Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (8 page)

“No,” Waltz said. “I can’t register a claim because I ain’t a United States citizen. This time you have to be the hero, and register adjoining claims for all of us.”

Eager to begin working this vein and see where it led, they hurried back to camp, where everyone except Weiser was up and ready for a day’s work in the river bed. After checking to see no outsiders were nearby, and cautioning the men to keep their voices low, Roberts showed them Waltz’s nugget.

The men crowded around, all talking at once and marveling at the quality of it.

“Where’d you get that?” Young asked.

Green’s eyes were as big as saucers as he stared at the nugget. “Ain’t seen nothin’ that good in the river,” he said.

Peeples just grinned and patted Roberts on the back.

Awakened by the commotion, Weiser stuck his head out of his tent. Seeing the crowd around Roberts, he pulled on his pants, ran over to see what was causing the excitement, and asked, “What’s going on here?”

“Roberts just found gold back in the woods,” Peeples answered. “Maybe you ought to come with us, for a change.”

When the murmuring abated, Roberts said, “Before we go, I want us to agree to work it like adjacent claims. That way we can follow whichever direction it goes into the hillside.”

The men agreed, and Roberts said, “All right, then, let’s go!”

Hoping to keep this new strike to themselves, the men casually gathered up their picks and shovels and followed Roberts and Waltz into the forest.

Sensing this was something special, Weiser wanted to be in on it. Much as he disliked digging, he picked up a shovel and went along.

By mid-afternoon, they had their claims staked on the first major strike in Green Valley. Waltz had truly found a mother lode, and it wasn’t long before they were taking in anywhere from twenty to two-hundred dollars’ worth of gold a day.

When word got out about this new strike, Nevada City and Centerville grew like mushrooms after a rain. Prospectors poured into the valley, and soon there were enough small mines for an enterprising Mexican to set up a crude, drag-stone mill to crush their ore. Miguel, the proprietor, charged a fee of one percent of the gold recovered, and even tight-fisted Waltz admitted it was well worth the time it saved.

Weiser spent most of his time at Caldwell’s Store, even though he despised the uncouth men who hung around leaning on cracker barrels and making rude jokes. Their cheap tobacco, mingled with the stink of sweat and unwashed clothes, offended his sensibilities, but not badly enough to keep him from playing poker with them and taking their gold.

One afternoon, as Weiser passed their mine entrance, he overheard Roberts and Waltz talking. Waltz said something too softly for Weiser to hear, but Roberts laughed and said, “Don’t sell yourself short, man. You’re the one who found the gold.”

Weiser froze in his tracks as he realized the truth. “I should have known Roberts didn’t find any gold,” Weiser said to himself. “Roberts wouldn’t know gold if he tripped over it.” Shaken by the implications of Waltz’s deceit, Weiser’s mind reeled. “We were partners before Roberts and his gang came into the picture. Are they scheming to cut me out of the money? That’s not like Waltz, but he’s been acting mighty peculiar lately. An’ I never did trust Roberts.”

Weiser backed away from the mine, his mind racing as he made his way down to the saloon. Inside, the air was filled with smoke and noise, a welcome contrast to the dreary drizzle that hung over the valley. The only available chair was at a table where Webber and the others were playing blackjack. To his surprise, Webber looked up and signaled Weiser to join them.

Wary of Webber’s motive, Weiser sat down and picked up the cards Webber dealt him. After a few hands that Weiser won easily, Webber met his eyes and said, “You’re pretty damn good with the cards, Weiser. But you should be, with all the time you spend here. I bet you come out ahead most of the time.”

Curious as to where this was going, Weiser replied cautiously, “Win a few, lose a few, Webber.”

“You wanna know why I’m asking?” Webber said. When Weiser didn’t reply, Webber continued, “I’m asking because you been drawing a equal share of our gold without setting foot down in the mine, an’ I’m thinking it’d be only fair for the rest of us to get a share of what you take in up here, sitting on your ass playing cards.”

Weiser’s brows drew together and his lips pursed slightly, as if in pain, as his clear grey eyes met Webber’s. “I wish it was that simple, Webber,” Weiser said softly. “To tell the truth, there’s nothing I’d like more than to go down in that mine with you men. But my ankle just ain’t strong enough ever since I broke it back in Spartanburg.”

Weiser’s answer made Webber push his chair back so hard it fell over. “You’re a goddamn freeloader, Weiser, an’ you better start pulling your share if you know what’s good for you!”

With those words, Webber turned and headed toward the door, and the rest of the men followed in silence, all of them avoiding Weiser’s malevolent glare.

Weiser sat staring at his clenched fists as the door closed behind the other men and said to himself, “I’m smarter than them, an’ they’re jealous. Webber called me a freeloader because I have a bad ankle, but I can tell he’s jealous. Can’t even play a simple game of five-card stud without losing his shirt.

“An’ to say I should be sharing my money with them. Hah! Webber ain’t just stupid, he’s crazy.

“But as to sharing the gold, if it wasn’t for me being Waltz’s partner an’ getting him started, this gold mine wouldn’t of been found, and those guys would still be standing in the river freezing their asses for a handful of lousy placer gold.”

Weiser shuffled his cards thoughtfully, put them in his pocket, and stepped out on the porch.

Webber was a little way off, standing near his tent. Weiser saw Webber say something to Young, and they both guffawed.

Gritting his teeth, Weiser snarled softly, “I’ll get you, Matt Webber, and the rest of your chums as well.”

On the seventy-first day of mining, the men awoke to a mild January day with a light drizzle of rain. By noon, their clothes were wringing wet. With no inkling of imminent ill-fortune, the miners put away their tools and went to the saloon to dry out. Once inside, with the fire so warm and welcoming, they decided to quit working, even though it was early. There was so much gold in their claim, they saw no need to make themselves miserable slopping about in the mud. One day couldn’t make much difference. And although they’d heard ugly rumors of groundwater seeping into some of the mines, no one took them seriously.

Waltz wasn’t interested in hanging out at Caldwell’s and decided to curl up in his sleeping bag for a little nap. Seeing Waltz safely snoring gave Weiser an idea. Quite simply, he’d lure Webber into the mine, smash his skull with a rotted timber, and make it look like a piece of the scaffolding had given way and killed him. He hurried up to the mine, put the timber in place just inside the entrance, returned to Caldwell’s porch, and waited for Webber to step out for a smoke. When he did, Weiser grabbed his arm and said earnestly, “I need your help, Webber.”

Webber shook off Weiser’s arm and laughed, “I ain’t helping you with shit.”

But Weiser interrupted, “This ain’t about me, Webber. Waltz ain’t come back from the mine an’ I’m afraid something must of happened to him.”

Webber looked at Weiser’s seemingly sincere distress and said, “Let’s get the rest of the men!”

“There isn’t time for that,” Weiser said breathlessly. “What if he’s bleeding to death right now? We need to hurry down there and see. Then one of us can come back for help if we need it. But for God’s sake, let’s go!”

Deciding safe was better than sorry, Webber yielded to Weiser’s pleas and followed him.

Everything was going to Weiser’s plan until, unbeknown to him, Waltz awoke from his nap and decided to go back to the mine. He was far happier mining than he was hanging out in a saloon, and his frugal nature rebelled against spending good money on bad beer. Every dollar frivolously spent was a dollar that could have gone toward his future farm. He put on dry clothes, stuck a hunk of hardtack in his pocket, and headed over to the mine.

At that moment, Weiser was preparing himself for his deadly deed, reminding himself that if he didn’t kill Webber, Webber would try to kill him. As the two men entered the mine, Weiser craftily dropped back and allowed Webber to take the lead. But as Weiser picked up the piece of timber, a piñon jay perched on a pine branch outside the tunnel scolded him with sharp cries of “awr-awr-awrrrr. ” Stunned by the jay’s shriek, both men turned around and saw Waltz at the entrance to the mine.

Weiser dropped the timber like a hot potato as his mind raced. How could he talk his way out of this? His response poured out instinctively as he rushed to Waltz and said fervently, “Thank God you’re all right.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Waltz said, his lips tightening as he looked intently at Weiser, trying to figure out what he was up to.

Before Weiser could say more, Webber butted in with a mocking smile and said, “Your buddy here was afraid you was lost in the mine tunnel, an’ he talked me into coming up here to rescue you.”

“That’s right,” Weiser said, making Waltz the guilty party. “I was worried. Where the hell were you?”

“I was taking a nap,” Waltz said curtly. “What business is it of yours?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you was going to do that?” Weiser snapped back. “You had me worried sick when you didn’t show up with the other fellas, and they said water in the mines was rising. I just knew something awful had happened to you, an’ you was up here by yourself, lying helpless with a broken leg.”

“Cut the crap, Weiser,” Webber interrupted. “We all know you don’t give a shit about Waltz’s welfare as long as you get your share of his gold.”

Turning his back on Weiser, Webber said, “Come on down for a beer, Waltz. You deserve a break.”

“Not just now,” Waltz said. “You go ahead. I need to talk to my partner a bit.”

After Webber was out of earshot, Waltz put the squeeze on Weiser: “What the hell was you up to? Why did you bring Webber up here when you knew I wasn’t here?”

“Swear to God I thought you was,” Weiser countered. “You wasn’t at Caldwell’s, and the only place you ever go is this mine. You’re so dedicated to digging out this mine, working day and night for us so we can get our farm faster, I never considered you’d be sleeping on the job.”

But Waltz wasn’t to be brushed off easily. “Since when do you give a damn where I am or what I’m doing?”

Weiser quickly and cleverly shot back, “I cared enough to grab Webber and come up here to save you, didn’t I?”

Waltz was dumbfounded and weary of the conversation, completely at a loss for how to deal with Weiser. What’s more, he was anxious to get to the gold. So he changed the subject. “Look Weiser, I don’t have time to fool around with whatever you was up to,” he responded. “We don’t know how fast the water’s coming, or how deep it’ll be, so I want to get all the gold I can in case we have to shut down. I’m heading back down, an’ you can come help if you want.”

Cursing his luck and the depressing drizzle, Weiser acquiesced. “Sure partner, I’ll help you out. Just give me a few minutes to go back to camp to get my gear, and I’ll be right there by your side.”

Waltz had no illusions about Weiser returning anytime soon, so in the interim, he made his way into the mine and back to the section he’d been working before the storm. Seeing no unusual moisture, he stuck his candle holder into the tunnel wall and resumed filling buckets with ore he chipped from the wall beside him. Proud of his strength, Waltz had a self-imposed minimum of four buckets a day. Intent on the task at hand, he failed to notice groundwater creep into the shaft.

The water rose silently until it reached the tops of his boots. Accustomed to wet feet, he ignored the chill.

Fed by the morning storm, water rose swiftly but his stubborn German nature wouldn’t let him quit. Water reached his knees. Waltz worked faster. Just half a bucket more and he could quit. Every shovelful of ore brought him closer to his farm.

Increasing water pressure softened the tunnel’s floor, causing a support beam to shift with a harsh creak of protest. Waltz ignored its warning and continued to work.

Under increasing force from rising water, the beam protested again, but Waltz was beyond accepting the reality of his situation and kept swinging his pick as though his determination was enough to stop the inevitable.

Reality struck swift and hard as the tortured beam split and pinned his left leg to the side of the mine.

Perhaps the cracking sound was his leg breaking. Waltz was aware only of excruciating pain as he sank into oblivion.

When he came to, the water was at his knees and his candle was flickering. He tried to move, but the wayward beam held his left leg firmly against the mine’s wall, and the pain of further effort was unbearable. Once again, he lost consciousness.

The second time he came to, his candle had gone out and he was in total darkness. He could feel the water at his crotch. He had never been so cold or so frightened. Nonetheless, he fixed his eyes on what he thought was the way out of the tunnel. And as he peered intently into the pitch-black hole in front of him, he began to see a glimmer of light. Hope gave him the strength to cry out, but his once-powerful voice was a feeble croak and the effort made him slip back into insensibility.

Meanwhile, Weiser had stopped off for a little poker, but the cards were not going his way. Reluctantly, he decided it was time to leave the comfort of Caldwell’s and return to the mine, mostly to keep an eye on Waltz and make sure he didn’t try to keep any more of the gold from him. He left the saloon porch and made his way uphill, expecting to hear the clink of pick and shovel as he got near the mine, but was greeted instead by an ominous silence.

A light breeze came up as the sun retreated behind a cloud, contradicting the promise of an early spring. Weiser shivered uneasily and called out to Waltz.

There was no answer, but a self-appointed sentinel jay’s “Awr-awr-awrrrr” gave Weiser his first stirring of alarm. He went to the tunnel entrance and called more loudly to his partner.