Chapter 1

Stanly Bromly was a very polite man. Only his closest friends called him Stanly, anybody else had to call him Mr. Bromly; otherwise he had to be a very fast runner or was dead! (However, since I'm a very special case, I'll call him "Stan.")

Money was a problem in 1850 California: there wasn't much of it around. Almost all trade was either barter or paid for with gold dust, carried in a "poke." That was why Stan held out his poke to the bartender when he said, "Another beer, Mr. Bartender, if you please."

"Certainly, Mr. Bromly. Coming right up!"

When the beer arrived, Stan turned his back to the bar, leaned back, and looked around. The "saloon" was the usual large tent with the bar consisting of several planks laid across the ends of some upright beer barrels. Crude tables and benches were scattered pretty haphazardly in the remaining space, except for the roulette and faro tables and wheel to one side. There was also a poker game going on in one corner and the tent was really crowded this evening.

The celebration was winding down. Bennett Riley, the military governor, had just declared California to be a state and word had had reached Wild River Camp that day. There had been a lot of drinking and a few fistfights, but no deaths, so Stan thought of it as a mild and restrained celebration.

Stan considered himself to be a troubleshooter. In fact, he had a business card, on which was printed, "Stanly Bromly, Esq., Troubleshooter, Palace Hotel, San Francisco, Calif." He had come to California from his home in the Virginia tidewater area to seek his fortune, not as a gold miner, but as a gentleman adventurer. He felt that mucking in the ground was not suitable employment for an educated gentleman, but helping others with their problems certainly was, especially those who could pay for the help.

Stan was in Wild River Camp on just such an endeavor. He had been hired by the owner of a large gold mine to investigate the series of mysterious accidents that had been plaguing his mine for the last five months. These accidents consisted mostly of equipment breakage, some of it very unlikely. Typically, a rope would break, allowing a bucket load of ore to fall down a shaft, injuring one or more miners and smashing the bucket. Ropes break, particularly under the heavy load of gold ore, but once a chain gave way, a very unlikely event.

Unfortunately, the "accidents" had been cleaned up and the evidence discarded before Stan arrived, so that he was simply waiting around for another "accident" to happen. This time, he hoped to examine the accident scene before it was disturbed by a clean up crew.

Stanly Bromly looked every inch the gentleman as he stood at the bar, He was dressed in velvet pantaloons tucked into highly polished high-topped boots. His shirt had just the right number of frills and his frock coat was in the height of fashion. His beaver hat was just the right height and tipped at the perfect angle. The only jarring note, could it have been seen, was the bowie knife as large as a short sword hanging at his side under his coat. He also carried four finely balanced throwing knives under his cummerbund, well hidden but easily reached at need.

He had just placed his empty beer mug on the crude bar when he was rudely bumped by a large lout who virtually shouted, "Why don't cha get outta tha way, ya damned dandy?"

This startled Stan, as he was not expecting trouble this late in the evening. "My good man, it was you who bumped me, not the other way around. You should really watch where you are going."

At this, the lout tried to backhand Stan, who easily ducked the wild swing. The man then drew his knife and lunged at Stan as if to gut him like wild game. Stan dodged aside and pulled his own knife. He feinted at his opponent's gut and then chopped as hard as he could on the man's wrist holding the knife. With a drawing motion at the proper angle, his heavy bowie knife was able to cut completely through his opponent's wrist and his hand, still holding the knife, flopped to the floor. With a quick follow-through motion Stan whipped his knife around and through the lout's neck. Adroitly dodging the spurting blood, Stan wiped his bloody knife on this opponent's shirt and walked out of the tent.

Stan spent a not completely comfortable night in the "guest house" of the mine, but he made up for it by the size of the breakfast he ate. Stan was one of those people who could eat as much of anything he wished without gaining excess weight (don't you hate that type!), so he was able to stow away an ample breakfast.

There was nothing of any interest to keep Stan at the mine that day, so he decided to ride through the countryside just to see what the scenery was like. He rode at random for a while until he was stopped by a man pointing a musket at his middle. "What cha doin' here, stranger? You're trespassin' on my claim!"

"I beg your pardon, sir. I was just riding for pleasure through these beautiful woods and did not realize I was trespassing. Please forgive me and point your weapon another way."

"OK, but git off my property!"

Stan quickly turned his horse about and rode away from the man and his musket. It looked to Stan like it was a good way to get killed just riding at random through gold country. He was really annoyed at himself for being so foolish; he should have realized the danger! He continued riding in his current direction until he came to a road; he followed this and succeeding roads to return to the mine. So much for pleasure riding!

That afternoon, there was another "accident." this time the sluice collapsed at its middle. The trough was about 40 feet long and supported as much as 10 feet off the uneven ground in places. There was a plank walkway paralleling the sluice for use by the workmen and one man had been on the walkway when it fell. He was not seriously injured, but he was mad as hell. "One more accident and I quit!" he grumbled as he was helped out of the mud puddle he was lying in.

Stan hurried up to the collapsed section of the sluice and carefully looked around at the supports. He found the broken support and noticed immediately that it had been recently sawed almost all the way through where it had broken. There was a saw cut on another adjacent support, but it had not broken in the incident. Stan casually walked away as if he had not found anything.

He stood to one side and watched as the sluice was repaired. The foreman took the broken support and the sawed, but unbroken, support and threw them both into the nearby trash fire. Stan found this to be very suspicious, but not really enough to make accusations, yet. However, he planned to keep a close eye on that foreman.

It looked like there was nothing left to do at the mine, so Stan returned to the saloon tent he had been in the night before. When he walked in, the bartender said, "Ah, Mr. Bromly. I am glad to see that you were unharmed during you little tiff last night. Sam Hudley was a real tough nut and there's many a man glad to see him no longer with us."

"Well, sir, I thank you for your concern for my welfare. I was sorry to make a mess of your establishment, but it seemed that I had little choice in the matter. By the way, I must apologize, I have neglected to ask your name."

"I'm Jake Summers, Mr. Brumly. Just call me Jake. Would you like a beer on the house as our apology for how you were treated in our establishment last night."

"Thank you, Mr. Summers. I really don't think that such familiarity would be appropriate, but I will gratefully accept the beer. What can you tell me about Mr. Hudley? I thought that he went out of his way to pick a fight with me."

"Could be, Mr. Bromly. Sam Hudley was a mean one. Many a man in Wild River Camp carries scars as a result of meeting him. He was a grand bully and liked to hurt men he knew could not hurt him back. He didn't have a regular job and he didn't prospect for gold; he did do odd jobs for some of the shop owners around the camp, but I don't know how he earned enough to eat. He sure was a strange one."

"Thank you for the information, Mr. Summers. I wonder if he was hired to kill me?"

Jake's eyes got wide at that, but he didn't comment.

The next few days went pretty much without incident, though Stan was getting pretty bored. Fortunately, he had brought along one of his favorite books to read, so he had something to occupy him while he waited for the next "accident."

As unobtrusively as possible, he kept an eye on the mine foreman, particularly after the regular workers had left for the day. There was only one shift, dawn to dark, at the mine, so Stan would notice if a worker stayed late or came back after work. Stan hoped to see the foreman doing something which would cause an accident, so he would have a concrete fact to work with, instead of his suspicions.