GOLD FIELDS OF CALIFORNIA, CIRCA 1850
“I’m sorry, Mr. Strauss,” you say. “I came all the way from New York, and I would never forgive myself if I weren’t to make a go of it.”
“Suit yourself,” says Strauss. “I wish you luck.”
You walk toward the canvas city, browsing the wares sold at butcher shops, a bakery, a dry goods store. By a crudely constructed pier, a boatman calls out to you.
“No more money,” you call out, and check the time on your pocketwatch.
“Trade me that watch, and I’ll take you to the finest diggings in California,” he yells. “Come on over here.”
“I could take you out to Downieville, where they just discovered a new vein a week back.”
The boatman spits into the river. You’re out of money. The watch was a gift from your father, and you hand it over with a sense of loss and purpose.
“Or Angels Camp,” he says, effortlessly slipping the watch into his vest pocket. “Lots of folks bringing gold dust back from Angels Camp lately.”