Blood Gold by Michael Cadnum Page B

and boulders.”
    This made me hesitate.
    I had once forded a spring-flood creek while delivering a wagon to a drayage company in Frankfort, but I had no experience driving horses over mountains. I had driven well-mannered Philadelphia teams along the roads around town, and I had never had to lash the horses excessively. An experienced carriage man was called a whip—for good reason. To master stubborn, spirited animals, a skilled use of the lash was mandatory, and I was a novice at such driving.
    I had barely enough pride and stubbornness to allow myself to add, “I think you’ll find me equal to the task, sir.”
    Captain Deerborn smiled. “I’m very glad, Willie. This is an advance against your wages as a wagon driver.” He gave me one more gold coin. “Although I’m close to being a pauper, except for my expectations.”
    â€œWe won’t spend any time at all in Sacramento City?”
    â€œYou don’t want to spend any time there,” he said with a wave of his hand, a man dismissing an utterly disagreeable subject. “That place is a cess-hole, and no place at all for a hardware merchant.”
    I explained that I was seeking an old companion, and wanted to give him good news.
    â€œYou’ll find him easily enough,” said the captain in his rough but kindly way. “Drop by the New York Hotel, not far from the river. But remember,” he added, “be back by noon, or I’ll be forced to hire some other whip and be off without you.”

CHAPTER 29
    The dockside was lined with abandoned vessels, schooners and flatboats.
    From what we could see of it from the wharf, the entire town had the look of a place that had been set up just the night before.
    As we disembarked, a few townsfolk splashed down through the wet encampment to spit tobacco juice and comment cheerfully to one another on the character and dress of the newcomers.
    The Barrymore party, their tattered greatcoats and mantles wet with the rain, milled about near the river-bank, while travelers who could afford them hired boys to carry their trunks into town. I tried to catch a further glimpse of Florence, but except for Nicholas, his white hair streaming wet, the group was now an indistinguishable mass of wet folk.
    A step pressed the wet earth nearby, and I turned at the sound of my name.
    â€œYou will stop by Dutch Bar, won’t you, William?” said a woman’s voice hopefully.
    Florence smiled at me from within a heavy oilcloth hood. I would not have recognized her if she had not spoken.
    â€œYou are a mistress of every possible disguise,” I remarked with a laugh.
    Her green eyes peered into mine—she was not about to be put off with an idle remark.
    â€œWhere will I find Dutch Bar?” I heard myself ask. I very much wanted to have greater skill with words—and tell her that parting from her was more than painful.
    â€œSomewhere up the American River,” she replied, looking around to see an approaching figure—Timothy, his long dark beard streaming rainwater.
    â€œMy uncle Jeremiah has a claim up there,” she continued, “and we’re set to join him.”
    Timothy’s lips took on the shape of a word, and he took a long time in making a sound. “Come along, Flo,” he said, forming the sounds with difficulty, like a man with a crippling stammer.
    If Timothy felt any friendship toward me, he disguised the emotion very well.
    He kept one hand on Florence’s arm, leading her along both protectively and like a guard securing a prize.
    But she tossed her arm free and hurried to me.
    â€œWilliam,” she said, taking my hand, “I hope we see each other again soon.”
    Some more artful person would have been able to say something poetic. I could only manage, “Florence, I hope so, too.”
    She turned back in my direction, and gave me, I thought, a wave of melancholy—or even of longing.
    And I stayed right