McDermott got less sympathetic treatment. Cheating at cards—at least getting caught at it—was a greater wrong here than manslaughter. McDermott was roughly patched and taken off to jail. The dead man was ordered hauled away by the sheriff. We were all questioned, and it was duly established that Jackson and Colbourn had acted in self-defense. The sheriff said he’d take a posse after Le Caron the next day. There was a reward for him; if we helped we’d have first crack at a share of the bounty. We didn’t jump at the chance.
“Obliged to you’n the nigger,” Jackson said as we moved along the street. It was after midnight. During the fight he’d looked quick and agile, but now he walked laboriously and used his cane. “My brother”—he shrugged slightly as Colbourn turned to scowl at him—“said we shouldn’t get into that game, but I was of the mind we could hold our own.” He laughed and said, “‘Man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble.’”
“Thank God you happened to be in there,” I said.
“Looked like they intended you deadly harm,” Jackson said.
“We had some problems back East,” I said. “They came here looking for me.”
“I don’t guess they’ll be fit to look farther. The half-breed’s likely dead—we got him in places that don’t heal easy—and that Irishman won’t be laughing again for a spell.” He chuckled softly, a nasal sound. “Tell you what, after you get to Frisco, come on down and pay us a visit, place called Paso de Robles. Know of it?”
Colbourn turned and stared.
“Paso Robles?” I said. “Past Salinas?”
Jackson shrugged. “County of San Luis, all I know.”
“Christ, Dingus,” said Colbourn. “He’s a newspaperman, Yankee to boot!”
Jackson spun toward him, pointing his cane like a pistol. “Don’t curse me, Buck.” He waited a long moment, then reverted to his friendly tone. “We’re fixin’ to spend some time at our uncle’s place.”
“This ain’t right,” muttered Colbourn.
“Paso de Robles Mineral Springs,” Jackson said, ignoring him. “We’re wintering there to raise my health up. Hot mud, clear baths, iron and magnesia in the water. Take a steamer down from Frisco. You’d be welcome.” His hazel eyes did their nervous blink. “Ask for us or D. W. James.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking that hot baths or no, visiting these guys would be about as much fun as dancing with a cactus.
It wasn’t until later, in the paling light of the false dawn, lying on my cot, surrounded by hellish snoring, my imagination conjuring vivid pictures of Le Caron skulking outside the canvas walls, that I heard Jackson say the name of his uncle again in my mind: James.
Chapter 26
We traveled in elegance on the Central Pacific. Our Silver Palace car had dazzling white-metal interiors, spacious berths, private sitting and smoking rooms. Johnny was deep in laudanum-induced slumber as we stopped at stations scattered across the desert like rocks. Water lay in stagnant ponds so alkaline that cattle wouldn’t touch them unless they were dying of thirst. Because alkali ruined boilers, special water trains had to run daily to supply the stations.
With no scenery to look at, passengers turned to each other to pass time. Jackson and Colbourn were in another car now—we exchanged nods at station breaks—and Johnny and I were sandwiched between two excursion groups. One consisted of ruddy Englishmen packing a small arsenal. They talked incessantly of the game they expected to kill.
The other group, merchants and wives, was from Washington. One of the Washington men came over just after Johnny had taken the last of his laudanum and nodded off again. In soft southern accents he said his name was Kramer. I got the feeling he was glad to escape his group—or maybe just his wife. A baseball enthusiast, he was curious about Harry and the Stockings. He responded to my questions about wartime tensions in the capital with anecdotes in which Lincoln figured as a buffoon. A staunch Democrat, he had little use for the martyred president or his ruinous policies.
“What about Grant?” I asked.
“A common drunk, glorified for butchery. The Radicals have him in their pocket.” Kramer paused. “Have you followed gold?”
Only to Elmira, I thought. “No, why?”
“One in our party is close to Grant’s son-in-law.” He pursed his lips. “Close enough to hear things.”
“Like what?”
“He’s buying gold fast as he can.”
“Why? Does Grant set the price?”
“No, it fluctuates in the open market. But what Grant does—or doesn’t do—influences that market. Two groups are competing for his support: ‘bulls,’ who invest heavily in gold shares and oppose all printing of greenbacks; and ‘bears,’ who own millions in paper currency and fight anything that boosts gold—such as its greater use for money. Each group constantly lobbies the government.”
“What’s Grant done?”
“That’s the point. Absolutely nothing. Everybody is waiting for him to take a position.”
I thought for a moment. “So if you knew in advance, you’d clean up?”
“That knowledge would be of truly inestimable value to an investor.”
“And so Grant’s son-in-law—”
“—is obtaining all the gold he can,” Kramer finished. “A consortium of powerful buyers is driving the price higher. People with gold certificates are getting rich.”
“What’s the risk?”
“Only one thing could ruin it: if Grant instructed the treasury to release gold reserves, deflating the market.”
“That won’t happen?”
Kramer shook his head. “He’s so sick of being yammered at that he’s privately decided to let the bulls and bears fight to the finish, then set his policy.”
Johnny groaned and shifted in his sleep, his hand hurting him again. I worked a cushion beneath it. He was sweating. I fanned him until his breathing deepened.
“What if some of the big buyers dumped their shares?” I said. “Wouldn’t that collapse the whole thing?”
“You grasp these matters quickly,” he said. “The consortium’s agreement is not to sell any shares whatsoever until gold reaches two hundred dollars.”
“Where’s it now?”
“One thirty-seven. Only two days ago it was one thirty-three.”
“So it’s already started.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Are you in?” I asked.
“With everything I own,” he said cheerfully. “Already I’m richer by fourteen
