Sacrifice
A short tale of an old west miner
The small town of Promise buzzed with the excitement of the news. Gold! The Clockwork Hills miners came back to town aglow with the news of striking rich in the rivers of that stretch of mountain.
Of course, everyone came to California for some hope of making their fortune in the wilds, but this was the first tangible evidence that anyone had brought to town.
Slade Carter was one of the first to hear the news at the Dead Dog saloon, the best in town for both whiskey and women.
“Y’all hear the news?” a half-drunk poker player said at his table one evening. “The Clockwork boys found gold!”
The whole table scoffed, for Saddleballs Sammy was known to get creative when the liquor flowed.
“No, it’s true,” he said in earnest, dropping his voice a tone to allow the organ piano to drown out the words to all but his immediate compatriots. “Ask them yourselves.”
Slade said nothing but had seen the amount of liquor the good man had downed. And he was not drunk enough to be spinning tales yet.
“You’re drunk Sammy,” Dan Simmons growled finally. “I don’t believe it. Why, we’ve been waiting a year in this godforsaken place waiting for news of gold. And methinks they didn’t find it in Clockwork.”
Slade excused himself after another two rounds, took his winnings, and left the ramshackle building.
Outside, the stars twinkled overhead as the usual kerfuffles over small bits of gold dust and coin took place among the wasted inhabitants of the town.
Slade took a look at the hills beyond and drew a long breath, contemplating.
If there was gold to be had, he wanted it.
After all, he had left his home in Virginia two years ago and come out with the first news of gold back in ’49, and was barely scraping by even now. His family was missing him and he became homesick for the first time in months. He had been so caught up in the cyclone of gambling, drinking, and cards that he had barely time to think of them. The feverish excitement of that next promising win had taken much of his savings, and yet he continued. But now, gold promised a way out. A way back home, to his family and the little lady he had left behind.
Of course, she probably had moved on. And that thought stung him to the quick. But such was the nature of these things, and he had life to live.
The next morning the rumors were confirmed. Miners had indeed struck rich in the backrivers of the Clockwork Hills.
Slade was not slow to take the few earnings he had left and to spend it on mining equipment and a mule.
As he was packing, a friend approached him inquisitively.
“Do you really mean to try for gold?” Charlie Taylor asked.
“I do and by God’s good grace, I will succeed.”
“You’re a fool,” Charlie scoffed.
Slade said nothing.
“Can I join you?” Charlie asked unexpectedly.
Slade looked at him, still silent.
“W’all, I figger I ain’t making no money here, so I might as well die trying in the hills.”
“How much do you have to provide? I only have enough for myself.”
“I have equipment,” Charlie spoke quickly, excited now. “I can buy a horse and a few days’ worth of food.”
“Do it, and we’ll be off.”
The two young men were off at the crack of dawn the next morning. For two days they traveled into the hills, working through Dervish Pass into the Clockworks. Slade had seen a map in the pocket of a drunk miner the night before, and a little sleight of hand had obtained him a valuable guide to the right places.
They finally found a secluded hook in the river that cut through Fanny Canyon deep in the Clockworks and set to it.
Two days of discouragement, and the young men—quick blooded and eager—had nothing to show for their effort.
“This be a hopeless hunt,” Charlie grumbled as he sloshed dirt around in his pan for the umpteenth time.
“I’m sure if you pray a little more to the powers that may be, gold might come your way,” Slade scoffed, taking a blow at Charlie’s religious upbringing.
Charlie scowled at him as he looked in his pan. A thought struck him, and he tossed what he had, then dug his hands a bit deeper into the riverbed soil. He brought up a handful of darker clay and began sloshing it. His eyes widened as he sifted through.
“Slade, lad,” he said, his voice a bit unsteady. “I think we got something.”
Slade sloshed over and looked at the pan. His eyes sparkled.
“What did you find, say?”
“It’s in the clay, deeper down.”
Slade promptly plunged in and dug out a handful. He got the same results.
The boys were ecstatic. The clay was absolutely rich with gold, and two solid days of panning and they had amassed a fortune.
They were packing up excitedly, the second week into their endeavor, excited beyond description over their luck, yet determined not to tell anyone where the gold was, as they wanted to return with even more gear and have a second go.
Slade packed the bags as Charlie put out the fire and took down their campsite.
All of a sudden, they heard horses coming up the path to their area. They looked at each other in alarm, then at the pass as three rough men from the town came into the clearing, well armed.
They stopped when they saw the boys. Slade continued to pack their animals, quicker now, hoping to avoid a confrontation. These were bad men, known mine thieves and would rob and kill the two lads, given half a chance.
“Find anything, lads?” their leader called grimly. Slade did not answer and Charlie hustled from the river.
“Methinks you did,” he responded to the silence.
As Charlie stooped to grab the last blanket from the ground, a small cloth with gold dust fell out of his pocket and spilled the shiny valuable over the river pebbles.
His face went white as he looked from the gold to the man, who only smiled. In a flash he raised his rifle.
Slade saw, and was faster. His old rusty Colt did not fail him now.
It cracked and the man’s rifle dropped. He grabbed his shoulder briefly, growling in pain.
“Go!” Slade yelled as he took a second shot. “Git out!”
Charlie needed no second invitation. He rushed to the horse and pulled his own shooter and sprayed randomly in the direction of the thieves, adrenaline shaking his hands into mostly missed shots. He jumped on the horse and at another yell from Slade, he took off down the canyon.
The thieves turned to follow, but were interrupted by Slade. Emptying his shots at them, he took a running leap and dragged the leader from his horse.
“Damn you, fool!”
The man’s eyes twisted with rage as he wrestled the boy off him, drew his revolver and fired into his chest.
Slade’s eyes went wide with shock as he staggered back. The leader took advantage and shot him again. Then turning and leaving the boy bleeding on the ground, he galloped off down the canyon with his two comrades, hurling insults in every general direction.
Slade looked over through fading eyes and saw the rifle on the ground, where it had been dropped.
He dragged himself over to it and with the last of his strength raised it, and propped it on a knee.
Barely able to hold it up, he fired. A quick move of the lever, then another. And another.
In the distance, even through the fog coming over his eyes, he could see riders stagger on their mounts and fall. He fell on his back, his strength gone, life fading out.
He smiled faintly as his eyes drooped closed, peace flooding over him as the life flowed out.
His last thought was, “I wonder if there’s any gold in heaven…”