“I do.” Jamie looked at the hopeful young boy with the stained shirt. “The next shovelful of dirt.”
But as they headed back to town, Jamie had to admit that Pederson had a point. They passed carcasses of slaughtered oxen, sheep and goats left to rot outside the tents, next to wide-open trenches that served as lavatories. The place stank to the heavens. Pederson was watching him. “What are you going to do now?”
“Get some prospecting equipment.”
In the center of town was a store with a rusted hanging sign that read: SALOMON VAN DER MERWE, GENERAL STORE. A tall black man about Jamie’s age was unloading a wagon in front of the store. He was broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, one of the most handsome men Jamie had ever seen. He had soot-black eyes, an aquiline nose and a proud chin. There was a dignity about him, a quiet aloofness. He lifted a heavy wooden box of rifles to his shoulder and, as he turned, he slipped on a leaf fallen from a crate of cabbage. Jamie instinctively reached out an arm to steady him. The black man did not acknowledge Jamie’s presence. He turned and walked into the store. A Boer prospector hitching up a mule spat and said distastefully, “That’s Banda, from the Barolong tribe. Works for Mr. van der Merwe. I don’t know why he keeps that uppity black. Those fuckin’ Bantus think they own the earth.”
The store was cool and dark inside, a welcome relief from the hot, bright street, and it was filled with exotic odors. It seemed to Jamie that every inch of space was crammed with merchandise. He walked through the store, marveling. There were agricultural implements, beer, cans of milk and crocks of butter, cement, fuses and dynamite and gunpowder, crockery, furniture, guns and haberdashery, oil and paint and varnish, bacon and dried fruit, saddlery and harness, sheep-dip and soap, spirits and stationery and paper, sugar and tea and tobacco and snuff and cigars…A dozen shelves were filled from top to bottom with flannel shirts and blankets, shoes, poke bonnets and saddles. Whoever owns all this, Jamie thought, is a rich man.
A soft voice behind him said, “Can I help you?”
Jamie turned and found himself facing a young girl. He judged she was about fifteen. She had an interesting face, fine-boned and heart-shaped, like a valentine, a pert nose and intense green eyes. Her hair was dark and curling. Jamie, looking at her figure, decided she might be closer to sixteen.
“I’m a prospector,” Jamie announced. “I’m here to buy some equipment.”
“What is it you need?”
For some reason, Jamie felt he had to impress this girl. “I—er—you know—the usual.”
She smiled, and there was mischief in her eyes. “What is the usual, sir?”
“Well…” He hesitated. “A shovel.”
“Will that be all?”
Jamie saw that she was teasing him. He grinned and confessed, “To tell you the truth, I’m new at this. I don’t know what I need.”
She smiled at him, and it was the smile of a woman. “It depends on where you’re planning to prospect, Mr.—?”
“McGregor. Jamie McGregor.”
“I’m Margaret van der Merwe.” She glanced nervously toward the rear of the store.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss van der Merwe.”
“Did you just arrive?”
“Aye. Yesterday. On the post cart.”
“Someone should have warned you about that. Passengers have died on that trip.” There was anger in her eyes.
Jamie grinned. “I can’t blame them. But I’m very much alive, thank you.”
“And going out to hunt for mooi klippe.”
“Mooi klippe?”
“That’s our Dutch word for diamonds. Pretty pebbles.”
“You’re Dutch?”
“My family’s from Holland.”
“I’m from Scotland.”
“I could tell that.” Her eyes flicked warily toward the back of the store again. “There are diamonds around, Mr. McGregor, but you must be choosy where you look for them. Most of the diggers are running around chasing their own tails. When someone makes a strike, the rest scavenge off the leavings. If you want to get rich, you have to find a strike of your own.”
“How do I do that?”
“My father might be the one to help you with that. He knows everything. He’ll be free in an hour.”