He was looking up and down her body with calm possessiveness. Suddenly he frowned and hurled out a string of the strange guttural sounds. He took another step back, a look of frustration on his face. He was shouting at Cricket now, pointing back at Chauncey.
Cricket answered him, then shrugged. Chacta’s voice rose and he gesticulated wildly. He stopped his invective for a moment, his lips curling with both anger and . . . disgust. Disgust! Filthy savage—she didn’t smell nearly as bad as he did.
Chatca strode from the lean-to without another word.
Chauncey stood still, wondering what the devil was going on. Why had he suddenly left her alone? “Cricket, I—”
“You bleed,” Cricket said flatly. “No good for man. Unclean.”
Bleed? Chauncey looked down, to see blood staining her shift. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He’d left her alone because of her monthly flow! “Oh God,” she whispered, falling to her knees, “I can’t bear this.”
“No cry. You demon woman. I get cloths to stop blood. Chatca no make you wife until you clean again.”
Oddly enough, as she knelt on the ground, she felt a stab of disappointment that she wasn’t pregnant with Delaney’s child. She quietly, hopelessly, whispered his name.
* * *
“Please, Circket, you must let me bathe! Surely no one would mind.”
“Water cold and no good. You still bleed.”
“I’m filthy!” Chauncey picked up her thick braid and waved it at the impassive Cricket. “Filthy! I can’t stand it anymore. As for the . . . other”—she choked a moment in embarrassment—“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”
“I ask Chatca tomorrow,” Cricket said, and sat down on the dirt floor cross-legged.
Two days. Two nights. It seemed an eternity. Chauncey knew every mound of dirt on the ground of the lean-to, every seam in the animal skins. She was beginning to feel scarcely human. At least Chatca hadn’t come near her. Her only companion was Cricket. She’d heard Tamba’s loud, angry voice outside the lean-to several times, but she hadn’t seen the woman. She was allowed outside for only a few moments to relieve herself, then herded back inside.
“Cricket,” Chauncey said after a moment, “please talk to me. I’m going mad.”
“Chatca tell me no talk, just watch you.”
“Please. I can’t bear it. Please. Just tell me how many of you are here in this camp.”
“Only eight. No children. Three women.”
“Where are your other people? What tribe do you come from?”
Cricket gave her what Chauncey had come to call her what-a-stupid-woman look. “Other Indians dig gold for white man. Many die. Chatca angry and come here to hide and live free.” Her chin rose a bit and a gleam of pride lit her black eyes. “We Nisenans, come from tribe of great Maidu chief, Wema. White man steal lands from us, kill our game, ruin our rivers with . . .” She paused a moment, frowning.
“With their mining equipment,” Chauncey said.
“More yellow men now than Indians,” Cricket said. “Wema lose to great white father. Chatca save us.”
No, Chauncey thought. Chatca didn’t have a chance of saving anybody.
“Cricket, how did Chatca find us? Why did he bring me here?”
Cricket shrugged. “No matter. Ivan angry, but Chatca want you. Tamba make more trouble.” Cricket calmly began to pluck lice from her hair and crush them between her fingers.
Chauncey wanted to shake her in frustration. She wrapped her arms about her knees and lowered her face. She wondered dully if Delaney had ever killed an Indian. She felt swamped with grief at the thought of him. She felt tears burn her eyes and realized that dirt was making them sting. Some lady, she thought vaguely. An English lady sitting on the rough ground, thoroughly filthy and wearing only a bloodstained ragged shift! She could just imagine Aunt Augusta’s face if she could see her.
Delaney. He wasn’t dead. She sensed it. But where was he? Was she so desperate that she didn’t want to face the truth? What if Chatca had killed him? What if she had to remain here and be raped by the renegade Indian?
“I tell you demon woman no cry. Make Chatca mad.”
Chauncey’s head shot up. “You can tell Chatca to go to hell!”
“That better,” Cricket said complacently, and resumed her task with the lice.
Time passed in a blur. Chauncey ate and slept and dreamed of happier times when she was a child. And when she didn’t sleep, she plotted. I must escape, she told herself over and over. But how?
“Cricket,” she announced in a very firm voice a day and a half later, “I must bathe. I cannot stand my own stench.”
“Bath no good” was Cricket’s reply.
“I will grow sick and . . . die.”
That got the woman’s attention.
“You no die. Chatca not like.”
“I will die if I am not allowed to bathe and walk about outside in the sunlight. I will die if you don’t give me some freedom.”
“You no die,” Cricket repeated in her flat voice, but she rose and left the lean-to.
Surely I look like I’m about to die, Chauncey thought. She was thankful that there was no mirror. She would probably die of fright at the sight of herself.
When Cricket returned some minutes later, she was clicking her teeth, a disapproving look on her face. Chatca must have approved.
“You come. I walk with you. Sunlight and freedom.”
“What about my bath?”
“Chatca say tomorrow.”
Cricket bound her hands in front of her with a thin leather strap. Chauncey didn’t care. She followed Cricket docilely from the lean-to. She drew in a deep breath of the clean forest air. The first person she saw was Tamba, standing in front of her, hands on her fat hips, a look of jealousy and scorn on her wide face.
Three Indian men were seated around a small fire handing about a rifle. She smelled rotting flesh and saw a dead deer lying some ten feet away, its belly split open.
She gagged.
“You smell fresh air,” Cricket said.
The men eyed her with no more emotion than they afforded the dead deer. Tamba muttered loudly to another Indian woman, but didn’t move toward her. The other woman was more a girl, Chauncey thought, but she was so thin, her hair so filthy and matted, that it was difficult to tell.
For God’s sake, Chauncey told herself, look around! You must escape! And she knew when she would try—when she bathed the following day. She realized with a calm born of utter despair that she would rather die than remain here a prisoner. She kept her head lowered, but she studied everything. There were three other lean-tos, actually wooden frames covered with animal hides. A couple of horses were tethered to a pine tree at the other end of the camp. They looked as tired and depressed as Chauncey felt. Her eyes widened. She couldn’t believe it. Her mare was tethered away from the other horses. Ah, Dolores, you’re my hope! She forced her eyes away. There was an assortment of white man’s pots and pans lying about, some woven baskets, and little else. Where was Chatca? she wondered.
The clearing was narrow and oddly long, the forest close on all sides. She could see rolling hills in the distance through the tall firs and pine trees that soared upward around the camp. If she were going to be allowed a bath, there must be a creek nearby.
“Cricket,” she said, filling her voice with disinterest, “where is the river?”
“Yuba over there,” Cricket said, pointing vaguely off to Chauncey’s left.
“Then Downieville is there?”
Cricket nodded, then frowned starkly. “You no ask questions.”
No, Chauncey thought, no more questions.
She smelled him, and whipped around.
Chatca stared at her with that same complacent look of possessiveness. He grunted some words at Cricket, then tossed Chauncey a bundle of clothes. She clutched the frayed cotton skirt and white blouse. At that moment they were more precious than the finest velvet gowns.
?
??Chatca exchange your boots for clothes,” Cricket said.
There had to be white people near—women! She felt a thrill of hope.
“Tell Chatca that I am grateful,” she said.
She watched them converse a moment, then felt the hair rise on her neck at Tamba’s furious scream.
The woman was on her before Chauncey could move, tugging at her filthy braid until her eyes watered, clawing at the clothes in her arms.
Chauncey’s hands were tied and there was nothing she could do.
Chatca bellowed in fury and cuffed Tamba, sending her reeling into the dirt. The other Indian men laughed.
Chatca kicked her fat bottom, sending her scampering off on her hands and knees.
“She angry because you get clothes,” Cricket said.
“Oh God,” Chauncey whispered.
“Chatca want you wear new clothes. White woman’s clothes.”
Chauncey drew a deep breath. “Tell him, Cricket, that I’ll wear the new clothes once I’ve bathed away all the filth. Tell him I must have soap.”
For a terrifying moment Chauncey believed she’d gone too far. Chatca’s face reddened as Cricket spoke to him, and his black eyes grew even darker. Chauncey forced herself to stand straight, her shoulders back.
Cricket turned back to her. “He get soap. You wear clothes tomorrow. He make you his woman then.”
Dear God, she thought, had he been counting the days? Evidently he had.
The next morning, Chauncey, her hands bound again, followed Cricket from the lean-to. The sky was overcast, the air chilly. She didn’t care. She looked about the camp. Tamba and another woman were cooking over the open fire. There was no sign of the men. Dolores was still tethered at the edge of the clearing.
“I watch,” Cricket said when they reached the narrow creek.
“Fine,” Chauncey said, and thrust out her hands.
Cricket looked undecided.
“I can’t bathe with my hands bound,” Chauncey said.
Cricket untied her hands.
Chauncey looked about, half-expecting to see Chatca lurking in the trees. It didn’t really matter, she thought, and stripped off her filthy shift.
She stepped gingerly into the water and gasped at the shock. It was frigid. She clutched the thin sliver of soap and waded in deeper. The creek was only knee-deep at the middle, and Chauncey sat down, gritting her teeth. All I’m washing, she thought, is the gooseflesh!
As she soaped her hair, she kept an eye on Cricket. I am strong enough, she told herself over and over, like a litany. I’ll cosh her on the head and get to Dolores.
When she came out of the water, Cricket handed her a thin piece of cloth to dry herself with.
At least it smelled clean. Chauncey dried herself thoroughly and donned the skirt and blouse. They felt heavenly. She sat down on a rock and began to comb out her wet hair with her fingers.
“You come now,” Cricket said after watching her for a moment.
“No, not yet,” Chauncey said, and continued calmly with her task. She plaited her hair into a thick braid.
“Now,” Cricket said, holding out the piece of leather.
Like hell I’m going to let you tie me up again!
She smiled at Cricket and slowly rose to her feet. “Thank you, Cricket,” she said, and held out her hands.
Cricket grunted and bent over to tie the leather about Chauncey’s wrists. Chauncey brought her fists down on Cricket’s temple. The woman gave a small surprised cry and slumped forward to her hands and knees.
“I’m sorry,” Chauncey whispered, picked up a small rock, and hit her on the back of her head. Cricket fell in a heap, unconscious.
Chauncey heard a shout of laughter and whirled about to see Tamba standing quite near, a rifle in her hands.
“You kill,” she said. “Good. Now you leave.”
Chauncey stood frozen to the spot. “I didn’t kill her!”
“No matter. You leave. I no get blame.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll leave.” Chauncey darted back to the camp, skirted the perimeter, and eased up to Dolores. At least her mare still wore her bridle. Saddle be damned! She swung up onto the mare’s back, clutching at her thick mane. She realized suddenly that the only means of escape was through the center of the small camp.
She drew a deep breath and dug her bare heels into Dolores’ side. The mare snorted and dashed forward. Chauncey kept her eyes forward, toward the narrow trail through the trees on the other side. She heard a woman shout. Suddenly she heard Cricket yelling at the top of her lungs. She whipped around and saw Tamba aiming a rifle at her. She threw herself forward on Dolores’ neck, but she was too late. She felt a searing pain in her shoulder and it slammed her into her mare’s neck. My God, she thought vaguely, that damned bitch shot me!
She heard a scream, and twisted her head back toward the camp. Cricket threw herself at Tamba as the rifle discharged again. The shot went wide, over Chauncey’s head.
She fell forward on Dolores’ neck, hanging on. Oddly enough, she felt no pain now, only a numbing coldness.
What now, Miss Brilliance? she asked herself.
Back toward Marysville, back toward the river.
Chauncey clung frantically to Dolores’ mane, letting her mare pick her own trail. The forest was thinning out, and she realized that Chatca would follow her.
She straightened and looked over her shoulder. Nothing. No one. She blinked. Her blouse was soaked with blood. She could feel it snaking down over her left breast. She pulled Dolores to a halt and ripped off a strip from her skirt. She made it into a pad and pressed it against the wound. Why doesn’t it hurt more? she wondered vaguely.
She click-clicked Dolores forward. She had to keep going. She knew she couldn’t hide her trail from Chatca. She didn’t know how to, and she was afraid that if she dismounted from her mare’s back, she wouldn’t have the strength to climb back on.
The river! Chatca couldn’t follow her if she kept in the water, could he? She guided Dolores into the shallows.
The sky darkened, and the air grew colder.
The hours passed and she forced herself to think about the mining camp she would ride into at any minute.
Suddenly the skies opened and rain poured down, cold rain, so thick she could scarcely see in front of her. No trail for Chatca to follow now, she thought, even if he’s a fish!
She was soaked and shivering in a matter of moments. The frigid piercing rain brought out the pain in her shoulder, and she gritted her teeth. Dolores whinnied and shook her head.
Chauncey guided her out of the water to the riverbank. The overhanging tree branches afforded little protection from the lashing rain. Just a little farther, Chauncey said over and over.
Miners worked on the river. Where the devil were they?
Where was the woman who had exchanged the clothing for Chauncey’s boots?
She felt light-headed and closed her eyes. Raindrops splashed against her eyelids. She pressed her cheek against her mare’s neck. She thought of a warm fire, a thick blanket. She saw Delaney’s beloved face, filled with tenderness. Then she saw nothing.
26
It was the oddest feeling, and she didn’t understand it. Surely she couldn’t be moving! Chauncey forced herself to open her eyes. She was still astride Dolores’ broad back, her arms wrapped around the mare’s neck. She tried to pull herself upright, and gasped at the burning shaft of pain that tore through her shoulder. Dolores stopped suddenly in the midst of the tangled undergrowth, and Chauncey gritted her teeth against the jolting movement. “Please, Dolores, we must keep going. We must!” Her voice sounded rusty and hoarse with disuse. She realized that she could scarcely see. No, she wasn’t fainting again. It was growing dark. It was no longer raining, but the air felt heavy, pregnant with more moisture. She moaned softly. She knew with certainty that she would never survive if she had to spend the night alone in the forest. She drew on her remaining strength and forced herself upright. She threw back her head and ye
lled, “Delaney!”
She heard birds chirping and some wings flapping. No human sounds.
“Delaney, where are you!”
She lurched forward at the sound of a rifle shot. Chatca!
“No,” she moaned softly. She tried to dig her heels into Dolores’ sides, but didn’t have the strength. Any moment, Chatca would burst through the trees. He would take her back. She would die.
She sobbed softly against her mare’s thick mane. Slowly she slid from her mare’s back onto the mossy earth. She lay on her back, staring up at the tall trees. Her mare whinnied. Chauncey heard boots crashing through the forest. She tried to rise. She wouldn’t let Chatca take her, she wouldn’t! But she couldn’t move. The pain in her shoulder was growing stronger, the fangs of some wild beast digging into her flesh.
She moaned softly.
“Chauncey! Oh my God!”
She imagined his voice. She began to tremble. I’m dying, she thought.
“I don’t want to die,” she whispered. She saw the shadow of a man bending over her, heard his agonized voice.
“Oh God, love.”
She blinked, trying desperately to focus on his face. “Del?”
“Yes, Chauncey. You’re safe now, love. I’m here.”
“How can you be here?” she asked, puzzled that the apparition was answering her. “I’m dying. I want you to be here, but you can’t be.”
“I am, sweetheart. Hang on.”
Delaney felt as though his guts had been ripped out. He swallowed convulsively as he stared down at her blood-soaked shirt. Carefully he pulled the string loose and eased the material from her shoulder. She’d been shot. He lifted her slightly and breathed a sigh of relief. The bullet had torn its way through her shoulder and out her back. High on her shoulder, through the fleshy part.
“Sweetheart,” he said firmly, drawing her dazed eyes to his face, “there’s an abandoned miner’s shack just a few minutes away. I’m going to lift you now.”
“What happened to your head?” she asked, seeing a white bandage wrapped around his forehead.
“Nothing important, love. Can you put your arms around my neck?”
She tried but didn’t have the strength.