The Hinterlands by Robert Morgan

she can cook,” Realus said.
    â€œThen if she cooks some for us, we will cut you in,” he said.
    â€œCut me in what?”
    â€œDon’t act so ignorant you don’t know we found gold here last week,” the man said. Realus looked at me.
    â€œI ain’t no prospector,” your Grandpa said. “We was just passing through.”
    â€œI ain’t no prospector either,” the man said. “I’m Jones the Preacher. And that over there’s Owens the Peddler. And when we get the gold out of this mud we can all go back to being whatever we was. Except we’ll be richer.”
    Me and Realus was caught. If we tried to leave, they might shoot us to keep us from telling other people what they was doing. If they was gold, we could get a little to take to the West. All around it seemed better to stay and take a cut. At least, that’s the way it looked then.
    I got out some of my pots and pans and built up a fire at the edge of the clearing, a ways back from the mud and pits. They had set up screens for sifting the dirt. And everybody that had a pan was out in the creek scooping and sloshing. They’d shake the pan a little and look, pick something out and shake the pan again. From time to time one of the men would look at me and make me uncomfortable. Somebody had shot a mess of squirrels for dinner.
    Realus got his shovel and tied the horse to a poplar. The man called Jones the Preacher told him to start shoveling in the bank. While I was heating the water I tried to make sense of what everybody was doing. They was men going this way and that, some carrying buckets and boxes and dumping the dirt. It was like watching trout circle in a pool, the way they heaved and hurried, then hunkered over a pan or pile of mud.
    Finally I seen the pattern of their work. Some of the men, like your Grandpa, was digging into the banks to loosen the dirt. Then they carried it to the screen and separated the big rocks out. Thenin the pans they washed and shook the load until the dirt melted and drained away and only pebbles and sand was left. The pebbles and sand they washed still more, to sort out the nuggets and gold dust from the rest.
    I wondered how much gold dust they had found. No doubt Preacher Jones kept it all hid where only he knowed. He seemed like the kind of feller who would look out for hisself.
    â€œI want to show you something,” the preacher said behind me. He liked to have scared me where I bent over the fire. I turned around and thought he was taking his pants off. He unbuttoned the top button, and pushing a gallus aside, reached down inside his straddle. Then he pulled out something fat and yellow. I took a step back, and saw it was a deerskin pouch.
    â€œLooky there,” he said, grinning at my surprise.
    But I didn’t reach out and take the dirty poke.
    â€œDon’t you want to see?” he said. “Here, let me show you.” And he opened the little sack and poured out in his hand what looked like bright sand with little rocks.
    â€œLooky there,” he said, and stared into my eyes. “They’s enough here for a man and young woman to go wherever they wanted to and live like quality.”
    He leaned closer to me, looking into my eyes. His beard was black but had streaks of gray. “You and me could go anywhere we wanted,” he said and smiled at the pile of gold in his hand. I took another step back.
    â€œDon’t you want to come?” he said, and reached to touch me.
    â€œWe’re going to the Holsten,” I said.
    â€œWhat’s on the Holsten?” he said. “Besides snakes and wildcats and hard work?”
    â€œWe’re just married,” I said.
    â€œThe Lord can marry and unmarry,” he said and grinned.
    I backed halfway into the poplar brush to get away from him.
    â€œJust give me a little kiss,” he said. “And I will give you this poke. Just a little kiss to try me out.”
    He was