Preface

First Beginnings

A section of tales explaining early beginnings of the Yankee Girl mining enterprise

First Prospects

Few people know that Reese Adams and Jacob ‘Buck’ Buckmaster are principal owners of an international mining corporation with producing properties in northern Mexico and South America. The Yankee Girl Mines Corp. is their privately held enterprise with annual returns after expenses and taxes averaging more than $400 million, with a gross worth in the billions. Only Reese, Buck, their local accountant, and a chosen few executives in their Mexico City headquarters with its central marketing and accounting offices know or are on a names-acquaintance speaking basis with the two owners.

Reese and Buck prefer it that way. Anonymity suits them.

It all began in 1869 when two young men, partners in a prospecting venture, struggled over Galena Summit from the Wood River valley in the central region of the future State of Idaho to find themselves in a wonderland of high mountains and jagged peaks, home to a wild-running river filled with salmon during annual migrations from the sea. Abner Adams and Woodrow Buckmaster had grown up together in the rough Pennsylvania oil field country, sons of failed farmers who’d turned to wildcat oil drilling for a chance at a lucky strike. The two families succeeded well enough to prosper, to raise sons and daughters, and eventually to retire and live a comfortable life as Pennsylvania gentry.

Abner and Woodrow were restless young men, single and anxious for adventure. They were eager to be away from the Civil War battlefields that had claimed an older brother, had widowed an older sister, and claimed many of their kin in related families. Too young to be conscripted, the boys were sickened by the losses they’d seen. So, at first opportunity upon graduating from what passed as secondary education in their district in 1867, they vowed a solemn pledge to stick together, to share a great adventure ‘out West,’ and—with luck—to perhaps find their fortune.

Their fathers could afford to outfit the boys with good horses, a pack mule apiece, new Winchester Model 1866 “Yellow Boy” .44 caliber saddle guns, Remington .44 caliber ‘New Model’ Army revolvers, and a grubstake of gold and silver coin to purchase food and trail gear during their lengthy venture.

Eventually the boys found themselves far west in the Oregon territory, still on the eastern side of the great Cascade mountain range that divides the dry sagebrush and pine interior from the lush coastal forests. They’d either been too late or too distant from the news of gold strikes in California and Nevada, but had eventually heard word of possible gold north in a little-explored mountain region of deep canyons and whitewater rivers, with tales of one river so wild and impassable that the natives called it ‘the river of no return.’

So north they went and camped along a broad, high valley in that amazing bowl of mountains. They were alone. They’d seen no other white men, finally clear of the treacherous Snake River plains. They’d entered the Wood River valley. They following it north, feeling lucky for finding this unexplored gentle, southward flowing stream. They trekked on and came to its headwaters and a high pass that dropped into another wild, rich valley and a new river flowing eastward, away from a western arc of high snowy peaks.

“What d’ya think, Woody? That river winds down out of those high peaks. There’s been no sign of color in our pans yet. Do we keep on? Maybe we should follow this new river down that far canyon a ways?” Abner asked his partner.

“I think so,” Woody answered, sipping from his enamel coffee cup. “We’re sure to find tributary creeks, and maybe another, smaller river flowing down to join this one. I was told this was the Salmon River when we restocked in that town other side of the pass. The feller said it flows and grows considerably. The Indians told him it circles around in a big loop to the north and flows back west. There, he said, it becomes the ‘river of no return,’ pouring down an impassable canyon. The trail ends there unless we’d want to leave it and climb out over the north pass to the Montana country. Anyway, that part about it ‘grows considerable’ means lots of tributaries coming in from the side, and the streams that drain them side canyons have gotta bring eroded mineral down with ‘em, and that could be gold.”

“Okay. It’s still early season so we got time and fresh supplies, so down the river we go. I got a feelin’ about this. We’re the only ones in here that I can tell. We’ve seen no tracks over the pass and no sign of anybody in this high valley. We might see some Native parties comin’ in for spring camps to hunt fresh meat, but we’re told they’re peaceable and we’re willin’ to parlay and trade. So, yeah, that’s a plan.”

The two young men worked their way slowly down the deepening canyon and wherever they found a creek pouring in from the north side, they camped and prospected. From time to time they found traces of gold dust, ‘color,’ but it was too fine and too sparse to warrant a claim. Eventually they came to a smaller river winding down a north valley lush with meadows and scattered forest breaks, rich with game and fish. Their pans yielded increasing ‘shows’ of placer gold the further they worked upstream, until they came to a tributary creek, pouring into the north side.

They followed their pans, excitement growing, until two days later in an upstream bend they found nuggets in a gold pocket under a stream-cut bank burdened with the precious metal. In other shallow stretches they saw gold deposits sparkling in the gravel riffles, washed by the clear-flowing water.

“Gosh darn! Here we are in the middle of the wilderness and I swear the only humans who’ve seen this place are the Natives, and they’ve had no use for this stuff!” Woodrow exclaimed.

“We need to start stakin’ this proper-like, Woody. We need to pan further up the creek and stake each of us as much as we’re allowed. Then one of us has got to ride back and over the pass to the Wood River, and register our find. And we need to be damn quiet about it. No word a’tall. Just that we got scattered prospects we’re studyin’ on the bet it’ll pan out. No strike yet. Just some ‘maybe’ hopes, right?”

And that’s exactly what they did. Abner stayed behind and began cutting trees to build a cabin on a broad slope overlooking their claims. Knowing that spring floods would come, he needed them to be above the high water. He continued to explore and pan both upstream and down and made careful notes of everything he found.

Woodrow on his horse leading their pack mules made the southward trek over the summit and finally emerged onto the Snake River plain to find a town large enough to have a government registry office. He put on sort of an act as a naïve young Easterner who seemed to have more foolish enthusiasm than prospecting sense, so nobody took him seriously. He registered four mining claims, two for each of them. On an impulse, he named their claims the Yankee Girl Numbers 1 through 4 in honor of his widowed sister and the memory of her lost husband.

The following year, 1870, gold-seeking prospectors invaded the region and swarmed all up and down the main Salmon, including the tributary river they dubbed the “Yankee Fork.” It was a shock when they discovered the Yankee Girl claims, now increased to six, up the unnamed creek already developed and being worked with a stout cabin, a placer flume, and a small stockade for defense.

They found the two young men friendly but tight-mouthed. Both were armed with repeating rifles and while not belligerent or aggressive, the young men made it clear that while the outsiders were free to explore further up the creek, or down below their claims to the tributary river, they were not to camp or intrude on their claims. As for gold? “We’re still explorin’ possibles,” Woodrow said. “We got nothin’ to brag about, and no riches to point to. We’re just developin’ what we got, lookin’ for placer deposits, same as y’all are hopin’ to do.”

Most White miners had considerable contempt for the Chinese men who were imported as cheap railroad or construction labor wherever needed. Some Chinese, not being stupid, struck off on their own for better opportunities. Most met hostile rebuffs or violence. Abner and Woodrow gave the matter a long think.

“We need help we can trust, Abner. Men who’ll work with us and not try to rob us blind or kill us in our sleep. I was told by Pa that if a man hires good help, pays ‘em fair and treats ‘em decent, that it’ll more than pay off in the end. You agree with that?”

“Yep. My Pa said the same thing. So I guess you’re thinkin’ we can find some of those Chinese fellers from over the south pass, hire ‘em, put ‘em up here and we’ll have a steady crew?”

“Yep. And if we’re lucky, at least one can talk our language, and we’ll work from there. Flip a coin to see who goes to get ‘em?”

Woodrow pulled his ‘lucky’ coin from its permanent place in his watch pocket and flipped it, neatly snagging it out of the air in mid-flight.

“Call it!” he challenged Abner, while deftly dropping the coin back into its usual place just under his waistband.

“Heads!” Abner called.

“Sorry, you lose!” Woodrow laughed. “Enjoy the solitude! Try to get a little work done while I’m gone!”

He caught and saddled his horse and both pack mules. He’d bring back supplies and, hopefully, a few willing Chinese workers. He was hoping they could ride and he’d be able to buy horses for them. Otherwise it was going to be a long, slow hike back over the summit trail from the Wood River valley. Either way, it needed to be done. Early next morning he hit the trail.

Woodrow had been following the upper Wood River for the last hour as he descended the rough, steep trail down from Galena Summit, five miles behind his pack mule who angrily flung her tail in wide sweeps across her wide buttocks, swatting the horseflies that swarmed over all of them, taking bloody bites from exposed flesh, including the back of Woodrow’s neck. He used his broad-brimmed hat to wildly swat at the cloud of flies around his shoulders when he heard a distant cry from down the trail.

“Whoa up!” he softly ordered, gently tugging back on the reins, stopping his horse and the two mules following. He sat, listening, and there it was again: another cry, a human voice in pain. He eased his rifle from its scabbard slung near his right leg, levered a round into the chamber and, holding it upright in his right hand with the butt resting on his leg, he lifted the reins in his left and with a soft “tchk-tchk” he urged his horse forward into a slow walk. The cries, coming one every few seconds, grew louder and soon he was close enough to hear the crack of a whip preceding each cry.

“Lord Almighty! Sounds like somebody’s gettin’ beat near to death!” he mumbled aloud to himself.

The trail rounded a bend past the root mound of a fallen tree and there, in plain view, he saw an awful scene:

A big Chinese man, stripped to the waist, was lashed over a stump. His legs were bound tightly around it with wraps of rope. He lay face down across a stuffed burlap bag atop the stump that supported his upper body half upright, making his back an easy target. It was a mass of bleeding flesh.

Woodrow sat staring. A smallish bearded man in miner’s dungarees and a plaid shirt flung his long bullwhip into a high arc and shot another cutting stripe against his victim. It was too much for Woodrow He pointed his rifle and called out while urging his horse closer.

“Hold! You with the whip, stand down! You’re near to killing that man!”

Startled, the whip man yelled back, “It ain’t no man, and it ain’t yer place to call me on it, stranger! Move along or you’ll take his place!”

Woodrow reined his horse to a stop and more steadily sighted his raised rifle on the whip man’s chest. He also noted another miner a few steps to the side, holding a pistol on a clustered group of half a dozen angry Chinese men.

“Try it and I’ll see you in Hell, you murderous bastard!” Woodrow yelled back. “I said drop that whip and back away!”

Just then the second man swung his pistol from covering the Chinese and he hastily snapped off a shot at Woodrow. The slug whirred past his left ear; Woodrow swung his rifle, pointed, and fired. A red blossom erupted dead center on the shooter’s chest. Not hesitating, Woodrow swung his sights back to the first man, who immediately dropped his whip and raised both hands.

“Damn you! You shot my partner!” he screamed.

“And I’ll shoot you dead where you stand, if you give me just half a reason,” Woodrow called back. “Now take your knife and cut that man loose. Do it now!”

The small crowd of Chinese men broke into a babble of talk, none of it understood by Woodrow, but they kept their place, nervously eyeing the rifle in his grip, waiting to see what he would do next.

The surviving miner cut the ropes binding the whipped man who struggled to rise but couldn’t. He lay across the stuffed bag, bleeding in streaks from the wounds on his back.

“Can you talk to anyone in that bunch of Chinamen and be understood?” Woodrow yelled to the miner.

“Yeah, sorta. One of ‘em speaks pidgin English good enough.”

“Well tell ‘im they need to help this man, now! He needs his back tended to. Any of ‘em know anything about treating hurts like that?”

“Damned if I know, stranger. Who gives a tinker’s dam anyway? And why do you keep callin’ him a man? He ain’t no damn MAN! He’s a heathen Chinee! He ain’t one of us!”

“I might gut-shoot you where you stand, mister, if you open that foul hole you call a mouth again. Okay, so call ‘em over and tell ‘em I said to carry him to a bed and start tendin’ to his hurts!”

The Chinamen muttered nervously but moved over to their whipped fellow and lifting him under the shoulders, two carried him by his arms while a third supported his legs. They slowly moved toward the cluster of camp tents, glancing back at Woodrow who had his rifle aimed dead square at the miner’s chest.

“You and your dead partner got any horses?”

“Yeah. You gonna steal ‘em after you done killed my pard?”

“No, I’m not a low-life rat like you two. I’m takin’ your horses, but I’ll pay a fair price for ‘em. And you’ll write out a bill of sale for me. Yeah, I killed yer pard, but he shot first. If he hadn’t been a coward and snap-shot at me, I’d likely be layin’ in the dirt instead of him. ‘Scuse my long-winded speech, but speakin’ of yer dead pard, I’ll need you to load ‘im up on his horse and come with me to the miner’s hall in town. We’re gonna have ourselves a hearin’ to satisfy folks that I kilt ‘im in self defense. And I don’t fancy anybody takin’ a shot at my back when I’m leadin’ a pack string on the trail so this ain’t a matter fer discussion!”

So that’s precisely what happened. Ferguson, the miner’s name, brought out two horses and Woodrow counted out $40 in gold coin for horses and tack and got a bill of sale in return. He then helped Ferguson load the body across the man’s saddle.

Woodrow then ordered Ferguson to mount one of the pack mules, which he did after a few harsh words and a poke with the rifle barrel.

“It ain’t yer horse any more, Ferguson, and you sure as hell ain’t ridin’ free to gallop into town yellin’ that I shot yer pard! Once we’ve settled with the miners’ council and I’ve kicked you loose, afoot, and I get some supplies loaded up, you’re stayin’ in town until tomorrow and then you can walk back here to camp. Meanwhile, I’m takin’ all the grub you got stocked here to feed these Chinee men you don’t consider human, and I’m takin’ them back with me, too.”

So Woodrow tied Ferguson securely to the pack saddle, an uncomfortable seat for sure. And Ferguson cursed and swore while seated helpless, the pack mule’s nose tied to a tree, while Woodrow went to have a talk with the Chinamen.

He learned that the whipped man’s name was Lee Wong, and was the leader of the group of six. A small man, the camp cook actually, spoke passable English. He’d been a cook on a sailing schooner and learned English from kicks and cuffs from impatient sailors.

Woodrow learned that the two miners had ‘bought’ the group from another miner who’d struck gold, sold out, and left with his windfall. Held at pistol point with their personal papers and belongings locked up for ransom, the crew was forced to work for next to nothing.

“Until ya’ damned heathens have worked enough to pay us back fer what we paid fer yer stinkin’ selves!” the two miners had ordered, “ya get NO pay!”

When Lee Wong stood up and protested vehemently over the poor food given to the cook for their meals, and demanding an accounting of how their wages were levied against the ‘slave payment’ due, the men drew their guns and ordered Wong tied to the stump over a sack of dirty laundry for the whipping.

“To death, to make an example!”

Woodrow explained to the Chinese men that he was taking Ferguson to town to clear the killing. He would return with extra food and supplies and he wanted the men to wait for him. If they were willing, he’d lead them back to his mine where his partner waited, and they’d be given steady work at fair wages in gold, with no hold-backs for food or lodging.

“Fair pay for fair work,” he promised. “I don’t figure you want to hang around these parts any longer. It don’t appear to me that you’d get much of a fair shake from the folks around here.”

When Woodrow returned leading both pack mules loaded with food and tools, he found a willing crew waiting for him. Lee Wong had been well-tended by his friends. Woodrow instructed that he should ride one of the miners’ saddle horses. He explained to the others that they would travel by ‘shanks mare,’ on foot, but they could take turns riding the other horse, two at a time. It was up to them to decide who’d ride and for how long. Each man had bundled up their personal belongings after smashing the lock on the miners’ chest. They’d divided up the meager stash of coins and gold dust they’d found as ‘wages due.’ Woodrow and his new crew hit the trail back to Galena pass.

Skilled hands and strong backs built a snug, low-roofed bunkhouse to house six Chinese ‘partners’ on the Yankee Girl placer mines. They were delighted to receive pay in gold dust and nuggets at twice the rate they could get anywhere else, and they were treated respectfully by the two owners, a gross departure from what they’d received at the hands of other white men. As a bonus, the food was good, the labor was shared equally with the two young men working alongside them with smiles and friendly words. In time, they formed strong bonds of respect and acceptance.

A sad fact of life was that none of the Chinese were allowed under territorial or federal law to bring a wife over from China. It was forbidden. Abner and Woodrow could do nothing about that, but they did offer to help the men exchange their gold savings for bank certificates that could be sent home for their families and wives. From time to time a Chinese would accumulate what he deemed as sufficient to his future, and he’d cash in his savings and leave. But never before finding a trusted replacement to take his place at the Yankee Girl. Abner and Woodrow found themselves the overseers of an intensely loyal and devoted crew of workers.

It was not wise to accumulate a large amount of gold at the mine site, although a stout log keep was built to serve that need. From time to time, either Abner or Woodrow would ask three of their Chinese crew to accompany them on a gold shipment by packhorse over the south pass. It was illegal to arm the Chinese, so only Abner and Woodrow could carry firearms. The Chinese soon proved they had other skills that served the purpose.

It was on one gold trek when their ‘other skills’ saved everything.

Abner was leading a pack mule, its panniers loaded with small canvas sacks of nuggets and dust. Just behind, Lee Wong followed on his saddle horse, leading the second pack mule equally burdened. Another Chinese rode several yards ahead, on point, while the third Chinese, Hop Sing, volunteered to ride behind to guard their rear. Abner carried his repeating rifle. He also had a brace of pistols on his belt.

The party topped the pass and descended three miles down the south side when it came time to make camp before approaching night made the trail uncertain. They unsaddled their horses, unpacked the mules, brushed them down, and fed them grain from feed packs. They hobbled them to graze within sight of camp. Hop Sing made a small cooking fire and started a meal for all to share. After a time the tired riders laid out their bedrolls and settled in for the evening.

Abner woke with a pistol barrel pressed against his head. He raised up in alarm and was knocked back down with a hard blow.

“The gold or your life! Mess with us and I’ll blow your brains out on the dirt while my partners kill them stinkin’ Chinamen you got with you.”

“Alright! You win. The gold bags are in the panniers, laid against that stump just left of the fire. Take it and be gone,” Abner mumbled.

Just then the man flinched and he jerked his hand upward to his neck. At the same time that his body jerked, his pistol hand swung down and the gun fired into the dirt. Before Abner could raise up to see what was happening he heard grunts and stifled moans and the sound of bodies falling.

Lee Wong had stood guard over the camp, staying back from the fire in the shadow of a towering tree. He had heard the noise of three men muttering in low voices while they dismounted in the dark and tied their horses a few paces down the trail. Wong quietly woke the other two of his crew. When the strangers approached and the leader jammed his pistol barrel against Abner’s head, Lee Wong struck. Moving swiftly, silently, he pulled his knife and speared it into the man’s neck from the side, almost severing his head. It was him jerking savagely on the knife that caused the pistol to drop.

The other two men met similar fates. One was slammed face first into the dirt with his throat slashed open. The last bandit was dropped with Hop Sing’s cleaver between his shoulder blades, followed by a slashing swing that split his head. It was all over in less than a minute.

“They not take our gold or our lives!” Wong exclaimed to a flustered Abner who was able to stand and brush himself off. He had a nasty bump starting to swell on his forehead and he was shaking in self-disgust, fear, and anger.

“Damn fool, me!” he swore. Then he stepped over to Wong and the other men. He reached forward to grip Lee Wong’s hand.

“You saved my life! You saved all of us and the gold. If word of this had gotten out, then every bandit and no-account thief in the region would’ve come down on us at the mine for easy pickin’s. We owe you, all of you, and I promise we’ll make good on our debt to you!”

“No debt! No owe anything!” Wong insisted. The other men nodded their heads. “You make us all together with you and with other man. You honor us, make our life home possible, help us help families! I not save you, Mister Abner. I save us all! No debt, no owe us!”

Lee Wong stood tall in the firelight, his arms crossed, and he glanced at each of the others who straightened and stood, smiling back.

“We got problem,” Wong announced. “We got bodies to drag away and we got three more horses. Who leads extra horses?”

The rest of the ride was uneventful. The three horses, two tied behind the pack mules and one behind a saddle horse, led well and were no problem. Nothing was ever said by Abner, his men, or any curious bystander about the horses or the incident. But sharp eyes spotted the horses with empty saddles and word spread swift and far that their former owners were known thieves who were now obviously dead and horseless. Word got around and the Yankee Girl pack train shipments were seldom bothered again.

Abner and Woodrow, having left the Yankee Girl mine in the trusted hands of mine supervisor Lee Wong and his crew of workmen, embarked on a trip to the territorial capital to establish banking and incorporation credentials. Upon their return, emerging from the Snake River plains and making their accustomed way to the Wood River trail and the route home, they happened upon a bandit attack on a wrecked coach.

A Bloody Meeting

During the last summer while on another business trip, Abner met a small group of wagons waiting to ford the Snake River at Three Island Crossing. There he was approached by a woman who explained that she’d been widowed when her husband fell ill and died earlier on their journey to Oregon’s Willamette Valley.

She asked if Abner might like to buy her dead husband’s rifle. She was low on money to complete the trip because She’d had to hire a driver to replace her husband.

“My husband Evan was one of Berdan’s Sharpshooters in the war,” she explained. “He kept his rifle. He said he’d saved three month’s pay to buy it because he thought so little of the ill-suited cylinder rifle the Army was forcing them to use.”

She climbed into her wagon and reached down between the wagon box and her bed roll. She used both hands to unroll a blanket wrapped around a leather scabbard holding a slender rifle. She held it out for Abner to take.

“Evan took good care of it. It was his pride. He would never tell me what he did in the war and he never talked to anybody else about it except to say that he served with many fine men and he was so proud to be one of Colonel Berdan’s riflemen.”

Abner pulled the dark walnut stock free of its stiff leather scabbard to expose a machined receiver, a hinged curved hammer with thumb hook, a stretched trigger guard protecting two slender triggers, and a long, very long satin-finished barrel secured to a tapering walnut fore-grip. Nothing on that amazing rifle shined or glittered. It was hand-rubbed and finished to a deadly dull luster that would not reveal itself to an enemy.

“My stars above,” Abner whispered. “It’s a Sharps breech-loader, double-trigger, .52 caliber long barreled sharp-shooter’s rifle, well-used and much-loved from the look of it.”

“Ma’am, your husband, he used this rifle in the Union Army, part of Berdan’s bunch you say?”

“Yes, Sir, he did, but he’d never talk about it.”

“Ma’am, from what I’ve heard, your husband was one of an elite few, uncommonly brave men who were always in front; sharp-shooters and skirmishers, first to face the enemy. I expect he’d not want to talk about what he’d seen. I respect his choice. How much did you say he paid for this rifle?”

“It must have been all of $40. He said it was three months pay when they were forming and training his rifle company.”

A man standing near the woman nodded his head. “That’s a lot of money for a rifle, when the Union was payin’ but $10 for them muzzle-loaders they issued. Them Sharps rifles, they is something special. See that funny receiver piece there, the seams on the side? That’s the falling block. It slides down to open the breech for a reload. My cousin, he fought in the war. He said them Sharps was real special. A man with a Sharps rifle could lay himself down behind a rock or somethin’, and never have to rise up to reload. He’d just lay there, open that breech and slide in a reload and only pull up his rifle a little to shoot. The other shooters, they had to show themselves by raising up high enough to ram a load down the muzzle and that’s when a sharpshooter would git ‘em! That rifle she’s showin’ ya, that’s a shooter’s rifle. It’s a deadly piece!”

Abner knew right then that he wanted that rifle and the widow needed a fair hand to get to her new home, and more for a start.

“If you’re truly offerin’ to sell this fine rifle, Ma’am, I’m willin’ to buy. Are you sure you want to do this?”

She hung her head for a moment, then looked Abner square in the eyes. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears: “Yes, I do. You strike me as a fine young man and somehow it seems fittin’ that you should have it. I think Evan would agree. It’s better served in your hands than gettin’ rusty sittin’ on pegs over the fireplace.”

“Then I’m right proud, Ma’am.” Abner pulled a soft leather poke from his pocket and reaching inside, he asked her to hold out her hand. One after another he laid ten gleaming gold double-eagles in her palm.

“I expect that’s fair payment both for the rifle and for your needs. And this is for your husband’s service,” he whispered to her, softly so only she could hear. He slipped his fingers into his watch pocket and pulled out a Yankee Girl gold nugget the size of a pheasant egg and gently laid it in her hand. It would bring another $300.

The man standing near had peered closely when Abner laid the coins in her hand and his eyes grew wide until he stared in disbelief at the young man.

“That’s a lotta gold to be givin’ away,” he mumbled to himself as he spun on his heel and walked away, shaking his head.

She started to protest but Abner reached forward and took her hand, gently closing her fingers over the coins and the nugget. “No, ma’am, I won’t hear it. It’s a fair sale, done and over. Have a safe trip to Oregon! Now, did Evan leave anything else that goes with this beautiful rifle?”

Prologue »