Hard Gold by Avi Read Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    “Like what?”
    “He suggests there are doubtful aspects to your life.”
    “Does he?”
    “So when he asked me about you, I told him I knew your great secret.”
    “You did?” I cried.
    “I confided to him that you were the concealed, if unnatural, son of the Emperor Bonaparte.”
    “You didn’t!”
    “Did,” said a grinning Lizzy. “I will say I don’t care for Mr. Mawr.”
    “Me neither.”
    Then she said, “You haven’t noticed.”
    “What?”
    “Since I threw away my bonnet—the result.”
    “What?”
    “Freckles.”
    I looked over and said, “I think you look pretty fine.”
    For once, I detected something like a blush.
    May 14
    We forded Silver Creek near the town of Latimer’s Grove. When we got to the other side, we came upon a camp of some fifteen wagons, all going to the Cherry Creek mines.
    That evening, when the men sat around the fire as they did most nights, there was much talk about Pike’s Peak.
    Lizzy and I sat out on the edge and listened.
    All the men agreed that the gold in Cherry Creek was plentiful. Much talk, too, about the best route to get to the place. Some championed the Platte River route. Mr. Wynkoop insisted that the Republican River trail was most favorable. Mr. Griffin mentioned something called the Smoky Hill route as the shortest.

    A really clear map showing the various trails out to the Pike’s Peak diggings. When the state of Colorado was organized, it was made from parts of the Kansas, Nebraska, Utah, and New Mexico territories.
    There seemed as many points of view as sparks flying from the fire. But in all the arguments it occurred to me that no one really knew. That part was like the fire’s smoke.
    That so many grown men could go so far for so long without knowing the best way startled me.
    May 15
    It being Sunday, we rested. The weather was fine. Some took the time to cast some shot for their guns. Some baked bread. I wished Lizzy would do the same.
    I heard Mrs. Bunderly complain loudly about her health. Mr. Bunderly tried to soothe her. She scolded him for being a fool, and then told Lizzy she was slatternly.
    The girl stomped off.
    Shortly after, Mr. Mawr came along and ordered me to watch the cattle. Sunday or not, I suppose somebody had to do it, and I was the youngest of the hired hands. So although Mr. Mawr was surly with me, I went all the same.
    Apollo trotting by her side, Lizzy found me. The girl said nothing but sat on the ground and watched over the cows with me. “It being Sunday,” she suddenly announced, “I’ll sing you hymns.”
    She did, too: the old Methodist song “How Can We Sinners Know,” and then “Our Ancient Fathers.”
    When she was done, I said, “You’ve got a real fine voice.”
    She said nothing to my compliment but then said, “Early, what do you think of bloomer suits?”
    “Can’t say I know what they are.”
    “Some lady by the name of Miss Bloomer invented them for ladies to wear beneath their skirts. So they might walk and run.”
    “Ladies aren’t supposed to run.”
    “I like to.”
    I looked at her and grinned. “Then you’d best wear bloomers.”
    She giggled and said, “I think I just may.”

    A Bloomer girl! I’m not sure how Lizzy would have looked.
    Next moment she sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” while hugging her pig, who grunted. I suspected she taught the pig to do so. I never knew what Lizzy would do next.
    May 16
    We crossed another creek.
    Having yet to ride in the wagon, I began to wonder if I would walk the whole way.
    By the road we came upon a crude gravestone. It read:
    GEORGE W. RIPLEY
HARTFORD. CONNECTICUT
DIED OF A FEVER. 1859
AGE 6
RIP
    Lizzy said, “Early, I will pray that his journey to paradise is nearer than Connecticut.” The grave put us in a somber mood.
    May 17
    We went eight miles, and by crossing Keg Creek came within ten miles of Council Bluffs—or so I was told. That evening we found a camp of some eight wagons. One wagon had these familiar