Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(34)

“Then I have some bad news for you,” Jefferson says.

“Worse news than ‘He has more money than we could ever steal’?”

“Yes, worse than that.” We cross the street and head downhill toward the Charlotte. The scent of saltwater marsh rises to greet us. “I found Hardwick’s main business office, which is at his house. His mansion, I mean. Takes up half a block. And I started following our pal, Mr. Keys, first thing this morning. This bank wasn’t his first stop. It wasn’t even his second.”

“Where was he going?” I ask.

“To other banks,” he says. “He took a large bag from Hardwick’s office, went to a couple of banks, made deposits, and then went back to Hardwick’s house to collect another bag.”

“I counted forty-seven gold coins in his deposit,” Becky says. When I look at her in astonishment, she says simply, “Well, something like that. It was hard to count and talk at the same time, so I might be off a coin or two. Assuming they were all fifty-dollar coins, which seems to be the most common denomination, that’s a deposit of two thousand three hundred fifty dollars. Three of those comes to more than seven thousand dollars! Just this morning.”

“More than three banks,” Jefferson says.

“Exactly how many banks?” I ask, my voice rising to a near-panic register.

“Eleven,” Jefferson says.

Becky and I stop in the middle of the street to stare at him.

“This was his eleventh bank visit of the day,” he assures us. “In and out within a few minutes at each stop. Like it’s something he does every day. But that’s not possible, right? There’s not that much gold in all the world.”

“Maybe there is,” Becky says. “According to Mr. Owens Junior—who seems a reliable compendium of details, even if he’s a bit slow at multiplication—California is home to at least twenty million dollars in gold.”

“No wonder I was so distracted when our boots first touched this territory,” I say. “It was like a constant ringing in my ears.”

Jefferson nods. “And Hardwick is trying to get it all.”

Becky resumes her journey toward the Charlotte and gestures for us to keep pace. “This job just got a lot more complicated,” she says.

“Yep,” I say. “We need to think bigger.”

“And smarter,” Jefferson adds.





Chapter Ten


When we paid Hardwick four thousand dollars to settle my uncle’s debt, we thought it was a lot of money. But it was nothing.

Four thousand to settle a debt.

A few thousand to auction off the pieces of someone’s house.

A few thousand more for a man’s freedom.

These little bits and pieces add up. No doubt this is how Hardwick’s fortune started. But it’s clear that the big money in San Francisco is now being made in property, through land sales and rents. If Hardwick is filling safes in eleven banks, then this is how he’s doing it.

Jim Boisclair has been in San Francisco for months, and I figure if anyone can help me suss it all out, it’s him. So I arrange to meet Jim early the following morning at Portsmouth Square.

I spring out of bed and scarf down a quick breakfast, eager to see my friend. Even though it’s not raining, the air is so damp with fog, it might as well be. I don a wool coat over a flannel shirt and sturdy trousers, and I’m still cold.

Jim is already waiting for me, leaning against a lamppost. He tips his hat and grins.

After we exchange greetings, I say, “Are you sure we can’t ride? Peony could use the exercise.” She’s taken well to being stabled in the hull of a ship; it’s the not smallest or worst place I’ve had to keep her. But I know she likes to stretch her legs.

“You don’t see as much when you’re riding,” Jim says, pausing to blow on his fingers and rub them together for warmth. “You rush by, in too much of a hurry. Might as well hire a carriage with curtains on the window—that way you don’t have to see the truth or talk to anyone at all.”

I sigh, but I don’t disagree.

“But I’m real glad to hear that pretty mare of yours is all right,” he adds. “I remember the day she was foaled.”

“I couldn’t have made it here without her,” I say. “Which way are we going?”

“Up,” he says. “We’re going to tour some of the city’s most profitable areas, where Hardwick makes most of his money.” He leads the way west, up the city’s hills. The steep climb warms me quickly. “Pay attention as we go, and tell me what you see.”

“And what are you going to do?” I ask.

“I’m going to point out the things you’re not seeing.” It’s exactly the kind of thing my daddy would say, and it puts a lightness in my heart.

Everywhere we go, people are already up and working. Clearing land and roads. Loading wagons full of dirt, unloading wagons full of supplies.

“I see a lot of people working hard,” I tell Jim.

He smiles. “That’s a good start.”

Jim has always been one of the most sociable people I’ve ever known, and traveling across a whole continent has not changed him one bit. He stops and talks to everyone who will speak to us, and he isn’t shy with his questions. Do they own the land or rent it? Some rent it. More say they own it, but when Jim asks about prices, it sure seems like they’re paying installment plans at rates that sound a lot like rent. Why are they working so hard to improve it? So they can sell it for a profit once they’ve paid off the loan. A handful of the laborers are Negro, and they take plenty of time to answer Jim’s questions and give specific answers. We spend almost half an hour talking with an enthusiastic fellow named Isaac who hails from Cincinnati.