“What newspaper article?”
“Lord, Falcon, you must be the only one in the entire country who hasn’t read it,” Marsh said. “It was published out here first, but was picked up by newspapers all over America. Now everyone from Bangor to New Orleans, and from Chicago to Atlanta, is coming out here to hunt for gold.”
“They say there are nuggets out there the size of pecans,” a nearby passenger said, overhearing the conversation between Falcon and Captain Marsh. “And you don’t even have to dig for it. It’s clinging to the roots— you just pull up a clump of grass and fill your pockets with solid gold.”
“It’s that easy, is it?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, sir, it’s that easy. That’s why we’re here.” The passenger stuck out his hand. “Billings is the name. David J. Billings.”
“Falcon MacCallister,” Falcon replied, taking Billings’s hand.
Normally, Falcon MacCallister got a reaction anytime he gave his name. Sometimes it was awe, sometimes it was fear, and sometimes it was instant hostility. That was because Falcon and his entire family were well known throughout the West. Dime novels had been written about Falcon MacCallister and his skill with the six-gun.
But Billings gave no reaction at all.
“You aren’t from around here, are you, Mr. Billings?” Falcon asked, noticing the complete lack of recognition.
“No, sir, I’m from Newport News, Virginia. I’m a deepwater sailor, Mr. MacCallister, and I have been for most of my life. I’ve sailed from New York to London, and from Hong Kong to Christchurch. But that has all changed now. Now, you might say I’m a gold prospector. Yes, sir, when I saw the newspaper article, I saw my chance to come onto the beach. Why, I’ve been looking for something like this all my life.”
“Hey, Billings,” one of the other passengers called.
“Yes, Jenkins, what do you want?”
“Come here, would you? Me and Todaro are thinkin’ of formin’ us up a little team and goin’ together. You want to come in with us?”
“Sure, why not?” Billings replied. “There’s gold enough for all of us.”
Falcon shook his head as Billings walked over to join the other two men.
“Come up to the wheelhouse with me, would you, Falcon?” Captain Marsh asked. “I’ve got a copy of a newspaper from Bismarck. This isn’t the first article they’ve run, and I don’t reckon it’ll be the last. But take a look at it, and you’ll see what’s driving all these—fortune hunters.” He set the words “fortune hunters” apart from the rest of the sentence.
Falcon climbed the ladder behind Marsh, then stepped into wheelhouse. There, the pilot, Dave Campbell, stood behind a huge spoked wheel, steering carefully to keep the boat in the deepest channel of the river. The best view of the river was from the wheelhouse, which was the highest point on the boat and located just aft of the two fluted chimneys. From up there, there was a 360-degree panoramic view of the river as well as the wooded banks along either side. Falcon saw three deer come down to the edge of the river. They stood there for a moment looking at the boat as it passed them by. Then, believing the boat to represent no danger to them, they dipped their heads to drink.
“Ah, here it is,” Captain Marsh said, pulling a copy of the newspaper from beneath a stack of charts. “Take a look at this, then tell me what you think.”
Great attention is being drawn to the Black Hills. Well timbered, and with a goodly supply of water, the Black Hills are known to be rich with gold, with the nuggets, some as large as walnuts, lying freely upon the ground.
A college geology professor, several mineral experts and scientists, along with men who are skilled in the profession of mining, accompanied the expedition. In the beds of these streams, the expedition reported finding gold in copious amounts. Such a source of gold needs no expensive or dangerous mining for extraction, as it can be easily panned or, in many cases, simply picked up as shining nuggets. It is said that a two-hour stroll along one of these streams could produce enough gold to provide the equivalent of a year’s income for the average worker.
“Is there any truth to this story about gold in the Black Hills?” Falcon asked when he finished reading the paper.
“It’s been two years since Custer’s great expedition into the Black Hills,” Marsh said. “No gold has been brought out yet.”
“Has the gold rush been this heavy?” Falcon asked, pointing down to the many prospectors on the deck of the boat.
“No,” Marsh said. “A few have gone in—some have gotten themselves killed, and I think that is what has kept the gold rush down so far. The gold hunters are afraid of the Indians, and rightly so. But now, word is out that Custer will be going after the Indians this summer, and I reckon all the gold hunters figure this is the best time for them to go, seein’ as they figure on Custer keepin’ the Indians busy.”
Clete Harris, Jay Bryans, Jim Garon, and Ken Richland were waiting behind a rock outcropping that pushed down so close to the creek that here the wagon road actually had to run out into the water for a short distance. If someone intended to waylay a wagon, this was the perfect place for it, not only because the rocks provided concealment, but also because at this point the wagon driver would have his hands full negotiating the stream.
Harris was lying on his stomach looking through a pair of binoculars back down the creek. He had seen the dust fifteen minutes ago, but now he could see the wagon as well.
“Do you see the wagon yet, Harris?” Bryans asked.
“Yeah, I see it.”
