Like a River Glorious (12 page)

Henry throws himself at Tom and buries his face in his neck. After a startled moment, Tom wraps his arms around Henry's shoulders and squeezes tight. They whisper something back and forth, and then Henry steps back, tears brimming.

Becky gives me a quick hug. “Bring back some chickens if you can,” she orders, pressing a couple of cool, small items
into my palm. I don't have to look at them to know they're gold nuggets. “And another butter churn.”

“I'll do my best.”

“And! If you find one, get yourself a new dress.”

“Really?”

“A nice one,” she says with a firm nod. “Christmas is coming. A lady ought to have something proper to wear. Think of it as a bonus for all your hard work along the trail. You know . . . you and Jefferson are the best hires my husband ever made.” Her voice has a touch of sadness, but only a touch, and I cast my gaze in the Major's direction.

Coney runs circles around the horses' legs, certain he's about to go off on a grand adventure. Nugget does her wobbly, limping best to join her friend, but Olive grabs her and pulls her back. “No travels for you,” she scolds, sounding like a woman grown. “Not until that leg has healed.”

Andy hurries forward to wrap his arms around Jefferson's legs, and Jeff reaches down to give him a pat. Then the boy extricates himself to corral Coney. “Bye, Lee! Bye, Tom! Bye, Jefferson!” he calls out with a giant grin. He just lost his first tooth, and I suspect it will be days before he stops showing off the gap in his smile.

With a final wave, we turn our mounts away. We skirt the pond and follow the creek down the slope leading to the American River.

“S
top fidgeting, silly girl,” I say to Peony. She's been dancing all morning as we traveled, head tossing, nostrils flaring. Maybe it's because she got so used to wearing a saddle.

“Sorry's been fretting, too,” Jefferson says at my back. He rides just a few lengths behind me. I twist so I can see her. The sorrel mare's eyes roll about, and her tail twitches like her flanks are covered in flies.

Behind them, Tom and his gray gelding, Apollo, take up the rear. Apollo is as calm as a babe.

“We haven't been exercising them enough,” I say to Jefferson. “And now they're as giddy as Andy with a candy jar. They'll settle.”

“Hope so, or this is going to be a long trip.”

But as I straighten, my neck prickles. I've known Peony her whole life, ever since she came slipping out of her mama, a bundle of wet legs. She's a good horse. The best horse. I trust
her as much as I trust anyone, and right now, she thinks something is wrong.

We reach the river and head west. “Look for a ford,” Tom calls to us. “It would be best to avoid those claim jumpers who attacked us. Let's go around them if we can.”

“Agreed,” says Jefferson.

“I want to be well past them before we make camp,” I add.

A path meanders along the river now, which makes for easy riding. The prickly scent of burning pine from a nearby campfire fills the air. We pass a blackberry bramble that hugs the water's edge; a mess of fishing line is all tangled up in the branches.

Plenty of prospectors will be passing winter in this area, for sure and certain. We can't see them, but you don't have to be a dab at tracking to find marks of their passage.

We come to a flat stretch of land, where the river seems to widen and slow. We pause at the edge, sizing things up.

“We'd have to swim the horses,” Jefferson says.

“At least the current doesn't look too bad,” I say. “Tom, is that gelding of yours a good water horse?”

“The best,” Tom says proudly.

“All right, then. Let's do this,” I say, leaning down toward my boots.

We all tie the laces of our boot pairs together and hang them around our necks. Jefferson and Tom remove their saddlebags and flip them over their shoulders.

I urge Peony forward, and she splashes happily into the river, her tail whipping up as much water as possible onto her
back, giving no thought to her rider's preference to stay dry.

The water is icy cold on my bare feet. I wince as it reaches my thighs, then suddenly we're swimming, bobbing downstream as much as across it, the water soaking me past my waist.

“Dear Lord in heaven, that's cold!” Tom calls out.

I hold my guns high and cluck at Peony to swim faster as the chill works its way through my whole body.

Finally we reach the opposite bank, at least a hundred yards downriver from where we entered. The horses clamber ashore over a small lip of grass and rock. Then Sorry explodes into a sudden shake that showers us all with river water.

“Blasted horse,” Jefferson mumbles, wiping water from his eyes and forehead.

I'm shivering fit to burst. “We need to find a campsite and get a fire started,” I say, teeth chattering.

We've hobbled the horses and laid out our blankets beside a roaring fire. I didn't bring a change of trousers, so I'll have to wear them as they dry. Our rifles are laid out and ready, all loaded, which makes me a little nervous. Daddy had a “no loaded guns in the house” rule on account of potential backfires, and it's strange to have mine heavy and full beside me, even though I'm not hunting. But this is California Territory, and we have to be prepared for anything.

“I don't like the way Sorry and Peony took to the trail,” Jefferson says, poking at the fire with a stick. “They're a bundle of nerves.”

“Apollo seems fine,” Tom says.

We're across the river and far enough from the claim jumpers that we should be safe. But my neck is still prickling.

“I trust my horse,” I tell them. “If Peony says something isn't right, I believe her.”

“I'll keep first watch,” Jefferson says.

“I can do it,” Tom says. One of his law books lies open across his lap, and he's trying to read by the meager firelight. “I need to study up on property law before we reach Sacramento.”

He'll be looking at his book more than he'll be looking out for danger. “Jeff, you do it,” I say. “If I were to guess, I'd say someone has eyes on us. Horses don't like it when they can sense a critter but not see it.”

“You think we're being followed?” Jefferson asks.

“I think you'd better stay extra alert tonight.”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious, Jeff. Someone snuck up on both Hampton and Martin, and neither of them are shirkers.”

He grins. “You're worried for me, aren't you?”

“Course I am.”

“Know what I think?”

I scowl at him, which only widens his grin.

He steps closer, puts a hand to my chin, and lifts it so I can't avoid his gaze. “I think you're in love with me,” he says.

I stare at his lips. What comes out of my mouth is: “Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, you have the swagger of a rooster and the swelled head of a melon.” But what I'm thinking is how much I'd like to try that kissing thing again.

On the other side of the campfire, Tom is trying awfully hard to pretend to be invisible. Heat fills my cheeks, but Jefferson doesn't seem to care one whit that we're overheard. “You'll admit it soon enough,” he says. “I told you I'd change your mind about . . . things. And I will.” His thumb caresses the line of my jaw. He bends forward until his lips are so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath.

I'm about to go up on my toes to close the distance between us, to kiss him the way I want to, but he suddenly steps back, leaving me cold and off-balance. “I'll wake you when it's your turn to keep watch,” he says, and the look he gives me is so smug I could spit.

True to his word, Jefferson shakes me awake in the dead of night, and I blink rapidly to clear the sleep from my mind. He's let the campfire burn low, which is why chill has worked its way into my hands and feet. A breeze rustles the branches around us, and something dark and winged swoops low overhead.

I throw off my blanket and reach for my revolver. After a good yawn and stretch, I grab my five-shooter and check for moisture.

“There's some pine-needle tea for you by the fire,” Jefferson whispers. “Still hot.”

“Thanks. Seen or heard anything?”

“Maybe. I'm staying up with you.”

A little thrill snakes through me. Maybe it's just an excuse to kiss me again. But common sense prevails, and I shake my
head. “You need your rest as much as anyone.”

Nearby, Tom rolls over in his sleep, mumbling something I can't parse.

“I'm not going to sleep anyway, after hearing all that racket.”

“Something big, huh? Maybe a deer.”

“Maybe a catamount,” he says. “There's at least one in the area. I've seen tracks.”

“A catamount won't come near the fire,” I say. But I decide to grab my rifle as well. She's not as easy to fire quickly, but one well-placed shot will take down anything.

“I hope you're right.”

I hear what he's not saying. Something big could be worse than a catamount. It could be a person.

I shove my revolver into its holster and heft my rifle. “Going to make a quick circuit,” I tell him. “Maybe I'll scare off whatever's out there.”

He starts to protest but changes his mind. He knows better. “Stay within sight,” he orders.

“Yes, sir!” I give him a mock salute and head into the trees.

As promised, I keep the silhouettes of our camp in sight as I work my way around. Pine needles and oak leaves crunch beneath my feet. The air is damp, but the sky is clear, the moon high and half full. It feels like a storm is coming, but with that sky so clear, it might not be here for a while yet.

I pause where the horses are hobbled, sleeping peacefully. Except Peony, who raises her head and gives it a tiny toss of greeting. She nuzzles into my shirt, looking for a treat.

“What are you doing awake, girl?” I whisper, stroking her warm neck.

A branch snaps behind me.

I whirl, bringing up my rifle.

A figure stands there, dark, tall and unidentifiable. Firelight glints off the barrel of a shiny Colt revolver, pointed right at my head. I'm furious at myself. I was worried about Tom not keeping a good watch, or Jefferson not taking it seriously enough, and I'm the one who got caught.

“Jefferson!” I holler. “We got company!”

“Don't make no difference, girl,” says a familiar voice. “We got him, too.”

My heart tumbles into my toes. “And
I
got
you
, Frank Dilley,” I say. “Go ahead and shoot. I've got better aim than you, and you know it. Let's see who's left standing.”

Dilley just grins. “If my boys hear a gun go off, Bigler and Kingfisher are dead men.”

“How do I know they're not dead already? You're the kind of man who would knife someone in the back.”

He turns his face toward the campsite and hollers, “Bring 'em this way. Gotta show the little lady we mean business.”

The horses are awake now. Peony strains against her hobble, and I don't blame her one bit. Sorry snorts, tail swishing as booted footsteps crunch through the underbrush toward us.

It's Jefferson, all right, with a gun to his head, held by a rough-looking man I don't recognize. Tom comes up right behind him, still in his long underwear. He winces as the gun
to his own head digs into his scalp, forcing him on. Behind him is Jonas Waters, Dilley's foreman.

Our meager fire provides a little bit of light, and the moon a little bit more, but it's too dark for me to see what's on Jefferson's mind, whether he's scared or angry or sorry or sad, and I want to go to him more than anything. Instead I say, “You boys are wasting your time. We're headed to Sacramento, just like my uncle asked. There's no need for any of this.”

Dilley laughs. “Your uncle's not in Sacramento. Never has been.”

“What?”

“Oh, don't worry, we'll take you to him. But the whole bit about Sacramento was a fib. If you knew where he really was, there'd be no convincing you to leave your flock of girl-worshipping lackeys.”

“Then where is he?” Jefferson demands, and the man holding the gun knocks him in the temple so hard that Jefferson bends over, holding his head between his hands.

“If you hurt him again, I'll kill you,” I say.

“Easy, Lee,” Tom says. His voice is soft, almost soothing. But I know him well enough now to understand that his mind is working this problem of ours, turning and turning like a mill on a creek. “We wanted to speak with Mr. Westfall, didn't we? If these gentlemen are willing to escort us there, we'll go willingly. Isn't that right?”

He means to buy us some goodwill. With guns pointed at each of us, it's the best plan we've got.

“Yes,” I say. “That's right. If you're taking us to my uncle, there's no need for all this bossing around. We're glad to go.”

If I can get them to lower their guns, lower their guard, we have a chance at escape.

But while Dilley might be a mean, conniving worm who deserves the bottom of my boot, he's no fool. “Glad to hear we can expect your cooperation,” he says. “But just in case, I have a special treat for you.”

A fourth man comes toward me, melting from the forest like a ghost. He holds something bulky in his hand. Not a gun.

“You're going to take two big swigs of that,” Dilley says.

“I'll do no such thing! If you—”

“You must want your Indun lover to die,” Dilley says, and the man with Jefferson does something that makes Jeff grunt in pain.

“Stop it!” I yell. “I'll do it. Just give it here.”

The ghostly man hands me a bottle. The glass is cold and hard in my hand. Fumbling in the dark, I twist the stopper open. A familiar scent wallops me in the face. Bitter and stringent.

“Drink,” Dilley says. “Or your friends die.”

I put the bottle neck to my lips and upend it. Cool liquid pours onto my tongue, and it's so startlingly foul that I immediately spit it out.

“Kill him,” Dilley says.

“No, no, I'm sorry! I'll drink it! It just surprised me, is all.”

I wait one heartbeat. They don't kill Jefferson. I tip the bottle to my lips again, and this time I'm ready for the awful
taste, so bitter it almost burns. I hold it in my mouth and think desperately for a way out.

“That cost me a fair bit,” Dilley says. “You do that again, and we'll knock you out the hard way.” To the ghostly man, he says, “Make sure she swallows.”

The ghostly man approaches. He is so huge, huger even than Mr. Hoffman, and a cowl covers his head, making it impossible for me to see his face.

I swallow. It burns going down, and I choke a little.

“One more sip,” Dilley says.

Warmth fills my belly, spreads throughout my torso, into my limbs. “I think one is plenty. I feel . . . strange.”

“One more sip,” he repeats, and the ghostly man looms over me.

So I tip the bottle to my mouth once again, intending to take a smaller sip this time. The ghostly man's arms dart out. He grabs the bottle with one, my chin the other, and he forces the laudanum into me until I'm coughing. He pinches my nose and tilts my head back. After a few seconds, I can't help it. I have to swallow, or I'll never breathe again.

The ghostly man releases me, and I stagger back, colliding with Peony's flank. The world is starting to spin. My belly rumbles in protest, but I don't seem to care. I guess it would be good if I vomited it back up. No, no, it wouldn't be. They might kill Jeff and Tom. They might . . .