The miners who endured the backbreaking labor of panning gold under the hot sun all day long could be seen using the same pans over a campfire at night. And often the entree du jour was rattlesnake, or “bush fish,” as the delicacy was called, with a side of those neverending beans.
They camped by late afternoon each day so that Rafe could pan for gold in the many streams they passed — streams that were crowded almost hip to hip with gold-hungry prospectors. Thus far, Rafe had managed to accumulate a small bag of gold dust, worth about fifty dollars. Not much, but encouraging.
More than once, they’d been forced to seek other camping sites because of mutterings about a dirty Mex trying to steal the gold that rightly belonged to true-blooded Americans. On a few occasions, Helen had wanted to take a stand and fight off the bigots, but Rafe insisted they pick their battles wisely, not ones in which they were so outnumbered.
“Besides, I’m used to it, babe,” he said over and over.
Helen wanted desperately to fight for him, to wipe away all the hurts he’d suffered over the years — still suffered.
For now, she could only think about the dangerously narrow trail they were traveling. They were proceeding down the five-mile trail to Rich Bar — a narrow path along a steep incline with a dangerous precipice on one side. One misstep of their horses, and they would fall hundreds of feet down the almost perpendicular cliff into a dun-colored canyon.
Rafe kept throwing out encouraging words behind her. “Just a little bit longer, honey. Don’t give up. You’ll be okay.”
She couldn’t even turn to glare at him. Not that she was able to answer anyway, her jaw was clenched so tightly.
“Just stare straight ahead,” Rafe advised. “Don’t look to the side.”
So Helen concentrated on the tiny valley ahead of them, only eight hundred or so yards in length, and a mere thirty yards wide. The Feather River, Las Plumas, meandered along at its base, hemmed in by lofty mountains of beautiful fir trees.
Finally, they reached the bottom of the trail, which emerged at the edge of the small town. A gloomy atmosphere pervaded the dismal camp. Little sunshine ever reached this deep recess in the tall mountains.
Miners right and left put down their tools and gaped. She wasn’t sure if it was shock at the sight of two new travelers, or that rare commodity — a woman.
Helen was shaking so badly she couldn’t dismount. Rafe came up quickly and pulled her off the horse and into his arms.
“Damn, Helen, I’m sorry. I never would have come if I’d known it would be this dangerous.” He was holding her tightly, one hand at the nape of her neck, pressing her face against his heaving chest, the other hand making wide sweeps across her back. “Stop shaking, honey, please. It’s okay now.”
It was the first time in four days that Rafe had embraced her, and she clung to him with embarrassing fervor. Even when her shivering ceased, she wrapped her arms around his waist, relishing the feel of his warm body.
She drew away slightly. “I love you, Rafe.”
“I know, honey. I love you, too.”
“But right now, I hate you, too.”
He grimaced. “I don’t blame you, I guess.”
“And do you know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“We have to go back up that blasted trail to go home.”
A week later, they were still stuck in Rich Bar, and Rafe was not a happy camper. “I hate beans. I hate red calico. I hate fleas and lice. I hate the song, ‘Sweet Betsy from Pike.’ I hate chewing tobacco. I hate celibacy,” were just a few of his complaints.
She wasn’t feeling too jolly herself, for numerous reasons.
No Pablo. Apparently, he hadn’t arrived yet, although his brother Carlos worked as a bartender at the Indiana House.
No gold prospecting. Rich Bar had a law against claims for foreigners, and Rafe, being of Mexican heritage, was considered a foreigner. But they couldn’t leave Rich Bar for other diggings until Pablo arrived and they retrieved the precious harness and parachutes.