3- Canyon of Danger

 As “man of the family” for the week, Jem must figure out what happened to their family’s stolen horse and rifle before his father returns home to Goldtown.

--------------------

Chapter 1

Man of the Family

Goldtown, California, 1864

Jem Coulter took the back porch steps in a flying leap and nearly tore the screen door off its hinges in his eagerness to get inside the ranch house. He didn’t bother to remove his hat. No time for such niceties. Not today. Not when life and death hung in the balance.

Gotta hurry! Jem clomped through the kitchen, where Aunt Rose stood at the huge, black cook stove. She was stirring a pot of something sweet-smelling, and Jem’s mouth watered. Applesauce! Nobody could make applesauce—or anything else—like Aunt Rose. Jem figured he’d grown two inches and gained ten pounds since spring, when his aunt and cousin Nathan had moved in.

Jem had no time to beg a taste of applesauce today. He hurried into the front room and crossed over to the fireplace. The ashes lay cold and dead, just as they had all summer. No need for a fire when the unrelenting California sun beat down on the small ranch house. It kept Jem’s attic loft as hot as a blacksmith’s forge.

Jem reached for his father’s Henry rifle, which rested on the rack above the fireplace.

“Jeremiah Isaiah!”

Aunt Rose’s voice stopped Jem in his tracks. Roasted rattlesnakes! She sure likes to hear the sound of my name.

Jem had heard his full name more times in the past four months than in all of his twelve years put together. Mama had never called him Jeremiah unless she was really aggravated at him. Jem winced. He still missed his mother, even though she had been gone these past four years. Aunt Rose did a good job managing her brother’s family, but it wasn’t the same as when Mama was alive.

Jem turned around empty-handed. He hoped Aunt Rose would be quick. He had to get back to the herd. “Yes, ma’am?”

“What do you mean by tearing through the house like a wild Indian?” Aunt Rose stood in the doorway, a wooden spoon in one hand and her other hand planted on her hip. She was a small woman—barely up to Pa’s shoulders—but Jem knew better than to cross her.

She waved the applesauce spoon at him. “Take that hat off, young man. This is a respectable home, not a saloon or a miner’s shack.”

Jem whipped off his hat and tossed it on the sagging couch to his left.

“Well?” his aunt demanded. “Why are you running around in this heat? Did you water the chickens and the garden? Is the wood split for tomorrow? What about that loose section of fence around the garden? Rabbits have been chewing my produce.”

Jem didn’t know which question to answer first. His heart hammered. There was no time to listen to Aunt Rose’s scolding. He had to grab the rifle and get going.

Aunt Rose gave Jem a weak smile and let her wooden spoon drop to her side. She sighed. “Forgive me for fussing at you, Jeremiah. I’m a little anxious about keeping the place up right now.”

Jem relaxed. Aunt Rose wasn’t sore at him. She was only fussing because Pa was gone, like Miss Cluck ruffling her feathers when something upset her. The likeness between Aunt Rose and his sister Ellie’s favorite setting hen made Jem smile. “Ellie took care of the chickens hours ago,” he said. “Nathan’s splitting wood. I’ll check the fence as soon as I can.”

Aunt Rose might be uneasy about Pa leaving town on sheriff business, but Jem could hardly contain his excitement. Pa left me in charge of the ranch!

“I’ve got no choice but to escort this particular prisoner to Sacramento,” Pa had explained at supper three nights ago. “I’m afraid this is the downside of being a sheriff. I hate leaving you all, but Jem’s old enough to be the man of the family for a couple of weeks.”

Jem felt ten feet tall at Pa’s words.

“And with Nathan and Ellie to help out,” Pa finished, “I’ve no worries. If you get in a bind, you can ask Strike to lend a hand.”

Aunt Rose had made a face and clucked her tongue at the mention of Strike-it-rich Sam. “I’m sure no one will be able to drag him away from his gold claim,” she’d sniffed. Her expression gave away the fact that she did not want the old prospector anywhere near the Coulter ranch.

Pa had laughed. The whole family knew Aunt Rose’s low opinion of the miner. But Strike-it-rich Sam was the Coulters’ best friend. If the need arose, Jem knew he could count on Strike.

Jem turned his attention back to the rifle, the rest of his aunt’s questions forgotten. He carefully lifted the heavy weapon down from the rack and checked the loading tube. There were only three cartridges. He’d have to find more ammunition and maybe a small grub sack to take with him. It might be a long afternoon and evening.

Aunt Rose sucked in her breath. “Land sakes, Jeremiah! Put that thing away. You’ve no call to be toting around a firearm.” She took a step back and regarded the long-barreled rifle as if it were a striking rattlesnake. “You heard me. Put it up.”

Jem clenched his jaw to keep from talking back, but he did not return the rifle to the rack. He couldn’t. Pa had left him in charge, and Jem had a job to do. Aunt Rose had lived in Goldtown for months now, but she still hadn’t adjusted to the rough and wild country. You can take Aunt Rose out of Boston, he mused, but I reckon you can’t take Boston out of Aunt Rose.

“I’ve been shooting a rifle since I was nine,” Jem explained. “And Pa’s been teaching me his fast draw with the pistol. Didn’t Uncle Frederick teach Nathan to shoot? After all, he was a captain in the army and probably shot a gun lots of times.”

Aunt Rose caught her breath and turned pale.

Too late Jem realized he had brought up a sore subject. His uncle had been killed in the Battle of Gettysburg only a year ago. It probably hurt Auntie to be reminded of such a tragedy.

“No, he did not teach Nathan to shoot,” Aunt Rose said before Jem could apologize. “A gun was necessary in your uncle’s profession, but he found no need for such things in the city.”

Jem gripped Pa’s rifle tighter. “You’re probably right, but there is need for a rifle here.” He dropped his voice, just in case ten-year-old Ellie came barreling into the house right then. “I was out checking on the cattle and I found”—he swallowed—“a dead calf.”

Aunt Rose gasped.

“Please don’t tell Ellie,” Jem hurried on. “She puts a lot of stock in our animals. Each of those calves out there has a name. I think this was Pepper, at least from what I can tell by what’s left of him. He’s one of the younger calves. That’s probably why a wolf could take him down.”

“Wolf?” Her voice rose in a squeak.

Jem nodded. “I’m pretty sure. They usually stick to the hills and leave the ranchers alone, but once in a while a lone wolf gets real pesky.” He paused.

“And . . . ?” Aunt Rose prompted.

“He’ll come back for the rest of his meal,” Jem said. “I intend to be there when he does.”

“That is your father’s job,” Aunt Rose said in a shaky voice. “You should wait until he returns.”

Jem felt a flush race up his neck and burst in his cheeks. Aunt Rose didn’t understand. “No, ma’am, I can’t. We only have a couple dozen head of cattle. I’ve gotta get that wolf. Not because he killed one of Ellie’s pet calves, but because those cattle are our living. Now that we’ve got the new bull, Pa’s working hard to increase the herd. He can’t afford to lose even one calf.”

For a full minute, Aunt Rose didn’t say anything. She chewed on her lip while her gaze flicked from the repeating rifle in her young nephew’s hands to a faraway spot out the front window, then back to the gun.

Jem held his breath. Disobeying Aunt Rose would make her angry. She was a grown-up and the closest thing he now had to a mother. He needed her support if he was going to keep the herd safe from predators. He did not want to go against her. Please, God, make her back off. But if she insists I wait for Pa, don’t let her get too riled when I go after that wolf anyway.

“Well, Jeremiah,” she finally said, “I suppose your mind’s made up. Short of wrestling that rifle away from you, I see no way of keeping you from protecting the Coulter cattle.”

Jem let out the breath he’d been holding.

She frowned. “I don’t like it. Not one bit. But seeing as you seem to have some experience with firearms, I won’t stand in your way. After all, Matthew did give you charge of the ranch during his absence.”

Jem carefully laid the rifle down and threw his arms around Aunt Rose. Up until today, he’d only let his aunt kiss him on the cheek or lay a friendly hand on his shoulder. He’d never felt like engulfing her in a grateful hug. But he did so now and was rewarded with a hug in return. “Thank you, Auntie. I’ll do my best to get that wolf.”

While Jem found more cartridges for the rifle, Aunt Rose put together a small sack of food to take along. “Don’t stay out too long past dark,” she warned. “I’ll keep your supper warm.” Then she frowned. “What do I tell Ellianna and Nathan?”

Jem slung a canteen over one shoulder. “That I’m out watching the herd. That’s true enough.” He plopped his hat back on his head. “I think I’ll let Pa tell Ellie about Pepper getting eaten.”

Jem planned to leave behind any wolf he shot. If he dragged it home, Ellie would bombard him with questions. Before long, she’d figure out that a dead wolf probably meant that it had killed first.

Jem stopped by the outside pump to give Copper a quick drink. Thankfully, Ellie was nowhere in sight, and Nathan was asleep in the shade by the woodpile. Jem left his horse and hurried into the barn to find the scabbard to carry the rifle on horseback.

When he came out, he groaned. His golden dog romped and whined, circling Copper and wagging his tail. “You can’t go along,” Jem said. “You’ll keep a wolf from coming anywhere near its kill.”

It took another five minutes to drag Nugget to the porch and tie him up. He whined and barked until Aunt Rose found an old bone to keep him busy.

By the time Jem left the yard, it felt like hours had passed since he’d stumbled across the dead calf. What if the wolf had already returned and finished what it began the day before?

Jem nudged Copper into a lope and made a beeline to where he’d discovered the calf earlier that afternoon. He saw the brown hide and blinked back tears. Ellie wasn’t the only Coulter who was fond of their livestock.

The remains of the calf lay in a clump of scrub brush and small oaks. Jem dismounted and searched the ground all the way around the kill. Sure enough, wolf tracks in the soft dirt circled the remains then headed for deeper woods.

Jem breathed a sigh of relief. He’d given the tracks only a passing glance the first time, before hightailing it home for the rifle and supplies. There was a chance something else had taken down the calf, like a cougar. The thought of a cougar made the hairs on Jem’s neck stand on end. If the tracks had turned out to be a cat, he would have leaped on Copper and headed home—as fast as he could. He knew better than to tangle with a mountain lion.

Jem led Copper away from the calf and tied him up in the woods. Then he made his way back and settled down in a brushy thicket near enough to the recent kill to have a clear view. In the distance, a small herd of cattle grazed out in the open. 

He took a drink from his canteen and bit into a biscuit. It’s going to be a long wait. Wolves had sharp hearing and an excellent sense of smell. If the wolf even suspected an armed hunter hid nearby, it wouldn’t come within howling distance.

Jem reached out and slapped at a pesky fly then kept still. Except for the sound of chattering chipmunks and the occasional cawing crow, all was quiet. There was no breeze, and the late afternoon sun baked Jem’s hiding place. He propped the rifle across his knees and leaned his head back against a tree trunk.

His thoughts drifted to what Pa would say when he learned Jem had saved the herd from a predator. He imagined his father’s proud grin and a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Why, Son, you need a rifle of your own.” Jem grinned and settled himself more comfortably in the thicket . . . and drifted off to sleep.

When Jem jerked awake some hours later, he found dusk settling around him. The chattering had faded away; the crow was long gone. Some hunter you are! he scolded himself. How could he have fallen asleep? And what had awakened him?

Then he heard it—a rustling in the brush just beyond the calf’s remains. Jem’s senses came alive. A cold chill raced up his spine. Carefully, quietly, he gripped the rifle and rose to his knees.

Chapter 2

Wolf?

Jem blinked and tried to focus on where he’d heard the rustling sound. In spite of his abrupt awakening, he felt groggy from his unplanned nap. The sun had dipped behind the hills in the west, but no evening breeze had risen to chase away the suffocating heat. Sweat beaded his forehead.

Jem ignored the sticky drops and peered at the underbrush near the dead calf. Had the noise really come from there? He glanced toward the rangeland. The herd was gone, no doubt bedded down for the night under a grove of oak trees.

Swish . . . crackle. The rustling came again. Jem turned. A shadowy form, all gray and black, was creeping around in the underbrush. The wolf! Jem quietly worked the lever to insert a cartridge into the rifle’s chamber.

The fading light made it difficult to see clearly, but Jem could tell the beast was inching its way closer. He’d been on a wolf hunt with Pa a year ago. Jem knew the wolf was more afraid of him than he was of it. All he had to do was sit tight, wait for the wolf to show itself, take aim, and pull the trigger. Pa made it look so easy.

But now, with night closing in, it sure didn’t feel easy. Jem found it hard to keep the heavy rifle steady as he pointed it toward the rustling sound.

Snap! A branch broke. At the same time, a piercing howl split the air. Startled, Jem pulled the trigger before he realized the wolf’s cry was coming from some distance away. The rifle shot exploded and thrust Jem backward with a yelp of surprise.

Jem hadn’t meant to shoot just then, but his fingers had taken over. Did I get it? He heard another faraway howl. Hang it all! I missed! The wolf was no doubt hightailing it out of the area as fast as it could.

Just then, snapping noises in the brush made Jem’s heart pound. He caught his breath and strained to listen. Maybe a wolf hadn’t been prowling around. Maybe it was something else. A bobcat? A coyote? Shooting a coyote didn’t bother Jem at all. One less varmint for Nugget to chase away from the henhouse.

Jem lay still until his racing heart returned to normal. When he’d recovered his wits, he sat up and readied the Henry rifle with another round—just in case he had shot something, and the animal was still alive. It would be out of its head with pain at being wounded.

Jem rose and began to slowly make his way from his hiding place. He wasn’t sure what he’d find. He tightened his fingers around the rifle and took a few cautious steps toward where he’d aimed his shot.

Halfway across the clearing, Jem heard an agonized moaning. He froze in horror. This was no wounded coyote yipping, or the pain-filled growl of a bobcat. A moan like that could only come from one source—a person!

With a cry of alarm, Jem put down his rifle and ran. He leaped over the dead calf’s remains and plunged through the underbrush, ignoring the branches that whipped his face and caught at his clothing. A limb yanked his hat off, but he didn’t stop.

When he broke through the thicket, a small paint horse whinnied and sidestepped deeper into the brush. Jem barely glanced at the animal he’d mistaken for a wolf before turning his gaze to the ground. A young man, clean-shaven and with jet-black hair, lay motionless on the ground. His eyes were closed; a groan erupted from his throat.

Jem fell to his knees beside him. Oh, God! Please let him be all right! “I’m s-sorry,” he stammered aloud. “I didn’t mean to shoot. I thought you were a . . . I mean, I was shooting at a wolf that got our calf.”

The man cracked his eyelids and spoke between clenched teeth. “Do I . . . look like . . . a wolf, boy?”

Jem flushed. There was no excuse for what he’d done. “Make sure you know what you’re shooting at before you pull that trigger!” He cringed as his father’s words slammed into his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The wounded man tried to sit up but fell back with another groan. A dark, wet spot seeped through the fabric near the man’s left shoulder.

“Lie still,” Jem said. “Rest.”

“Can’t rest.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Not out here. That wolf you’re after would just as soon pick me over another calf.”

Jem’s heart took a nosedive clear to his toes. He looked at the circle of blood soaking the man’s shirt. Desperate to stop the flow, Jem pulled out his pocket knife and cut away the fabric, exposing a lean, bronze shoulder. Sure enough, a dark hole showed where the bullet had entered. Blood oozed from the wound in a slow trickle.

Jem gagged, and his stomach turned over. Why did the sight of this man’s blood bother him so much? He’d seen plenty of blood in his short life. Knife fights and gunfights were common in Goldtown. The violence made him grimace, but he never felt sick. Not like this. Was it because this was personal? Because he was the cause of it?

“Hey, boy,” the man said, “it’s not that bad. You just winged me. Don’t go losing your supper over it.”

Jem took a deep breath and shoved his disturbing thoughts to a little-used corner of his mind. The man was right. There was no time to dwell on what he’d done. Plenty of time for that later, when Aunt Rose got hold of him or when Pa returned.

Jem reached into his back pocket and yanked out his bandana. He wadded it up and stuffed it against the wound. “Hold this real tight. It will slow the bleeding.”

The man clamped down on his shoulder with his good hand. He gasped and sucked in a breath.

Another guilty stab ripped through Jem’s gut. He’s hurting awful bad. What do I do now? Somehow, he had to get the stranger to safety. But how? They were a good two or three miles from the ranch. Jem couldn’t leave him alone while—

“What . . . what’s your name, boy?”

Jem swallowed. “J-Jem. Jem Coulter.” He glanced around at the deepening shadows. It suddenly dawned on him that if a man didn’t want to get shot, then he shouldn’t be creeping around on other folks’ land at dusk, in dark clothing. Especially in gold country, where a suspicious-looking character could be mistaken for a claim jumper and get himself shot simply for going near a miner’s claim.

“By the way,” Jem said, feeling stronger, “this is our range land. I didn’t expect to find people out here.” It didn’t make him feel any better about wounding him, but at least some of the blame for the accident could be shifted to the stranger. Maybe.

The man stiffened at Jem’s words but kept a smile pasted on his face. “I reckon you got a point, Jem Coulter. I’m Rafe.”

“What were you—”

“Shortcut,” Rafe muttered, cutting Jem off. He closed his eyes.

When no other explanation came for Rafe’s twilight wanderings, Jem bit his lip. Bringing a wounded stranger to the ranch while his father was out of town was not a good idea. Aunt Rose would probably have a conniption fit. She did not like surprises, and the California gold country was full of them.

But what else can I do? Jem thought. I shot him. I can’t leave him out here to fend for himself. The sun was setting fast. It was time to grab his hat, fetch the rifle and Copper, and head home.

“I need to get you back to the ranch. Do you think you can stand long enough to get on your horse? I’ll help you.” Jem turned his attention to the paint pony a few yards away.

“I don’t plan to stay out here and bleed to death,” Rafe said. He boosted himself up on his good elbow then winced and slumped back to the ground. “But my mustang went lame on me. He’s as useless as I am.”

Jem felt heartened by Rafe’s voice. He sounded stronger, now that the shock of being shot had worn off. But he didn’t look any stronger. He lay still, his face gray. The red spot on his shirt was widening by the minute, in spite of the makeshift bandage.

“I’ll get my horse and be right back.” Jem leaped through the brush and raced across the clearing as if a wolf were after him. Then back through the woods, where Copper stood patiently, tied to a small tree.

The chestnut horse nickered when Jem approached, but he didn’t take time to return the greeting. It took two tries before his fumbling fingers loosened the reins. Jem yanked hard. Copper responded with a snort and a jerk of his head.

“Easy, boy,” Jem apologized. His hands shook as he gripped the reins and led Copper back to the injured Rafe. “I’m back,” he told the motionless figure. “Let’s get you up on my horse.”

Rafe opened his eyes and glanced at the chestnut horse hanging over him. He gave Jem a weak smile. “I won’t be much help.”

“I shot you in the shoulder. There’s nothing wrong with your legs.”

“That’s a fact, boy,” Rafe replied, struggling to sit up. “But I’m feeling a mite puny from all the blood I’m losin’.”

True enough.

Rafe fingered the double holster he wore. “You can lighten the load by ten pounds if you unbuckle my pistols.”

Jem hadn’t paid any attention to the weapons secured around the stranger’s hips. But he noticed them now. Two Colt .44 pistols peeked out from their matching holsters. Without a word, Jem worked to loosen the dead weight then swung the gear up behind Copper’s saddle like a set of saddlebags.

Jem returned to the task at hand and braced his feet before bending over Rafe. It would be a struggle to lift him, but he did not look like a husky man. Not like Mr. Sims. The café owner who bought Jem’s frogs stood tall and round, and looked solid as a brick wall.

Jem clasped Rafe’s good hand and strained to help him stand. Once he was upright, his legs seemed in good working order. Jem kept Rafe from keeling over as he led him to Copper and guided his foot into the stirrup.

But even with Rafe’s small, wiry build, Jem was breathing hard by the time he steadied him in the saddle. Rafe held the saddle horn in a white-knuckled grip.

In a flash, Jem found his hat. Then he snatched up Pa’s rifle and slipped it into the scabbard.

“My horse,” Rafe whispered.

Jem grabbed the mustang’s reins, then mounted Copper behind Rafe. A lame, faltering pony would slow them down, but Rafe was right. They couldn’t leave the poor animal to wander around out here. A man had to care for his horse, and this one needed doctoring.

Jem scooted forward into the saddle and took up Copper’s reins. It was a tight fit, sharing the saddle with another person. Occasionally, Jem and Ellie shared a saddle, but he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it now, either.

Rafe slumped forward but continued to grip the saddle horn. Jem slipped an arm around his waist to steady him and secured the pony’s reins to the horn. Then he nudged Copper into an easy lope, one that would not push the injured pony too hard.

His thoughts whirled as Copper’s pace ate up the few short miles back to the ranch. He didn’t know what Rafe was doing out here, at dusk, in the middle of the vast rangeland. A shortcut, he’d said, but a shortcut to where? Was he prospecting for a new gold strike? Miners like Strike-it-rich Sam often left their current claims and took off looking for fresh possibilities, especially in the summertime.

Rafe doesn’t look like any gold miner I’ve ever seen, Jem decided. His shiny black hair and bronze skin reminded Jem of the few Yokut or Miwok Indians he’d occasionally seen. But Rafe speaks English as well as I do.

“So, what were you doing out there?” Jem asked, keeping his voice light and friendly. Perhaps Rafe felt more like talking now.

“Taking . . . a walk,” came the muffled answer.

Jem frowned. “Taking a walk” sounded mighty close to “None of your business.”

He tried again. “I was just wondering—”

“Let it go, boy.”

Jem felt a hot flush go up his neck. All right, then. He would change the subject. “Seen any wolf sign around?”

Rafe grunted. “Besides the dead calf?”

Jem fumed. The stranger was playing with him, not taking him seriously at all. He pulled Copper to a rough stop. He suddenly didn’t care if Rafe’s shoulder was jarred into bleeding heavily. “Listen, Mr. Rafe—”

“It’s just Rafe.”

“Whatever your name is,” Jem snapped. “I sure didn’t mean to shoot you. I heard that ol’ wolf howl, and the branches snapped, and I”—he shrugged—“I got startled. I really wanted to get that wolf before it goes after another calf.”

Rafe didn’t reply.

“Anyway, I’m sorry I shot you, and I didn’t mean to poke my nose in your business.” Even if it really was his business, what with Pa off escorting that prisoner to Sacramento.

No answer.

For an instant, Jem wanted to shove the man off Copper, untie the mustang’s reins, and gallop away. So long, stranger! Didn’t Rafe recognize a true apology when he heard one? Ornery, good-for-nothin’ Indi— He caught himself just in time. Forgive me, Lord, he prayed. Rafe’s got a right to be angry. I reckon I’d be pretty riled if somebody shot me.

Jem tightened his grip on the reins and urged his horse forward. “We’re almost home.” He wouldn’t say another word. Not even if it choked him. He’d let Rafe stay as angry as he wished.

A few minutes later, Rafe sighed. “Sorry, Jem. I’m not usually so short-tempered. I hurt, and I took it out on you. Listen. You get me fixed up and . . . and I won’t hold shooting me against you.”

As quickly as it had come, Jem’s annoyance dissolved. He nodded. “Sure thing, Rafe.”

The sun had sunk even lower by the time Jem saw the outbuildings of the Coulter ranch come into view. He eased Copper into the yard and pulled him around to stop in front of the barn. “Can you dismount? It won’t be long now. You can rest while I fetch the doctor.”

Jem untied the pony and carefully slipped from Copper’s back so he wouldn’t jar Rafe. Then he glanced up. Rafe’s face looked ghostly pale against the fading light. “Rafe? Can you—”

Rafe began to slide off the horse. Jem caught him, and they both toppled to the ground with a loud thunk.

Back to Goldtown Sample Chapters ➡️