teach me to blast.”
SUMMER WENT by in a frenzy of construction; many trees had to be felled to season for burning in the engine firebox, that shack had to go up, and the machinery readied to deal with the increasing piles of fragmented rock Chuck and Bill first dug out with picks, then, following the vein inward, by small blasts of black powder. There were the inevitable accidents; Chuck barely escaped serious injury when a charge exploded early, Bill badly cut his leg plying an axe, and Alexander was scalded by a gush of steam. Bill sewed up the rent in his leg with an ordinary darning needle, and Chuck, hobbling around on a home-made crutch, produced some foul-smelling bear grease to anoint the burn. But the work went on remorselessly, for who could tell when some men would ride into their valley and discover what they were up to?
By the time the rainy, sleety winter came down, they were in full production, breaking up the rock, pounding it to powder under the iron shoe of the stamper, their engine huffing and roaring away. This was a land prodigiously endowed with water, more than enough to wash through the stamper cylinder and force the free gold to amalgamate with the droplets of mercury inside the chamber. What gold didn’t amalgamate there ran through as slurry on to a sloping apron, at the bottom of which a copper plate covered with more mercury captured it.
High spring saw the end of the mercury, piled now in flaky, yellowish masses under a covering of brush.
Alexander had just had his twentieth birthday, and had developed the wiry, sinewy body of one reared on hard labor; at just over six feet, he knew he had stopped growing.
But, he thought, I am tired of this life. For almost all of the past six years I have had no roof over my head that kept out the cold, or didn’t leak when it rained—even Quinnipiac dribbled water on my hammock because her deck wasn’t properly caulked. If a deck ever can be properly caulked. I eat until my belly is full, but in Glasgow the food was ninety-five percent flour, and here it’s eternal beans and venison. The last time I had roast beef and roast potatoes was at a Kinross wedding. Bill and Chuck are good men, intelligent and well read on geology, but they know far more about George Washington than they do about Alexander the Great. Yes, I am tired of this life.
So when Chuck spoke on that clear May morning, Alexander listened as if to the sound of a distant, melodious horn.
“That,” said Chuck, gazing at their haul, “is one helluva lot of gold. Even if we get closer to thirty than forty percent of bullion from the amalgam, we’ll be rich men. It’s time to let the cat out of the bag. One of us will have to ride into Coloma to get separation retorts. Two will have to stay here to deal with claim-jumpers.”
“I’ll go because I want to go,” said Alexander. “I mean I want to leave permanently. You can buy me out with one-third of our amalgam, which I’ll take with me. You can deed my share of the mine to whoever is willing to bring up the retorts, and a man who can keep the engine running. Give me a pound of good ore for assay and you’ll be overwhelmed with potential partners.”
“But the vein’s not worked out yet by a long shot!” cried Bill, horrified. “Alex, the deeper we go, the better the yield! We’ll never get other partners as hardworking and easygoing as you! Why do you want out, for God’s sake?”
“Och, I guess I’m just footloose. I’ve learned all I can, so it’s time I moved on.” He laughed. “There’s more gold under more mountains someplace else. I’ll send you guys the separated mercury back if it hasn’t sickened.”
ALEXANDER HAD his third of the amalgam separated in Coloma, and kept fifty-five of the sixty pounds of gold it yielded as bullion. It traveled with him hidden in the false bottom of his tool chest loaded on a mule as he rode out of town. Of course the word was out that he had gold, but
SUMMER WENT by in a frenzy of construction; many trees had to be felled to season for burning in the engine firebox, that shack had to go up, and the machinery readied to deal with the increasing piles of fragmented rock Chuck and Bill first dug out with picks, then, following the vein inward, by small blasts of black powder. There were the inevitable accidents; Chuck barely escaped serious injury when a charge exploded early, Bill badly cut his leg plying an axe, and Alexander was scalded by a gush of steam. Bill sewed up the rent in his leg with an ordinary darning needle, and Chuck, hobbling around on a home-made crutch, produced some foul-smelling bear grease to anoint the burn. But the work went on remorselessly, for who could tell when some men would ride into their valley and discover what they were up to?
By the time the rainy, sleety winter came down, they were in full production, breaking up the rock, pounding it to powder under the iron shoe of the stamper, their engine huffing and roaring away. This was a land prodigiously endowed with water, more than enough to wash through the stamper cylinder and force the free gold to amalgamate with the droplets of mercury inside the chamber. What gold didn’t amalgamate there ran through as slurry on to a sloping apron, at the bottom of which a copper plate covered with more mercury captured it.
High spring saw the end of the mercury, piled now in flaky, yellowish masses under a covering of brush.
Alexander had just had his twentieth birthday, and had developed the wiry, sinewy body of one reared on hard labor; at just over six feet, he knew he had stopped growing.
But, he thought, I am tired of this life. For almost all of the past six years I have had no roof over my head that kept out the cold, or didn’t leak when it rained—even Quinnipiac dribbled water on my hammock because her deck wasn’t properly caulked. If a deck ever can be properly caulked. I eat until my belly is full, but in Glasgow the food was ninety-five percent flour, and here it’s eternal beans and venison. The last time I had roast beef and roast potatoes was at a Kinross wedding. Bill and Chuck are good men, intelligent and well read on geology, but they know far more about George Washington than they do about Alexander the Great. Yes, I am tired of this life.
So when Chuck spoke on that clear May morning, Alexander listened as if to the sound of a distant, melodious horn.
“That,” said Chuck, gazing at their haul, “is one helluva lot of gold. Even if we get closer to thirty than forty percent of bullion from the amalgam, we’ll be rich men. It’s time to let the cat out of the bag. One of us will have to ride into Coloma to get separation retorts. Two will have to stay here to deal with claim-jumpers.”
“I’ll go because I want to go,” said Alexander. “I mean I want to leave permanently. You can buy me out with one-third of our amalgam, which I’ll take with me. You can deed my share of the mine to whoever is willing to bring up the retorts, and a man who can keep the engine running. Give me a pound of good ore for assay and you’ll be overwhelmed with potential partners.”
“But the vein’s not worked out yet by a long shot!” cried Bill, horrified. “Alex, the deeper we go, the better the yield! We’ll never get other partners as hardworking and easygoing as you! Why do you want out, for God’s sake?”
“Och, I guess I’m just footloose. I’ve learned all I can, so it’s time I moved on.” He laughed. “There’s more gold under more mountains someplace else. I’ll send you guys the separated mercury back if it hasn’t sickened.”
ALEXANDER HAD his third of the amalgam separated in Coloma, and kept fifty-five of the sixty pounds of gold it yielded as bullion. It traveled with him hidden in the false bottom of his tool chest loaded on a mule as he rode out of town. Of course the word was out that he had gold, but
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