Like a River Glorious (6 page)

“We had to guess at the size,” Henry says. “I thought this color would be lovely on you!”

“It might be too big,” Jasper adds. “But the lady at the counter assured us a dress is easier to take in than let out.”

“I'm a dab at the needle myself,” Henry says. “I could help you.” He's practically beaming, so pleased is he to present this gift to me.

I swallow hard and blink. “It's pretty,” I breathe, fingering the fabric. “The prettiest thing I've seen in a long time.”

Tom and Jasper share relieved smiles.

“If you don't like it, we got an extra,” Henry says, reaching into his own bag. “It didn't seem right for you, but . . .”

He retrieves a lavender calico dress, shakes it out, and holds it up against his chest.

“That's big enough to fit you,” I say. “No, I like this one just fine. More than fine.”

He grins and folds the other dress back up.

“Two boughten dresses,” I say, marveling. Seems like an overindulgence to me.

“The seamstress gave us a deal,” Henry says. “It would appear there are far more dresses than women in the state at the moment, one being easier to ship west, and the other less willing. But we might be able to trade it for something later.”

“Let's get all this unloaded,” Jefferson says. He wears an odd expression, like he's trying to figure something out.

“We ought to find a dry spot for all that fresh ammo you brought,” Major Craven says. “And we need to build a henhouse before those chickens get any bigger.”

“And I guess I need to learn how to work a stove,” Becky says.

Everyone stares at her. It's easy to forget she didn't cook a day in her life before hitting the trail, at which point she only cooked over an open fire. Becky gives us a sheepish shrug. “Sukey, my slave in Chattanooga, always managed the stoves.”

I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of my chest. It's almost too ridiculous for words, that a grown woman could be so helpless.

But Hampton is frowning. “Don't look at me to help you with it.”

“I . . . Of course not,” Becky stammers.

The Major steps forward, rubbing his beard. “I've been around a woodstove or two,” he says to Becky, “and I reckon you and I, we can figure this out together. If you don't mind me being in the way.”

She smiles at him. “Thank you, sir.”

Everyone helps unload and find places to store everything. Most of it goes into the lean-tos, a bit in our saddlebags. Barrels and sacks of foodstuffs remain in the cart, off the ground, which is rolled under a huge oak and covered in canvas.

Jefferson is the only one who goes about the work with a sour face. His look is so dark, his motions so brusque and hurried, that I finally sidle up to him and ask, “Jeff?”

“See all this stuff?” he says with a sweep of his hand. “It looks like we're rich already, and us only being here a couple of weeks.”

Understanding is like a click in my brain. “Oh.”

“People are going to start talking, no doubt about it. They'll talk about how prosperous Glory, California, is. Miners will come from all over to stake claims nearby. Everyone will hear about the group of folks, women and children among them, with a half Indian and a Negro besides. And when they do—”

“My uncle will come to fetch me.”

He nods. “If we don't get robbed first.”

I glance over toward the cart. Major Craven is using his crutch to shift some stones aside and pound out a flat area for the new box stove, his amputated leg swaying as he works. It's a marvelous feat of balance. “I can do more with one leg than most men can do with two,” he always says.

“People will recognize descriptions of the Major, too,” I say. “I couldn't stand it if something happened to any of them.”

“I couldn't stand it if something happened to
you
,” he says, his dark eyes suddenly intense on me. We stand a moment in silence, staring at each other. He has the finest face I've ever seen, with his high cheekbones and serious eyes and a wide mouth that always has a gentle curve, all surrounded by the thickest, shiniest black hair that a girl could run her fingers through.

I swallow hard. “So, what do we do?”

“Let's talk it out with everyone at supper tonight.”

We sit around the campfire, which isn't as huge and roaring as usual on account of the fact that the Major and Becky have gotten the stove fired up and hotter than blazes. They made a huge pot of rabbit stew, thanks to Martin's hunting success,
which is a bit watery, but still delicious with the fresh onions, turnips, potatoes, and carrots that the college men brought back.

Beside me, Jasper is showing Olive how to work stitches into the rabbit's untanned hide. “Rabbit skin is thinner and more delicate than human skin,” Jasper says. “So once you've gotten the hang of it, we'll move on to something else. Maybe a deer, or better yet a boar.”

Across from me, Jefferson is cleaning his rifle, but he steals glances through the wavering firelight, which I pretend not to notice.

Everyone else spoons up their stew, enjoying the rest and silence after a hard day's work.

Finally, as Becky starts gathering dishes, I clear my throat. “Jefferson and me, we think we should set a double watch tonight,” I say.

“And every night,” Jefferson adds.

“Not a bad idea,” the Major says, bouncing the Joyner baby on his knee. “Someone on the hill near the lean-tos and the cart, another at the corral.”

“Still worried about claim jumpers?” Becky asks. “We have some fine neighbors now. Well, maybe not
fine
, but they're perfectly friendly.”

“People are going to start talking, friendly or not,” I say. “Once they see our fancy new box stove and those chickens and that cart full of goods, they'll figure we're doing well. Maybe too well.”

“I'm big now,” Andy says, all seriousness. “I can stand watch.”

Henry Meek rubs at his scant beard. “We should hide as many of our supplies as possible.”

“At least we don't have to worry about Indians stealing our things,” Becky says. “I haven't seen a single Indian since we left Mormon Island.”

Jefferson glares at her, and I don't blame him for being angry. People pretend he's a white man when it suits them, erasing part of who he is. Besides, Becky shouldn't assume danger on that front, since we've had nothing but fair dealings with Indians. I guess it's hard to get past your notions about people sometimes, even when your own experience tells you otherwise.

“Hopefully,” Jeff says, “the fact that we've seen so few Indians means we're not trespassing on their territory.”

“They have no territory,” Becky says.

Jefferson clenches his jaw, then he opens his mouth to snap back, but Hampton says, “I've seen 'em. They watch me from that big stand of oak trees sometimes, when I'm tending the oxen and horses.” At Becky's gasp, he hastily adds, “They're not threatening at all. Just curious, I think.”

“They're nomads,” Becky says. “Here today, gone tomorrow.”

“Calling them nomads,” Jefferson says, “is just a fancy way of saying it's okay to squat on their land.”

Becky is about to protest, but Henry interrupts. “I suspect they don't want trouble any more than we do,” he says.

Hampton adds, “I went over to talk to them, but they'd disappeared. They left behind the most beautiful baskets, full of
acorns.” His gaze grows distant. “I've never seen anything as pretty as that weaving.”

“What'd you do with them?” I ask.

“The baskets? I left them there. Weren't mine. That was somebody else's labor, and somebody else's meal.”

“That was good of you,” Jefferson says.

“A day later, the baskets were gone,” Hampton says. “I don't think we have anything to worry about from them, that's all I'm saying.”

“Doesn't mean we have nothing to worry about from others,” I point out. “So far, the only people who've tried to hurt us or take our stuff is other Christians. Like those claim jumpers.”

“I'll dig a cellar for our cabin,” Martin says. “I'll be all day about it, if need be. We can hide our supplies there.”

“Don't bother,” says the Major. “Ground's too hard. Solid granite and shale, most of it.”

“There's a soft, grassy spot up the creek a ways,” Tom says. “Past the rapids, out of sight.”

“I can pull up the sod,” Martin says. “Jefferson and me'll dig it out. We'll cache some dry goods there, things the rodents won't care about.” He and Jeff exchange a quick nod.

“Speaking of rodents,” Tom says, “we could use a cat or two.”

Olive looks up from her practice stitches. “I'll take care of her. I'll feed her and pet her all the time so she wants to stay with us.”

Tom nods solemnly. “I'm sure you would do a great job at that. There probably won't be any kittens until spring, but I'll keep an eye out.”

“I'm going to practice with my five-shooter, starting tomorrow,” I say. “So don't be alarmed when you hear my gun going off.”

“I'll join you,” Jefferson says.

“Me too,” Martin and Jasper chorus.

“I hate guns,” says Henry.

The Major uses his crutch to stand. “If any of Mrs. Joyner's customers ask about our goods, I'm going to say we traded with things we brought from back east. No sense letting people know how much gold we've found.”

We all exchange glances around the fire. It's a bold-faced lie and a sin, but no one protests.

“Heirloom jewelry,” Becky offers softly. “We'll say I brought heirloom jewelry from my father's plantation in Tennessee. Traded it in Sacramento.”

“Well, that was mighty generous of you!” the Major says, grinning.

Becky smiles back. She's had an awful lot of smiles for the Major lately.

It puts me in mind of Jefferson, and I look across the fire and catch him staring at me. Again.

“Lee and I will take the first watch,” he says firmly.

“I've got my eye out for trouble,” I mumble as I stand, but I'm not sure which way I should be looking.

O
ur wagon train was hardly a week out of Independence before we realized that standing watch was near useless. Even on the flat prairie, there were too many dips and gullies, too many cattle, too many tents and wagons, to keep an eye on everything, especially in the dark. The Major, who was never more than a sergeant in the Missouri militia, taught us to walk the perimeter to keep attackers guessing and cover more ground. After the Major was wounded in the buffalo stampede, Frank Dilley took over leadership of the wagons. Frank was a terrible person, but a decent enough leader and guide, and he kept right on assigning perimeter watches.

So Jefferson and I make a wide, silent circuit of our camp in the dark, rifles loaded, coats buttoned tight against the night chill. Moonlight ripples across the water of our beaver pond. As we skirt the shore, a great
smack!
sounds, and we whip up our guns in reflex. Then we share a quick laugh. Just a beaver, slapping the water in warning at our approach.

We continue in silence. Being with Jefferson used to be as easy as breathing. I think of his pathetic marriage proposal, back when we were first thinking on taking to the trail west. I thought the proposal was just for show, to make traveling together easier. I didn't realize at the time that he was sweet on me.

Now everything is different. Now, being with Jefferson is both familiar and strange. Like a brand-new pair of boots from the same cobbler. Shinier, newer, maybe even nicer, but they don't fit the same until you've walked in them a spell.

“I heard about Old Tug,” Jefferson says.

“He's a rascal,” I say.

“You like him?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good.”

The smugness in his voice pleases me, for some reason. “He didn't really want to marry me. He said I was ugly and manly. Just wanted to make his friends jealous that he had a wife.”

“You're not ugly.”

I smile into the dark.

“And you're not manly,” he adds.

“I wasn't fishing for compliments.”

We walk on, giving the lean-tos and tents wide berth so as not to wake the others. In the distance, one of the horses whinnies. Just Sorry, I'd wager, bellyaching as usual.

“Olive says you don't want to get married at all.”

“That girl needs to mind her own business.”

“Is it true?”

My sigh is lost in the night breeze. I'm not sure what to tell him.

“Lee?”

“I don't know,” I say truthfully.

“What do you mean? What's so bad about getting married?”

We've reached the edge of the corral, with its resident horses and oxen. They're mostly shapeless lumps in the dark, but I find Peony right away. I'd recognize her silhouette anywhere, as easily as I recognize my own hand. She's asleep standing up, one back leg slightly cocked.

“You see,” Jefferson continues, “I was hoping you said what you did to Old Tug just because you found him objectionable.”

“You mean the part about having a sweetheart back in Georgia?”

“All of it.”

“You're awfully well informed for someone who was away at his claim at the time.”

“Everyone was very forthcoming. Couldn't stop talking about it.”

Of course they couldn't. “I
do
find him objectionable. But some of it was true.”

“So you don't want to get married.”

I snap, “Well, I'm not going to rush into it, that's for sure.”

“But do you—”

“Once a woman gets married, she has nothing of her own. She can't own property. She can't make any decisions about her life.” Now that the words are coming, they're like a burst dam, spilling so fast I can hardly catch a breath. “When Mama
and Daddy died, everything went to my uncle. Everything I'd worked so hard for. I thought he'd stolen all our gold, more than a thousand dollars' worth. Our twenty acres of land. The house, the barn, our horses and tack. But it turns out it was his all along, fair and legal. Because a girl can't inherit. So here I am, all the way out in California, trying to rebuild some of what I lost. As a single girl, I can, you know. But once I get married, everything belongs to my husband. Even my own self. I have to give up the name Westfall and change it to my husband's. Don't you see? Once I get married, I lose everything all over again.”

He's silent for such a long time. Maybe I've silenced him for good. We circle back toward the rapids and climb up a ways. So many of our claims lie upstream that we've worn a bit of a path. It's treacherous in the dark, but we're careful.

Finally he says, “Marriage doesn't have to be like that.”

“It was like that for your mama. Your da owned her.”

Jefferson doesn't like to talk about his mother. She left Georgia with the rest of the Cherokee when the Indians were forced to go to Oklahoma Territory. She could have chosen to stay, being married to a white man. Jefferson was only five years old, and she left him all alone with a no-good drunk of a man who beat her regular. No one in Dahlonega blamed her one bit, and by law, she had no right to steal a white man's son. My own daddy, who rarely spoke ill of anyone, once said that Jefferson's da was likely to kill her someday, that just because he married a Cherokee woman didn't mean he didn't hate Indians deep down.

“It wasn't like that for
your
mama,” he counters.

He's sort of right. My mama and daddy were partners. Best friends. I know they loved each other. I
know
they did. But it turns out that Mama married Daddy for reasons I may never fully know. She was in love with my uncle Hiram at the time, and no one expected she'd end up with Hiram's brother instead. I never would have known, myself, if Daddy's old friend Jim hadn't found me in Independence and told me all about it.

“If I ever get married, I want it to be like that,” I concede. “But Mama was a bit of a puzzle, you know. She loved Daddy, for sure and certain, but she had secrets. Even in love, she was never quite her own self.”

Jefferson stops and lifts his head to gaze at the stars, and I follow his line of sight. The Big Dipper is bright above us. The Cherokee call it the Seven Brothers. Jefferson always wanted to have brothers.

“I would never take anything away from you,” he whispers.

My heart cracks a little. “Not on purpose, you wouldn't. But that's how the world works. It's not something you can change just by being good.”

“Can't you?”

I'm all talked out. I've got no words left in me, just a hint of sadness and a bucketful of stubbornness, and it occurs to me that maybe I'm ending up a lot like my mama.

As if sensing my thoughts, Jefferson's arms come up around my shoulders, and he pulls me tight to his wide chest. He smells of campfire smoke and fresh dirt, and there must be
a bit of gold dust caught in the seam of one of his sleeves because it sets my belly to buzzing.

His head bends toward mine, and his whisper tickles my ear. “I'm going to change your mind about marriage, Leah Elizabeth Westfall. Just you wait.”

And I have to consider that maybe there isn't any gold at all. Maybe it's Jefferson himself that has my skin all shivery and my breath a bit ragged.

I sleep late, finally missing a sunrise. That's the rule—if you take a watch, you get some extra shut-eye. When the scent of sizzling bacon and the clang of breakfast dishes fill my lean-to, I turn over and pull my bedroll over my ears.

I'm drifting pleasantly away when Nugget and Coney start barking their furry heads off. I groan. From the lean-to beside mine comes the sounds of stirring; Jefferson and Martin can't sleep through this god-awful racket neither.

I'm deciding whether to wait out the barking, or give in to the morning and fetch myself some breakfast, when Olive comes rushing over.

“It's Mr. Dilley and his men,” she whispers, low and fast. “They've found us. Ma says you have to come quick.”

My sleep fog clears like it's been whisked away by a violent wind. I throw off the bedroll and reach for my boots as Olive runs to pass the message to Jefferson.

I stumble from the lean-to and blink against the cold sunshine. I grab my rifle and start loading as I head toward the breakfast area. Nugget and Coney come trotting over
and follow at my heels. I'm glad for their company.

“Well, if it isn't Mr. Lee McCauley!” says Frank Dilley from atop his dun gelding. He's clean-shaven now, except for a thick black mustache. Someone should tell him that he'll never be a gentleman, no matter how much wax he uses to make it curl and point.

Nearly a dozen men are with him, all mounted. I recognize most of the faces from our wagon train. “No skirts today, pretty boy? You know what they say; nothing like a little gold mining to put hair on your chest.” He guffaws at his own joke, and his eyes drift meaningfully below my neck. Ever since everyone discovered that I'm really a girl, I haven't bothered to wrap myself with Mama's shawl. My true shape is plain as day to anyone with eyes.

“What are you doing here, Dilley?” I glance around our camp, weighing our options. Jefferson and the Major stand nearby, guns at the ready. Martin Hoffman is holding the Joyner baby, but he eyes the powder horn hanging from the corner of his lean-to. Hampton is out of sight, to my relief—Dilley and his men would surely recognize Bledsoe's former slave—and the college men are late abed, having taken second watch. Becky Joyner bustles around her breakfast table, serving miners as if nothing is amiss, but her shoulders are tense and her lips are pressed thin.

“Just thought we'd call on some old friends,” Dilley says.

“Friends?” Martin exclaims, loud enough that the baby starts to fuss. “My sister . . . You left us to
die
in the desert, you good-for-nothing son of a—”

“I thought you'd be out prospecting by now,” I interrupt with a warning look in Martin's direction.

The miners at Becky's table are murmuring among themselves, casting unfriendly glances toward the newcomers. Old Tug whispers something to Becky, and she whispers something back. He pulls his Colt revolver from his hip and places it on the table beside his plate.

“Only fools try to mine once the weather turns,” Dilley answers. “Anybody with common sense is in Sacramento, looking for work before the rains hit. But we heard about a mixed group of folks up this way, Northerners, some Southerners, a German boy, and we figured it had to be you. Wanted to see for ourselves, didn't we, boys?”

“So you aren't mining, and you aren't working,” Jefferson points out. “Who's the fool?”

“Your shirt has a bullet hole,” Dilley says. “Shooting your mouth off finally get you shot?”

The Major swings forward on his crutch. “I see you've come to make friends, like always.”

“Wally.” Dilley acknowledges him with a tip of his hat. He spits a stream of tobacco onto the ground beside his horse, and the gelding flicks his tail in irritation. “Nice to see you up and about, even if you're not the man you used to be.”

“I'm twice the man you ever were,” the Major says cheerfully. “Even with half as many legs.”

“Tidy little settlement you got here. Looks like you've found some color.”

“Not much,” the Major lies. “But we're hopeful.”

“Then where'd you get all this gear?”

“I sold some heirloom jewelry,” Becky pipes in, bringing a pot of porridge from the box stove to the table.

“Glad the baby turned out fine,” Dilley says, with a chin lift in Martin's direction. The Hoffman boy is patting the baby's bottom to keep her quiet. “Hope he got the right number of fingers and toes.”

“
She
does,” Becky says, spooning lumpy porridge into Old Tug's bowl. “No thanks to you.”

“You still haven't said what you're doing here, Frank Dilley,” I say.

“We're following all the streams to their sources, seeing who has which claims. My boy Jonas here”—he tilts his head in the direction of Jonas Waters, his foreman—“he's recording everything, official-like.”

“Official for who?”

“For somebody who knows his business. When all the placer gold plays out, and you're going hungry, he'll be ready to buy up the good claims and get to some real mining.” He waves a hand dismissively at our camp. “I ain't made up my mind yet whether this claim looks like it'll amount to anything.”

“That so?” I say.

“But the gentleman we're working for, a fine rich man who knows gold mining, from Georgia, he's also been asking around about his niece.”

The world tilts.

“Pretty sure he means you,” Dilley continues, grinning like a kitten that's snuck some cream. “Pretty sure he'll be
awful glad when I tell him where you're holed up.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I whisper.

Old Tug rises from the table. Several others stand with him. “Well, sir, I expect you best get on with it,” Tug says. “Lots of streams, lots of claims, lots of miles to cover.”

Dilley's mustache twitches. “And who're you?”

“Name's Tuggle. Me and the rest of these boys”—he gestures around the table—“hail from Ohiya. But nowadays, we Buckeyes are neighbors to Widow Joyner and Miss Leah here, and we come to pay our respects
every day
.”

Frank Dilley and Old Tug stare at each other for a spell. Dilley's eyes make a sweep of Tug's companions, noting their shiny new Colts.

Finally Dilley tips his hat. “A good day to you, Mr. McCauley. And you, too, Jefferson.” He smirks at his own joke. “I won't say good-bye—I expect we'll see you again.”

“I expect so,” I mutter.

The Missouri men turn their horses to skirt the pond and head upstream. I gasp with the realization: when they reach the top of the rapids, there'll be a vantage point, a brief break in the trees that will allow them to see our entire camp and most of our claim land. It means they'll be able to spot Hampton.