He’d been employed, for a brief time, in the telegraph office; but, though the work was occasionally challenging, there wasn’t enough of it to hold his interest. He’d gotten bored and moved on to a large general store, where he was both physically and mentally stimulated.
“Enough men were still immigratin’ to try their luck in the mines, so we were sellin’ a lot of equipment—shovels, tents, rockers, pickaxes, and the like—plus all the supplies needed to set up camp for months at a time. They weren’t as crazy to get into the hills as in ’49 and ’50, but the craze was still there; not so much gold, which was bein’ played out, but silver. I think the merchants were makin’ more money than the miners themselves.”
Merchants, and the banking industry, and construction trades. The city by the bay was a beehive of activity, building streets, piling earth into the water to build more streets, expanding borders, putting up wharfs.
One rainy afternoon three members of the farming Hutchins family had wandered in to purchase everything necessary to strike it rich. Originally from Nebraska, they had made their way west and were anxious for any advice anyone could offer, even if their plans did happen to be a few years past its peak.
Reese had done his best, volunteering information, assisting in sales, calling for reinforcements by way of the store’s management. After loading their wagon, father John, brother Emil, and son Matthew had expressed their gratitude (partially for the help, partially for not having been taken complete advantage of by the helpers). Then they had literally headed for the hills.
Busy with his own life, and—let’s face it, enjoyment of some female companionship on the side—he had thought nothing more about the family. Until the same three men had appeared in the store once again, some three months later.
They had returned for more supplies, John explained, leaving wife Matilda, daughter Carrie, and a second adult son, Leland, behind to maintain the area of rocky land upon which they had staked a claim. During the proceedings of piling up fifty pound bags of flour and chunks of salt pork wrapped in brown paper, John had pulled his shopkeeper aside.
“He told me the Hutchins clan was in luck. B’cause they’d actually been pannin’ gold,” said Reese at this point. “And then he pulled a pouch outa his pocket to show me. Little grains, like sand, and some bigger nuggets. And heavy as all get out.”
Alarmed, Reese had warned Hutchins to put his stash away, and quickly. It wasn’t safe to display a find like that in this settlement known more for its number of gambling dens and murders than for its scrupulous city officials. Also, the man should keep his voice down. Too many questionable customers were meandering through the store’s aisles, too close for comfort and security. And then John needed to get himself over to the nearest branch of the Bank of California, for a deposit, as soon as possible.
The Leg of Lamb did a—
Ben blinked at this point in the recital. “Wait a minute. The what?”
Even under duress, even in the throes of unhappy memories, Reese blushed. “Uh. Kind of a dance hall, kind of a saloon. There was this girl I was seein’ at the time, and she—uh—sorta worked in the place.”
“Ahuh.” His brother sent him a stern, what-the-devil-were-you-thinking look and sat back with hands folded around his cup full of cold coffee. “All right. Continue.”
Anyway, the Leg of Lamb did a landmark business later that night. It was Saturday, with most merrymakers letting off steam and few planning on church attendance next morning. The Lamb was in its heyday, with liquor flowing easily and freely (though not cheaply), poker games being exuberantly arranged, and a satisfactory number of fights springing up. Some roisterers made it through the evening in one piece, with heads and wallets intact; some did not.
Reese had been idling in a corner with his current inamorata, bent on spending a week’s pay, when the Hutchins males once again appeared. Relieved to spy a friendly face, they made a beeline for his table. Clearly the three of them felt they had been let off the leash, after exhausting days spent at their claim, and they were determined to make the most of it.
“Those farmin’ fellahs were pleasant enough to talk to, and we passed the time of day fo
r a while. I even bought ’em a drink or two.” Reminiscing, he shook his head, with a deepening blush. “O’ course, Theodosia, my—uh—the girl I was—uh—”
“Yeah, we get your drift,” said Ben dryly. “She got bored and left?”
“Too bad for her, she missed all the drama.” Reese, eyes blazing, suddenly pushed back his chair and rose to stride about the room, as if, churning over with emotion, he could no longer sit still.
“Them fools. Them ignorant, short-sighted fools. I told ’em to keep quiet about their strike, didn’t I? I told ’em not to be flashin’ around their poke. I told ’em to take it to bank. But did they listen? Hang it all, no. They were so proud of what they’d done!”
“What happened then?” Paul, who had remained mostly silent up till now, asked quietly.
“I knew what kinda place it was, and what kinda people hung around. So I hustled all three of ’em out the back way, and through an alley, hopin’ nobody had spied what they were carryin’.”
“Reckon that was a mistake,” murmured Gabriel.
“Yeah. Shoulda gone out the front, with a crowd.”
“So you got cornered there?”
Reese had tumbled his hair into careless curls, swiped one sleeve across his face. “Don’t even know for sure what went on. I was ahead of ’em, showin’ the way b’cause it was dark and the path was littered with garbage. Then somethin’ hit me over the head, and I saw stars. Next thing I knew...”
Next thing he knew, he was sprawled flat on his back, under a slow seep of cold rain and fog that went straight to the bone. He was also, he discovered, upon coming finally to full consciousness, handcuffed. Shaking away blood and muck in an attempt to clear his vision, he could barely make out several tall figures standing over him. One of them wore a badge.
“They hauled me up—none too gentle, neither. And then I saw—I saw—”
All three Hutchins males also sprawled prostrate here and there, on the rough, muddy ground. Their pockets had been turned inside out, their possessions stripped away. Each had been shot dead. By the Colt revolver that had lain clutched in Reese’s hand.
He had stopped pacing now, across the jail house floor; he stood still, staring blindly out the window into muted October sunshine a thousand years and a thousand miles from the crime.