Like a River Glorious

I take a sip of sugar water, just to give myself something to do while my mind pokes at my problems. Somehow, I have to get Tom and Jefferson out of here. Maybe if I find a nice chunk of gold for my uncle, or a new vein, he’ll listen to reason. That, or his greed will just make things worse.

  The Indian nearest me continues to steal glances at my tin cup. “Here,” I say, offering the cup to him. “It’s yours.”

  His hand darts out and snatches it from mine. He’s practically trembling as he tips it to his lips.

  The whip cracks again. The tin cup tumbles out of the Indian’s hand and splashes into the water. He dives after it, grabs it, returns it to his lips. Blood pours from his hand as his tongue reaches inside the cup to lap up the slightest remnant of sugar.

  “What’d you do that for?” I bellow at Abel. Jefferson and Tom are staring aghast at him.

  “A soft heart doesn’t find gold,” Abel says. “These lazy Induns will walk all over you if you let them.”

  “It was just a cup of sugar water!”

  “Back to work,” Abel says to the Indian, brandishing his whip.

  The Indian ignores him, so intent is he on my empty cup.

  So Frank Dilley pulls out his Colt and shoots the man in the head.

  My mind screams agony, from the sight of murder, and from a gunshot so loud in such a small cavern. My ears ring like church bells as the man slumps into the water, leaving a huge wet stain on the rocky wall.

  Abel is yelling something at Frank, and the Indians are yelling at one another, but I can’t make anything out for the ringing in my head and the torment in my belly. I press my hands to my ears, trying to stop the pain. The Indian’s face is half submerged. One dead eye stares up at me, accusing. My cup gradually sinks beside him.

  I’m sorry, I whisper to him. Or maybe I only think the words. I didn’t mean for that to happen.

  I didn’t mean for Martin to die either, or Nugget to get shot, or our camp to burn to the ground. But bad things keep happening around me.

  I have to get out of this wet hole, and I have to do it now, before I crumble all to pieces. I whirl, gathering my skirts, and flee up the tunnel. I elbow men out of my way as I go, even Wilhelm, but I don’t care, and maybe some of them are just as stunned as I am because they let me go. I need air and light and a kind word. I need my friends. I need Peony.

  I need my guns.

  Because right now, I’m fit to kill Frank Dilley. Somehow. And Abel Topper. And my uncle with them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A crowd has gathered outside the mine, mostly Chinese, but a few Indians and Missouri men.

  “We heard a gunshot,” someone says, or at least I think so. My ears are still ringing something awful.

  I turn to mark the speaker. It’s one of the Indians. He’s a little shorter than I am, and he’s dressed the same way as the people who helped us put out the fire, with beads draped down his chest. He must be important to my uncle if he’s not working in the mines with the rest of them. “Who was it? Who got shot?” His face is an agony of worry, and his English is perfect.

  “Back off, Muskrat,” growls one of the Missouri men, and he shoves the Indian in the chest with the butt of his rifle. “You ain’t good enough to talk to her.”

  Muskrat staggers back, but he recovers quickly and stands his ground. “Then you tell me. Who was shot?”

  “How the hell should I know?” the Missouri man says, and he looks at me. “Who was it, Miss Westfall?”

  I blink at him. My teeth are chattering, even though I’m not cold. I see it over and over again—the man’s head snapping back against the wall, his body slumping into the water, his white, dead eye staring up at me.

  “I . . . It was one of the miners,” I say to Muskrat. “Down in the Drink. I don’t know who. Frank Dilley shot him.”

  “Is he alive? I should go to him.” He makes as if to push past us, but the Missouri man blocks him.

  “I’m sorry, Muskrat, sir,” I say, my voice tremulous. “But . . . it won’t do any good.”

  Pain fills his eyes. He lost a friend today; he just doesn’t know which one.

  Everyone mutters darkly, and it’s possible they’re talking to me, but I can’t hear well enough to parse it. Wilhelm rushes out of the mine, followed by several others. When he spots me, his shoulders slump with relief.

  “Where is my uncle?” I demand of everyone. I have to tell him about this. Surely he would never condone what just happened.

  “He headed upstream,” someone says. “To one of the other camps. Negotiating for . . .” The rest of his words are lost to the ringing in my head.

  I cover my ears, as if it will help, and ram my way through the crowd toward my uncle’s cabin. I have to reach it before I lose my composure completely. Or my breakfast.

  But when my foot hits the stoop of the cabin porch, I hesitate. With my uncle gone, maybe this is my chance to . . . I don’t know, do something. I’m not leaving without Jefferson and Tom, but maybe I can explore the camp, see what’s behind the cabin, figure out where Abel is keeping Peony. Find a way out of this hell.

  Within a split second, Wilhelm is at my side, grabbing my elbow. I try to wrench it back, but he holds tight. He drags me up the steps.

  We reach the door, and when he swings it open, I’m finally able to yank my elbow away. I slip under his arm into the cabin and whirl to face him.

  “You will not follow me inside. I understand you’ve been ordered to keep watch on me, but you will respect my privacy and . . .” I get a better idea for which tack to take. “And you will not be alone with me inside my uncle’s cabin without his permission.”

  Wilhelm’s jaw works, as if he’s grinding his teeth. I can see a little more of his face now that we’re in broad daylight and I’m not woozy with laudanum. His nose has a crick in it, like it’s been broke a time or two, and his eyes are gray blue like slate, set deep under thick blond brows.

  He stares at me. I return his stare, refusing to flinch.

  All at once, he slams the door shut and whirls away.

  I collapse into Hiram’s rocking chair, pull my knees to my chest, and rock back and forth for a very long time.

  I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  There was no chance to do any exploring today because Wilhelm stood outside the cabin like a soldier on sentry. Eventually Mary stopped by and turned a batch of soaked beans into honest-to-goodness pork and beans with molasses. She must be a quick learner, because that’s a Yankee dish, one Daddy used to make on our hunting trips. I suppose it’s a favorite of Hiram’s, too. I ate only a few bites before retiring to my room, leaving the rest for my uncle, who finally came home as it was getting dark.

  I slipped under the quilt when I heard his boot steps, and turned my back to the bedroom door. I sensed the curtain being lifted, felt his dark presence looming over me, heard his soft breathing, but I pretended to be asleep because the hate inside me was so awful that I didn’t trust myself to pretend to be cooperative.

  It must be past midnight now, and the moon is shimmering in the sky, casting bluish light through my single high window. It doesn’t open. I checked. The only way out of this cabin is through the front door.

  Something tappity-taps on the window, faint like a chittering squirrel. Maybe I imagined it.

  It sounds again, louder this time, and I push back the covers and get to my feet. Standing on the chest, I poke my head up over the windowsill and peer outside.

  It’s Jefferson, with a grin on his face and a handful of pebbles, washed in moonlight for all to see. I glance around the camp, panicked, but it’s late and everyone’s abed. Still, it would only take one person to see him and report to my uncle.

  “Hide!” I mouth.

  “Open!” he mouths back, gesturing toward the window.

  I shake my head. “Can’t.”

  His eyes turn in on themselves, and his lips press tight. It’s Jefferson’s thinking face, and it’s so familiar and dear that my heart ache
s.

  He steps up to the glass and stretches on his tiptoes so that his face is only inches from mine. It might be a trick of the moonlight, but his black eye is already turning sickly yellow—a good sign.

  Jefferson takes a deep breath, opens his mouth into an O, and exhales onto the glass, forming a cloud of fog. With his forefinger, he writes:

  It takes me a second to parse it. Tomorrow. I nod.

  He wipes the glass with the side of his fist, then breathes on it again. This time, he writes:

  He repeats the process once more and adds:

  My heart races. Can I do it? Can I sneak out of this cabin right under my uncle’s nose?

  He presses his palm to the glass. The work of the day is evident on his skin—tiny cuts filled with dirt, a blister at the base of his thumb.

  Slowly I reach up with my hand and place my palm against the glass, too, fitting my fingers inside the outline of his larger ones.

  Jefferson gives me a quick grin. He rubs at the window to erase any trace of what just happened, then he ducks away and disappears.

  I watch the empty camp for a while to make sure no one saw. A couple of the Chinese tents glow from within, with either candles or lanterns, but everyone else seems fast asleep.

  Hiram said they would tie Jefferson up at night. How did he get free? How could he take such an awful risk to come see me?

  I slip down onto the bed and sit with my back against the wall, knees to chest. Tomorrow. Midnight. Behind the stable.

  The next morning, Mary shows up to make breakfast. One of her sleeves is torn, and a dark bruise swells along her left cheekbone. I know a hitting bruise when I see one; Jefferson used to have them all the time. I try to meet her eye, to gauge whether or not she’s all right, but she ignores me.

  Uncle Hiram doesn’t seem to notice. He eats his scrambled eggs slowly, his gaze distant as if his thoughts are far away. I hate to admit it, but my uncle is a fine-looking man. Finer looking than my daddy, though he shows nothing of Daddy’s warmth or kindness or joy. He’s better groomed, too, with a close-shaved jaw and hair neatly parted and slicked.

  Mary comes to remove our dishes from the table, which is when I finally gather the gumption to say to my uncle what’s on my mind.

  “Frank Dilley killed a man yesterday.”

  It might be my imagination, but Mary’s step stutters a little before she bends to scrape the dishes.

  “Yes,” Hiram says casually. “I heard.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin.

  I gape at him. “Well, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

  My uncle folds the napkin neatly and places it on the table before him. “I already have.”

  “Oh?”

  “I gave Frank a stern talking-to about being more careful. Topper tells me that Indian was well respected among the savages. A leader of sorts. He’s not the one I work with, an Indian by the name of Muskrat. But the other savages looked up to him almost as much. Frank should have made an example of someone different.”

  I blink, trying to sort out what he just said. It’s like we’re having two different conversations. I might as well have asked, “Will you mend the back fence?” only to have him answer, “Sure, I’ll fetch you a cup of water.”

  “Who’s Muskrat, exactly?” I ask, remembering the man at the mine who wouldn’t let himself be pushed around.

  “He spent a few years in one of the Spanish missions. Got himself half civilized. Speaks English and Spanish as well as that savage gibberish, so he works as an interpreter for the foremen. I don’t think Muskrat is his real name.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “They don’t reveal their true names to Christians. He’s been a useful creature, though.”

  “Will he be in charge of burying the man Frank Dilley killed?” I don’t know much about Indian customs, but maybe I should go and pay my respects.

  “There won’t be any burial,” Hiram assures me. “We’ll bring in the Indian’s head and collect the bounty, then we’ll fetch ourselves another.”

  “Wait . . . bounty?”

  “Don’t worry. None of my men will go killing Indians just to collect that bounty themselves. I pay them too well.”

  “And the Indians? You pay them, too?”

  “They’re generously compensated with food and shelter and a chance to turn from their heathen ways and embrace the truth of our Lord. Speaking of which, Reverend Lowrey will be paying us a visit soon. He travels a circuit through the nearby camps, preaching. It’s a nice break for my men.”

  I wouldn’t mind if I never saw that uppity preacher again.

  “And the Chinese? Do you pay them? I’ve never seen a group of folks work so well together.”

  “They get protection and rations like everyone else. On their own time, they’re allowed to conduct trade with other members of camp. Some of them are making a tidy profit.”

  Mary’s work at the washtub has ceased, but just as we’re noticing the silence, it starts up again with a splash and clatter of dishes.

  “That Indian did nothing wrong, Uncle Hiram,” I say, trying to bring the conversation back to where I intended. “And Frank Dilley is a murderer.”

  “You’re so softhearted, just like your mother.” He bestows a fond smile. “It’s a fine quality in a young lady.”

  My heart feels the opposite of soft. It feels like a hard, mean, red-hot coal.

  He continues, “It’s a complicated moral question, sure, and I don’t think your education and gender are quite up to the task of understanding the debate’s finer points. But trust me, sweet pea. It’s not murder to kill an Indian.”

  I don’t pretend to have a lot of book learning, but everything he’s saying is as wrong as a fish in a tree. “I don’t think you’re listening—”

  “Today I want you in the upper tunnel,” he says, scooting his stool back. He rises to his feet and looks down at me. “We’ve lost the vein, and we’ve hit bedrock or granite or something going forward. It will save us a lot of time and expense if you . . .” He glances at Mary. “If you offer an opinion on where the gold is most like to be. Being a miner’s daughter and all.”

  Mary is scrubbing at the dishes so hard I fear her fingers will fall off.

  “I’ll do my best, sir. I don’t mind telling you, though, that I’d find it a real inspiration to know the Indians were treated better.”

  Hiram dons his hat. “I’ll see to it that everyone gets an extra ration of wheat tonight, how’s that?”

  How many rations do they normally get? Do they get sorted wheat or the chaff, too? I’ve eaten raw wheat before. It has a nice, nutty taste, but it leaves grit in your molars and an ache in your belly if you eat too much.

  He’s still gazing at me, awaiting my response. “Thank you,” I manage. And because it’s what Becky would say, I add, “That’s very generous.”

  He smiles again, and it sickens me that I’ve pleased him. “Wilhelm will escort you to the mine when you’re done here.”

  He leaves, and it’s just me and Mary and the clanking of dishes.

  There’s still a basket half filled with biscuits on the table, covered with a cloth to keep them warm and away from flies. Maybe I could grab a few. Sneak them to Jefferson and Tom in the mines.

  It’s a flash in my mind: the ear-piercing gunshot, the Indian splashing into the water.

  I shouldn’t let Frank or Abel or anyone observe me singling out anyone for special treatment. It might get them dead.

  But I can do it tonight, at midnight, when no one is watching. I grab the basket. “Mary, may I take the rest of these biscuits to my room? Sometimes I get hungry at night.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder. “Yes. Take.”

  “Thank you.” I turn to go, but I hesitate and turn back around. “What happened to you?”

  Mary turns to face me, dripping dishcloth in her hands. “I no understand.”

  I gesture toward my face, mirroring the huge bruise pillowing on her cheek.

&n
bsp; The light goes out of her eyes for the briefest instant. Then she smiles. “Is nada. The mens. Sometimes . . . what is word? Rough.” She shrugs.

  I frown. “Do you cook and clean for them, too?”

  She laughs wickedly, like I’m the brunt of her joke. “Oh, no. Not those mens.” She returns to the dishes. “Tall man wait outside,” she says, dismissing me with a wave.

  I stare at her back, puzzling over our conversation. Mary reminds me of Jefferson a little, the way her face always seems deep in thought, the laughter in her eyes when I say something that has amused her somehow. But a real friendship seems miles distant, because unlike Jefferson, her demeanor is cold as a winter wind.

  I run to my bedroom and stash the basket of biscuits in the chest at the foot of my bed. I lace my boots, square my shoulders, and prepare to meet Wilhelm.

  Frank Dilley was right; the Joyner tunnel is a lot drier. Frank isn’t at the mine today, but Abel Topper is. He and Wilhelm escort me up the tunnel, which is long and so low I have to duck to avoid hitting my head on the swinging lanterns. Tree roots poke at us occasionally, which means the slope of the land has caught up to the slope of the tunnel.

  After stepping aside twice to make way for mine carts, we finally reach the end of the tunnel. Sure enough, it seems as though their pickaxes have reached a solid wall.

  “The quartz vein seems to go in this direction,” Abel says, pointing at the hard face of rock. “We can push through, but it’s blunting our tools faster than we can smith them. Westfall headed up to Rough and Ready yesterday to get some gunpowder. We could blow a hole right through if we need to. But he said the daughter of Lucky Westfall might . . . have a special insight. Tell us where to go next.”

  Just how much did my uncle tell Abel? Abel Topper was a mine foreman back in Georgia, and as experienced as anyone. There’s no way he buys into that bit about “special insight.” Miners can be a superstitious lot, though. My uncle probably told him I’m lucky.

  And what does he mean by up to Rough and Ready? North of here? Higher into the mountains? If I can figure out where Rough and Ready is, it will give me a clue where I am.