Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) (6 page)

“That is no problem,” Don Pedro replied with another little smile.

Don Pedro’s friends arrived, cards were dealt, and at first Weiser raked in most of the chips. But Weiser was not much of a drinker, and the flow of tequila caused him to miss sidelong glances and winks exchanged by Don Pedro and his amigos.

It wasn’t long before Weiser found himself back in the plaza with empty pockets, unsteadily propped against a lamppost. And he had no idea how to find Waltz and their camp.

At the break of dawn when Waltz arose, there was no sign of Weiser. For a moment, Waltz was concerned for his partner’s safety, but that quickly turned to anger. The group was about to leave, and he had no intention of being left behind while waiting for his irresponsible partner to show up. Waltz galloped into town and found Weiser passed out under an elm tree.

Weiser was so badly hung over he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — get up. His head ached and his mouth felt like the Mexican Army had camped there. “I think I’m dying,” he croaked.

All Waltz said was, “We’re ready to ride.”

“Go away,” Weiser said petulantly, opening his eyes and seeing three of Waltz. “An’ take your buddies with you.”

“The other men are ready to ride,” Waltz repeated, “an’ we don’t want to be left behind.”

“I don’t give a damn what you want,” Weiser grumbled. “Can’t you see I’m too sick to ride? Just go on without me.”

But Waltz was not ready to abandon Weiser. Deaf to Weiser’s protest, Waltz put his arm under Weiser’s shoulders and brought him to his feet. “You’re coming if I have to tie you to your goddamn horse.”

“I’m not going and you can’t make me,” Weiser protested.

Without another word, Waltz unloaded his frustration with an uppercut that knocked Weiser silly, picked him up, and slung him in front of his saddle.

Waltz hurried back to their camp, packed up their belongings, shifted Weiser to his own horse, and tied him on. Leading Weiser’s horse, Waltz fell in with their group, and they were on their way.

It became the most agonizing day of Weiser’s life to that point. Each step of his horse jarred his bones, his head throbbed, and he wanted to throw up, but his stomach had already been emptied the night before. He only managed to hang on because Waltz had tied him to the saddle and wouldn’t let him stop.

The prospecting group followed the old King’s Highway that linked the Spanish Missions, covered four hundred miles in less than two weeks, and arrived in San Francisco on a sunny April afternoon.

To their astonishment, the harbor was a tangle of abandoned ships whose entire crews had surrendered to gold fever and joined the rush to Sutter’s Mill.

Looking forward to shaves, haircuts, and a big steak dinner, the group found a cheap hotel and Roberts went in to register. There was space available, but the price of a single room was ten dollars, payable in advance. “We don’t want to buy the place,” Roberts said. “We just want a room for the night!”

The desk clerk grinned and replied, “There’s a tent city at the edge of town, but a tent fifteen feet by twenty-five will cost you one hundred dollars. There’s nine in your group, so you’d be paying less to stay here — an’ we have indoor plumbing.”

They paid for their rooms, settled their horses in a stable a block away, and allowed themselves the luxury of a shave and a haircut.

Weiser’s spirits soared when he bought a copy of San Francisco’s new newspaper, The Journal of Commerce, and read that the well-known and extremely wealthy bankers Henry Wells and William G. Fargo were in San Francisco to start a new express and banking company. “This is my lucky day,” Weiser thought. “I knew my luck would change as soon as I got to a real city. Now all I have to do is find Wells and Fargo an’ let them know I’m available!”

Leaving Waltz to fend for himself, Weiser bought a new shirt, slicked down his hair, stuffed a handful of gold nuggets into his pocket, slipped out the back of their hotel, and headed for the heart of the city. The cacophony of San Francisco’s sounds was music to Weiser’s ears. He felt like jumping for joy, but restrained himself as befitted the dignity of a future banker. “This is what I was born for,” he said to himself as he made his way through throngs of prosperous men laughing and talking.

The city’s finest hotels fronted on Portsmouth Place. Weiser’s first stop was the Union Hotel, where the first of his nuggets vanished into the gold-braided pocket of a doorman’s spotless white uniform. However, paying for entrance to the hotel lobby was only the beginning. A grinning bellman whisked Weiser’s second nugget into his silver-trimmed grey flannel pocket before shaking his head and saying, “Nah, them fellows ain’t staying here.”

After three more disappointing attempts, Weiser finally found his men at California Exchange, the city’s newest and best hotel. In contrast to his reception at the other hotels, Weiser was treated with deference by these employees, who knew that some of the shabbiest-appearing men in San Francisco had pockets filled with gold. On Weiser’s inquiry as to whether misters Wells and Fargo happened to be there, the California Exchange doorman smiled discreetly, accepted Weiser’s gold, ushered him into the lobby, and signaled the hotel’s manager.

Striving to appear casual, Weiser followed the manager to the gilded entrance of the dining room, casually hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets, and waited there as the manager went to a table beside an exquisite stained glass window. The men seated at the table wore suits of the finest quality, the kind of suit Weiser intended to have for himself very soon.

Henry Wells and William G. Fargo were accustomed to being approached by young men in search of a job. They looked at Weiser, amused at his self-confidence, and decided to have a little fun at his expense. “You may show him to our table,” Wells said to the manager, “and have our waiter stand by with another bottle of champagne.”

When Weiser was seated, Fargo opened the conversation by asking, as if it were a matter worthy of his serious attention, “How can we help you, Mr. Weiser?”

“I would like to invest in your express company and serve on your board of directors,” Weiser answered, boldly meeting Fargo’s gaze.

Like a poker player upping the ante, Fargo said in a quiet voice, “How much are you prepared to invest, Mr. Weiser?”

No stranger to this game, Weiser countered, “How much do I need?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Wells said, entering the conversation.

Weiser registered this astonishing figure with the briefest flicker of his eyes before catching himself and saying, “I don’t have that much at this time, sir, but it won’t be long now.”

The corners of Fargo’s mouth turned up ever so slightly as he said, “Would you care to tell us how you expect to raise this money?”

“Yes, sir,” Weiser replied promptly, desperately trying to keep his cool. “I’m going to find gold.”

“By God, you’re a man after my own heart,” Wells burst out gleefully, slapping his knee. “A man who approaches us with no fortune besides the shirt on his back and wants to buy shares in a company that exists only in the minds of my partner and me.”

Fargo’s smile broadened as he said, “You’re the kind of get-up-and-go young man we like to work with, Mr. Weiser. Come back and see us as soon as you have your gold.”

As if on cue, the maitre d’ appeared at their table with a bottle of champagne. Weiser’s eyes widened when he saw it was Dom Pérignon. Insensitive to being the butt of their joke, Weiser drank one glass of their champagne and left, realizing he had to find gold fast. And he was going to have to pick up the pressure on Waltz in order to do that.

As soon as Weiser was out of sight, Wells and Fargo had a good laugh at his expense and promptly forgot him.

While Weiser was off sipping champagne, Waltz had taken one look at the cost of a meal in the hotel coffee shop and settled for tinned meat and hardtack from his saddlebag. Stuffing his food in his pocket, he set out to explore the city. Unsure where to start, he went to a newsstand across from the hotel and asked what a visitor might want to see.

“Go down to the harbor,” the news seller suggested. “There’s ships from all over the world.”

“I’ve seen the harbor,” Waltz replied.

“Well, how about Portsmouth Plaza? It’s where the action is, the center of our finest hotels and gambling parlors,” the news seller said.

“I don’t care about fine hotels and gambling parlors,” Waltz said, beginning to wonder if there was anything in San Francisco he really wanted to see.

“All right, then,” the news seller said, growing impatient. “You can climb Telegraph Hill for the best view in town; on a clear day you can see ships sailing through the Golden Gate. Just walk north and you can’t miss it.”

Waltz thanked the man and set off. The noise of the city made his head throb, and the high-pitched yammer of yellow-skinned men pushing and shoving in the narrow streets of Chinatown made him want to scream. As he fought his way through throngs of men who all seemed to be headed for the gold at Sutter’s Mill, he vowed this was the last time he’d go to any big city.

Reaching the top of Telegraph Hill, Waltz sat down on a flat rock, buttoned his jacket, watched the fog roll in, and rethought his future. When they had started out, he’d been confident they were right to go to Sutter’s Mill, but he hadn’t counted on this overwhelming stream of other prospectors heading the same way. Even if Sutter’s Mill was the richest strike in America, it had to be diminishing daily. On the other hand, the Sierra Nevada was a mighty big mountain range and the odds were excellent that there were other, equally rich strikes to be found in them hills.

Waltz let out a long breath, stood up, and went down to find men who had actually prospected, and see what they had to say.

He peeked into the Aquila d’Or, where he saw life-sized paintings of naked women hanging on the wall and real women flaunting their bosoms. As he stared, an insolent woman with fiery red hair took hold of his hand and pressed it to her bare breast. Waltz brushed her aside as he headed for the bar and a bit of eavesdropping. He was on a mission and wasn’t interested in fooling around.

Sliding onto a barstool, Waltz fumbled in broken English to ask for the cheapest beer but was instead served a tall glass of pilsner that cost more than a day’s pay back in Germany. He sipped it slowly and struggled to understand the whispers of the man on his left, “I been covering news for the Herald American thirty years, an’ I ain’t never seen nothing like this Gold Rush out at Sutter’s Mill! It’s a goddamn anthill of men working forty-by-forty claims on both sides of the stream. Newcomers perch like eagles waiting to pounce on a claim, an’ they ain’t above murder to get one.”

On Waltz’s right, two pick and shovel salesmen had their heads together. “That country east of Marysville is gonna be the next Sutter’s Mill,” the first man said. “I tell you, Sam, I’m quitting my job tomorrow to go prospecting myself!”

“That’s a helluva gamble, Willy,” Sam whispered back. “Are you sure you wanna do that?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Willy replied, looking around to see if anyone was listening.

Waltz feigned indifference, keeping his eyes fixed on the mirror behind the bartender and helping himself to some peanuts in a crystal bowl. As Waltz watched, the bartender slyly slipped a little tap water into the whiskey bottle in his hand. And he heard Willy whisper, “I’m sick and tired of watching other guys get rich while I bust a gut hauling my sample cases around this damn territory! I’m going to Marysville because those Marysville storekeepers bought more picks an’ shovels yesterday than they ever did in the entire two years I been going up there. Now that’s a sure sign there’s gold in them parts.”

Sam stared at Willy and said, “My wife’d kill me if I went with you.” He grinned then and tossed off his drink. “Hell, one more drink an’ I’ll go with you tonight!” he said, slapping his buddy on the back.

Swaying slightly, Willy stood up and said, “That’s wunnerful, Sam, but let’s get some dinner first.” With their arms around each other’s shoulders, the two men wove their way to the swinging doors and disappeared from sight.

All that talk really got Waltz to thinking something that he didn’t want to think: Maybe Weiser was right about being in a hurry to get their gold. This was a rush, and if they wanted their share of it, they had to get moving.

Waltz finished his beer and went out, pausing on the steps to clear his head of smoke and noise. As he stood looking around, he saw a man step out of the fanciest hotel on the street, stand on its veranda, and light a cigar. The man was Jake Weiser dressed up in a new shirt. What the hell was he up to?

Waltz plunged into the milling crowd, so intent on reaching Weiser he failed to notice a pair of thugs behind him until he felt a hand in his pocket. Waltz reacted by grabbing the pickpocket’s arm, throwing him to the ground, and sitting on his back.

Unfortunately for Waltz, the pickpocket had friends that included Officer Timothy O’Shaughnessy, the policeman on the beat. Waltz’s broken English was only worsened by his anger and temper, causing his explanation to tumble out in incomprehensible mumbo jumbo. Officer O’Shaughnessy handcuffed Waltz, marched him to the station, and booked him.

Waltz desperately screamed for Weiser as he was being dragged off, but Weiser was utterly oblivious to Waltz’s predicament. He had more important things on his mind, like the fashionable suits he would wear as a partner in the banking business when he got his gold.

An hour in a jail cell was enough for Waltz to regain his composure and explain his situation to the officer on duty, but his request to send for Weiser was met with a deaf ear until he produced a small gold nugget from his pocket. Pocketing Waltz’s nugget, the policeman sent for a messenger, a freckle-faced boy with flaming red hair and a lopsided grin who stuck his head in the door and said, “What can I do for you, sir?”

Waltz gave this boy his last nugget and sent him to find Weiser. Regrettably for Waltz, his messenger didn’t get any farther than the nearest tavern.

Unaware Waltz had seen him on the veranda of the California Exchange hotel, Weiser returned to their shabby hotel and went up to their room, where he took off his new shirt, folded it neatly, and concealed it in his saddlebag before putting on his old shirt. What his partner didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.