Not a good place to be, David decided. He rubbed at his jaw line with the back of his hand. Just being at this sale said something about him he didn't think he liked. His jaw ached from the clench, felt raw with his finger's rubbing.
The smell of fresh bread floated in from behind him and it nudged at him, reminded him again of his mother. This was his first free day in two weeks, and he was wasting it. A man was responsible for what he exposed himself to. That was sure. Why tempt fate further at this outdoor auction of flesh? David straightened his hat, uncrossed his legs, and pitched his back away from the post. If he spent more time, even just watching, not participating, not ever saying he approved, he could still be affected by the tentacles of stench. “Pernicious,” his mother would have said, like a disease that rotted a person slowly over time even when they didn't know it was there. He'd had to ask what that word meant too.
He brushed the dirt from his pants, began to turn his back just as the Wintu woman on whom they were bidding raised her eyes over the crowd. They were brown eyes, deep and dark as good earth, and now, they locked on Davids.
Zane Randolph, dressed in white linen, wearing a tapestry vest of cream silk, stared at the low-sided wagon set up as an open-air stage to display the merchandise near the river levee. He scanned the women who stood there, their eyes downcast, dark shoulders bent against the river's backdrop of dusky blue. A gust of Sacramento wind lifted tendrils of dark hair. Dust swirled. Men grabbed at their hats.
The women, girls, the merchandise all looked far away, as if wanting to pretend they were not here. He could see that, but it would not protect them. It wouldn't prevent the fate that these slobbering men had in mind for them as soon as they paid the price. The one or two he would successfully bid on were fortunate, indeed. They just didn't know it yet. He offered…opportunity for them. The other bidders, the lowlife miners and merchants and mountain men were nothing but greed-infested beasts massaged by the women's flesh enough to make their mouths water. They failed to see the larger picture.
He had seen the picture, perfect and clear, last night. After things quieted down, Zane approached the man known as Greasy, bought him a drink and chatted amiably with him, slowly bringing him around to a discussion of mining. Then horses. Then women.
“You say you encountered a blind woman, with a group of women traveling west? How long ago was that?”
The man's eyes were glassy with drink, and he needed sleep. “Just two, three days back,” Greasy yawned. “Such a beauty she was, wearing blue and holding a baby in her arms.”
“Where, again?”
“At the Emigrant Ferry, north. Heading into Shasta, that's what the man—let me think now—Forrester, that was his name. He's the one said they were going on to Shasta. I figure to see ‘em again. I'm going back.”
“They'd survived the journey well, these women?”
“Seemed like it.”
“You didn't hear where they'd come from?”
Greasy shook his head. “Someplace back east. Where they all come from, ain't it? Wasn't about to have no conversation with the one dressed like a man. Didn't have no invitation in her eyes, if you know what I mean. Seemed more interested in her horses.” Zane heard his own breathing as he sucked air in through his mouth. “Another said I was rude. ‘Magine that. Thought themselves a little better than me.” He leaned in toward Zane then, violating the space Zane liked to keep between himself and others. “I'm getting me some Indian slaves tomorrow,” he said. “I'll be richer next year this time, and maybe those wom-en'll find me a little more attractive.”
“And Indians would have what to do with your plans for wealth?”
Greasy looked surprised. “Where you been? You just got to claim they're vagrants, homeless. Or buy one at the sales. Mosdy Indians raided from northern tribes sold there. Law allows ‘em to be sold within twenty-four hours of claiming they're without anyone to keep ‘em. Any courthouse or sheriff can hold the sale. You buy ‘em, you can keep ‘em until they're twenty-one. Boys ‘til they're twenty-five if you get ‘em older, say fourteen or so. You can even take the grub you give ‘em against their pay.” He leaned back, hiccuped, and blinked. “Ain't that just the best law ever?”
“And what you'll do with these…boys is what?”
“Make ‘em work the mines! Ain't you listening? File claims and set ‘em to work. I got two, three streams being worked already. Need a few more workers. Might even buy me a woman to do some cooking and washing. Hate that laundering.”
“And they stay?”
“Well, you got to train ‘em the way you want,” Greasy said. “But I do that. They stay. Even without chains or ropes. Guess they figure if they're fed good and not beat up once they learn your ways, its better than being found by someone on the street and just hauled in again. Ugly as it is, they know what to expect at Greasy's mines. Must decide it's better than heading into what they don't know.”
The smoke and the man's whisky-breath might have fuzzied Zane's thinking, but it cleared as the man rambled on about the Indian Protection Act and how the Wintus and Shastas were killed off by hostile tribes as well as the “locals.” All the killing left women and kids ripe for the taking as vagrants. “Biggest sales are here in Sacramento and along the Columbia River in The Dalles.”
“And you'll take them back north, toward Shasta,” Zane said.
“Right back to my claims. At Mad Mule Canyon, most of them,” Greasy said. “Resupply before winter and work the streams much as we can ‘til snow drifts us out. Then make our way into Whoa Navigation.”
“And your…charges?”
“My what?”
“Your…purchases, do they stay the winter in Shasta City too?”
“Naw. I got to get me a packer to bring in food for the snow months. Then come spring, if they're still alive, I'll be happy and put ‘em back to work. Saves retraining new crews.”
Zane had lain awake for a time after leaving Greasy, offering first to buy him breakfast in the morning. The man was lint off poor linen, but he was useful. He was sure Greasy spoke of Ruth. Zane must have just missed her somehow back at Laramie. And what a delicious twist that the beautiful blind woman had some connection. Forrester was the name of the man involved. He could find him and locate both women. He'd go north—just as soon as he found the auction Greasy spoke of.
He may as well sink some investments in California.
Now at the sale, Zanes eye caught a young man, jaw clenched, who had been holding up a post in front of the bakery. He'd bid soon. Zane knew that. Just a boy who couldn't wait to have a woman to call his own. Zane was above that, better than that. For him, this was strictly business.
His wide fingers with filed nails felt the silk ascot at his throat as he swallowed. He looked back, touched his hat brim, raised the bid again. He was aware of the attention he drew from the men around him, some near enough to push against his horse, brush his own legs. Zane disliked their closeness, but it was undeserving of anger. He reserved that heat for only one. The others were worms, challenging him only to imagine how he might use them or how long it might take them to squirm, to be pushed past what they said they stood for. Everyone could be pushed, despite how they preached or pleaded about principles, about being better than the rest. All men could be squashed.
Zane learned that during the years of his confinement. And he'd learned that the biggest, strongest, and least attached were the ones who survived.
Zane's horse stomped, lifted its back leg, and turned to bite at a fly. Zane yanked on the bridle, pulling the animal's head around. With his hat, he swatted at the horse's hindquarters. The martingale kept the beast from raising his head, but not from resisting. The sorrel sidestepped, forcing other men crowded close out of its way.
He would rid himself of this animal, once this sale was over. The unpredictability of him did not suit. Besides, it would give Zane the perfect reason to seek out a horse or two in Shasta. An investor arriving by stage needed a mount. Zane smiled then,
satisfied he had a plan as he jerked on the reins, felt the horse tremble beneath his knees. He watched men scatter like cockroaches from light. His right hand reached for the short quirt, and he slapped at the animals neck. The horse just needed a good whip.
That was what Ruth had needed too. Discipline, Control. Some beings resisted being commanded, but it was what they really wanted. He'd realized that too late. When he found Ruth again, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He would let her know of his control, but it would come to her in little moments he would plan, surprises. She would be his, a marionette, while he manipulated her strings.
The horse settled down enough for Zane to hear the latest bid. He'd picked out one or two girls he thought would suit his needs and bid on the one he favored most. Now his prize stared at that boy by the bakery. Zane lifted his hat to the auctioneer, smiled. The best part about this sale was that it seduced even the religious souls, the pious hearts who wanted only to “do good” for the poor heathens. They could rationalize, convince themselves of their clean nature, buy these unfortunate souls, make these people part of their families, give them homes. Homes! Zane smiled at the thought. Instead, they brought stench into their homes. They were sucked under “helping the heathens” before they even knew they'd entered foul waters. Some even asked the Indians to work thirteen-hour days on the very streams they'd lived beside for generations, now being ravaged by greed. And the poor Indians did it!
Well, that was to be expected. One had to be clever to keep from being used. One had to be of stronger character to withstand the demands of a superior being, a cut above the rest, a thinker who put others in awe.
He would enjoy the freedoms of this California he'd learned even more about at breakfast. Greasy had been both wordy and hungry. “Indians aid in their own downfall,” he announced, his mouth stuffed with bacon. “They let us come in, we take their land, women, and kids, and then we spread the good news around by buying whatever we haven't done in. Yessiree, there's even bands of Mexicans stealing Indian women and children and bringing to sale along with other tribes. We're an international state, we are.”
From what Zane could see in the faces of those being sold today, they had no fight left in them, except for the one he bid on. And if Greasy was right, there was no one left to fight for her. There was no escape. Perhaps she'd be wise enough to know that being owned was better than death.
Another raise to his bid, this time from the opposite side. Then another. Zane refused to look, not wanting to seem annoyed. Couldn't the men see Zane had unlimited funds? Probably not. One looked as if he'd just come in off the trail, dust all over a well-cut suit. Probably some Oregonian. Lots of them coming south, he'd heard.
Zane touched his white hat again, tired of it. “One thousand,” he said.
A hush settled over the crowd.
“A thousand dollars?” the auctioneer asked. His voice squeaked.
“I find this a tedious ritual meant to be gotten over.” Zane spoke loud enough for most to hear. He smiled at the stricken looks of the men, including the boy who had caught the woman's eye. Good. Let them remember this man who was impatient with protocol, for whom money was no object. It didn't matter if they remembered him as a buyer of chattel. It was associating him with Ruth he had to keep under wraps.
“Sold!” gaveled the auctioneer, his buck teeth formed into a grin.
Zane frowned. He would have liked to finish his pronouncement.
“She's all yours,” the auctioneer said, pushing at the Wintu woman, who stumbled but caught herself before she fell. “Come forward and claim your prize, sir.”
Zane reined the sorrel through the parting crowd as the woman— maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, he surmised—her eyes turned now toward him, watched him approach. Her arms were tied behind her back, forcing her thin cloth tight against her narrow frame. Did she gaze past him still to that boy? No matter. Now she belonged to him.
“She's carrying,” the auctioneer whispered to Zane as he leaned toward the young woman, pressed his hands into the thin flesh of her shoulder, turning her so Zane could get a better look. “Hope that's not a problem for ya.”
Zane leaned back from the man, who smelled of onions. “I can see now she's with child. You might have gotten more if you'd announced it.”
“Not likely. Most of'em can't do much work with a little one about. And she might die in delivering. Poor investment, some think, but I'm with you. Two for one is good business.”
“I'm not with anyone,” Zane told him, handing him a thick roll of bills the auctioneer began to count.
Zane leaned over and traced his finger along the woman's shoulder to her neck, watched bumps appear on her skin. “You're mine now, little orphan,” he said. His finger lingered over her ear, down her cheek. He opened her mouth with the press of his thumb. “All her teeth. Good.”
He wondered if she'd try to bite this hand that would now feed and clothe her, or if her love of her unborn child was greater than her hatred of being owned.
“I wouldn't, if I was you,” the auctioneer said.
Zane forced his fingers to run across a row of bottom teeth while his thumb and fingers held her jaw still. “You're smarter than that, now, aren't you?”
She did not bite.
A part of him felt…disappointed at her compliance. He liked a challenge even when he knew he'd win. “Yes, little beauty. You're mine now.”
“She don't understand no English,” the auctioneer told him.
“Oh, she understands enough, I'd suggest,” Zane said, removing his hands, patting her cheek. Her skin was soft as a baby's bottom. A smile eased across his face.
The woman parted her lips ever so slightly as she looked up into his eyes. He brushed the dark hair away from her forehead, pleased with her quick understanding of his power over her. The woman would have to work long and hard to recover Zane's investment, but he knew she would. And he'd enjoy the training of her, the breaking of her as he would break a good-spirited horse, the way he'd almost broken Ruth. He leaned in to loosen the binding rope, and Zane saw his reflection in the depth of the woman's dark eyes.
It was then that the Wintu woman spit.
David winced when the big man spit back.
The woman sneered, her head up now, not cowed at all. She had mettle, David gave her that, if not good sense. The crowd gasped, then broke into laughter.
She shouldn't have provoked the man. Had she no instinct to survive? Didn't she know that men like that hated to be made fools of? Couldn't she see he'd be likely to hurt her now for what she'd done?
Across the crowd, David saw the losing bidder laughing, slapping his leg with his hat.
The big man on the sorrel wiped at his own face, then scraped his fingers across the woman's mouth and nose, pinching off the spittle he'd just put there, leaving white pressure marks where he had rubbed her face. He grabbed at the girl, then yanked her up in front of him onto the big horse, sidesaddle, the slap of her thighs cracking against the pommel, her arms still tied behind her. With one arm, he pulled her neck into his chest. Now she might bite him good, David thought, but she didn't.
Instead, the woman stared straight out, never blinking, as the man in white, his own jaws clenched, breathing through his teeth, wove the horse out through the still-laughing crowd.
David stared at her. He wanted to drop his eyes, to disavow that he'd even been here to see this happen, but he couldn't. He thought for just a moment that she caught his eye, but it was as fleeting as a fawns tail disappearing out of sight.
As the big horse moved to the edge of the laughter, Oltipa, the Wintu woman, thought of things she loved: the taste of acorn soup, sweet upon her lips, the memory of wind sighs soothing high in the yellow pine. Soft ferns pressed against her face, not the silk of this man's scarf. She smelled memories formed of scraped hides, not the scent of this white man's sweat. Through eyes set far away from here, she could see the yellowed grass, short now after spring's burning so there would be
new grass for the deer, so the land would give no fuel to fire the trees if lightning struck in the dry summer, so the waters of the rivers would stay clear and the salmon strong. She let her imagination take her, her eyes gazing far beneath the oaks and pines. She would not let herself see this sea of men, would not let herself hear the laughs and jeers, would not allow herself to belong to the man who owned her body now if not her spirit. This man sat closer to her than any other man had ever been, except for the father of the child she carried. But he was dead. She blinked back tears.
She could not be owned, she decided, despite what some might have thought. As long as she held her stories in her heart, this man could not own her soul. This man could own her labor, her hands, even her body. But never her.
As they roped their way through the parting crowd, the men laughing and moving toward the building smelling of sweet scents of bread baking, she caught the gaze of the boy with kind eyes the color of spring water, eyes that did not approve of what was happening here, this ripping and tearing of spirit and soul. For just a moment when the bidding began, his eyes, as gentle as the father of her child's had been, those eyes had sent hope like an arrow over the heads of these drooling savages.
But in the time it took a hawk's wing to slice the wind above her, she knew he would not raise his hand, could not buy her and set her free.
The rider who held her jerked his hand to settle the horse, squeezing her with his arm. She grunted with the pain. Oltipa reminded herself not to accept blame for being snatched when the Modocs took her from her village in the shade of the big mountain, ripped her from the rushing sounds of Winnimems Arm, the McCloud River, as the white men called it. Someday, she would go back to that acorn soup place where she and her baby could stay alive.