I

On the first anniversary of their father’s death, James received a package from David. It had travelled from the West Coast, over the Rockies and to St. Louis before it was delivered to Manhattan. James slit the faded envelope and slid the contents onto his table. Inside was a chunk of gold, a federal patent for land, and a letter. James didn’t need to read the letter – he understood the invitation.

Once as children, James awoke to find their bedroom empty. When he touched the deserted bed, he could still feel the warmth of his brother’s side. David didn’t leave a note. Three weeks later, he returned. His suit was torn, his hair in knots, but he strode into their home and sat down for breakfast as if he’d never left. Their father took David into his study and had him lean against the wall. He beat him with his cane, one strike for every day he was gone. James sat on the floor outside the room and listened to the violent strikes. When David emerged, he smiled despite his shaking legs. That night James wet a cloth to soothe his brother’s sores. David took the cloth and gave James a token in return: a wooden horse he’d stolen on the way.

David placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I took this horse to remind me of you. It was like you were there the whole time.” He kissed his brother on the forehead.

James kept the souvenir under his bed. When his father was at work, he took it out to play, imagining tales of adventure. One of their nannies saw him and asked where he’d gotten it. He lied that he’d found it, and then hid in his closet beneath an old pair of shoes. When he discovered it two years later, he threw it out.

***

James took the gold to Vernon Jeffries, a man who appraised jewelry on Fourth Avenue. He had his driver wait at the curb. Vernon placed the nugget on a scale. He adjusted the weights and marked it at 13.2 troy ounces. “It’s heavy,” he remarked, preparing a vial of water to test displacement.

While Vernon worked, James jotted an inventory sheet in his journal. If he went he would need new clothes, maps, supplies, and funds for a passage West. The items ran across four full pages. In contrast, David’s letter had only been one. He filled the margins with sums, writing fast and hard until his pen pierced the page. Sighing, he stopped writing. He closed the absurd scrawl, the farthest he would ever go making this journey.

Vernon looked up from his calculations and smiled. He came around his desk, took the journal from James, and glanced at the figures.

“James, it’s almost 24 karats. I’ve never seen gold this pure,” he said.

He handed back the journal.

“This piece alone can pay for three or four mules. Find more.”

***

After the death of his father, James took over his position at his law firm. James’ partners were old family friends, Herbert Ashcroft and Earl Brewster. Brewster’s son was married to James’ sister and Ashcroft lived next door. He approached them to discuss his brother’s offer. Ashcroft read the federal patent as he smoked a cigar. When he was finished, he waited to tap the ash from the tip before he answered: “Yes.” James looked to Brewster, who nodded.

“My preliminary inventory seemed prohibitive, but…” James took a drink of whiskey. “But the gold is promising.” Vernon valued the nugget at 272 dollars. It wasn’t enough, however, to create the infrastructure of a gold operation. James finished his drink and poured another one. Ashcroft placed a hand on his arm before he could drink it.

“If you go West, you and David, together, can build an empire,” said Ashcroft.

“Can I work with him, after a year without contact?” He imagined David in California, waiting for him, needing his help. James gripped his snifter.

“You must,” Ashcroft said. James nodded.

The men would help pay for the voyage and receive a percentage of the gold mines’ earnings. Brewster drew up a contract and summoned his notary.

***

Over the course of the week, James prepared. He found a mapmaker in Brooklyn who’d recently returned from the California territories. He would ride the train to St. Louis, and then take a series of boats and ferries on the Missouri River and its tributaries. The final section of the voyage would be on wagon and mule trains through the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

“You’ll need a rifle,” the mapmaker said.

“I’ve never been hunting,” James replied.

“It’s the Injuns and bandits who’ll be hunting you.”

At the bank, James withdrew his partner’s funds. Then he asked to be taken to his safety deposit box. The clerk led him down a long marble hallway into the heart of the building. He opened the vault and took a kerosene lantern inside the metal room. James placed the original patent inside his box and the gold nugget too. The clerk locked the box and led him from the vault. In the hallway, James halted and turned. He returned to the vault, had the clerk unlock his box and removed the nugget, clenching it in his palm. He carried it in his breast pocket as he made his way to the train station and ordered his ticket West.

II

3 months later

The stagecoach driver calmed his mules and doused the lantern. The path obscured as rocks and winter-bare trees overlapped ahead. In the evening light, James couldn’t make out his pocket watch, but it could be no later than 7:30pm. He did not understand why they had stopped so early. Yesterday, his driver, Solomon, had only slowed the cart at nightfall. He leaned forward and inquired why they had paused.

Solomon did not face his passenger when he answered. “Hiram Taylor and his gang ahead. Best to travel his territory in daylight.”

“Who is Hiram Taylor?”

Solomon turned and grimaced, revealing his teeth. “They call him the Angel Death, sir.”

“I am to be in Shasta by tomorrow morning. I cannot afford to waste time because of outlaws.” James’s hand felt for his valise, where the letter from David’s rested, and the piece of gold.

“He’s as real as the Black Plague,” Solomon said and laughed without cheer. “The Taylor gang killed a man last month because he wouldn’t pay their toll. His driver too. They call him the Angel of Death because when the sheriff and his posse went into the hills to hunt him down, he killed the sheriff’s first born. Strung him up from a lamppost in town.” Solomon buttoned his coat and looked forward again. “Continue on foot, if you wish.”

James took his hand off his valise, and stood in the wagon to survey the wilds of California. He couldn’t see far, but he could hear into the distance. Coyotes yapped from miles around in harmony with the sound of a stream and, beneath, wind whispering between the cliffs. At this time in New York, the canyons would be echoing with the sound of carriages and people.

“You’ve made your point.”

***

James paid Solomon his fare and sauntered through the half-frozen muck to the front of the low stone building that housed Shasta’s law enforcement. Despite the cold, the street was filled with people. Most were men, their faces like leather. They wore overalls and wool coats. Their eyes were cast down as they trudged their ways.

Sheriff Walter stood on step of the office. He did not wear a badge but nonetheless announced his authority with a revolver strapped to his thigh. On the front of his vest were bullet loops, many of which were empty. A scar that ran from cheek to jowl bisected his beard.

“Sheriff Walter?” James asked the man, his hands on his hips.

Sheriff Walter glanced down. “Have I met you?”

James moved onto the step beside him. “No, you haven’t. My brother is David Weaver, a prospector here. I need a guide to his claim.”

The Sheriff shook his head. “Not goin’ out there. Bound to get kill -”

Walter did not finish his sentence. Instead, he strode off the front step of the jailhouse and across the street, to the side of a pub. A man with a hat and overalls was urinating on the wall, one hand planted on the planks to keep him steady.

“Ah shit,” the short man said, slurring.

Walter struck him in the jaw. The blow was hard, and the short man’s head ricocheted against the wall. He collapsed to the ground. Walter hauled him to his feet by his overalls. The man’s head was bleeding and the last of his urine dribbled down his pants. The man mumbled to the sheriff, who told him to be quiet and slapped him across the face. The miners continued their work, ignoring the disturbance.

“Sheriff Walter!” James said. “I have seen punishments for public inebriation, but none like this!”

Walter began to drag the man towards the jail. “This man stole from the church last night. Padre saw him with the pewter candle sticks.”

“And what of his treatment? Will there be a trial?” demanded James.

Walter brought the man into the jail, so James had to follow him inside. After the man was locked in a cell with two other men, James touched Walter’s shoulder.

“I am a lawyer, and I cannot stand by such an abuse of power.”

The sheriff spun. “A lawyer? We don’t have much use for law here. In two hundred miles of gold panners, whores, and Injuns, there is just me. I make my choices. ”

In the cell, the thief tore off a length of his shirt to wrap around his head.

“And I disagree with them,” said James, regarding the prisoner. “I have little faith you can help my find my brother.”

Walter took a pipe out of his pocket. “I don’t need to help you find anyone. David Weaver is dead.” He lit the pipe and blew the smoke at James.

James coughed. “What? When? How did he pass?”

Walter shrugged. “Shot last month by the Taylor Gang.”

“A month…”James knees shook. His brother was dead. He felt for the gold nugget in his pocket and squeezed it through the fabric. “We need a posse. Get your men ready to find this bandit.”

Walter seized James by the arm. His grip was so tight that James’ pulse throbbed against his fingers. “Would you like to join him in the cell?” Walter said.

“On what grounds?” James matched his gaze and refused to blink.

“Whatever I want.” Sheriff Walter smiled, puffed his pipe. “Five dollars might remind me of your innocence, though.”

James scoffed and the Sheriff began to tow him towards the cell.

“I’ll pay,” said James. The Sheriff let go. He reached into his coat and withdrew a purse. He opened it in front of Sheriff Walter and selected the coins slowly. “And his innocence?” James asked, nodding towards the prisoner.

Walter looked at the leather purse and sniffed. “It’s 10 for him. I wasn’t kidding about the pewter.”

James handed over the money. Walter counted it and put it in his back pocket, before he took the iron keys from their hook. He unlocked the cell and thrust the prisoner at James. The man collapsed against James, tugging his shirt. James pulled the short man’s arm across his shoulders and together they hobbled from the jail.

“Congrats on your purchase,” Walter called, saluting his pipe. The sheriff regained his post on the front step, presiding over the main drag.

“How is your head?” James asked the prisoner. He tried not to think that his coat, a gift from the district judge of New York, was now soiled with blood, sweat, and urine.

“’S alright,” the man mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?” James leaned closer to the man’s mouth.

The man punched him in the face and then pushed James away. Blinded by pain, James fell back in the mud. He began to roll onto his knees, but the prisoner kicked him. The toes crushed his diaphragm. His breath exited; his stomach felt like a crumpled can, and he knew that was going pass out. Gasping for air, he brought his hands in front of his face as protection against another assault. None came.

As the man scampered off, James thought he heard him say, “Thanks, chief.”

***

James awoke a few minutes later. By some grace, he had rested on his side and had not choked to death in the mire. The sheriff was on the front step of the jailhouse. He was watching him and smoking his pipe. James stood and felt his stomach where he’d been kicked. He didn’t think that he’d broken a rib but something was – his pocket watch was gone. The pewter thief was now a pickpocket and assailant too. He searched his pants and found the gold piece. He didn’t take it out though, didn’t let the miner’s see his brother’s last gift.

James found Solomon spending his fare inside of the pub. He asked the old man where he could find his brother’s grave. The old man told him there was a church at the end of the street where he might find it.

“Thank you, Solomon.” When James stood from the bar, he saw his reflection in the mirror. He started to knot his necktie. The stubble on his cheeks looked like the texture of his wool coat. He turned his felt hat in his hands. During the last month of his trip, he’d never seen his appearance. He’d lost his shaving mirror. A terrible thought occurred to him: How had David looked when he died? Was his face blown away, was he decomposed? Did they only know him by names on his things? James wasn’t dead, but he could hardly recognize himself.

***

Behind the church was the graveyard. There were no gravestones, only several rows of crooked wooden crosses planted in the dirt. James found his brother’s at the back. The white paint on his marker was already peeling away. Someone had carved the initials DW on it, but there were no dates or messages. James kneeled in the dirt to whittle the years of his brother’s life into the cross. He recited the Lord’s Prayer and then left.

***

Back in town, James purchased a mule and three days provisions. To his good fortune, a wagon train shipment had recently come from the coast. It was the only direction to approach town without risk of an ambush. James was able to buy food, flint, a canvas tent, and a rifle. Then, he rented the room behind the pub and tried to recruit a posse. He roamed the bar and made his proposition known to several men. None of them met his eyes when they declined. Their deep voices cracked. They drank their beer and told him to leave.

While he scrubbed his hands in the washbasin, he heard Solomon in the bar. He leaned his ear for a listen. The coach driver told the barman he was returning to Cobbleton in the east the next morning. Without Solomon, James would be unable to go east for at least a week. He left the washbasin to check if his purse still had a return fare.

Next to his purse were maps that David had drawn. He had marked out sites for prospective mines and given short lists of the materials needed. After his hands were clean, James intended on studying the maps. Reaching for the purse, James glimpsed a trail that David had drawn between town and a head camp. He saw another route that was longer, but had topography mules could manage. Ignoring Solomon’s revelry from the room over, James lowered his purse and returned to the washbasin. He scrubbed until his hands stung, and then tossed the refuse into the street. He studied the maps until his candle burned out.

***

James awoke to the sound of gunshots. Two of them pierced the silence and then echoed down the riverbed. He heard men yelling and running from town in the direction of the mining camp. In the darkness, he struggled to find his boots and coat. Before leaving the room, took the rifle and put shells in his pocket.

James hurried east from the main drag towards the river, and then along the banks until he hit the tents. Stumps like broken teeth ringed the campsite and the smell of ash, pervaded the air. Sluices directed water from the river outwards like veins.

The commotion was dying down. The men wandered to their tents or revived their fires for breakfast. James recognized the sheriff among a clump of men on the river bank. They had fished something out of the water – a body.

Sheriff Walter noticed James and motioned for him to approach. Then, the sheriff stood aside so James could see. In addition to a bullet wound, the body had been pierced by an arrow. The corpse’s head was also injured, and bandaged with the torn hem of a shirt. He recognized the body. It was the burglar that had assaulted him yesterday.

“I think that’s yours,” he said. He patted James on the shoulder. “The arrow isn’t from an Injun. It’s Hiram Taylor’s work.” The arrow was painted black. Some distance north, James could see the smoke column of a fire. It was Hiram Taylor, mocking the town, daring one to engage him; to leave the warmth of their fire for his.

The sheriff asked for Red Eddie. A tall man Indian with blues eyes approached leading a horse. He lifted the body onto the beast’s back and lashed it down. He was singing under his breath in French. No one aided him in his task. The miners picked up their pans and rock boxes and picks, and set to work. The sheriff left, but not before he said goodbye to James.

Red Eddie dug a grave in a patch of land behind the wooden church. The priest, an old Mexican man, said a few words in Spanish and waved his rosary. Other than James, no one else attended. Red Eddie shoveled dirt into the grave and sang. James watched him.

“Did you know him?” the Indian asked James.

James hand pressed against his abdomen. “Not really. Why would Taylor kill him? He wouldn’t have had any money, save an old pocket watch perhaps.”

“He doesn’t have a pocket watch now.” Eddie began to tamp down the soil with the flat of his shovel. “Taylor didn’t kill a vagabond like this for money. For him, money is secondary to fear. This death is a reminder of who is in charge here. It’s been a while since he’s reminded us.”

“Is that why he killed my brother David? He went out to start a – a copper mine,” James said. “And this man, Hiram Taylor, killed him over that?” James watched Red Eddie, wary of his lie.

Red Eddie finished flattening the dirt. He looked at James with his strange blue eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “His death is hard to understand. He was killed by a mad man.”

James walked around the grave, closer to Eddie. “Can you help me find the claim? Protect me from Taylor? I can pay in a percentage –”

“Please, stop.” Red Eddie said. “I understand. It’s your duty to your brother to finish his work.”

James offered his hand to Indian, who lowered his shovel, and shook it.

III

From the steel sky to the hardened earth, the world was gray; nowhere could James see or imagine bandits waiting in the hills. Ahead, Red Eddie led the mule through the rocks. That dawn, they’d left town to head north along the Sacramento River on the ill-defined trail. Since their departure, Red Eddie hadn’t spoken a word, except the occasional encouragement to their mule. James would have been bothered by the silence, but he was more concerned with his breathing. The strenuous hike challenged his constitution. After weeks of sitting in wagons and boats, several miles gave him blisters.

They stopped when the trail neared the river. Red Eddie tied the mule to a tree and pulled a fishing pole from his pack. James followed him down to the water. Red Eddie undid his boots and stood barefoot in the freezing cold shallows. James waited on the beach as Eddie began to tie his string to the pole.

“Do you need a worm?” James asked, looking about. He had his hands in his pockets for warmth.

“I use a lure.” Eddie withdrew a handmade lure. It was a piece of wood carved to resemble a small fish. He pushed the line through a small hole and tied off the string on the hook. He extended the completed fishing pole to James. “Would you like to cast off?”

James shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m qualified for such a thing.” Eddie nodded and with a flick of his wrist, the hook sailed out into the river. The lure bobbed near the top of the water and Eddie began to direct it with deft movements of the pole.

“The song you sang yesterday, it was in French, yes?” said James.

Eddie whistled a few bars of the melody. “It’s a Cajun tune about a drunkard who gets lost in the bayou.”

“How did you learn that in California? It would be more common for an Indian to know Spanish, I’d imagine.” James sat down on a rock and took off his boots. He peeled off his wet wool socks, one of which was pink with blood. His feet steamed.

“The natives here are Mitow. I’m Choctaw.”

“Vous venez de Louisiane?” James said.

“Oui, bien sur.” Eddie motioned for James to join him. “Come, I’ll teach you to fish.”

“Just let me put my shoes on.” James began to stretch his sock over his toes.

“Leave your socks off.” Eddie said. “Your feet need to breath. Before you put your boots on, you need to change into two pairs of dry socks. A liner and an outer.”

James hobbled across the rocks to Eddie’s side. Eddie gave James the pole and adjusted his hands on the grip. With his hands over James’, he began to move the fishing rod back and forth. The tip of the pole swayed, causing the lure to glide across the surface of the water. There was a rhythm to his movements, but it flowed without thought. The lure swam in the current.

“You imitate the minnow, the big fish come. You try,” Eddie said. He removed his hands and took a step back to watch James. James moved the pole across his body. The line went slack and then tightened. The wooden minnow splashed against the current. He stopped pulling and it sank.

Eddie opened his mouth, but James shook his head. He closed his eyes and flexed his bare toes in the wet mud. Eyes closed, he traced a small circle with the rod and then began to weave it back and forth. Eddie whistled the French song for him to move with; together they fished.

That night, they camped set up camp at a large boulder and grilled their fish.

***

When James awoke, he was alone. The ground swam in a mist and the frozen pine needles crunched under his boots as he stepped out of the tent. He’d heard a sharp crack from up the ridge. The sound of a gun. He pulled up his suspenders and grabbed the rifle from his pack. The mule snored. James fumbled to load the rifle, dropping casings on the ground.

Red Eddie emerged from the trees carrying a slain rabbit. He had his rifle over one shoulder and no hat. His hair fell on his shoulders.

James stopped loading his rifle. He put it down. “Is it safe to shoot here?”

“We’re still a day or so from Taylor’s territory. Any gunshots they hear, they won’t be able to place.” Eddie sat down near their extinct fire and pulled a knife from his boot. He cut off the head of the rabbit, then strung it upside down, made two incisions at the ankles, and peeled off the skin. The flesh beneath was slick and pink.

“Bring your rifle over,” he said to James.

James picked up the gun and sat down on a rock. He brought the bullet case too, and then added the shells he’d dropped. He laid the rifle with the barrel on his knee, the stock on Eddie’s.

“Breech, hammer, trigger,” Eddie explained, wiping dirt from the fallen bullet.

“I can use a rifle,” James said and loaded it.

Eddie snatched the rifle and gave him the bloody knife. “Then you can learn to use this.” He pushed James towards their lunch. James kneeled where Eddie had hung the dead rabbit. The insides bulged, but remained in the stomach cavity. James touched it – it was still warm. He took it down and laid it flat to cut through the breast bone.

Eddie smiled and went to get a drink of water. He whistled, calling to the birds. The birds responded, but not to his whistles. They twittered loudly. A warbler swooped down into the clearing and then flew off. James stopped cutting.

There was a low sound, like a dog, and movement.

Eddie stopped drinking. “Get the mule ready.”

“What’s –”

“Too late. Run.” Eddie tossed the water skin aside and grabbed his rifle. He dropped to a knee, scanning the tree line with the rifle at his shoulder.

James held his rifle too and peered into the forest. There was a shape between the trees. Then bullets shot out between the branches, spraying needles into the air. The mule brayed and tried to pull from its mooring. A stray bullet smacked into the beast’s side. Two men and a dog ran into the clearing. The dog dashed toward them with red eyes and bared teeth, barking.

Eddie fired, James too, and the dog yelped somewhere behind the haze of gun smoke. One of the men stumbled and fell against their tent. The second man screamed and lifted his gun.

James was showered from behind by a hot spray, a moment before he heard the gunshot. Despite the urge to look at Eddie, he launched to his right, scrambling to exit the clearing. It was thirty feet to the tree line. Another shot fired. The bullet grazed James’ left arm. He dropped his rifle. James looked over his shoulder in time to see Eddie’s head collapse in a red mist. The man who’d hit their tent was still alive, though. His hands were clamped to his neck, but dark blood spurted through. The final bandit ignored James and stood over Eddie, firing into his lifeless torso as he screamed about his dead dog.

James ran. He broke branches with his arms and legs, and ran. There were more gunshots, but they echoed off the rocks and the trail until he could not determine their source. After several minutes, he paused to listen. He hated silence, yet jumped at any sound. He shook and he sweat. He urinated against a tree for fear of wetting himself by accident. The sun was below the trees, so he used the glow of sunset to navigate southwest to the trail and loop back to their camp, where his mule was slain and his things scattered. The bodies had disappeared.

First, he found a water skin and drank till it was dry. Then he tried to eat a piece of jerky, but the stench of the mule remains made him vomit. Using a piece of his bedding, he bandaged his arm. The wound tingled and he wondered if there were bits of fabric lodged in the cut. Infection would kill him surer than a bullet. Many of his items were broken or spoiled, but he found a compass and a knife. They’d taken his rifle. The maps were gone. They had been in the leather case which also contained the patent. It was missing.

He listened for bandits. No gunshots, no cries. His ragged breath dominated his hearing. James took off again, but now he was aware of his pain. His arm and feet were numb and his arm hurt when he moved it away from his body. All he could smell was his vomit and blood.

At the river, he dunked his head in the freezing water. He scrubbed the dried blood from his neck with sand, but his neck remained red. He washed and washed only to realize that in his fervor, he had torn the skin from his neck. The blood was his, mixed with Eddie’s.

Sunset ended and for several minutes the entire river was red with the reflection of the dying light. James found shelter under a short pine. He slept without dreams.

IV

The next morning, James refilled his water skin upriver from where’d he scrubbed clean. His stomach gurgled like the moving water. He gnawed half the strip of jerky from his pocket and replaced what was left. It was a full day’s hike back to Shasta; he had no other provisions. He took off his dressing and examined his arm. The skin was swollen and bruised, the cut scabbed over. It didn’t look infected, but when he pressed it, he cried out. He washed it in the cold river and made a new bandage.

As he worked, at his side was the knife, partially removed from its sheath. Twice, he grabbed it after noises he thought were voices. The first time it was a red-tailed hawk cry. The second time it was nothing at all.

He trekked parallel to the trail with the knife in hand. When he neared the ruined campsite, he dared to take a closer look, crouching at the edge of the clearing. The destruction remained. In the dirt were dark stains of dried blood, and streaks from when the bodies had been dragged away. With hardly a breeze, the smell of gunpowder hung over the camp.

Under the collapsed tent was Eddie’s leather pack. Inside were dried food, a blanket, flint, tinder, and shells for a missing rifle. He checked the outer pocket. He found Red Eddie’s fishing lure and a tiny derringer two shot pistol that the bandits must have missed. The gun went in the pocket of his vest, and he shouldered the pack. It would be enough to make it to Shasta.

He examined the streaks from the bodies. They were aiming north, towards the smoke stack. Towards Hiram’s camp. He closed his eyes and saw the bullet strike Eddie’s face, the bone give way to lead. He must be dead. Still, James followed the markings into the forest and tried to identify broken twigs or tracks. He found a wake of disturbed pine needles. Then he saw it: A corpse sprawled against a tree trunk ahead.

Taylor’s Gang had left Red Eddie’s body for the coyotes. Soft flesh – his nose, cheeks, fingers – was gone. There were at least three bullet wounds that James could see amongst the bites and ripped clothing. He hoped that Eddie had died before the scavengers found him.

James hiked back to the camp and cut a portion of the fallen tent for a shroud. He returned to Eddie and draped the canvas over him. In Eddie’s hands, he placed the fishing lure as a token. He did his best to tuck the tent underneath Eddie’s body and properly cover him. He worked in silence, only pausing to wipe a tear from his cheek. The canvas wouldn’t prevent the next round of scavengers from coming, or the maggots growing, but it dignified his passing. When he was finished, James cleaned his hands.

“Thank you, Eddie,” he whispered. “I will make you a gravestone in the church yard.” James held his gold nugget and regarded it in the morning light. The surface was dulled and tinted red with blood. He placed it in his breast pocket where it weighed on heart.

Someone coughed. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was a male, still some distance away. North. James pulled out the miniature pistol and held his breath. He heard footsteps, tiny shuffles of the needles. He still had time to run. They would see the shroud and know he was near, but he could get ahead. How well could they track him? Or he could hide and wait, but only if he took the shroud. If they saw it, they wouldn’t stop looking. Would they ever stop looking?

James opened the derringer. It was loaded with two shots of a small caliber, but large enough to kill a man. He looked down at the makeshift burial sheet.

James dropped the pack behind the tree. On his knees, he pulled the canvas out from under Eddie’s body. The stench of raw flesh wafted in his face, causing him to tear up. A piece of bloody fabric stuck to the canvas. He shoved it back inside and his finger tips contacted something wet. James retched, but didn’t have enough in his stomach to throw up.

The approaching bandit coughed again. James pulled back the hammer on the derringer and rolled under the canvas. He lay like a lover against the corpse’s chest. It was dark under the shroud, and he couldn’t hear creaking trees and rush of wind anymore. He placed a hand over his mouth to stifle the odor and his shuddering breath.

He waited. The small gun was heavy and we wanted to switch hands, but his other arm was beneath his body. He had the gun aimed in the direction of the bandit. The dead body was cold, as cold as the ground, but his hands sweat. He worried that he wouldn’t hear the bandit arrive, that the man would shoot at the canvas lump, or stab it; that he would die in the dark without a fight.

“What the hell?” James heard the man say. The canvas rippled as a boot prodded it. Then, there was a rustle of fabric as the man bent down to draw back the sheet. His hand grasped a bunch of cloth near James’ head.

James pulled the trigger. The bullet burst through the man’s hand. They both screamed. The canvas lost tension and fell back on James. He fired another shot at a lower angle, hoping he’d strike the man’s body. The space under the ruined canvas now smelled like fire, in addition to flesh. It was impossible to breath.

James stood up, pushing off the ground with his folded arm. He brought the stinking canvas with him and tackled his adversary with it draped on his head. The canvas fell back over onto the bandit, and then James straddled the man, sealing the cocoon. He had dropped the spent derringer, so he beat downwards with his fists and elbows. There was no rhythm to his assault. James hit as fast and hard as he could. Beneath him, the man bellowed. His hands pressed against the canvas as he tried to throw James off. James found the man’s head and struck it. The bandit’s hands lost their position.

The bandit planted his feet flat on the earth, his knees digging into James’ back. Using them as leverage, he bucked his hips upwards, sideways, thrashing like a tormented bull. James gripped him tighter with his thighs and refused to come loose. He reached for the knife at his hip, but the sheath was empty – it had fallen out.

The knife lay on the other side of Eddie’s body. To reach it, he’d have to roll off the bandit. He’d have to be quick. The bandit was rising off the ground, so James slammed him with the flat of his arms. Then, he flung himself backwards, off the bandit and against the dead body. His left hand grabbed the knife.

The man sat up and tried to fling the canvas from his head. Knife in hand, James thrust his whole body forward. He embraced his enemy and stabbed him till the canvas was soaked through. He plunged the knife into the shroud until the only screams were he heard were his own dry-throated barks: angry, loud, and triumphant.

***

James took the dead man’s Sharps rifle and bullet case. The gun had been over the man’s back. With Eddie’s pack too, James left, not in the direction of Shasta, but north toward Hiram’s camp. The gunshots and screams would attract attention, so he ran.

When he was a mile from the bodies he stopped and climbed a tall pine. He looked upriver where he’d last spotted Hiram’s smoke stack. It wasn’t there. The smoke had moved off trail to the base of Mount Shasta. It was the heart of James land claim, where David had proposed a mine. James’ maps were gone, but he knew where to go. He knew where to find Hiram Taylor.

V

James could make it to the base of Mount Shasta by nightfall. It was near the trail, but on high ground. He climbed down from the tree and prepared for the trip. He lowered the trigger guard to open the breech of the Sharps and checked that it had not been damaged in the fight. He dry operated the hammer and when he was satisfied, loaded the rifle with a bullet, percussion cap and primers from the case. Then he took the knife from it’s the sheath. In the cold, the blood had congealed quickly. Wary of wasting water, James spit on the blade and tried to clean it with leaves. He didn’t want the blood to rust the steel. At first, he sat while he worked, but the rock sapped his warmth, so he paced instead.

He walked north along the trail. After several miles, a cramp seized his gut. He dropped the rifle and clutched his stomach. The fight had subdued his hunger, but he realized that he hadn’t eaten a full meal in nearly a day, despite hiking for many miles. He sipped water from the skin, and waited underneath the blanket until his muscles’ grip subsided. Then, he opened Eddie’s pack and ate some of his dried food. He climbed a tree to check his course towards the smoke stack and set forth again.

He located an outpost at sunset, a mile from Hiram’s camp. It seemed deserted. There were three low huts that were camouflaged with fallen branches or smeared with gray mud to resemble the boulders dotting the landscape. He snuck closer. Barrels of supplies sat on a slightly raised log platform. Lanterns hung from posts nailed into trees which had their lower branches sawed off. The camp wasn’t built in a natural clearing, but constructed for functionality amidst the forest. James leaned against a tree on the periphery and cocked the hammer of the rifle.

James crawled closer and looked into one hut, shoving the muzzle of the gun in before him. In the evening light he could make out beds of animal fur on the floor. It looked like an Indian dwelling and smelled like human presence. James checked the adjacent hut and found it much different. The hut had tools and supplies: axes, picks, hammers, buckets, ropes, boxes. It housed the necessary items for a basic mining operation. He entered the last hut.

It was another dwelling and this one contained a man. He was on his side, perhaps asleep. Old bandages littered the floor like snake skins. James crept towards the figure with his gun outstretched. The body did not stir. James waited, counted to three, and then began to back up. His foot struck a bowl which rattled across the rocky ground. The man began to wake.

James dropped the gun, drew his knife and knelt down. He placed his hand over the man’s mouth and pushed the tip of the knife against his neck. The man began to squirm. “Hey,” James said. Then the man jerked, trying to pull himself away. James squeezed the mouth harder, stifling a cry and dug the knife in.

“Be still.”

The man stared at him, his eyes so wide they appeared lidless. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple rubbed the edge of the blade. It started bleeding. James could see now that his shoulder was injured. The blood pattern was circular, a bullet wound.

“If I take my hand away and you scream, you die,” said James. “If you don’t follow my instructions, you die.”

The man nodded.

“How many men does he have?” James asked, removing his hand.

“Who?” said the man. He looked over James shoulder rather than at his eyes.

James covered the man’s mouth again and pressed his thumb against the red stain on the bandage. The man writhed and tried to let out a scream, but James dug into his jaw with his fingertips. He took his thumb from the wound and when the scream subsided, he released.

“Hiram has eight, unless…” the man swallowed and surveyed the blood on James coat, “unless Bartholomew is dead.”

“Where does he post guards?” said James. The man sighed. James reached for his mouth but the man shook his head. James waited.

The man began to smile. “I should have screamed.” He opened his mouth wide, but James sawed through his throat.

***

James gnawed a piece of jerky, but chewed it endlessly, unable to swallow. He spit it out and washed the salt out of his mouth. His hands were sweating on the stock of rifle so he rubbed them against his thighs. He crouched one hundred feet from Hiram Taylor’s main camp. It was similar to the outpost, but with more huts and more light. The fire glow leaking between the pines was strong enough to warm his front. It was long past midnight, but the rival sun burned bright on the base of the mountain.

Hiram Taylor and seven men. One gun, one knife. One night.

James slipped closer, treading only when he was sure that there were no twigs beneath his feet. He had an unlit lantern and pressed to his coat to muffle any squeaks. He circled as he went, coming closer to the sound of work on the far side of the camp. Sound meant people, but it would also cover his own approach. Every forty feet he poured a pool of kerosene from the lantern at the base of a tree and lit it with the flint. On the other side, he emptied the rest of lantern and left it lying in the brush.

He discovered the source of the noise. Five skeletal men knelt at a sluice and used rock boxes to pan for gold. They were wearing shackles and rags. Behind them, a bandit paced, carrying a whip. None of the workers reacted when he came near, but shook their boxes in a rhythmic daze. By the largest bonfire was an iron cage with more slaves inside, perhaps four or five. With the fires, they could work through day and night, mining the land dry.

Hiram Taylor and seven men. One gun, one knife. One night.

James looked at the nearest kerosene fire, which had yet to spread far. Then he considered the slaves. He sighted his rifle on the bandit and tracked his slow gait. The bandit stopped to adjust his hat. James inhaled, held his breath, and fired. The shot hit the man in his gut. He dropped his hat and stumbled. The slaves looked up, but didn’t stand or run. James lay on his stomach, hugging the brush. He cracked open the rifle and ejected the steaming cartridge. The bandit fell to his knees and cried out an alarm. James fumbled to load another round, singeing his fingers. Two men emerged from huts carrying guns. James crawled behind a tree. One of the bandits wasn’t wearing pants or shoes. He galloped into the woods with two revolvers and ran past James. James finished reloading and fired without taking the time to aim. The shot slammed into the naked bandit’s lower back. He fell face first.

James scurried from the tree to the squirming body. He brought the stock of the rifle down on the back of the injured man’s skull, feeling the bone give way. He left the rifle and picked up the two revolvers.

The first bandit was still on his knees, firing a pistol. His shots flew high and wide, knocking needles from branches. James cut back and forth, going as fast as he could while bent over. He watched as the five slaves finally reacted. They pelted the outlaw with their rock boxes and tackled him. One gained control of the gun and fired at his master until it went dry. The slave whooped and waved the gun, but was taken down by a shotgun blast. The other slaves mobbed his attacker. More of Hiram’s men awoke, and tried to subdue their slaves.

James sprinted out of the woods, leapt over the sluice, and came to the slave cage. The inhabitants gripped the bars and shook their pen. James blasted the lock. They knocked him over in their haste to be free, but then lifted him up with dirty hands. James recruited a slave to help him topple the cage. They pushed it towards the bonfire and then levered it over into the flames. When it struck the fire, the logs broke and rolled from the pit. Embers sailed high and touched the branches of the dry pines. One of the huts combusted as fire snaked across the brush.

Then the slave next to James shuddered and grasped him for support. An arrow stuck out of his chest. Hiram Taylor stood between two huts, holding a bow. He was dark skinned from the sun, not an Indian, but not like a white man either. He had a black beard and a long knife at his side. He notched another arrow.

James ran, shooting in Taylor’s direction, and made it out of the camp unscathed. The forest roared with gunshots and the escalating fire. Outside of the camp it was cooler, but the fires had begun to spread. James headed for the river to escape the smoke and conflagration.

The trail ran parallel to the river, twenty feet above the banks. James stumbled onto the trail, tripped on a rock, and rolled down the slope into the river. The water was freezing. He gasped and hauled himself up in the shallows. He’d lost one revolver and he doubted the remaining one would fire. The water hugged his shaking thighs, but he smiled.

The snowy Mount Shasta summit was red with the reflection of the inferno. Birds and deer, coyotes and hare, ran from the forest and into the river. People too. It was an exodus. A slave or a bandit engulfed in flames jumped off the river’s edge to douse his body.

Hiram Taylor emerged from the forest. He had an arrow ready and he knelt on the trail to steady his arm. James lifted the revolver. They both fired. James’ gun didn’t go off. Hiram’s arrow struck him in the right shoulder. The tip stuck out of his back.

Hiram Taylor took out another arrow and notched it. James switched the gun to his left hand and continued to pull the trigger. The gun puffed smoke. Hiram fired again. James dove to the side, and arrow splashed beside him into the water. He heaved himself up, wiping the river water from his eyes. He prepared for another onslaught.

A stag bounded out of the trees and collided with Hiram. The pair flew off the edge of the trail. The stag struck the ground and scurried into the river. Hiram landed upside down on the rocky banks. James dropped the revolver and waded out of the water. On the shore, he grasped a heavy, river-worn rock.

Hiram’s eyes were bloodshot and crossed. His neck was broken, but his mouth still worked at the air. James hefted the rock in his left arm and crushed Hiram Taylor’s skull. When he was finished, James closed his eyes, let go of the stone, and took a deep breath of the smoky air.