Like a River Glorious (23 page)

Several of the foremen sit outside their barracks at a table, playing cards and drinking from mugs and laughing. Mary is sitting in someone's lap again. She wears his too-large hat on her head, and her fingers are tangled in his hair.

To our left, the Chinese area of camp is equally busy. The clang of metal indicates the blacksmith is working into the night. Several sit around his tent, probably taking advantage of the warmth of his bellows, including the old man from the tent full of jars. He studies me as we walk, sizing me up like I'm a prize heifer.

The air heralds winter with its bitter cold, and everyone's breath frosts in the lantern light. Campfire brightness keeps the stars from view, but a half-moon hovers over us all.

There is no sign of Jefferson or Tom.

“Where are we going?” I dare to ask.

“Nowhere in particular,” Hiram says. “But a father and his daughter ought to spend some time together, don't you think?”

It takes everything I have to not rip my hand from his grip.

Abel Topper approaches. His eyes widen when he takes in my new dress and shoes, and he removes his hat, crumpling it to his chest. “Good evening, Mr. Westfall,” he says. “And Miss Westfall.”

I don't respond, but Hiram says, “Mr. Topper.”

Topper's gaze hasn't left me. “You look fetching tonight,” he says.

When I remain silent, Hiram gives my arm a firm squeeze. “This gentleman has paid you a compliment,” he says.

“Thank you,” I choke out.

“It's you I have to thank,” Topper says. “You've a nose for gold, no doubt about it. It's no wonder your daddy was so lucky.”

Hiram stiffens in the space beside me.

Topper continues blithely. “We've met or exceeded quota all week, thanks to you.”

“I'm glad,” I manage.

“Thanks to
you
,” Hiram says to him. “You're a hardworking man, Abel Topper. It has not gone unnoticed.”

It's impossible to keep the frown from my face. Topper is an experienced foreman, sure, and capable enough. But far as I can tell, it's the Indians and the Chinese who do all the actual work. Unless you count whipping starving people as hard labor.

“Thank you, sir,” Topper says with a dip of his head. “Thank you kindly.”

Hiram begins to lead me away, but Topper says, “Excuse me, sir. Sorry to be a bother, sir, but there's a small matter.”

“Oh?” I know my uncle well enough to tell that his impatience is piqued.

“It's the Indians, sir. See, they're wearing out. Not working as hard as they should. I'll need more stock soon, if I'm to keep making quota. Either that, or . . . would it be too much trouble to give them an extra ration now and again?” His hat twists and twists in his hands. “I know we're trying
to be frugal and such, but the biggest ones, the strongest ones . . . well, they could sure use a little more fuel for their labors.”

I peer closely at him, not sure what he just said. Is he trying to
help
the Indians? He called them
stock
. Though I've never seen cattle stock treated as poorly as everyone here treats these people.

“I agree with Topper,” I say before I can change my mind. “I think they'll all work a little harder with more food in their bellies.”

“Do you now?” Hiram says, one eyebrow raised.

“I know you've done gentleman's work your whole life, but those of us who have had to labor with our hands and arms and backs need full stomachs to keep us going.”

It's an insult doing a poor job of dressing up as a compliment, but Hiram considers. He actually considers. “It would be easier and cheaper to just fetch more. I've been planning to send Dilley and Wilhelm anyway.”

That's been his plan all along. To work the Indians to death, collect on their bounties, and enslave more as needed.

“Well,” I say in as cool a voice as possible. “In the meantime, we have to keep the ones we already have working to potential, don't we?”

My uncle's gaze on me turns soft. “Would it make you happy?” he says.

“Yes.”

“In that case . . .” He turns to Topper. “An extra ration of wheat for the Indians tomorrow and every Saturday.
Additionally we will close the mine for Thanksgiving. Everyone will have a day of rest.”

One extra ration per week? That's the best he can do?

My heart is sinking as Hiram looks to me, waiting for some kind of approval.

“That's . . . very generous of you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Westfall,” Topper says, but his face is hard. He knows it won't be enough.

Hiram and I continue our circuit of the camp. I'm greeted by such deference when seen on my uncle's arm, but my gut knows it's all rotten. By the time we return to the cabin, I'm full up on
Good evening, Miss Westfalls
and well-meaning hat tips, and I want nothing more than to be with people I love and trust again.

I miss Becky Joyner and the kids so badly it's an ache in my chest. I hope little Andy has caught bucketsful of frogs, that Olive is learning good doctoring from Jasper, and that the Major has made the finest furniture for Becky this side of the Mississippi. I bet Hampton has enough gold now to bring his wife out, and Henry has composed a magnificent ode to the beauty of the Sierras.

I need someone to talk to soon, or I'll take leave of my senses. I wish I could talk to Mary, get to know her a little, but Hiram is always hovering when she's nearby.

Mainly, I miss Jefferson. These fancy new dresses that look just like what Mama used to wear, Hiram's impossible claim that's he's my father, the way he refuses any sympathy for the Indians . . . I could figure it all, if Jefferson were here to talk to.

Most of all, this daft idea that maybe I ought to kill Hiram, probably sooner rather than later, is a decision that no one ought to have to make alone. Jefferson could help me figure it. We've always been a team, that way. Even just looking into his calm face, feeling his arms around me, and letting his strength seep into my body might help me understand it all.

Maybe it's my perfect meek behavior. Maybe it's the dress I'm wearing. Or maybe burning Daddy's boots got something off his chest. Whatever the reason, when we return to the cabin and say our good-nights, Hiram leaves me untied.

A
fter breakfast, while Mary is washing up, Hiram leaves without dismissing her or saying a word to me. Maybe he's gone to run more mysterious errands, but maybe to use the outhouse. So I have to make this quick.

“Mary,” I whisper, soft but fierce, as she towels a plate dry.

Her hands freeze.

“He didn't tie me up last night.” I resist the urge to rub my red, stinging wrists.

She resumes toweling, slowly now.

“I need to talk to someone soon,” I add. “I'm trying to figure out a way to . . . help.” To kill my own uncle, is what I don't say.

“Don't be stupid,” she snaps. “You could ruin everything for me.”

“For the Maidu, you mean.”

“Them too.”

We are silent a long moment, and her back is still to me when she says, “Thanksgiving. Everything will be ready by then.”

It's a great comfort to confirm that they
have
been busy planning. “That's less than two weeks,” I say.

“Muskrat's people won't last any longer than that.”

“I see.” How many more bodies have they pulled from the stockade since the day I saw it? “What can I do?”

Mary finishes the dishes. “Tonight. Look to your window.” And she walks out the door.

I do my duty. I tidy up the cabin after Mary leaves, then meet Wilhelm outside. I offer him a few leftover biscuits, which he gulps down so fast I almost miss it. Together we visit the mine, and I've no advice to give except to keep going in the same direction. Abel Topper practically falls all over himself to be polite to me, and I allow him to waste my time in a useless, boring conversation about weather and statehood and our upcoming thanksgiving celebration, because it wastes
his
time and keeps his attention away from the working Indians.

Wilhelm escorts me back to the cabin, and I turn to him before going inside.

“Why do you work for my uncle?”

His face is stony, which is exactly the response I expected.

“He's a bad man, Wilhelm. Maybe the worst person I know. Well, I suppose it's a toss-up between him and Frank Dilley. Did you know that Dilley once offered to shoot my friend in the head just because his leg got busted?”

Wilhelm's blue eyes narrow.

“That was
your
laudanum he forced into me, wasn't it?” A guess, but a good one. I've seen pain flash across his
face occasionally, the way his step hitches once in a while. Something bad happened to this man, maybe the same thing that took his voice.

He gives me a single curt nod, which is so unexpected I almost take a step back.

“That's expensive stuff, isn't it?” I press on. “I wonder how much it cost you, to hand over so much of it.”

His perpetual scowl deepens.

“You're a bad man, too, Wilhelm. And maybe you think you're not, because you only do what others order you to do. Maybe you're in a prison, like me.”

Wilhelm's eyes rove my face, and I'm not sure what he's looking for. He might have been a fine-looking man once, before that scar slashed across his face.

“I suppose I could be wrong about that,” I tell him. “Maybe you're not doing anything you don't want to do. Maybe you like kidnapping innocent people and enslaving them.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches.

“I guess it doesn't matter. Whether you love what you do, or you just don't have the gumption to do the right thing—either way, you're a bad man.”

I turn my back on him and go inside.

Hiram has returned already, and he sits at his writing desk as usual.

“Uncle Hiram?” I say.

He continues to make careful loops with his pen. “I'm not your uncle.”

He's not my father, either. His story about Mama doesn't set
right, in a way that makes me not want to think about it too much. But even if it were true, there was more than just blood between Reuben Westfall and me. He raised me, taught me, loved me.

“Well, that was a lot of knowledge to dump on a girl all at once,” I say in a perfectly reasonable voice. “It's going to take me some time to get used to it all.”

When did I become such a lying, manipulative Delilah? When did I become like
him
?

He turns in his seat to face me, and a soft smile graces his lips. “I understand, sweet pea. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could borrow some paper and a pen.”

“For what purpose?”

For talking to someone through the window tonight.
“There are folks back home I'd love to write to,” I say brightly. “Judge Smith and his family, to let them know I arrived safely in California.”

His eyes narrow. I suspect he doesn't care for judges unless he owns them.

“Mama and I used to write our correspondence together once a week. She always said a proper girl ought to have beautiful penmanship. I practiced by writing letters to Annabelle Smith, and she'd write to me. We exchanged them at school.”

It's another rotten lie, mostly, on a whole heap of rotten lies I've been telling lately. Mama loved her lettering, sure, and she always kept pretty stationery on hand. But I never gave a rat's eyeball for handwriting.

Which might be a problem. If Hiram sees my awful
penmanship, he might suspect I'm pulling his leg, so I add, “To be honest, my penmanship is terrible. But I was getting better at it! And I just . . . well, I suppose I miss it.”

He considers, tapping the end of his pen to his top lip. “It's true that all the fine young ladies I knew in Milledgeville were accomplished in the art of correspondence,” he says.

I hold my breath.

“And at the Christmas ball in Sacramento, I expect you will establish some female connections, which you will wish to properly maintain.”

“I reckon so.”

“You must promise to show me your letters before sealing them,” he says.

Blast.
“Of course.”

“In that case, I will be glad to share my stationery with you. I'm planning a trip to Sacramento right after Thanksgiving. I can take your letters and post them for you.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Would you like to get started right now?” he asks. A shy, hopeful smile graces his lips. “We could . . . write together. Like you and Elizabeth used to.”

Caught in my own trap. Now I'll have to pretend to write letters to people I pretend to care about. Annabelle Smith feels so far away and part of such a different world that I don't know if we'd recognize each other in the street. I suppose I'd write to Jim Boisclair if I could. But I have no idea where he is. I last saw him in Independence, before he headed west for California. I'd surely love to run into him someday, though I
know my chances are small, this being such a huge territory.

“It's been a very long time since I've written anything,” I say. “I'd like to start by practicing my letters, if you've pen and paper to spare.”

“I do,” he says.

I sit at the table and roll up my sleeves to keep them out of the ink while he rummages through his desk for paper, pen, and inkwell. He opens the back of the pen and pours several drops of ink inside before closing it back up.

“This is costly,” he says, setting everything on the table beside me. “So write small. And that is my only spare pen, so be gentle. I'll pick up more stationery when I can, along with extra nibs and more ink. But this will have to do for now.”

“I wouldn't mind a slate,” I say. “To practice with until my penmanship is no longer a disgrace.”

“That's a good idea,” he says.

It's a fabulous idea. One of my best. I could write messages and simply erase them, if I had a slate and some chalk. That would give me a much better way to communicate with Jefferson.

“Go ahead and get started. I'll check with the headman. He just might have a slate in stock. Lots of miners use slates for signage.”

“The headman?”

“The leader of the Chinese. He acts as a peddler here in camp. Has a tent full of oddities. Surely you've seen him?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaves the cabin, and I set to work pretending to care
about penmanship. The ink is slow to reach the nib, and I scratch a tiny hole in the paper with my first few attempts. I lick my fingers and pinch the resulting moisture against the nib, and a few tries later the ink flows nice as you please.

Starting at the very corner of the sheet and writing small, I begin scripting the uppercase alphabet. I do a terrible job of it, smearing my
B
and my
H
badly. I press on doggedly, but it's hard to concentrate.
A slate! Please, please let the headman have a slate in stock.

Writing has always seemed a useless task to me. It's hardly something that puts food on the table or a roof over your head, and it requires the kind of stilled focus I'd rather save for bagging a nice fat deer. But now that I've spoken the lie, I have to live with it.

I'm finishing off my
X
with a swirling loop—which looks too much like an accidental blot—when Hiram returns.

In his hand is a dark green slate inside an oak frame and several pieces of chalk. “Look what I found!” he says.

I don't have to fake my smile. “Thank you so much.”

He glances down at my sloppy alphabet and gets a pained expression.

“I told you my penmanship is a disgrace, and it's worse for lack of practice. But I'll get better, I promise.”

“I know you will,” he says, and his gaze on me is so fond and proud, you'd think he actually cared.

Hiram takes up the paper, pen, and ink and puts the slate and chalk in their place on the table.

I start my alphabet over again, writing as slow as I can to
preserve my chalk, because I'll need all of it for tonight. It's going to be a long, long day.

I lie in bed forever, listening to the night noise of camp—a few distant conversations, some laughter, a snorting burro, a crackling fire. Gradually it all fades. It's too late in the season for crickets and frogs, and I find the silence odd. Maybe even frightening. I like knowing there's some kind of life outside these walls.

I listen, too, for my uncle. The scratch of his pen, the scrape of his chair. He always stays up late, and the light from his lantern edges my quilt-covered doorway.

I hold the slate to my chest. Hiram didn't put up a fight when I brought it to my bedroom, didn't even raise an eyebrow. And now I'll use it to talk to someone. Maybe even Jefferson.

Please, let it be Jefferson.

Then again, talking to him might put him at risk. It would be best if he stayed far away from me right now.

My uncle's lantern goes dark. The floor creaks. I slide my slate beneath my bed quilt and close my eyes tight. Air whispers across my face when he lifts the quilt in the doorway and stands there awhile, staring. I will my muscles to stillness, to keeping my breath regular.

The floor creaks again when he walks away, and I hear the soft
clunk
of his bedroom door as he finally retires for the night.

I lie awake a long time, hoping I'll see Jefferson, hoping I won't see Jefferson, wondering what I'll say to whoever shows up.

A light tap sounds at my window.

I lurch up off the bed before I can tell myself to be slow and silent. I grab the slate, step onto the chest, peer outside, and all the breath leaves my body—from both relief and dread, because it
is
Jefferson, grinning like a madman.

The moon is barely a thumbnail sliver, and a single lantern sways from one of the Chinese tents, giving shape to his silhouette. My legs twitch with the need to run outside and throw my arms around him and have a real conversation, but last time I sneaked out, someone saw me.

Instead, I write on my slate:
How did you get out?
And I put it up to the window.

His eyes widen at the sight of my slate. Then he fogs the window with his breath and uses his forefinger to write:

I gape at the word, spending a precious moment making sure I'm parsing it true. To the slate, I add:
A foreman is helping you?

Jefferson nods.

Why?

He hesitates a moment, then writes: