Dead Man's Gold and Other Stories by Paul Yee Page A

day, Yuen hacked into the hard ground and dumped it into long sluices built from logs. There, river water roared through to wash away the dirt and leave behind the heavy gold. Yuen labored twelve back-breaking hours a day, for two dollars a shift. When rain or mosquitoes swarmed him, he wanted to run for shelter, but there was none nearby. What kept him working were thoughts of his mother and sisters, sniffling and waiting for news and money.
    Just when he had saved enough to travel farther, the temperature dropped. All along the river, miners scurried south with packs on their backs and mules laden with equipment. They spoke of lakes freezing solid and thick, snowfalls higher than houses, and storms that devoured humans and horses.
    The news alarmed him, so he wintered in the port city, too, and searched for Fong.
    Other miners commented, “Your friend might have stayed north, or he might be dead and cold already.” They invited him to games of dice and dominoes, but Yuen clung to his few pennies. Storekeepers who saw him frowned and looked away, for they knew at a glance that he had no money to spend.
    Once winter retreated, he headed out again. The river ran high and fast with melting ice. Trekking north on muddy trails, he passed crude posts marking miners’ claims, ragged tents and makeshift cabins, and graveyards guarding the unlucky.
    Surely, he told himself, this time I will stake a claim on a section of this river.
    But his savings were spent before he could reach an unoccupied stretch, so he found wage work standing in a shallow river. All day he shoveled mud and gravel into rocker boxes that strained the muck for gold. His legs turned numb and blue. At night he wrapped hot cloths around them, but they rarely warmed him. One day, he slipped and fell. His ankle swelled like an egg and ached, and by the time it healed, he had to head south for winter.
    In the port city, Yuen ate low-grade rice and shared an attic with eight men. There was no room to stretch his legs, and he had no tales of lucky strikes to share. All winter he sat by the potbellied stove and stared glumly at the holes in his socks.
    When spring returned, he headed north again. This time, with borrowed money, he purchased a second-hand claim — one given up as worthless by white miners. Chinese miners reworking such sites waded into the river to heave boulders and flushed out crevices with fine whisks. When they found gold, they crowed, “This is truly Gold Mountain.”
    Yuen found nothing — not a single nugget, not one speck of gold. He cursed heaven and earth, even damned his ancestors. Why did the precious metal of the New World evade him? But he kept on digging because images of his family tormented him. Night after night, he saw his parents huddled at a low bare table, holding empty bowls that gleamed in the dark.
    One day, a familiar voice rang from the forest. There stood Fong in a leather jacket and gleaming boots that rose to his knees.
    â€œWhat happened, old friend?” Fong shouted. “You’re an ancient man of seventy!”
    Yuen caught his reflection in the water. On a gaunt face, bloodshot eyes
rolled in dark hollows and brown teeth hung loose. His skin had the color and texture of tree bark, while his hair bristled like a porcupines.
    He tried to smile. “And you, Fong, you haven’t aged a day since we parted. You’ve done well?”
    â€œIndeed!” He held up a weighty bag. In it Yuen saw the quiet gleam of gold nuggets, gold flakes and gold dust — enough for four lifetimes. He felt dizzy and clutched at his hat.
    The two men strolled into the shade.
    â€œDon’t be envious,” Fong said. “I wouldn’t do this again, ever. I was frostbitten and huddled in a canvas tent under five blankets. Who knew the winter lasted six months! Then we starved because ice jammed the river and prevented supplies from reaching us. And I almost drowned when my horse and I rolled