A lot of men had passed through on their way to the gold fields. Any of them might remember him. That was something they’d all overlooked. What if someone remembered him from Onionville? What if they learned about him selling gold?
It wouldn’t take them long to piece things together.
Suddenly, coming here didn’t seem like such a good idea. There was far more risk than any of them had considered. Unfortunately, they had little choice. Their little operation needed cash, and there was certainly less risk here than closer to home. They would have to come up with another way to sell their gold, and Jim would have to spend as little time as possible in Bidwell’s Bar.
It was noon when Jim finally reached town, if it could truly be called such. Mostly it looked like a camping army, with people living in muddy tents or rough lean-tos. There were cabins sprinkled in, few in number, but each notable for their solid appearance. Like rings in a sawn tree, the tents swept outward in great arcs, and in the center of the sprawl stood a few tall, sturdy structures.
The people themselves were a filthy lot, men mostly, and coated in layers of mud and dust. Many were lined up at the river’s banks, scooping up river gravel with pans. Others milled about the town, pickaxes over their shoulders and empty mining pans slung over their backs. They banged and clanged in a great churning racket.
Smoke rose from cook fires. It colored the sky a dingy gray. There were few horses, and men looked at Jim sharply when he forced the Appaloosa through the haphazard maze.
On one building, he saw a sign. Assay Office. That was what David had suggested he look for.
The streets immediately around the place were choked with a swarming mass of miners. Those few who didn’t seem to be miners, soiled doves, card sharps, cowboys, or businessmen stood out like sunflowers in a field of ripened wheat.
Jim found the livery and paid the hostler, a black man built like a whiskey barrel, to watch the Appaloosa.
“Good horse,” the man said.
“He’s treated me right,” Jim answered.
“How long will you be?” the man said. “Stalls are expensive. We don’t have much room here, not with…” The hostler gestured a thumb out over the crowd.
“A few hours. Hoping to leave before nightfall,” Jim said. “You don’t like the crowd?”
The hostler shook his head. “Not so much. Too many people and not enough gold means trouble, always trouble.”
“I thought everyone was getting rich these days. Biggest strike yet, bigger than Sutter’s.”
“That’s what they’re saying,” he smiled, wide and bright. “But you just see whose pockets all that money finds its way into. Most of these will leave here worse off.”
Jim studied the crowd. “Maybe,” he said. “You have oats?”
“Oat and corn mix.”
“Feed him well, he’s earned it,” Jim said and flipped the man a coin.
That brought another smile. “He’ll be ready when you get back and if you change your mind, it’s a dollar every day.”
“I won’t,” Jim said over his shoulder. He checked the saddlebags once more; both were tied firmly shut. He slung them over one shoulder, loosened his pistol in its holster, then waded into the churning mass of people.
Before selling the gold, he swung into the local general store. Ellen had asked him to bring back a bolt of cloth for a gift.
“It’s a lovely fabric,” the lady at the counter said. “We haven’t sold much of it. Few women around here. Few decent women, at least.”
“I’m sure she’ll like it,” Jim replied, and tucked the parcel under his arm.
“For your wife?” she asked.
“My wife’s mother.”
“That’s awfully sweet of you,” she said.
The assay office wasn’t far, just down the street from the store, but the crowd, pressed tight as it was, kept him from getting there quickly. Passing between miners, dodging their picks and shovels, he shifted and moved his way ever closer.
The miners were a rough lot, smelling of booze, sweat, and dank earth. One particularly large miner, a redhead in a plaid shirt, moved to block his way.
“What’s in the bags?” the redhead said.
Jim looked the big man up and down. “That’s my business.”
“Maybe I want to make it mine,” the redhead grinned. He was missing his front two teeth.
The mass of miners seemed to sense what was happening, and none wanted any part of the big man. They shuffled aside until the two of them were in a cleared circle.
Jim felt their eyes on him. If he showed weakness here, the whole lot would fall on him and he’d lose every grain of gold they’d worked for. The big man would get the lion’s share of it, of course, and he knew it.
But Jim had dealt with his kind before.
Rather than arguing or trying to talk his way out—actions which would serve only to encourage the redhead—Jim drew his gun. Before the big man could react, Jim had the barrel pressed tight against his chest.
“Now, my friend,” Jim said, “are you sure this is a game you can afford to play?”
The redhead wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked at the barrel, then beyond to Jim. His face was red and bright. His nostrils flared with every breath. The crowd around them had gone silent.
“You won’t do it. I’m going to take that peashooter away from you,” Red said, “then I’m going to stick it—”
Jim cocked the hammer. “How ‘bout now?”
