“Not sure.”
“Mr. Early,” he said, shaking his head. “If I have learned anything, it’s this: though one’s prospects become un-wheeled, one must never cease moving forward.” He turned back to his daughter. “Miss Eliza, as your father, I would not have you do anything foolish, dangerous, immoral, irresponsible, or rash. I suspect if I told you not to go, you would hear my words with perfect kindness but ignore them. You have a keen intelligence, my dear, you do. I put my faith, love, and trust in that. It’s what that woman said, ‘Live by your wits or lose them.’I would offer my blessing, but having been so ill-blessed, I have naught to give.”
That said, he wandered off into the house.
Lizzy and I stayed behind.
“He means well, Lizzy,” I said. “He does.”
“I know” was all she said.
I stirred the fire, causing sparks to fly up and disappear, then said, “In the morning I’ll ask around, and when I get some idea where to go, we can start.”
“I’ll be ready.” She stood and started to follow her father into the house.
I called after her: “Miss Eliza, you’re as good as gold.”
“Mr. Early,” she said just before she went off, “you ever get to thinking that gold isn’t worth the looking for?”
Left alone, I thought of home so many miles away. In my head I composed a letter:
DEAR MA, PA, AND BROTHER ADAM:
I HAVE ARRIVED SAFELY IN CHERRY CREEK. NO SIGHT OF JESSE YET, BUT I HAVE WORD OF HIM. I’LL FIND HIM FOR SURE AND BRING HIM SAFELY HOME.
MY LOVE AND DUTY BOTH,
EARLY
BY CHERRY CREEK
Considering what I’d learned about Jesse, they were brave words. Not that I ever actually wrote them. Had no pen or ink. Didn’t know how to send it. Instead, I pondered Lizzy’s words, that maybe the gold wasn’t worth looking for.
Then I went on to ask myself: Did I truly want to find Jesse? And if I did find him, what would I say? What might he say to me?
All I knew for certain was, I dreaded those words.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Into the Mountains
July 14, 1859
WHEN I woke next morning, all I could think about was getting to Jesse before Mr. Mawr did. So I went rambling early, asking anyone I met for directions to Gold Hill. A fair number of people knew of it, if only vaguely. Others were more precise. But when I put it all together, I had a sense of where to go.
It appeared Gold Hill was in Nebraska Territory, the Kansas-Nebraska border being not too far north of Cherry Creek. The place even had an official name: Nebraska Mining District Number One. From what people said, gold was being found there in good quantities.
To reach it, we’d first need to go northwest, to that settlement named Boulder that appeared to sit right below the mountains. Once there, we’d have to trek into the mountains eleven or twelve miles more. All told, Gold Hill was some fifty miles from Cherry Creek—two or three days’travel. But people said trails could be found with ease.
During a breakfast of bread and coffee, I told Lizzy what I’d learned. Pronouncing herself ready, we took our leave.
Mr. Bunderly held my hand in two of his. “Mr. Early,” he said, pumping my arm like a well handle, “I wish you much joy in the search for your uncle. Extend my warmest greetings, while ensuring him that any close relation you claim is the instant friend of yours truly. With a full heart, I beg your protection of Miss Eliza, and hope you will encourage her toward more gentle, ladylike ways. By so doing, the spirit of her devoted mother would be intensely gratified.”
Lizzy listened to more fatherly advice with patience, promised she’d return in good time, and then gave Mr. Bunderly a fond embrace.
Fortunately, a man with a wild beard appeared to request Mr. Bunderly’s barbering service, which allowed us to depart. So it was that we left Mr. Bunderly cheerful and chatty. I carried nothing save what I wore—the rough clothing that had covered my back since Iowa. Same for Lizzy: calico dress and boots. She also carried a flour sack with food Mrs. Rascoe had supplied.
The ferry pulled us across to the western side of the river, to an area they called Highland. Cost twenty-five cents. Lizzy paid. “Father gave me a dollar’s worth of coins as a parting gift,” she explained.
Upon the river’s western bank, we immediately came upon a well-marked trail leading west. The day proving warm, and the sky all but cloudless, we set off.
It was easy at first. We walked with no difficulty, though now and again I’d turn and look back to see if Mr. Mawr was following. I never saw him—or anyone for that matter, behind us or before us. That said, I was aware there was more than one way to get to this Gold Hill.
“What if your Jesse isn’t there?” Lizzy asked.
“I suppose I’ll keep looking till I find him.”
“Early, he might be anywhere.”
“I know.”
“And if you do find him, what are you going to say to him?”
“I keep thinking about that.”
“You don’t want to talk about him, do you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I halted. “Lizzy, all these stories about him—they scare me. What if he’s not the Jesse I know?”
“Think you really knew him?”
“Lizzy,” I cried, “back home, my day didn’t start till Jesse got up.”
“And now?
I looked away. “He’s been gone a long time, but there’s a sun in the sky.”
We went on. After a few miles, the path we were following became rough, full of boulders that would have made it hard for wagons to pass. Being on foot, we skirted them with ease and kept our pace. Whether we were following Indian or game trails, we didn’t know. When we reached trail forks, we always chose the northwesterly direction.
As the day wore on and the heat came down, our talk dwindled, though now and again Lizzy sang. She seemed to know a million songs. I never tired of them.
After traveling so long upon the flat lands, we couldn’t be but impressed by the view before us. The mountains, mostly red-brown in color, bore swaths of green that I supposed were trees. And the closer we came to the mountains the bigger they seemed to be, ever more fearsome in their loftiness. They looked to have swallowed half the sky itself. I had little doubt they could swallow us, too.
At about midday we paused by a stream, from which we drank. From her sack, Lizzy got some jerked meat, which was our meal. As we sat there, she also drew out her father’s pepperbox pistol from the sack, surprising me the way she often did.
“Why’d you bring that?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Might need it.”
“It doesn’t shoot right.”
“Makes a fearsome noise,” she said with a laugh.
All that day we walked, our eyes always on the massive peaks. Here and there, we spotted grazing antelope and deer. Now and again some buffalo. Once we saw an elk. Fields of prairie dogs in their towns were alert to our presence. In the sky were birds aplenty, including redtailed hawks and magpies. We saw no other people.
We walked until dusk overtook us. By then we’d reached a high point on the plains. Looking east, the land rolled for as far as we could see—to Iowa, I imagined.
Turning west, we looked down into a valley. A few lakes were visible. We also saw the mountains at their fullest, from bottom to lofty tops. They looked to have leaped straight up in one great earth-leaving, colossal jump and were ready to leap higher any moment. It was a vision of strength and might such as I had never beheld before.
Moreover, we could see that beyond these mountains were more mountains, and then mountains beyond those, mountains as far as we could see. No end to them!
As night drew down and the dry air chilled, the mountains melted into deep blue shadow. Above, the sky hung full of shifting colors: dark pinks, violet, but mostly reds.
“It’s as if the sky is filling with blood,” Lizzy whispered.
; “Let’s hope not,” I said.
Untold numbers of stars emerged, and with them a slim moon. Was it, I wondered, the same moon over Iowa? It seemed bigger there. A coyote yapped and was answered from some distance. It wasn’t long before I heard Lizzy’s steady sleep breathing.
I think it was only then I allowed myself to have this thought: I hope I don’t find Jesse. For the truth was, the closer I came to him, the farther away I felt.
July 15
We rose at dawn and continued in the same direction we’d been traveling, down into the valley we’d seen the night before. We observed some places that looked like farms, but no one was working them. Increasingly, the land was wooded with tall pine and spruce. But above the tallest trees, the mountains loomed ever higher.
At some point we must have crossed back into Nebraska Territory. Not that there was any marker. But we continued to follow the trail until we came upon a wide creek of turbulent, white-frothed waters, its clear pools revealing many small fish. Here the air was sweet with the scents of pine and wild rose.
The path we’d been traveling veered about and then went upward, following the bank of the cascading creek. As we went on, we saw more and more tree stumps, suggesting people must have built nearby.
Both creek and path made sharp turns. We followed and came upon a place of quieter waters. More than that: there, at the edge of the water, was a kneeling man.
After two days of seeing no one, it was startling to come upon anyone in such a wilderness. The man’s hair hung down to his waist and was only a little longer than his ragged beard. His wool shirt had lost whatever color it might have had, and was as faded as his frayed trousers. He wore an old slouch hat, tipped back, revealing a sun-dark forehead and crinkled eyes. In his hands was a pan into which he was staring. So intent was he that when we drew close and I hailed him, he was startled enough to drop the pan and had to snatch at it. Only then did he turn to us.
“Who the blazes are you?” he demanded angrily. “Sneaking up that way!”
Panning for gold. The fellow up front has boots. The one behind does not. These folks didn’t waste time putting up log houses but used tents instead.
“We’re heading for Gold Hill, but we’re not sure which way to go.”
He gazed at us. “Gold Hill?” he said with disgust, turning away. “You and everybody else.”
“Have others come this way?”
“Most get there by St. Vrain Creek. Up north. But they’re coming. A whole lot.”
“Then this trail will take us there?”
He glanced at us only to shake his head. “You’ll get lost. Get lost, and you’re gone.” As if to dismiss us, he dipped his pan into the water and then scraped it along the bottom. Next moment he lifted it up and began to swirl the pan while staring into it. Water and sediment trickled out.
Suddenly he leaned forward, peered deeply into the pan, extended a finger, and poked. He then drew up his hand and held up that one finger. “Gold,” he announced without emotion.
“Is it truly?” I cried, quite excited.
“Nothing else.”
“Can we see?” asked Lizzy.
The man held out his hand. We bent over. On the tip of his finger was a glittering speck. I looked at the man in bewilderment.
“Gold,” he repeated, answering my look. He reached behind and picked up a large feather which lay behind him on the creek bank. One end of the feather had been cut off, creating a hollow tube. He tapped his finger over this open end, and then checked to make sure the glittering bit of dust had fallen in. That accomplished, he put the feather aside and resumed his monotonous panning.
“Is that the gold that’s here?” I asked.
“You saw it, didn’t you?”
Lizzy gave me a nudge.
“We really need to get to Gold Hill,” I said.
“Find someone to take you,” said the man, never ceasing the circular movement of his pan.
“Did a man come by here—going to Gold Hill—yesterday?” I described Mr. Mawr.
“I suppose someone like that came by. Then again, most people look the same to me.”
We stood back. “Good luck,” Lizzy said as we went around the prospector, careful to avoid his gold-filled feather. It didn’t seem to matter that we were going. He continued to rotate his pan.
Continuing along the well-beaten path, we entered a canyon whose rocky walls rose high to either side. The massive stone, dull red in color, was irregular and jagged, impossible to climb. Here and there—as if to defy all sense of nature—we spied patches of growing green, and even a few twisted trees growing out the rock crevasses. Farther up, where there was soil, many more trees grew.
Between the canyon walls was a rough but open space of some quarter-mile wide, through which the creek tumbled. That’s where we came upon a cluster of crudely built log cabins, not more than twenty and in great disrepair. Uninhabited, most had no windows. Many doors were just holes. A few of these doors were covered with deer skins.
This is Gregory’s Gulch, where they really struck it rich in 1859.
We looked about in search of someone to speak to and spied a woman by the creek’s edge. Near her lay a great pile of dirty clothing, which she was washing.
She was a middle-aged woman, gray hair unkempt, her billowy dress wet. She wore no shoes.
She must have heard us coming, for she leaned back on her heels, hand to her back as if to ease some pain, turned her head, and nodded as much to us as the pile of laundry.
“Miners,” she pronounced, “are the filthiest people in the whole world. Don’t wash but once a month, and only if in a hurry.” Then she said, “You new here?”
“We’re going to Gold Hill,” said Lizzy
“Lots are,” the woman said. “Good diggings. They’re finding gold in Left Hand Creek and Gold Run Creek. Where do you come from?”
“Iowa.”
“Vermont, myself. Didn’t come alone did you?”
“With family,” said Lizzy.
I asked, “Is there a trail from here to Gold Hill?”
“Oh, sure. Not that I’ve been there. The men come here. They don’t want me messing with their streams. Not with this,” she said, gesturing to her pile.
“We need to get there,” I said.
“Hurry on up a bit farther. I thought I saw Dunsha McFadden getting ready to take a supply train up. If you catch him he’ll lead you right there.”
In haste we left the woman and passed through the small settlement. It was poor, simple, and in ill repair. A stopping, not a staying, place. But beyond the cabins was a line of five mules. A man was with them—dressed like a miner—fixing packs to the beasts’backs.
“Mr. McFadden!” I called.
He looked around.
“Are you going to Gold Hill?”
“Who you be?”
“My name is Early. This is Lizzy. Can we follow along?”
“Suit yourself. Just stay back of the mules. They kick.”
Lizzy and I sat on some stones and watched him get the mules in order. “What are you carrying?” I asked.
“Flour. Boots. Picks and shovels. Coffee. Letters.”
After about an hour of packing and repacking, Mr. McFadden turned and said, “Let’s go.”
He went to the head of his line, gave a tug to the head mule’s ear, and started on, the mules in step.
We followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Gold Hill
WELL TRODDEN, the trail inclined steeply through an ever-narrowing rocky canyon high above the creek water. In some places you had to lean back to see the sky. Though the water below roared with power and froth, the rocks, trees, and now and again some flowers were in perfect tranquility.
The trail continued upward for some miles, following the twisting creek. Then Mr. McFadden guided his mules across a crest that led us to another creek.
“Sunshine Creek!” he announced.
From there, we followed a high ridge??
?mostly flat—that brought us into what felt like the very heart of the mountains. We walked on for about five hours, moving up and down, surrounded by endless mountains and steep cliffs. We saw no other people. But flowers—blue, yellow, white, and red—grew in great abundance, sometimes in unexpected places such as high rock crevices. Occasionally the land opened out, revealing fields of flowers as free and fanciful as any crazy quilt. Elsewhere, dark corners were brightened by golden mushrooms, which had poked up on pine-needle beds. Sometimes we came upon patches of white snow in dark dells. Splashing creeks appeared, only to disappear. A great horned mountain sheep looked down at us from a precipice. As we passed, a small groundhog-like creature called a marmot whistled rudely. We startled a doe and her two fawns. Once I thought I saw a great elk, its antlers as tangled as branches, who gazed at us with nothing less than disdain.
This is Boulder Canyon. You can see it would have been hard to go along the creek. Fortunately, the trail to Gold Hill was higher up.
As we climbed, our breathing became labored. For though we were already high, we kept going higher. I’d feared the mountains would swallow us, and indeed they did. Our way was full of twists, turns, and switchbacks, until I lost all sense of direction. But no matter how far or high we went, there was only more forest, more mountains.
Then, after I’m not sure how much time, Mr. McFadden called, “Gold Hill!” from the head of the mule train. Pausing, he pulled out a battered brass bugle and—like the angel Gabriel—blew a series of blasts to announce his coming.
Lizzy cried, “Look!”
There, in a small valley, below were hundreds of men, prospectors all. They had found gold in what came to be known as Gold Run Creek. That soon extended into Left Hand canyon. Much more gold was found at what was named the Horsfal Mine at the head of Black Cloud Gulch. This was not just panning for gold, though there was plenty of that. Here they dug for the gold-laden ore with pickax and shovel. Once dug out, the rock had to be crushed by hammer, ground by an arastra wheel, or pulverized by stamp mills. The broken stone rock was then washed and searched, much like the panning process, but in long sluice rockers and water troughs.