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Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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on the shoulder. He had to stand on his tiptoes to do it. Club was well over seven feet tall and broad in proportion. He was the only man in camp, maybe in all of northern California, who could handle a raging monitor all by himself. Jagou and Tyson would have to wrestle with it for awhile. Lahood had another job in mind for the giant.
Nowhere in the world does the morning dawn as bright and clear as it does in the Sierra Nevada. Not for nothing had the exploring Spaniards christened it the Range of Light. Something in the air combined with the gray expanses of naked granite to produce an alpenglow distinctive among the mountain ranges of the Earth.
Hull emerged from his cabin, arched his back, and inhaled deeply of the fresh alpine air. As he started downslope toward his claim, he reached automatically for the heavy sledgehammer that stood propped up against the cabin’s outer wall.
This morning was different from those previous, because today he had company. Hull was glad of the Preacher’s presence. Not only was he apparently willing to keep the miner company, perhaps Hull could also induce him to say a prayer or two. The way the digging had been going lately he could use all the help he could get, and he was not a man to exclude the possible influence of the ecclesiastical.
“This man Lahood,” the Preacher asked him conversationally, “I take it he’s the one you folks have been feuding with?”
Hull nodded brusquely. “Him and his son. Those were their boys you knocked off me in town yesterday. Old Coy Lahood’s one of the most powerful men in this part of the country. I guess he come up here in ’54, ’55. One of the first miners to figure out that the original placer deposits in the American River were played out and to start poking his way up into these tributaries. I reckon he was just about the first man up in these parts to really strike it rich.”
The canyon was alive with activity as the two men picked their way down to the creekbed. Work was evenly divided between those fortunate few who had been spared the attention of Lahood’s riders and those who were laboring hard to repair the damage that had been done to their equipment by the rampaging horsemen.
There was also a third group busy at a different task entirely. Several men were loading their families and all their worldly possessions onto the backs of sway-backed mules or into flimsy wagons. Lahood had beaten down a few more of Hull’s neighbors. He was dismayed to see how many there were this morning. He’d hoped Ulrik Lindquist’s defection the previous evening might prove an isolated one.
He kept his depression to himself. What right did he have to burden the Preacher with his problems? No doubt a traveling man of the cloth carried around worries of his own.
As if sensing his distress, the tall man urged him to continue with his story.
“Well, Lahood, he’d save himself a poke instead of blowin’ it on gamblin’ and women, and he’d use it to buy into new claims. One way or another he’d end up losin’ his partners after a month or two. He’d buy ’em out, or scare ’em out, and there’s tell one was found floatin’ down the river. But there’s not much law in this part of the country and there was less back then, and couldn’t nobody never prove nothin’ on the old man.
“He’d settle into each new claim and mine it out, save the proceeds, and buy into some more. Kept at it until he had himself enough to float a proper company. Last couple of years he’s gone at it in a big way. Uses them hydraulic monitors. Water cannons—you ever seen one?” The Preacher nodded. “Then you’ve seen what they do. They blast the place where they’re workin’ all to hell—excuse my French—and when they move on, the place where they’ve been at ain’t worth nothin’ no more to man or beast. Can’t nothin’ live in a canyon that’s been mined with a monitor.
“But they’ve made Lahood richer than ever. Carbon
Nowhere in the world does the morning dawn as bright and clear as it does in the Sierra Nevada. Not for nothing had the exploring Spaniards christened it the Range of Light. Something in the air combined with the gray expanses of naked granite to produce an alpenglow distinctive among the mountain ranges of the Earth.
Hull emerged from his cabin, arched his back, and inhaled deeply of the fresh alpine air. As he started downslope toward his claim, he reached automatically for the heavy sledgehammer that stood propped up against the cabin’s outer wall.
This morning was different from those previous, because today he had company. Hull was glad of the Preacher’s presence. Not only was he apparently willing to keep the miner company, perhaps Hull could also induce him to say a prayer or two. The way the digging had been going lately he could use all the help he could get, and he was not a man to exclude the possible influence of the ecclesiastical.
“This man Lahood,” the Preacher asked him conversationally, “I take it he’s the one you folks have been feuding with?”
Hull nodded brusquely. “Him and his son. Those were their boys you knocked off me in town yesterday. Old Coy Lahood’s one of the most powerful men in this part of the country. I guess he come up here in ’54, ’55. One of the first miners to figure out that the original placer deposits in the American River were played out and to start poking his way up into these tributaries. I reckon he was just about the first man up in these parts to really strike it rich.”
The canyon was alive with activity as the two men picked their way down to the creekbed. Work was evenly divided between those fortunate few who had been spared the attention of Lahood’s riders and those who were laboring hard to repair the damage that had been done to their equipment by the rampaging horsemen.
There was also a third group busy at a different task entirely. Several men were loading their families and all their worldly possessions onto the backs of sway-backed mules or into flimsy wagons. Lahood had beaten down a few more of Hull’s neighbors. He was dismayed to see how many there were this morning. He’d hoped Ulrik Lindquist’s defection the previous evening might prove an isolated one.
He kept his depression to himself. What right did he have to burden the Preacher with his problems? No doubt a traveling man of the cloth carried around worries of his own.
As if sensing his distress, the tall man urged him to continue with his story.
“Well, Lahood, he’d save himself a poke instead of blowin’ it on gamblin’ and women, and he’d use it to buy into new claims. One way or another he’d end up losin’ his partners after a month or two. He’d buy ’em out, or scare ’em out, and there’s tell one was found floatin’ down the river. But there’s not much law in this part of the country and there was less back then, and couldn’t nobody never prove nothin’ on the old man.
“He’d settle into each new claim and mine it out, save the proceeds, and buy into some more. Kept at it until he had himself enough to float a proper company. Last couple of years he’s gone at it in a big way. Uses them hydraulic monitors. Water cannons—you ever seen one?” The Preacher nodded. “Then you’ve seen what they do. They blast the place where they’re workin’ all to hell—excuse my French—and when they move on, the place where they’ve been at ain’t worth nothin’ no more to man or beast. Can’t nothin’ live in a canyon that’s been mined with a monitor.
“But they’ve made Lahood richer than ever. Carbon
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