Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887) Read Online Free PDF Page B

narrowed to slits as he said, “I don’t joke about gold, Mr. Waltz. Not now and not ever.” He paused, then continued, “Nor do I joke about California.”
    Embarrassed by his unintentional gaffe, Waltz looked down at his beer and said nothing. And Weiser’s thin lips curved up at the corners as he thought he recognized a kindred spirit in their new acquaintance.
    Just then a waiter appeared with their tab. As Weiser and Waltz reached for their money, Peeples forestalled them by saying, “Drinks are on me tonight. Perhaps we’ll meet again before I leave.”
    “I’d like that,” Weiser replied.
    Although he did not usually reveal much of what he was thinking, Waltz was in an expansive mood as he and Weiser walked toward their respective living quarters, and surprised Weiser by saying, “I like that Adam Peeples, but he’s making a big mistake to go to California.”
    “Why do you think so?” Weiser asked, as if he valued Waltz’s opinion.
    Waltz smiled proudly and replied, “I know because I study history of America with Herman. He says there’s no gold mining in California since the Spanish went home.”
    Two nights later, Weiser and Peeples met again at the beer garden. Over steins of new bock, Peeples said, “Have you thought any more about going to California? My cousin Abraham’s getting up a wagon train, and you’d be welcome to join it.”
    “Thanks,” Weiser said, tightening his thin lips in a wry smile, “but my partner would be dead set against it. Besides, if he’s going anywhere, he has his mind set on going to South Carolina.” He paused, then said, “But that doesn’t matter anyway, because Waltz sends half his paycheck home to his mother and I couldn’t convince him to go anywhere right now.”
    “I admire his loyalty,” Peeples said.
    “So do I,” Weiser agreed quickly, wanting to rectify any image of insincerity that his previous comment may have presented and, although loyalty was not part of his personal ethics, added piously, “It’s the basis of our partnership.”
    Peeples pulled his watch from his pocket, checked the time, and yawned. “It’s getting past my bedtime,” he said.
    “Mine, too,” Weiser said quickly, reaching into his pocket slowly.
    As Weiser had hoped, when the waiter appeared Peeples said, “Put it on my tab, Charlie.” Turning to Weiser, Peeples said, “Now you be sure to keep my wagon train in mind if your circumstances change.”
    “I’ll do that,” Weiser said.
    One week later, Waltz received a letter from his mother with a note from Otto informing him of his mother’s death. The letter had been found on her bedside table. Holding his mother’s letter in his right hand, Waltz sat down heavily and passed his left hand across his forehead. As he gazed at his mother’s handwriting, tears filled his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. He leaned forward, sighed, and let his head sink onto his folded arms.
    After a time he rose, pulled on a grey sweater that matched his mood, and walked down to the harbor. He often came here at the end of the day. Wagons that had been piled high with goods from New Orleans were gone, and the horses that pulled them were unhitched and grazing in a nearby field. There were no ships unloading, no teamsters cursing — just the quiet wash of the Mississippi River splashing gently against the shore.
    A stray dog, his brown coat mottled from scratching fleas, limped beside Waltz a little way, then left him for a promising pile of garbage.
    Waltz sighed. His mother was gone and he would always treasure her memory — but with her passing, he was free to go prospecting, save his earnings, and buy land. In his mind’s eye, he saw a pretty white farmhouse surrounded by fertile fields. Chickens strutted around the yard pecking in the dirt and cows waited to be milked at the end of the day. Vegetables grew near the house, and perhaps a few flowers. He sighed again, sad that his mother did not live to see it.
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