The Floor of Heaven (35 page)

But George was persistent. He explained that it was a matter of honor for him, too. The sourdough’s code required that he tell Henderson about the creek where they’d panned the pieces of coarse gold. In a wilderness without the government’s laws, the unwritten rules between men were all the prospectors had. These were commandments that must be obeyed.

It was a standoff. Both men believed they had to act with honor, but the concept held a different meaning for each of them. However, when George started down to Henderson’s camp and Charley followed, Jim realized he’d better go along. He was part of George’s crew, and it wouldn’t be right to abandon his partners. That was a matter of honor, too. Perhaps, he even began to wonder as he trailed slowly behind them, George was right. Maybe he should give the white man one more chance.

“HELLO, GEORGE,” greeted Henderson as they entered the camp on what would become known as Gold Bottom Creek. “You found us at last, eh?”

“Well, yes. Although it was accidental,” George explained.

He was not a man to make small talk, so he got straight to the purpose of his visit. “We found some good prospects in a creek over on the other side of that range. And seeing your camp from up on that mountain we came around out of our way to tell you about it.”

Henderson said he was much obliged, but he and his partners were encouraged by what they’d panned on this creek. He led the way downstream to where his three partners—Frank Swanson, Al Dalton, and Charley Monson—were working an open cut. They were going to keep at it with their shovels until they got down to bedrock. Then they’d know if the gold ran deep.

George was intrigued. If Henderson and his crew were ready to stake here, maybe the creek was rich. He asked permission to try a few pans.

“Be my guest,” Henderson offered grandly.

George sifted several pans of gravel, first from the creek and then from down in the cut. There were a few colors, but they were not heavy like the gold he’d panned earlier in the day.

When George had finished panning, he was ready to leave. He wouldn’t stay the night in this camp; Henderson’s rudeness still rankled. But Henderson was a fellow prospector, and the code must be obeyed. So George decided to give him one more chance.

“Take a look at what I found on that creek of ours,” George said, showing him the two tiny pieces of coarse gold. “You’d better come have a look.”

“I’m staying here until we get down to bedrock,” Henderson replied stubbornly.

“Suit yourself,” George said.

They were about to head off when Jim saw Henderson take a bulging pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and begin to pack his pipe. Their own supply of tobacco was nearly gone, so Jim asked the prospector if he could buy some.

No, snapped Henderson, and he gave Jim an insolent look. Its meaning was clear: I don’t do business with Indians.

Without another word, the three men walked off. They maintained a tense silence as they headed out of the canyon and back up the hill.

George felt he’d given Henderson his chance, as the code required. But after this last insult, he was done trying to do right by the man. Henderson and his outfit could go their way; he and his partners would go theirs.

Jim was resigned, too. But his anger was not confined to Henderson. He’d never again trust any white man. Fuming, he was even beginning to have doubts about George.

As for Henderson, no doubt he forgot about the incident over the tobacco moments after it happened. But in time he’d have reason to recall it, and then it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

TWENTY-EIGHT

ix hundred or so miles south of the Yukon Valley, the mood in the detectives’ camp on Chieke Bay had turned tense, too. No sooner had Charlie Siringo returned from Juneau then he had cause to regret that he’d ever left the company of the two thieves.

Charlie had been tipped off by his partner that their operation had fallen apart, but even if he hadn’t read Billy’s note it wouldn’t have taken much detective work to figure out that things had turned scaly. All through dinner Hubbard kept shooting him scowling looks; Charlie pretended not to notice. There was no advantage in letting on that he knew the thieves had grown suspicious; he’d wait for Hubbard to make his move.

It was dusk by the time the meal was over, and that was when Hubbard finally spoke up. “Let’s walk,” he said to Charlie. “I want to talk to you.”

Charlie rose and followed him. He saw that Hubbard was packing, his holster low on his hip as though he meant business. Charlie was glad he had his big Colt under his coat. He reckoned that pretty soon he’d find out if Hubbard was the gunny he wanted people to think he was. And that, Charlie thought, would be a damn shame. It wasn’t that the detective had any misgivings about drawing on the thief; he’d shoot him down if need be. It was just irksome that after all this time he still had no notion about where the gold was hidden. If he had to put a bullet or two into Hubbard, it was unlikely he’d ever find out.

When they reached the top of a heavily timbered gulch, Hubbard straightened up to his full height and looked Charlie in the face. Charlie’s eyes, though, kept a steady watch on the thief’s right hand. Soon as it fell toward the hip, Charlie would draw.

Hubbard’s hand didn’t move. Instead he began shouting. “That partner of yours is a goddamned policeman,” he declared hotly. “Schell and I have concluded not to dig up that gold now.”

Hubbard was bristling with rage, and the arrangement to process the gold bars had broken down. But all things considered, Charlie judged, it could’ve played out worse. After all, no one had yet charged that he was a lawman.

“A policeman? What do you mean by that?” Charlie asked as if he were bewildered by the accusation. He was trying to buy time, to work out a way to salvage things.

“I mean he’s a fly-cop—a detective,” Hubbard answered.

“Goddamned if that ain’t news to me,” Charlie said, acting shocked. “If I thought he was, I wouldn’t sleep until I had him anchored out in a deep place in the bay where no one would ever find him. Why, he knows things about me that would put me in the pen for the rest of my natural life.” Charlie’s only hope was that his anger seemed as convincing as Hubbard’s.

The thief considered what he’d just heard. Then he asked, “How long have you known Sayles?”

Charlie and Billy had worked out their cover story months ago, and now he retold it: He’d met Sayles a few months previous in Juneau. An old smuggler friend had vouched for him. This friend had assured Charlie that “Sayles could be trusted even with my life.” The two had been partners in a smuggling business between Canada and Montana, and they’d gotten into their share of sticky spots with the law. He’d seen Sayles tested.

Still, it was possible, Charlie speculated, that Sayles had turned detective since splitting up with the smuggler. “If Sayles had,” Charlie threatened, “I want to know it.”

Hubbard seemed to have calmed a bit; perhaps he was even willing to believe the story about the outlaw friend in Juneau. So Charlie decided to attack. “What grounds you got for your suspicions?” he demanded.

“Goddamn him!” Hubbard snarled. “He just looks like a policeman. And he’s traveled over the world too much. He’s told me all about his travels.”

Charlie erupted with laughter. It kept building and building till his whole body was shaking. But now he wasn’t acting. He was laughing with relief. And he was laughing at himself. All along he’d assumed that Billy had said or done something to betray that he was working undercover. But this was sheer foolishness on the thieves’ part. They had no justification at all for their suspicions.

So now when Charlie tried to calm Hubbard’s concerns, he stuck to the truth: Of course Sayles had traveled some. He was born in London, England, for gosh sakes. Hadn’t you noticed his accent? Or maybe that’s why you thought he was a detective? And sure enough, Billy came from well-off stock. But he’s a wild and reckless sort, Charlie said. After he struck off on his own, they plumb cut him off. He ain’t no detective, Charlie concluded with genuine exasperation. He’s an Englishman!

But—and the Pinkerton case files would later suggest that this was Charlie’s masterstroke—although he’d just demolished all of Hubbard’s and Schell’s suspicions, Charlie didn’t turn indignant. A cowpuncher comes to learn that while you might succeed in calming an ornery bull, it don’t do well to drive him back to the herd. Better the bull mosey back on his own; otherwise the animal might take it into his head to lower his horns and charge. So now the cowboy detective acted complacent, as if melting down the gold was of little consequence to him. Charlie said that unless Hubbard felt completely convinced that Sayles wasn’t a detective, he should let the gold stay hidden.

“Of course,” he went on with a small shrug, “it would hurt me a little as I’d spent some money in Juneau on supplies for melting the stuff.” But Charlie made it clear that the money he’d be losing was a small matter. All that counted was that Hubbard and Schell do what they thought best.

Hubbard suddenly turned contrite. He bowed his head like a man lost in prayer as he sorted through all he’d just heard. Then he reached out for Charlie’s hand and shook it firmly. “I never doubted you for a minute,” the thief said. “We will call the deal on again.”

He was still cautious, though. “But I’m only going to bring about one-fourth of the stuff at a time,” Hubbard added. “When you melt the first batch, you can take $100 worth out for your part. Then I’ll cache my part and bring in more. That way there won’t be any danger of us losing it all if he’s a policeman.”

“Suits Sayles and me fine,” Charlie said evenly, while he silently rejoiced. The operation was back on track.

THE NEXT day Charlie watched as the two thieves selected a location for the furnace. It was in a timber grove about two hundred yards from the camp. Nice and secluded, both Hubbard and Schell appraised it. “No one will ever find it,” Charlie agreed; although for a reckless, mischievous moment he felt like adding, “Except for two Pinkerton operatives.”

Then, spouting the knowledge he’d picked up from Durkin, Charlie assumed his role as the expert gold processor. He gave instructions on how to make the clay bricks for the furnace, and he got a fire going in another kiln to burn the charcoal they’d need. Schell and Hubbard put in full days, but they had no complaints. Schell still didn’t feel completely easy about Sayles; there was something in the Englishman’s manner that put him off. But he had no doubts about Sayles’s partner, Lee Davis. It sure was a stroke of luck they’d crossed paths with him. Without his taking charge, they’d still be plunking the gold bars into a frying pan and watching as their fortune melted into a yellow muck over an open fire.

It all went very smoothly. By the afternoon the clay bricks had been molded and set out to dry in the sun. Then Charlie fell sick. His stomach was hurting him something fierce, he complained. He felt like an angry mule was kicking at his insides. And this wasn’t the first time he’d been brought low like this, he revealed. It was an old digestive aliment, and there was only one thing that would set him right: Carter’s Little Liver Pills. A sawbones in Abilene had prescribed the pills the last time the pain had nearly laid him out, and they’d worked like magic. Since there was little to do for the next few days but wait for the bricks to dry and the charcoal to burn, Charlie said, he might as well head down to Killisnoo. He should be able to rustle up some of the Carter pills from a doctor, or maybe the trading post stocked them.

Shot of whiskey might work just as well, Hubbard suggested.

Let the man get his darn pills, Schell reprimanded. We’re counting on Lee. He ain’t gonna do us any good if he’s feeling poorly.

So clutching his stomach, near to doubled over with pain, Charlie got into his canoe. They helped him shove off, and Charlie made a small drama out of the difficulties involved in paddling while he was suffering so. But once the camp was no longer in sight, he straightened up and began paddling vigorously. He was feeling better than he had for months. Mamie, he silently celebrated to his wife, we’re gonna do it! We’re gonna get the gold!

In Killisnoo, Charlie didn’t search out a doctor or head to the trading post. He went straight to the warship where Marshal Collins was stationed.

The old lawman listened with attention as Charlie shared his plan. He wanted the marshal to make camp at the head of Hood Bay, on the south side of the island, and wait for him. Once the first batch of gold had been melted and the thieves had revealed its hiding place, Charlie would come get him. About five miles, Charlie reckoned, separated the heads of Chieke and Hood bays. He’d sneak out of camp on foot and head out to find the marshal when matters were ripe for arrest.

It wasn’t Collins’s plan, but as the marshal considered it he couldn’t find anything that didn’t set right. He asked the detective when he wanted him in Hood Bay.

Five days from now should do the trick, Charlie replied. I imagine I’ll come wandering into your camp sometime after midnight. Still, I’d be obliged if, in case I don’t show that night, you wait around for two more days.

The marshal nodded in agreement. Then he asked: “What if you don’t show after that?”

“Reckon,” Charlie said gravely, “you’d better come looking for me with your guns drawn. I’ll either be in a heap of trouble or dead.”

THREE DAYS later, just after the sky had turned dark, Hubbard appeared without warning in the whiskey traders’ camp. He was carrying several bars of gold. He tossed a bar to Charlie.

Charlie caught it, and his first thought was that it was damn heavy. Then he remembered that it’d been his appreciation of the weight of the bars that’d helped him work out how the thieves had managed to get their loot from the mine warehouse down to the beach. He hoped Durkin had followed his advice and now had guards patrolling the pipeline. But in the next moment Charlie quickly put that concern aside as Hubbard began to explain the reason for his unexpected arrival.

Schell and me figured we should run a test, Hubbard announced. We want to see if you boys know what you’re doing before we bring over any more gold.