Page 29 of My Darling Clementine

“I had a claim, but I sold it.”

“Why?”

“A claim is only yours while you work it, and it was a rich piece of land. My partner, Barney Finkle, must be wealthy by now.” She laughed. “At least, I hope so. Couldn’t happen to a better man.” She patted Kizzy’s knee. “We’ll stake a new claim near there, as good or better, don’t you worry.”

“We. It has a nice ring to it. How’d you meet Mr. Finkle?”

“Three years ago, to prove something to my father, I decided to pass as a man, and shortened my name from Clementine to Clem. Just like you, I headed for the gold strikes people were talking about in California. I took notes on the journey, then used them to write articles I sold to newspapers back East.”

“You’re an author?” Kizzy’s eyes grew round.

“A writer. The journey west was brutal, lasting four grueling months; over half the men I traveled with died along the way.”

“Why?”

“Illness and accidents. Cholera decimated the wagon train.” Clem passed a hand over her eyes, wiping away perspiration. “The rough trail jostled our wagons, weakening them, the animals, and people. More than once, I doubted I’d make it.”

She focused on the road ahead. “Those still alive took turns burying the dead, and Mr. Cushing partnered me with Barney, who was also twenty. To escape the horror of our work, we focused on the gold we’d find in California. At night we shared maps, arguing over the best place to stake our claims, planning without knowing if we’d ever get a chance.

Clem smiled, then turned and winked at Kizzy. “Luck was on my side when Barney suggested we combine the best of our separate crumbling wagons into one sturdier one. More than half our animals died, those who survived couldn’t carry everything. We dumped heavy supplies by the trail side, and agreed to share what we could still carry if… no… when we arrived.” She shook the reins. “Barney never allows negative thinking to get in his way. He’s always telling me we manifest our own destiny.”

Other memories rose. “He became a close friend, the best I ever had. He respected my privacy and insisted on his own; in that we were much alike. I kept my secret, if he has any he kept his, but we talked about anything and everything else.”

Clem chuckled. “We traveled together to Mokelumne Hill,” she pronounced it Mo-kel-lum-me, “and struck claims next to each other on the southern side of the river. With the luck of the draw, mine proved rich and Barney’s far less, but since we worked both claims together, shared a tent, cooked, ate, fished, and took care of each other when injured or sick, we split everything fifty/fifty. He’s the brother I never had, and there was plenty for us to both get rich.”

She paused, and Kizzy asked a question, but not the one Clem expected.

“What were you proving to your father?”

“My father had no faith in me, or any woman, I suppose. He refused to let me attend college, or join the staff of his newspaper, the Boston Daily Journal.”

“I’ve read that,” said Kizzy, earnest face listening.

“Father believed women were nothing without men to guide them. I decided to do what all the young men my age were doing, go west. I found I could pass as one of them if I kept my wits about me. Which I did.”

“What did your father say?”

“That I’d fail, and come home having learned my lesson. I decided to teach him one, instead.”

“How?” Kizzy dabbed at the perspiration streaming down her neck.

“He published two articles I wrote under a man’s penname.” Clem shrugged.

“To buy my first wagon and cross to California, I had used the money I made selling poetry to a variety of publishers, Dad’s competitors. I always showed them to him first, in hopes he’d print one in the Journal. Later, Barney read my poems and said they were as good as any others published, and if my father hadn’t known I was the author he would have bought them.”

Clem clucked and slapped the reins to hurry the mules along. “Then, like an irritating big brother, he hounded me to write a piece about traveling across the wild wilderness in a wagon train. “Write what you know,” he told me.”

“Did you write something?”

“I did.” Clem chuckled. “I spent two whole days on it, and he damned it with faint praise. “It’s good.” He shrugged. “You say what you saw.” He handed it back. “Now make me feel what you felt when seeing it.”

She glanced at Kizzy, then barked out a laugh. “I never went to college. Barney was the first to challenge me. After prospecting all day, I stayed up nights working by candlelight, rewriting the piece. Two weeks later, I read it to him. “It’s better,” he said. “You tell what happened very well to the boy you were when we set out. But we both grew up quick during the last year, we had to. We’ve become men.”

“I almost laughed at the irony, but Barney challenged me, again. He shook the piece in my face.” Clem allowed herself a small smile as she demonstrated. “Don’t send him a trail guide. Give Tom Dennison, editor of the Boston Daily Journal, the thrill of living the adventure with you. He’ll never give up everything to chase a dream, so give him the next best thing; let him take the journey through your words.”

“Barney slapped me on the shoulder and said, “Every experience changes a thinking man, once he steps back to see the whole of it rather than just the part closest. You’ve had time to do that, and you’re not the same Clem who started your adventure. Tell your reader who you are now.”

Kizzy sighed, wiping the perspiration on her cheeks. “We all change. It’s inevitable.”