The Long Journey Home (29 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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He
doesn't realize,
thought John.
He's too pleased with his full house!
John appeared to ponder, and finally faked dejection.
“I'll check,” he said in resignation.
“Raise fifty!” said the miner.
“See it and raise a hundred,” said John quickly.
The miner took the bait.
“Look,” he said, “I got no more cash than this, but here's somethin'. He pulled out a folded paper and spread it on the table. “This here's a deed to a gold claim I own. It's prob'ly worth a few hunnerd dollars. It'll cover whatever you got. How about it?”
There was a little further negotiating, with the dealer and the bartender as witnesses. The miner turned over his hole card triumphantly. The ace of spades—a full house.
Now John flipped over his own card and watched the expression on the miner's face change to one of disbelief.
“Four of a kind!” he breathed. “My God!”
T
he “Boar's Nest,” a gold mine … It had been exciting, at first. John had rented a horse at the livery stable and followed the directions written out for him by the poker-playing miner.
“It ain't been worked for a while,” the man had warned. “It ain't much … . There's a tunnel in pretty good shape. About gold, I can't say. I've never really worked it. You know minin'?”
“No.”
“Well, you can learn, I guess. All of us did, sometime. You need to go out and take a look, talk to somebody at an assay office. They'll help you. They'll weigh out your dust, too. You got that little bag of dust I was bettin' with last night?”
“Yes … That's from the mine?”
“No, not the Boar's Nest. Another place. But there's gold in them hills.”
John had taken most of the day to ride out to the mine. Even there, he had trouble finding it. There were bushes and shrubs, even a small tree growing in front of the tunnel opening. Not very impressive.
The day was late, and he made camp in order to get settled in before dark. He could explore later.
 
He began to investigate as soon as it was light enough. He had brought a coal-oil lantern, and now lit it to explore the mine tunnel.
John quickly realized that it, too, had been greatly exaggerated. It was low,
requiring a squatting position. For a man as tall as himself, it would probably be better to work on one's knees or even sitting. Judging from the cobwebs, it appeared that no one had worked this claim for some time. There must be a reason, and he suspected that maybe he—not the miner—had been the victim in that last poker hand.
He scratched around enough to assure himself that he had little interest in mining. He had always had a fear of closed-in places, probably because of his early childhood in a Lakota lodge; warm in winter, cool in summer, but open and free to sky and prairie. This reinforced his feeling that there are things more important than gold.
The next thing, then, was to find a way to get rid of his liability. He spent the day cleaning up around the mine's opening, brushing down cobwebs, and picking up debris from the tunnel's floor. If he were to sell it, it must at least look workable.
Back in town, he went to the assay office, which appeared not to have been very busy for some time. He introduced himself, and asked whether there was much interest in buying and selling claims.
The man behind the counter looked him over curiously: a cowboy, not a miner.
“Not much,” he said cautiously. “Pickin' up a little with the war effort. You lookin' to buy a claim?”
“No,” said John. “I'm no miner, but … Well, I sort of bought one. I either need to learn to work it, or to sell it.”
“Where is it?”
“Up north, a half a day. It's called the Boar's Nest.”
From the look on the man's face, John realized that he had guessed right. Apparently it had a reputation.
“The Boar's Nest?”
“That's what it says on the paper. You know of it?”
“Well, yes …”
There was a lopsided grin on the man's face that told a bigger story.
“Maybe I should learn a little about mining,” John pondered. “Either that, or sell it, if I can.”
“Well, I ain't in business to teach greenhorns to mine,” said the assayer. “But there were a couple of fellas askin' about buyin' a claim, a while ago. Are you workin' the shaft?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, tell you what. Get you a gold pan over at the mercantile. They can tell you how to get started. When you get a little dust, bring it in. That'll stir some interest in buyin', maybe.”
As he left, John realized that he might well have the proverbial bear by the tail. How could he escape? The poorly concealed smirk on the face of the assayer as he turned away was the final insult.
 
 
At the store, he bought odds and ends of supplies that seemed appropriate for his purpose. He also asked about a cheap shotgun.
“There's a few grouse up there,” he told the clerk. “Maybe I can get some fresh meat.”
The old single-shot had seen better days, but the clerk offered to throw in a loading tool for the brass shells.
“You can reload with your own powder and shot,” he explained. “Use a cloth wadding. Here, you'll need a box of primer caps. See, you punch out the fired cap and push in the new one with this tool.”
John was quite aware of the process of reloading. He'd seen the old men do it many times. This was what he needed.
A gold pan, a short lesson in how to use it …
“You'll see this black sand in the pan, the merchant told him. Now, that ain't gold, but you're gettin' close. That's when you keep tryin'. Now we got a stretch of purty good weather right now, but … Say, you got shelter if we get snow?”
John thought of the mine tunnel.
“Oh, yes. I'll be fine.”
 
He actually did spend half a day panning. A few grains of black sand, one sparkling glitter that reflected sunlight for a moment … It could have been a fleck of gold dust, he always thought later, but it was gone the next instant, and he never found it again. Like a lot of things in life, he pondered morosely.
Well, time to return to his original plan. He fired a couple of shells from the old shotgun and got a grouse, which he broiled over his fire. While his supper cooked, he took out his reloading tools … . Punch out the old primers, replace with new caps, measure the black powder … A somewhat lighter load than recommended … Tightly packed wadding … Almost filling the shell.
With his wad cutter, he had punched several cardboard top-wads out of a lightweight box in which the clerk had packed some of his supplies. One of these on top of the rags …
Now he turned to the buckskin pouch of gold dust which had been part of his winnings at poker. Very carefully, he sifted fine dust into the nose of each brass shell casing. He was throwing money away, but he had to think of it as an investment … . A thin cardboard top wad, and a light crimp with the tool, to turn the shell's rim over the wad.
His palms were sweating as he took the shotgun and his two high-priced shells to the very back of the tunnel and set the lantern on the floor. He selected a corner with a sort of crevice, and scratched around a bit with his short-handled miner's pick to expose a fresh surface. Then, a few steps back …
He fired the first shell, and started forward to examine the results with the lantern. He was stopped by the dense white powder smoke that filled the tunnel. He'd have to wait.
The results were quite pleasing, he thought when he was able to reenter. A bright sprinkle of sparkling gold in a space of a handspan. He backed off another step or two before firing the second shell into the same general area. He rolled in his blankets that night with a solid feeling of satisfaction. Now he was ready to go back to the assay office.
 
“Is this the real stuff, or am I minin' fool's gold?”
John cautiously tossed a small corked bottle on the counter. Definitely not the pouch he'd obtained in the poker game. The pouch was well worn and greasy, and spoke of long use. That would suggest that he knew more than he was trying to imply. Besides, the stained old pouch held a lot more dust. He had no exact idea of its value, but here was an opportunity to learn. He knew exactly the measure of the gold dust in the bottle. He'd measured it in his gunpowder scoop. This would give him a close estimate of the total worth of his winnings. Then it remained only to rid himself of his useless mine.
The assayer lifted the bottle, glanced at the sparkling powder carelessly, and then took a more serious second look. He pulled the cork, carefully sifted a bit of the powder into a glazed ceramic tray, and poked around with a small glass rod.
“This come from that Boar's Nest claim of yours?” he asked suspiciously.
“I've been workin' it a little,” John said casually. And, of course, quite truthfully, without really answering the assay man's question.
He waited while the man ran some tests, dropping fluids from an eyedropper on a few grains of dust, carefully weighing a sample on a delicate-looking scale in a glass case.
Finally the assayer straightened, poured the dust back into the bottle, and set it on the counter.
“That's a good-quality lode,” he said, some doubt still in his voice. “Boar's Nest, you say?”
“That's what the papers call it,” said John.
“Hmm … You mentioned wantin' to sell it?”
“Maybe. I'm not sure, now.”
“Well, I can understand that. But in case you're interested, I know a fella or two … . Let me talk to 'em.”
Suddenly John realized that he had created a dangerous situation. If there were prospective buyers, they'd want to accompany him to the mine. Miles from town, he'd be alone and vulnerable.
But … The assay office had to be a reliable establishment. If the assayer
referred them, surely prospective buyers would be honest. He needed some sort of assurance.
“How do I know if these buyers are legitimate?”
“Ah, I see,” answered the assayer. “You're careful. Miles from town, with strangers … Of course! Clever of you to see that. Well, look … Your protection is probably the deed. Where is it now?”
“It's safe,” John said cautiously.
“Good. But before leaving town with strangers, I'd … Let's see … You could leave it with the bank, or the sheriff, or leave it in our safe. We're federally bonded, of course.”
Of course. John considered consulting someone else in a position of authority; but, being a stranger in town, could not know who might be reliable. The fewer people who knew about the transaction, the better. And it would lend to his own credibility.
“I'll leave it here,” he concluded. “I'll have to come back to transfer the deed if you send me a buyer.”
“That's right. You want me to send this fella out?”
John's suspicion rose again.
“When do you think you might—?” he started to ask.
“Oh! There he goes now,” interrupted the assayer. “Just a minute!”
He stepped to the door and called to a couple of men across the street. They crossed over and the introductions took place.
Then the assayer explained the situation. “ … so Mr. Buffalo, here, not being experienced in mining, was of the opinion that he might do best to sell.”
The two men nodded understandingly.
“You've checked his dust?” asked one. “Good enough for me. Of course, I'd want to see the vein. He drew a gold watch from a vest pocket. It's late. How about we go out tomorrow?”
“Fine with me,” John agreed. “Shall we meet here?”
“Good! After breakfast, then?”
They shook hands all around, and John went to check into the hotel. He might as well be comfortable on what he hoped would be his last night in the area.
T
he three men rode into the camp at Boar's Nest about noon. It seemed a shorter journey now that he had traveled the distance a few times.
“There it is.” John pointed to the tunnel.
“Let's take a look,” said the man who called himself Johnson, swinging down and heading for the opening.
“There's a lantern inside,” John called. “Go ahead. I'll be right there.”
He unsaddled his horse and tied it to a pine tree, laid his saddle aside, and walked over to the tunnel. The others had simply looped their reins around the saddle horn. They must be in a hurry, he smiled to himself.
The watery yellow light of the lantern showed as a glow from the inner end of the shaft. Johnson was holding the lantern, and Green, his companion, was inspecting the area where sparks of gold dust reflected its rays.
“Look at that!”
“And
that
…”
John was pleased. He said nothing, figuring he didn't have to. They were already doing a selling job on themselves.
The two came out toward the entrance, talking softly between them.
“You find where I'd been workin'?” John asked.
“Yes, we sure did,” said Johnson. “Way that looks, why you wantin' to sell?”
John shrugged. “I'm not a miner. Don't really know much about it. Just as soon not be tied down.”
“How'd you happen to have it?” Johnson asked. “I assume you have a deed?”
“Of course. It's in the vault at the assay office. To tell the truth, I won it in a poker game, sight unseen.”
“What do you think it's worth, if we want to buy it?” Green asked, cautiously.
“I don't know, fellas, I told you I'm not a miner,” John said. “I'm not lookin' to get rich, here. I figure, the way the bettin' was goin' in that poker game, I've got about five hundred in it. That sound fair?”
The two men looked questioningly at each other.
“Let's take another look at the vein, there,” Johnson said.
He picked up the lantern and headed on in. The two men followed.
“Now, where'd you first see the color along here?” Green asked.
“Right there where you see it.” John pointed. “Sort of spreads out along the wall toward the corner, there.”
“What's your bottom dollar to sell—right now, today?” Johnson asked.
John hesitated. He'd hoped they'd make him an offer. In his ignorance, he might have priced too low and created suspicion.
“Look,” he said, “I've told you I don't know mining. I might be too high or too low, and wouldn't know either way. You see what I've got, and you know more than I what it's worth. I said I've got maybe five hundred in it. But I want out, and if you'll agree to four hundred, I'll go back to town and sign the deed.”
Then a very strange thing happened. The two men glanced at each other in the dim lantern light, and both nodded agreement. As if in one motion, both drew their guns.
John wanted to make a break for it, but in the narrow confines of the mine tunnel, he knew he'd never reach the open air. This was what he'd feared, but …
“Wait!” he called out, hands half-lifted. “Don't shoot! That deed's back in town. This is no good to you … .”
His voice trailed off as he saw both men chuckling. Was this some kind of a terrible joke?
“Son,” said Johnson, “we don't want to hurt you. We're federal marshals, and you're under arrest.”
“For
what?
Tryin' to sell my claim?”
“Well, maybe that, too … . One you know is worthless … . But, for sure, saltin' a mine with dust from someplace else is a crime. Might say, though, that for somebody that ain't a miner, it's a pretty slick job. How'd you do it? Shotgun shells?”
“Where are you takin' me?”
“Back to town. There'll be a circuit judge around in a week or so. We'll let you gather up your stuff. Green, get the shotgun, there.”
He turned back to John.
“I hope you won't try nothin' stupid. You got another gun?”
“No. You can check.”
“We will. But it'll go a lot better if nobody gets hurt, an' that's up to you. You're not in a lot of trouble, yet, so just don't
cause
none.”
 
It was nearly dark when they reached town, and the sheriff opened one of the cells for the marshals.
“That's your home for now, Buffalo,” said Johnson. “The judge comes a week from Wednesday, the sheriff says. We'll be here.”
“What about my horse? He belongs to the livery.”
“We'll take him back. The sheriff will look after your gear.”
 
The trapped, enclosed feeling in the jail was among the hardest times of his life. He already had a dread of enclosed places, which had shown itself at the mine shaft. This was even worse. There was one small window, high in the wall. He could have seen out by standing on the cot, except that the window was covered by a wooden shutter against the winter winds.
The iron bars let him look down a short hallway and into the sheriff's office. At present, there was no one in the other two small cells.
On the third day in confinement, the sheriff brought a young man down the short hallway.
“You got a visitor, Buffalo,” he said simply.
John said nothing. He didn't understand. He knew nobody in the area, except the assayer and the federal marshals.
The man looked familiar, somehow. He was dressed as a cowboy, and looked the part, but … Wait! A few weeks ago, in another part of the state … In a saloon … This was the quiet young Indian who was with the fun-loving Irishmen, joking about the war and the Kaiser.
“John Buffalo?” the young man asked aloud.
At the same time, he was using hand signs. The palm forward sign of friendly greeting, followed quickly by
I am here to help you.
Still puzzled, John nodded and signed It is good.
The visitor smiled, and spoke now in English.
“Good. You know hand signs.”
“Out of practice, maybe. Who are you?”
“My name is George Shakespear. I saw you in Thermopolis at the Happy Jack. I was made to think that you were troubled.”
“More trouble now.” John gestured at the walls and bars.
“That is true.”
“Are you a medicine man?”
“No, no. I do a little medicine, is all. I work as a cowboy.”
“You are Lakota?”
“No … 'Rapaho. You are Lakota?”
“Yes. I was, anyway. I went to Indian schools.”
“Me, too. That's how I got to be George Shakespear. My brother is William.”
“Of course.” John smiled for the first time in months. “But, what are you doing here?”
“I heard they were holding an Indian who had salted a mine. I thought it might be the same … Same as the troubled one in Thermopolis. So I came over to see.”
John stared. “You
do
have a powerful guide.”
George Shakespear merely shrugged, and went on.
“I have a friend who can help you. A white man … McCoy.”
“The big man telling jokes?”
“No, that's Irish Tom. Tim McCoy is small but tough. He was there, but let me go on. He is recruiting … Building a war party of cavalry, a Rough Riders outfit to go to Germany. Theodore Roosevelt is sponsoring it.”
“I read about that in the
Denver
Post, didn't I?”
“Maybe so. Anyway, he needs cowboys. I am made to think that you know horses, no?”
John nodded. “Some.”
“Okay … Would you talk to McCoy? With his influence … He has a telegram from Roosevelt … . They might let you off on this if you'd sign on for the Rough Riders. No promises …”
“Why not? It beats sittin' here.”
“Okay. I think I can get McCoy to come over.”
“Is he a cowboy, too?”
“Yes. He has a homestead, a few cattle. Hires out to other ranches, too, sometimes.”
“Why would he help me?”
“He might not, but I'd guess he will. His Arapaho name is ‘The Friend.'”
“He's a half-breed?”
“No, he's just a white man who understands. He's all Irish, I guess, but he's all 'Rapaho, too.The old men talk to him.”
That, perhaps, was the most significant fact of all. A white man with whom the tribal elders consult must be very special.
“He speaks Arapaho?” asked John.
George Shakespear laughed.
“No,” he answered. “He does it all in hand signs.”
 
Tim McCoy, “The Friend,” showed up at the jail two days later. He explained the recruitment effort, which was going well. Already, he had enlisted more than 300 potential cavalrymen, with his goal 400.
“I think that your signing as volunteer would impress the marshals,” McCoy told him. “No promises, of course. What's your riding experience?”
“Been at the Hundred and One Ranch a few years,” said John. “Traveled with the show. We were in Germany when the war broke out.”
“You
were?”
“Yes … We had about sixty Oglalas with a circus over there.”
“Heard about that! That was
you?
Buffalo, we
need
you.”
John signed the enlistment roster, and sat back to wait.
 
It didn't take long. Apparently, McCoy was skilled in the use of documents. A personal telegram from Theodore Roosevelt, authorizing the recruitment effort, seemed to carry a lot of weight with federal marshals. The jail door swung open.
In a matter of days, John Buffalo was working as a cowboy on a ranch in Wyoming, preparing to be mustered in with 400 other Rough Riders. When the call came to meet the Kaiser on his own ground, the Rough Riders would be ready.

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