I’m taking a big risk, grabbing the pelt without asking permission first. Surely my uncle won’t deny me a warm muff for my hands? A lovely rabbit-fur muff is fashionable. A white one, even more so. I will simply tell him that my hands were cold, and I thought the bright fur would be beautiful against my blue calico dress.
Better yet, I’ll tell him that Mama used to wear a white rabbit-fur muff.
Guilt twinges in my chest. I’ve become a no-good liar, and I’m using my parents’ good names to do it. It doesn’t set right.
But what other choice do I have?
I can’t make a proper muff of it without needle, thread, and batting. I’d need a nail or awl too, to punch the leather, and I can’t imagine my uncle granting me these things. For now, I’ll have to be content with simply letting it drape over my hands. It will be more than enough to conceal a bit of gunpowder.
Before donning the makeshift muff, I step outside the door with the basket of biscuits in one hand, my golden half eagle in the other. Wilhelm stands there as always, his breath frosting in the air.
“Good morning, Wilhelm,” I say, offering a biscuit.
He grabs it with a quick nod of thanks. Do they never feed this huge man? Maybe he just really loves biscuits.
“I’m sorry you have to stand out here in the cold,” I tell him. “I’d invite you inside, but Mr. Westfall would probably whip me if I did.”
Wilhelm gives me a tiny, sheepish shrug.
I’m putting off the inevitable, and there’s no easy way to ask what I must. I just have to do it. Before I can think about it a moment more, I blurt, “Do you have any laudanum to spare?”
His lips part in surprise.
“I’m having a terrible time sleeping,” I add quickly. “It’s all the noise of camp. That and my uncle always stays up so late. When he finally goes to sleep, he snores like a rumbling locomotive, and now I’m exhausted every morning. I could pay you. I have five dollars. It’s all the money I have, but it’s yours. Also, biscuits. I’ll bring you biscuits every morning.”
His eyes narrow, and he studies my face. I wish I had even the tiniest clue what he’s thinking.
“Biscuits with honey?” I add.
Of course he says nothing, just stares steadily, breathing in and out through his nose.
“Please, Wilhelm. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
He looks away, as if the answer to my problem lies in the distant, snowy peaks of the Sierra Nevada. His scarred lips twist in thought.
Five dollars is enough to buy several bottles of laudanum. At least it would have been back east. I know from visiting Mormon Island that everything is more expensive out here, but it still should be enough to buy at least two.
I reach out with the half eagle. It flashes in the morning light. “I only need . . .” I almost say one bottle, but I don’t know what Jefferson and the others have planned. “Two bottles. You can keep the rest of the money for yourself.”
Finally his gaze returns to me, and he snatches the coin from my hand. There’s something strange in his eyes. I’d mark it for gold fever, had we been discussing gold.
“Thank you,” I say, more than a little relieved. I hand him the basket of biscuits. “Take as many as you like. I’ll be back in a moment.”
I go inside, just long enough to grab my rabbit pelt and screw up my courage. I’ve successfully negotiated for laudanum. I can do this next thing, too.
But as I offer my fur-wrapped arm to Wilhelm, I’m plagued with doubt. What if he tells my uncle? He’s never shown the smallest inclination for talking, but I suppose he can write. He has to report to my uncle somehow.
If Hiram asks about it, I’ll give him the same lie I gave Wilhelm. I’m tired. I need to sleep to do my job. Maybe I’ll even embellish a little. My gold sense goes weak on me when I’m tired, is what I’ll say.
I’m not sure how the gunpowder is going to be smuggled to me, so I try to be ready for anything. Fortunately I don’t worry about it long. I’m halfway down the Joyner tunnel when I feel something round and cool pressed against my elbow. Quickly I grab it and hide it under my rabbit fur. A moment later, when I casually turn to see who it was, no one remains. They have slipped away as silently as falling snow.
Just like with Mary and the biscuits. I don’t know what the plan is yet, but I can feel the pieces in motion. Other people are doing their part. I must do mine.
I go through my daily motions of assuring Dilley he’s mining in the right direction and pay quick visits to the Drink and to the foreman break area. I take a sip of sugar water, just to make the men happy, and then finally Wilhelm and I leave the mine and return to the cabin.
My uncle is still gone, to my great relief.
Only when I’m in the relative privacy of my bedroom, with the quilt blocking the doorway, do I pull out the object I’m holding.
It’s an inkwell. Not as nice as my uncle’s. Filled to the rim with gunpowder.
As planned, I set it inside the slop bucket. When I wake in the morning, it is gone.
As I hoped he would, Hiram approves of the way I’ve used the rabbit fur. He even brings me an awl and thread so I can fashion it into a proper muff. I spend the entire evening working on the muff by candlelight while he manages correspondence. I’ve never been a dab at sewing, but it’s a nice change from pretending to practice my penmanship. After I’m finished, he declares my muff to be the height of fashion, and immediately confiscates my awl.
Somehow, Muskrat has arranged for a bit of gunpowder to come my way every single day. Each time, I receive it in a different container, from a different pair of hands. Once, it’s no more than a double layer of worn calico, like a quilt square, tied with twine. Another day, I get a small but bulging leather bag. Each morning, the gunpowder is gone from the bucket when I wake.
A few days after speaking to Wilhelm about the laudanum, he greets me at the doorway with two bottles. I glance around to make sure no one is looking, then I grab the bottles, in exchange for several biscuits.
That night, I put both gunpowder and laudanum in the slop bucket. I lie awake a long time, wondering if I’ll know when Mary—or whoever—sneaks into my bedroom to retrieve it. Truth be told, I hate all this sneaking around, and I especially hate that I can’t feel alone and safe even in my own bedroom. How often do people come in here when I’m not aware?
Naturally my thoughts move to the gold stashed in my mattress. I’m like the princess and the pea—no matter how many layers between it and me, I’ll always be able to sense whether or not it’s there. It hasn’t been discovered yet, and I wrap my mind around it, enjoying the buzz in my throat.
My mattress jerks beneath me, and I sit up straight in bed.
Once I assure myself that I’m truly alone, and that no rats or mice or stray cats or people have invaded my bedroom, I reach out with my gold sense again, gently this time.
Gradually a pressure makes itself known against the back of my leg. It’s the bag of gold, poking up through the mattress, trying to come as I call.
Is such a thing possible? Can I call the gold to myself? It seems outrageous, but so does the idea of a witchy girl who can divine the stuff in the first place. Why did I never discover this trick back in Georgia? Maybe it’s the sheer amount of gold here in California. I’ve suspected for a while that my sense was growing, changing.
I practice for hours. Calling the gold, releasing it. Calling it again. Gradually I drift off to sleep, a hard, uncomfortable but not unwelcome lump pressing into my spine.
Hiram and I are taking breakfast and Mary is cleaning up when someone pounds on the door.
I glance at my uncle, alarmed, and he gives me a quick shrug before rising to open it.
Cold air rushes in as a shadow fills the doorway. It’s Frank Dilley. “There’s been an incident,” he says.
“Oh?” my uncle says, reaching for his hat.
“Jonas Waters is dead,” Dilley says.
I gasp.
“What happe
ned?” Hiram asks.
“He was killed in the stockade.”
“The Indians?”
“Maybe. He fell off the guard tower and broke his neck. My men are grumbling about foul play, and I admit it’s awfully suspicious.”
“It’s not suspicious at all,” I say, skidding my chair back and gaining my feet.
“Leah,” Hiram warns, but I pay him no mind.
“Jonas loved his moonshine,” I insist, “and he never saw a watch shift that couldn’t be improved by the liberal application of rotgut.”
“That’s enough, Leah.”
“You know it’s true, Dilley. Tell him.”
Dilley’s hat is in his hand, and his eyes are stricken. I suppose even a man like Dilley has friends, people he cares about, and Jonas’s death is hard for him to take. He considers my words a few moments, but I see the exact moment his grief hardens into something else.
“Indians did this,” Dilley spits out. “Mark my words.”
Hiram dons his hat. “We must deal with this at once,” he says, and he steps toward the door.
I grab the fabric at his elbow. “Wait. What are you going to do?”
He yanks his arm away. “Practice your penmanship while I’m gone,” he says, and he shuts the door in my face.
“It wasn’t the Indians,” Mary whispers, her voice tremulous. A dishrag dangles uselessly from her hands.
“I know.”
“They all know Muskrat’s plan. They wouldn’t risk it. Not now.”
“I know.”
“What will your uncle do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Leah,” she says to the wall. “I’m worried.”
Something about her voice, as unguarded as I’ve ever heard it, makes me reach up with my hand and grab hers. “Me too,” I whisper.
She squeezes my hand back, but then she shakes it off and brusquely resumes her work with the dishes.
A few minutes later, she leaves me to stew in my own worries. No one returns to tell me what’s happening, so I determine to find out for myself. But when it’s time to make my daily visit to the mine, Wilhelm blocks the doorway, shaking his head.
“I have to go to the mine,” I insist. “Every day. My uncle’s orders.”
Again he shakes his head.
I frown. “Not today, huh?”
He nods, once.
In the distance, a single rifle shot rips the air. Wilhelm winces.
I go back inside.
To make the time pass more quickly, I practice my penmanship and think of all the things I could write that would destroy Hiram’s reputation. I pace. I sweep the entire cabin, save for my uncle’s bedroom, and shake out all the rugs.
It’s hours later when my uncle returns.
“What happened?” I ask. “What did you do?”
He hangs his hat on its peg. “I dealt with it.”
“How?”
He collapses into his rocking chair and lifts one foot toward me. “Help me with my boots?”
I swallow against nausea as I approach and kneel before him. My fingers squelch in muck as I grab the bottom of his boot. “How?” I repeat.
“Dilley shot an Indian as reparation for his friend.”
My hands on his boot freeze. “Even though the Indians are innocent?”
“That’s your opinion.”
I pull off the boot and set it beside me on the floor. “Which one?”
“What do you mean?”
“Which man did Dilley kill?”
“How should I know? A younger fellow. I’m letting Dilley turn in the head for the bounty. Hopefully that will help keep him cooled off.”
He stares down at me as I pull off the other boot, and it feels like spiders are crawling all over my skin.
“Leah, I want you to stay inside this cabin for a few days. Just until everyone’s settled down. No visits to the mines.”
“Please—”
“You will obey me in this, Leah. No arguments. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you.”
But I need to keep fetching gunpowder. The plan depends on me. Or maybe I’ve smuggled out enough by now. I just don’t know, and I hate not knowing.
“Surely by tomorrow—”
“You will spend the days practicing your penmanship. If your slop bucket fills, Mary or Wilhelm will dispose of it. You are not to leave the cabin for any reason. Do you understand?”
My hands are shaking now, my heart pounding. I blink fast to keep tears from pooling. I hate feeling so helpless. I hate that he controls every hour of my every day. I hate him.
“I can take care of myself!” I say. “You said you want me to familiarize myself with—”
The backhand is so sudden it’s like a thunderclap to my face. I fall back onto the floor as my vision blurs and tears pour down my face. My cheek starts to sting and then throb in earnest. I put my fingers to my cheekbone. I’m going to have a mean bruise, for sure and certain.
“I don’t want to tie you up during the day,” he says, almost kindly. “But I will if I have to.”
I don’t trust myself to say anything. Still cupping my cheek with my hand, I just nod.
Chapter Twenty-Three
That night he ties me up again, tighter than ever, and my illusions of freedom are over. I hardly sleep for the ache in my shoulders and the gnawing pain in my wrists. It’s a relief when morning comes. When Hiram unties me, he bends to press his lips to my forehead and says, “I hope you slept well, sweet pea.”
We eat breakfast in silence. Only once does my uncle speak, and only to say, “Remember, you are not to leave the cabin. Wilhelm will be keeping guard outside the door. For your protection.”
I shove a biscuit in my mouth to excuse my lack of response.
After he leaves, I open the door to find Wilhelm on alert, his hand on his holster. He fills the space with his huge body, a barrier to the outside world.
“Don’t worry. I won’t try to leave. I just wanted to give you this.” I hand him a basket full of biscuits.
Slowly he takes it from me, his eyes lingering on my face. No, it’s my cheek that’s caught his attention, and the huge bruise pillowing there. Wilhelm frowns.
“Knock on the door if you get thirsty,” I say. “We have plenty of leftover coffee, still warm on the stove.”
He just stares at my cheek.
I’m cooped up in the cabin for days. I have no idea what’s going on, but I can make some guesses. The laudanum could be added to the sugar-water barrels, or someone’s canteen. The gunpowder could create a thunderstorm of chaos. Maybe the plan is to blow up the fort wall, so Muskrat’s people can escape. Or blow up the foremen’s shack and destroy all the weapons. Or just blow up the thanksgiving dinner itself and get rid of the whole Missouri gang. In that case, the laudanum would be used to drug the poor saps stuck with guard duty, and that’s how Muskrat’s people will escape the fort.
Several possibilities. Any of them might work.
But is Muskrat’s plan going forward? Did we get enough gunpowder out of the mine? Are Jeff and Tom all right? I’ve lost track of the days, but surely the celebration of thanksgiving is fast approaching.
Mary ignores me when she comes to cook, won’t even meet my eye. I spend the days listening through the walls for any sound, any clues. I practice my penmanship endlessly. It’s a strange thing, being bored and scared all at once. I think I might die of it.
One morning, as we sit down to breakfast, Uncle Hiram says, “I want you to bathe today. Mary will help you fill the tub. Press your dress. The new one. I want you looking your best tonight.” His voice is stern, almost angry, though I’m not sure why.
“Why?” I’m breathless with hope. Maybe he means to let me out.
“Reverend Lowrey is here. There’s to be a tent meeting, and you shall attend. Fitting, don’t you think, to have some church the night before our Thanksgiving? It will get everyone into the proper state of somber gratitude.” He frowns as he says it, staring
off at nothing.
“Sure. If you say so.”
“These oats are runny,” he growls in Mary’s direction.
Mary doesn’t even flinch. She just keeps toweling the dishes dry.
“They seem delicious to me,” I say.
“Don’t contradict,” he snaps.
“You’re in a foul mood,” I say. “Even for you.”
He starts to protest but changes his mind, his shoulders slumping over his bowl. “You’re right. I am. And I’ve no right to take it out on you.”
The apology startles me nearly as much as his backhand a few mornings ago.
“What’s wrong?” I say, in as gentle a voice as I can muster.
He sighs. “It’s the Chinese,” he says.
Mary has started a new batch of biscuits, and her stirring hitches before continuing on, faster and more determined than before.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The headman is demanding higher pay for everyone. He insists they could make more if they went elsewhere and kept the gold they panned, instead of handing it over. Doesn’t seem to matter to him that they’re panning ore brought out of my mine.”
“You pay them a flat rate?”
He nods. “The blacksmith raised his prices, too. And the other day, Dilley tried to buy a barrel of salt pork from the headman and was charged double what he’d paid before.”
I shrug. “Everything is expensive in California, and it’s only getting more so.”
“The Chinese are greedy,” Hiram insists. “Here they have steady pay, a place to do business, and my personal protection. I’m glad tomorrow is Thanksgiving. If anyone needs to learn a little gratitude, it’s the Chinese.”
The air sizzles as Mary drops biscuits onto a hot griddle.
“Seems to me the Chinese work plenty hard,” I say. “I can’t remember seeing even one of them idle.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Hiram says.
Well, that’s for sure. Hiram, for instance, appears to be a rich man and a fine gentleman.
“My foremen are feeling the injustice of it,” my uncle continues. “They work so hard all day, but here come the Chinese, set to steal California right out from underneath them.”