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PART 1
“What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from great loneliness of spirit, for whatever happens to the beasts also happens to the man. Teach your children what we have taught our children: That the earth is their mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves. The earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.”
--------Chief Seattle, Squamish Tribe, 1854
Chapter 1
The fog rolled through the Golden Gate and billowed across the dark waters of the bay. Tendrils of mist eased into coves and inlets, embraced hills and tall city buildings and, impelled by a brisk offshore breeze, worked its way into the Oakland Estuary and swept onto the streets of the waterfront.
Jeremiah Ignatius McElroy felt the first cold draft against his back and shivered as though someone had poured ice water down his collar. It had been an unseasonably warm spring day, the temperatures climbing into the mid-80s, and a pleasant early evening, but this blast of damp cold air had lowered the thermometer a good thirty degrees. Now as clammy mist swirled around him and brought the deep bellow of foghorns from out in the bay, Jeremiah cursed himself for not bringing a coat. He was lightly clad in a buckskin jacket, denim jeans, and boots, hatless, but with his favorite buck knife strapped to his belt in its Indian bead scabbard.
Jeremiah flapped his arms and quickened his step to get the blood flowing. His spare frame, lean and tough as beef jerky, offered him little natural insulation from sudden cold. His graying black hair, thin and receding in the front, long and curly in the back, with thick sideburns merging into a scruffy beard, was now damp and matted to his skin. Jeremiah knew this dank weather was just the thing to bring on a crippling attack of rheumatism. He flapped his arms harder and moved at a semi-jog.
Jeremiah turned the corner and bright light, loud music, and jeering laughter greeted him from across the street in front of the Last Chance Saloon. Two young hoodlums in tight suits and derby hats were lounging on the porch, hand-rolled cigarettes dangling from their lips, their eyes glittering from too much cheap booze, pointing toward Jeremiah as though he were a circus animal. Jeremiah was going to ignore them and walk on past until the larger of the two, who Jeremiah figured was sizing him up as a possible roll, called out, “Hey, Billy, look at that old buzzard flappin’ his arms like he wants to git off the ground. Now ain't that a sight.”
“Yeah, he’s a sight all right,” said Billy. “Get a look at them clothes.”
The other one laughed and said, “Hey, old man, where’d you git those clothes? A museum?”
“Naw, Rube, he didn’t git those clothes from no museum. Why, I think he must be one of them cowboys from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.”
Jeremiah clenched his fists and tightened his lips. His ears and neck were burning. He felt the old familiar rush of adrenaline, the dryness in his throat, the coppery taste on his tongue, and the tingling of his scalp. He stopped in front of a chandler’s shop and turned to face the men, his hazel eyes narrowed, his right hand slipping into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Is that the story, old man?” continued Rube. “Or are you Buffalo Bill himself?”
Jeremiah stepped out from the shadow of the shop and into the street to a pool of light cast by the bar. Then in a soft voice, his eyes glued to the men, he said, “No, boys, you got that wrong. I was around before anyone ever heard of Bill Cody. And I’ll probably still be here when you cheap tinhorns get what’s comin’ to you. Now git. You boys are botherin’ me.”
“Well, listen to the old fool,” said Rube, grabbing one of the porch support beams and lurching a step forward. “I guess you . . .”
A lightning movement and a flash of metal ended in a solid thud. A whittling knife, still vibrating, was impaled in the post about an inch above Rube’s hand. Rube froze, his face pale and his eyes wide.
Jeremiah pulled his buck knife and held it so that the light glinted off its polished surface. The two men stared at it. Jeremiah twirled the carved ivory handle and then held it loosely in his hand.
“Now, boys, in case I still need to tell you . . . you need to be careful who you trifle with . . .”
“Hell, mister, we were just havin’ a little fun. There’s no need to . . .”
“I’m not through talking, boy.”
Billy dropped his eyes.
“Now, as I was saying, I might look a little long in the tooth, but that don’t mean this old boy still don’t have fangs. I mean, I’ve thrown this here buck knife through both man and beast and, well, for a minute there you had me thinking of doing something like that to you boys. Shoot, it’s not right to disrespect your elders. But then, thinking about it, a more righteous punishment for two young dumb boys like yourselves would be to, well . . . I’m highly tempted to just cut off your peckers so you don’t breed anymore jackasses like yourselves. . . . You catch my drift?”
Billy and Rube looked at each other for a moment.
“Adios, boys. And I mean now.”
The two hoods turned and slunk into the depths of the saloon.
Jeremiah, chuckling, went to retrieve his knife. He felt great now. All thoughts of the cold had disappeared. Sure, maybe he wasn’t what he had been, but he could still intimidate a couple of fresh young bucks who thought he was an easy touch. Jeremiah put a little extra swagger in his walk as he continued up the street another block and turned into the St. Louis House.
Jeremiah pushed through the swinging doors and was engulfed in smoke, noise, and the resinous odor of the sawdust scattered across the plank floor. The large barroom was filled with an assortment of longshoremen, wharf rats, oyster pirates, and a handful of professional ladies who doubled as barmaids. The walls at the back of the room were adorned with paintings of pioneers heading west interspersed with the heads of a big horn sheep, a buffalo, a grizzly, and a mountain lion. The front of the room, on the side of the long bar, was decorated with a stuffed shark head, a swordfish, a narwhal, and various harpoons, nets, and other fishing paraphernalia. A gas-lit chandelier hung from the rafters and booths occupied the sides of the room along with stairwells leading to the second floor.
For a moment, Jeremiah considered squeezing in along the packed bar, but then he spotted an open table next to the potbelly stove in the back and he opted for that. He had no sooner sat down, fired up his pipe, and begun to feel a warm glow on his back from the stove, when Jennie McDermott came up to him. She was balancing a tray loaded with schooners of steam beer in her right hand and had a wicked grin on her lips and a mischievous look in her eyes.
“Well, well, if it isn’t ol’ Jeremiah McElroy himself. Warming his creaky bones by that stove like an old cat.”
Jeremiah looked up and smiled at the buxom, good-natured woman. He and Jennie were old friends. When he talked to her, Jeremiah slipped comfortably into the Irish brogue of his youth.
“Well now, girl, I’ll have you speak to me with a wee bit more respect. I just had a little run-in with some young lads who confused old with seasoned.”
“Did you now? And what was the result?”
“It wasn’t to their credit. And I’ll have you know, lass, on a good night I can still give you the shagging of your life.”
Jennie laughed, slopping some of the foam off the top of the beers, and replied, “And would this be a good night for you, laddie?”
“Surely you mean, would this be a good night for you, girl?”
“Ah, but you’re a conceited one Jeremiah Ignatius Mc-Elroy. But it’s good to see a man of your advanced years with so much wit and vinegar.”
“Thank you, daughter. And as for lying by the stove on a night such as this, I have to agree with my old friend Sam Clemens when he said, ‘The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.’”
“Surely. But we’re in Oakland. Are you unable to tell the difference now?”
“It’s of little difference, lass.”
“Of little difference, is it? Then it’s certain you need a whisky to clear the fog out of your brain, then.”
“I can’t dispute that.”
“Whisky with a beer chaser, Mac?”
“No. Just the whisky for now. The good stuff from Danny Boy’s private reserve.”
“It’s coming up.”
While Jennie went to fetch his drink, Jeremiah went to the complimentary buffet table and filled a large plate with slabs of roast turkey, Spanish olives, sourdough bread, oysters, which he squirted with red pepper sauce, and cheese. Then he found a current edition of William Randolph Hearst’s San Francisco Examiner, dated Sunday, May 10, 1891, and opened it to the “Prattle” column by Ambrose Bierce. Bierce was Jeremiah’s favorite columnist. They had served together in the Army of the Cumberland during the Civil War and, perhaps in part because of this shared fraternity, Jeremiah had a keen appreciation for the vitriolic wit and biting satire of “Bitter Bierce’s” columns and stories.
Jeremiah sipped his whisky, forked down his food, and savored Bierce’s skewering of President Benjamin Harrison who was touring California.
Jeremiah read:
“Respect! Respect the good. Respect the wise. Respect the dead. Let the president look to it that he belongs to one of these classes. His going about the country in gorgeous state and barbaric splendor as the guest of a thieving corporation, but at our expense, whining and dining and swining, unsouling himself of clotted nonsense in pickled platitudes calculated for the meridian of Coon Hollow, Indiana, but ingeniously adapted to each water tank on the line of his absurd progress does not prove it, and the presumption of his good office is against him . . .”
Jeremiah laughed, took another sip of whisky, and reflected for a moment. President Harrison had also served as an officer in the Army of the Cumberland during the Civil War. Even then he had a reputation among the troops as a shameless self-promoter with a bloated ego. Harrison had been far more popular with politicians and newspapermen than with the ordinary enlisted men. Jeremiah had disliked him in those days; Bierce had loathed him. Jeremiah slurped down a couple of oysters and took up the paper again.
“. . . Can you not see, poor misguided fellow citizens, how you permit your political taskmasters to forge leg chains of your follies and load you down with them! Will nothing teach you that all this fuss-and-feathers, all this ceremony, all this official gorgeousness and brass-banding, this ‘manifestation of a proper respect for the nation’s head’, this monkey business, has no decent place in American life and American politics? Will no experience open your stupid eyes to the fact that these shows are but absurd imitations of royalty to hold you silly, while you are plundered by the managers of the performance—that while you toss your greasy caps in the air and sustain them by the ascending current of your senseless hurrahs, the programmers are going through your blessed pockets and exploiting your holy dollars? No; you feel secure: ‘Power is of the people,’ and you can effect a change of robbers every four years. Inestimable privilege—to pull off the glutted leach and attach the lean one! And you cannot even choose among the lean leaches, but must accept those designated by the programmers and showmen who have the reptiles on tap.”
Jeremiah took another slug of whisky and chuckled, thinking, ‘ol Ambrose is in rare form here. Then he continued:
“. . . Men who believed before that Mr. Harrison was a small-minded vulgarian, imperfectly honest, imperfectly intelligent, profoundly selfish, and conspicuously ill-bred, the willing servitor of robber corporations and political adventurers, believe so still . . .”
“Mr. McElroy! May I have a word with you, sir?” interrupted a deep melodious voice.
Chapter 2
Jeremiah looked up from the paper and saw a tall burly black man before him. Before acknowledging the stranger, Jeremiah sized him up in the quick searching manner that had saved his life on more than one occasion. The man looked something like a Pinkerton Agent. He had a well-cut brown suit, a matching derby hat with a gray silk band, and a thick walking stick with a solid steel tip. His manner and stance were polite and deferential. Jeremiah relaxed. He was probably about some kind of business.
“What can I do for you, mister?” asked Jeremiah.
“My employer would like a word with you, sir.”
“Would he now? And who might your employer be?”
“Mr. Stanford Collis, sir.”
“Stanford Collis? You mean, the Stanford Collis?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Stanford Collis.”
“Well, hell! Why would Mr. Stanford Collis want to talk to an old sourdough slinger like me?”
“I don’t know the specifics, sir. But it concerns your professional services.”
“My professional services? Mean to say, he’s lookin’ for a hunting guide?”
“I don’t know, sir. You’ll have to speak to Mr. Collis about that.”
Jeremiah pulled at his beard for a moment. “How did you know where to find me tonight?”
“It wasn’t difficult, sir. We made a few inquiries of some of your former clients and found out you spend most of your evenings in town here.”
“Like which former clients?”
“I don’t know, sir. That was handled by one of my associates.”
“So I need to talk to the man himself before I learn a damn thing? Is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why sure, then. I’ll talk to him. Tell him to come right in here and we’ll have us a nice little chat.”
“Mr. Collis would prefer that you come with me. He’s right outside in his coach.”
Jeremiah shook his head. “Nope, we’ll talk in here or we won’t talk at all. May not look like much, but I conduct most of my business here. And if Mr. Collis went to the trouble of coming all the way down here to look for me, interrupting my Sunday and all, he can damn sure come a few more steps and sit at this table with me.”
“Sir! Mr. Collis requires the utmost discretion.”
“Yep. So do I. And this place is about as discreet as it gets. You see, most of the gutter trash in here is wanted by the law so they know how to keep their mouths shut. And they’re so ignorant, they could give a hoot about Mr. Stanford Collis or anything possibly compromising he might be up to. . . . And you can tell your boss that. Exactly as I said it.”
Jeremiah observed the big man’s shoulders tense for a moment, as though he were going to make a move, but then a slight smile creased his chiseled face and he said, “Very well, sir. I’ll relay your message to Mr. Collis. Exactly as stated.”
“You do that.”
While Jeremiah waited, he ordered another whisky and speculated on why a man like Stanford Collis wanted to talk to him. Collis was one of the wealthiest magnates in the world. Maybe the wealthiest. No one really knew how much money he had stashed away behind dummy corporations and in foreign bank accounts. His public record was railroad man, industrialist, philanthropist, robber baron, or, as Ambrose Bierce referred to him in his columns, the “Old Crocodile.”
“Mr. Collis will be in shortly,” said the messenger. “But, he’s not too pleased about it.”
Jeremiah chuckled. “That’s all right. We’re old friends. . . . Hell, I’ll order him a drink to make it up to him.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir. Mr. Collis always carries his own spirits.”
“Really now. Ol’ Collis is gittin’ particular in his old age, is he?”
The black man shrugged.
A few seconds later Stanford Collis, preceded by another bodyguard, entered the bar. The aging “Old Crocodile” was greatly changed since Jeremiah had last seen him in person, though the caricature drawings of him that regularly appeared in the Hearst Press were surprisingly accurate. Collis was corpulent and walked with a noticeable waddle, but he still cut an imposing figure. His sagging jowls framed a double chin and his sharp avaricious eyes were almost buried by puffy flesh, but gray mutton chop sideburns and a neatly trimmed beard gave him an air of distinction. This air was reinforced by the finest broadcloth suit, a silk top hat, a diamond cravat, and a silver-handled walking stick. His accompanying bodyguard was dressed in the same get-up as the black man, had an equally imposing physique, but featured a bristling handlebar mustache and flaming red hair. The bodyguard stared at Jeremiah with cold blue eyes before taking a seat against the wall where he could watch the bar. The black man assisted Collis into the chair at Jeremiah’s table and then took a seat farther down the wall flanking them. Jeremiah took a sip of whisky and waited. Collis had come to him. Let him make the first overture.
“Well, McElroy, it’s been a long time.”
“Certainly has, Mr. Collis. Going on nigh 30 years, I reckon. Since Comstock days before the war, eh?”
“Look, McElroy, I’d love to go over old times with you, but frankly,” Collis mopped his perspiring face with a silk handkerchief, “I’m a busy man. And your intransigence in not coming to my coach has set back my schedule.” Collis glanced around the bar. “Also, I see your taste in certain things has remained the same over the years. Mine has not.”
McElroy took the jibe in stride, enjoying Collis’ evident discomfort.
“To each his own, Collis, that’s what I say. And seein’ as how I remember you from the days when you was just a shopkeeper in Sacramento, and not too proud to throw down a drink with the boys even in a canvas tent, I know you wouldn’t be here unless you want somethin’ from me.”
Collis’ florid face paled and he snapped, “I’ll get right to the point, McElroy.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I want to hire you to hunt down and kill a grizzly bear for me.”
McElroy whistled through his teeth. “A grizzly, you say. Well, Collis, that’s no easy task. Wasn’t an easy job when I was in my prime. Fact is . . .”
“I don’t have time to quibble, McElroy. Name your price. I think you know I can afford to be generous.”
Jeremiah was momentarily taken aback. When he had done business with Collis years before, he had always been a hard-bargaining skinflint. He must want this bear real bad. Jeremiah licked his lips.
“As I was about to say, I’m retired from that kind of work. I do just fine now as a trail guide.”
“Come now, McElroy, surely a man of your temperament isn’t satisfied with merely shepherding tourists around and telling ghost stories. That’s not the man I remember.”
“A man can change. A man gets older. Could be I just don’t have a taste for killin’ anymore.”
Collis smiled. “I didn’t get where I have in this world without knowing my man. . . . Besides, we’re only talking about a bear here.”
“Why me? With your money, you could get anybody.”
“Because you are peculiarly suited for this job, McElroy. I need a man I know I can rely on. A man who can be trusted to keep his mouth shut. And no one knows the Tuolumne Country like you do.”
“So your bear’s up Tuolumne way.”
“Yes. And for a year that devil has been raiding one of my ranches, killing my sheep and cattle. None of my ranch hands could get him. Nor could a professional hunter I hired last fall. But the last straw was when he got one of my prize racehorses. I don’t mind telling you, McElroy, I loved that horse. This is personal now. I want that bear dead. And I want his hide hung up on the wall in my hunting lodge. . . . Come now, I’ll pay you a thousand dollars and expenses. That’s more than you make in a whole summer of herding tourists around the Sierra.”
Jeremiah laughed. “Well, Collis, you are certainly well-informed. But I just don’t know. Contrary to what you think, I feel pretty good about what I do these days. . . . And a grizzly is a grizzly.”
“$1500, expenses, and a $200 dollar bonus if the pelt is in good condition.”
“That bear ain’t done nothin’ to me.”
“Make it $2000.”
Jeremiah smiled and said, “You know, Collis, it ain’t nothin’ like what you have, but I own a pretty piece of land with a good cabin just outside Sonora. Well, sir, I’ve been wantin’ to get off the trail for a couple of years now. . . . Maybe settle down and raise some horses. I figure $3000 should be just about enough to git me well started. Yes, sir, for $3000 you got yourself a hunter. But not for a penny less.”
“$3000!” Collis rocked back in his chair. “That’s highway robbery, McElroy.”
“$3000. And don’t forget the expense money. And I want that additional $200 for bringin’ in a clean pelt. You know damn well that grizzlies can be right stubborn about dyin’. It’s no mean trick to get ‘em clean, and it makes the job more dangerous for me.”
“Don’t push it, McElroy.”
“I’m pushin’ nothin’. I don’t need this job. Take it or leave it.”
“You’re a Calabrian Pirate, McElroy,” said Collis without rancor.
“No, sir, I’m Black Irish. Of course, they do say that some of those sailors from the Armada were Italian. And from where I sit, bein’ called somethin’ like that by you is a downright compliment.”
Collis stroked the folds of fat under his chin. Then he harumphed and said, “Very well, McElroy, I’ll pay your extortionate rates.”
“It’s your money. It’s my life.”
“But I insist that you bring that pelt in good condition. It’s a magnificent beast. The least I can expect is a decent trophy.”
“That I don’t guarantee. But you know me, and you know how I work. I aim to do right by my customers. . . . No matter who they are.”
Collis caught his inflection and grimaced. The well-dressed thug with the handlebar mustache looked as though he wanted to jump out of his chair and pummel Jeremiah for his insolence.
Jeremiah smiled, took a sip of whisky, rubbed his hands together, and said, “Well now, seein’ as how we got the basics worked out, let’s get to the details.”
Collis had half-risen from his chair. “We can work that out tomorrow. Come to my office in the morning and everything you need will be waiting for you.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Collis. You do remember how I work, don’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Until I know exactly what I’m gittin’ myself into, and you pay me a retainer, we have no deal. I’m not your employee.”
Collis sat down. “All right. But let’s make this fast.”
“The Tuolumne Country is not much to go on. And grizzlies have a big range. You want to be a wee bit more specific.”
“My ranch hands and the hunter I hired last year think he hibernates in the Hetch Hetchy Valley and stays out there for most of the spring. My ranch lies out near Groveland, maybe thirty miles from the valley. Now, I want that bear stopped before I bring my animals up from the foothills for their summer feeding.”
“All right. Sounds reasonable.”
“Tomorrow I’ll give you a map, a letter of introduction to the foreman of my ranch, and a chit for you to buy supplies at a store I own in Groveland. I’ll also have a guest cabin prepared for you at the ranch to use as your headquarters.”
Jeremiah smiled. The “Old Crocodile” was going to save every penny possible on expenses. The early habits of a small town general store clerk were still strong.
“That’s very good, Mr. Collis. Very Good. . . . But I do have a question.”
“Yes.”
“The Hetch Hetchy Valley was just made part of that new Yosemite National Park. I hear they got federal troopers patrollin’ out there.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Most of the troopers are stationed about the Yosemite Valley. Around Hetch Hetchy they have nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“That information comes from the highest sources. You won’t be bothered. But if by some fluke you are, I’ll take care of it.”
“Good enough. So that leaves only one thing . . . the matter of compensation.”
“You’ll get half the money when you come in to my office tomorrow, the other half when and if you deliver an intact skin to my ranch foreman.”
“All right, that’s agreeable. But if you please, I’d like $500 in cash right now to seal the bargain.”
“Why, McElroy? You’ll have the money tomorrow.”
“Well, it’s like this, I plan to be on the first train out to the high country after I meet with you in the mornin’. But, fact is, I got a few debts to clean up and a few things to buy ‘fore that.”
Collis frowned, but he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. He counted out 25 twenty-dollar bills and slid them across the table to McElroy. “Count them.”
“That won’t be necessary. Much obliged. Now I’d like to buy you a drink.”
Collis glanced at the bar and his lips curled. “No offense, McElroy, but I doubt they carry my brand here. Let me offer you a drink.”
Jeremiah frowned, but he nodded agreement.
Collis turned to the red-haired bodyguard and he produced a silver flask and handed it to his boss. “This is 16-year-old Scotch, McElroy,” said Collis, pouring it into his glass. “Single Malt Highland Scotch.”
“I prefer Irish myself. But I’ll join you in a wee dram.”
Collis raised his flask. “McElroy, I don’t like things I can’t control. That bear must die.”
Chapter 3
As soon as Collis and his two bodyguards had left, Jeremiah called Jennie to his table.
“Well, Jennie lass, I’ve struck the mother lode. And I will be wanting your courtesan services for the rest of the night.” Jeremiah handed her fifteen dollars.
“This is too much, Mac.”
“Surely not nearly enough for a woman of your quality. But bring a bottle of good Irish whisky and a wee bit of somethin’ for yourself.”
“Whisky is fine for me. And I’ll not have you drinking the whole bottle and falling into a drunken stupor on me.”
“Ah, but you sound like me dear dead mother talking to me old dad.”
“Will we be going to the room now?”
“You go on ahead. I need to settle up accounts and have one or two drinks with the boys.”
Jeremiah wedged into a spot at the far end of the bar and summoned Danny Vigy, bartender and one of the owners.
“Danny me boy, I’m here to settle up my bill.”
“Yeah, I figured. I saw you talkin’ to old money bags over there. What you got cookin’, Mac?”
“A job. And that’s all you’ll hear from me.”
Danny grinned and pulled a well-thumbed ledger from a drawer under the bar. He wiped the tips of his fingers off on his black leather apron and pushed his hat up off his eyebrows. “Let’s see . . .” he said, flipping the pages, “Ah, here you are. You owe us $55 dollars, Mac.”
Jeremiah pulled out three twenties and said, “Buy a few rounds for yourself and the boys at the bar and we’ll call it square.”
“You got it. And for yourself?”
“I’ll take a small steamer with a pinch of magic powder.”
Danny grinned. “Got Jennie waiting on you, eh?”
“Yes. And it may be long while before I see the dear girl again.”
Danny filled a small glass with steam beer from the oak keg and stirred in a generous dose of cocaine. He handed the glass to Jeremiah and then worked his way down the long bar, serving glasses of beer, shots of whisky and gin, while repeating to one and all, “This one’s on Mac. Mac’s the man.”
Joe Goose, a longshoreman with a twisted nose, wicked dark eyes, and a flowered vest, peered at Jeremiah from the other end of the bar and bellowed, “Here’s to Mac! He’s a helluva man!” Everyone at the bar raised their glasses and toasted Jeremiah. Then Joe Goose pulled out his harmonica and played a couple of quick licks from “O Suzanna” in honor of the former Gold Rush adventurer.
In contrast to the numbness of his tongue and the menthol blast in his head from the concoction he had downed, Jeremiah felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach and a pleasant tingling throughout his body. He was exhilarated. All his aches and pains had disappeared. Jeremiah basked in the approval of the cutthroats at the bar. He gloried in the idea of returning to his beloved mountains to hunt. He hadn’t hunted for pay in almost three years. And never had he commanded pay like this. He had gotten over on the skinflint “Old Crocodile.” He was going after a grizzly. . . . A grizzly. Now that was a sobering thought. And this didn’t sound like an ordinary grizz, either. But what the hell. One last glorious adventure to cap his career. Then he would raise horses. His own horses. The first and best love of his life. He ordered another Coca-Beer. Tonight was a time to celebrate.
A young man shouldered up to the bar alongside Jeremiah and gave him a snaggletoothed grin. He was very young, with a shock of tousled blonde hair, incandescent blue eyes, and a short sturdy body clothed in a striped sailor’s shirt, dungarees, and sandals. He lifted his schooner of beer toward Jeremiah and said, “Thanks for the drink, Mac.”
“You’re welcome. But who might you be, boy? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
“My name is Jack. Jack London.” He stuck out his hand and gave Jeremiah a firm clasp. The boy’s hand was work-hardened and callused.
“A pleasure to meet you, young Jack. But aren’t you a bit green to be consorting in a place like this.”
“Not a bit, sir. Not a bit.” London straightened up, took a huge swallow of beer, wiped the foam off his hairless lip, and said, “I’m known as the Prince of the Oyster Pirates around here. And I’ve been doing a man’s work since I was eight.”
Jeremiah chuckled. The fresh kid was a braggart, but he had a likable way about him. “How old are you, lad?”
“I’m fifteen.”
Jeremiah nodded and said, “No, I guess you’re not so young at that. At your age I left Ireland and worked my way to America on a trading ship. But now that I’m so damn old, you look so damn young.”
“Young in years, I may be, but not in the strong taste of life. Why, I’ve done some things . . . but what am I saying? You’re the legend, Mac. Some of the stories I’ve heard about your from a few of the boys here. Why, they say you was in the Gold Rush, a hero in the Civil War, a bounty hunter . . . Why, you’re the kind of man in the flesh I read about in adventure stories.”
Jeremiah sipped his beer and stared at the bar top. “Mostly exaggerations and lies, boy. You can be sure of that.”
“I don’t believe that for a second, Mac. Every man in this bar has his share of adventures to tell, but more people speak of yours than of almost any other.”
“And the more they’re told, the farther from the truth they roam.”
London laughed. “That may be. So I’d love to hear the stories from the source. I’d love to hear about you in your own words. . . . Here, let me buy you a drink. I’m flush. I had a big run this morning.”
“Save your money, lad, I won’t be staying long. I’m finishing up what I have here and goin’ upstairs.”
“Another time, then?”
“Surely, lad. Another time.”
Joe Goose blew a piercing note on his harmonica and, to yells of approbation, his invitation was answered. Frenchy Boudreau took up his accordion and Portagee Leo, his mandolin. They grouped up at the end of the bar and played such favorites as “The Boston Burglar,” “Black Lulu,” and “Oh, Treat My Daughter Kindly.”
Jeremiah’s elation waxed higher and higher. He sipped on his well-spiked beer and lustily joined his tenor voice to the chorus emanating from along the bar. Jeremiah couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so good. It had been a long, cold winter and a wet, raw spring. His bones and joints had ached constantly, relieved only by the increasing doses of laudanum he procured from a friendly druggist. Jeremiah polished off the remainder of his drink, conscious of joining Jennie while in this mood, and said goodbye to his friends.
Jeremiah climbed the creaky steps to the second floor, the party along the bar raging on, ignoring the shouts for him to return. He turned down the corridor. The walls were papered in red imitation velour with white fleur-de-lis patterns and embellished with neatly hung paintings of voluptuous nudes in heavy gilt frames. Jennie’s room was at the end of the hall. Jeremiah knocked and went in at Jennie’s throaty answer of assent.
She was waiting for him on the big brass bed, sitting cross-legged, her back propped against two huge pillows, completely naked. She was reading a Victorian Romance dime novel. Jennie set the book on the night stand and smiled at Jeremiah. She had cat-green eyes, a mass of auburn hair, regular features, a freckled complexion, and a sturdy inviting body. The room was warm and cheery from a crackling fire, the dancing flames glowing amber through a bottle of whisky on a small table.
“Why, Mac, you’re as lit-up as a child on Christmas morning.”
“It’s lookin’ at you that puts me this way, darlin’.”
Jennie smiled and stretched her long limbs with feline grace. Jeremiah was hastily pulling off his clothes.
“Would you like a drink, Mac?”
“No. It’s not drink I have on my mind.”
The clothes were off and he was on the bed. He swept Jennie up in his wiry arms, clamped his lips to hers, and ran his hands all over her breasts and hips. He had an enormous erection. Jennie grabbed hold and thrust it in. She panted and moaned and moved her hips in concert with his almost manic thrusts. Jeremiah made love to her as though he were trying to bury himself in her.
Afterwards, Jeremiah rolled onto his back and gazed at the dancing shadows made by the now sputtering fire against the plaster ceiling. He felt as though he were underwater and short of air. His brain tingled and throbbed and the shouted oaths and curses from the drunks passing along the street outside the window sounded muffled and disjointed. Jennie returned to the bed after giving herself a douche, lay down next to Jeremiah, curled against him, and twined her fingers into the thick mat of curly hair on his chest.
“Now that was something Jeremiah Ignatius McElroy,” she purred. “And where did all that energy come from?”
“I’m excited, darlin’.” Jeremiah paused, considering just how much he should tell her without breaking his trust with Collis. “I’m heading back to the Sierra. But this time to hunt, not to baby-sit greenhorn tourists.”
Jennie frowned and twisted the hairs on McElroy’s chest until he yelped.
“Hey! It’s not to say your considerable charms didn’t make me think twice before accepting the offer, lass.”
“That’s not it. You told me you were through with hunting for bounty.”
“And so I thought. But the man made me an offer I could hardly refuse. . . . He offered me enough money to buy the horses I need at one shot.”
“Is it that, Mac? Or is it that you just miss the excitement and danger of that life.”
“Ah, you’re a wise one, Jennie lass. I suppose it’s more than a little of that as well. I haven’t been content these last few years. I miss the old life. And I think one last fling before the end is somethin’ I owe to myself.”
“Before the end? You sound as though you’re looking for it.”
“Ah, darlin’, I meant that only as a figure of speech. I mean the end of trampin’ around the wilderness and livin’ like a natural born free man.”
“A natural born free man, you say. More like an old savage.”
Jeremiah guffawed. “Jennie, Jennie, what would I do without that special way with words you have?”
“I’m worried about you, Mac. You’re not a young man anymore. And if it’s just about the money, I’ve saved up a considerable sum to leave this life myself. I’m only awaiting the opportunity.”
“What are you sayin’, girl?”
“We could get married, Mac. I grew up on a farm myself. We’d be good partners.”
“Why would you want to marry an old bachelor like me, girl? You could surely do better.”
“Could I? I’m not young for this life. And you didn’t just pleasure me like such an old man.” Jennie covered Jeremiah’s lips with hers and whispered, “Just think about it, Mac. Whether you go to hunt or not.”
“Well, surely it’s hard to think in this circumstance. And I don’t feel much like talkin’ right now. But I will . . . think about . . .”
Around three in the morning, after finishing off the bottle of whisky between them and making love several times, the two of them fell into exhausted slumber and Jeremiah dreamed.
Young Jeremiah, just turned fifteen, was out in the valley, riding his favorite roan horse along the creek path. He drank in the intoxicating aromas of fresh spring grass and wildflowers, feeling a light breeze ruffle his hair and sprinkle his skin with moisture from a drizzle falling from a fast-clearing sky. Jeremiah felt wonderful. The hot blood of healthy youth rushed through his veins. The spring awakening filled the air with the cries of birds and the hum of insects. His thoughts were on Maggie Connelly, one of the estates’ young maids. He had arranged to meet her at the stable that night after her duties were finished, and Jeremiah knew that they were ready to go beyond a few tentative kisses and groping caresses.
The brazen call of ravens and a sudden stench of death, carried on the breeze in his face, shook Jeremiah from his pleasant musings. He slowed his horse to a canter and spotted circling scavenger birds in a copse of tangled trees and bushes a short distance ahead. Jeremiah dismounted and entered into the thicket along a footpath that led to the creek. The ravens, a whole gang of them, were roosted in trees and hopping along the ground. They cawed angrily at Jeremiah’s approach and moved from his path with evil backward glances. Jeremiah pushed through some overgrown brush at the edge of the creek and halted, horrified, a cold chill running through his body. A ragged figure lay face up at the edge of the creek. He had long matted hair, his cheeks were hollow from privation, and his eyes were two gaping sockets where the ravens had already begun their work.
Jeremiah woke with a start and sat up in bed. Cold sweat beaded his brow and he was breathing hard. He felt disoriented and disconnected from his body.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jennie, sitting up and covering the top of her breasts against the early morning chill.
“Ay, nothin’ to concern you, lass. I just had a bit of a nightmare.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No, it’s all right. I’ve had it before. . . . I just haven’t had it for a long time.”
Chapter 4
Jeremiah’s earliest memory was of his mother bathing him in the old wooden tub on the porch of their cottage in the green Irish countryside. He remembered her sweet voice and gentle manner as she scrubbed his pink little back and told him stories of forest sprites and leprechauns. Though a devout Catholic, Molly McElroy loved the legends and tales of the ancient Celts and the druidic tradition she had learned from her grandmother, and took every opportunity she could to pass this knowledge on to her two children. She was also a beautiful young woman, with raven hair, dark gypsy eyes, full red lips, and ivory skin that turned nut brown in sunny weather. She always said that she was descended from one of the shipwrecked sailors from the Spanish Armada who had come to roost on the Irish coast in 1588. Black Irish. It could have been Moorish blood, Spanish, Italian, who could say for sure. Whatever the case, it gave her a most exotic look in a county dominated by fair-haired and fair-skinned people.
Jeremiah’s father was a big freckled hairy bear of a man. A blacksmith by trade, his appearance brought to mind the ancient Picts of Scotland, the savage warriors who painted themselves blue before battle and forced the Romans to build Hadrian’s Wall as a defense against their depredations. But his outward appearance belied his nature. Thomas McElroy was a genial, easygoing man. After a hard day’s work, he liked nothing better than to toss down a couple of pints or three at the pub and exchange quips and stories with the lads. If he had any violence or malice in his soul, he must have purged it out with anvil and forge because no one had ever seen him harm a fly. With his children he was soft-spoken and affectionate. They could rough-and-tumble with him as though he were a big shaggy dog, and he would toss them high into the air and catch them in his sure hands, or twirl them around until they collapsed laughing onto the soft sod around the cottage. Thomas adored his wife. He never understood why such a young gorgeous woman, pursued by many other eligible fellows, had consented to marry an older, ugly, hairy fellow such as himself. No matter how many times she told him that mature, hairy, burly, and rugged, not to mention loving and hardworking, was beautiful to her.
Life for the family was decent by the standards of the day. Thomas worked hard, sometimes seven days a week to make extra money for young Jeremiah’s education, and Molly cultivated a vegetable garden and potato patch, tended to the milk cow, raised a handful of sheep, chickens, and pigs, and made all their clothes. They paid their rent, had enough money for feast days, and scrimped and saved to get Jeremiah into a Jesuit seminary school. It was Mollie’s grand ambition that Jeremiah become a Jesuit priest and use that position to open the doors to a better life for the next generation of McElroy’s. Or, at a minimum, that he benefit from their rigorous educational system and become a man of letters and affairs like her brother Sean in Dublin. Jeremiah was a child of immense curiosity and quick intelligence. He was the great hope of the family.
Then, just after Jeremiah turned ten, things started to unravel. Working at his forge on a horseshoe, Thomas felt a sudden pain in his chest, seized up, gasped for air, toppled over, and fell dead in the dust. He was forty-eight. The family, though grief-stricken, moved on. Jeremiah was pulled from the seminary and, through the influence of his Uncle Sean, sent to work as a stable boy at a great manor outside of Dublin for an absentee English baron. For Jeremiah, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He had chafed under the severe discipline and cloistered life of the seminary. Though he had done well in his studies at the seminary, Jeremiah soon preferred life on the manor. He took to caring for and raising horses like a duck takes to water. He gloried in wild rides over the heather and participated in and won many races against men from other manors at country fairs and in challenge matches. The money he earned went to support his mother, sister, and little brother back on the little plot of rented land in County Limerick. Jeremiah saw a bright future. The Jesuits had taught him to read, write, and reason, but he had never wanted to become a priest. Now he saw a career as a purveyor of horseflesh.
Then it happened again. In the spring of 1847, Jeremiah went out for an early morning ride and came upon the body, his face already eaten away by ravens, of a half-starved man he knew from County Limerick. The man bore a message for Jeremiah from his mother telling him to come home immediately. Jeremiah’s younger brother was dead of typhus fever, and the rest of the family was in a bad way because, like everyone else in Ireland, their store of potatoes had been hit by the blight and epidemic stalked the land. The Great Irish Potato Famine was now in full force.
Mounted on a prized racehorse, Jeremiah set off immediately for Limerick without telling his employers. Along the way, he was shocked by the quantity of filthy starving mendicants, many of them ravaged by fever, staggering along the road or stretched out dying in ditches. Jeremiah’s manor, well run, and rich in wheat, barley, and livestock, had been insulated from the horrors of the year before, which in any case had struck unevenly across Ireland. His own family had fared fairly well because of the money he sent them, but now the famine, accompanied by epidemic, was reaching out to strike at all segments of Irish society.
Jeremiah rode all day and all night. When he arrived, he was met outside the cottage by his younger sister, Tara.
“Oh, Jeremiah, thank God you’re here. Shannon is dead and mother is sick.”
“What is it, girl?”
“She’s got the yellow fever.”
Jeremiah felt his heart sink. He entered the fetid cottage and found his mother in her bed, her head propped on a pillow, sweating profusely, her beautiful face ravaged by jaundice. She took Jeremiah’s hand and said in a weak voice, “Son, promise me. If I die, you must take Tara to your Uncle Sean in Dublin.”
“You won’t die, mother.”
“That’s in God’s hands, son.”
“Mother, no . . .”
“Promise me. I want your sister to have a chance. Uncle Sean will know what to do.”
“Yes, mother. I promise.”
“Good.” She gave his hand a weak pat. “You’ve always been a good boy, Jeremiah. I know you’ll do well for yourself. Maybe America is the place for you. We have family in Boston . . .” Her voice trailed off and she fell into an uneasy slumber.
For two days and two nights, Jeremiah and Tara watched over their mother as she fought for her life. On dawn of the third day she gave up the ghost. The children buried their mother next to their father and little Shannon. Then Jeremiah, with tears of rage and impotence streaming down his cheeks, torched the cottage. It was the last time in his life that he cried.
Jeremiah sold the racehorse to raise money for the trip to Dublin and for other eventualities. This officially made him a fugitive and the British authorities, though slow to provide relief for the starving masses, were quick to punish horse thieves. Jeremiah knew he had to move fast. He brought Tara to Dublin by train and had her make contact with Uncle Sean while he took a bed in a cheap lodging-house under an assumed name, blending in with the thousands of other ragged famine victims pouring into the city. The next day, Tara met him inside a small church near the lodging-house and gave her report:
“Uncle Sean is furious with you, Jeremiah. The authorities have been to see him and you are a wanted man. He says you should have contacted him and asked for money instead of taking the horse and putting him bad with his friend, the foreman for the baron.”
“There was no time for all that, girl. You know that.”
“Surely I’m not blaming you, brother. I’m just telling you how it is.”
“Well, Uncle Sean and I have never quite got it right. To this day he takes a bit of my wages for getting me the job. After all these years. Truth to tell, you can never fully repay a debt with that man.”
“He’s good to me, Jeremiah.”
“Yes, there’s no denyin’ that.” Jeremiah patted Tara’s golden curls. “He’s always had a soft spot for you.” Jeremiah paused and looked at his sister. “What does he say he’ll do with you, lass?”
“He says he’ll contact our relatives in Boston and see about sending me there. And if not, he’ll raise me himself. Though I don’t think Auntie Kathleen is too keen on the thought.”
“Better you go to Boston, girl. We can meet there.”
“You’ll come with me to see Uncle Sean, then?”
“No, girl. I don’t trust the man where his own interest is at stake. I still have money from the sale of the horse. I’ll see about passage on my own.”
“But how will I know where you are? How will I know that you’re all right?”
“I have the address of our people in Boston. Once I’m safe in America, I’ll get in touch with them.”
Tara impulsively reached out and hugged her brother. “Be careful, brother. You’re all I have left in this world.”
“Don’t you worry, girl. Sure as we’re standing here we’ll meet again in America. I promise you that on the graves of dear old dad and mom. . . . Now get along with you. They’re liable to come lookin’ and we can’t be seen together.”
“Goodbye, Jeremiah.”
“Not goodbye, girl. Just until later.”
Jeremiah went straight to the docks and entered a pub. He ordered an ale and asked the barman about ships leaving for America. The barman handed him a circular advertising a ship leaving that week for Quebec via Liverpool. As Jeremiah studied the circular, a distinguished looking gentleman wearing a captain’s hat and uniform suddenly addressed him from a few seats down the bar: “Can you read, lad? Or are you just staring at that paper for effect?”
“I can read very well, sir. It’s more than three years I had in a Jesuit seminary. . . . And if you don’t mind, I’m a wee bit busy for idle chat.”
The man chuckled. “You’ve a quick tongue on you, lad. And not the most polite one, either. But it could be I’ve more on my mind than idle chat.”
Jeremiah set the circular aside and looked at the man. “Say what you mean then, sir. I’ve no time to waste.”
“A word to the wise, lad. That circular is put out by unscrupulous speculators. They’ll promise you the world, take your money, and put you on a coffin ship.”
“A coffin ship, you say. And what might that be?”
“It’s a ship unfit for anything but hauling desperate people from this blighted land. The kind with leaky water casks, insufficient and rotten food, so many people packed into steerage that a man can’t draw a decent breath and he’s soon drowning in his own filth and vermin, and one that will take people already suffering from fever and cause an epidemic on board. It’s one with bad crews and worse captains. . . . In a nutshell, lad, it’s not the kind of ship anyone should take. It’s Dante’s Hell right here on earth.”
“Can it be any worse than what I’ve already seen? Can it be any worse that what’s to come?”
“I don’t know, lad. But I’ve a proposition for you if you’re hell bent on leaving here.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m captain of a lumber ship bound for Nova Scotia. My cabin boy got the fever here in Dublin and I won’t risk him aboard the ship.” The captain exhaled a great puff of smoke from his pipe. “Well, I’m in a bit of a fix. We’re due to leave tonight and . . . I’ve been watching you since you came in. You seem like a likely lad.”
“Sir, are you offering me a position as cabin boy?”
“What kind of work have you done?”
“I’m a groom and horse racer by trade, but I’ve the will and the back for all manner of hard work.”
“Well, laddie, your job would be to take care of me. Wash my clothes, serve my meals, clean the room, and all manner of other odd things that come about in the course of a trip across the Atlantic. Do you think you could do that?”
“Surely, I could. But the matter of compensation?”
“You get a trip to America on a sound ship, with good and plentiful food, fresh water and air, decent conditions, and a bit of money to get you started on your new life. . . . What do you say to that?”
“When do we leave?”
PART 2
Chapter 5
Jeremiah woke at dawn. He felt shaky from the long night of drink, drugs, sex, and relative lack of sleep but, in spite of his condition, his lifelong habit of waking at first light was still reliable. Carefully, so as not to rouse Jennie, he slid off the bed and slipped into his clothes. Jeremiah gazed at her for a minute. She was sleeping peacefully, her long hair splashed across the pillow and half-covering her face. He had known her for three years, ever since he started spending his winters at his sister’s home in West Oakland and had become a regular patron of the St. Louis House. Jennie was far and away his favorite. He went with no other woman if she were available. She was easygoing, skilled, and conscientious. Jeremiah always felt as though he were with a girlfriend rather than a prostitute when he was with her. They had come to know each other over drinks, meals, and song, as well as in the sack. Jeremiah knew her story. Jennie’s family had emigrated from Ireland and taken up homesteading in the Central Valley near Stockton. At fifteen she was seduced by an itinerant snake oil salesman and ran away with him to San Francisco. He abandoned her after a few months, leaving her in a rat-infested tenement in the South of Market District. Too proud and ashamed to go home and admit her mistake, and without skills other than farm work, she accepted an invitation from a Madame with a mid-level house and went to work as a professional girl. That was eighteen years ago. As Jennie aged, losing the bloom of youth and becoming a mature woman, she had gradually slipped down the ladder of her profession until arriving at the St. Louis House. After this, if she continued in the trade, she faced working at the lowest of sailor bars or perhaps even in the street.
Jeremiah looked at her still attractive figure and placid agreeable face. Jennie was no boozer, no drug fiend, a hard worker, reasonably intelligent, and of solid character. If she weren’t tainted by her trade, she would still have a decent chance at marriage. Jeremiah rubbed his scruffy beard. He had also passed through a failed marriage. Twenty years earlier, flush with bounty money in the lawless days after the Civil War, he had contracted marriage with a daughter of the petite bourgeois. It had failed utterly. Jeremiah had still been too restless and adventure hungry to settle into a life of respectable routine. She had left him and returned to her family after one year in which Jeremiah was home only six months. But now things were different. Jeremiah was 59 and feeling the change of life upon him. Jennie was a good woman without many illusions about what constituted a normal life. He would think about her proposal while he was in the mountains. But for the moment, he preferred to keep his mind on the task at hand. He had a big day ahead of him and he didn’t want to start it with a protracted farewell. With all the skill and experience garnered in more than forty years as a hunter and tracker, Jeremiah slipped noiselessly from the room and downstairs to the saloon.