Like a River Glorious (15 page)

“Leah,” he breathes. “You are beautiful.”

It feels like a snake is creeping up my throat.

“I'll get you new shoes as soon as possible,” he says. “Maybe someone in camp can make you some slippers.”

“I like these boots just fine.”

“And you can keep them, of course. But a fine lady should have fine shoes.”

“If you say so.” I don't like the way he's looking at me. I don't like it one bit.

“Mary, when you're done with supper, please see to Leah's washtub and dirty clothing.”

She doesn't say anything, just nods and keeps on stirring.

I take a deep breath. Time to start buttering him up to get what I need. “Thank you for the dress,” I say, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Carefully I add, “It reminds me of one Mama used to wear.”

He practically beams. “I'm glad you remember! That was my favorite dress of hers. I had this one specially made.”

So you can fondly remember the woman you killed?
I want to scream. Instead, I fold my hands demurely. I think of Becky and the way she maintains such a ladylike composure while dealing with difficult customers, and I say, “I know I'm not supposed to leave without a chaperone, so would you be willing to accompany me to check on my friends? It would calm my nerves a great deal to see them hale.”

His eyes narrow. Maybe I've gone too far. I replay the words in my head. They sound ridiculous coming from me, like make-believe at school recess.

But after a moment, he nods. “This is a reasonable request.
So long as you behave, you shall visit your friends once a day.”

Once a day. Under supervision. I'll have to do a lot better than that if we're to escape.

“Thank you,” I say.

We stare at each other a moment, neither certain what to say. I curl my toes against the gold in my boot, taking comfort in the warm buzz.

“I assume you'll have some . . . work . . . here for me to do?” I say finally, and I instantly wonder if it's too subtle a reference to my particular talent. I'm not sure how much Mary understands or how much my uncle takes her into his confidence, but I'd rather not say anything outright about my gold-witching ways.

“Of course,” he says. “We are going to get rich together, Leah Westfall. With my experience and connections, and you to . . . help me.”

“Looks like you're already richer than Midas,” I mumble, briefly forgetting that I'm supposed to be buttering him up.

“What was that?”

“I mean, it looks like you've already done quite well for yourself. This is a very nice cabin.”

He stands, reaching for the hat on its resident peg. Donning it, he says, “I've done well, though getting my mine up and running and hiring the right people took quite a bit of ingenuity and determination on my part.”

There's nothing ingenious about starting a mine. You just find a quartz vein and start following it, and if it leads to more
quartz and good ore, you keep digging. It's with a bit of a start that I realize what he really means.

“We'll pay back what you owe soon enough,” I say, and it's his turn to be startled.

But then he smiles, as if proud that I sussed it out. “Come. Let's go see to your friends.”

I'd give all the gold in my boot to find out more, and it's on the tip of my tongue to ask who he owes the money to and how much. But I've already won a concession from him today, and I dare not push.

I give a final glance to Mary at the dishes. Her face is hard, her eyes narrowed, as she attacks the dishes like they're an enemy in need of slaying. I suddenly get the feeling she understands everything just fine.

Hiram offers his arm, and though everything in me screams to recoil, I wrap mine in his and allow him to lead me from the cabin and into the sunshine.

T
he camp is even bigger than I realized. Another, smaller cabin faces ours. The door is wide open, revealing multiple empty bunks.

“My foremen sleep here,” my uncle explains.

Up a slope is a large, rocky cliff dotted with brush and dried grass and the occasional stunted tree. At the base of the cliff is the dark opening to my uncle's mine. It's bolstered with huge wooden beams and guarded by the tallest man I've ever seen. He is cowled in black wool and carrying a rifle. The ghostly man.

In a flat space to the side of the mine opening sits a crude mill. A mule tied to a post drags a huge grindstone around a stone-lined pit. Another of Hiram's men shovels ore from a mine cart into the pit, where it's crushed again and again as the mule circles around. The gold, being a heavier metal, settles to the bottom of the pit once free of the quartz. There's not much at the moment; it feels like more of an itch
than a hum. The air smells like a paste made from manure, sweat, and dust.

“Welcome home, Leah,” my uncle says, and I swear he's suddenly as cocky a rooster. “What do you think of my arrastra?”

“I think it looks like a lot of work,” I answer neutrally. “A grist mill for turning quartz ore into gold.”

“That's industry,” Hiram says. “Industry is what makes America great, and it's what will make our fortune. Most of the folks around here have already taken to calling this place Hiram's Gulch.”

“You don't say.”

As I study everyone around us, a few turn to stare right back. And then more and more, until the whole camp has come to a standstill. They're all dirty and thin, stooped and exhausted. Except the ghostly man. And my uncle.

“Why are they staring?” I whisper.

“Many of them haven't seen a woman in months, much less a lady.”

“What about Mary?”

He shrugs. “Not the same.”

That makes no sense to me—Mary seemed as mannered and beautiful as Becky Joyner on her best day—but sure enough, some of the miners' gazes are desperate, like I'm a glass of sweet tea on a hot summer day.

“Where are Tom and Jeff?” I ask.

“This way.” He guides me away from the mine, past the smaller cabin to a rickety stable that's little more than a giant lean-to with four stalls. “There's a pasture to the east where
we keep the mules and burros. We've plans to erect a proper barn come spring. For now, this keeps our finest stock out of the worst weather.”

Sorry nickers in greeting as I approach, tossing her sorrel mane. Beside her is Tom's horse, Apollo, and next to him is my uncle's huge black gelding, whose name is Dark Wind or Black Storm or something hackneyed that I can't quite recall.

The fourth stall is empty.

“Where's Peony?” I ask, panic edging into my voice.

“Abel Topper has her.”

“What?”
Abel Topper is a former mine foreman from Georgia, and my uncle's lackey. He spotted me when I was fleeing home and followed me all the way to Tennessee before turning back. He's wanted my pretty palomino since the first day he laid eyes on her.

My uncle's tone is so patient and reasonable as he explains, “I promised her to Abel a long time ago, before you stole her and ran off.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me straight in the eye. My skin crawls. “I always keep my promises, Leah. Always.”

I clench my jaw because I will not cry in front of him. I raised Peony from a foal. No one understands her better than me. I thought my uncle had taken everything, but I was wrong. There was still something left, and he found it, and he took it.

My fists curl tight. He'd never look at me this way again, so patronizing, so smug, if I turned his face into a bloody pulp and took out a few teeth.

“Where is Topper?” I manage in a tight voice.

He barks a laugh. “So you can steal her back? I think not.”

Bloody pulp. Two black eyes. No teeth left. “No, I was thinking I could offer to buy her back.”

His eyes narrow. “I'm not an idiot. You're up to no good.”

He's right about that. “Think what you want. I'll find him later,” I say, with a wave of my hand. “Anyway, you
promised
you would take me to Jefferson and Tom?”

His lips press thin, but he grabs my elbow and leads me around to the back of the stable, where a long tying post made from a tree trunk can accommodate more stock if necessary. Tied to it is a chestnut mare I don't recognize. Beside her are Tom and Jeff.

They sit on the bare earth, their arms tied overhead to the post. Tom slumps against his bonds, chin to chest, eyes closed. Jefferson looks up as we approach. “Hello, Lee,” he mumbles.

I gasp. His left eye is as swollen and black as a rotten plum. His skin is blanched, his cheeks sunken. He looks at me like a drunkard, focusing on a space right in front of me, as if the real me is impossible to pinpoint.

“Oh, Jeff,” I whisper. “Who did this to you?”

“Nice dress,” he says.

I crouch in front of him and tip up his chin. “Who did this to you?” I repeat. “Was it Frank?”

“Yep. Said he's been wanting to box me for a long time.”

Uncle Hiram jumps in with, “I didn't order them beaten. Your friend must have done something to deserve it.”

I launch to my feet and get right in his face. “The only thing Jefferson ever did to antagonize Dilley was get himself born to a Cherokee mama. Frank Dilley is a bad seed, Uncle. Mark my words.”

My uncle frowns. “I know you favor the boy, but . . .” I stop listening. He deserves no more of my attention. I turn back to my friends and squat down again. “Anything else hurt, Jeff?” I say. Tears pool in my eyes. So many people I care about, hurt or killed because of Hiram Westfall.

“Jaw,” Jefferson says. “Can't eat. Can hardly talk. But I don't think it's broke.”

I turn his chin to one side, then the other. His left side is definitely swollen. I wish Jasper was here.

“They still feeding you laudanum?”

“Yep.”

“Don't worry. I'll put a stop to it.” I don't know how yet, but I will. Besides, laudanum is expensive. Dilley can't keep it up forever. If I could find his stash and destroy it . . .

Strangely, my mouth is suddenly watering, my skin flushed, my heart racing.

I shake my head as if to shake it out of my mind and move over to Tom. He's so quiet and still that for a brief, awful moment, I think he's dead. When I put my hand to his still-warm face and feel his breath against my palm, I almost sing a hallelujah.

“Tom? Tom, can you hear me?”

He stirs a little but doesn't respond. His skin is hot with fever.

“He's still sleeping,” Jefferson slurs. “Been sleeping a long time.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I scoot over to Jefferson, lean forward so that my forehead presses against his, and I say, so quietly that only he can hear, “Stay strong, Jeff. We'll figure this.”

“Lee,” he whispers. “My Leah. Best girl. My . . .”

“Hush.” I press my lips to his forehead. Then I stand and face my uncle.

There's a bit of uncertainty in his eyes, or maybe I imagine it.

“Uncle Hiram,” I begin. “You must treat my friends better.”

“I don't know what they did to deserve this, but I'm certain—”

“I've said I'll cooperate with you, and I will. I'll make you the richest man in California. But only if you give them regular water and victuals and a place to lay their heads.”

“Don't, Lee!” Jefferson pleads at my back. “Not worth it. I'll be fine. I've taken worse.”

It hurts my heart that Jeff would flee his mean, drunken da only to fall into the hands of another good-for-nothing intent on using him as a punching toy. I will either get him out of here or die trying.

“And another thing,” I say to my uncle. “I want them untied. They shouldn't be kept here like cattle. A true gentleman would treat them with respect.”

My uncle arches a brow. “What's to keep them from running off?”

“Me,” I say. “They would never leave without me.”

Hiram gives me a dubious look.

“You'd be amazed,” I say, “how friendship and loyalty will make a body act. Maybe you should give it a try. Maybe if anyone cared about you at all, you wouldn't have to kidnap people or knock them around to get what you want.”

I instantly regret the words, because his eyes flash with more rage than I've ever seen in a man, and he steps forward, raising the back of his hand.

At the last second, just as I'm flinching away, he changes his mind and lowers his arm. “You've a saucy mouth on you, girl. Reuben's doing, no doubt.”

I've a mind to tell him to shut his trap and never speak of my daddy again. Instead, I clench my teeth together.

“Very well,” Hiram says in response to my silence. “I'll give orders to have these boys freed, fed, and housed. We'll make space for them in the barracks. I'll insist, though, on tying them up at night when they're not working.”

Bloody pulp. Black eyes. No more teeth.
“Thank you,” I say aloud. “Does Hiram's Gulch have a doctor?”

“Not yet. The Chinese headman knows a little healing, more healing than English. I don't know that I'd trust him.” As if knowing English is the thing that makes someone trustworthy.

Hiram leads me back to our cabin. As we walk, my mind is as busy as bees in a hive. I scan our surroundings, every shanty, tent, and lean-to, looking for cover. Places to hide. A way to escape. Unlike the area around our beautiful beaver pond, these hills are dry and mostly bare, but the north side of
the cabin backs up against a thicket of cottonwood. It's wispy now, the leaves dried and fallen to the ground, but darkness might hide us if we escaped through it. The trees are too tall for me to see for sure where it leads. We could push through the cottonwoods only to find ourselves trapped against the cliff face. Sometimes, though, cottonwoods lead to a stream. And following streams or dry washes downhill would eventually point us in the direction of Sacramento and freedom.

I also keep an eye out for Abel Topper or Peony. Not many here can afford their own horses, but there are pack mules aplenty pulling carts into and out of the mine, and even a few donkeys. There's no sign of Peony, though, and when the cabin door closes behind us, leaving me in the turnip-scented gloom, I can't help the stab of despair that hits right behind my eyes.

“You have a day to rest and get your strength back,” Hiram says. “Then you go to work.”

Maybe he means for me to cook and clean instead of Mary, who is nowhere evident. Maybe he means for me to scour these hills looking for gold. I don't know and I don't care. But I do need to rest and get my strength back, just not for the reasons he thinks.

As politely as I can, I ask, “May I have some of that stew?”

The next morning, I take breakfast with Hiram at the dining table. I sit on the bench while he faces me on one of the stools. Mary has cooked us up a meal of soaked oats with butter and molasses, to be sopped up with biscuits, but she has since left,
disappeared to wherever it is she goes. I wish she would stay. I haven't had a female friend my own age since Therese died.

“Your hair grew out a little since I last saw you,” Hiram observes.

“Mm-hmm,” I say around a mouthful of biscuit.

“You'll be able to put it up in a month or so,” he says.

I'm not sure why it's so important to him, but I nod. Even though I don't plan on being here a month.

Becky and the Major and everyone back home expect us to be gone awhile. Past Becky's thanksgiving celebration. I either have to escape soon, or survive until they come. It's better that I escape, Jefferson and Tom in tow. Otherwise things could get deadly.

“Today, you will tour the mine,” he informs me. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, folds it neatly, and sets it on the table beside his empty plate. “Our empire begins here, Leah. The mine isn't very deep yet, but it's been profitable so far. I want you to familiarize yourself with its workings and . . . well, feel it out, so to speak.”

“You want me to tell you where to dig next.”

“Yes.”

I promised I'd help him in order to keep Tom and Jeff safe, but dear Lord in heaven, I surely don't want to.

“All right,” I tell him. “Is that where you plan to set Tom and Jefferson to work?”

“Of course. They'll have to earn their keep around here, just like everyone else.”

I smear oats around my plate with a biscuit, finding it hard
to eat. “You could just let them go.” It wouldn't be easy to convince them to leave me behind, but I'd give it a fair try.

My uncle smiles. “I think not. I have some things to attend to, so Frank Dilley will be your guide.”

I spit out my biscuit. “No! Dilley is a no-good, weaselly—”

Hiram's hand darts out, snags my wrist, and gives it a shake. My skin still smarts from the rope burns. “He knows to behave.” His look turns dark. “And so do you.”

I say nothing, but after a moment, I'm able to snatch my wrist back. I pick up my fork and attack my breakfast with renewed vigor. I'm getting my strength back, by God.

My uncle escorts me through the camp, past the arrastra and its damp manure scent, to the mine entrance. He hands me over to Frank Dilley, who offers me his elbow like an actual gentleman instead of the filthy cur he is.

“You will treat her like a lady,” my uncle warns as I take Dilley's proffered elbow.

“Of course, sir,” Dilley says, with a grin and a tip of his hat. “This way, my
lady
.” He pulls me toward the entrance, and several of his men—along with the tall, ghostly man—fall in line behind us. My neck prickles to know they're there, where my eyes can't mark them.

We pass into shadow, and the air instantly becomes cooler and moist. The tunnel is about three paces from wall to wall, barely wide enough for a burro and a small cart to pass. Wooden beams bolster the walls and ceiling at irregular intervals, lanterns swinging from them to light the way. The
walls are rough and irregular. At one point, the tunnel widens inexplicably, revealing a table off to the side, along with a few chairs and a couple of barrels. Several of the Missouri men lounge here by lantern light, sipping from tin cups. When they see me, they all stand straight and whip off their hats.