Like a River Glorious (4 page)

“I can't lose another child,” Mrs. Hoffman says, her voice wavering. “I
can't
.”

And I can't blame her. I miss Therese more than I've let on to anyone, even Jefferson.

Mr. Hoffman's face falls into his hands. His silhouette becomes a huge lump against the sky, like the weight of all of California is stooping him low. “We never should have come here. It's the worst decision I ever made, and . . . I'm sorry, Helma.
Bitte, vergib mir.
”

His wife pulls his head down to her shoulder.

I force the words out: “I'll pack up my gear. Peony and I will be gone by morning.”

“No!” Jasper shouts. He's as excited as I've ever seen him, taken with the fever, same as my uncle.

“Anyone who sticks with me is going to get rich, for sure and certain,” I tell him. “But they might get dead, too.”

“I'm going with Lee,” Jefferson says. “No matter what.”

“Me too,” Jasper says.

Hampton steps forward and places a hand on Jefferson's shoulder. “I'm already a dead man,” he says, “if those slave catchers ever find me. Might as well be with friends.”

I swallow against a sudden sting in my throat. “I didn't want . . . I mean, you shouldn't all separate on my account. I'll just go. I'll point you in the right direction so you can all get to prospecting, and I'll leave you in peace.”

“No,” says Mr. Hoffman. He has straightened, and his voice has steadied. “You stay, Lee. We'll go.”

“Where?” Tom asks. “You've got no experience. You need Lee and Jefferson to—”

“Home. Back to Ohio.”

“Vater, no!” Martin cries.

His father winces but says nothing.

Mrs. Hoffman reaches over and grasps her husband's hand so that they face us united. He squeezes back and says, “We're not the first to give up and go home; talked to a few folks at Sutter's Fort and Mormon Island who were already making plans to leave California. I thought crossing the desert would be like crossing the ocean, and there would be a better life waiting for us on the other side. But gold isn't worth our lives. We'll go by ship this time, arrive home a lot poorer, but grateful not to lose anyone else.”

We are silent for a long moment. I expect others to announce their own departure, but no one does.

I offer the nugget to Mr. Hoffman. “Here.”

He takes it from my hand.

“And this, too.” I reach into my pocket and pull out another. “I found it two days ago. Worth about fifty dollars.”

“I can't—”

“You can and you will.” I shove it into his hand. “I have a leather pouch in my saddlebag filled with smaller ones. They're all yours. They can buy passage for your family.”

He shakes his head. “I still have a candlestick left. Once I sell it—”

“Use it to give yourself a new start back in Ohio. Take it as a gift. In Therese's memory, because she was my friend.”

“I . . .” Concern for his family's welfare overcomes his pride. “All right. Thank you, Leah Westfall.” He rummages in his
pocket and pulls out my mother's locket. “I should be returning this to you.”

With a nod, I take it from him and slip it around my neck. I breathe deep as the heart-shaped piece settles against my chest, setting my magic to buzzing, welcoming it home where it belongs.

Together, we all trudge back up the hill. Martin Hoffman hangs his head and kicks at the ground with each step. Once we reach the wagon and tents, he dashes off into the darkness. Mr. Hoffman starts to go after him, but Mrs. Hoffman grabs his arm. “Give the boy some time.”

I grab my rifle from Peony's saddle holster. “I'll take first watch.”

“Wake me in a few hours,” Jefferson says.

But I'm still sitting on the hilltop, wide awake, rifle across my lap, when morning blushes the sky.

A condor soars high above. It's a giant of a bird, bigger even than an eagle, with magnificent black-and-white wings. Like everything else in this territory, it's both familiar and odd, and it makes my old home in Georgia seem like a very small, distant place.

After breakfast, we split up our gear. The Hoffmans agree to let us keep all the tents, the mining gear we bought at Mormon Island, and Mr. Hoffman's gray gelding. In exchange, they'll keep the wagon and half the oxen, which they'll take to San Francisco and sell.

Everyone says their good-byes. The four Hoffman boys are stone-faced as they hitch up the oxen, except Otto, whose
lower lip quivers. Martin goes about the work with jerky, slapdash movements, yanking on the hitch so hard that an ox lows in protest.

Mrs. Hoffman hugs Becky fiercely.

“I'd dearly love a letter from you, Helma,” Becky says.

Mrs. Hoffman promises to write. “Take care of that baby girl,” she admonishes. “And
you
must write
me
when you've finally settled on her name!”

As the wagon rolls away, Olive Joyner runs after it, doll swinging at her side. “Doreen!”

My heart stops as the Hoffman girl leaps from the back of the wagon and tumbles to the ground. But she jumps nimbly to her feet and runs toward Olive, bonnet whipping at her back. The two little girls throw themselves into each other's arms.

Olive pulls away. She shoves her rag doll into Doreen's arms. Without another word, she turns and dashes into the nearest tent.

Martin Hoffman strides back toward us to fetch his little sister. Doreen doesn't protest when he swings her up, but tears stream down her cheeks, and she's still staring at us over her brother's shoulder, Olive's rag doll dangling from her tiny hand, when the Hoffman family disappears into the trees.

B
ecky wipes at her cheek and smooths her blond hair. “Well,” she says, checking a hair pin. “The cure for a heavy heart is
industry
.” With that, she turns toward the fire and begins scraping the breakfast dishes.

No one else moves for a moment. I look around at all the folks who are willing to risk their lives to stay with me: Jefferson and Hampton; Jasper, Tom, and Henry; Widow Joyner, with her two little ones; and Major Craven. I swallow the lump in my throat. “So, who wants to learn how to pan for gold?”

“Me!” Andy shouts, raising his hand like he's in a schoolroom.

“And me,” Jasper says, a bit sheepishly. For all that he's a doctor and wants to help people, he's caught the fever like everyone else and wants to feel the weight of heavy pockets.

“I'll go with Jefferson and stake all our claims,” Hampton says.

“There's nothing to it,” Jefferson says, nodding. “Folks at
Sutter's Fort said to pace it out, pound some stakes into the ground, and connect them with string.”

Tom rubs at his chin. “Doesn't seem right, having everything so informal.”

Henry cuffs him on the shoulder. “Not everything in the world is a law written in stone.”

“Well, it should be! Especially with California destined for statehood. We need the law more than ever in tumultuous times. What if—”

“What if you come and help me lay out the foundation for our cabin?” Henry interrupts gently, to everyone's relief. Once Tom gets on a tear, there's no stopping him.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Tom says. “Putting up cabins seems like a much more secure way to make our claim than stakes and strings.”

“Won't do us any harm to do both,” Major Craven says. He waves his crutch at us. “I'm not much for heavy lifting or hammering or digging these days, but I'll tend to the animals and then stand watch.”

“Watching the widow,” Jefferson whispers at my side, and I hit him with an elbow.

“Olive, go with Lee,” Becky orders her daughter. “Later, you'll teach me what you learned about panning for gold.”

Olive has crept out of the tent, and though tears still streak her cheeks, she stands stoically, hands clasped against her pinafore. “Yes, Ma.”

“Don't sound so disappointed,” Jasper says. “We'll have fun.”

He pats her head, and she jerks away. She doesn't care for that any more than I would.

I stare for just a moment toward the trees that swallowed up the Hoffman family; then I grab a wide, shallow pan, a bucket, and my hat. “All right, Andy and Olive. Are you ready to get soaking wet?”

“Yes, ma'am!” Andy says, while Olive regards my pan suspiciously.

“I've got the shovels,” Jasper says.

“Then let's go.”

If we were back in Georgia, trying to pan for gold in those played-out creeks, we could be at it all morning and not have anything to show for it but sunburned necks, blistered hands, and a few flakes of shiny dust. Here in California, my gold sense is humming all the time, like my school bell has been pulled, and there's ringing in my ears that won't go away.

Jasper convinces the children to stand quiet long enough for me to concentrate, and I pick us a prime spot. It's a wide, flat place in the creek, shallow enough for Andy and Olive, with a tinkling like chimes bouncing up through the ripples.

As expected, the gold comes easy. Mostly I supervise and explain what to do. Jasper shovels the gravel and black sand, and he and Olive take turns shaking the pans in water until the heavy pieces sink to the bottom. Olive hums as she works, some old hymn. It's her favorite tune—I've heard her humming it while she helps her mother.

“Slow down,” I tell Olive. “You have to let the gold settle. Do you see it?”

“Where?” she asks.

All I mean to do is point, but it seems as though the flake lifts out of the water and sticks to my finger, just as if I called it. It's the strangest feeling, like a static shock when it touches my skin.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Jasper asks.

“Do what on purpose?” I say. “Give me your hand.” I brush the tiny speck of gold into his palm. “You hold on to what we find. Now both of you, get back to work. This gold isn't going to pan itself.”

My students do well. Jasper has a good touch, Olive has a good eye, and Andy has a good time. He splashes in the water and chases fish and cheers every time his sister or the doctor announces another find.

Jefferson and Hampton are exploring along the creek, trailed by the dogs, marking off claims for everybody in our group, and of course they want my advice. So I leave Jasper and Olive to pan, and Andy runs up and down the bank with me while we pick out good spots. I try to listen not just for the gold song coming from the water, but also for the deeper hum stretching back into the banks. I help Hampton choose the richest spot for his border of string—he's got freedom to buy and family to reclaim from down south.

We're tying off string at the edge of Hampton's claim when I notice Jefferson staring at me. “You don't have to watch my eyes,” I grumble. “When I sense gold, I'll tell you straight.”

“That's not why I'm looking,” he replies, and Hampton fails to keep the grin from his face.

I hightail it out of there and return to Jasper, who has two hands full of tiny nuggets. He's staring at them, eyes wide.

“A few ounces,” I say. “Not bad for half a morning's work.”

He holds out both hands. “Pick one—it's your half.”

“Keep it all,” I say. “Jefferson and Hampton say this stretch is going to be your claim. That's Tom and Henry's claims, right adjacent, so you can work them all together. I was supposed to be teaching you, and it seems like you've been taught.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are your feet wet?”

Jasper laughs and pours all the gold into one hand. He picks out the largest nugget and calls to Olive. “Here you go, partner. For your all your hard work.”

She takes it reverently and holds it like it's a hummingbird's fragile egg.

“Where's mine?” Andy says. “I helped, too.”

“I've got yours right here,” Jasper says, and he gives me a wink as he hands another tiny stone to the boy.

For a moment, I am happy, maybe the happiest I've been since Uncle Hiram murdered my parents and stole my life from me. I have sunlight on my face, and the siren call of gold singing under my skin. I'm with family again, my real family now, whatever the law says, and I'm doing something I'm good at.

“I'm cold,” says Olive.

“Let's get you back to your ma and dried off,” I say. Jasper gathers our tools and whistles a tune as we head downstream. When we come within sight of camp, Andy takes off running.

“Ma! We found gold!” he hollers. His trousers are soaked through, his right leg slathered in mud up to his knee.

Becky jumps up from the table, the one that made it here all the way from Chattanooga. Her red-checked tablecloth is spread across it just so, the corners perfectly aligned, and a vase full of purple alpine rises from the center. It's like God dropped a tiny tavern right into the middle of the wilderness.

Sitting at the table is a stranger.

My hand flies to the five-shooter at my hip. The man sits across from Becky, scooping up half-burned flapjacks like they're manna from heaven. Crumbs cling to his wild gray beard. Becky holds the fussing baby to her chest like a shield.

“Hush, Andy,” I whisper. “Say no more about the gold.”

“Okay, Lee,” Andy whispers back. Olive slips her hand into mine. I glance around for the Major, who was supposed to be keeping watch.

“This gentleman is Mr. Tuggle,” Becky says smoothly, though I know her well enough to note the wariness in her eyes and the carefulness of her speech. “He paid me two dollars for a plate of flapjacks.”

“And a mighty fine breakfast it was, ma'am!” he exclaims. “The best flapjacks I ever had.”

Olive and I exchange a baffled glance. The bearded man is either daft or deceitful, because Becky Joyner is the worst cook in the whole wide West.

He wipes his mouth with one of Becky's embroidered napkins, then rises from the table and stretches out his hand
to shake. “Just call me Old Tug,” he says. “And your name, mister?”

“It's . . .” I almost say my last name, Westfall, but I don't want to make it any easier for folks to connect me with my uncle. “Lee.
Miss
Lee.”

His gaze darts down to my trousers, then up to my chin-length hair. “Pleased to meet you,
Miss
Lee. You'll have to forgive me. We don't much get the pleasure of gentler company in these parts.” His skin is craggy and weathered, his nose peeling from the sun. His riotous gray beard nearly covers a smile only half full of brownish teeth.

I'm about to retort that my company is anything but gentle when I sense someone at my shoulder. I turn and am relieved to see Jasper. “This is Jasper Clapp,” I tell Old Tug. “He's our doctor. Most of our other menfolk are about their chores, but I expect them back any moment.”

“I see.” Which I hope means Old Tug got the message; we are not alone and helpless out here.

“Where are you headed, Old Tug?” I ask.

“Not sure yet. Looking for a place to stake a good claim.”

“If you head back to the river and point your boots east, you'll see plenty of good prospecting land.”

“I was thinking this might be a good place.”

Major Craven materializes at the tree line, swinging forward on his crutch and cradling an armful of Becky's dishes. He must have taken them to the creek to wash. “Sorry, sir,” he calls out cheerfully. “But every parcel within view has been claimed already.”

Old Tug frowns, his eyes narrowing. “You don't say.” His voice does not match the one I heard when Jefferson was shot, but he could easily be one of the silent claim jumpers who shot through the trees.

The Major stacks the dishes beside the fire pit. “We wouldn't mind having some good neighbors, though. Be happy to show you a few promising spots that haven't been claimed yet.”

I stare at him. Has he gone mad?

Becky bends over to clear away Old Tug's dishes. “Indeed, sir,” she says with her sweetest smile. “We could do with some company on occasion. Wouldn't be right to let go the finer tenets of civilization just because we're out in the wilderness.”

Old Tug stands from the table, revealing a ragged hole in the knee of his trousers. “I couldn't agree more, ma'am.” He flips his hat onto his head. “Mind if I come back tomorrow morn? Might bring another fellow or two.”

This seems to take Becky aback, and my grip on the five-shooter tightens. “I . . . I suppose that would be all right,” she says.

“Would you accept gold dust for payment?” he asks.

Her eyes widen. “You mean you want to bring me paying customers?”

“Lots of gentlemen in these parts with gold to spare would pay to have such a fine breakfast,” he says.

Becky's face is transformed with wonder, and Lord help every man within a thousand miles, because it makes her one of the prettiest women I ever saw. “Why, certainly, Mr. Tuggle. Bring as many friends as you'd like.”

Tug turns to the Major. “Mind showing me to one of those promising spots?”

Craven grins. “Not at all, sir, not at all.” He grabs his Colt.

Jasper steps forward, hoisting his rifle, too. “I'm coming with you.”

I give Jasper a grateful nod. There's no way we're leaving our friend all alone with this strange man.

As Jasper, Major Craven, and Old Tug skirt the pond toward the beaver dam, Becky says to me, “I must be a better cook than I thought!”

I blink. “It must be from all the practice.” I step forward to grab the table, just like I've done hundreds of times, but I stop short, laughing.

“What's so funny?” Becky asks.

“I was about to put the table away in the wagon. Then I remembered we don't have a wagon anymore.”

She grins.

“Becky, I have to ask. Why were you so blasted
friendly
to that man? You practically invited him to join us.”

She puts her hands on her hips and stares me down. “And what would have happened if I'd bullied him away? He'd have become suspicious, that's what. He would have realized that we're sitting on the best gold claims in the Sierra Nevada.”

“Oh.”

“And then he would have jumped our claims or gotten close enough to learn our real secret.”

Our
real secret. Tears prick at my eyes. “Oh.”

“So we're going to be friendly. Like it or not, we'll encounter
plenty of folks here in California. More are pouring in every day. Might as well establish some good neighbors.”

I scuff my boots in the dirt. “You're right, of course. Sorry.”

“I'm not daft, you know. We'll set a double watch tonight. Just in case.”

I groan, thinking of lost sleep, as Becky flips the dishrag over her shoulder, signaling an end to it all. She crouches to tend to Andy and Olive and make appropriate exclamations over the gold they found.

All the chores are done, so I mosey back up the creek to find Jefferson standing ankle-deep in ice-cold water, trousers and sleeves rolled up, leaning on a shovel.

“Glad you're here,” he says. “I wanted to ask you if this is a good spot.”

I give him my best glare. “Jasper say you're fit to work yet? You're supposed to be staking claims, not heaving dirt.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Worried about me, are you?”

“You're going to tear your stitches, and then you'll be useless for two more weeks.”

He digs into the bank and comes up with a shovelful of mud and gravel, which he tosses into his broad pan. “Claims are done. And I'm hale enough to dig my way from here to Sacramento.”