Hard Gold: The Colorado Gold Rush of 1859: A Tale of the Old West

  A LETTER TO MY READERS

  Dear Friends,

  I love to read good, strong stories with lots of adventure, action, and emotion—and plenty of detail. No surprise it’s the kind of story I like to write, too.

  That’s what this series, I Witness, is all about: exciting stories about fictional young people during real events in history. I Witness stories will make you feel as if you are right in the middle of the action. The illustrations will show what things really looked like.

  There have been many gold rushes in American history, but since I live in Colorado, the one I’ve heard most about is the gold rush of 1859—the days of “Pike’s Peak or Bust.” Hard Gold is as true to what happened to those Fifty-Niners as I could make it. I don’t know if there actually was a teenager by the name of Early Wittcomb, but I am sure there were a good many like him.

  Here we go …

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.

  Text copyright © 2008 by Avi

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  For information address Disney • Hyperion Books,

  114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  First Disney • Hyperion paperback edition, 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  eISBN: 978-1-4231-4026-9

  ISBN: 978-1-4231-0520-6

  Visit www.hyperionbooksforchildren.com

  Illustration credits appear on page 230.

  ILS No. J689-1817-1

  110 2009

  For Bev Robin and Leslie Blauman

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  How It Began

  CHAPTER TWO

  My Brothers

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bad News and Good

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hard Times, Strange Times

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Whole Lot of Time

  CHAPTER SIX

  I Find a Way

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I Leave Home

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lizzy

  CHAPTER NINE

  Westward, Ho!

  CHAPTER TEN

  We Head West

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mr. Mawr

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  News About Jesse

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Farewell to Iowa

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Into Nebraska

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Stampede!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Going On

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Long Trail

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Cherry Creek!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Denver House

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Going After Jesse

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Into the Mountains

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Gold Hill

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jesse

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Escape!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Rest of My Life

  GLOSSARY

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  ILLUSTRATION CREDITS

  CHAPTER ONE

  How It Began

  Late Winter, 1858

  MY NAME is Early Wittcomb, and I’m the teller of this tale. I was given the name Early because I was born in the first hour of the first day of 1845—the same year the Republic of Texas joined the Union. While I can’t say I was always early, I did stay—otherwise I wouldn’t be telling this story, now would I?

  This tale really begins when “Old Buck” James Buchanan was president, the one just before Lincoln. That was about the time that a drought had settled on the whole middle part of the country, including Iowa state, where my family had a farm.

  Our seventy-five acres were in Cass County, east of the town of Wiota. We grew wheat, corn, and oats and kept some sheep, hogs, and cows.

  Just a glimpse of how the prairie looked.

  To my eyes it wasn’t nearly so cultivated, not back in 1858.

  Having less rain meant we weren’t able to grow much, so money was scarce. Markets were so bad they were calling it a “panic.” Even if you had money, it was hard to keep. Lots of farm folks couldn’t make mortgage payments to the bank. If you couldn’t pay, the bank took the farm. Called “foreclosure.” Perfectly legal, in a kind of low-down, thieving, rascally way.

  Pa and Ma used savings to pay our mortgage, but with no cash coming in, our money was dwindling. We didn’t know what might happen.

  Then, on a cold morning in February, a gig pulled by a glossy brown mare drove up to our house. That didn’t happen often, so the whole family—Pa, Ma, Adam, Uncle Jesse, and I—went out to see who it was.

  At the reins of the gig was Mr. Fuslin, our local banker. Fuslin was not only head of the local Whig party but a county judge. A portly man, he had a gray beard that edged round his long face like an upside-down crown. Hatchet-nosed.

  Sitting next to him was a tall, skinny fellow dressed in top hat, a long black frock coat, black vest, and fine boots. Never saw him before. They both climbed out.

  A gig, such as Judge Fuslin had. Pretty fancy and expensive.

  Most folks around Wiota used wagons to get around.

  The judge tipped his top hat to Ma, and nodded toward Adam, my older brother. He ignored Uncle Jesse and me. Then, to my Pa, he says, “Mr. Wittcomb, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my friend”—meaning the fellow next to him—“Mr. Zebulon Bigalow.”

  “Obliged, sir,” Pa said.

  “Mr. Wittcomb, sir,” Mr. Bigalow proclaimed, “I represent the great Chicago and North Western Railway.”

  The way he spread those words through the air, you could tell he expected us to bow down, put lips to earth, and cry “Hallelujah!”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pa. “What can I do for you?” Being polite was our way.

  “You’ll be glad to know,” said this Bigalow fellow, “that after careful surveying, our railroad requires your farmland for a right-of-way. It would be good for Cass County. Good for Iowa. Good for the whole United States of America. And very good for you, sir.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve been authorized to give you two thousand dollars for an outright purchase of your land. What’s more, we’ll take over all mortgage debts.”

  Knowing that was a whole pile of money, I looked to Pa to see his reaction. He was stony-faced.

  The judge jumped in. “Daniel, may I be bold enough to advise that this is a good offer. A fine offer. You should take it up.”

  Next moment, Mr. Bigalow reached into his carpetbag and plumped out a bulging fist of cash. Held it toward Pa.

  A rare thing, but Pa turned hot. I even saw the tips of his ears get red. “No thank you, sir,” he said, a touch of tremble in his voice. “This farm is going to be left to my boy.” He meant Adam.

  �
��You surprise me, sir,” said Mr. Bigalow. “This is a generous offer. I’m not a threatening man, but if you refuse, the Chicago and North Western Railway might well have to find a way to make you sell the land to them.”

  “They do have strength, Mr. Wittcomb,” put in Judge Fuslin. “And you do have debts.”

  That being a threat if I ever heard one, I started getting mad. I glanced at my brother Adam. He was red-faced, fuming, clenching fists. But he didn’t do anything.

  But my uncle Jesse, he stepped forward and said, “Gentlemen, you heard what Mr. Wittcomb said. We’d be more than obliged if you’d leave. But if you don’t know how, I’d be happy to get my Sharps slant rifle and teach you.”

  “Young man, do you know whom you’re threatening?” demanded Judge Fuslin.

  “I sure do,” said Jesse. He was putting on some serious frowning, but I could tell by his bright eyes that he was enjoying himself.

  “Jesse!” said Pa, but he didn’t say more.

  I can tell you, I grinned when those fellows leaped into their gig and clattered off.

  As we returned to the house, Adam said, “Jesse, you’re a fool to threaten those people.”

  “You’re a fool not to,” Jesse threw back. Those two were always sparring.

  “I’m just glad they went away,” said Ma.

  Pa, as usual, didn’t say more than he already had.

  Later on, Jesse and I talked about what had happened. Considering the railway man’s warning, I was pretty upset.

  “Early,” he said, “don’t worry. It’s just Judge Fuslin on the hustle, wanting everything his own way. Nothing’s going to happen.”

  But the truth is, because of Pa’s refusing to sell the farm—everything did change.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My Brothers

  NOW, HERE’S what you have to know about my two brothers.

  Brother Adam, nine years older than me, was a strong, stocky fellow with a set of chin whiskers, of which he was proud. Worked hard, I’ll give him that; but he liked being in charge. The truth was, my folks were getting weary, with gray hair and as many lines on their faces as furrows in our fields. Toiling dawn to dusk in dust had left them worn and fretful. They weren’t just willing to let Adam run things—we all knew that some day he was going to inherit the farm.

  “Don’t forget I’m your older brother,” Adam liked to say when telling me what to do, which he did pretty regular. Or if I fussed, he’d actually say, “Look here, Early, when the time comes, the farm will be mine, not yours.” Didn’t like him saying it, but I had no choice. I just worked.

  Now, Jesse—he was completely different. Most folks hear the word “uncle” and you think, an older fellow. Truth is, though Jesse truly was my uncle—my ma’s brother—he was just nineteen years old, a whole lot younger than Ma and only six years older than me.

  See, soon after Jesse was born, he became an orphan. Ma raised him up by hand, so to speak. While Jesse had a different last name than me, he was my real brother as far back as I could remember. In fact, he called me “little brother.”

  Five feet eight inches tall, he had wild golden hair and an ambling, shambling walk I could have picked out in a crowd of a million. He had a golly, good morning! smile that made me glad he was around, especially since my family wasn’t given much to smiling. Clean shaven, too. “Who wants to look like a goat?” he’d say, winking at Adam, who sported that dangling beard.

  Adam envied Jesse. Jesse had real good hands, hands that could split a rail in three whacks, shoot a flying pigeon at fifty yards, or turn a willow stick into a whistle in the time it took a fellow to spell Mississippi. Wasn’t it Jesse who taught me how to ride, fish, and shoot his own slant-breach Sharps rifle? We bunked in the same room, too, and great glory, how he made me laugh with his jokes and stories! I have to admit I worshipped Jesse like he was a hero made of gold.

  And the thing is, it’s gold that this story is all about.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bad News and Good

  September 1858

  LIKE I said, my folks were paying our mortgage with their savings. Thing was, those savings were going fast, because the drought hadn’t eased. So Pa and Adam hitched the mule to our buggy and clattered to town to meet with our banker to make some kind of arrangement. Who was that banker? None other than that Judge Fuslin I already told you about. Jesse went along for the ride.

  They came back with bad news. Judge Fuslin was not going to budge: unless the mortgage was paid, we were going to lose our farm. The only positive thing was that the folks had about twelve months of money left in their savings.

  That night we sat around the kitchen table staring with sad eyes at the whale-oil lamp, burning low like a last hope. There didn’t seem to be much doubt about what was going to happen. I never saw my parents so discouraged. After all their toilsome work, too.

  Well, anyway, we were sitting there silent as snow, not knowing what to do, when Jesse pulled out a newspaper—the Kansas City Journal of Commerce—which he’d found in town. “Look here,” he said with that cheerful grin of his, “we should consider this.” He held up the paper so we could read the headlines:

  The New Eldorado!

  GOLD IN KANSAS TERRITORY!

  The Pike’s Peak Mines!

  The First Arrival of Gold Dust in Kansas City!

  He went on to read the story under the headlines:

  “We were surprised this morning to meet Monsieur Bordeau and company, old mountain traders just in from Pike’s Peak in the Kansas Territory. They came in for outfits, tools, etc., for working the newly discovered mines on Cherry Creek, a tributary of the South Platte. They brought several ounces of gold, dug up by the trappers of that region, which, in fairness, equals the choicest of California specimens.

  “Mr. John Cantrell, an old citizen of Westport, has three ounces which he dug with a hatchet in Cherry Creek and washed out with a frying pan. Monsieur Richard, an old French trapper, has several ounces of the precious dust which he dug with an ax.

  “Kansas City is alive with excitement, and parties are already preparing for the diggings!”

  Soon as Jesse read that I knew exactly what was on his mind: this Kansas gold might be something we needed to find out about. After all, the Kansas Territory was just southwest of our own Iowa state. My parents, though, they looked at Jesse as if he’d just announced he was placing a five-dollar bet on a three-legged ox in a six-mile horse race.

  Adam said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “Read it yourself,” said Jesse, flipping the paper down.

  A map of the Kansas and Nebraska territories

  Adam wouldn’t even look. Said, “Just what are you suggesting?”

  Jesse grinned. “What I’m saying, brother Daniel, is that we could sit on our stumps and lose our farm. Or—I could go out to this Cherry Creek and snap up some of that gold that’s lying about. Pay the farm debt in double quick time. Be free of Judge Fuslin fast.”

  “What do you know about digging gold?” demanded Adam.

  “Go on, read it,” cried Jesse. “They got gold with an ax, didn’t they? A hatchet! Lord! A frying pan!”

  “You’d have no idea where to look,” Adam scoffed.

  “Sure I do,” said Jesse. “Says it’s on this Cherry Creek, right off the South Platte River. Guess what else I learned in town? These Cherry Creek diggings are only seven hundred miles from here. Seven hundred! I bet we walk that far when we plow each day! Why, a fellow could travel out there on his hands—backward.”

  “Now, Jesse,” said my ma, “for once you need to be serious.”

  “I am!” cried Jesse.

  Pa shook his head. “Jesse,” he said, “dreaming don’t work in the sunshine.”

  Jesse offered him the paper. “Printed words don’t lie.”

  “If a man set the type, they can!” growled Adam.

  “Digging for gold,” said my mother, “I remember people wanting to go to California years ago.”

&nbs
p; “And if we’d gone,” I cried, unable to hold back my keenness, “we’d be rich now.”

  Adam snorted. “Or dead.”

  “I guess you’d prefer losing the farm,” Jesse taunted.

  Adam turned red.

  “Would you just go way out there, alone!” Ma asked Jesse.

  Jesse looked across the table and winked at me. “Little brother can come with me. That way, we’d get the gold twice as fast.”

  “I like that,” I said, ready to gallop.

  “Lot of good Early would do you,” said Adam.

  “He’d do just fine,” said Jesse, making me feel good.

  “It would cost plenty to get there,” said Adam. “And we don’t have anything to spare.”

  “I’ll find it,” said Jesse.

  “How?” Adam challenged.

  Jesse didn’t answer that question.

  Pa shook his head. “We’re not going to lose the farm. No one is going anywhere.”

  End of discussion.

  But over the next few days, Jesse and I shared other newspaper stories up in our room.

  The Iowa Democrat wrote:

  The excitement caused by the discovery of the Pike’s Peak gold mines is still unabated. Every man has gold on his tongue. The first question one hears in the morning after coming downtown is, “What’s the news from the gold diggings?”

  There was one from the Kansas Weekly Herald:

  Gold! Gold! Gold! Reliable reports concerning the recent gold discoveries in the vicinity of Pike’s Peak still continue to arrive. Every trader or prospector coming from the region gives flattering accounts. The gold has been discovered in all the streams flowing from the mountains. Those who ought to know say that with the proper tools fifty dollars can be obtained per day.

  Days did pass, but all Jesse would talk about was Pike’s Peak. “Gold! Fifty dollars a day! Early,” he kept saying, “it’d be so fine if I could save the farm. Not for Adam. For your ma and pa. For all they done for me.”

  “Adam gets the farm in the end,” I reminded him.

  “Sure,” he said, “but he’d have to thank me for it, wouldn’t he?”