American River Review 2022 - copy - Flipbook - Page 29
tight. He wiped the mud from around the two rear rims and realized he was
stuck, and his automobile was slowly sinking. About a half-mile behind him
was a sixteen-team caravan of a mule-pulled wagons hauling redwood down
from the Sierras by the way of Volcano.
“Hey, Mister,” he called out to a man watching from the Bank of America. It was Clyde Briscoll, the pharmacist.
Clyde was a rustic man from the Dakotas, who came here in ot 2,
maybe ot 3. Ran a pharmacy on Main. He, too, came out from the bank to see
the automobile. He likely was making his weekly deposit of cash into modest
business account.
“Yessir,” Clyde replied.
“I have a caravan of wood coiming in from Calaveras, about sixteen log
wagons headed yonder. They’re ‘bout a half-mile back. It appears I’m stuck in
the mud. You wouldn’t be able to help a feller, would you?”
“You say a mule team is comin’?” Clyde asked.
“Yes, sir, about sixteen flatbed wagons filled to the brim. I reckon you
wouldn’t happen to have or know someone who has a couple of two by eights,
would you?”
“Wood or lumber?”
“Wood. We are going to make it lumber at the mil. You do have a mill?”
“Yeah. We got a mill. Two by eights, you say?”
“Yeah, a couple of two by eight planks?”
The two men were politely yelling at one another now as Clyde approached the man in the street.
“Stuck in the mud?” Clyde confirmed in the form of a question. He
wore a bushy mustache which hid most of his mouth, the tips of which were
yellowed from tobacco smoke.
“Sure thing, mister. I’ll be right back,” Clyde said confidently.
Children began to gather in a small circle around the automobile.
The well-dressed man picked up George Plimpton’s little brother, Harry, and
plopped him in the driver’s seat. The boy grabbed the wheel and tried to turn it,
but with the mud and limited strength, Harry proceeded to grab the wheel and
pantomimed it, spinning it around an imaginary curve, all the while mimicking
the engine’s sound with a grind from his throat. The man pulled little Harry
from the car and patted him on the head. Harry ran back to his brother, grinning with glee.
A few minutes later, Clyde emerged from a side street with two planks
of lumber and two other men wearing overalls. One of the men was Hector
Rodriguez, a ranch hand down at Gargery’s place, and the other was Walter Finney, who was all brawn and no brains. Word is he was kicked in the head by a
mule when he was only six or seven years old. They walked to the middle of the
road where the Runabout was stuck and placed the planks behind the rear tires.
The man in the chocolate gloves hopped back inside his car and started the
engine. Clyde walked behind the vehicle. He gave thumbs up to slowly reverse
the automobile onto the two planks of lumber.
“Mum back, mum back,” Clyde directed the Cadillac’s tires and gripped
the lumber.
“Mum back some more,” Clyde said.
Again the driver revved the engine until the motor car eventually
reached the gravel highway.
Clyde approached the driver’s side at this point.
“You comin’ down from Volcano, you say,” Clyde spoke over the purr of
the engine.
“Yessir. Headed to the Argonaut,” the man bellowed back to Clyde.
“A gold man?” Clyde asked.
“A timberman. Employed by gold men, I suppose,” the man retorted,
and he turned the engine off.
“They call me Clyde, Clyde Briscoll. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Name is Hudson. Bill Hudson. I owe you there, partner,” The man
said, slowly pulling his gloves off and tossing them onto the passenger seat.
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