Something strange is going on, and I aim to find out what.
I grab the towel and wipe down, then I shake out the bundle of clothing. Everything needs to be pressed, but it looks brand-new—a clean corset and drawers, stockings, petticoats, and a dress.
The corset and drawers go on with surprising ease. I don’t cinch the corset tight enough to be fashionable, but I don’t give a fig for fashion right now. I do care about being able to run at a moment’s notice.
The last time I put on petticoats was for Mama and Daddy’s funeral, more than nine months and two thousand miles distant. I force myself not to think about it.
I lay the dress out flat to get a look at it, and my heart nearly tumbles out of my chest.
I’ve seen this dress before. I’m sure of it.
It’s made of midnight-blue calico, with tiny yellow stars that are actually flowers when you peer close enough. The fabric is gathered at the shoulders, forming pleats that sweep down to a tiny, triangular waist. Sleeves billow out from beneath the shoulder gathers in three separate layers, each layer ending with an elaborate trim of white lace.
I plunk down on the bed, suddenly finding it hard to breathe, because it’s Mama’s dress.
Which is impossible. She stopped wearing it when she became heavy with my baby brother. Then he died, and instead of taking out the seams to make room for Mama’s thickened waist, we cut the dress up for scraps. The quilt on my bed back in Georgia contained several patches from that dress.
I pick up a sleeve and rub it between thumb and forefinger. The fabric is crisp and bright in the way of new things that have not yet seen a summer of chores. And the lace is different; the trim is wider, with longer points.
Not the same dress, then, and I’m not sure why I’m so relieved about that, but I am.
As I stand and pull it over my head, letting the skirt settle over the petticoats, a niggling worry remains. Why would Hiram have a dress that looks so much like Mama’s favorite from years ago? It has to be coincidence. It has to be.
The dress is a little large on me, which is a relief because it means I won’t have to cinch this corset any further. The skirt is full enough to require better petticoats, but these will do.
There are no new shoes to go with the new dress, so I poke around the room a bit, looking for my boots. I open the chest at the foot of the bed and gasp. Daddy’s boots are inside, just like I’d hoped, along with my knapsack.
I rummage through it, quick and quiet as a mouse. There’s still some jerky and hardtack, my extra shirt and stockings, but no knife or ammo. What did he do with my guns?
I close the knapsack and stuff it back into the chest. It’ll keep for now.
My old clothing is still piled on the floor beside the washtub. I grab it up, quick as a snake, and reach into the pocket of my trousers. My gold sense tells me my bag full of gold dust and tiny nuggets is still there, but I’m glad to wrap my fingers around it anyway.
Now, to hide it.
There’s no cubbyhole, no loose floorboard. The mattress would be the obvious place. Too obvious?
My gaze alights on Daddy’s boots. They’ve always been too big. I don’t get blisters anymore, but I still stuff the toes with rags, or—like I did a few times on the trip to California—with dry grass.
I reach inside the left boot and grab the wad of dirty rags, yank it out, and replace it with the bag of gold. It’ll be a tighter fit now, but that’s okay.
“You finish?” comes Mary’s voice from behind the door curtain.
I suppose I am, but I need a few more moments of privacy, of planning, before I face my uncle again. “Just a couple more minutes,” I call out.
The single high window shines above the foot of my bed. Still in my stockinged feet, I lift my skirts and climb up onto the chest. I grasp the sill with my fingers, stand on my tiptoes, and peer outside.
It’s a camp, similar to the one Jeff and Tom and I left behind, with tents and lean-tos and even a few shanties. But it’s so much bigger than the camp back in Glory, so much busier. People mill about, guiding mules with carts across the hard-packed ground. A group of men with thick beards crouch around a low table at the entrance to one of the larger tents, playing cards. I recognize them as some of the Missouri men from our wagon train.
But there are also Indians, carrying bags full of ore on their stooped backs, and they’re a lot thinner than the ones who helped us put out the fire in our camp. Their destination is out of the viewing range of my window, but I’ve no doubt they’re heading to a stream to classify the ore, maybe pan it out.
A group of Chinese men are fitting lumber together—making more carts, if I don’t miss my guess. They wear flowing shirts over loose trousers, and hats that look like wide, upside-down bowls. Just like the workers that passed through Glory, each one has a single long black braid swinging nearly to his waist. Maybe their headman has a British accent, too.
They work with incredible efficiency. It’s as easy as flowing water, the way one man holds a plank in place while the other hammers, the gliding way they shift angles to do it again. When one turns for a new supply of nails, it’s in his hand instantly.
My tiny window only shows a wedge view of this place, but I’m confident that aside from Mormon Island, this is the biggest camp I’ve seen yet. If I were a betting kind of girl, and I most certainly am not, I’d lay odds there’s an honest-to-goodness mine here. A deep and prosperous one.
Maybe that’s why my uncle has such a fancy cabin. Maybe he owns this place. Along with everyone in it.
I climb down from the trunk and slip on Daddy’s boots. The gold stashed in the left one forces me to scrunch my toes, but I’m glad to have it buzzing there, close by and familiar and warm.
I’ve no mirror, and no pins or ribbons for my hair, so I part it down the middle and smooth it to either side as best I can. I straighten my skirt, take a deep breath, and push past the curtain into the main room.
My uncle sits in a rocking chair, reading a pamphlet by the light of a large window framed in frothy yellow curtains. His pipe rests on a table beside him, unlit. A dining table takes up the center of the room, with a bench on one side and two rickety stools on the other. Against the opposite wall is a huge woodstove, with pots and pans and cups neatly stacked on a shelf beside it. Mary is busy at the woodstove, stirring something that smells of potatoes and turnips.
A single lantern hangs from a hook in the ceiling; it’s low enough that I’ll have to duck slightly to walk beneath it. A door to my left is edged in daylight, which means it must lead outside. A door to my right is dark. Another bedroom maybe?
A cabin with three rooms. I haven’t seen such luxury since Independence.
It’s a moment before my uncle realizes I’m standing there. He looks up, startled, and sets his pamphlet aside. He takes in the dress, his eyes roving from my still-damp head to the tips of my muddy boots and back again. His face transforms. His features soften, and his eyes flare with a longing I don’t understand. Finally a little smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“Leah,” he breathes. “You are beautiful.”
It feels like a snake is creeping up my throat.
“I’ll get you new shoes as soon as possible,” he says. “Maybe someone in camp can make you some slippers.”
“I like these boots just fine.”
“And you can keep them, of course. But a fine lady should have fine shoes.”
“If you say so.” I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. I don’t like it one bit.
“Mary, when you’re done with supper, please see to Leah’s washtub and dirty clothing.”
She doesn’t say anything, just nods and keeps on stirring.
I take a deep breath. Time to start buttering him up to get what I need. “Thank you for the dress,” I say, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Carefully I add, “It reminds me of one Mama used to wear.”
He practically beams. “I’m glad you remember! That was my favor
ite dress of hers. I had this one specially made.”
So you can fondly remember the woman you killed? I want to scream. Instead, I fold my hands demurely. I think of Becky and the way she maintains such a ladylike composure while dealing with difficult customers, and I say, “I know I’m not supposed to leave without a chaperone, so would you be willing to accompany me to check on my friends? It would calm my nerves a great deal to see them hale.”
His eyes narrow. Maybe I’ve gone too far. I replay the words in my head. They sound ridiculous coming from me, like make-believe at school recess.
But after a moment, he nods. “This is a reasonable request. So long as you behave, you shall visit your friends once a day.”
Once a day. Under supervision. I’ll have to do a lot better than that if we’re to escape.
“Thank you,” I say.
We stare at each other a moment, neither certain what to say. I curl my toes against the gold in my boot, taking comfort in the warm buzz.
“I assume you’ll have some . . . work . . . here for me to do?” I say finally, and I instantly wonder if it’s too subtle a reference to my particular talent. I’m not sure how much Mary understands or how much my uncle takes her into his confidence, but I’d rather not say anything outright about my gold-witching ways.
“Of course,” he says. “We are going to get rich together, Leah Westfall. With my experience and connections, and you to . . . help me.”
“Looks like you’re already richer than Midas,” I mumble, briefly forgetting that I’m supposed to be buttering him up.
“What was that?”
“I mean, it looks like you’ve already done quite well for yourself. This is a very nice cabin.”
He stands, reaching for the hat on its resident peg. Donning it, he says, “I’ve done well, though getting my mine up and running and hiring the right people took quite a bit of ingenuity and determination on my part.”
There’s nothing ingenious about starting a mine. You just find a quartz vein and start following it, and if it leads to more quartz and good ore, you keep digging. It’s with a bit of a start that I realize what he really means.
“We’ll pay back what you owe soon enough,” I say, and it’s his turn to be startled.
But then he smiles, as if proud that I sussed it out. “Come. Let’s go see to your friends.”
I’d give all the gold in my boot to find out more, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask who he owes the money to and how much. But I’ve already won a concession from him today, and I dare not push.
I give a final glance to Mary at the dishes. Her face is hard, her eyes narrowed, as she attacks the dishes like they’re an enemy in need of slaying. I suddenly get the feeling she understands everything just fine.
Hiram offers his arm, and though everything in me screams to recoil, I wrap mine in his and allow him to lead me from the cabin and into the sunshine.
Chapter Thirteen
The camp is even bigger than I realized. Another, smaller cabin faces ours. The door is wide open, revealing multiple empty bunks.
“My foremen sleep here,” my uncle explains.
Up a slope is a large, rocky cliff dotted with brush and dried grass and the occasional stunted tree. At the base of the cliff is the dark opening to my uncle’s mine. It’s bolstered with huge wooden beams and guarded by the tallest man I’ve ever seen. He is cowled in black wool and carrying a rifle. The ghostly man.
In a flat space to the side of the mine opening sits a crude mill. A mule tied to a post drags a huge grindstone around a stone-lined pit. Another of Hiram’s men shovels ore from a mine cart into the pit, where it’s crushed again and again as the mule circles around. The gold, being a heavier metal, settles to the bottom of the pit once free of the quartz. There’s not much at the moment; it feels like more of an itch than a hum. The air smells like a paste made from manure, sweat, and dust.
“Welcome home, Leah,” my uncle says, and I swear he’s suddenly as cocky a rooster. “What do you think of my arrastra?”
“I think it looks like a lot of work,” I answer neutrally. “A grist mill for turning quartz ore into gold.”
“That’s industry,” Hiram says. “Industry is what makes America great, and it’s what will make our fortune. Most of the folks around here have already taken to calling this place Hiram’s Gulch.”
“You don’t say.”
As I study everyone around us, a few turn to stare right back. And then more and more, until the whole camp has come to a standstill. They’re all dirty and thin, stooped and exhausted. Except the ghostly man. And my uncle.
“Why are they staring?” I whisper.
“Many of them haven’t seen a woman in months, much less a lady.”
“What about Mary?”
He shrugs. “Not the same.”
That makes no sense to me—Mary seemed as mannered and beautiful as Becky Joyner on her best day—but sure enough, some of the miners’ gazes are desperate, like I’m a glass of sweet tea on a hot summer day.
“Where are Tom and Jeff?” I ask.
“This way.” He guides me away from the mine, past the smaller cabin to a rickety stable that’s little more than a giant lean-to with four stalls. “There’s a pasture to the east where we keep the mules and burros. We’ve plans to erect a proper barn come spring. For now, this keeps our finest stock out of the worst weather.”
Sorry nickers in greeting as I approach, tossing her sorrel mane. Beside her is Tom’s horse, Apollo, and next to him is my uncle’s huge black gelding, whose name is Dark Wind or Black Storm or something hackneyed that I can’t quite recall.
The fourth stall is empty.
“Where’s Peony?” I ask, panic edging into my voice.
“Abel Topper has her.”
“What?” Abel Topper is a former mine foreman from Georgia, and my uncle’s lackey. He spotted me when I was fleeing home and followed me all the way to Tennessee before turning back. He’s wanted my pretty palomino since the first day he laid eyes on her.
My uncle’s tone is so patient and reasonable as he explains, “I promised her to Abel a long time ago, before you stole her and ran off.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me straight in the eye. My skin crawls. “I always keep my promises, Leah. Always.”
I clench my jaw because I will not cry in front of him. I raised Peony from a foal. No one understands her better than me. I thought my uncle had taken everything, but I was wrong. There was still something left, and he found it, and he took it.
My fists curl tight. He’d never look at me this way again, so patronizing, so smug, if I turned his face into a bloody pulp and took out a few teeth.
“Where is Topper?” I manage in a tight voice.
He barks a laugh. “So you can steal her back? I think not.”
Bloody pulp. Two black eyes. No teeth left. “No, I was thinking I could offer to buy her back.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m not an idiot. You’re up to no good.”
He’s right about that. “Think what you want. I’ll find him later,” I say, with a wave of my hand. “Anyway, you promised you would take me to Jefferson and Tom?”
His lips press thin, but he grabs my elbow and leads me around to the back of the stable, where a long tying post made from a tree trunk can accommodate more stock if necessary. Tied to it is a chestnut mare I don’t recognize. Beside her are Tom and Jeff.
They sit on the bare earth, their arms tied overhead to the post. Tom slumps against his bonds, chin to chest, eyes closed. Jefferson looks up as we approach. “Hello, Lee,” he mumbles.
I gasp. His left eye is as swollen and black as a rotten plum. His skin is blanched, his cheeks sunken. He looks at me like a drunkard, focusing on a space right in front of me, as if the real me is impossible to pinpoint.
“Oh, Jeff,” I whisper. “Who did this to you?”
“Nice dress,” he says.
I crouch in front of him and tip up his chin. “Who did this to you?
” I repeat. “Was it Frank?”
“Yep. Said he’s been wanting to box me for a long time.”
Uncle Hiram jumps in with, “I didn’t order them beaten. Your friend must have done something to deserve it.”
I launch to my feet and get right in his face. “The only thing Jefferson ever did to antagonize Dilley was get himself born to a Cherokee mama. Frank Dilley is a bad seed, Uncle. Mark my words.”
My uncle frowns. “I know you favor the boy, but . . .” I stop listening. He deserves no more of my attention. I turn back to my friends and squat down again. “Anything else hurt, Jeff?” I say. Tears pool in my eyes. So many people I care about, hurt or killed because of Hiram Westfall.
“Jaw,” Jefferson says. “Can’t eat. Can hardly talk. But I don’t think it’s broke.”
I turn his chin to one side, then the other. His left side is definitely swollen. I wish Jasper was here.
“They still feeding you laudanum?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll put a stop to it.” I don’t know how yet, but I will. Besides, laudanum is expensive. Dilley can’t keep it up forever. If I could find his stash and destroy it . . .
Strangely, my mouth is suddenly watering, my skin flushed, my heart racing.
I shake my head as if to shake it out of my mind and move over to Tom. He’s so quiet and still that for a brief, awful moment, I think he’s dead. When I put my hand to his still-warm face and feel his breath against my palm, I almost sing a hallelujah.
“Tom? Tom, can you hear me?”
He stirs a little but doesn’t respond. His skin is hot with fever.
“He’s still sleeping,” Jefferson slurs. “Been sleeping a long time.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I scoot over to Jefferson, lean forward so that my forehead presses against his, and I say, so quietly that only he can hear, “Stay strong, Jeff. We’ll figure this.”
“Lee,” he whispers. “My Leah. Best girl. My . . .”
“Hush.” I press my lips to his forehead. Then I stand and face my uncle.
There’s a bit of uncertainty in his eyes, or maybe I imagine it.