The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder (2 page)

July 7
th
– Lady Alice, On today’s outing we glimpsed a prairie dog colony for the first time.  They are furry, brown creatures with short tails and pop up from their burrows most comically.  They stand on their hind legs and call to each other with a soft bark.  Professor Purfield says not to go near their burrows as rattlesnakes frequently investigate them!  Yours faithfully, Miss Parker

Further correspondence from Miss Parker hinted at very un-British weather.

July 13
th
– Lady Alice, A storm of Biblical proportions today!  We were beset with heavy rain and large hail in the early afternoon.  The locals call it a ‘gully washer’.  We remained safely indoors – the hailstones could knock a man senseless.  Most of Mrs. Purfield’s garden took a sound beating.  A man never knows at what moment his buildings, crop and stock may all be dashed to pieces.  Seeing a storm coming is anxious work.  Yours faithfully, Miss Parker 

It was not long before another letter of an even more alarming nature reached Lady Alice.  The particular excerpt she found troubling read as follows:

July 16
th
– Grandmamma, The most exciting news!  I have met a wonderful gentleman.  He rescued us from an uncertain fate and replaced the broken axle in Professor Purfield’s buggy.  We were returning from an outing, traveling on a rough country road when misfortune befell us.  If Mr. Sprague had not happened along, I cannot imagine what might have become of us all.   He was ever so kind.  He is so gallant.  The Purfield’s were much obliged and Mrs. Purfield invited him to call on us this Saturday.  Love, Susannah

              In 1870, Thomas Sprague was working as a gunman for the Rio Grande Railroad, having come to Colorado Territory in 1868 on the Overland Trail.  It could be argued that his fortunes had been on the ascendancy so steadily in the years since then, some would consider him one of the luckiest persons ever to breathe air.  While this was possibly true, Sprague was also shrewd enough to recognize opportunities when they presented themselves. 

             
His first break came in the spring of 1870 in the form of one Whiskers McGee, a scruffy, old, weather beaten prospector.  When Sprague chanced to sit next to him at the bar in a Denver saloon, McGee had already been partaking in ‘the cup that cheers’ for quite some time.  A jaw-jacker by nature, his embellished ramblings about gold found in the nearby mountains and references to an area known as Russell Gulch sounded at first like an improbable fairy tale.  Then McGee produced a small poke sack from beneath his belt and dumped five little nuggets on the bar.  Sprague was suddenly following the story with keener interest.

             
“My little beauties,” McGee said quietly as he gently fingered each one.  “Everything frittered away, the years I spent, and all for you.”  He turned to Sprague.  “Should have stuck with farming,” he said gruffly.  “It’s what I know.”  Then he asked, “You read the papers?”

             
“Some,” Sprague answered.

             
“Well, don’t,” McGee admonished.  “It’s all a foul pack of lies – there ain’t no gold.  And even if there was, you ain’t never gonna find yourself enough to make yourself rich.”

             
“Shouldn’t you be putting those away, stranger?” Sprague wisely counseled.  The old man was taking a terrible chance openly displaying such valuables, and in a bar no less.  It was nothing short of foolhardy.  McGee slid the glittery treasures back into the pouch which disappeared under his belt. 

             
“Never really thought much about prospecting,” Sprague commented.  “But I’ve heard of a few who’ve made it big.”

             
“I know it’s out there somewhere,” McGee admitted bitterly.  “Found some nice little stones in Russell Gulch, but never the source.  Ten years is a long time to dig in the dirt with a pick ax.  I’ve quit looking.  Waste of time, prospecting.  No future in it.”

             
As the old man talked about his disappointment, Sprague was forming a different opinion about what he had hitherto thought of as a speculative venture.  Maybe there was gold in the area McGee had described.  He risked nothing by taking a look himself.  McGee’s parting words delivered a message of hope along with a warning.

             
“It
may
be out there, but you’ll waste half your life lookin for it,”  he said grimly.  And with that, Whiskers McGee shuffled out the door.

             
Thomas Sprague never saw McGee again, but he always remembered him.  Years later, Sprague would name the gold mine near Russell Gulch, in which he owned a half interest, ‘The Five Nuggets’.

             
As events unfolded, Thomas Sprague’s second stroke of good fortune came in the spring of 1871 when he chanced to meet Jack Simmons at a Denver horse auction.  Both men were keenly interested in the same superior horseflesh.  It soon became clear that Simmons held all the cards as he seemed to have nearly inexhaustible financial resources at his disposal.  A Yale man, Simmons had traveled west and established an accounting business in Denver in 1869.  He sought adventure, dabbled in cattle ranching and desired to make his mark in the business world.

  Rather than becoming adversaries over such a trifle as a horse, the two soon became friends.  A genuine camaraderie developed between them – they seemed as two kindred spirits, similar in age and temperament and both of them thrifty, law-abiding and industrious.  In Jack Simmons, Sprague had found the financial backing he needed to stake a claim and open a mine.  Their shared enterprise was fraught with uncertainty, but in the end a partnership was finalized.  They sealed the deal with a gentlemanly hand shake.  By 1873, Sprague and Simmons had established the ‘Five Nuggets Mine’ on a mountainside some 35 miles west of Denver and the gold ore they were producing was turning a profit.

It was one of his many treks back and forth to Denver in the summer of 1873 which afforded Thomas Sprague yet another chance encounter forever destined to alter his life.  Miss Susannah Carlyle was among a small party of stranded sightseers whose buggy was disabled on the rutted, coarse gravel road.  An older man was examining the broken axle and looked very worried.

             
“Have you got troubles, mister?” Sprague called to the man as he rode nearer.  He swung down from his horse.  “Thomas Sprague,” he said as he extended his hand in a friendly greeting.

             
“My name’s Purfield, Bob Purfield,” came the response as the men shook hands.  Using ‘Professor Purfield’ seemed a tad awkward under the circumstances.  “This is my wife Ella and our friends Miss Carlyle and Miss Parker.”  The ladies nodded sedately and left the management of the crisis at hand to the men.  Sprague wore a black Stetson with a band made of woven horsehair.  He tipped his hat to the ladies and then turned his attention to the broken axle.

             
“I would be much obliged if you would take a look and tell me what you think,” said Purfield.  It was soon decided that Sprague would ride back to the mine and return with more help and another axle.

             
Miss Carlyle was dazzled by this handsome stranger and suddenly her corset was too tight.  He sat tall in the saddle, was muscular and solidly built.  Her knight in shining armor wore buckskin gloves, cowboy boots and spurs.   He appeared tough and confident, his hair was wild and he needed a shave, adding to his rakish good looks.  It did not escape her notice that he carried a rifle which was secured in place just beneath a stirrup.  Her Mr. Sprague was also soft spoken and seemed kindly.  Something in his demeanor calmed her fears and she knew immediately that she could trust him.  Beneath his steady gaze, a yearning bloomed within her.

             
Thomas was as affected as she.  This was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen.  She possessed a radiant energy and he was captivated by the warmth it conveyed.  He was enthralled by her loveliness.  She was petite, feminine, with soft blonde curls that framed the delicate features of her charming face.  Was it his imagination, or was she blushing like a schoolgirl?

             
When the buggy had been repaired and everyone’s anxieties evaporated, all four of the grateful tourists expressed their most sincere thanks to Thomas Sprague.  Mrs. Purfield insisted that he call on them the following Saturday for dinner.

             
“We are all most appreciative of your kind assistance,” Miss Carlyle said politely, giving him a grateful smile.  He noted her delightful accent, it was the same as the Purfield’s.  Sprague had encountered English tourists before.  The upper class of their countrymen, out here they were called ‘high toners’ and ‘top shelfers’.  They came in the summer and fall and then they would be gone again. 

“Are all of you from England?” asked Sprague.

“Yes,” Miss Carlyle answered for them.  “I am here for a brief visit to make sketches and paintings of the breathtaking scenery we find everywhere we turn.  Perhaps I did not allow enough time for such an endeavor,” she added sweetly, giving him a flirtatious smile.  

Such a lovely young woman in such an unlikely place as this wilderness, he thought to himself.  He knew when he was outgunned.  It was love at first sight.

Summer 1873

             
Thomas Sprague pounced at the chance to call on the Purfield’s the following Saturday.  In fact, he arrived a few minutes early.  Everyone sat in the well-appointed parlor waiting for the dinner bell and the room revealed clues that these were people with class.  A piano was prominently displayed near a window.  It rested atop an ornate rug which featured a floral pattern.  Blue damask wing chairs were arranged near the fireplace along with a matching settee.  The parlor held marble topped tables, bronze statues of Greek ladies, potted plants, fringed cushions, the family Bible and a French forest clock with a bird that twittered on a branch every hour.  The room had been tastefully wallpapered; it was comfortable and not cluttered.

             
Thomas felt a bit awkward to be the focus of everyone’s attention.  He was well groomed and looked handsome and gentlemanly, wearing light brown trousers and blazer, a black silk tie and dark brown vest.  His boots were polished.  He handed his Stetson to the maid when he arrived, and left his gun at home.  Thomas desired to further his acquaintance with Miss Carlyle and make a favorable impression.  But with four pairs of curious eyes looking expectantly at him, Thomas was a bit on edge.  Oh well, he thought philosophically, some days you are the hammer and other days you are the nail.   Professor Purfield’s academic interest in mining led to a conversation that soon put him at ease.  This was a familiar topic he could discuss with confidence.  He gratefully accepted a glass of brandy.   Mrs. Purfield was an excellent hostess, pleasant and solicitous, and did her best to keep the exchange lively.

             
The gentlemen went on about the best methods for extracting gold from sulfide ores for several more minutes when Mrs. Purfield intervened and tactfully moved the conversation in another direction.

             
“Do you have any family nearby, Mr. Sprague?” she asked.

             
“My mother and two younger sisters live in Ohio,” he answered.  “My father was a casualty of the war.”

             
“Oh, I am sorry,” Mrs. Purfield said with feeling.

             
“Oh my, how awful,” echoed Susannah, now aware that they both shared a painful loss.

             
“Yes, it was awful, but it is all in the past.  They are doing well.  Please tell me about your interest in painting, Miss Carlyle,” he requested.

             
“You must call me Susannah,” she said brightly.  Miss Parker’s face clouded in alarm at such an unprecedented invitation to informality.  “I am interested in sketching and painting landscapes and wildflowers from nature.  Having heard so much about this beautiful area, I came here seeking inspiration.”

             
“And have you been inspired?” he asked, as he held her gaze.  She looked lovely in the soft glow of the lamplight.  This evening she wore a white gown with eyelet lace and a scooped neckline that did nothing to conceal her womanly curves.  She sat near him and he perceived the delicate fragrance of rosewater.

             
“Oh yes!  Very much.  Beyond my imagination,” she said and when she blushed, he wondered if anything else might have been the source of such inspiration.

             
“I would like to see some of your work if you would let me,” he said with undisguised admiration.  “And perhaps if you and your friends are amenable, we could visit an alpine meadow I know of that might interest you.  And please, you must call me Thomas.”  Miss Parker raised a brow.

             
“Tell me,” asked Mrs. Purfield, “what is it like at the mine?  It is dangerous, hard work, I know, but what else can you tell us?”

             
“It is a type of life that is not for everyone.  You can be out of touch for weeks at a time.  We try to make the most of the warmer weather.  Heavy snowpack will shut down the operation entirely.  My home is here in Denver, and it is comfortable, but when I am working at the mine I live in a log cabin.  It is nothing to write home about.”

             
“It can’t be all work.  There must be some diversions,” Susannah insisted.

             
Thomas responded to this observation very carefully.  Her innocent heart would not be prepared to countenance the unvarnished truth of the more unsavory activities that appealed to men living in a mining camp.  “Each summer we have mule races,” he said with a grin.  “The participants must lead their mules from one end of town to the other.  Whoever crosses the finish line first, wins a cash prize.  It is not as easy as it sounds.”

             
“I believe the expression ‘stubborn as a mule’ applies here,” Professor Purfield said dourly.

             
“Exactly,” Thomas agreed.  “It is harmless fun and the men enjoy it.  Far more dangerous is another activity some get involved in when they have done too much bragging.  It is called ‘mine jumping’.  They dare each other to jump over the shafts.  It is so foolish and can end tragically.  Some of the shafts are quite deep.”

             
“That is simply awful!” exclaimed Susannah.

             
“We put a stop to such nonsense if we find out about it,” he assured everyone.

             
“We?” asked Mrs. Purfield.

             
“Yes, didn’t I mention it?  I have a business partner, Jack Simmons.  Together we own the mine.  He is an excellent man, a Yale graduate, and handles much of the financial side of our enterprise.”

             
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” said Susannah, “I will retrieve my sketchbook now.”

             
“Of course,” said Thomas.  Susannah rose gracefully and when she left the room, she took his smile with her.  When she returned, her hands trembled as she passed the sketch book to him.  She sat next to him, and as he reverently studied the drawings and turned the pages, she was captivated by his large, calloused hands.  She imagined them caressing her bare, delicate skin.  It was a moment of startling intimacy.

             
Thomas could not find enough superlatives to describe Susannah’s drawings.  He was genuinely impressed.  The drawings were elaborate, well-proportioned and captured the details of flowers and animals with realism.  Through her artwork, Thomas knew that Susannah had a beautiful heart.  He was besotted and he was thoroughly caught in the web of her attraction.  “You are truly gifted,” he told her honestly.  “You have talent.  Thank you for sharing your drawings with me.  Each one of them is a perfect gem.”

             
The following week, Thomas returned for an afternoon of croquet and lemonade under the watchful eyes of the Purfields and Miss Parker.  A week later, he called again, this time to enjoy a rousing session of the popular parlor game, Squails.  The relationship between Susannah and Thomas was blossoming into a romance that would not be denied.  It could not have been stopped any more than a runaway train could be stopped without the benefit of air brakes.

             
Shortly thereafter, Thomas accompanied them on a picnic to visit the lush alpine meadow he had so highly recommended.  He met Susannah and her friends at the train depot with his buggy and drove them to a wooded area of thickly stocked evergreens.  The woods soon gave way to luxuriant grasses, flowering shrubs and colorful wildflowers.  Susannah found daisies, periwinkle, forget-me-not and columbine in abundance.  The views all around them far exceeded their expectations.  Susannah sketched for two hours.  As the meadow was located not far from the Five Nuggets Mine, and there was still time before Susannah and her friends were to meet the train back to Denver, they all agreed to a short visit to the mining camp.  Professor Purfield was keen to go inside the mine for a close-up look.  It was on this occasion that the visitors met Jack Simmons for the first time.

             
Jack heard the buggy rattling up the coarse dirt and gravel road before it came into view.  He was certain it would be Thomas returning from the train depot after his outing with Miss Carlyle.  Therefore he was quite stunned to see the pretty lady herself in the conveyance.  A hard rock mine was not a place for women; what was Thomas thinking?

             
To the visitors, the mining camp was a sprawling series of smaller buildings, storerooms, enclosures and a few log cabins.  They passed a small corral with a few horses and mules and a sheltered pen which housed chickens.  The mules brayed as the buggy passed by.  Mine tailings consisting of loose rocks in all shapes and sizes were deposited in several piles.  Redwood beams were neatly stacked near the mine’s entrance.  Miners wearing felt hats and dusty overalls and carrying pick axes went about their jobs with workmanlike precision.  Jack was splitting logs for the camp’s cook.  The huge iron range burned coal and wood.  A good supply of both was needed because the stove was usually kept going all day long. 

As the buggy drew nearer, Susannah could not help but notice the man splitting wood.  He had rolled up the shirt linen of his sleeves.  The top buttons had been loosened, he wore suspenders and he was sweaty.  His darkly bronzed and muscled forearms spoke of long hours of physically demanding work.  A bit taller than Thomas, there was not a spare ounce of fat on him. 
He had brown hair with bits of grey peeking through the temples.  Susannah guessed him to be in his early thirties. 

The buggy rolled to a stop.  Thomas jumped down and greeted his friend before assisting the others.  Jack put the axe aside, removed his buckskin gloves and stepped forward to greet them.  He had expressive brown eyes, smiled easily and possessed a commanding presence.  Susannah understood why Thomas liked him.  He had a warm, strong handshake and when he took Susannah’s hand, something pleasant passed between them.  Jack felt it too.  Susannah, whom he had heard so much about, was lovely, sweet, soft and utterly charming.  Jack kept his thoughts away from any primal feelings; Thomas had met her first.

“It is a genuine pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Carlyle,” Jack said pleasantly after he had greeted the others.  “Thomas speaks of little else,” he revealed, grinning at his friend, “and now I can see why.”

Susannah’s womanly instinct warned her that his compliments were dangerous.  “You are too kind, Mr. Simmons,” she replied.  “Thomas has had many fine things to say about you as well.”  Jack found her lovely accent to be as cozy as a warm blanket.

“We have heard a great deal about your mine from Thomas,” Professor Purfield told Jack.  “I have been interested in seeing your operation first-hand.  I am a chemist and my curiosity is purely academic.”

“Quite so,” said Thomas hastily.  “If you will follow me Professor, I will see to our candlesticks so we may have a quick look around.”  As Thomas led the professor away, this left Jack with the unexpected task of looking after the ladies.  “Would you care to wait inside the cook’s cabin where you might sit down?” he asked.  “I can offer you some coffee,” he added thoughtfully.

The ladies gratefully accepted his hospitality and Jack ushered them inside the cabin.  Susannah stepped over the threshold and surveyed the crude domain of the camp’s cook.  It was a kitchen to be sure, and yet so rustic that very little seemed familiar.   Mr. Brown was wearing a filthy apron and stood over a bucket which was placed on a long table.  His sleeves were rolled up and he was furiously scrubbing potatoes.  He looked up briefly, smiled at the ladies and muttered “Howdy,” as he continued with his task.  Round tin plates were neatly stacked atop another table.  The stove took up most of one wall where a large cauldron of venison stew was simmering.  Two rows of long tables with plain wooden chairs took up the other half of the cabin.   Jack removed the coffee pot.  The tin cups were neatly hung from pegs near a window.  He filled three of them and handed the coffee to the ladies while indicating that they should seat themselves. 

“Thank you, Mr. Simmons,” said Mrs.
Purfield, “you are most kind.”

“Yes, thank you,” echoed Miss Parker. 

“The coffee is good,” said Susannah agreeably.  “We got such an early start this morning.  It has been a full day.  I am feeling revived already.”

Several moments of awkward silence followed with Jack looking expectantly at the door in hopes that Thomas would relieve him of his burden.  The sipping of the coffee and the scrubbing of the potatoes, along with Jack’s silence, seemed very loud indeed. 

“Feeding a camp of hungry miners three meals a day must be a daunting task,” she said with all the primness of a school mistress.  When this did not meet with much of a reply she continued, “We do not wish to intrude on your schedule or interrupt your day, Mr. Simmons.”  Just then, Mrs. Purfield leaned toward Susannah and quietly asked, “Why is that man scrubbing those potatoes?  Shouldn’t he be peeling them?”

“There is no need,” answered Jack, having overheard.  “We cannot boil potatoes here so there is no reason to peel them.  You will also find that the coffee is not as hot as you serve it back home.  At this elevation the potatoes must be baked if they are to cook properly.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Purfield, as she mentally flogged herself for such a lapse in her knowledge of cooking at a high altitude.