Native Gold by Glynnis Campbell Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m afraid your husband-to-be...well, he kicked the bucket yesterday."
    Mattie glanced blankly from one man to the other. She had no idea what they were saying, between their fanciful talk of farms and buckets and their outright butchering of the English language. But she was already imagining the wonderful portrait she’d make of the two prospectors, here among the ramshackle lean-tos that must serve as storage sheds for the residents of Paradise Bar.
    Zeke was as wrinkled, salty, and lean as a stick of jerky. Long gray waves of thinning hair hung over his protruding ears and draped his bony shoulders. His nose had a slight bend in it, as if he’d stuck it once where it didn’t belong and found the wrong end of a fist. His lips all but disappeared into a beard that looked like a fracas between a kitten and a dozen spools of multi-colored thread. The map of wrinkles etched in his sun-weathered face told of hardship and laughter, bitterness and hope. But his eyes—they’d be the focus of the portrait she’d do of him one day. Twinkling with wisdom one moment, snapping vexedly the next, those eyes had witnessed the good part of a century.
    Swede’s face was bare, save for a faint peach fuzz of blond whiskers. The black hat jammed over his head a moment ago only accentuated his sunburned ears and the startlingly bright, bone-straight hair that stuck out around them like straw. Though he spoke in all seriousness at the moment, the crow’s feet at the corners of his indigo eyes and the waves across his high forehead reflected a life of mischief and glee, and his wide mouth seemed made for laughter. He had shoulders as broad as an ox, and ham-like hands that she suspected could tenderly milk a cow as well as throw a mean punch.
    "Aw, she don’t get it, Swede," Zeke decided, scratching at his scraggly beard.
    "Well, shit! I mean, shoot!" Swede quickly corrected. "Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am."
    Mattie bit back a smile. These two were far more interesting than the proper, simpering gentlemen of New York. Oh yes, she thought, she was going to like it here. It was colorful, just as her voyage to California had been.
    Her portfolio was bulging with sketches she’d made of the journey. There was a rendering of the ship she’d boarded in New York, its twin stacks exhaling clouds of steam, passengers crowded along its whitewashed railings, their faces bright with promise as they gazed across the white-capped sea.
    And there were sketches made days later of several of the passengers: a nervous young minister clinging to his Bible like a tot to a favorite blanket; four beardless prospectors in flannel shirts and heavy boots as new as their faces; an old sour-faced woman in cropped hair and men’s trousers with a pickaxe slung over her capable shoulder; a sparkle-eyed Irishman with a missing tooth and more patches in his coat than coat.
    She’d sketched their lodging at the mouth of the Chagres River in Panama—a thatched hut where gentlemen stretched out beside beggars and Mattie learned that if a young woman was weary enough, she could indeed fall asleep in a room crowded with strange men.
    And there was a wonderful depiction of bare-chested natives paddling a bungo along the jungle trail from Gorgona to Panama, where moss dangled from the trunks of lush trees and dipped into the murky waters of the river.
    Despite the grousing of discontented travelers at every leg of the voyage, Mattie found adventure in the adversity. For once she felt free of society’s dictates.
    While others hung over the railing of the steamer, moaning about the roiling of the ship, Mattie stood brazenly on the foredeck, relishing the icy wind and salt spray upon her cheeks.
    While they complained about the meager rations along the Chagres—beans and pork with hard bread and molasses—Mattie lured the monkeys out of the forest by tossing them bits of food.
    While the male passengers looked upon the Panama natives with disdain, and the few females