Gold (24 page)

Diego waited. Dark clouds drifted overhead.
A hawk circled. Still he waited. Finally he stood
up and, leaving her on the ground, walked back
the way they had come and stood there peering
for a while.

“
Your friends have gone,” he told her when
he returned. He gripped Selena under the arms
and lifted her to her feet, shoving her against a
boulder whose edge cut into her back. Without
a word he brought his palm stingingly across her face, then hit her again with the back of his hand.

The blows spun Selena around. When, briefly,
he unbound her hands she flew at him, trying to
reach his eyes with her nails. He grasped her
wrists, one in each hand, then took them both in
one hand, bringing them down in front of her. He
looped the rope around her wrists, the fibers bit
ing into her skin as he tied her hands together.
Diego removed a long looped rope from his
saddle, tied it to the rope on Selena’s hands and
then to the saddle itself. Then he mounted and
set off along the narrow track, pulling Selena
behind him. The gag in her mouth stifled her
cries.

She was forced to follow his horse, her bare
feet stinging. Diego stared ahead as though concerned only with keeping to the trail. When they crossed a meadow where the grass was cool and
soft underfoot, Selena ran forward, clutching at
his legs with her bound hands. He shoved her
away and spurred his horse. She fell to the
ground. As the horse dragged her, her dressing
gown caught on a branch and ripped open.

Now Selena tried to stand so she could run to
keep up with the trotting horse. But she could
not get to her feet, so she let herself go limp, clos
ing her eyes as the horse dragged her forward.
Diego stopped. He dismounted, walked back to her and yanked her to her feet.

She opened tear-misted eyes to look up at him. Her wrists and shoulders throbbed with pain. She
could no longer feel her feet. With his fingers
Diego brushed her hair from her face. She thought she saw his eyes glaze over. Remembering? Then
he was mounted again and she was stumbling along behind him.

After what seemed an eternity, he stopped.
They were on a rise. When she looked into the valley below them she saw, on top of a knoll on
the far side, a cabin with a thin trail of smoke
rising from the chimney. The cabin’s roof sagged.
A trapper’s cabin, she thought, built before the
gold rush. Perched on top of the knoll, with the
trees on all sides cut away to leave only protrud
ing stumps, the cabin was situated like a small
castle on the crest of protecting cliffs. Other than
the smoke, there was no sign of life.

Diego put his fingers to his mouth and whistled
a shrill bird-like call. There was no answer from the cabin. Diego whistled again. Now from the cabin came a coyote’s howl. Diego grunted and moved on into the valley.

Selena staggered behind him. Her feet were
raw and bleeding, and her wrists, shoulders, sides
and breasts all ached. Her breath came in panting sobs. With her sight clouded by pain, she had to
hold to the rope to guide herself.

Diego dismounted in front of the cabin, untied
the long rope, but left her hands tied and the gag
in her mouth. Selena blinked, trying to clear her vision as the cabin door opened. She saw a man with a rifle in one hand. At first she didn’t recog
nize the short, heavily bearded man. His hair was
unkempt, his red flannel shirt soiled.

And then she knew who he was. Harry Varner.

Diego nodded to Varner and, when the other
man stepped aside, pulled Selena after him into the cabin. He led her to a bunk, turned her and
pushed her down on her back. She could think of nothing except the pain radiating from her
feet, up her legs and through her entire body.

She must have fainted. When she opened her
eyes she saw Varner and Diego facing each across
a table and eating. Intent on their food and drink,
they were not speaking. When Diego finished he
stood up and without a word left the cabin. A few
minutes later Selena heard him ride away.

Varner walked to the bed and stared down at
her.
“So this is the whore of Babylon,” he said
easily.

He began breathing hard. Thinking he was
about to strike her, Selena shut her eyes and
turned her head away. The next she knew his
footsteps were receding and she heard the cabin
door
close. She opened her eyes. Varner was
gone. The cabin, she saw, was small, half the size of the one in Hangtown. Her eyes widened. Pam
ela. Rhynne. Were they all right? Surely Diego
had taken them from the cabin before he fired it. He must have, she reassured herself. But had he?

She saw Varner
’s gun leaning against the cabin
wall just inside the door. She flexed her numb
fingers. Yes, she could move them. Could she hold
the gun with her wrists tied? Was the gun loaded?
It must be. Could she pull the trigger? She
thought she could.

Selena swung her legs from the bed, raising
herself to a sitting position. She put her feet on
the floor and screamed from the pain, though the
sound was muffled by the gag. Tears flooded her eyes. She looked down at her swollen feet. They
were smeared with blood, puffed and purplish.

She lay back on the bed. A moment later,
Varner came into the cabin carrying a bucket of water. After a few minutes she heard the kettle
steaming on the stove. What was he doing? She
almost didn’t care, so great was her agony.

Varner walked to the bed. He picked her up
by the knees and swung her around so her feet were off the bed and she was sitting up again.

“
Put your feet in,” he told her.
She looked down to see a pan of steaming
water on the floor next to the bed. She hesitated.
Varner grasped her ankle and put her foot in the
water. Selena, moaning with pain, jerked it out.
She tested the water, finally putting both feet in.

Varner knelt beside her. Using a wet cloth he gently washed the dirt and sand from the wounds
on the soles of her feet. She sat on the edge of
the bed taking deep breaths as the heat of the
water soothed her.

“
Just as Jesus allowed the sinful woman to
anoint his feet,” Varner said, “so I will anoint
yours.”

As Selena stared down at him he repeatedly dropped the cloth in the pan and washed her toes and her insteps. He raised her torn gown to wash
her ankles. His words and tone frightened her
more than if he had threatened her. His hands
on her feet frightened her. Was he mad? Had the
burning of his store deranged him?

She glanced frantically around the cabin, saw
two calico-covered windows, the table, the black
stove, the rifle leaning next to the door. Was this
to be her prison—with Varner her jailer?

A call from outside startled them both. Selena
held her breath; Varner stiffened and dropped
the cloth into the pan of water.

The call came again:
“Hooo-eeee.”

Varner clumped to the door, picked up the
rifle and went to the only window at the front of
the cabin. He looked through a rent in the curtain.

“
It’s Jack Smith of Howard,” he said more to
himself than to Selena.

Selena, sitting on the bed with her feet still in
the water, felt a stir of hope. Jack Smith of
Howard. She knew him as a miner, an old-timer
in the district. How could she forget that name?

“
What might you be wanting with me, Jack
Smith of Howard?” he called.

The other man
’s voice came from a distance.
Selena pictured him sitting astride his horse at
the bottom of the knoll looking up at the cabin.

“
Have you seen three men? Californios. They
made off with the girl Selena this morning. The
singer at the hotel.”

“
That I haven’t,” Varner said.

“
Have you seen anyone?”

“
Nary a soul. I’ve got the miseries, had ‘em all
week, and I’ve been at the cabin all morning.
Anyone riding in these parts, I’d of heard ‘em.”

“
If you see them or get word of them, see the
news gets to Rhynne in Hangtown, The whole
town’s up in arms.”

“
That I will, Jack Smith.”

If Smith left, Selena knew no one else was
likely to ride to Varner’s. Why would they suspect
Varner? She would remain his prisoner. For how
long? For what purpose? She must make her
presence known.

Unable to stand, she swung herself around so that her feet were on the bed and her hands hung
over the side. She reached for the pan. Her
fingers gripped its edge, and she raised it until the
water ran across the floor and into the cracks
between the boards.

She looked up at Varner, who was still talking to Jack Smith of Howard. He wouldn
’t kill Smith and herself. He wouldn’t dare. Selena swung her
arms and sent the pan spinning across the room. It clattered against the far wall.

“
What was that?” she heard Smith ask.

Varner looked behind him into the room. When
he saw Selena sprawled half off the bed and the
pan next to the wall, he smiled. Still smiling, he
turned to Jack Smith. “Just my dog,” he said.
“Critter upset some pans.”

She heard Jack Smith answer and then she
heard him ride off.

Varner came back into the cabin. After he
leaned his rifle against the wall he went to the
stove. He picked up the kettle and carried it
across the room, took the pan and refilled it.

Coming to the bed, he placed the pan on the
floor. She cringed away. He lifted her bound arms
and swung her around so her feet were over the
edge of the bed. Kneeling beside her, he once again began tenderly to bathe her feet.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

King Sutton kicked a stone and sent it skitter
ing into a gully. They had lost the trail. Sutton
had sent four men, two on each side of the origi
nal track, to look for signs. So far three of the
four had reported back. They had found nothing.

The fourth man rode in from the south.

“No luck, colonel,” he said to Sutton. They had
started calling him “colonel” when they elected
him their leader. As though the title gave them
more confidence in him.

Jed pointed toward three horsemen approach
ing up a long slope, a blue-coated army officer in
the lead. As the men drew near, Sutton saw that
the officer was a lieutenant. He was about thirty
with a short black beard and a campaign hat
shading his eyes.

When Sutton rode to meet him, the officer
reined in and the other two men stopped a short distance behind him.

“
Lieutenant Sherman,” the officer said, “at
your service, sir.
We rode out from Coloma to offer our help.”

“
We’ve lost their trail,” Sutton admitted. “Fol
lowed the tracks of their horses up from Hangtown to a mesa a ways back, then lost them here
on the rocks.”

“
I’ll see what I can do,” the lieutenant said. He rode to where the rest of Button’s party waited.
There were five of them, the slave Jed, Danny
O’Lee, Doc Braithewaite and two others. Rhynne
was back in Hangtown coordinating the search.

“
I’ve done a bit of tracking in my time,” Sher
man said. “What do you know of these bandits?
The reports reaching Coloma were sketchy.”

Sutton repeated Rhynne
’s description of the
early morning raid.

“
I can tell you’re a southerner, sir,” Sherman said when Sutton had finished.

“
I’m proud to say I hail from Georgia.”

“
A fine state, Georgia. I hope to have the op
portunity to go there someday.”

“
You’ll be made most welcome, lieutenant. I
only trust you’ll be able to come in time of peace,
not war. I’d hate like hell to have to fight you.”

The lieutenant nodded.
“My sentiments exact
ly, sir.”

They joined the others and Sutton led them
back to the last trace they had found of the flee
ing horsemen. Sherman dismounted, knelt beside
the trail and studied the hoofprint while Sutton
watched.

“
I was taught the little I know of reading sign
by an Arapaho,” Sherman told him. “I never
completely mastered the art, but I can tell whether
a horse is shod or barefoot, whether he ran or walked, and whether he’s ridden or wandering
loose. I try to recognize the difference in tracks.
The worn heel of a boot, the size and cut of a
moccasin, the curve to a horseshoe.”

“
What do you see here?”

“
If I’m not mistaken the horse is a stallion or gelding from a rancho near Monterey, probably
ridden by a woman who passed this way an hour
ago.”

Sherman
stood and faced the men waiting on their horses. “By your leave, colonel,” he said to
Sutton. He had heard the men use the title and
hadn’t questioned it.

“
Of course, lieutenant,” Sutton said.

“
Dismount and form a line,” Sherman told
them. “We’ll spread out like a skirmish line and sweep to the east with no man more than twenty
feet from his neighbor. Look for droppings,
snapped twigs, disarranged branches, bent grass.”
He turned to Sutton. “You and I will hew to the
middle,” he said, “with the men on either side of
us. If that meets with your approval, sir.”

Sutton nodded.

As the men formed a ragged line, the lieutenant
said to Sutton, “The Indian who taught me to
read sign could tell from an indication as small
as a single blade of grass the direction a man or
animal was headed and the time, within an hour,
when he had passed. I’ve heard of Indians study
ing the insect markings in a track to judge how
old the track was. I’ve never credited that story
myself.”
He looked to right and left, then raised his arm and signaled the men forward. They tramped past
the spot where Sutton had waited for his out
riders, dipped into a ravine and up the far side,
and crossed a series of rain-washed gullies.

As Sutton walked, his eyes to the ground, he rubbed his cheek where Selena
’s nails had raked
his face, remembering the young girl’s passion on
the day Esperanza killed herself. Excitement rose
in him. He desired Selena more than he had ever
desired a woman before. He wanted to conquer
her, to tame her, to make her his alone.

Hanging was too good for those three Mexi
cans. The bastards. If he had his way, and he
meant to, he’d strip them to the waist and give
them thirty-nine lashes each and when they
thought their pain was ended he’d give them
thirty-nine more. Only then would he hang them.
Not with the quick clean jerk that breaks a man’s
neck. No, he’d haul them slowly off the ground
and let them dangle until they strangled to death.
Even that lingering death was too good for them.

On Sutton
’s right, Danny O’Lee plodded dog
gedly ahead, his lips moving slightly as he walked.
He was praying. Asking God to save Selena, to
let her be found unharmed. Danny had made a
rich strike. In Hangtown they’d hailed him as a
brave man after he saved Pamela and Rhynne
from the burning cabin. Yet, without Selena, the
money and the praise were as ashes in his mouth.

Should he offer to say the rosary twice over
every night for as long as he lived if Selena was
returned safely? Danny decided not to make the
offer. “You don’t make deals with the Almighty,”
his father had once told him.
Sherman held up his hand. The party halted,
hands on guns, waiting while the lieutenant angled
off to the right. He was back in a moment.

“
Only some Digger squaws,” he said. “No use
questioning them, they’ll tell us nothing.”

As they went on, Sutton saw a number of In
dian women in a nearby meadow. They had work
baskets suspended from their backs, held on by
thongs of leather across their foreheads.

“
Gathering plant seeds,” Sherman said. “They mix the seeds with pounded acorns and grass
hoppers for bread.”

Sutton grimaced but noted that the younger
squaws were quite attractive with their firm bare
breasts and slender legs.

“
Ho, lieutenant. Look here.” It was Doc
Braithewaite.

“
Stay where you are, all of you,” the lieutenant shouted when two of the men started to veer on
toward the doctor. “I’ll take a look first.”

Sherman
knelt beside Braithewaite to study the
horse droppings. Farther on he discovered a single
hoofprint.

“
The same shoe as before,” he said to Braithe
waite. He signaled the men in. “We’re back on their trail,” he told them.

They returned to their horses and, as they
mounted, Sutton saw a rider coming from the direction of Hangtown.

“
It’s Jack Smith of Howard,” Braithewaite said
when the man drew nearer.

“
Any luck?” Sutton asked Smith as the rider
reined to a halt.

“
None.” Smith spoke more to the lieutenant
than to Sutton. “I rode through the diggings to
the east. They haven’t seen hide nor hair of them. I
even went by Varner’s place. Nobody there ‘cept
him and his dog.”

Sutton nodded.
“We lost their trail but now
we’re onto it again,” he said. “Thanks to Lieu
tenant . . .” He turned to the army officer. “What
did you say your name was, sir?” he asked.

“
Sherman. William Tecumseh Sherman.”

Rosita and Ramon rode slowly up a creek into
a ravine where
crags rose on both sides of the
trail and an occasional stunted pine grew among the rocks. They stopped near a freshet, watered
their horses, then hobbled and muzzled them. Following Joaquin’s orders, they had thrown off
their pursuers on the mesa. Now they prepared to
wait for his return, their flanks and rear pro
tected by the high hills on both sides of their
camp.

After they ate, Rosita splashed through the
creek and began climbing the bank on the far
side. Ramon took his rifle and zigzagged his way
up the near slope. When he reached an uptilted
shelf of rock he lay prone with his body concealed
behind a jumble of boulders.

Below Ramon, the valley narrowed like a fun
nel as it entered the ravine. He was in a good spot. He looked along the sights of his rifle to
the creekbed directly beneath him, then slowly
swung the gun up past the scattered boulders in
the ravine to a pine grove at its entrance. Far
beyond the pines lay Hangtown.

He waited. He saw Rosita scanning the trail
from her hiding place among the rocks fifty yards
across from him. Suddenly she tensed. When he
followed her gaze back along the trail he saw a
wisp of dust in the distance. The dust grew to a
cloud.

Not Joaquin then. From the size of the dust
cloud he knew there must be at least eight riders.
He smiled to himself. He and Rosita could hold this position against a hundred, at least till dark. And then they would slip away.