Flukes of Fate

By Luther Robison

The American West in the 1800s is a wild place full of danger and risk. Flukes of Fate follows the travels of Jedediah Smith as he encounters trials and tribulations beyond modern-day imagination.

Renegade Indians plundered the Smith family homestead in Illinois in 1817, when he was just a young lad. His father sent Jed and his

• Language: English
• Publisher: LUTHER ROBISON
• Release date: Jun 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985404432

Book preview

C H A P T E R   1

CALIFORNIA 1856

Amuffled blast reverberated through the valley in the predawn hours, the sound ricocheting off the hills. A small avalanche of rocks and boulders rolled lazily down the slope, picking up speed as the debris plummeted into the ravine. Rocks, dirt, and dust settled to the ground. Then, silence, with only a slight breeze ruffling the spindly boughs of the surrounding pines.

Jed picked up the shovel next to him and noticed a little blood on the metal edge. Mine or theirs? he mumbled to himself, pushing the blade into the soil a few times to remove the lingering stains.

He pondered the pile of rocks and boulders entombing the two sidewinding thieves who had slithered into his camp during the night. Them scalawags were aimin’ to jump my claim and do me in, and there was no mercy in their hearts. I might have looked like easy pickings to them, but I’m still standing upright, and they ain’t. His hands were encrusted with gore. He rubbed them with dirt, hoping to remove the blood and slime stuck to his fingers.

Jed bent down to retrieve what remained of his coil of fuse cord and realized how tired he was. Climbing down the ridge, he crossed over the trail and stopped, leaning the shovel against a tree. Shouldering his rifle, Jed backtracked down the path. A quarter of a mile from his camp, he found the horses of the fellows who had probably figured they’d be sleeping in his shack that night. He untied the critters and gave them a good swat on the rump, watching them take off down the trail like they had a burr under their saddles. Someone would claim them. Good horse flesh was hard to come by up in these mountains.

He climbed back along the trail to his claim, picked up the shovel where he had left it and moseyed over to the stream that flowed by his cabin. Squatting by a tranquil pool in the creek’s backwater, he picked up the well-used bar of tan-colored lye soap off a stump and began scrubbing the betraying stains and grime from his hands.

The morning sun was cresting the Sierra Nevada mountains. A shaft of sunlight penetrated the trees and shone upon the smooth, glassy water. Jed immersed his hands in the pool and noticed his reflection as he bent down. A slight frown, then a smirk crossed his face as he inwardly acknowledged that he’d truly become the character reflected in the aquatic portrait. He saw a hermit, a recluse, acodger beneath straggly hair streaked with gray that hung down past his shoulders. An unkempt, graying beard that would put Rip Van Winkle’s whiskers to shame. A tremendous transformation for a man who once was always clean shaven and well groomed.

Jed plunged his hands deep into the cold water, brought them out dripping, and tried to work up a lather with the soap. Cleansing and scrubbing until his skin was raw, he wiped his hands dry on his stained britches. The ripple of waves created when his fingers hadplunged into the pool slowly diminished, and the water became calm. Jed took a lingering gander at his distorted image. What he saw was the wanderer he had become.

He shrugged and mumbled, That’s the way of life. I gotta play the hand that’s dealt me. It’s gonna take more than a quick wash to rid my hands of years of ground in grime and my soul from any wrongdoin’.

* * *

The morning was warm, and a cloudless azure sky was visible between the towering pines. Crouching by the creek, Jed sloshed around the gravel and water mixture and peered into the pan, looking for a bit of color. His mind drifted, and then he thought, it’s been a week or so since those fellers tried to do me in. It’s mighty easy to lose track of time up here in the hills. Was it a Friday or Saturday? Not that it makes much difference.

Clop, clop, clop. The soft steps of animal hooves echoed up the trail, causing him to stop searching for dust. Quietly, he set his gold panning gear on the ground, snuck over, and picked up his rifle where he’d propped it against a stump. Moving in ghostly silence, he nestled behind the cover of pine, mountain birch, and maple trees where he could see the trail unobserved.

Hello, in the camp. Hello, in the camp. The throaty call came bouncing through the trees.

The voice was familiar, but Jed would not reply until he could see the man doin’ the hollering.

He leveled his rifle and took a bead on the part of the trail that was clear of tree branches, the very spot where he would get his first glimpse of the rider. He held the rifle steadily. First to appear in his line of sight was the dark head of a mule; then the rider. It was a fellow named Bradley, who had a claim down the hill. Bradley led one of the horses that Jed had sent galloping down the mountain the other day.

I hear ya, Bradley. Come on in, Jed yelled. You’re a welcome sight. Reaching back, he picked up his panning gear and walked over to the trail to meet his visitor.

Bradley held his hand up in greeting and must have noticed Jed eyeing the trailing horse. I found this animal a good way down the mountain. He had gotten tangled up in some brush and was makin’ a ruckus. He paused and stared at Jed. To me, it looked like the animal’s halter had been hung up on that bush there for a bit. Weren’t anyone around, and the cayuse kinda’ reminded me of your horse. I thought that maybe I should bring him up to you just in case he was yours, as long as I was coming this way.

Not mine, Jed answered back. My horse is in the corral yonder. What are you doin’ wanderin’ around on this fine day, Bradley?

Been down to Sutter Creek. Needed some supplies. He turned and reached into a canvas bag tied to the saddle horn, pulling out a letter. When I was there, the storekeeper gave me this letter and said to give it to you. He said it’s been layin’ around the store for the past month, but you ain’t been in, so he said if I were to go by your place to hand it to you.

Much obliged, Jed answered. Get down an’ lite for a bit. I’ll warm up the coffee, and we can talk for a spell.

Bradley slid off his mule and handed him the letter. Here you go, Jed. I hope it ain’t bad news.

Jed glanced at the envelope. The message was from his sister. He stuck it in his pocket and figured he would read it later.

Walking over to his fire ring, he stirred the ashy coals from his breakfast fire and brought some red embers to the surface. He pitched some dry twigs and pine cones on the embers and watched as a wisp of smoke mingled with the tinder and wafted into the air. The smoking twigs ignited, the flame growing as the dry branches he added caught fire. Grabbing a soot-blackened coffeepot, he sloshed the contents. Ain’t no call to brew another pot. A couple of cups left, with rations being hard to come by. Ya don’t waste grounds.

What’s going on down in Sutter Creek? Jed asked.

Seems like there’s a lot of fellers coming into town. With the weather improving and it getting toward the fourth of July, the miners are startin’ to mingle. Bradley motioned with his hand, They’re looking for a reason to celebrate.

I’ll let them be, Jed said. Reckon to stay up here at my claim and leave them rowdy ones to have their fill of liquor and merriment.

Feel about the same, Bradley said. Don’t cotton to minglin’ with all that gaiety myself.

Jed had stepped into the cabin when the coffee started to steam. Pulling a couple of tin cups off a shelf, he carried them outside and filled them with the potent, dark mixture, handing a cup to Bradley. The two of them sat and nurtured the coffee for a bit without saying anything.

Then, Bradley spoke up. If ya ain’t got a claim on this animal I’m leading, I’ll hang on to it till someone comes along and can prove to me it belongs to them.

Sounds reasonable to me, said Jed. You need something besides the mule to ride.

Bradley finished his coffee. Time for me to get back to camp. Good talkin’ with you. Stop by if ya get a chance.

Sure enough, Bradley. Thanks for droppin’ off the letter.

Bradley straddled his mule and headed back down the trail, leading the pony.

Once he was alone, Jed opened the envelope and unfolded the paper. His sister had written the letter five months ago. It had been more than a year since he last heard from her, and she had taken time to write a lengthy dispatch of her and their elderly mother’s activities and travels. However, the gist of the letter was that Ma was getting old and frail. They were returning to Philadelphia at Christmas and wondered if he would come and see them. His ma was asking about him. More than thirty years had passed since Jed had last set eyes upon them. It would be good to see them again.

Four or five weeks later, one evening in early August, Jed sat by the campfire, took out the letter, and reread his sister’s message. Her request didn’t seem that far-fetched now that he had given it some thought. There was nothing to keep him here in these hills. Perhaps it would be a nice change to get out of the mountains for a bit and be around people again. The urge to move on was not a spur-of-themoment decision. Jed had been thinking about leaving for over a year now, and the letter was just the catalyst to get him moving.

He stood and stretched, stepped from the campfire to his shack, and opened the door. He couldn’t quite call the structure a cabin: A twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot square building with a dirt floor, a shed roof, and walls made from small logs and chinked with mud. A pole bunk with deerskin stretched to hold a bear-hide mattress in one corner. A wobbly table and a three-legged stool stood against the opposite side. When he first began placing the poles for his little abode six years ago, he had planned to stay for a single winter. Jed hadn’t made many improvements over the years. Nevertheless, he had managed to build a fireplace on the back wall to keep warm in the winters and avoid cooking his meals outside in cold or rainy weather.

* * *

He had worked his sluices from dawn to dark in the never-ending search for gold nuggets and dust. The weeks passed by quickly. The idea of packing up and leaving the mountains had kept creeping into his mind. The thought of surviving another cold, blustery winter in the Sierras was not as appealing as it had once been. If his calculations were correct, it was the first week of September. To make an unhurried journey back to Philadelphia and arrive before Christmas, he needed to leave now. It was time to make up his mind.

Early the following morning, he started throwing all his personal belongings into a gunny sack. There were some food tins, but he left them on the shelves. Jed grabbed his bedroll, examined it, and tossed it back on the bunk. He debated what he needed to take with him for the trip to Sacramento, which was fifty or sixty miles away. Maybe throw in a bag of venison jerky, canteens, a tin cup, and what’s left of the coffee grounds. No need to pack a bunch of food—it’d be extra weight. The idea was to travel light, leaving the place he had called home for the past six years in the distance. The small town of Sutter Creek was at least eleven miles down the mountain. Jed wanted to stop there and do some business at the bank. He looked at the bedroll again. The plan was to sleep in a hotel, but perhaps taking the bedroll would be a good idea. The blankets might come in handy.

A small corral was nestled in the trees a few yards from the shack. Approaching the horse, the animal nickered. The horse nervously pawed the ground, unsure why the man was making all the commotion moving things out of the cabin. Whispering to the old horse, Jed threw his saddle on him and tightened the cinch. He led Bay, the horse’s name and color, back to the shack before dropping the reins and ground-hitching the animal. He slid the rifle into the leather scabbard, tossed the gunny sack and bedroll behind the saddle, and tied everything down.

Jed stepped back inside the shack and glanced around. The blackened coffeepot still sat on the edge of the hearth. A cast-iron skillet, a few tin plates, and a tin cup rested on the shelf. Three pans and a tattered long-handled fork, along with a wooden spatula, hung on a peg next to the fireplace. He’d never use them again.

He closed the door and stepped over to the horse. A breeze blew as he neared the animal, and a stench reached his nose. At first, Jed blamed the smell on the horse, but then he realized the odor came from him. Bathin’ in a cold stream was better than nothin’, but it had been months since he’d had a hot bath. Any thought of bathing would need to wait until he reached a place with tin tubs and hot water—another reason to leave these godforsaken mountains.

His final task was to walk about two hundred feet to an outcropping of rocks. He reached a concealed location, pulling out the pokes of gold dust and nuggets he had managed to scrape up and save over the past years. He hefted the fifteen leather pokes. Not much to show for years of work, guessing each bag weighed two pounds. After Jed secured the little sacks of gold in his saddlebags, he climbed in the saddle and nudged the horse, and they started down the narrow trail.

The calm morning lulled him into a sense of melancholy, and Jed pondered where he needed to go on his trek. Did he want to stop and revisit places he had lived, or should he travel directly to Philadelphia? What would await him when he saw his mother and sister again after all these years?

He rode three miles or so down the trail, listening to the sounds of the forest and the creaking of his leather saddle. He reined up at a camp a few hundred yards off the beaten track, and gazed about while leaning back in the saddle. Beneath the pine forest’s magnificent canopy sat a dirty-white canvas wall tent. Miscellaneous digging gear lay strewn about the small clearing. A broken-handled, rusting shovel leaned against a rock. Shallow flowing water from the stream babbled over the rocky creek bed, and what remained of an unrepaired sluice box lay rotting next to the water’s edge.

A fire burned within a circle of rocks, and a coffeepot gurgled on a hot, flat stone. A frying pan hastily left unattended sat on the smoldering embers, waiting for someone to throw on the bacon. A mule and a pony munched away at the grass piled for their breakfast in the small corral.

Not seeing anyone, Jed yelled, Hey Bradley! You about? I came to talk for a spell.

Yeah, I’m right here, Bradley yelled back as he stepped out from behind a tree, his rifle pointed in Jed’s direction. Didn’t know who was ridin’ up, and it’s not safe to take chances. Bradley leaned his rifle up against his tent. Didn’t expect to see you so soon. Where are you headin’? Rest for a spell and have some coffee.

Swinging off the horse, Jed strolled over to the fire, sat down on a log, and stretched out his legs. He grabbed the tin cup next to the pot and poured a cup of scalding coffee. Meanwhile, Bradley reached inside the tent and located a chipped enameled cup. He wiped it out with a rag and poured in the steaming, dark brew.

Looking over at Bradley, Jed said, Know you wanted to expand your claim. I am willing to sell you mine if you still want it.

Bradley scrutinized Jed, his eyes wide. Yeah, I want it, but I don’t know if I can afford it. How much do you want for your claim?

Jed shrugged. Give me a bag of dust, and it’s yours. He indicated with his fingers how much dust he wanted.

You’re jossin’ me.

No. Give me a bag of dust, and I’ll sign the papers. There’s the shack, tools, and tins of food. It’s all yours. Jed blew on the coffee and hoped it had cooled enough to drink. He took a sip, but it was still too hot to manage.

What are you going to do? Bradley asked.

I’m wearied of this place. Headin’ back East. Plan to live in a boarding house where I can sleep in a bed every night with white cloth sheets. Have someone cook and serve me three meals a day. I am plumb tired of this life out here in the woods, digging and scraping around looking for gold.

Jed blew on the coffee some more, and it cooled down to where he could drink it. Then, he leaned back on the log and enjoyed his beverage.

Bradley sat still for a long moment before getting up and wandering into the woods. Jed knew what the man was after, so he didn’t question him. After about five minutes, Bradley returned carrying a leather poke filled to the depth Jed had indicated. He handed him the gold-filled bag, and Jed didn’t bother to look inside. He trusted the man and knew he wouldn’t try to cheat him. Finishing his coffee, Jed rummaged through his saddlebags, brought back the deed for his gold claim, and signed it over to Bradley. Now I am a free man again, with no obligations or responsibilities. It feels good.

Bradley leaned over and filled the coffee cups again, and Jed wrapped his hands around the warm tin cup. His eyes searched the majestic mountains, the pines, and the spiral peaks, and he marveled at their splendor. He admired the white clouds piled high in the pristine blue skies. The sound of the songbirds, the chattering pine squirrels scampering through the trees, and the wind blowing through the pine boughs added grace to the tranquility.

These memories and others, good and bad. Some I’ll cherish, and others I’ll regret, Jed thought as he lifted his cup to the heavens, remembering a promise he had made years prior. Pa, we just finished another adventure, he whispered to himself.

Placing the tin cup back down on the rock beside the coffeepot, he stood up. Bradley, I best be moseying along. I wish you well in your hunt for gold, and may you become a rich man.

As Jed mounted his horse, he reined him around, headed the bay downhill, and gently nudged him in the flanks. With that, they set off in search of the next windmill.

C H A P T E R   2

SUTTER CREEK

Jed leaned forward in his saddle, wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, and ran his fingers through his graying chin whiskers. He then sat back, loosely holding the reins. He gave the horse his head and let him meander down the trail. Strange how a word or thought could evoke a memory—searching for the next windmill. Don Quixote was a favorite story of his pa, whose dog-eared copy of the book rested in the gunny sack tied to the saddle. The leather-bound novel was the only possession Jed had left of his father’s. As he reflected upon memories, moments he had not thought about for years became vivid again in his mind.

My pa had once told me the story of my birth. Pa said that I came into the world yelling and hollering on a cold, rainy spring day of 1810. You, said Pa, were warm and comfortable in your mother’s womb, and you didn’t take kindly to being shoved out into the world. The neighbor lady helping Ma smacked you on your bare bottom, and you screamed; then there was a snip, and you screamed even louder. The woman wrapped you in a soft blanket and laid you down against the warm surface of your mother. Her rhythmic breathing, the up-and-down motion you associated with comfort, soothed you, and you drifted back to sleep.

Pa had carved and chopped out a sixty-acre homestead in a partly forested area of Illinois. The parcel had some natural meadows. Pa didn’t cut down many trees except for those needed for the house and barn. The Indians around there were peaceful for the most part. They disagreed with our living on the land and said it was theirs, that they were there first. That part was correct, but Pa said the bureaucrats told him he could homestead it under the US government’s protection.

The remembrance of his younger years was largely pleasant as he visualized the buildings. Out in the pasture, there were a couple of cows, pigs penned up, chickens wandering around scratching in the dirt, and the horses for plowing and pulling the wagon. Pa did a lot of hunting, and when I was a little older, I would go with him. He bought two old squirrel rifles for my brother and me, and he taught us to shoot and hunt with the old .32 caliber flintlock muzzleloaders. I got to the point I could hit durn near anything with that old gun. The biggest problem was that the rifle was too big for me when I was a sprout of a boy. I could lift it but not hold it steadily because of its length. I always had to find a place to lay the barrel before firing. I missed a lot of game because I’d be stomping around looking for something to prop the barrel up on so I could shoot.

My older brother was about fourteen at the time, and Nellie, my younger sister, was three or four. We played and scampered in the meadows and trees around the house. We didn’t have much, and most of what we had was handmade and homegrown. We would take a wagon trip to the nearest settlement in the fall and spring. We would barter for supplies such as salt, flour, coffee, and cloth that my ma would use to make clothes for us.

There were problems with the Indians occasionally. I recall the Indians raiding our livestock; once, they stole a cow and one of the plow horses. Other than that, the Indians had left us alone—except for that fateful day.

For our protection, Pa had dug us a hole out in the woods where we could hide in case of an attack. We called it our fort. He reinforced it, lining the inside with split logs on the walls, roof, and floor. On the outside, he camouflaged it well with vegetation.

Ma always said my pa was a dreamer. He would talk about what was over the next hill and what beautiful things to see in the West. Sometimes, I would find him looking at the setting sun and gazing at the horizon in the evening.

I would say, Pa, why are you looking at the sky?

He would usually answer, I am looking at the future, what I aspire to see, where I want to go someday. I heard there’s a prairie out there so big, and you cannot see where it ends. Mountains so high they are covered with snow all year long. Promise me, Son, that if I never get to see these wonders in the West, you will see them for me. Travel westward and take in all the marvelous sights. When we meet in God’s Heaven, you can tell me all about the adventures you had, of all those places I missed.

Pa, why can’t you go on your adventure?

I have you and your brother and sister to take care of, and your mother needs me here. It would be unfair for me to seek out my adventures when she could not seek her dreams.

I don’t understand, Pa. You’re grown up and can do what you want.

It doesn’t always work that way, Son. When you grow up, you have commitments the moment you marry, more responsibilities as you have children, and even more when you have a house and farm or a job. An honest, God-fearing man or woman takes on these tasks and obligations with pride and joy, even if they must sacrifice some of their wants to meet those responsibilities.

Pa would ruffle my hair. Enough of this type of talk, Pa would tell me. Let’s have some fun. Do you want to go to the creek? We can catch a fish or two. There’s still enough time left until dark.

Then, we would grab our poles and head off to the little stream, just my pa and me. The times we spent together were somethin’ special.

* * *

While riding out of the mountains, Jed thought of what he needed to do in Sutter Creek. It was getting close to midafternoon when he got to the town—the little berg teemed with miners milling about. The first place he sought was a bank. Before finding one, he rode past a saloon noticing thirsty and rowdy men crowding the tavern. He imagined the taste of a good brew, and the thought caused saliva to pool in his mouth. I doubt I could get through the crowd outside to the batwing swinging doors. Then, I would have to fight my way to the bar to get a beer. I’ll think about all that later. First, I need to find a bank.

Jed located the financial institution, reined up the horse in front of the building, stepped down, and tied the bay to the hitch rail. As he pulled off the saddlebags, he tossed them over his shoulder and meandered into the establishment. A few folks were inside doing banking business. Some customers in the bank were dressed in their finery, while others, like him, were dirty and grubby. He spotted a teller half-hiding behind a counter enclosed with iron bars. The teller wasn’t busy, so Jed stepped in front of the cage. The heavy saddlebags produced a loud thump when dropped on the edge of the counter. He opened the bags, pulled out the fifteen pokes of nuggets and dust, and added one bag from Bradley. As Jed pushed the little leather sacks through the opening in the iron bars, the teller gave Jed a disinterested stare and mumbled, What do you need?

Want to deposit this in your bank for a while, Jed said with a slight grin.

The man met his gaze and nodded. Going to take a bit. I need to have the gold in the bags assayed and weighed. You can leave them here and go get something to eat, or you can have a seat on the bench and wait.

Jed glanced over at the uncomfortable wooden bench where the teller gestured as he finished saying, Or come back later. It’s going to take an hour or so before they can get to it. He motioned to a couple of fellers at a counting table equipped with a scale and weights in the area behind him. I’ll give you a receipt for your pokes—it’ll all be here waiting for you.

Jed was wary about leaving. He let his shoulders sag, deciding he didn’t want to sit on the bench for an hour. The man gave him a receipt for the fifteen bags, and he left the bank.

Jed’s fist wrapped around his horse’s reins, and he was ready to yank the leather straps from the rail. When he lifted his head, his gaze settled on a couple of hombres leaning against the building across the street. They were doing nothing wrong and weren’t even acting suspiciously except lounging against the building and watching the bank.

One of the men was wearing two-gun belts crossed at his waist. Two ivory-handled revolvers rested in the low-slung holsters, fastened with rawhide thongs around the man’s thighs. The other galoot had sunk back against the wall and partially hid behind the other cowboy. All Jed could see was his pulled-down slouch hat, which covered his eyes. They ain’t bothering me—none of my business what they are doing. Gotta get on my way. The next stop is a livery stable to put my horse up for the night.

* * *

Alighting from the bay, he peered into the stable’s shadowy interior. The livery stood at the end of the street, and the double doors were swung wide open. All the stalls looked full, crowded with mules and horses. When Jed’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw men and bedrolls in the stalls alongside their horses or mules. The visiting miners tossed their blankets and bedrolls on the straw in the horses’ stalls. The proprietor, a middle-aged gent with muttonchop whiskers and a sizable beer paunch, scratched his belly while telling Jed the cost to stable his horse. Prices were three times higher than usual. After considerable haggling, Jed made the necessary arrangements to stable the bay. With a huff, he asked the livery owner, Why are you charging so durn much? Never been that high before!

The proprietor shrugged and said, Seems every prospector around is in town for one last hurrah before it gets cold and the snow starts piling up. They’re packing lots of nuggets and dust and fancy to spend it. He smirked. Either pay me or try and find another livery around here that’ll put up your animal for less. You ain’t gonna find one, mister. You sure ain’t. And with that, he turned and started to walk away.

All right, Jed grumbled. I’ll pay you the price for boardin’ my horse, but now tell me where I can find a place to bed down.

The stable proprietor guffawed. Mister, they are sleeping in shifts at the hotel. You can sleep here with your horse like these other fellers for a dollar more, he said, holding out his hand.

Jed ended up giving the liveryman another buck to sleep in the stall with his horse as his bunkmate.

What about gettin‘ a bath and haircut?

The gent’s haughty grin crossed his face. "Feller, you been up in those mountains too long. Why, there be a long line, and they askin’ two dollars for a clean hot bath, haircut, and shave."

A drifter who’d been eavesdropping butted in, If you ain’t wantin’ to pay that much, for fifty cents, you could use someone else’s leftover cold water. Ain’t clean but still wet. The drifter smirked. I’d rather pour fifty cents worth of whiskey down my throat and wet my gullet than pay for dirty water to wet my outsides. He roared in laughter and slapped the side of his britches. Pulling a whiskey bottle out of his rear pocket, he slipped out of the way and waved farewell to Jed. The grubby drifter put the bottle up to his mouth, gulped down a big swig of rotgut, wandered over to the far side of the barn, and plopped down on the straw beside a mule.

I am beginning to think I should have stayed up in the hills by myself.

After taking care of his horse, Jed walked back toward the bank. Finding the eating place, he joined the line of hungry miners waiting to get into the area where they were serving dinner. They had set tables outside, and men stood around feeding like cattle. There were no chairs. Jed fidgeted among the other would-be diners and wondered if the venison jerky he’d stashed in his gunny sack was not the right choice.

The line inched forward, finally reaching the first serving table. A petite and handsome woman yelled, Next! Perhaps Jed may have found her attractive under different circumstances. But not today. Sweat stains soiled her dress. Food spots adorned the front of her clothing. Holding a dirty towel in one hand, she attempted to wipe away the damp strands of sweaty hair that fell over her eyes. She lifted her head, looked at Jed with a vacant stare, and returned her gaze to the washtub. Yanking a tin plate from the dirty water, she wiped it down with the filthy rag. Her face was flushed red with exhaustion. She handed Jed a metal plate and pushed a grungy fork at him with trembling fingers. You gonna’ eat or not?

He nodded, and she motioned Jed forward to the serving table. One dollar and twenty-five cents—a fortune to pay for the most unappetizing meal Jed could remember. The meat on the tin plate was perhaps bear. It was greasy and had a terrible taste. He’d eaten bear meat before, and fresh bear meat was palatable. Whatever they had served here was putrid. The taters were tubular plants. It could have been cattail or tulip bulb. Whatever they were, he swore the workers pulled the roots out of the ground and cooked them with dirt and gravel still affixed. They topped the meal off with maize or feed corn. It wasn’t grits and wasn’t eating corn. The greens tasted like something plucked off a cottonwood branch along with inchworms for dessert. Jed was unsure exactly what he ate, but it smelled worse than the south end of a northbound polecat.

Jed recalled an event from his younger days. It was a sultry day in the Mississippi bayous. The leaky boat in which he sat drifted aimlessly on the murky water. He hadn’t eaten much in days and was starving. Although Jed swore that the mosquitoes he swatted were big enough to eat.

He shared the boat with a local lad, who handed him a hunk of two-day leftover raccoon meat to chew to curtail the hunger pangs. That was some rotten-tasting meat. But this was even worse. Jed tossed his plate half-full of the slop they served him down on the table.

* * *

Disgusted with the meal, he headed to the bank to pick up his deposit receipt. The foot traffic had increased, and he threaded his way through the crowd of disorderly miners until he reached the bank door.

Inside, the bank was still busy as he elbowed his way to the teller cage. With the same detached attitude, the bank employee handed him a receipt. The total amount was less than Jed had anticipated—only $10,585.

The bank teller looked at him and, in a lecturing tone, We’re given you the going troy ounce rate for pure gold. Your dust and nuggets weren’t pure old-timer, and there was a deduction cause of that. He held up one finger and continued, You’re free to go someplace else, but you still have to pay the assayer’s and miscellaneous fees.

Jed fumed inwardly, and after a great deal of arguing, explaining, and talking back and forth, he finally arranged for an account. The money would remain in the California bank until he had a bank back East to request the transfer. There is a fee, of course, the teller said.

Jed finally finished haggling and told the teller, One last thing. I want five hundred dollars in coin right now. The bank employee shook his head slightly but complied with the request.

Fifteen minutes later, Jed walked out of the bank with a pocketful of double eagles.

As he stepped out on the boardwalk, one of the unsavory characters loitering outside