A High Place Full of Stars

I was a rarity among this group of Irishmen. Just shy of twenty years old—my birthday still two months away—and they reminded me at every turn I was between hay and grass, barely a man in their eyes. My short height didn’t help matters any.

Worst was when they shouted out “Todd-ler,” bastardizing my first name, Todd Webster Morgan. My father was right proud of the name, and if he was still among us, he would knock teeth loose. But since his passing stemmed from the foolishness of a saloon brawl, I was content not to dwell upon such an occurrence.

The first morning the Irish came riding up to me they asked me all manner of questions, wondering if I was a claim jumper. Eight of them in their soiled rags and unshaven faces, thundering up and barking at me, as if they owned the whole of the mountain. One member, who lagged behind, caught my interest, if for nothing else because of his young age and fresh face. He held his tongue, unlike his compatriots, and studied me much the way I studied him, as if deep down both of us knew we didn’t quite fit the part of a derelict or drifter.

As they flung question after question at me, I told them plainly all the facts: I was indeed an adult in the eyes of the law; I hailed from the City of Sacramento; and I had all rights to be where I was camped. Of course, only in a sense did I consider myself Sacramentan. Truth be told, I grew up many miles north, on a tiny patch of land my mother worked from dawn to dusk in order to keep food on the table, with my invalid uncle held up in the back room. Just seemed finer to say I was from the City. So that’s what I told people, if they asked. And believe me, they did. The Irish liked to engage me with questions. I served as entertainment. I was a sideshow freak to them, though I was the handsomest and smartest in the bunch. I didn’t mind stating that as gospel.

Despite their teasing, they quickly enough accepted that I was no claim jumper. I did everything by law. I registered in Quincy. I kept to my portion of the river. I’ve heard tell of people being chased off even after they’ve signed proper papers. And I wasn’t about to allow that to happen to me. I might be young. But they could see the fire in my eyes that first day when they demanded proof that I had the right to be panning where I was. If there was something that people needed to figure out about me, it was that I wasn’t afraid to strike out on my own and do what I needed to do to survive. And this group went quickly enough from looking at me with suspicious eyes to letting me into their fold. To a degree, anyway. We all kept a wary distance from each other.

Out of the lot of them, Breandan Donnelly was the one I found most curious. He never joined the others in sport. Maybe it was his being so close to my age, though he looked more mature than me, owing to his manly height. Most likely he was sorry for me, since I had no other people. I suspected that even though he traveled with these seven others he felt as solitary as I did. He was the one to invite me to supper with them that first night, insisting that none of the group’s words were mean-spirited. He claimed it was a show of their affection that they joshed with me so.

I wasn’t sure about that.

I was in no talking mood this day as I scraped up my last few beans and bits of potato, and watched the sun sink behind the mountains. I glanced down the river. Steam floated across the surface. If I could control nature, the first thing I’d do would be to warm the air so it felt like a summer’s day.

Tomorrow morning it was down to Truckee. Our mining endeavors—both mine and the Irish—had produced nothing these last four weeks. Not one speck, not one sliver of gold.

I smiled at that—“sliver of gold.” I would write that in a letter to my mother. She could think of it as my attempt at poetry for the trick it plays when written out, the mind changing the words to “silver and gold.”

The Irish, though disappointed with their lack of success, were nonetheless jovial. I think it had more to do with the fact we’d soon have shelter and home-cooked food. And for a few of the men, I was sure, they would spend money they could scarcely afford so that they could go down the line. They had tried to convince me that I would enjoy the paid company of a woman. Another reason they taunted me with such fervor was that I refused to partake.

Breandan came over to sit with me as we finished our meal. “Where’ll you stay in Truckee?”

His question made me realize I’d given no thought to the matter. “Cheapest boarding house possible,” I said. “I’m at the last of my father’s bestowal, so I’m down to forty-two dollars and some.”

He clutched my arm. “Forty-two dollars?” He cast a glance to the others. “Don’t chirp that so loud. You’ll have these scallywags jumping you in the night.” He shook his head and whistled. “Forty-two dollars.” When his eyes blinked, some of his brown locks attached to his eyelashes. He brushed them free.

Breandan kept his hair longer than most. When he took off his hat, his long dark mane went in three directions; his bangs off to the right, the sides fully covering his ears and flowing down toward his square jaw, and the back curling up, spreading out like a pair of angel’s wings. He had full, smooth lips that a girl would envy. His deep brown eyes squinted more often than not, for it seemed he was always working his mind, calculating or questioning whatever anyone said to him. Not only was he taller, but he was far more muscled, noticeably his arms. I guess so, too, were his legs. And for that matter, his chest, my assessment of which was accurately confirmed whenever he bent down and his shirt would fall away, and I was able to see his skin.

“You could buy yourself plenty of Truckee entertainment with that amount of money, Todd Webster.”

Breandan included my middle name when he addressed me, just as my mother often did. I wasn’t sure if there was meaning behind it, or if he was confused how to call me. I had introduced myself, after all, as Todd Webster Morgan.

“I’m no spendthrift,” I told him.

“Nor am I, unlike these others. Especially old man Hannigan and his penchant for women and cigars. But we all need our amusements. All work and no play, you know fair well what that does to Jack.”

“Do you think I’m a dull boy then?”

“You’re anything but dull, Todd Webster.”

I liked Breandan’s way of speaking, the way “anything” came out sounding like “enna-thin.” And he was quick-witted. He was correct that humankind needed distractions. I knew with certainty that I did. It stopped me from dwelling on my state, my being so far away from home, on a foolish quest for riches, the hopes for which diminished with each passing day. Cold, hunger, frustration—they not only robbed me of sleep, but caused a sadness that, had the others seen my too frequent tears, they’d have deemed me Miss Nancy.

“They want women,” Breandan said, “but I want a big plate of meat and pastries, every morsel piled higher than this mountain.”

“I want a bed,” I said. “A soft, warm bed with blankets piled higher than your dinner.”

“Join me, then, when we get to town. Let these others have their fun.” He leaned close enough that I could smell his sweat, which wasn’t entirely objectionable, though I would never admit to anyone such a fact. “Between the two of us, I’ve seen old man Hannigan scratching and moaning in discomfort, and I think it come from his last adventures with the hoors.”

Something else I couldn’t explain, or admit to, was the warm feeling coursing through me when Breandan asked me to join him in Truckee. I had to contain myself at that moment, for my instinct was to offer dinner as my treat. I feared that might insult him, now that I’d foolishly and unintentionally bragged about my funds. So I merely agreed to be his tag-along.

“We’ll find proper accommodation, too. Let the others roll around in troughs. You and I, Todd Webster, we’ll live like kings come the weekend.”

He popped the last bit of bread into his mouth. He picked up his hat, slid it on his head, then stood up. “Time for me to turn in for the night.”

I swallowed the last bite of my meal. “For me, too, I think.”

He gave my shoulder a playful jab. He looked up at the darkening sky. “That’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” He was silent for a long time, his eyes scanning the expanse. Then he whispered, soft and pleasing to my ear, “One thing I want you to always remember, Todd Webster. No matter that we’re not striking our fortune in gold, we’re still blessed, for we’re up here, seeing something most people never do. This high place full of stars.”

Breandan’s words—and the way he spoke them—not only gave me warmth at that very instant, but goosebumps as well.

The mood was calm and peaceful, until we heard some stomping around to our left.

“Hey boy!”

We both jumped. My horse, Paul Revere, tied off to a tree some twenty feet from us, stirred and whinnied.

Old man Hannigan stood there, a wad of chew puffing out his cheeks, his right hand tucked down behind his belt buckle. “When you’re done dallyin’ over there with Todd-ler, how ’bout you come back to our camp and earn your keep?”

Breandan turned and smirked at me. “We’re treated like paupers now, but you wait until tomorrow night. The world will be ours to command.”

 

* * *

 

Round about an hour after climbing into my tent for the night, I didn’t shiver. Closer to say I convulsed. The air was bone-chilling, and I couldn’t warm myself enough with my sole wool blanket for the sandman to even contemplate a visit. For those who never camped high up in the mountains, on a late autumn night, I don’t know how to begin to describe the suffering I endured those past days.

As I lay there, staring up at the torn and weathered white canvas, I wondered about my mother and uncle. I hoped Ma would still be hard at work on her seamstressing, at least when she wasn’t at work on the crops; and I hoped Uncle Ned would have turned himself around, and would be less irascible and demanding.

Uncle Ned hadn’t always been the warmest person, but he’d been softer in the past. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine going off to war and coming back with part of a leg sawed off would make someone angry and deflated. Still, it wasn’t our fault he chose to go off and fight for the losing side no less. So when he came back yelling and knocking things about, and blaming Ma and me for all his troubles, I one day had to take a stand.

“Now you listen here, Uncle Ned,” I said, my voice cracking with nervousness, “you haven’t the right to treat us like this, the ones giving you food and shelter.” I fingered the knife in my vest pocket as I made my case, but I never let on to Ma that I had a weapon at the ready, as she might have yelled and hit me just like Uncle Ned had done numerous times. The irony was my prize knife was a gift from Uncle Ned. A folding knife with a polished wood handle. He’d taken it from a dead Union soldier. I couldn’t imagine his rage were I to threaten his very life with something he’d gifted to his own nephew.

“You gonna let your boy speak to me like that, Marnie?”

“Boy has a point, Ned Calvert. You been making our lives unbearable since you come back. I’m at my breaking point.”

Ma was polite. Far more polite than I was fixing to be. I didn’t give a whit whether he’d fought for the Yanks or the Rebs. I didn’t have one idea whose side I’d have been on anyhow. I don’t think it’s right for a man to own another man, but I don’t know that the North didn’t overstep its bounds too often. But whatever side I chose, I wouldn’t blame my relations for the outcome. If all that weren’t enough, Uncle Ned acted like he owned our house, and could boss me and Ma around. Truth was Ma owned the house, and worked night and day sewing dresses, curtains, and the like to pay our bills. She opened up the house to her younger brother, and he turned around and treated us no better than he’d treat a barnyard animal.

Close off the spigot in your head, Todd Webster Morgan.

I had to stop dwelling on all that. Between those thoughts and trying to stop from freezing to death, I was agitating myself into hysteria. It’s why I let out a yell when I saw the door of my tent being pushed in.

“Sh, quiet yourself, Todd Webster! It’s Breandan!”

I sat up. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

“Let me in, and be quick and quiet about it!”

I sat up on my knees, leaned forward, and undid the flap of the tent. Breandan pushed his way through. If I thought I’d been shaking badly, he was shaking ten times worse than me.

“What is it? What’s the fuss?”

Breandan swallowed hard. He didn’t answer. He took hold of my arm and squeezed it. He turned left and right, eyes darting about, listening for any sound, watching for any sign of movement.

“Breandan?”

Our eyes met. He took hold of my other arm. “I clobbered old man Hannigan, I did. Hard. With a rock big as my hand. For all I know I killed him. But it wasn’t my fault!” Tears streamed down his cheek. “You have to help me, Todd Webster. They’ll kill me, they will!”

“What happened? Why’d you do it? Did you check to see if he—”

“We have to go! We can’t hang around here. Soon as they find him they’ll—”

“Now you need to take a breath. Slow down. Going into panic isn’t going to help anyone.”

He took a deep breath. “You won’t help me then, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that! But I’m not sure what it is you want me to do. First thing to do is go see if he—”

“No! That’d be the craziest thing to do. They’ll catch me for sure.”

Before I could get my thinking straight, we heard voices off in the distance. “Breandan Donnelly! Breandan Donnelly! You show your face!”

“That’s McGrath,” Breandan said. “He was there. He’ll break my neck.”

My nerves were rising to Breandan’s level of panic. I hadn’t any idea what I was to do. But my instinct was telling me the safest thing for the moment was to keep him out of sight.

Would they come to my tent looking for him? If they had that gall, I’d be ready. I’d call them insane to suggest any wrongdoing from Breandan, and tell them that their business was none of mine anyway. “Stay in here for now, and keep quiet. We’ll figure out the next move when they quiet down out there.”

“I owe you my life, Todd Webster.”

“You owe me your story, to start, but we’ll worry about that later.”

Breandan maneuvered himself behind me as I retied the tent flap. It was strange seeing someone of more manly girth cowering behind me for protection. Did he honestly think I’d have a chance against the wrath of these angry Irish? True, I’d held my uncle at bay, but he was one man, with a missing leg at that.

Breandan kept his hands on my shoulders. His warm breath tickled my neck. I wanted more than anything to know why he’d clobbered Hannigan, but the last thing we needed was his voice floating out of my tent, even in hushed tones. So the two of us stayed still and silent for what seemed enough time for the earth to spin a hundred revolutions.

I started to relax some, after a spell, thinking they’d not considered coming near my tent after all. None of them was blind; they’d seen that Breandan had become fonder of me than they all had. But were any of them sharp enough to guess the first place Breandan would hide might be here with me? At this point I surely had my doubts they would.

“Sounds like they moved on,” I said, under my breath, with highest hopes.

He slid his hands off my shoulders. I still felt his breath. Closer and warmer than before.

“Didn’t mean to hit him so hard,” Breandan said. “But I did mean to hit him. Don’t make any mistake about that.”

His soft voice, the pulses of air that came with each of his whispered words, were enough to paralyze me in that instant. I liked him being so close, I won’t lie. Better it weren’t under such auspicious circumstances. I can’t deny I’d had plenty of thoughts of Breandan Donnelly lying next to me so close I could stare into his eyes, try to figure out his soul. And if there were reasons his warm, rugged hands might fall upon me, all the better. I don’t pretend it’s not odd, and foreign to people—it confounds even me!—and surely it’s not something I’d let loose on anyone’s eyes or ears, but I couldn’t deny the affect Breandan had on me. If…if all manner of things had been different, I’d have turned, and…I’d have…I’d have touched his cheek, and run my fingers through all the pretty brown hair that covered his head, and—

“Todd Webster, did you hear me now?”

Breandan’s voice snapped me out of my daze. “What? What is it you said?”

“Christ a-mighty, where was your head? I been talking a streak about—”

“Keep your voice hushed, Breandan!”

And then it happened in the blink of an eye. Could have been a rock. Maybe a foot. But something pushed in the side of the tent and whacked me so good I lost my breath. I heard Breandan shouting as I fell to the tent floor.

The canvas tore. Breandan straddled me. I struggled to breathe. I saw the knife blade travel down the length of the tent wall.

“I’ll skin the bastard alive!” Hannigan shouted.

Amid the shouts of the other men there was a sudden pop. A thunderous crack. Paul Revere whinnied and brayed. Then all the voices stopped. Breandan’s body shook. I closed my eyes, my lungs still aching for air.

“All of ya calm yourselves down now, am I understood?”

It was a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Breandan Donnelly! You come out now and face the man you near killed!”

I tried to sit up, but Breandan put his hand on my shoulder and kept me down.

“I will not!” he shouted back to the strange voice. “I won’t go nowhere near a murderer!”

There was silence. Eerie silence. Breandan’s hand clutched me tighter.

“The lad’s a liar,” Hannigan said, in a softer voice than he’d been using earlier. It was the tone of voice my uncle often enough used when I could tell he wasn’t being truthful. Still, I didn’t want, in this instance, to act like judge and jury.

“Is that the truth, Breandan?” I whispered. “Did Hannigan—”

“You accusing me of making up tales, Todd Webster? Is that what you mean?”

“Come out of there now!” the voice shouted.

“Boy’s a liar,” Hannigan said.

My mother called me the Mediator. When my uncle got into one of his moods, and he and my mother were at odds, I tried to talk them through it. Later, she’d come up and give me a hug, and call me by that nickname. “You’re the Mediator of this house, Todd Webster. I don’t know how I’d have peace of mind without you around.” And now I felt that role being necessary in this current struggle. I knew there’d be no smooth end to these men and Breandan going after each other, firing accusations across their bows and not taking time to think right. With my breathing now normal, and my strength regained enough to free myself from Breandan’s clutches, I got up onto my knees.

I cleared my throat to address the throng outside. “This here’s Todd Webster Morgan. You’re invading my sovereign domain. We’ll have ourselves a rational discussion or I’ll act to defend my territory. I’m perfectly within my rights to do so.”

I heard laughter among the crowd.

“Are you crazy?” Breandan said, his eyes wide with panic. “I won’t have you be killed over this.”

I had to summon every ounce of my strength, and engage the wiles that often enough simmered my uncle down into a less ornery state.

“If any harm comes to me,” I said, my voice rising up, “there will be legions of my kin—many of them high up in government positions—that will form a posse to track down you murderers. I’ve done written my folks all manner of details about my location here, and the company surrounding me, so don’t for a minute think you’d not be tracked.”

There was no laughter this time.

Feet shuffled about. I heard mutters and whispers. Breandan clutched my shoulder again.

“You talk tough,” the voice said, “but if you’re a real man, you’ll come out and show your face.”

“Is it a real man,” I said, “who sneaks up and attacks two unarmed lads in the dead of night, two unarmed lads who can’t see their attackers? I call that damn cowardly behavior.”

“Lad’s got mouth galore,” Hannigan said.

“I got resolve galore, too.”

Breandan’s head swayed back and forth. He was now the one gulping for air. “You’re a firecracker, Todd Webster.”

“Wouldn’t last a second out here all on my own if I wasn’t.”

“Oh, you’ll get us killed…”

“That’ll be on you, Breandan, unless you get your head together!” I said.

Something—or someone—gave my tent a whack.

The strange man’s voice was softer now, but he’d lost none of his authority. “Breandan Donnelly, you’ll not hide in there forever. Might as well come out now and get this sorted.”

I gave Breandan a nudge with my elbow. “He’s right on a level,” I said, reaching into my vest pocket to finger my knife. “This ruined tent in the dark of night is nowhere safe anymore as it is.”

I folded back the tent flap, ignoring Breandan’s whispered pleas. First sight that caught my eye was the lantern off to my right. Six men came into focus. I crawled out, and stood. The tallest of the men took a step toward me.

“You’ve come to your senses.”

I could place the voice with the face now. It was Goodwin. I’d seen him with the group often enough, but he spent more time a good distance away from us, with his nose in a book. I never figured him as their leader. I wondered why he took charge in this instance.

I scanned the group, looking for Hannigan. He was near enough the light of the lantern that I could see blood all down the front of his shirt.

“There’s two sides to this story,” I said, “and I’d like to hear them both.” I could picture my mother smiling her approval at me and mouthing that nickname. The Mediator.

“Only truth here is that Donnelly tried to rob me, and when I fought back, he nearly killed me.”

“Liar!” Breandan shouted from my tent.

“Come out, Breandan,” I said. “You’re doing yourself no favors in there.” I didn’t want to view him as a faint-heart, but it seemed both pathetic and comical for him to try to give his version of the tale as if he was some disembodied voice at a carnival puppet show.

“Listen to your friend now,” Goodwin said.

No one spoke for a long time. Then my tent shuddered. Breandan’s head poked out. Like me, his eyes took in the crowd. Then he looked to me. I nodded, and motioned for him to stand up.

Goodwin folded his arms. “Hannigan tells us you slammed his head two or three times with a rock after he caught you rifling around in his belongings. That true, lad?”

Breandan glared at Hannigan.

“Answer the question, lad,” Goodwin said.

Breandan looked down to the ground as he stepped nearer to me. “Truth is,” he said, almost in a whisper, “I went out to relieve myself, and I come upon McGrath struggling with someone down near the river. I stayed out of sight, not sure—as God is my witness—what was going on between the two of them. Then I hear words I’ve never heard before coming from this stranger. The stranger’s voice got all muffled, and I suspect McGrath covered his mouth. But I didn’t know who was attacking who, and…”

Breandan’s voice trailed off.

“Go on, lad,” Goodwin said.

“Well…my heart, and my head, urged me to run. But I couldn’t be craven that way, especially if one of our own was being attacked. So I got up all the gumption I could and I ran toward them just in time to see McGrath with his hands around the stranger’s neck.”

“Oh, you lie, boy,” Hannigan said. “You lie!”

“That’s enough, now, Hannigan,” Goodwin said, his hand raised. “Let the lad speak.”

Breandan swallowed. He moved even nearer to me, to the point our arms were touching. “When I got close enough, and the light of the moon was such that I could make the two out clearer, I saw it was a Chinese that McGrath was struggling with. He kept knocking the Chinaman’s head against the ground. I froze as McGrath rolled him into the river. Then I got grabbed up from behind. It was Hannigan. We struggled, and I picked up a stone and whacked him good so I could get away.”

McGrath, who was holding the lantern, and who’d been strangely quiet throughout Breandan’s story, answered the charge by first spitting on the ground. “Boy’s not to be trusted.”

“This beggar brat’s full of fairy tales,” Hannigan added.

Goodwin scratched the back of his head. He paced back and forth. “The lad has told quite a story, I’ll grant you that. Practically no similarity in the accounts of what happened here. Hannigan, you say Donnelly tried to rob you. But Donnelly there states that McGrath killed a Chinese while you happened on the scene and grabbed him from behind. I can’t think of two more divergent tales than that.”

“The only difference,” Breandan said, looking at the ground again, “is that I told the truth and these two are liars.”

I was stumped for a logical solution to the dilemma, short of a courtroom, though in my gut I felt Breandan was the more believable. But before I could even utter a word, Breandan bolted.

“Breandan!” I called out to him.

“Proof right there,” Hannigan said. “Proof! Proof!”

I wanted to follow Breandan. I feared for his safety. For his life. But if I took off running after him at that instant, I might verify their suspicion that I was somehow an accomplice with Breandan. Seemed I didn’t have to worry about that long, though. I had Hannigan to thank for changing my status before I even moved an inch.

“And this one here was hiding a criminal,” he said, pointing at me.

All eyes turned.

“You have no right to accuse me of such a thing, Hannigan,” I said.

Another near thunder crack rang in my ear. Hannigan crumpled forward. Everyone moved in a different direction, with shouts and screams filling the night air. If I hadn’t considered it the smart thing to do before, now running seemed the only course of action. And I did just that. Hard and fast as I could. I wasn’t about to die among this group of Irishmen. For a scuffle I had no rightful role in.

I started down a path, past a row of pines. After a short, steep incline, the path leveled off for a few hundred feet then grew steep again. With virtually no light, I headed up and over another small hill, where the path disappeared beneath brush. Soon I came upon a shallow rock cave. I navigated my way inside, tucking behind a jagged edge, which hid my body but allowed me to see out.

I had my knife. I had my money. But I’d left behind my change of clothes, my panning equipment, my correspondence with my mother, and most important, my horse. Not much, I concluded, when compared with still having my life. Yet, I hadn’t expected my quest for gold to come to an end quite this way.

And deep down I knew I wasn’t completely out of danger. I couldn’t fathom which tale was true—Breandan’s or old man Hannigan’s. There was no one I could trust with sure confidence.

But I did know one thing to be true. And that was this; I sure as hell wouldn’t have an easy journey to Truckee.

If I made it there at all.

Next Chapter: Growlers, Plinkers, and Plunkers