When I was a young man, I was bitten by the desire for easy money and the lure of travel. At that time, gold had just been discovered in Alaska, so I packed up my bags, bought a shovel, and took ship for Anchorage. There I found many like myself -- penniless, ignorant, and hopeful. Some of them hadn't even a shovel with them, and couldn't raise the money to buy one. We all packed together in shanty towns and tents, like a horde of rats, huddled together as though to protect ourselves from the sheer size of the wilderness.

I never found any gold, not even enough to fill a tooth. But I had the good fortune to befriend an old man who was selling food and provisions to the prospectors. He was making money so quickly that he practically had to hire a team of seamstresses just to keep sewing pockets to put it in. I hired on with him and soon we were both rolling in money. Half of the gold that came into town found its way into our pockets. Eggs were almost worth their weight, and pickaxes would go for nuggets. Once we hired a packet boat to make a run up full of just salt beef and hard biscuits, and sold them for twice what we paid.

My old partner's name was Sam Washington. He was an old hand with gold and prospecting -- he had been in California in 1849, the first gold rush on the continent. It was during that year that he first got into the mercantile business, and he never went back to prospecting after he discovered how much more money there was to be made providing to the prospectors. He had quite a prosperous business in California which he had left in the care of his son (he was seventy that year) to come to Alaska.

I was always curious why a man of his age would pull himself out of such comfortable circumstances to come to Alaska, the tail end of the entire continent and certainly one of the coldest places it had ever been my displeasure to be in. I asked him about it one evening while we were tallying the books.

"Well, it's a long story, but if you want to hear it, I've got the time."

"Yes," I said, "I'd like to hear it."

He turned his chair around and put his feet up on a crate of biscuits. "Well, here it is, then."

Sam Washington's Story

When I was your age, I went to California looking for adventure. That was in 1847, so I was already there when they discovered gold and I could have gotten the jump on everyone. But I didn't. I was up in the back country looking for new hills I hadn't see the other side of, and didn't hear about it right then. In fact, as my luck ran, I didn't stake a claim until 1849, and then I only got a small stretch of sorry-looking creek up in the mountains. The land around was beautiful, though, mountains poking the sky to make it pay attention, tall pines and blackberry thickets on their sides.

Just upstream from me was a Chinaman by the name of Lao Chen. He was astoundingly polite, and a hard worker. He used to keep his head shaved, and when I once asked him why, he said that the gods didn't want to have to look through his hair to see his thoughts. Downstream were an Irishman named Ryan O'Shea and an Indian called Little Big Boots. Little Big Boots got his name because his boots, and the feet inside them, were exceedingly big. He told us that the little part was because he was the smallest one in his tribe, which, let me tell you, made you think twice about ever getting on their bad side. That pretty much rounded out the valley.

We stuck up for each other, the four of us, and kept an eye out for bandits and claim jumpers. Little Big Boots, at almost seven feet tall, could run off most anyone, and Ryan, though rather small, was very strong. He had an arm on him like an ox -- the whole ox -- and even Little Big Boots didn't arm wrestle him more than once. Lao Chen had a big monkey who was fast and had teeth like a mountain lion. I used to have a good left hook when I was younger.

I even found gold once, when a cliff side collapsed a little ways from my camp. There it was, gold in the rock, a vein as thick as your arm and as long as a steamer, maybe longer after it went back inside the cliff. When I found it I had to run my hands over the whole length of it, just to persuade myself it was real. But it was, and I immediately began to dig it out and put it in bags, which I hid in the woods. When I was done, I knew I'd have to hire some mules and get it all out at once, if I didn't want bandits by the bushel.

What happened to the gold? Well, I didn't keep it. If I had, do you think that I would be here, in a place that is colder than a caribou's honeymoon and twice as muddy? I would be too rich to have adventures like this. No sir, I did not. But the gold wasn't stolen from me either.

Though I'm sure that none of the other three were Christians, we would always get together and eat good food and sing songs and tell stories on Sunday evenings. I never really was much of a Christian myself anyway, and this seemed better than any pious way to honor the day. Sometimes Ryan would dance a jig, or Chen would have his monkey do tricks, although sometimes it would refuse and throw things at us instead. I would play the harmonica, and Little Big Boots would sing in that incredibly deep voice he had. It sounded like a big bull moose. As night fell, we would throw wood on the fire and tell stories, Coming from different parts of the world none of us knew even one of the others' tales: everything was fresh and new.

It happened that the day I found that big vein of gold was a Sunday, and that night was like every other Sunday night. Just before sundown, Little Big Boots loomed into my camp, blotting out the last rays of the sun, and in his wake, hopping from rock to rock in the stream was Ryan. Lao Chen was the last to arrive, dragging his monkey with him. We always knew when he was about to arrive, because that monkey made noises like a thousand screaming children whenever Chen dragged it down to my camp, although once it got there a sweet or a bit of bacon would quiet it again. That night Lao Chen brought some rice he had cooked, and Ryan had some carrots and, incredibly, five fresh eggs. Little Big Boots had gathered wild mushrooms and blackberries. I had a flask of whiskey and a big iron pan in which I fried up the mushrooms, the eggs, and the carrots, then whupped them all together into the rice for a meal that we all enjoyed, even the monkey.

After the meal, Ryan lit up his big curly pipe, and Little Big Boots started whittling. We all spent a few moments in quiet reflection and digestion, as was our habit. Then the fire popped suddenly, and the little Irishman looked startled. Then he took the pipe from his mouth, tapped it out, cleaned it, and began to speak.

"There's a story that has had some circulation among my countrymen here in America, but you may not have heard it. I would be pleased to tell it to you, if you are all of an interest."

Little Big Boots nodded, and I passed my flask to Ryan. "You had better wet your throat before you start," I said. He did, and then placed his hands on his legs, leaned forward, and began.

Ryan O'Shea's Story

Now, I wouldn't have to tell you these things if you were countrymen, but since sure as grass grows green you aren't from the Old Country, I'll be beginning with this. This story is about a leprechaun, which is a kind of mankin about this tall. One of those folk who walked the earth before humans did, a fey, one of the older ones. Now the most important thing I have to tell you about leprechauns is this: gold. Leprechauns value nothing more than their gold, and they each keep as big a pot of it as they can. In Ireland, they say rainbows touch the ground over those pots of gold.

Most people even in Ireland do not believe in leprechauns, but there are always some of them who're too lazy to work or too fanciful, some who take time to chase after rainbows and dig for buried pots of gold that aren't theirs and shan't bring them so much as a speck of happiness. And a leprechaun can't do anything to get his pot of gold back from a man who digs it up, unless the man returns it his own self -- that's the rule, even if it is a stupid one.

'Tis a little known fact about leprechauns that they really do nay have much to do. Some of them play a little music, and know a jig or two. But they are not like house fairies: they don't clean up for people, and they are not like pixies: they don't enjoy sniffing flower or chasing bees. For a leprechaun, life is about his pot of gold. Leprechauns love their gold and treat it with the respect it deserves, counting it, shining it, caressing its smooth surface, appreciating its fine sparkle, letting it run through their fingers...

In any case a leprechaun without a pot of gold is surely the saddest thing alive. And that's just what happened to the one in my story.

This leprechaun's name was Paddy, and he surely was the most respected leprechaun in all of Ireland. Whenever an especially big rainbow would be in the sky, the people would say, "That's a one such as must be landing on Paddy's pot of gold." He did indeed have a most wonderful pot of gold. The pot was made of brass, and it was huge, huge as you, Little Big Boots, or bigger even. And it was full to overflowing with gold, gold coins, gold bracelets, solid gold ingots, gold jewelry, and even, at the very top of the whole pot, a golden crown with six rubies in it.

Paddy moved his pot of gold very often, carrying it upon his back, for he was very strong. He hid it under hills. He hid it in fairy rings. He hid it between standing stones and sometimes at the bottom of brooks like it were a school of trout. He kept it most specially polished, too, and no matter where he hid it it was always spotless moments after he retrieved it.

One day Paddy stashed his pot in a hole on the back side of a tall hill, and went to go steal some beer from a nearby farmer, and why not? Even a leprechaun appreciates a good Irish stout.

When he came back, his gold was gone.

A cheeky little pixie told him that a young man from the village had been walking nearby when a rainbow had appeared and touched down just on Paddy's pot of gold. The pixie was laughing like a little silver bell as she told him and then flew off to tell everyone she knew. Oh, what bad luck for poor poor old Paddy.

And I can tell you he was terrified. He didn't know what to do with himself. No gold to touch, no pot to lovingly polish did he have. And soon he would be the laughingstock of all of Ireland -- he, who once had a crown with six rubies in it, and a mountain of gold besides!

What was he to do? He paced around the hill for five days and five nights, until he had worn a ditch right round it, and ground the very rocks with his walking. He didn't know how to dig up gold himself. I have never heard of a leprechaun digging his own gold -- and who ever heard of mining gold in Ireland? Sheep maybe, but not gold. People, he knew, sought the king of metals and took it from the ground in far off places. So he just had to get some gold from humans. Don't you be asking where he got the gold in the first place. Leprechauns come with it, that's just the way things are.

He made himself some thick-soled boots -- did I say? Leprechauns are good at making shoes, though they prefer not to bother. He made himself some boots and got himself a tall black hat, so he looked almost as tall as a man. Well, a short man, to be sure, but have you not seen a few short men in your time? Then he went to Dublin, to look for more gold. Oh, and of course a new pot to put it in.

But in Dublin there was no gold, and since he had no gold, he could buy no pot. He could not even steal one, because everyone in Dublin was terribly suspicious of strangers. They watched their valuables much more closely than the farmer had ever watched his beer. When he asked people who had the gold, they looked at him like he were daft, and told him that the church had some. But leprechauns are from before Christ, and they aren't baptized, so they can't go into churches. He asked again, and people said that the English had gold, but the English were all on another island.

Finally, he made himself a big shoe, bigger even than your boots, Little Big Boots, and sailed across to England in it. But when he got there, no one had any gold either. They said that the king had gold, but the king had many guards, with iron swords behind iron gates. Iron, don't you know, hurts the little people, so he could nay take the gold from the king, though he was strong enough. And they said that the banks had it, but the banks kept their gold in iron vaults. So there was no gold for Paddy in England either.

Then Paddy heard stories of America, where the streets, people said, were paved with gold! Surely with streets such as that, Paddy thought, no one would miss a bit of gold, even if he took enough to fill up the biggest of pots. So he got back in his shoe, and set sail across the Atlantic, to America.

Near Iceland he hit a storm. The sky was boiling with clouds, and the sea became black -- as black as night. Huge waves towered over him, and the shoe began to fill with water from the rain. Paddy had to turn his tall hat upside down, and bail with it until his arms felt like they would fall from his shoulders, and then bail some more. In the storm, the sail was ripped, and he had to make a new one out of his shirt and trousers.

So it was that when Paddy sailed into Boston harbor he was wearing only his long underwear, and that had been soaked through so many times that it had shrunk. What a way to come to a new land! I can tell you he was glad that all of the other little folk were still back in Ireland. He beached his shoe in a lonely cove and put together a bit of his clothing from his sail. Then he set off to find out which streets in Boston had golden cobblestones.

As of course you must know, there are no streets in Boston with golden pavement, and in fact there are far too few streets that have any pavement worth speaking of. Paddy did not know what to do, since he had come so far, and for nothing. But at least there were many Irish people about in Boston, and so he was not lacking for people to ask. They told him that indeed, there were no cities in America whose streets were paved in gold. In fact, things were nearly as hard in America as they had been in the Old Country. No one had any gold for poor Paddy, nor even a pot to put it in.

Paddy left Boston, and went to New York, because he suspected that his countrymen had been lied to. After all, there were Englishmen in charge here just like in Ireland. But there were no streets in New York that were paved with gold. Paddy went to Washington, because surely the capital would be paved in gold if any city were. But, though the streets were certainly better than Boston's, they were not gold, not even silver, and many of them weren't even cobblestones.

Paddy traveled down to Atlanta, and across to New Orleans, and up the mighty Mississippi where he found work as a barge mule, which is to say one of those men who pulls and poles barges up the river. But while work put pennies in his hand, it didn't come close to putting gold in a pot.

Then he heard the news that gold had been discovered in California, and he was off as fast as his little legs could carry him for this very state. He climbed up over the Rockies and crossed the deserts without hardly even noticing. And when he got here, he staked his claim, and I'm sure as sure can be that he's somewhere in these woods, panning for enough gold to fill up a new pot.

***

It was obvious that no one was going to tell a story better than Ryan's that night, so after a few more minutes sitting around the fire, we broke up for the evening.

The next week was a busy one for me, so much heavy yellow gold to haul. I took a few small nuggets of it to San Francisco, pretended I had found them in the stream, and bought six mules. It took me two days to bring the ornery beasts back, practically pushing them the whole way, except when I had to pull them. If you go to the mountains near San Francisco, you can still find the blue streak I cursed hauling those damn mules. Still, by the end of the week I had the critters stabled and happy -- they had hauled their own grain this direction, but on the trip back I knew they would be hauling my gold, hundreds of pounds of it.

Ryan found a small nugget, which made him happy for days. He would carry it everywhere with him, and show it to anyone at the slightest provocation. The other two were having no luck.

That Sunday, Lao Chen arrived with a huge bag of nuts that the monkey had gathered. I had bought some vegetables in San Francisco. Ryan brought a keg of beer which he had procured from some mystic Irish source of drink. Little Big Boots had corn, which he had been growing on his claim, and it was fresh and sweet when we boiled it.

Afterwards, the monkey amused us all with acrobatic tricks for a few minutes, but soon stopped and began pulling on Lao Chen's nose with its long dirty fingers. Why he put up with it I have no idea, but he did.

"If you please, sirs, my monkey reminds me that I also have a story to tell. Have you heard the stories of the monk and the monkey king?"

Little Big Boots shook his head, and Ryan shrugged.

"I see, most esteemed gentlemen, that you have not. Well, ah, all you need to know for this story is that the monkey king was sent to help a monk bring Buddhism to China long, long ago, and they had many adventures. The monkey king is quite a rascal, of course. If the gods had not put a gold band around his disrepectful head, he wouldn't be useful at all."

The monkey screeched and hooted.

"Of course, the monkey king is also very resourceful, and wise in his own way. Well, when they were done bringing Buddhism to China, they thought they could rest -- especially the monkey king, for he is most exceedingly lazy."

The monkey jumped on top of Chen and began beating on his head, but Little Big Boots pulled the beast off. Chen continued.

"But as is always the case, they could not rest, for the gods had new tasks for them."

The monkey was finally quiet, and we all leaned forward to listen to Lao Chen's soft voice.

Lao Chen's Story

The monk was resting in quiet contemplation, as he had been since completing the task of bringing the holy scrolls of Buddhism to China. It had indeed been a long time, but he was neither tired nor bored, so true was his inner peace. His contemplation was interrupted when one sandaled foot nudged his knee.

He looked up and saw that his visitor was none other than the goddess Kuan Yin. He bent his head to the goddess, but she said:

"Our good servant, you have no need to bow your head to any less than the Buddha himself. Look up, that we might speak together."

The monk looked up, and beheld the splendorous face of Kuan Yin. "What is it your perfection wishes to discuss?"

Kuan Yin laughed. "Still so polite? I would have thought that years with the monkey king might have worn off even your manners. No matter. As before the gods commanded you to take the word of Buddha to China, now you must ensure that it comes to another country."

The monk was confused. "Where is left to take the truth? All of Asia has heard the word. Surely you do not propose that I carry it even to the Europeans, or the Africans?"

Kuan Yin shook her head. "No, they have their own gods, and jealous ones. The word must now go to a new land. You must take the holy scrolls to America."

"America? Where is that?" The monk, you see, had been in contemplation while this new land was being discovered.

"It is far across the ocean to the east, past Japan, farther even than those tiny isles that the ocean people speak of. It is vast, and habited by a great many different peoples and gods. You must go there, and build a temple in which to house the scrolls, so that they will be safe in America."

The monk nodded. "As you command, so shall I do. When shall I set out?"

Kuan Yin smiled. "Soon, but not yet. We must first get you your traveling companion again. I'm sure you will have need of his special skills."

The monkey king was just then sleeping high in a tree somewhere in the jungles south of China. He was most surprised and distressed when Kuan Yin and the monk suddenly appeared beneath the tree.

"Monkey king!" shouted Kuan Yin, "Come down from your tree! We must speak with you!"

The monkey king screeched, and threw a rotten banana at Kuan Yin, and would not come down.

"This is your last chance, monkey king, before I will have to force you."

The monkey king still sat in his tree, and would not come down. Suddenly, the band on his head (I mentioned the gold band on his head, did I not?) began to tighten, and tighten, and it hurt his head until he lost his grip and fell from the tree.

Kuan Yin picked him up and dusted him off. "Monkey king, you are ordered to go to America with the monk, and to help him spread the truth of Buddhism there."

The monkey king cursed, and I shall not repeat his foul mouthings. Then he said, "Why? Haven't you bothered me enough? Haven't I done enough for you? Haven't you got anyone better to send?" I should have explained before, but the monkey king can speak, and change his shape, and knows many other tricks besides. He is the strongest of the monkeys, and also the wisest, though everyone knows that that is not saying much.

"You will go, because it is required of you, and because you are the best for the job." And Kuan Yin again caused the band to tighten, until the monkey king leapt up and ran screaming around his tree. Finally, he agreed to accompany the monk to America.

"You do remember how to work the band, oh monk?" inquired Kuan Yin, and the monk nodded respectfully. "Good luck to you, then. And good luck to you as well, monkey king, though you certainly do not need it." And with that, Kuan Yin vanished, leaving the monk and the monkey king under a tree in southeast Asia. It is just as well that she did vanish, or she would have seen the monkey do a most disrespectful thing I shall not repeat.

It took them three days to get out of the jungle, and the monkey king once had to turn into a man and defeat a hog demon wrestling, but that is really not part of the story. Finally they got to Shanghai, and both of them were quite amazed at the place. The monkey king had not been out of the jungle for many years, and as I have told, the monk had spent his time in contemplation.

They heard that many Chinese men were going to America to work on the railroads there, and that they could make much money that way.

"Surely", said the monkey king, "It will be easy then to find enough money to build a temple." So he disguised himself as a man and tucked his tail in, and together they got on a boat and sailed across the sea for many days. They were both dreadfully ill, all crammed into a big iron boat with many others, and the monkey king kept forgetting himself and biting people and getting into awful fights, which, as ones so perceptive as yourselves might expect, he always won.

Soon they arrived, and were immediately sent out to start working. The work was hard, and the monkey king, who was lazy, spent most of his time complaining. But the monk made him keep on, using the band around his head, because they needed to raise enough money to build a temple. I should mention that the monkey king's gold band was disguised, made invisible, so that no one would try to steal it. But the band was still there.

They had to work for a month before they were paid, and when they were it was only pennies for so much work. The monkey king threw his down in the dirt, and stomped on them.

"I've seen how much things cost. At this rate, we won't build a temple until we've built railroad from one end of the earth to the other. And for so much work! Oh, my tail hurts with all the work I've done." The monk said nothing, being more polite, but he was thinking much the same thing. The land cost money, the wood would cost money, the statues would cost money, everything would cost more than they had. None of the other Chinese workers had any money either, and some of them had been working a long time indeed.

That night they ran away from the railroad. An overseer caught them, but the monkey king pretended to be his boss and told him to let the monk go, so he did. They found themselves, then, in the middle of a trackless barren land, because that was where the railroad was being built, and without food or water. They wandered for a day and a night, getting more and more hungry and more and more thirsty. In the middle of the second night, they came upon a coyote, which they thought was a dog because neither of them had ever seen a coyote before.

"Hello," said the coyote.

"Well, look at that!" said the monkey king, "A talking dog!" The monk said nothing, because he was more polite.

"Well, look at that, a talking monkey! I am Coyote, not a dog. What brings a monk and his key to the desert?" asked the coyote.

"Oh, most honorable Coyote, he is the monkey king, and I am a humble monk. Would one so wise as yourself be able to provide assistance to two weary travelers?" said the monk, while stomping on the foot of the monkey king to keep his impolite mouth shut.

"You can bet your last penny I do, Chinaman, but I'm not going to tell you unless monkey boy there can beat me at a game, because he is so rude he deserves to die of thirst. But I am so nice I want to give you both a chance." And the coyote smiled, showing its sharp white teeth. "And just to show you how nice I am, if he loses, I'll eat you both so you won't die slowly and painfully."

This made the monkey king very angry. "You disgusting dog! I spit upon your ancestors! I spit even upon your many fleas!" Coyote only smirked, which infuriated the monkey king even more. "I'll win your game! You name it, I'll beat you coming and going, with both hands tied behind my back and carrying a bucket of water with my tail besides."

Coyote snickered and showed his teeth again. "Okay, monkey thing. I call the game, and the game is changes." With that, Coyote leapt in the air, gave a twitch, and came down in the shape of a huge wolf. He leapt at the monkey king, slavering jaws open wide.

The monkey king screeched, and turned into a tall stone wall, which the wolf ran into. Coyote turned himself then into a man with a pickax, and began to chop at the wall with incredible speed. The monkey king responded by turning into a bee, which buzzed and stung the man. The man turned into a frog, and flipped his long tongue at the bee, and the bee, once caught, turned into a cat, which leapt at the frog, which turned into a dog. Then the cat turned into a man with a net, and the dog let itself be caught and turned into another man, and both wrestled for a while until one of them turned into a turtle and bit the other one on the leg. The bitten man hopped up and down for a moment before turning into an eagle and hauling the turtle up high, high in the air. Both of them turned into various different birds before one of them turned into a big rock and came crashing back to earth, with the other one following in the shape of a single white feather floating slowly down. Then the rock turned into a fire, and the feather into a rainstorm, and the fire turned into a huge fish that drank up all the rain, which turned into a tiny worm and came out the fish's nose. Then the fish turned into a robin and the worm turned into an extremely large snake, and the robin turned into half a dozen things before becoming a bear trap just as the other one also turned into a bear trap.

Both traps sat on the ground for a moment, and then one said to the other, "Which one are you?"

And the other trap said back. "I have no idea. Which one are you?"

And then one of them turned back into the monkey king, and the other into Coyote, and both were laughing so much that the monk could not help but join in. And Coyote said. "Monkey thing, you're crazy. I like you. Let me help you and your monk out of this desert. Where are you wanting to go?"

The monk said then, "Respectable sir, we wish to get out of the desert, so that we may build a temple to Buddha in America, and place the holy scrolls in it."

The coyote looked at him. "Buddha? That's a new one. Well, why haven't you built your temple yet?"

"I am sorry to report that we do not have sufficient funds for such a temple as the scrolls deserve."

Coyote smiled. "Sorry, can't help you there. But haven't you heard, they just discovered gold in California. Gold coming out of the ground, in piles and piles!"

"And where is this California?" asked the monkey king in his oh so blunt manner.

"Well, you see that cactus over there? You take a left there, and then straight until you come to a lone vulture sitting on a rock. You take a right there, and then..."

Well, honorable listeners, they had much trouble following the Coyote's instructions, but they eventually got to California, although the monkey king had to turn into an entire troop of cavalry in order to run off some bandits, and complained about it for a week afterward.

Soon, they arrived in California, and staked a claim and went up into the mountains, resolving that once they found enough gold, they would build a temple in San Francisco. And I'm sure they are still looking through mountain streams for gold, although the monk, to be sure, is looking somewhat more industriously than the monkey.

***

At the last, the monkey leapt up and began throwing handfuls of dirt at all of us, until Lao Chen said some harsh words to it in his native language and it suddenly whimpered and quieted. Ryan drew it a mug of beer and we sat for a while drinking, the monkey included, before getting up and returning to our tents.

I spent the next week digging gold and loading it into mule bags. I've never worked harder in my life, I'll wager, than I did for that gold. By Sunday, I was done: five hundred pounds of gold, which is a great deal of money even now. I stayed for that last Sunday, though, because it didn't seem right to leave without saying goodbye to the three who had been my only companions for nigh onto half a year.

That night I got out the chocolate that I had been saving, and trapped some quail. Little Big Boots brought more zucchini than I had even seen in one place before, and Ryan came with some potatoes that we fried up in slices. Lao Chen brought rice again, but a different kind, somehow sweeter than other rice: I've never had any like it since.

Afterwards, for a long time, no one had anything so say, so we sat companionably. I wanted to tell them I was leaving, but I didn't want to spoil someone's story by saying that beforehand. We watched the star wheel turn around the pole, until finally Little Big Boots spoke.

"The stars are so beautiful tonight, they remind me of a story."

Ryan's face broke out in a big grin, and even the monkey quieted to listen to Little Big Boots's deep voice.

Little Big Boots's Story

Among the people of the rainy woods, in what the white man calls Oregon Territory, there have always been stories of the sasquatch, the great hairy man of the woods. A sasquatch is tall, taller than the tallest man, and covered in shaggy hair like a buffalo or a dog, but other than that they are almost just like you or I. They live far away from people, most of the time, and are almost never seen.

Sometimes, though, strange things happen. Raven once stole the sun, and would not give it back until the ancestors beat it out of him. A bear once turned into a salmon, because he liked to swim so much. And a sasquatch once left the woods because he fell in love with a woman. His name was Short Tree.

He was called Short Tree because he was smaller than most of the other sasquatches, although to a person he would still be very tall. He was still hairy, but maybe in the dark someone might have taken him for a real person. Maybe for this reason, Short Tree often went into the villages of men at night, and looked around. Sasquatches, especially young ones, are very curious.

The natives of that area still have some of their land, and they are not Christian. Missionaries sometimes go out into the woods and live with them. Well, it was one of these missionaries that was the beginning of Short Tree's troubles.

His name was Reverend Amos Rather, and he came into Oregon territory with his bible and his books and his holy water, and also with a widowed sister and her almost grown daughter. Her daughter's name was Charity, and she was the prettiest thing anyone had ever laid eyes upon. Her hair was like spun gold, and her eyes pure blue like summer skies. Charity Anderson had a voice like an angel's trumpet, and her singing on Sunday did more for the cause of Christianity than a thousand of her uncle's fiery sermons.

When Reverend Rather and the women arrived in a nearby village, Short Tree was naturally interested in them. He had never seen a white woman before, and certainly not one with blonde hair like Charity. He would spend hours watching the family from the safety of nearby thickets, and creep up close to their cabin at night to hear them speak. He found the Reverend fascinating, although he didn't understand the man's words, but more than that, he found Charity irresistible.

For sasquatches, love is simple. When a male sasquatch finds a female attractive, he brings her food and a stone. If she takes the food, it means that she is hungry. If she instead chooses the stone, it means that it is more important to her that he is bringing things to her than what he brings, and then they stay together for life.

One day when Charity was walking through the woods with the Reverend, Short Tree came out from a bush carrying a tomato and a stone. Charity screamed in fear, for although Short Tree was small for a sasquatch, he was huge for a human. The Reverend flailed Short Tree about the head and shoulders with his cane, and although it didn't injure Short Tree at all, his feelings were hurt and he went away, dropping the stone and the vegetable.

It might all have ended there except that Charity, once she was finished screaming, wondered what he had been carrying, and picked up the stone. When Short Tree saw this, he was even more confused. She liked him! But something was wrong. Perhaps it was the Reverend that was the problem, so Short Tree resolved to catch Charity alone.

It was Charity's habit to bathe in a stream some distance from their cabin, and because of modesty, she always did so alone. Short Tree crept up on her the next day at her bath, something which he had not done before. When he got very close indeed, he made a small noise, like this, and Charity suddenly spun around. Seeing him, she screamed, and ran out of the water. Short Tree was confused, but he didn't want to upset her, so he went away.

Something else was the problem, then. Was his appearance so hideous? He looked into a pool he was passing, at his own big brown eyes, at his soft, clean fur. Surely that could not be the problem. But he remembered that Charity, and indeed all of the other humans he had seen, had much less hair than he. And the Reverend, he had seen, removed the hair from his chin with a knife. Perhaps his fur was what was distressing her.

That night, he crept into the cabin while the Reverend, Charity, and Mrs. Anderson were all asleep, and took the Reverend's razor and some soap. He went to a cold mountain stream and scrubbed himself with the soap until he was foamy all over. Then he began to first cut, then shave the hair from his face and most of his body. He left only sparse amounts where it seemed safe to do so -- even humans have some hair. Of course, at the beginning he cut himself horribly, but he started on his legs, and sasquatches are quite dexterous.

The next day he again confronted Charity, and again was greeted with a scream rather than a smile. Her high voice hurt his ears and cut at his heart, and he ran away again. What else could he do?

Then he remembered that while most of the natives of the area wore very little at this time of year, the Reverend and his family wore large amounts of clothing. And they did not seem to think it proper to see each other without it. The girl was just reacting to his nakedness.

It took him three weeks to tan and sew leather garments for himself, especially since he had no pattern to follow, but as I said he was clever with his hands, and he managed. He kept shaving too, and got to be quite good at it. Other sasquatches, when he came across them, looked at him strangely, but they are kind creatures and did not laugh.

With a large round hat planted on his head, he again went to the missionary's cabin, and knocked on the front door as he had seen men do. When Mrs. Anderson opened the door, she did not even scream, and he was incredibly relieved. Then she spoke. He stood there, suddenly realizing that perhaps there was a bit more to this than he had thought. He didn't know how to talk to her. Embarrassed, he turned and ran away into the woods as fast as his legs would carry him.

This was no mean task. How could he learn how to talk with them? He hiked up a nearby mountain and sat on the top to think.

While he was sitting there Raven came to him and asked him what his problem was. Raven is a powerful spirit, and is sometimes helpful to the inhabitants of the rainy woods. He is especially friendly to the sasquatches, because they have lived there even longer than the native humans who worship the Raven.

"Well," croaked the Raven, "I can speak any language I want to, and I could teach you." Short Tree smiled hugely, he was so happy. "But," said Raven, "you will also have to do something for me."

Short Tree nodded. He would do anything to win Charity's hand.

"Very well then. When I teach you the white man's language, I want you to go to the Reverend and stop him converting my people to worshiping that silly god of his. I've had quite enough of that already."

Short Tree agreed, although he wasn't sure how he would do that.

It took Raven three months to teach Short Tree how to speak English, and in all that time they did not move from the top of the mountain. Other birds brought them food, and when they were thirsty it rained on them. At the end of that time, Short Tree came down off of the mountain.

"Remember your promise!" squawked Raven behind him as he went. "Or I will come and steal your voice right off of your tongue!" And Short Tree knew he would, too.

When he got to the bottom of the mountain, he went straight to the place where the Reverend always preached, because it was Sunday. In the months he had been gone, the Reverend had built a small church with help from his converts. Short Tree entered, ducking because of the low doorway, and took a seat in the back.

There were more people there than Short Tree remembered, and he despaired of being able to fulfill his promise to the Raven before the irritable spirit came and took his voice away.

That night, the first snows of the year came, softly blanketing the forest. Short Tree paced around the church all night wondering what he could do. Every noise from the woods made him look up, fearful that Raven had already come to take back his gift.

In the morning, before the Reverend awoke, a native woman came to sweep out the church. Upon seeing Short Tree's huge footprints in the snow, she became scared. The native people never see sasquatches, but they know that whatever makes those huge footprints, while slow to anger, is quite dangerous when enraged. Whole villages have been wrecked after mistakenly catching a sasquatch in one of their traps, although you can be sure that the sasquatch feels guilty for months afterwards.

She crept back to the village, and by the end of the day some people said that the Reverend had made the sasquatches mad, and some people said that the sasquatches were all Christian, and didn't want to share, and some people thought it was just a good idea not to go to that part of the forest, just in case. They refused to go near the church anymore, or indeed to have any contact at all with the Reverend. The poor man was confused by the sudden collapse of his missionary work -- but he was somewhat raised in his spirits by the soft spoken young man named Short Tree who began to come to his church every day. Though obviously not an Englishman, Short Tree spoke the language as though he had been to a good school, and was astoundingly polite. Indeed, when he introduced Short Tree to the widow Anderson and Charity they were both charmed by his manners and kind words.

Short Tree spent the winter attending the Reverend's sermons, eating dinner at Mrs. Anderson's table, and learning quite a lot about human behavior. But what really made that time heavenly for Short Tree were the times when he was able to talk with Charity. His politeness and kindness won her over quickly, and they soon became quite fond of each other. He discovered that she had a beautiful heart to match her beautiful face, and by the time the snow was melting they were hopelessly in love.

On the day that the crocuses began to come out in the wood, Mrs. Anderson invited him into her kitchen with no possibility of refusal. He knew from experience that she only discussed the most serious things while cooking, and his heart was fluttering. Would she ask him to marry her daughter?

"Mr. Tree. I feel that before things develop any farther, I must make one thing clear."

Short Tree nodded, trying to figure out whether he should look serious or pleased.

"I know that my daughter isn't, well, doesn't have the best of family circumstances, what with Mr. Anderson being dead and all, and me her only relative. But that does not mean that I will allow her to be married off to a penniless woodsman. She deserves better than that."

Short Tree, who had started to smile, felt his face fall with his heart. Penniless woodsman described him very well, except of course for the man part.

Mrs. Anderson noticed his frown. "Now, Mr. Tree, I do not mean to insult you. It's just that I don't know a thing about your family or your circumstances. Now, if you do indeed have some money to keep Charity in the manner which she deserves, I would be happy to give you my blessing."

Short Tree nodded. "I, I will show you that I will be able to keep your daughter as she deserves. Soon. I just, I just have to fetch those things which I didn't bring with me."

Mrs. Anderson seemed pleased enough by this answer. "I look forward to your return, then."

Short Tree left the kitchen completely miserable. Where could he get a lot of money quickly? He almost bowled over Charity but managed to catch her before she fell.

"Charity. I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

"I... what's the matter."

Short Tree's eyes filled with tears. "Charity, I love you so much, but your mother says that if I don't have any money..."

Charity put her arms around him. "I didn't know that... well, I guess I did. I love you too, Short Tree."

Short Tree wrapped her in his huge arms, and they were quiet for a moment. Then Charity spoke.

"I hear that down south, in California, they've found gold. Men are becoming just as rich as rich can be, just by sticking a pan in a river."

Short Tree stood up. "Then I will go to California, and return with enough gold so that I can marry you."

Charity cried too, then, and kissed him on the cheek. "Come back soon."

So Short Tree set out for California, and when he got there, he staked a claim and began looking for gold. I'm sure he is still there, since it isn't as easy to find gold as he had hoped.

***

When Little Big Boots was finished, he sighed deeply. "That story," he said, "It always makes me sad to tell it."

We all sat and thought about Short Tree's love for a while, a bit too uncomfortable to speak. Finally, though, I had to get up and tell them.

"Friends, I just wanted to let you all know. I found gold, and I'll be leaving tomorrow. You all can work my claim, at least, until they give it to someone else." There was a moment of quiet while everyone thought about that. Then Ryan leapt up and thumped me on the back.

"Congratulations, you little devil! I hope we are all soon so lucky."

Lao Chen stood and bowed to me. "You have been a kind neighbor, I hope you are most happy in whatever you turn to." Little Big Boots just smiled sadly, and waved at me.

After that, no one had anything else to say, so I doused the fire and we all returned to our tents. I spent a restless night remembering all of the stories that the others had told me, and finally awoke early in the morning, to load the mules and head for life as a rich man. Those ornery animals never looked more beautiful, or perhaps better to say less ugly, than they did that morning. I stood there by the loaded mule train for a long moment, and then I walked down to San Francisco, hands in my empty pockets.

***

"So what happened to the gold? Did you lose it gambling? Where did it go?" I asked.

"Weren't you listening? I said I walked to San Francisco, not I dragged six annoying mules to San Francisco. I left it there." I couldn't believe my ears, so I didn't ask him any more about it then, and we went back to checking the books.

At the rate we were taking money in, it didn't take me long to make enough so that I could set up a mercantile business in warmer, if somewhat less profitable, climes. Sam Washington stayed in Alaska, as far as I know. The day I departed, I asked him why he left the gold back in 1849.

"Maybe because I went looking for adventure, not for gold. Maybe because they needed it more than I did. Maybe I just left it as payment for what I got. Maybe if you have to ask that, you'll never understand."

I lifted my bags and set out for the ship to take me back to civilization.