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I was entering country that looked like it was wrong side up. Those cliffs were steep! The good thing about this area was that an easier route could usually be found if you looked hard enough. There were very few signs of the passing of man. One stream drew attention. On the sharp turns the water had eaten right down to bedrock, and the bottom was eroded like a washboard. Any gold located at a higher elevation some was sure to be trapped here. I had worked for a while at the placer diggings on the Fraser River, and while there was gold it had been too fine and too scarce to make anybody rich. Plenty of other locations had paid off throughout the West, and I tried every new location found.
Placer mining is a fairly simple operation based on the fact that gold is heavier than any other metals around it. When moving in water it separates and falls to the bottom. This is how panning works, as well as the huge grizzlies and rockers. (When Jason and the Argonauts went forth in search of the Golden Fleece the fleece in question was a sheepskin used as the bottom of a crude sluice. The thick wool fibers trapped the fine gold while the other sand and grit washed over them.)
Like most western roamers I had a gold pan in the saddlebags that was also used for cooking, washing dishes, and whatever other chore that came up. When living from the back of a horse all possessions have to do as much duty as possible.
Leaning over the edge of the stream I took a sample pan. Let me tell you, that water was cold! The cold was like a shock that quickly numbed any exposed skin. I had a hunch there might even be a spring up above, for this felt too cold even for melting snow pack.
In the second pan there was a trace of color. Just a couple of tiny flakes, enough to know that the location warranted further attention. When the fourth and fifth pans also showed color I decided that this was as good a place as any to pitch camp for a few days.
Not that it was much of a camp. Just a bedroll and an oilskin tarp that was sometimes used as a roof and sometimes fashioned into a makeshift poncho for travel in the driving rain. Now I found a clump of stunted fir trees and cut the middle ones off flush at ground level. The tops of the remainder of the clump were woven together and lashed in place. The smaller branches were laid out for a mattress with the tarp over them. In the event of a really serious rain a tarp could be thrown over the top of the whole roof to make a waterproof shelter.
The sack of corn for the big horse was getting very low. He seemed to thrive on any kind of forage. It was just his size that made me feel he needed more, and corn or oats were bought when possible. He seemed perfectly content on the cured on the stem grass of the high meadows.
My own feed was just as meager. Venison was eaten at every meal to save on beans. Every couple of days a pan of bannock was stretched to the limit. Twenty-five dollars were in my pocket, but it was uncertain when that could be supplemented. With hard work at this streambed I might accumulate bigger stake.
In the morning I fashioned a couple of bark sandals to protect my feet and waded in bare legged. Cold! By working in short stretches, then climbing out and letting the strong sun of spring warm my body I managed to put in a good day's work without undue discomfort. At least as far as the cold went. When panning your hands become all wrinkled from exposure to the water and the sand jams its way under your fingernails so far that it hurts. In an hour you look like a full time dishwasher in a hotel.
If you're not used to it the lower back takes a dreadful beating. You must be bent over your pan all day long to do any good. I didn't hate it, but it was easy to see why a lot of Texas cowboys swore they wouldn't do any work that couldn't be done from a saddle.
In three days an ounce was recovered, which was pretty good wages then. Most riding jobs still offered only twenty-one dollars a month and found. The next morning I cut a trench across the inside of an S-turn in the stream in an attempt to lower the water in the deep uphill pool.
This didn't pay off, for the snow far above was melting faster. The pool again started to rise, so taking my gold pan in both hands and using it like a shovel, I created a mound of black sand about three feet tall and eight feet long. I placed a stack of rocks on the stream side so that it could be washed at leisure.
My trench brought a pleasant surprise, for where it cut across the path of the streambed the deep crevices of the bedrock gave a much stronger showing of gold. Damming up the head of the trench the next morning, I started digging in the old bed and by the end of the day had recovered at least a half a pound of the yellow ore.
That night, lying in the crude shelter, I thought about the future and what I really wanted to do with my life. I seemed to be on a good strike here, but promising diggings could pinch out. Someday I would like to have a wife and a family, although how this could be managed was unknown. A lifetime of being a lonely prospector did not appeal to me. I had seen the old desert rats leading their burros and like as not talking to them. I snorted at this. Imagine me trading in Big Horse for a burro. I didn't think so.
What had I just said? Big Horse. Well, there it was. I had named him now, so it looked like he was just about part of the family. Him and I were it.
What could I offer a woman? Meeting one in this wilderness would be hard enough. It looked like I might be lucky here, for the gold in this stream should provide a chance of making a good stake. Even if it pinched out there should be enough money to travel on to St. Louis, or wherever else I might want to go.
A man has to have some kind of a plan, and I decided as soon as five pounds of gold were taken a trip to the nearest city to buy mining gear was in order. A pick and shovel and an adze to build a rocker were pretty much necessities. Trying to do everything with just a pan is like trying to eat everything with a fork. When it comes to the soup there are better tools available.
I needed new clothes. What wasn't threadbare had holes in it Meeting anybody would be plumb embarrassing. A pair of those gum rubber boots would be a welcome change. I decided to go whole hog, with a restaurant meal and maybe a barber shave and a haircut. Wouldn't hurt to get duded up in case of a meeting with some young lady in that city.
With a goal in mind I set to work with a vengeance. Soon the five pound mark was approaching. About noon of the last day I straightened up and found myself facing three horsemen. They just sat with their hands folded across pommels, apparently watching me work from the other side of the stream. Such a silent close approach was unnerving. The noise of the rushing water had covered their footsteps and Big Horse was browsing out of sight on the meadow. I told myself to be more careful in the future.
The two riders on the outside seemed to be waiting for instructions. When I checked out the man in the middle I saw why. Even in his saddle it was easy to see he was a mountain of a man. From the stories this could only be Big John Carter.
The fellow was legendary, even in this country where monumental jobs were always being done. He had driven a herd from Texas to the Montana mining camps, then taken a swing through this area on his way back and liked what he saw. Within three months he was back on the trail, this time coming to northern Utah to stay. Rumor had it that some of his beef couldn't stand a close scrutiny of the brands, which was a common theme when he built his big herd. Generations of longhorns had left some wild offspring in the Brazos country. While big ranches tried to lay claim to these critters most men figured whoever could lay a rope on them could help themselves. John had started with a bunch of longhorns and added to them as he went up the trail. He was once heard to say that cattle were a lot like "puppydogs" in that they would follow anything moving. His hands smirked at this, but they rode for the brand and would defend him to the death.
He didn't need his two flank riders, for his very size made him formidable in a fist fight, and he was said to be surprisingly fast with a sidearm, belying his large size. Now he piped up like the bull of the woods that he was.
"What the hell are you doing on my range?" His voice was so loud that it nearly made an echo.
I had heard the saying about a good defense. "Your land! How many states do you figure to take in, anyway?"
"Well you must have crossed my range to get here, and I don't like it."
"Like hell I did," starting to get riled from his overbearing manner. I didn't plan on taking any shit from such as he. "Not that it's any of your business but I came from the north, in fact I rode from the coast of Oregon."
Interest lit up his face as I said this. I had a hunch his gruff manner was just a front. "My mistake. What's it like? I always wanted to see the Pacific, but I never got there. Not yet anyway."
I knew his men would follow his lead, so I swallowed my pride and invited them to get down and join me for some coffee. I didn't let on, but there was just enough left for one more pot.
Carter could read sign and he said, "Let Shorty make some. He ain't much good for work but you've never seen a better trail cook. Shorty, bring a couple of pounds of that new stuff we just got." He explained to me, "I ordered some fancy coffee from San Francisco and I'm not sure if I like it or not. I think my taste buds might be too old to change."
When we were all settled with steaming mugs in our hands he again asked me to tell him about the coast.
"Well, what comes to mind at first is the roar of the ocean. I camped for a while at Oceanside Park, and the rolling breakers are constantly breaking on the sandy beach. You would think a body could never sleep with a racket like that, but you know it's downright comforting once you get used to it. I was hunting sea otter. There are a lot of men in the business now and the otters are getting scarcer. Near the water are mountains covered with gigantic trees. You can actually stand a team of horses on some of the stumps. I've seen it done.
"The ocean keeps it warmer in the winter, too. Only trouble is it rains just about every day and some people can't stand that. I'm alone and thought I would take a look around before settling down."
"Good idea," said Carter. "A lot of people never leave the town where they're born. I figure it's better to go have a look-see. Kind of broadens a man's horizons. So what are you, a miner?"
"I've worked in mining camps and I've done some logging. I figured I would find a job hunting for a camp or a railroad crew. Then I found this place and decided to give it a try. I'm making better than wages," I told them honestly. I knew I was safe in confiding in men of Carter's caliber. It looked like we might be neighbors, at least for a while.
"Well, have at it," said Carter. "I'm not a mean man. I've had trouble with rustlers in the past and I'm always on the lookout. I don't believe I have to worry about you. Go ahead and cross my range anytime you want. Stop in at the ranch. The latchstring will be out for you."
As they saddled up to leave Carter turned to me as if he had just had a sudden thought. "You said you were a professional hunter. There's a big silvertip grizzly that should be coming out of his den about now. He's played hell with my cattle, and the worst thing is he doesn't even eat half the beef he kills. He killed one of my hands last fall, too. He limps on his off front foot, like he hurt it at one time or another. You bring me his scalp and I'll give you a thousand dollars plus forty acres of bottomland and water rights. You keep an eye out for him, hear?"
With that he was gone. I didn't get a chance to tell him that all I owned was my 45. My single shot rifle had been sold with the idea of getting a repeater. A forty-five would kill a bear with the right shot, but he would have to be close - too close for comfort. I'd probably never see his damn old bear anyway.
I never was much of a prophet.
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