when I added, “He’s sent no word.”
“I suppose he wouldn’t,” said the man. “Mail is slow. Used to come through Fort Laramie, if it came at all. Got ourselves a post office now. But I’d hardly expect Plockett to tell anyone about where—” The barkeep broke off his words. Instead, he looked around, and bellowed, “This boy—just arrived from civilization—wants to know about Jesse Plockett.”
There had been hardly any noise in the place. The barkeep’s words made even that cease. Half a dozen of the gamblers turned and considered me with curiosity.
“Who’s going to tell him?” the barkeep called.
A man pushed himself up from his chair. “I suppose I can,” he said. He flipped his greasy cards on the table. “Nothing left for me here.”
The man, who reeked of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat, wore a red flannel shirt and old leather trousers. His skin was grimy and weathered dark, while a thick beard proclaimed him a prime customer for Mr. Bunderly. On his head perched a battered bowler. His boots were broken enough so that you could see his dirty toes. From his much cinched belt hung a bowie blade. His breathing was deep and raspy.
“Sit over there,” he ordered in a gruff voice, indicating an empty table in a corner.
“All right, then,” the man began when we were all seated and he had looked us over. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” I said.
He looked at Lizzy.
“The same,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “You two alone?”
“With my father,” said Lizzy. “We just came by wagon train.”
“They will keep coming,” said the man, as much to himself as to us. “How come you want to know about Jesse Plockett?”
I said, “His family wants news of him.”
“Do they?” he said, breathing hard.
“Yes, sir, they do.
The man clasped his hands before him. “My name’s Willard,” he said, offering no last name. “From Cambridge, Mass. Got here in the late summer of’58. One of the first, sucked in by those reports of easy Pike’s Peak pickings. You hear about them?”
Remembering Jesse’s newspapers, I nodded.
“Yes, there’s gold in the creek,” he went on. “River, too, for that matter. Not worth a Boston brag. Work a day and you might get a pinch. Say, twenty-five-cents’worth. Enough to get yourself a drink. So if the work don’t kill you, that drink will.
“So I went cross the river, following the creeks up into the mountains. Lots did. Above that settlement, the one they’re calling Red Rocks, or Boulder, up at Mud Lake, I met your Plockett fellow. You ever meet him?” Willard asked, his dark eyes fixed on me.
I said, “What’s the Jesse you knew look like?”
His description fit Jesse pretty close, so he must have known him.
“You say you came by wagon train?” the man asked. “Working it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Most do. But this Jesse fellow, he paid the train he came with to take him.”
“He did?” I said.
“So he boasted. Anyway, when I met him, Jesse was panning along Mud Lake. Raising color, too. Not a whole lot, mind, but considerable more than you’d get down here. Worked hard. Harder than most. Stuck with it. Didn’t complain. Well, nothing out of the ordinary. Said he had to make money for his people back home. Lots say that. Jesse seemed to mean it.
“Bit by bit he had himself a pile. Some do,” he added wistfully, thereby letting us know he hadn’t. “Not that I ever saw what he got. But I didn’t doubt it.
“The past winter was—so they claim—mild. If so, I’d hate to see a hard one. So Jesse worked on. Least till the cold came and the creeks froze. Then he had to quit.
“Came down here to wait the weather out. You couldn’t get back to the states. You’d be crazed to cross the winter prairie.”
“What happened to him?”
“Stuck here like the rest, counting snowflakes. Guarding what he had. No real bank to keep your dust. No regular law, either. But there are thieves. So you’re pretty stupid if
“I suppose he wouldn’t,” said the man. “Mail is slow. Used to come through Fort Laramie, if it came at all. Got ourselves a post office now. But I’d hardly expect Plockett to tell anyone about where—” The barkeep broke off his words. Instead, he looked around, and bellowed, “This boy—just arrived from civilization—wants to know about Jesse Plockett.”
There had been hardly any noise in the place. The barkeep’s words made even that cease. Half a dozen of the gamblers turned and considered me with curiosity.
“Who’s going to tell him?” the barkeep called.
A man pushed himself up from his chair. “I suppose I can,” he said. He flipped his greasy cards on the table. “Nothing left for me here.”
The man, who reeked of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat, wore a red flannel shirt and old leather trousers. His skin was grimy and weathered dark, while a thick beard proclaimed him a prime customer for Mr. Bunderly. On his head perched a battered bowler. His boots were broken enough so that you could see his dirty toes. From his much cinched belt hung a bowie blade. His breathing was deep and raspy.
“Sit over there,” he ordered in a gruff voice, indicating an empty table in a corner.
“All right, then,” the man began when we were all seated and he had looked us over. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” I said.
He looked at Lizzy.
“The same,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “You two alone?”
“With my father,” said Lizzy. “We just came by wagon train.”
“They will keep coming,” said the man, as much to himself as to us. “How come you want to know about Jesse Plockett?”
I said, “His family wants news of him.”
“Do they?” he said, breathing hard.
“Yes, sir, they do.
The man clasped his hands before him. “My name’s Willard,” he said, offering no last name. “From Cambridge, Mass. Got here in the late summer of’58. One of the first, sucked in by those reports of easy Pike’s Peak pickings. You hear about them?”
Remembering Jesse’s newspapers, I nodded.
“Yes, there’s gold in the creek,” he went on. “River, too, for that matter. Not worth a Boston brag. Work a day and you might get a pinch. Say, twenty-five-cents’worth. Enough to get yourself a drink. So if the work don’t kill you, that drink will.
“So I went cross the river, following the creeks up into the mountains. Lots did. Above that settlement, the one they’re calling Red Rocks, or Boulder, up at Mud Lake, I met your Plockett fellow. You ever meet him?” Willard asked, his dark eyes fixed on me.
I said, “What’s the Jesse you knew look like?”
His description fit Jesse pretty close, so he must have known him.
“You say you came by wagon train?” the man asked. “Working it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Most do. But this Jesse fellow, he paid the train he came with to take him.”
“He did?” I said.
“So he boasted. Anyway, when I met him, Jesse was panning along Mud Lake. Raising color, too. Not a whole lot, mind, but considerable more than you’d get down here. Worked hard. Harder than most. Stuck with it. Didn’t complain. Well, nothing out of the ordinary. Said he had to make money for his people back home. Lots say that. Jesse seemed to mean it.
“Bit by bit he had himself a pile. Some do,” he added wistfully, thereby letting us know he hadn’t. “Not that I ever saw what he got. But I didn’t doubt it.
“The past winter was—so they claim—mild. If so, I’d hate to see a hard one. So Jesse worked on. Least till the cold came and the creeks froze. Then he had to quit.
“Came down here to wait the weather out. You couldn’t get back to the states. You’d be crazed to cross the winter prairie.”
“What happened to him?”
“Stuck here like the rest, counting snowflakes. Guarding what he had. No real bank to keep your dust. No regular law, either. But there are thieves. So you’re pretty stupid if
Similar Books
