Hard Gold Read Online Free PDF Page A

you didn’t tar the hubs, the wheels screeched something awful. That’s why a leather tar bucket was hung on the doubletree for easy access. In fact, some people called the wagons “tar grinders.” Not nearly as pretty sounding as “prairie schooners,” maybe, but I always thought that described them better.

    A good diagram of the kind of wagon the Bunderlys had.
They were strong, generally waterproof, and could float.
    Up front, harnessed to each wagon’s tongue, were four yoked oxen. A pair of saddle horses was tethered to one wagon. Two milk cows were under the care of some young boys. A few chickens in cages were tied to another wagon. I even heard the squeal of a pig. The wagon train was a rolling barnyard.
    I found Mr. Bunderly pouring drinking water into the barrel affixed to one side of his wagon.
    “Ah, Mr. Early! How pleasant to know your name is equal to your promise,” he said by way of greeting. “I bid you a most hearty welcome to our great adventure.” He took my hand in his two and shook it as gravely as if I were joining a funeral procession.
    Turning to the small woman seated on the front wagon seat, he said, “Dearest Mrs. Bunderly, this is the orphan boy—Early—I spoke to you about. He will accompany us and no doubt provide a great deal of useful assistance.”
    Mrs. Bunderly—dressed in formless, plain linen-peeked out from deep within her Shaker wire-framed bonnet. Her face, what I could see of it, was small and sallow, with large, anxious eyes. As it was, she barely looked at me, offering hardly more than a nod of acknowledgment, though she did extend a delicate hand that barely touched mine, only to withdraw as if fearful of contagion.
    As Mr. Bunderly led me away, he whispered: “As I have already intimated, Mr. Early, my darling wife languishes in poor health. But I have heard reliable reports that the Cherry Creek air is sufficiently salubrious as to provide a potential remedy. We shall anticipate the best, shall we not? Enterprise feeds best on joy, not despair.
    “Now, then, young man, you shall meet my daughter.” We started off only to halt while he grasped my shoulder. “Do not,” he whispered, “let her intimidate you.”
    Mr. Bunderly led me to a girl who was leaning against one of the large wagon wheels. She was gazing at me with much boldness.
    “Mr. Early,” said Bunderly, “this is my delightful daughter, Miss Eliza. Miss Eliza, this is the plucky orphan lad who will be offering us needful aid.” That said, he walked away—in haste, I thought—leaving me alone with the girl.
    She was a tall, skinny girl, dressed in a long, not-too-clean calico dress. No hoopskirt for her. Around her neck hung her bonnet in slovenly fashion. Her face had bold green eyes that were almost saucy and a smudged, pug nose. Her hair was long and as red as any I’d ever seen. Her boots, men’s and neither left nor right, had wooden soles, and were surely too large, which made her taller than I was. Her hands were big, almost bony.
    In short, she was no beauty. I guessed her to be about my age, though for all I knew she could have been much older.
    “Pleased to meet you, Miss Eliza,” I said, more to my toes than to her face.
    “Mr. Early, I can’t say I share that pleasure,” she returned in a voice I thought excessively loud.
    “Beg pardon?” I said, taken by surprise.
    “My father has taken you on because he doesn’t think I’m capable of anything. And my mother,” she said, tossing her red hair back with a smart snap of her head—a gesture I would come to see many times—“doesn’t want me to be capable. She thinks capability is unladylike.”
    “I’m sure your father will know what to do,” I murmured.
    “Mr. Early,” she said, “if there is bravery in ignorance, you may be sure I have the bravest family in the whole world. My father brings along a pepperbox pistol about which I’m sure he knows not where the six bullets fit.”
    I stood there like a lump of