Like a River Glorious (9 page)

We head toward the cabin, which is now a pillar of fire, so hot and angry I feel like the very hair on my head is in flames. I pat my scalp to make sure it isn't, even as I glance about, hoping with sick desperation that Becky made it out of the cabin. Then I see her, running toward the creek with a bucket, and I nearly fall to my knees with relief.

Olive and Andy are still stomping out embers. “Olive!” I call, and she comes running. “Hold your sister.” The girl takes the baby with well-practiced hands. “You and Andy take the
baby. Head down to the pond where it's safe and stay there, understand?”

“I want to help!” she protests.

I almost give in; I wouldn't want to stand by, neither. “Jasper will want your help later with some doctoring, so I need you safe.”

“Okay, Lee.”

She rounds up her brother and herds him toward the pond. Once the three Joyner children are safely away, I grab the Major's shovel and start heaping dirt onto the cabin fire. Jefferson yells something at me, but I can't understand because the fire is roaring, drowning out everything else.

We all work hard and fast, harder and faster than we've ever worked in our lives, but I can already tell it'll hardly matter. We're going to lose the cabin for sure, and a lot more besides. I'm grateful for the rain we've been having; otherwise all our claim land would be up in smoke by now. As it is, we have a slight chance of keeping the fire from spreading to the surrounding woods and autumn-dry meadows. Becky and the college men pour water on the edges of the fire, while the Major and Jefferson bat it down with canvas.

Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades as I shovel and shovel, until I've dug a decent trench between the cabin and the trees. The skin of my face is tight and hot as if it's been sunburned, and my hands, my clothes, everything is covered in fine gray-black dust. Every single breath is a wheeze of dry, sharp pain.

There's still no sign of Martin.

One of the nearest pine trees starts to flicker and pop. Within seconds, it's a giant torch, lighting the whole sky.

Light flares on the hill above us. A split second later the ground rumbles as a sound like a thousand trees splintering to dust pierces my head. It's our ammo exploding, in the cache Jefferson and Martin dug.

We all pause in our work, faces falling. The shovel drops from my blistered hands. I don't know what else to do.

Suddenly, figures enter the wide circle of firelight. Ten of them. No, more. At least thirty. Men, women, and children, all surrounding us. Indians.

Becky Joyner lets out a squeal, high-pitched enough to be heard over the roaring fire.

Alarm fills me, too, but for a different reason. Jefferson was right. The Indians do live here. And if the fire spreads to the trees and takes off through this dry tinder, it'll burn down their homes, maybe their food.

Most are barefoot. Some, especially the women, wear nothing but grass skirts. Thick black hair frames round faces, and long bead necklaces drape between bare breasts. Many carry huge animal-hide blankets.

The women shake off their skirts and leave them on the ground. Naked, brandishing their blankets, they step forward.

Becky flees to the pond to gather her children.

As one, the Indians rush to attack the fire—the cabin, the shanties, the tree. They beat at it like it's the devil, hides and spark flying.

My companions and I remain dumbfounded for the space
of two heartbeats. Then we leap forward to join them, fighting with renewed vigor. Now that we have help, Jasper and the Major rush down to the corral to take care of the shed and check on Hampton.

Minutes pass, or maybe an hour, as we slap and shovel and douse.

Gradually the fire succumbs to our will. The shanty flames fade, though choking black smoke still billows from hidden embers. The cabin turns to cinders. Even the tree torch is conquered, when the Indians do something I can't see that makes it topple—burning branches and all—onto the remains of the cabin, where they're able to safely beat out the fire.

The eastern horizon is hinting at dawn when a light rain begins to fall. Henry lets out a whoop of relief.

The Indians glance around at one another. They exchange a few angry words I don't understand, then they begin to leave, as swiftly and surprisingly as they came.

“Wait!” Jefferson calls out.

One of the Indians turns back, an older woman with a marked face—charcoal-colored lines stretch from her bottom lip to her chin. Her necklace is thicker and longer than any of the others.

One of the men comes up and stands behind her. He's a short but muscular man, with a beaded necklace and a pattern of dots on his bare chest. He makes no obvious threat, but it's clear he'll allow her to come to no harm.

Jefferson rushes back toward his half-burned shanty, to the pile of items I rescued. He grabs his bedroll, which is an
enormous buffalo hide we acquired on a fateful hunt, months ago. He brings it back and offers it to the Indian woman.

“Thank you,” he says.

Her black eyes widen. She runs a forefinger over the thick brown fur, as if considering. After a moment, she and the man nod to each other. She takes the hide in her arms, and the two of them turn away and disappear into the trees with the rest of their companions.

W
e are left alone in the predawn chill. The remains of our camp, of everything we've worked so hard for, smolder around us.

“All the chickens are dead,” Tom says. Then he bends over, coughing.

Jasper and the Major crest the hill. Hampton is dragged between them, his arms wrapped around their shoulders for support. His head lolls, and his gaze is oddly unfocused, but his eyes are wide open and blinking. I'm so glad to see him alive that a tear leaks from my right eye and dribbles down my cheek.

“Is he . . . Will he . . .” It's Olive, slunk up beside me. I look down to see her lower lip trembling.

“He's fine,” Jasper says. “Concussed, is all. Small burn on his arm. He'll have an awful headache for a few days, and he won't be keeping food down anytime soon, but he'll make it.”

“Something hit me,” Hampton murmurs. “Back of my head.”

Jefferson's eyes find mine. Hampton wasn't the only one on watch tonight. “Martin,” we both say at once.

The Major pulls his Colt from his holster. “I'm coming with you.”

“Me too,” says Tom.

Becky looks around at our ruined camp. Faint daylight is changing everything from black to sick gray. “I'll just . . . I guess I'll start to clean. . . .” All of a sudden she crumples to the ground, into a lump of sooty skirts. Her face falls into her hands, and her back heaves as she silently weeps.

“I'll stay with Widow Joyner,” Henry says meekly.

The rest of us fan out to search. If everyone is as tuckered as I am, they can hardly lift one leg to put in front of the other, and every smoke-scarred breath feels like a major battle. That doesn't stop any of us from breaking into a jog, or from calling Martin's name at the top of our lungs.

The Major heads back toward the corral, Tom skirts the pond and veers south toward the American River. Jefferson and I climb upstream past the rapids. It's still too dark to see well. As we clamber over tumbled boulders and weave through the trees, I worry that we might pass within a few feet of Martin and never notice.

We're well past my claim now and into Jefferson's. The land is even rockier here, shale poking out of the sod, ready to trip unwary feet. The only trees able to grow in this landscape are sprawling, monstrous oaks, with their relentless roots and heavy trunks. Clumps of mistletoe hang in their highest branches, and I realize it must be getting lighter if I can make out the mistletoe.

“Martin!” Jefferson calls again. His voice is scraped, like he's swallowed a bucket of sand.

“Martin!” I echo, but my voice is too raw to carry far.

We pause at the edge of Jefferson's claim, where it borders Hampton's land. One of the stakes has been snapped in half, the splintered end sticking up from meager golden grass. We exchange an alarmed glance.

“Lee,” Jefferson says in a near whisper, “I'm scared.”

His words give leave for fear to come pouring into my own self. “Me too.”

“I mean, after what happened to Therese . . .”

“I know.” I reach out and grab his hand. It feels gritty in mine, and I wince when he squeezes back; my blisters must be enormous. But as we step forward, neither of us lets go.

The ground turns hard beneath our feet, and my gold sense goes from bees swirling a hive to raging tornado. Hampton's claim has always been the best. Even if Martin was carrying a little extra gold on his person, I wouldn't be able to find him in this maelstrom.

Jefferson stops suddenly, yanking on my hand. “Did you hear something?”

Just the usual: mountain jays joyously greet the day, while the creek rushes over the rocks and wind teases the tree branches. “There's a lot of gold here, and when I'm buzzing like this, I don't hear and see so well.”

He is silent a moment, listening. Then: “This way.” He drags me toward a lone digger pine, growing against all odds out of a rocky slope. Giant pinecones litter our path. We kick them
aside, and they go rolling down the hill toward the creek.

I see his hand first, pale and bloody against a patch of dark shale.

“No!” Jefferson shouts, and the pain in his voice echoes my own. I rip my hand from Jefferson's grasp and run forward, then fall to my knees at Martin's side.

He lies on his back, eyes wide and blinking rapidly at the morning sky. Blood pools on the rock beneath his head; it's already sticky and dark. His right leg bends in a bad place, just below the knee, so that his foot is unnaturally canted to the side.

“I've been calling,” he whispers, in a voice even rawer than mine. “Calling and calling for hours.”

I grab his bloody, scraped-up hand and squeeze tight. “Go get Jasper,” I order Jefferson. “As fast as you can.”

Jefferson takes off at a sprint.

“Lee . . .” Martin actually smiles, and my heart hurts so bad I think it might burst. “I'm glad you're here.”

“What happened?” He's not breathing enough. Just short, shallow gasps every few seconds. His hand in mine is limp and cold, like it's already dead.

“Don't know. Heard something. Mucking around in the grass. Went to check.” His eyes flutter closed.

“Martin!”

He startles awake. “Something hit my head. I fell. Think my leg's broke, but I'm not sure. Can't feel it. Can't feel anything.”

“Your leg's fine. Nothing Jasper can't fix.”

“Liar. You got any water? Throat hurts . . .”

“No, I . . . Wait.” I get to my feet. “I'll be right back.”

I dash toward the creek, sliding across gravelly shale. The water runs fast and clear up here above the pond. Tiny trout dart to safety as I lean over the edge. I rip off my neckerchief and soak it, but the water that drips from it is black with soot. I wring it out, rinse again, and repeat the process two more times until the water runs clear. One last time, I dip the neckerchief and let it absorb all the water it can hold.

With it cupped in my hands, I race back to where Martin lies and crouch beside him. “Open your mouth,” I command.

He does, and I let water drip from the kerchief between his cracked lips. He chokes a little but manages to swallow, so I squeeze the fabric to give him a steady stream, which he gulps eagerly.

“Want some more? I can get—”

“You think I'll see her soon?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

“Therese?”

He sighs. “
Ja.
Therese.” His voice is getting fainter. “I hated her. She was so bossy. So
good
. Vater loved her best. But then she died, and I realized it wasn't true. . . . I didn't hate her at all.”

His blue eyes have taken on a glazed look, like he's only half in his head anymore.

I say, “I'm sure it will be a long time before you see Therese.”

“Liar. Leah the liar. Lying Lee.”

I'm about to protest, but running footsteps come up behind me. It's Jefferson and Jasper, with Becky, Olive, and Henry on their heels.

Jasper drops his medicine chest on the ground beside me and grabs Martin's hand to feel the pulse in his wrist. “What happened?”

“Something hit him on the head. He fell.”

“Hey, Doc,” Martin says with forced cheer.

“How's that head feel?” Jasper asks. Carefully, he reaches behind Martin's head with both hands and gently palpates with his fingertips.

“Hurts.”

“Sorry about this, Martin, but I have to see if your skull is intact.”

“Is it?”

A pause. “No.”

“Didn't think so.”

Olive creeps forward and slips her hand into mine.

“Mrs. Joyner,” Jasper says. “While I examine Martin, will you give him the laudanum?”

Becky wipes her hands on her soot-filthy skirt and reaches into the chest for the glass bottle. “How much?”

“All of it.”

“But won't that—”

“
All
of it.”

Becky straightens. “I see.”

“We should have gotten here earlier,” I say. “Instead of worrying about that fire. We should have—”

“Wouldn't have made a difference,” Jasper whispers, for my ears only.

He doesn't even bother to examine Martin's broken leg.
Instead he unbuttons the boy's shirt and taps various places on his abdomen, occasionally pausing to put his ear to Martin's chest and listen. Meanwhile, Becky tips the bottle to Martin's lips. His face wrinkles at the taste, but he swallows.

Olive's hand slips out of mine. She takes some clean cloth from Jasper's chest, pours water from a canteen over it, and begins to bathe Martin's face.

“Jeff,” Martin says, and Jefferson is beside him in an instant. “Send all my gold to Mutter, yes? And tell her I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left—”

“Don't worry about it,” Jefferson says. “You'll be back to hunting rabbits with me in no time.”

“Please, Jeff.”

A muscle in Jefferson's jaw twitches. “All right.”

“That laudanum,” Martin says dreamily, eyelids fluttering. “No wonder Mr. Joyner liked it so much.”

“Olive,” Jasper says in a tight voice. “Bend over Martin's mouth and listen carefully to his breathing for a moment.”

Her eyes are huge and bright in her face as she follows his instructions.

“You hear that?” Jasper says. “The wheeze? Can you hear how moist it is?”

Olive nods, blinking hard to keep tears back.

“Remember that,” Jasper says. “We're going to talk about it later.”

“Okay, Jasper.”

Martin's eyes don't close, but the light leaves them. He's still breathing, though. Just a little. He's not dead.

Henry's singing voice suddenly fills the air, a high, clear tenor that echoes through the hills.

Hidden in the hollow, of His blessed hand

Never foe can follow, never traitor stand

Not a surge of worry, not a shade of care—

Martin gasps once, loud and strong, and then . . . nothing.

We all stay a moment, just staring down at him. From behind me comes the hiccupping sound of Becky Joyner's sobbing. Olive crawls into my lap and buries her face in my chest. I wrap my arms around her.

Jefferson swears softly, using a word I've never heard from his mouth before. He turns away so we can't see his face.

“Let's get him back to camp,” Jasper says, his voice so tight and controlled it makes my chest ache. “Find a place to bury him.”

“But what happened?” Becky practically shrieks. “I don't understand! Hampton was hit on the head and he's going to be fine. What's a little broken leg to you? You're a doctor! You could have fixed—”

“He broke his back,” Jasper says gently. “His spinal cord was near severed by the fall. His organs were shutting down. If that didn't kill him, the blow to the head would have. His skull was in tatters. It's a wonder he survived as long as he did.”

“Oh,” Becky says. I'm glad she asked, because I had the same questions.

Jefferson turns back around. His eyes are wet. “His Colt's
missing,” he says. “It wasn't enough they killed him. They robbed him, too.”

Henry squeezes his shoulder. “Come on, give me a hand with him.”

Henry and Jefferson lift Martin—Henry at the shoulders and Jefferson at the feet. Jeff's face is desolate. He looks so awful that I yearn to run over to him, wrap my arms around him, let him cry into my shoulder. Or maybe I want to cry into his. First Therese and now Martin. The poor Hoffmans will curse the day they decided to head west. To come all this way for nothing, except to lose two children.

But I can't let myself float down that river right now. Instead I get to my feet, heaving Olive up with me. She clings tight, so I continue to hold her as I follow everyone back to our burned-out camp.

The Major returns just as we do. He carries something on his back, wrapped around his neck.

“No!” Jefferson yells. He sets Martin's feet down and runs forward.

It's Nugget, and her golden fur is slick with blood.

“She was shot,” the Major says.

Olive squirms from my grasp and I let her go, suddenly numb. I'm not sure I can stand on my own feet anymore. I've known Nugget since she was a wriggly puppy. She came all the way across the continent from Georgia with us.

Jefferson leans forward to kiss his dog's muzzle. Nugget's tail thumps once, weakly, and her pink tongue snakes out to lap clumsily at his face.

“She's alive!” Jefferson exults. “You dumb girl, what did you go and get yourself shot for?”

“It's her back leg,” the Major says. “She can't walk right now, but I don't think the bone's broke.”

That does it. Tears burst from me like a dam breaking. I don't know how I've held it together until now, only to lose it over a bit of happiness, but I fall to my knees and quake with sobs.

Through tears, I note the Buckeyes, led by Old Tug, start to trickle into our camp. They've worn a path up the creek and around the pond by now. I hastily wipe at my face and try to get myself under control.

“I'm so sorry,” I hear Becky say in a shaky voice. “I don't have breakfast for you gentlemen today.”

The Buckeyes survey our camp, faces grave. They seem to come to a silent agreement. Old Tug grabs a shovel. Another man dons his gloves. Without hesitation, without a word, they get to work cleaning up.

Olive's gaze turns fierce. She strides over to the Major and Jefferson, who are now kneeling over Nugget's prone form. “I'm going to fix you up, Nugget,” she says, hand on her hips. “Just you watch and see.”

We bury Martin in the meadow. The dirt is too shallow for a proper grave. Like we did for his sister months ago, we bury him as best we can, then pile rocks on top, high and thick to mark the resting place of our friend. I take the Major's ax and chop down a couple of pine branches, strip them, and
lash them together to make a rickety cross, which Jefferson pounds into the ground like a claim stake.