Like a River Glorious (16 page)

I scowl at them. Never once on the wagon train did they show this kind of respect. Either my uncle gave them a dressing-down, or they're out of their heads because of my dressing up.

“It's break time for the foremen,” Dilley explains.

Never have I seen a mine with so many foremen. “I thought Abel Topper was foreman,” I say.

“Oh, he's the foremost foreman,” Dilley says. “Probably down in the Drink with the Induns.”

“The Drink?” Voices sound strange here, fuller and louder.

“One of the tunnels leads to a wet spot. Lots of gold there, but the Induns are up to their knees in it. Speaking of drink, show the boss's niece some hospitality, lads. A cup of sugar water for her, now.”

The Missouri men fall all over themselves to comply, thrusting their own cups into the barrel and pulling them out dripping. Three are handed to me at once.

I pick the one in the middle, mumbling my thanks. They all stare at me until I take a sip. It's clear, clean water mixed with a little sugar, is all. Back home, it's what people drank when they couldn't afford decent tea, but here in California, it's as luxurious as an orange.

“This way,” Dilley says. “You can take that with you.” He
indicates the cup I'm holding by pointing with his chin.

Some of the others fall in behind us, including the ghostly man, and again my neck prickles that he's watching me. I remember the way he manhandled me, forced laudanum into my gullet, tossed me up on Peony and tied me down. The prickle on my neck becomes a full-blown shiver.

Enough is enough. I plant my feet and turn on him.

He's more than a head taller than I am. Taller than Jefferson, taller even than Mr. Hoffman was, and that scar on his pretty lips looks wicked and mean.

“What's your name?” I demand.

The other men with us exchanged startled glances.

“Uh, that there is Wilhelm,” Frank Dilley says. “He don't say much. Actually, he don't say anything. He's a bit touched, if you ask me, but he's strong as an ox, loyal as a dog, and mean as a snake.”

Wilhelm. My uncle mentioned a Wilhelm when he said I must be accompanied every time I left the cabin.

“I'd say it was nice to meet you, Wilhelm, but we've already met, and it wasn't nice at all. I don't appreciate the way you treated me and my friends, and I surely won't forget it.”

I detect the faintest twitch of his lips before I turn my back on him and address Dilley. “Let's continue.”

Dilley shrugs, offering his arm again. I take another sip of my sugar water, mostly to keep it from spilling as we walk, and let him lead me down the tunnel slope. My neck doesn't prickle so much now, but everything else in me starts to vibrate something fierce. It's just like when a thunderstorm
is about to hit, and the air is like a buzzing blanket on your skin. Except this buzzing blanket is buzzing all the way into my insides, and I wonder if it was a disservice to my belly to accept the sugar water.

There's gold here. So much gold. A mountain of it. My vision starts to blur.

“Lee? You okay?”

It's Frank's voice, and it shakes me awake. I stopped cold in the middle of the passageway and didn't even realize it. This has happened before; gold can make me near senseless, when there's so much of it. I'll have to be more careful.

“Fine. Just . . . not used to enclosed spaces.”

“Well, you better get used to it fast. Your uncle wants you paying a visit every day, though I can't imagine why he thinks it's a good idea to bring a slip of a girl to a place like this.”

He never said things like that when he thought I was a boy. “This slip of girl can outride and outshoot you any day, Frank Dilley, and you know it.”

“I went easy on you, thinking you just a small slip of a
lad
who talked funny. Coulda outshot you anytime.”

Frank Dilley is first on the list of faces I'm going to bust before I escape this place.

We've reached a fork in the tunnel. One slopes steeper than the other.

“Which do you want to see first?” Dilley asks. “The Drink, or the Joyner?”

“The Joyner? Why'd you name it that?”

“Because it's rich and stubborn and dry as a—” Someone
smacks him on the back. “Uh, it reminded us of that persnickety widow friend of yours.”

“I see.” Even though I don't. “The Drink first.”

“Down this way.” He gestures toward the steeper tunnel. “Watch your step. It gets slippery.”

He's right. Water starts leaching up out of the earth, creating a thin layer of gritty mud over slick rock that shimmers in the lantern light. Small strips of lumber have been nailed into the ground, like the ties of a train track. At first I think it's to keep the miners safe by preventing falls. But when a burro heads our way, pulling a heavy cart, I realize it's to protect the ore. The wood ties make it less likely for the carts to roll back when the poor animals become exhausted.

We all press against the cold, rocky wall to let the cart by. It's led by a skinny Indian man who's as naked as the day he was born. Another pushes the cart from behind, adding his strength to the burro's. It puts me in mind of the Joyner wagon, on a slope as steep as this one. I think of the way its rope snapped, sending the wagon tumbling, crushing everything in its path, including Becky's husband. I have to avert my eyes.

In the distance is the unmistakable echo of pickaxes battling hard rock. It's a mild
plink-plink
now, but I know from experience the sound will get louder as we get nearer. Back home in Georgia, most of the miners went home at the end of the day with splitting headaches. It's no wonder so many turned to moonshine.

“We'll be laying track and getting proper mine carts soon,”
Dilley explains. “That'll take some of the burden off these poor donkeys.”

“These poor Indians, you mean,” I say.

He shrugs. “Same work. To be honest, I prefer the donkeys—they're less trouble. But Induns are cheaper to come by. All you have to do is grab your guns and head out into the wilderness and round yourself up a big group.”

My jaw drops open. I can't believe what he just said. But I guess all slavery starts that way, at the wrong end of a gun.

Dilley ignores me. The cart passes, and we continue our descent. The air is stuffy now, thick with dirt and moisture, making breathing difficult. Or maybe it's Frank Dilley himself who makes it hard. I take a deep breath, just to assure myself that I can.

The tunnel levels and widens onto a muddy underground pond. Lantern light gleams off the surface of the thick brown water, which is choppy and fierce with all the splashing and digging going on.

The cavern is filled with Indians hefting pickaxes. Two carts stand wheel deep in water, half filled with ore so wet it looks like cow slop. Two Indians heft a giant log into a recently dug cleft to bolster it. They push the log into place, leveraging it between muddy floor and choppy ceiling, as if a single log can hold back the earth.

“Best to stop right here, Lee,” Frank says. “Any farther and you'll soil those pretty skirts.”

At his voice, the Indian closest to us looks up at me, but his gaze darts back down just as fast. He's digging into the
wall near the entrance, but his swings are feeble. His limbs are skinny as a colt's, his cheeks sunken, his skin covered with mud.

“Why aren't any of them wearing clothes?” I ask.

“Can't trust 'em with clothes,” he says. “They'd steal the gold sooner than mine it out.”

“But they're people, not—”

A whip cracks. Everyone freezes. An Indian near the far wall collapses backward into the water, which sloshes up to his armpits. A line of blood wells up on his shoulder. He ignores the wound, fishing around in the murk until he comes up with his pickax, then he gets back to work.

Nausea threatens to overwhelm me. I've never seen a man whipped before. I've heard tales, though. Some of the mine foremen back home used to whip the Negros, when the plantation owners rented them to the mines during the cold season. It's a rare Negro who hasn't felt a whip's bite at some point; Hampton has some nasty scars on his back and shoulders.

I peer into the gloom of the cavern, looking for the man doing the whipping. Lantern light doesn't penetrate the back very well, and it's hard to see how deep it goes. I'm about to ask Dilley to tell me who's responsible when a figure appears out of the shadows and wades toward us.

It's Abel Topper, the foremost foreman, the one who took Peony. A whip curls in his hand like a long, thin snake. My already low opinion of the man drops down a shaft without a bottom.

“Hello, Miss Westfall,” he says, cheery as a summer's day.

“That's no way to treat people,” I say.

“I ain't asking your opinion.”

“How's my horse?” I ask, because I know it will needle him.

“
My
horse is doing fine. Found her a nice patch of clover, so she ain't missing you at all. Hoping she'll foal come spring.”

“Peony's not a foaling horse!” I practically shout. “She's too valuable as a ride-and-train. Daddy broke two cantankerous colts to the harness with her on lead!”

Abel's grin widens. “All mares are foaling horses. If she drops a pretty palomino like herself, it'll be just like striking gold.”

I couldn't stand it if something happened to Peony. I could have bred her lots of times, but never wanted to risk her. I add Abel to the list of faces to bust.

“Does my uncle know you're whipping these poor souls?” I ask.

Frank Dilley jumps in. “He knows, and he approves.”

I open my mouth to protest, but something catches my eye. It's the Indian nearest the entrance, stealing glances at me. No, it's not me he's looking at. It's my tin cup. Maybe he's thirsty. There's water all around us, but it's hardly fit to drink. Or maybe it's the sugar he's desperate for.

“Lee!” calls a familiar voice. Two more figures appear in the gloom.

It's Jefferson and Tom, wearing nothing but soaked trousers. Jefferson holds a pickax, Tom a shovel. They are too pale, and bruises mark Jefferson's chest and right shoulder,
but I'm so glad to see them awake and alert that tears prick at my eyes.

“Get back to work,” Abel growls.

“It's all right!” I say quickly. “My uncle agreed that I could check on my friends and . . .” I enunciate my next words clearly: “And make sure they are fit and unharmed.” My gaze roves Jefferson's bruised chest. He's got the muscle for mining, that's for sure. I wish I could grab a shirt and cover him up. It must be killing him to have the marks of his beating exposed for the whole world to see. “Abel, my friend Jefferson does not appear unharmed. I'll have to tell my uncle so.”

Abel's eyes narrow. In the lantern gloom, they look like devil eyes. “You've gotten mighty uppity all of a sudden,” he says.

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.

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-tap
s 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 aches.

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.”