Spartanburg.” He paused briefly for emphasis before going on, “I want to take a chance and go west. The Peeples men have been in the prospecting business a long time; if they think this is the opportunity of a lifetime, they’re probably right. But I’ll stick by you whatever you decide.”

Weiser slept soundly that night, certain his partner would give in. In spite of his stubbornness, Waltz was a fair man, and, although he might not like to admit it, their future really was in California.

As Weiser snored softly, Waltz lay awake wondering about Weiser’s claim that there were no small farms in the Deep South. As morning’s first light crept into their shabby room, Waltz arose quietly, saddled his horse, and rode out in search of the truth. And, as Weiser had described, what Waltz saw was mile after mile of stately white mansions surrounded by a sea of fluffy white cotton fields. Incredibly, he had never noticed this before. But then again, Waltz had been so preoccupied with the mining that he hadn’t noticed much of anything else.

Reluctant to give up, Waltz kept going. Perhaps he would see some small farms beyond the cotton fields. But all he found was soft, soggy swampland that was impossible to cultivate.

Waltz burst into the shabby hotel room, yanked the tatty window shade so hard it spun on its roller, and said, “Get up, Weiser! We got to hurry if we’re gonna get on Adam’s wagon train.”

Weiser groaned and pulled his blanket over his head, then sat up, stared at Waltz, and said, “What did you say?”

“I said we’re going after that California gold you been hankering for. An’ we’re leaving today.”

That got Weiser awake with a jolt.

Two hours later, they were on their way, after dividing their gold equally, pouring it into tobacco pouches, and packing it in their saddlebags. Waltz traded their mule and prospecting equipment for food, while Weiser posted a letter to Adam Peeples saying they were on their way and expected to get there in about six weeks.

On their way out of Spartanburg, they stopped at Edward’s place. He invited them to lunch, but Waltz said, “Thanks for the invite, but we can’t spare the time. That wagon train we’re going to catch won’t wait.” There he goes again, thought Weiser to himself. He couldn’t figure where this bossy attitude in his partner was coming from, and it made him seethe with resentment.

One week later, they stopped for supplies, and Waltz was surprised when the merchant valued his gold twice as high as Brown, the Spartanburg assessor, had done. As Waltz hesitated, the merchant pursed his lips, said, “You drive a hard bargain, Mister,” and added ten percent to his assessment.

Waltz glanced at Weiser to see his reaction to this surprising assay of their ore, but Weiser busied himself trying on a new hat and said nothing. Waltz pocketed the extra gold, and with it a seed of doubt in Weiser’s honesty.

At the next supply stop, the merchant also gave a higher value for their gold, supporting Waltz’s suspicion that Brown had cheated him. Weiser’s continued nonchalance made him increasingly suspicious that Weiser was somehow in on it, and maybe had pocketed part of the profits himself.

By the time they reached Atlanta, Weiser was sick and tired of camping out. He thought it was high time they spent some of their gold on a little on comfort, and he was looking forward to a soft bed and a nice supper. When Waltz barely slowed down for an unappetizing stew at a roadside tavern, Weiser rebelled. “What’s the hurry?” he demanded. “The wagon train won’t leave without us.”

“How do you know they won’t?” Waltz said quickly.

“I don’t,” Weiser admitted, “but I bet there are plenty of other wagon trains if we miss this one.”

“Well this is the one I decided on,” Waltz said, with the same take-charge attitude that was beginning to really eat at Weiser, “an’ this is the one we’ll be on.”

Weiser wasn’t happy, but neither was he prepared to go it alone, at least not yet. He held his tongue as they continued west through the hills and valleys of the Georgia piedmont, descended the gently rolling hills of Alabama to the alluvial plains of Mississippi and Louisiana, and reached the mighty Mississippi River at Baton Rouge. It was late afternoon and they could see the last ferry loading, but this time Weiser dug in his heels and refused to hurry. They were a week ahead of schedule and he wanted a night in a soft bed.

But Weiser had underestimated Waltz’s frugality. Although the ferry pulled out without them, Waltz refused to go to a hotel, and set up camp on the dock.

Weiser’s resentment finally boiled over when they reached San Antonio and Waltz traded their horses for mules. “What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Weiser hissed. “I’m not riding any ugly, low-class mule!”

Waltz had had enough of Weiser’s complaining. “You’ll ride that mule if you’re coming with me,” he snapped. “We’ll be crossing a thousand miles of desert an’ our horses ain’t tough enough to survive. I ain’t going to let you kill a horse because you’re too high-an’-mighty to ride a mule.”

“You could of asked my opinion,” Weiser grumbled.

“I didn’t ask because I knew damn well what you’d say. Now shut up an’ get your ass on that mule,” Waltz barked.

It took every ounce of Weiser’s self control to keep from lashing out at Waltz, but he knew he still needed him — at least until they reached civilization. Without another word, Weiser climbed on his mule and followed Waltz the last thirty miles of their journey to Fort Hondo.

Their hearts sank when they reached Fort Hondo and discovered there were only ten able-bodied prospectors, and the rest of their train was ten Conestoga wagons of immigrant German farmers and their livestock. And though Adam Peeples was one of the prospectors, he was not the leader of this wagon train.

Weiser took one look at this motley group and whispered to Waltz, “Let’s get out of here. We don’t need this bunch of farmers. They’ll only slow us down.” He paused and added, “You know enough about prospecting. We could get on a stagecoach and be in California before this bunch even gets on the road.”

“The plan was to go with Adam,” Waltz said quietly. “And we need to stick to the plan.”

“He won’t miss us,” Weiser protested, ready to go it alone.

“A plan is a plan,” Waltz said firmly. “An’ anyway, I ain’t spending our gold on a ritzy ride.”

The assembled crowd fell silent as a tall man with an air of authority climbed onto a wagon’s foot rest, pushed his broad-brimmed hat back from his forehead, and said, “I’m Gideon Roberts, captain of this wagon train, an’ I intend to get all of you safely to Los Angeles.” He paused a moment and surveyed the crowd before continuing, “But this journey will not be easy. The desert ahead of us holds two enemies: thirst and Indians. Both will try to kill you.”

Until now, Weiser hadn’t thought about getting hurt — much less getting killed! Adam hadn’t said anything about danger or rampaging Indians. The last thing Weiser wanted was to be on the front line of any fighting. But how was he going to protect himself without looking like a coward? Weiser looked over at the farmers and their families, and realized these people might be the answer to his personal safety — or as close as he could get under the circumstances. He raised his hand and said, “Mr. Roberts, sir, if those Indians are as dangerous as you say, someone should stay back to protect the women and children.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the farmers.

Confident he was on the right track, Weiser continued, “Although I’d rather be riding an’ fighting on the front line, I volunteer to stay back and defend these women and children.”

Knowing full well Weiser just wanted to save his own skin, Waltz turned on his heel and walked away.

Weiser saw him go, but didn’t give a damn.

The wagon train pulled out the next morning, and Weiser’s ploy was justified, at least to himself, the very first afternoon, as a war party of Comanche Indians appeared, whooping and racing toward them at full tilt. According to plan, Weiser hid safely in the wagon reserved for women and children as Roberts led the wagons into a circle, and Waltz ran bravely to defend his new companions, shouting encouragement to the terrified farmers and cautioning the men to hold their fire until the last possible moment.

Waltz barely had time to take his place before screaming Comanches were upon them, racing their ponies around the train and sending forth a hail of arrows. These terrifying savages did their best to overwhelm the white men, but were no match for their guns. Making each shot count, the white men waited until they could see the hatred in their enemy’s eyes before pulling the trigger and killing the savage, or at least knocking him to the ground.

After what seemed an eternity, the Comanches retreated, but not before getting off a volley of burning arrows that hit the wagon sheltering women, children, and Weiser, and turning Weiser’s safe haven into a death trap.

Weiser tried to push his way out, but the first woman he touched turned on him with the snarl of a mother tiger protecting her cubs. Weiser’s only alternative was through the flames to the back of the wagon. Shielding his face with his arms, Weiser dove through the roaring inferno, singeing his jacket and eyebrows as he sliced a hole in the canvas with his pocket knife, and jumped to the ground.

Safely on the ground, Weiser looked back at the wagon and saw that everyone’s attention was on saving the women and children and fighting the flames. Without considering going to help them, Weiser smeared ashes on his face and clothing and lay down to await being found. With luck, his sham injuries would land him a ride the rest of the way to Los Angeles.

Waltz made his way to the blazing wagon, expecting to see Weiser settled comfortably out of harm’s way, but Weiser was not with the women. Concerned about Weiser’s safety, Waltz climbed into the wagon, but could not see through the flames. Risking his own death to save his partner, Waltz covered his face with his arms and dived through the flames. Instead of Weiser, however, he found a hole cut in the canvas back of the wagon. Jumping to the ground, Waltz saw a dazed, but most definitely alive, Jake Weiser.

He should have known Weiser would take care of himself. Furious at having been played for a fool, Waltz stalked away, leaving Roberts to speculate on Waltz’s seeming lack of concern for his partner.

The next morning, Weiser went in search of a ride, his charred eyebrows lending such a pitiful appearance the Spengler family made room for him. Propped comfortably on Spengler’s pillows, Weiser made himself such agreeable company they insisted he ride with them all the way to Los Angeles.

Eleven weeks after leaving Fort Hondo, the wagon train pulled into the small city of Los Angeles. It was the end of the trail for the farmers and a one-night stop for the prospectors, who traded their mules for horses, packed their loads with the barest essentials, and prepared to ride north the next morning.

Weiser, however, was ready for a night on the town, and his grin reminded Waltz of his partner’s ability to make acquaintances and gather information. “While you’re out there having a good time, keep your ears open for any information about the gold fields,” Waltz ordered his partner.

Waltz’s high-handed attitude made Weiser feel like telling his partner to go fly a kite, but again he held his tongue. After all, each day was bringing them closer to getting rich.

Vine Street was the center of Los Angeles, a beehive of vendors selling everything from fresh oranges to fighting roosters. Weiser followed it to the plaza in front of the mission church, admiring gracious Spanish-style homes that lined the cobbled street and picturing himself living in one them. Clusters of dark-eyed beauties strolled the edge of the plaza, accompanied by their dueñas. All were elegantly dressed and wore lace mantillas that covered their shining black hair and soft white shoulders.

Weiser sat down beside a dapper gentleman wearing a well-tailored, grey, double-breasted frock coat that Weiser knew cost a lot of money. Pretending he wanted to practice his limited English, the gentleman, Don Pedro Santiago, drew Weiser into conversation. With a good deal of gesturing, the two men were soon chatting amiably and Don Pedro invited Weiser to dinner.

Weiser accepted the invitation with alacrity and was treated to a sumptuous meal, during which he flirted shamelessly with Don Pedro’s wife while the Don’s daughters flashed their dark eyes and kept his glass full of tequila. Enthralled by the sight of their luscious bosoms, Weiser lost track of how much he was drinking.

Following a desert of creamy caramel flan, the ladies left the room, and a butler served cups of the strongest coffee Weiser had ever sipped and a box of Cuban cigars. After an interval of contented silence, Don Pedro tapped the ash from his cigar and said, “Do you enjoy to play at cards, Mr. Weiser?”

Weiser chuckled and replied modestly, “Si, Don Pedro, I enjoy playing cards.”

“As it happens,” Don Pedro said with a little smile, “this is my — how do you say it? — evening for games of poker. Will you join us?”

Ordinarily, Weiser would have noticed the Don’s little smile, but the excellent meal and abundant shots of tequila had taken the edge off his customary caution. “Si, Don Pedro, I will play poker with you and your amigos. But I have no money, only gold for my ante,” Weiser replied, mentally filling his pockets with the dinero he expected to win.