4- Jem Digs Up Trouble

Jem is excited to accompany his prospector friend, Strike, on a two-week prospecting trip into the mountains. But the trip doesn’t go as planned. There are more tall tales from Strike than there are gold nuggets. There are dangers too. Will the two prospectors bring home treasure or return empty-handed? Or worse . . . will they not make it home at all?

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Chapter 1

A Muddy Creek

 

Swish, swish, swish. Sand and water swirled in Jem’s gold pan.

Rattle, rattle. Gravel and small rocks banged against the sides. 

The morning sun beat down on Jem’s head.

His hat kept the sun out of his eyes, but it could not keep out the heat.

Jem felt like it had sucked him dry.

The August heat had almost sucked Cripple Creek dry, too. It was only a muddy trickle.

A muddy creek was not good for washing gold. It was hard to see flakes or nuggets in brown water.

“You’re mighty dirty, young’un.”

Jem looked up. Strike-it-rich Sam squatted a few feet away.

Mud dotted the old prospector’s wrinkly face and his beard.

Strike’s pants and red-flannel shirt were also caked with mud. So were his suspenders.

Jem grinned. “You’re muddy too.”

Just then Nugget joined Jem. The golden dog pushed his nose close and whined.

Pet me! he seemed to say.

Jem put down his gold pan and ruffled Nugget’s golden fur. “Where have you been?”

Nugget shook himself. Dust flew up in a big cloud.

“Pesky dog!” Strike waved his hands and coughed. “Rolling in the dirt again.”

Jem sneezed. Ah-choo! His eyes watered.

Then he hugged Nugget. “He’s not pesky. Have you seen any rattlesnakes this summer?”

Strike grunted and scooped creek dirt into his pan.

“Nugget is the reason you haven’t,” Jem said. “He keeps tarantulas and gophers and other varmints away.”

When Strike didn’t answer, Jem filled his gold pan. He would wash gold one more time this morning.  

Then I’m going to play with Nugget.

“It’s hotter than blazes around here,” Strike muttered.

The old miner was right about that.

Sweat dripped down Jem’s face and neck. It trickled down his back and arms.

Only his hands and bare feet felt cool. Brown creek water dribbled over his toes.  

“It’s time for me to get away from this heat,” Strike said. He dumped out his pan. “I’m thinkin’ of goin’ off on a prospecting trip.”

Jem’s heart leaped. “Up in the mountains?”

Cool breezes. Icy-cold creeks. Sparkling water.

“Yep.” Strike pointed to the tall mountain peaks. “I’ve heard about some gold strikes up there.”

“What kind of strikes?” Jem asked.

Strike chuckled. “Rich ones.”

Jem’s heart thumped even faster.

Strike-it-rich Sam was always going off on prospecting trips. Like four months ago, when he found Nugget.

Strike had never struck it rich. Not yet, anyway. But bringing home a hungry golden dog was better than finding gold.

At least Jem thought so.

“Yes sirree,” Strike was saying. “There’s gold up there. I can feel it in my bones.”

Jem’s ears pricked up. “How long will you be gone?”

“Oh, two weeks or so,” Strike said. “It takes time to find just the right spot.”

“That’s for sure.” Jem looked at the muddy brown trickle. “This is not the right spot.”

Strike laughed. “You got that right. I’m gonna strike it rich up there someday.”

Jem’s thoughts buzzed louder than a swarm of bees. Maybe Strike really would hit pay dirt this time.

And maybe . . .

“I wish I could go with you.” Jem’s words came out fast.

Strike’s bushy eyebrows went up, like he was surprised. “You want to come along?”

Jem nodded.

Strike slapped his knee. “That’s a jim-dandy idea, young’un. It gets mighty lonesome on the trail.”

Jem’s mouth fell open. “Really?” Strike wanted his company?

“We’re partners, ain’t we?”

“We sure are!”

How could Jem forget? Whenever Pa was too busy to pan for gold, Jem took his place alongside Strike.

Like today.

“I’m almost eight years old,” Jem said. “I could be a real help on the trail.”

“You could at that, I reckon.” Strike smiled.

Jem beamed. “When do we leave?”

“Hold your horses, young’un.” The miner pointed to a big canvas tent and a black cookstove not far uphill from the creek. “Take a look.”

Jem followed Strike’s pointing finger.

Pa was walking into camp. He held a shotgun in one hand. A wild turkey hung over his shoulder.

Jem’s mouth watered. Yum! “Turkey for supper!”

It had been many weeks since the Coulter family enjoyed such a fine feast.

“That ain’t what I meant,” Strike said. “It’s not me you got to ask. It’s your pa.”

Jem’s cheerful thoughts went pop!

Would Pa and Mama let him go prospecting in the wilderness with Strike?

Jem slumped. Probably not. At least Mama probably wouldn’t.

Mama worried enough when the family went blueberry picking up in the hills each fall.

She worried about bobcats, mountain lions, and bears.

She especially worried about grizzly bears.

Mama would not want to worry about Jem for two weeks. 

Strike pulled himself up from the rocky creek bed. “Well, partner. What are you waiting for? Let’s go ask your folks.”

  

Chapter 2

Birthday Surprise

 

Jem leaped to his feet. “Yes, sir!”

Strike was a grown-up. Pa and Mama might say yes if he asked them.  

Jem grabbed his gold pan. He dumped out the rocks and water. Then he followed Strike up the dry, crumbling creek bank.

Dust puffed up with each step.

“Come on, Nugget!” he hollered.

Barking, Nugget jumped up.

Jem could run fast, even with bare feet. He and Nugget raced past Strike. They ran all the way to the Coulter family’s tent.

It wasn’t far.

“Pa!” Jem shouted. “Mama!”

Jem’s little sister Ellie pushed open the tent flap and stepped outside.

“What happened?” she asked. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Did you hit color?”

Jem stopped short. “Just because I hollered doesn’t mean I found gold.”

Ellie let out a big breath. “Why else would anybody around here yell like that?”

Jem rolled his eyes. Silly little sister.

Pa laughed. “She’s got you there, Son.” He dropped the turkey on a nearby tree stump. “I thought the same thing.”

 “If you didn’t wash a big gold nugget, then why are you shouting?” Mama asked.

Strike walked up just then. “Mornin’, folks,” he said cheerfully.

“Strike’s going on a prospecting trip in the mountains,” Jem said. “He wants me to go with him. Can I go? Please?”

Please, God, let Mama say yes.

Mama didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no.

She said something else. “May I go.”

Jem bit his lip. Mama was always fussing about the way he and Ellie talked.

She had more to say. “I declare, Jeremiah. You and Ellie have run wild all summer long.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Mama was right about that. It had been Jem’s best summer ever!

Mama was still not done talking. “It’s a good thing school starts up in a few weeks.”

Jem groaned, but just to himself. He didn’t want to think about school. Not ever.

“May I go with Strike?” he asked again.

Pa looked at their friend. “Are you really going off on another prospecting trip?”

“Yep.” Strike waved his arm toward Cripple Creek. “I can’t wash nothin’ from that muddy trickle.”

Pa sighed. “I know. The rocker has stood empty since the end of July.”

Jem peeked around Pa. Their rocker box sat on the creek bank. Jem could throw a rock and hit it if he wanted.

Gravel, water, and dirt had rattled down that funny-looking contraption all spring.

Pa and Strike had found gold with it. Not much, but enough to keep working their claims.

But a rocker box needed water to do a good job. A lot of water. More than a gold pan needed.

Pa would have to wait for the winter rains to use the rocker again.

“May I please—”

Pa held up his hand. Jem stopped talking.

Strike laughed. “I did invite the young’un to go along.” He winked at Pa. “I hear he’s got a birthday comin’ up pretty soon.”

“I do!” Jem agreed.

Strike chuckled. “Eight years old.”

Jem nodded and stood on his tiptoes. He had to look older . . . and bigger.

Pa’s dark eyes twinkled. “That’s so.”

“A prospecting trip would be just the thing for a boy’s eighth birthday,” Strike said. “It gets mighty lonesome on the trail with only a donkey to talk to.”

Tingles raced up and down Jem’s arms. Strike was a good talker. He could explain what a good idea this trip was. Jem was sure of it.

“We could keep each other company,” Strike added.

“Hmm,” Pa said. He looked at Mama.

Mama’s forehead was scrunched up in worry wrinkles. “I’m not sure I want Jem going so far away from home.”

Jem held his breath and didn’t say a word.

Instead, he talked quietly to God. Help Strike say the right words.

Mama looked at Pa. Then she looked at Strike. More worry wrinkles appeared.

“Aw, Ellen.” Strike laughed. “You know the young’un is safer with me than in his own tent.”

The wrinkles in Mama’s forehead went away. She uncrossed her arms. They hung down by her sides.  

She smiled. “You’re right about that, Strike.”

Jem let out the breath he was holding. So far, so good.

A minute went by. Then another. It looked like Mama was thinking hard.

“He may go,” she said at last, “so long as it’s all right with Matt.”

“It’s fine with me,” Pa said. “He’ll have a jim-dandy time.”

He smiled at Jem. “You might even hit pay dirt. We could trade this tent in for a real house.”

A thrill went through Jem. “You can count on—”

“Yippee!” Ellie whooped.

Jem spun around.

Ellie was clapping and squealing.

She grabbed Strike’s mud-speckled hands and did a little dance. “Hurrah, hurrah!” 

“Roasted rattlesnakes, Ellie!” Jem hollered. “What are you so fired up about?”

Ellie stopped dancing. She stopped squealing. She let go of Strike’s hands.

She looked at Jem with wide, happy eyes. “We get to go prospecting with Strike.”

We?

Thud! Jem’s heart dropped to his stomach like a big, hard rock. 

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