Next he told them about all the strikes reported during the past month or so. An eighteen-pound nugget was found at Sullivans Creek, a twenty-five-pound one just up the river from Downieville, and a fourteen-pound one at Carson Hill. The latter was just lying on the ground waiting to be picked up. Zeb said prospectors from a hundred miles around were rushing to these sites to join in the bonanzas.
Rafe frowned. “It’s important, then, that word doesn’t get out concerning this strike here in Angel Valley.”
“Do tell,” Zeb said, puffing away. “I’m far enough away here that those greedy buggers will stay away fer some time. But the least whiff of gold and they’ll be on this sweet spot like dogs on a bone.” Zeb chuckled softly. “You won’t believe the tale being passed around ’bout Carson Hill. Seems a miner died and they was burying the poor soul, but the preacher what come to do the service wuz a mite wordy. The story goes that some of the miners got restless listenin’ ta the preacher go on an’ they began ta sift the dirt in their hands as prospectors are wont ta do. Well, lo and behold, one of the gentlemen yells, ‘Color!’ Seems there wuz gold in the hole they dug fer the coffin.”
“Oh, Zeb, you’re making this up.” Helen chortled with disbelief.
Zeb crossed his heart with a forefinger. “I swear ta God. ‘Course the men couldn’t bury the corpse till they dug the hole some more. It wuz two days afore the final restin’ took place.”
Rafe squeezed her shoulder with shared enjoyment of Zeb’s story, and his eyes flashed with humor.
Zeb’s expression changed suddenly. Jumping up, he put his pipe on the mantle. “Well, tarnation, I can’t believe I din’t tell you the most important news of all. I brought you a present.” He rushed outside, and they heard him shuffling in the saddlebags that he’d left beside the door.
She and Rafe gasped when they recognized the objects Zeb handed them ceremoniously. He cackled with merriment.
The harness and parachutes.
“Where did you get them?” Rafe asked, fondling the fabric, which was dirty but intact.
“I thought Pablo hadn’t come to Rich Bar since Hector came back with you,” she said. “I was afraid to ask.”
Zeb’s face turned stormy. “Oh, Pablo wuz there, all right. The bastard! Excuse my cussin’, Helen, but any man what denies his own kin is lower ‘n a toadstool.”
“He didn’t believe that Hector was his nephew?” Rafe asked.
“No, it weren’t that. He said he don’t have no time ta care fer no snot-nosed young’un. He and that Sancho wuz schemin’ fer some easy way ta get rich, robbin’ good folks, no doubt.”
“Poor Hector,” Helen said, peering down at the sleeping child. “He has no one now.”
“Well, now, I beg ta differ. Hector has me, and we certainly ain’t poor no more.”
They all felt a glow of happiness then at the way fate had conspired to bring them together to this mutually beneficial end. Without Hector there to keep Zeb company, and Zeb there to care for the child, she would have felt guilty leaving Angel Valley.
When all the new events finally settled in, Helen watched Rafe, who was studying his coffee cup with equal pensiveness. Sensing her scrutiny, he looked up. There was both happiness and regret in his blue eyes. She felt the same way.
“What do you say we go home, babe?” he said in a husky, emotion-choked voice.
She nodded, too overcome to speak.
Home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Three days later, Helen and Rafe were prepared to leave Angel Valley, never to return.
Their saddlebags and clothing were packed with seventy-five pounds of gold nuggets and some dust. They would carry only nuggets on their bodies on their journey to the future — visions of gold dust flying through space were enough to turn Rafe white with horror — but they required the less-conspicuous flakes for spending money until they got back to the landing site.
“Make sure you don’t show any nuggets to anyone you pass. Nuggets ‘re a sure sign of a strike. Me and Hector don’t want our purty l’il valley swarmin’ with unwanted visitors.”