Blood Gold by Michael Cadnum Page A

morning upriver.
    I was on deck washing down a mouthful of corn bread with thick, sweet coffee, the landscape around the river low and flat. An autumnal mist obscured the horizon, and waterfowl veered up out of the sere marshland. As I looked on, a large golden-furred creature raised up out of the rushes, marsh water streaming from his fur.
    The bear watched our passing vessel, his brute presence radiating silence.
    At last the effort of standing on his hind legs wearied him, and he lowered his bulk back down again, into the thick autumn-brown vegetation.
    The creature continued to graze, in a meditative, cowlike manner.
    A few of the Barrymore clan, leaning over the side of the schooner, saw him, too. By their gestures I discerned that they were discussing what firearms they would use to bring down such a bruin.
    Florence was among them, and when I approached she came forth to meet me.
    â€œWhat would you hunt a bear with, Willie?”
    â€œA friend with a wide-bore gun,” I answered at once.
    She gave me a smile and laughed, and put her hand out to mine.
    And kept it there for a good long time.
    When I saw Captain Deerborn again, I managed to ask, “Are there many bears in California?”
    â€œOf course there are bears,” he said, “both grizzly bears and brown.”
    He went on to name the genus and species of the large omnivores, and I wondered once again what sort of wild land I was about to encounter, and how I could make Florence a part of my life here.
    The captain interrupted his recitation of animal lore when he saw that I was preoccupied. He rested a hand on my shoulder. “The Western bear does not bother visiting a lawyer, it’s true,” he said. “But the really dangerous creatures out here are all human.”
    The voyage against the river current was only expected to take two days—three if the wind was utterly contrary—and the labor at the pumps was enjoyable, in a rough sort of way. My fellow pump mates were good-spirited men who swore at the pumps, the smelly water, and the cheap whiskey, but sang about the sun being so hot they froze to death, and other popular tunes. I joined in, even when the liquor made my head ache.
    I wanted to have another talk with Florence Barrymore. But I was so hard-worked—and so drunk with whiskey, like every other crew member—that I saw only the slopping water around my feet, and the cheerful features of Captain Deerborn when it was time to swig another dose of spirits.
    But the memory of her smile—and the way she had taken my hand—stayed with me.
    As we approached the crowd of river vessels along the wharf at Sacramento City, Captain Deerborn led me into his cabin.
    He opened an oak chest with a stout iron key, picked out a coin about the size of a shirt button, and placed it in my hand. It was a gold U.S. dollar, and I closed my fist around it thankfully. He cocked his head, and gave me another just like it.
    I thanked him sincerely—I was being generously paid for what was, after all, unskilled labor. Passage from San Francisco to Sacramento itself usually cost ten dollars.
    â€œIf you can drive a team of horses, William,” said the captain, “you’ve got passage up into the goldfields proper.”
    I could not hide my eagerness. “I can drive any sort of coach, sir.”
    After Mr. Ansted had repaired a wagon, I’d drive it out under the chestnut trees, just to make sure the wagon was sound. I knew how to handle reins and carry a whip—no mean accomplishment.
    But in my heart I was not sure I was equal to the rugged gold-country roads.
    â€œAre you sure you can handle a six-horse hitch?” he asked. We were both crowded around by crates and dreadfully warm, the iron stove throwing out more heat than we needed.
    â€œHorses or mules, on any sort of road,” I insisted, nearly convinced that it was true.
    â€œThis will be uphill,” he cautioned, “all mire