The Drop Edge of Yonder (26 page)

"Don't say nothin' to nobody about nothin'," Plug said to Zebulon. "And stay the hell away from me until the soup boils over on the stove. I jumped too soon. That damn Chinee gave me the wrong signal."

He turned over on his side and went back to sleep.

hree days later, as if she, too, were involved in Lu's plan, Large Marge busted out, or more accurately, went berserk. She was working at the Warden's house, a job she'd had for over a year, when Abigail, the Warden's wife, yelled at her to separate the white from the colored laundry and to fold each article of clothing - not to just shove them into a drawer, but to pile them neatly, socks and underwear next to jerseys and shirts; if Large Marge was not up to this simple task, she could be replaced.

"Fair enough," Large Marge said. She picked up the ironing board and clobbered Abigail over the head, knocking out two of her front teeth. After rampaging through the house and breaking several windows and a Chippendale table, she was finally captured swinging in the hammock by the river, finishing off a bottle of the Warden's hundred-year-old Spanish brandy.

The following evening, true to form, the prisoners were lined up at attention, the Warden standing above them on the poop deck. In the lineup of prisoners, Lu and Plug had managed to position themselves on either side of Zebulon.

"Soup's boiling," Plug whispered. "Now it's my turn to take care of that cold-hearted bastard."

Before Large Marge could be lowered over the side, Lu suddenly lurched backward and collapsed. Banging his hands on the deck, he screamed in Chinese for justice, salvation, and a oneway ticket to Shanghai until two guards wrestled him below.

"It's all set," Plug said. "Now all he's got to do is slip his chains and pull the cork."

Large Marge's huge bulk was lowered inch by groaning inch over the side. Halfway to the water, the plug Lu removed below began letting in a torrent of water, causing the prison hulk to groan and creak, then slowly list to starboard. The ropes binding Large Marge gave way, and with a loud yell she plummeted straight down, landing in the middle of a dory that was tied up against the ship's stern.

From then on, everything happened at once.

Zebulon held onto the railing as Bent slid past him, his mouth open in a silent scream, his peg leg at a right angle. Prisoners followed him over the side, a few sinking beneath the water while others hauled themselves into the dory or swam to shore. Plug climbed up a ladder to the poop deck and, waving a butcher knife, rushed towards the Warden, only to have the Warden shoot him in the leg. Plug kept on anyway. He grabbed the Warden around the waist, locking them together in a violent dance until Plug's leg gave out and he rolled across the deck into the river.

"Die now or stir soup," Lu said, appearing beside Zebulon. He was completely naked, his body skeletal enough to push a finger through.

They turned as the Warden ran towards them, his pistol raised. Before he could fire, Lu grabbed Zebulon by the hand and pulled him into the river.

uien es?" a voice inside him asked.

Who was he, and where was he going? And who was there to save him? He wasn't in a ditch, he knew that much. And he wasn't sinking. His hands were reaching out, asking to be saved.

It was Lu, dragging him out of the river and into a stand of sycamore trees, where Hatchet Jack stood waiting with three horses.

They saw Bent leaning against the trunk of a cottonwood tree, his rifle pointing at them.

Before he could pull the trigger, Hatchet Jack fired his pistol.

"Well, what do you know?" Bent looked down at the hole in his shoulder. "I'm dead meat "

He looked up at Zebulon. "One small favor, Zeb. A pay back for the drinks and smokes.... Tell 'em you kilt me straight up. You against me. Not some fuckin' half-breed no-account horse-thief shootin' me lyin' down.... That way I'll be part of somethin' big, maybe a song or two."

As they rode off along the shore, Large Marge stumbled out of the river, her wet clothing hanging from her bulk in shreds, her hair matted with mud.

"Room for one more?" she asked, hauling herself up behind Lu and wrapping her arms around his neck.

When they reached the Warden's house, the second story was on fire. Highlighted against the flames, prisoners ran in and out of the front door, throwing household goods into a carriage and over the backs of horses. More prisoners were fighting on the lawn over Abigail's jewelry and the Warden's collection of esoteric objects, including Syrian vases, antique French clocks, German hunting rifles, Peruvian and Mexican jewelry, and dozens of English pocket watches arranged in felt-covered boxes.

On the lawn, Hatchet Jack tried on one of the Warden's linen suits, then a high-collared London shirt and Spanish leather vest with pearl buttons. Lu chose a silk blouse and a boy's sailor outfit while Large Marge struggled into a full-dress military uniform.

After Zebulon changed into one of the Warden's creamcolored linen suits, he pushed past them into the burning house.

The Warden's office was full of smoke, and flames were spreading over the couch and floor. He pulled out the desk drawers until he found the Warden's small golden bowl, Lakota Sioux rattle, and fossilized walrus penis.

As he staggered out of the house, he tripped over the front steps. Above him, crouched on the sill of an upstairs window, the Warden's wife, Abigail, pressed her son against her breast. For a moment their eyes met before she turned towards the prison hulk, where the Warden was pacing back and forth on the bridge, waiting to be rescued by an approaching rowboat.

"Jump!" Zebulon yelled to Abigail. "I'll catch you."

As she picked up her son and inched her way forward, the floor collapsed and they disappeared.

EBULON, LU, HATCHET JACK, AND LARGE MARGE GALLOPED along the south fork of the American River, guiding their horses in and out of the water to minimize their tracks. Where the river was shallow, they rode across and rode back again.

By late evening they'd found an abandoned hunter's shack within a grove of cypress trees. Too exhausted to speak, they collapsed inside, their odd clothing making them look like runaways from a traveling theater or lunatic asylum. Newspapers had been nailed on the walls for insulation, with headlines announcing highlights of an era: "Mexican War Ends"; "Zachary Taylor President"; "California 31st State"; "San Francisco Burns"; "Gold Discovered In Sonoma!"; "Biggest Strike Ever!!!!"; "Confederate Troops Capture Independence, Missouri!"

Hatchet Jack stepped outside, lying flat on the ground to listen for pursuing horses. Satisfied that no one was on their trail, he produced a bottle of tequila from his saddlebag, took a long pull, and went back inside. He handed the bottle to Zebulon, who drank and handed it to Lu, who did the same and handed it to Large Marge, who took a slug and passed out, the Chinaman curled up against her thigh.

"You been nothin' but trouble ever since that cantina in Panchito," Hatchet Jack said to Zebulon. "If I was you, and I ain't, thank god, and I'll always be grateful, I'd point my muzzle to another trail. That woman, Delilah, is demonized. Take it from me. I been travelin' lately through her partic'lar valley, and nothin' is like it seems. She's up the river at Sutter's Fort. The same place where they first discovered the gold. Now it's all gone to ruin and I could care less."

"Did she get you to spring me?" Zebulon asked.

Hatchet Jack shook his head. "If it was up to her, you'd still be in the calaboose. That Mex healer-dealer, Plaxico, he told me to break you out. You might remember. You saw him at that pueblo we went to with your Ma. The same one I been learnin' the spirit business with in Mexico. He said my job is to work the graveyard shift and rescue the dead, or those that don't know they're dead. Startin' with you. You ask me, a bad job all the way around."

"I don't want to know about it," Zebulon said.

Hatchet Jack slugged back some tequila. "I don't blame you.

He tossed the bottle to Zebulon. "I'm off to the diggin's. Heard there's a strike up in Placerville. And don't give me no yessir, nossir, depending. Now that I've sprung you, our case is closed. You can ride where you want to."

He spat out the door. "I ran into your Pa again. He's still the same crazy old coon. Came down with a bad case of gold fever in Virginia City. Made another big strike, then lost it all to some cheap low-bellied bone-stripper. Now he's down to eatin' rocks. Can you believe, I offered him another horse, and this one was prime stock. He still wouldn't take it. Some things don't never add up. I should have left you in that stinkin' arroyo."

"I thought you did," Zebulon said.

Hatchet Jack laughed. "Too late to get into that. Go ahead. Ride up to Sutter's Fort and rope the witch in, and good luck to you. If we're lucky we'll never meet up again."

When Zebulon woke the next morning, Hatchet Jack was gone, along with Lu.

Large Marge was sitting on a log, rubbing the raw welts crisscrossing her shoulders and neck, a result of her near drowning.

"Don't talk," she warned. "I don't know where they took off to and I don't give a damn."

ARGE MARGE AND ZEBULON DRIFTED ACROSS THE Sacramento Valley towards Sutter's Fort. The only signs of life were an occasional herd of deer, and once, a startled bear gazing at them from the middle of a berry patch. Entire farms were deserted, vineyards and orchards neglected, fences broken. All that was left of once-golden wheat fields had been grazed over by stray cattle and sheep.