California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1) (13 page)

Solana
moved
to Esther and sat down beside her. The stick was still in Esther's hand, on the
opposite side of the bed. "Then I understand why you do this."

"Now will you go away?"

"It was not the fault of the child
in you, any of this."

"Of course not," Esther said.

"Then you punish it, kill a living
thing for something it has not done. Women of other tribes do that and they are
cursed."

Esther had not thought of that aspect.
She fought the truth of it. "I don't care.
It isn't mine!
" The
injustice to the living creature inside her did not go away.

"I will hate you if you do it. You
are my friend, and I will hate you."

"I don't care."

Instinctively
Solana
used truth to gain time, stall the act
she might not have the strength to prevent, allow the seed of what was fair to
the child to grow—she had seen it take root in the fleeting change in Esther's
expression. "I will hate you for what you have done and for making a fool
of me."

"How will I do that?"

"My people will laugh at me, speak
to me no more."

"In God's name, why?" Esther's
attention was on
Solana
now.

"Because I have told them you are
Miwokan's sun-sister. That the sun made you at the same time; as with Miwokan,
the sun has given you large work to do. Even Miwokan believes it. And that you
also carry the strong spirit of the great bear in your heart. That you flew
over the mountains and the snow and ice because the sun will not call you back
until you have done what you have to do for him. That you are the woman who
would not die."

The thought of Mosby, of what she wanted
to do to him, swelled in Esther's mind. She fought it. She was breathing fast,
and the exaggerated sight of her swollen stomach rising and falling caught her
attention. She thought of the unborn innocent. It was
not
fair to the
child.

"Do not do it—for me,"
Solana
said, touching her shoulder.

"It wasn't the baby's fault,"
Esther said, crying once more. "The poor thing didn't do it."

"That is the truth."

Mosby's angry, sneering face and the
ugly, rough feel of his hands hung suspended in Esther's thoughts again.
"HE
DID IT!"
she screamed, rage enveloping her. She picked up the other
sticks and threw them all against the wall of the cabin.
"HE DID IT,
AND ONE DAY I WILL KILL HIM FOR IT!"

"Yes," Solana
said,
reaching, wrapping her arms around Esther and rocking her back and forth as she
sobbed, "I... will... not... kill... the... baby." She rocked her
until the uncontrollable crying and the wracking, deep sobs drained all the
energy from Esther and she closed her eyes. She was asleep when Miwokan finally
arrived.

South
Fork Cabin

September 1, 1847

Solana
and Miwokan came today. He is gone
now, but
Solana
will stay with me until the
child is born. She says she is sure it will happen within this quarter of the
moon. She sits rocking and nursing her three-month-old son, Mwamwaash, as I
write this. Miwokan brought a spear for me as a token of his appreciation
today. It is fiercely beautiful, carved with bear symbols, its long,
hand-sharpened stone spearhead imbedded in an oak shaft. In the wood just below
the base of the stone he somehow has set a circle of upturned bear claws. How I
would, forgive me, Lord, like to see that awful circle of points in Luther
Mosby's heart!

How my hatred of the man persists, grows, the periods of wrath
against him increasing as the blessed days when my mind is clear and my spirit
and body do not fail me grow longer in number.

Strange as well how the Indians persist in their somewhat idolatrous
beliefs about me. "Bear Woman" indeed! I suppose with this nose and
this hand I do look like I have had an altercation with a grizzly and escaped.
And no matter what I say, neither
Solana
nor
Miwokan will look upon what I did during Solana's breech birth as anything
short of a "miracle."

While it is true that I luckily was able to reach up and ease
her unborn child the last bit around, it had already turned in the right
direction during Solana's trip here. And it was good fortune accompanying
desperation more than anything else. Lucky that I remembered even unclearly the
time I watched mother do the same thing midwifing in Vermont, and read more on
it in Elisha Canby's medical book at Bent's Fort. In any case,
Solana
had broken water and not delivered for two days. Surely when
they reached here on their way to Mount Diablo, something had to be done
immediately or she might have died before reaching Dr. Marsh's place. Still,
they ignore simple fact and regard me, subtly, most of them at a distance, thank
God, as though I were a saint! I have given up trying to reason with them on
the matter.

It would be obvious that summer is ending even without keeping
track. The nights grow colder after each sunset, and Sutter tells me his fields
of grain are ready for harvest. He, as usual, has been most understanding about
my request that he not come so often. I know he believes the issue in me was
the true reason I did not wish to rejoin Alex, although he has never spoken
directly of it. It is just as well. I wish no one to know of the details on the
ribbon-bound pages that I wrote after the events occurred. No matter what
course of action fate leads me to. It is better that way.

Forgot again to show Sutter the strange yellow-streaked stones I
have been collecting from the river. Must remem
ber
to
take them out of the small drawer of the armoire next time he comes.

The solitude and the beauty of these parts suits me well. Still
do not respond with feelings equal to the profusion of life and color that has
surrounded me here each day this spring and summer. Perhaps the feeble emotions
I feel from time to time are a sign of further "healing." Perhaps
not. Certainly have "felt" things during my time here when provoked
and angered. I wonder what feelings I will have when the child is born? It is
hard to imagine loving Mosby's child, although I care that it is born healthy
and strong for its own sake. Perhaps that tardy portion of my returning senses,
once-felt feelings of happiness, delight—dear God, perhaps even joy—will return
to me when I no longer carry Mosby's flesh and blood. Foolish musings, all of
this. We will just wait and see and try, however difficult it still is, to
accept God's will.

Solana
is probably right. Even these
larger trousers I asked Sutter for seem fit to burst. Saw myself in these male
"hermit" clothes in a quiet patch of water yesterday. Must admit they
are a sight, but do not care, in fact, prefer the manner in which they hide
even from me the otherwise obvious reminders that I am a woman.

Feel fortunate to be this far from "civilization," if
in
Alta
California it can be called that.
Sutter says the number of settlers who arrived this summer was much greater
than last year. One wonders, having crossed all that vast territory, suffering
the hardships, why so many do.

I grow weary. Must remember to bolt the windows, having seen the
bear tracks about the remains of the trash fire. No doubt a cub, so small and
closer-placed were its prints. Nevertheless, would hate to have even a
medium-sized cub climb through the window some night in search of food. Will
say a prayer for Alex as I lie beside the spear of the "Bear Woman!"
So good to hear from Sutter that Alex is equal to his cousin in position, doing
so well. I would be proud if I could but feel such things. And grateful as well
that I have partially come to accept the self-imposed loss of him... Still
unable to think of any possible means to return what is left of Alex's money...
without revealing I have survived. Someday, dearest husband, I will find a way
to replace what I have used of it, and either have the money itself returned to
you, or arrange for some gain of at least equal value. Dearest, dearest Alex...
Oh, God, how I love and miss you when I allow myself to think of the times gone
by. But I must not, cannot waver from a purpose concerning Mosby that is now
vague and simply suspended by lack of strength, knowledge, money, and
circumstance.

Forty miles southwest of Esthers cabin,
at Isaac Claussen's small ranch, Luther Mosby drew on his cigar and blew smoke
at one of the
Californios
sitting
opposite him. The heavier, darker man in tooled, silver-studded chaps,
embroidered muslin shirt, and waist-length jacket grinned, one large, gold
tooth gleaming. He held up his right hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger
together and raising his eyebrows as he nodded his head and smiled again. Mosby
scowled. It annoyed him that the
Californio
was so certain he would win the
ten-dollar bet they had just made. The thought that September had never been a
good month irritated him further.
And we're just five days into the damn
thing,
he calculated. He dismissed the foreboding quickly, certain there
was no way he could lose his bet, the way things were stacked.

Isaac Claussen
nudged
Mosby's ribs. Burly, red-bearded, and gruff, he was about to call Mosby
"Alamo," but he thought better of it. "He'll think you stove
that smile straight up his ass when he takes another look at the size of the
bull, won't he?"

"I can't abide fuckin'
greasers," Mosby said.

"I can understand that."
Claussen chose his words carefully. "What with you losin' so many friends
you left behind to the bastards… not bein' able to persuade that dumbass
Colonel… Colonel…?"

"Fannin."

"Colonel Fannin into gettin' off his
ass and helpin' 'em outa the pickle they wuz in at the Alamo."

"That's ancient history," Mosby
said, taking stock of the slender, sad-eyed
Californio
perched next to the one who had made the
bet. "Don't really have nothin' to do with it anyway. Just never could
stand the oily cocksuckers and never will."

"Don't care much for greasers
myself," Claussen chimed in. "But they brought in the grizzly."

"Yeah. He ain't much, though. Seen a
lot bigger."

"This bull ought to make short work
of him."

"That's the way I see it. And that
greaser better have ten dollars or I'll pull that fuckin' gold tooth out of his
head with my own hands."

Across from Mosby, Joaquin Alejandro
Murietta took it all in. Six rangy
Americanos
sat on the
twelve-foot-high, double-thick oak fence that opened on a chute leading to the
corral. Thirty feet in diameter, the fence also encircled a stone and adobe
outbuilding. Two more rough-looking gringos were leading one of the longhorns
in the nearby corral this way. Besides the man next to him with the gold tooth
there were two more mestizos—
Californios
of
mixed Spanish, Mexican, and Indian blood. They stood at the latched heavy door
to the outbuilding, ready to let the bear loose and climb jutting stones, a
small, high window-ledge, and the fence to safety. Twice as many
Americanos
as them. It could be ugly, Murietta
thought, if the man next to him won his bet.

Murietta sighed and took a measured swig
of the whiskey from Isaac Claussen's still. It was rotten, but he did not spit
it out. He felt contempt for Claussen, who had made so much money by selling this
barbaric liquid to mestizos, Indians, and whites who knew no better. He
swallowed and sighed. The quality of the whiskey matched what was about to take
place within the confines of the circular fence. Since the day his father took
him to Mexico City as a young boy and gave him his first exposure to the
corrida
de
toros
,
this
Alta
California bull-and-bear fighting had
been to him only meaningless cruelty, the sport of savages. There was no
ultimate test of man's courage in the face of painful, violent death; simply
brutality.

Murietta took another drink, and the
alcohol began to soften the edge of his contempt for Claussen, the other
Americanos, the three other
Californios,
and the crude ritual itself. He was here
only because he needed his share of the money Claussen would pay for the meat
and skin of the bear. The thought and the necessity did not lessen the degree
of shame he felt. Quickly he took another drink.

The two Americans prodded the longhorn
bull through the end of the chute and closed the solid gate behind it.
Enormous, it stood still for a moment, then saw the two mestizos. One of them
had just thrown a long rope attached to the door handle over the fence. He was
halfway up the side of the building when the other mestizo threw the latch, kicked
the door open, and quickly climbed after him.

The bull charged. For a moment it seemed
to Mosby that there was something wrong with its gait, that the bull favored
one foreleg. But then the bear appeared on his hind legs in the doorway and
roared. The bull swerved from the fence and the second mestizo. Hurtling
through the doorway and into the bear, he drove it back against the rear wall
of the building.

The men felt the impact in their
buttocks. The bear roared again, rolled under and away from the bull, and
scrambled out into the ring. It stopped in the center, saw the men sitting on
the fence, roared in anger again and was about to race at Claussen's dangling
boot when the bull cleared the doorway. It came straight on, driving into the
bear's back, stunning it and slicing one horn-tip forward along a flank. The
bear howled as it flew forward, rolled, and then smashed against the base of
the fence. Dazed, the bull paused for a moment, then turned as the shouting and
whistling of the Americans distracted him.

Forgetting the bear momentarily, the bull
charged the fence under Mosby. When the animal hit it, Mosby nearly toppled
over backward. Riding the fence with his thighs as though it were a bucking
horse, Mosby recovered, righted himself, and watched as the enraged bull
struggled to free one imbedded horn.

The bear, temporarily senseless and
riddled with pain, rolled over, tried to stand and collapsed. The Americans
jeered at it. The bull, free again, trotted away from the bear, its nostrils
flaring, and looked upward at dangling boots as it circled the far half of the
enclosure. It reached the man beside Murietta and stopped. Sunlight gleamed on
the heavy mestizo's false tooth, confusing the bull. Myopically, the bear
watched the circling bull as its senses began to clear. Instinctively, the bear
rose up on all four paws, but it was still too stunned to stand.

When the bear fell again, the bull caught
the movement, turned, pawed at the ground, and began another charge. Again
Mosby saw the odd movement of one foreleg. As the bull reached the center of
the enclosed circle, its left forehoof dug into the packed earth and wedged
between two large rocks just below the surface. With the sound of a rifle shot,
the bone in its left foreleg snapped and it went down, bellowing and sliding to
within three yards of the bear.

Both animals lay still for ten seconds.
No one made a sound. The bear finally growled and began to rise. The bull was
up and ready by the time the bear stood on its hind legs at full height. The
bear crouched as the bull charged, its left foreleg buckling under again.
Sliding on its chest, the bull slammed into the bear, hooked up and drove one
horn deep into its lower belly. Roaring, the bear slashed at the back and
shoulders of the bull, its three-inch claws tearing through hide, fat and
muscle. Enraged, the bull rose on three legs, swung its head, and the horn
pulled free. Escaping the tight area between the bloody horns and the fence,
the bear struck the bull along the side of the head and sent it toppling to its
side.

The bull bellowed and moaned in pain.
Free to maneuver now, the bear took two loping steps and threw itself at the
bull's exposed neck. Gripping the other animal in a lethal embrace, the bear
snapped its jaws shut on the bull's throat, its hind legs pumping, its hind
claws ripping deep into the larger animal's belly. When the bull's neck snapped
and it stopped moving, the bear backed off. Tentatively, it moved back to the
bull and took a long, slashing swipe at its flank. The bull quivered but did
not move.

When the bear rose on its hind legs,
Isaac Claussen fired his revolver into the air six times in succession. The
other Americans unholstered and fired their guns. The bear, confused by the
sharp, ear-splitting sounds, dropped to all fours, searched for an escape
through the fence, followed its line to the outbuilding, saw the darker shape
of the door, and ran for it. Once the bear was inside, the mestizo holding the
long rope yanked the door shut, pulled the line taut, and waited while his
companion jumped down, ran over to the door, latched it, and threw the thick
outside-bolt home.

For a few minutes, as the Americans
reloaded their revolvers, the bear roared and flailed at the door. Weakened,
the bear finally gave up, retreated to one corner, sat down, and licked at the
large puncture-wound seven inches above its genitals.

Mosby, Claussen, and the rest waited
until the bear was silent. Then they dropped down into the ring. Three of the
Californios
followed them and stared at the bull.
Murietta stayed where he was. The stench of animal sweat, blood, torn
intestines, and feces filled the air.

"Get this fuckin' thing outa
here!" Claussen snapped. Two of his men quickly trussed and tied the bull,
opened the gate to the chute, and began dragging the animal out of the ring.

"Some fuckin' bull you got me,"
he shouted at one of the men hauling on the ropes. "Well, you got the
pleasure of butcherin' him up. And have the job finished before sundown!"

Mosby turned to the mestizos. The heavy
one with the gold tooth was smiling.

"There was somethin' wrong with that
bull's left foreleg," Mosby said, glancing at Claussen. He took out a ten
dollar gold piece and flipped it in the air. As he caught it, he winked at
Claussen. "He was all right yesterday, wasn't he?"

"Yeah," Claussen said.
"Wasn't nothin' wrong with him."

"When'd these greasers bring in the
bear? How long they been here?" "Couple days," Claussen said,
catching the drift. "Where they been sleepin'?" "Why, down by
the corral. In them sheds." One of the two men who had hauled the dead
bull to Claussen's barn came back. He took his place in a fanned semicircle
around the three mestizos as Mosby turned again to the man with the gold tooth.
"So any one of these greasers could have tampered  with the bull last
night, right?"

"Well, I'll be goddamned,"
Claussen said. He saw now what Mosby was up to.

"We did not touch the bull,
señor,"
the man with the gold tooth said.

Mosby had his hand on the butt of his
holstered revolver. "You're a lyin' greaser son of a bitch."

The man with the gold tooth scanned the
Americans around him and his two companions. The flesh under his left eye
twitched. There were too many.

"We did not touch the bull,
señor,"
the
Californio
said again. "But since you have
doubt of that, I will forget about our bet."

"He's gonna
forget
about
it!" Mosby said, turning briefly to Claussen and laughing. "You need
proof, there it is. Anyone ever know a greaser was willing to forget about ten
dollars?"

All the Americans laughed.

"I would not take your money now,
gringo. I would not let it touch my fingers," the man with the gold tooth
said, hard-pressed to control his growing rage. "If
Señor
Claussen will pay us for the bear, we
will be on our way."

"You hear that, Claussen? Thievin'
son of a bitch insults me, calls me a gringo, and wants money to boot."

"Señor
—"

"Listen, you oily little bastard,
you're gonna leave all right. Right now. Without a fuckin' penny from any of
us." Mosby's fingers were around the tooled handle of his revolver, ready
to pull.

The
Californio
glared at him. He thought for a moment
about pulling on the tall, hawk-nosed man with the moustache, but he knew he
and his friends would be dead in less than a minute if he did. He stared at
Mosby for a moment longer, then spat down at the dirt. Some of the saliva
struck the toe of Mosby's right boot.
"Vámonos,"
he said to the two men with him,
forgetting for the moment about Murietta. He started to brush past Mosby.

"Wait a minute, greaser," Mosby
said, straight-arming him. He pointed to his boot. "You're goin' to clean
that off, with your hand, before you leave."

The
Californio
looked coldly at the hand on his
shoulder. His eyes turned to Mosby. "No,
señor.
Some other day, perhaps." He started
to turn, move off again.

"No other fuckin' day!" Mosby
snapped, gripping at the man's jacket, spinning him back, and kneeing him hard
in the groin. The
Californio
doubled
over. Mosby saw him reach at his boot, saw the knife blade gleam as it came
out. He stepped back just out of reach as the knife whipped up toward him. He
pulled his revolver. The force of the upward swing tipped the
Californio
off balance for a second. He watched
helplessly as Mosby held the gun on him for several seconds, laughed, and then
blew a hole in the center of his chest.