Free Blood Gold by Michael Cadnum Page A

and down the Yuba and the American Rivers, some of them digging precious ore to the tune of ten thousand dollars a week. They aren’t really mines, you know. They dig the nuggets and what the books call ‘auriferous sands’ right out of the ground.”
    â€œHave you found any gold yourself?” asked Ben.
    â€œAh, no, Ben—not I,” replied Mr. Castleman in an air of worldly sadness. “The goldfields are all upriver from here, two or three days by schooner, and I hear that the best claims are taken. But I’ve seen nuggets brought into the city as big as horse apples, and there is still plenty of the yellow stuff to be had.”
    â€œWilliam doesn’t want to see a single pinch of gold dust,” said Ben, a little pointedly. “He’s looking for satisfaction from a man somewhere up in the foothills.”
    It was like Ben to embellish the truth a little. Looking for satisfaction meant that there were matters between us that could only be settled by a duel, with either swords or firearms. It was a dignified phrase, though, and despite the fact I wished Ben did not talk so openly to this stranger, I liked the sound of it.
    â€œBut you haven’t actually seen any placer gold yet,” said Mr. Castleman, a calculating glint in his eye.
    â€œI know what the stuff looks like,” I retorted. But I softened my manner and added, “We’ve seen very little California gold, it’s true.”
    â€œWe’ve seen none of it,” said Ben.
    Mr. Castleman slipped a leather pouch from his pocket, the sort used to carry pipe tobacco. He let a tiny amount of golden flakes spill out onto the plain pine table. The sound the dust made arrested me, a baritone whisper.
    They were coarse grains the size of roughly ground wheat. He stirred the mineral with his finger. It was more like grains of wheat than I would have expected and less obviously shiny than everyday coins or watches. But I could not avert my eyes from it. The precious element uttered another heavy whisper on the pinewood table as Mr. Castleman soothed it flat. This was a treasure right out of Nature herself.
    â€œThey pay for theater tickets with this dust,” he said huskily.
    Ben’s eyes were alight.
    Mr. Castleman soothed the gold flakes back into his pouch.
    â€œI took you for a pair of adventurers,” said Mr. Castleman, “as soon as I set eyes on you.”
    The sight of the gold had stirred something in me. I felt an instant lust for the ore, an unexpected hunger to have some.
    â€œWhat are you telling us?” prompted Ben.
    Mr. Castleman gave us a smile. “Gentlemen, I can make you rich.”

CHAPTER 21
    Our steps echoed as we followed Mr. Castleman.
    Before us, in the darkness half-abolished by steadily burning candle flames, was an expanse of empty plank flooring, closed off at one side by a heavy curtain.
    Our host strode across the boards, flung open the curtain, the material of the cloth plush purple in his hands. He held the curtain open, and rows of empty seats gleamed in the half-light, wooden chairs lined up, bank upon bank.
    â€œFor three and a half months,” he said, “we’ve dazzled men from around the world, gold seekers from Chile and France, Peru and China.”
    Ben and I had been in theaters many times before in Philadelphia. My favorites had been a performance of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet —with a rousing sword fight—and The Killer Duke , about a man who had many dramatic escapes. We had seen DeQuille the Wizard in the St. James’s Theater on Chestnut Street. The man had worn a laced white shirtfront and had made playing cards disappear and reappear. He had a pig that would spell out words using lettered wooden blocks, and he would let the sow answer questions from the respectful audience.
    The pig was as wise as any almanac, and when Ben asked if the millpond would freeze before December, the pig spelled out If it snows