"I don't need any goddamn sass from you!" McGill exclaimed.

"Maybe you gonna get some anyway. And something else besides," Israel said, stepping forward.

Bart McGill slammed his cup on the plank counter. Louis saw with alarm that the ex-slave's fingers were fisted. Amanda rushed between the two, a hand on each of them.

"I forbid that kind of behavior around here, and both of you know it! Israel, you go back outside-Bart, you settle down." She tugged his arm. "Come on." She glanced over her shoulder. "Israel, I'm asking you to leave-"

"Asking or telling?"

"Asking. Please!"

His dark eyes resentful, the lanky man finally shrugged, turned and walked out. McGill was still seething. After the door banged, he exploded.

"That snotty son of a bitch acts like I'm one of those Mississippi cotton barons! The McGills never owned a slave. Not one!"

"But Israel sees all white men alike because a few of them treated him badly. Unfortunately you have the same kind of irrational feelings about colored people-"

Louis heard Amanda with only half an ear, having inched his way toward the table where the paper had fallen. He managed to glimpse a few of the scrawled lines: -frenzy has seized my soul. Piles of gold rise up before me at every step. Thousands of slaves bow to my beck and call. Myraids of fair damsels contend for my love. In short it is a violent attack of what I can only term gold fever- "Now settle down and think about your men," Amanda urged. "Are you going after them?"

McGill started refilling his cup. "By every law on the book, I should. But I decided against it. I plan to load the hold as fast as possible and weigh anchor. I can't afford to lose anyone else-I've already got the first and second mates standing guard. They rounded up the whole crew this morning and sent 'em back to the ship. They have orders to shoot if anybody takes a header over the rail. I hope the cook and the mate dig to hell and find nothing but a ton of those pyrites!" He slumped at the table, staring moodily into the cup.

Amanda's face had acquired that intense look Louis disliked. "How does a man collect gold, Bart? You've called in Peru and Chile, surely you've heard-"

His head jerked up. "Why the hell are you so interested? You planning to sail off to the American too?"

Louis knew his ma was hiding something when she answered, "No, I'm just curious. Gold-hunting must take some equipment-"

"Not much more than a pick, a shovel and a pan for placer mining. You wash the dirt out of a pan of water and because the gold's heavier, it stays put. It's hard labor. Even harder if you're working solid rock instead of a river. The South Americans have mechanical contraptions-arrastras-for separating gold from quartz."

He finished his drink, jammed the paper in his pocket and his cap on his head. "I'll see you for supper-provided I get enough hides loaded. I want to get out of this lunatic place-"

When he was gone, Amanda moved quickly to her son. "Louis, I'd like you to do an errand."

Uneasily, he said, "What is it?"

"I need a new iron pan for the kitchen. Fetch twenty cents and run to the hardware. While you're there, see how many shovels are in stock."

"Ma!" he cried. "You haven't got the gold fever too?"

Amanda laughed in a harsh way. "No, I'm not that addled. But I've been noticing how many people have come to town just in the past twenty-four hours-"

She gave him a pat on the bottom. "You hurry along and get that pan."

ii

"I need an iron pan, Mrs. Holster," Louis said to the stout woman tending the hardware counter.

She pointed to an empty shelf. "Sold the lot not two hours ago."

"Who bought 'em?"

"Sam Brannan. He bought every pick and shovel, too. Paid twice the going price for everything. He's loading them out in back right this minute."

Disappointed, Louis headed for the front door. Courtesy jogged him into acknowledging the owner's absence. "Is Mr. Holster feeling poorly this morning?"

"You mean because he's not here?" The woman sniffed. "He hired Andy Bellamy to pole him up the river to Sutter's fort. Mr. Kemble the editor went with him. You won't be reading the Star around here for a while-or seeing Mr. Holster selling nails! I swear, I don't know what's got into people, traipsing off to nowhere thinking they can wash a fortune out of a stream-"

But Louis knew. He'd read the third mate's note. The fever explained everything from the influx of strangers and his ma's odd behavior to the sudden turnover in hardware.

To verify that last, Louis walked around to the rear of the building. Bare-chested and sweating, Sam Brannan was lashing a canvas over the bed of a small wagon. Louis said hello, then shinnied up one wheel for a look into the bed.

"What are you shipping, Mr. Brannan? A whole lot of pickaxes, huh?"

And pans and shovels, he noted before Brannan shooed him off and covered the cargo completely.

"That's right, Louis. Going to peddle them in the store I lease up at New Helvetia. I figure just one pan will bring me anywhere from half an ounce to one ounce of dust, flake or lump gold."

"How much is that in money?"

"Oh, about eight to sixteen dollars American."

Louis whistled. "How can you ask so much for a twenty-cent pan?"

"Because men need 'em, my boy. And what men need, they'll pay for-handsomely. Like I told Mrs. Holster"-he grinned-"spades are trumps now. If there's as much gold in the American as there seems to be, it's going to be that way for a long time."

Louis ran back to the other side of Portsmouth Square and reported to his mother. She thanked him, but her eyes didn't seem to be focusing on the immediate surroundings. She acted much the same as she did whenever she discussed returning to Boston.

"You go help Israel," she said. "I want to look over my account book-"

She left him. He scuffed the toe of his boot against the kitchen floor. Maybe living by herself-without a man-had something to do with these peculiar spells. Maybe it wasn't entirely the fault of the gold- Amanda always refused to answer Louis' questions about his father. She put him off with a promise that she'd clear up the mystery when she thought the time was appropriate. Did that mean he was still too young? He assumed so.

Every once in a while he keenly missed having a father. Now was one such time. A man might help his ma keep a level head. A man who was around more regularly than Captain Bart might help cure his ma of the fever-to which Louis was convinced Amanda had succumbed, whether she'd admit it or not.

iii

That night Amanda completely forgot her son's lessons. Captain Bart arrived for supper about seven, but the tavern was so busy, she had no chance to serve him until half past nine-which put him in another foul mood. Louis could tell from the sort of music the captain hammered on the piano before and after he ate-wild, noisy music, full of heavy chords in the bass.

Louis couldn't sleep because of the racket. He pushed the curtain aside and asked whether he could go out to the privy. Amanda didn't answer. She was seated at the walnut table, her pencil moving rapidly over a sheet of paper. She was doing sums, he noticed. Puffing on a cigar, Captain Bart stared out a window.

"Ma? Did you hear me?"

Without so much as glancing up, Amanda said, "What? Oh, yes, go ahead."

Frowning, the boy walked toward the back door.

He sat awhile on the rough, splintery board. But the request had been a pretense. Presently he pulled his flannel nightshirt down and stepped out of the reeking little building. The night air was chilly, damp-smelling. Fog drifted. Out in the bay, blurs of light showed the location of Captain Bart's clipper and a small steam packet that made coasting voyages as far north as Oregon.

A lantern was burning in Israel's shanty. Captain Bart started pounding the piano again. Louis didn't especially want to return to the noise. He walked across the damp ground and knocked on the shanty door.

He heard Israel draw in a sharp breath. "Who's there?"

"Just me, Israel."

"Oh-Louis. Come on in."

The place was cramped but scrupulously neat. A table, a chair, a cot and a box for Israel's few clothes comprised the furnishings. The tall man lay on the cot, one of the new books-Mr. Poe's-propped on his bare stomach.

As Israel sat up, Louis caught a glimpse of the Negro's shoulder blade. Like most of Israel's back, the yellow skin there was a crosswork of hard brown scar tissue. Israel often said-with a certain air of pride-that he'd been whipped more than any other slave on the Mississippi plantation from which he'd run away when he was twenty.

"The captain's music keeping you awake?" the ex-slave asked.

"Yes, that and-" Louis stopped, feeling vaguely foolish.

"And what?" Israel prompted.

"And all the craziness in town."

Israel nodded. "Know what you mean. I heard almost a hundred more folks showed up today."

"I just don't understand the reason, Israel. Why is everybody so excited about gold? What can you do with it?"

The tall man reflected a moment. "The truth is, nothing much-except use it to replace a bad tooth. Gold's not like iron or copper. You can't turn it into needles or kettles or plows."

"Seems to me it's worthless, then."

"No, you can buy things with it. They say it lasts a mighty long time. And it's not found in very many places in the world. Guess that's why it's so valuable-there isn't much of it."

"I still don't see why people would bother to hunt for it."

"That's because you don't think like a grown-up, Louis. Some grown-ups put a lot of stock in being rich."

"Is owning gold like owning people of color? The more you own, the richer you are?"

Israel's gentle smile disappeared. "Yes and no."

"What do you mean? What's the difference?"

"For one thing, a human being can produce something-provided he's scared bad enough. A lump of gold doesn't think, either. Or shed a tear. Or have any feelings to speak of-"

He said it quietly enough. But his eyes were so somber, Louis shuddered.

"I wish they'd never found any gold at Sutter's!" he declared finally.

"Could make California mighty prosperous, Louis. Could be even more important than that-it just might start this part of the country filling up with people like nothing else could."

"But Ma's thinking about it too much!"

"How do you know?"

"Well, she's either thinking about gold or Boston. She's hardly spoken to me since supper."

Israel tried to smile. "I expect she's caught a light case of the fever. It'll pass."

Louis shook his head. "I think she has a bad case. She wants money mighty strongly, Israel. You know how she's always talking about going east-"

"Yes, I do, and I have a peculiar feeling that going there wouldn't be good for any of us. I know I couldn't abide the crowds. Guess it's none of my affair, though. You better hurry back inside. You've been out here a while-"

"Bet they'll never notice how long I was gone. Good night, Israel."

"Good night, Louis."

He left the shanty and crossed the foggy yard. Amanda glanced up from her sums as he entered. She said nothing. McGill sat at the piano, staring into space.

Louis walked to the cubicle, drew the curtain and threw himself in bed, feeling miserable. He could have stayed out half the night-he could have jumped in the bay or run off to the American-and she probably wouldn't have said a word!

iv

The sandy-haired man walked into the public room about nine the following evening. Nine was the normal closing time. But it was already apparent to Louis that, with all the new arrivals, Kent's could have extended its hours till eleven or twelve and done a brisk business in liquor.

He presumed the tavern would soon be open that long every night. But right now his ma was occupied with those scraps of paper on which she'd been ciphering last evening and most of the day. She was at it again, in the back, leaving Israel and Louis to hang out the closed sign, sweep and clean the place, blow out the lanterns and lock up. The Mexican girl, Conception, had already gone.

The public room was empty of customers but the front door was still open when the sandy-haired young man entered. Israel pointed to the sign lying on the table nearest the entrance. "We're closed. I was just about to hang that up-"

"I'm powerful hungry," the young man said. "Couldn't I see a bill of fare?"