California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1) (32 page)

In her room Barnett averted his eyes as
he undressed Esther and put her to bed. He broke up a chair and laid pieces of
it on the dying coals of a Franklin stove that sat over in one corner.

Esther beckoned to him. "Just hold
me, Warren.
Please.
"

Self-consciously, he put his arms around
her.

"I can never tell you how grateful I
am."

"I'm just thankful you're
alive."

She leaned back and looked at him.
"There will always be a special bond between us now." Her breasts
were almost bare, and his eyes darted nervously. "Like a brother and
sister," she added quickly. "That's all I mean."

"Thank you for saying that." He
paused. "There is something I must tell you, Esther. I… I have always
cared deeply for you… in a spiritual way." He gazed past her. "Often
I have wondered why I've never felt more… wanted you…"

She stroked his head. "It may sound
strange, but it means more to me this way."

"Sometimes I've wished I
did
feel more," he went on, not really hearing her, needing to tell all of it.
"It's just that my whole life… is…"

"Politics," she said, smiling.

"Yes." He laughed nervously.
"Physical needs, when they arise, I attend to in a casual way… with…"

"Those women who know how to do
everything."

"Yes."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the
cheek. "I understand. I think no less of you for it."

He sat silently with her for a moment,
then stood up. "You're all right now?"

"Yes."

"Then… perhaps… perhaps I should go
and see if I can help elsewhere."

When
he was gone, she lay back on the bed and began drifting off to sleep.
Dear,
good Warren,
she thought.
He is with his first love now. His people. And
I am one of them.

In the morning Esther stared out through
the window at the whaleboats and skiffs still carrying people to high ground.
The Sacramento and American rivers had crested, and the entire city had been
submerged in three to four feet of water. Across Front Street, large boats
drifted at odd angles, splintered where they had smashed into one another.
Several more were overturned or partially sunk. Bales and crates, equipment,
supplies, foodstuffs, and clothing, washed from temporary storage points,
littered the street and the banks of the river.
God knows how much more has
been washed downstream,
she thought, for the first time remembering that
Kellerman had built his new store on a knoll some distance from the now
submerged
Embarcadero.
In
all likelihood his losses would be minimal.

She was suddenly struck with the
stupidity—and irony—of the disaster. If the scene within her view was any
indication, the city had been devastated in several minutes. She guessed
rightly that scores of lives had been lost. At least a half-dozen people in the
hotel had been drowned sleeping in their beds. No doubt, she thought, more than
a hundred thousand dollars in goods had been destroyed, and God knew how much
it would cost to repair the damage when the waters subsided.

All of it preventable. All of it
forewarned. For as long as she had been in the region, she had known that the
Indians never built camps nearer than fifty to one hundred yards from a stream
or tributary of any size. They were well aware that the waterways swelled and
washed over their banks predictably each year when the snow melted. Down here
in the valley there was no snow of any consequence. But by the end of each
December, with a formidable snow-mass accumulated to the east, there was always
a chance that rain would melt the western edges of the white blanket and sweep
it downriver toward the settlements. No doubt the Indians had told others, as
Miwokan had told her, of the danger. Undoubtedly the Indians had been ignored,
as they largely were on almost any matter worth discussion. Common sense alone
should have dictated that the city be protected, at least by raising levees
such as those she had read about along the Mississippi. The only thing that
could have prevented such prudence was a preoccupation that robbed men of
normal good sense.

Had there been any question about what
the preoccupying, insidious element clouding otherwise sharp minds might be, it
would have been answered while she stood there. Diagonally across Front Street
a bearded miner lay drowned in his stove-in rowboat. Clutched in one of his
hands was a packed belly bank holding all his gold.

Before it is through,
she thought,
how many will he pierced, impaled on the elephant's tusks? And
will I be one of them?
Indeed, in subtle ways, was she already one of the
changed, destroyed slowly by the ugly truth contained in Miwokan's legend? She
went back to bed and fell asleep wondering if she had enough to use against
Mosby, if it was time to divest herself of all direct involvement with gold, or
if it was already too late.

Nine
days later, as Sacramento City finally dried out and the inhabitants began
repairing and rebuilding, a note reached Esther just as she and Barnett were
about to leave for the South Fork:

Sent
Kit Carson, who has returned from the Cimarron, to inform you at your home, but
you had already departed for Sacramento City so forwarded this. Gold discovered
on our property. Not placer gold, but a rich underground vein several feet
wide, more than a yard in some places. Due to its direction, it is likely that
the same vein or a similar formation extends through the mountains on your
property. May have left for Washington before you return, so wished to inform
you and let you know we plan to begin mining operations here as soon as
possible. Have discussed methods and procedures with those knowledgeable in
such matters, and it seems likely we will build a quartz-stamping mill in the
vicinity sometime later  this year. Should the presence of "mother lode"
vein or veins bear out on your property, we would be happy to have you join us
in the building and, of course, use of such a mill.

Please
extend my regards to Mr. Barnett the next time you see him. Jessie sends her
best.

Faithfully yours,

John
Charles Frémont

Murietta was not at the cabin when Esther
and Barnett arrived. There were warm ashes in the fireplace, and although
Murietta's horse and saddle were gone, the rest of his gear lay on the floor.
Since it was Sunday, Esther assumed he had gone into town for provisions or to
amuse himself. At first she was reluctant to go with Barnett. But then she
decided her vow never to set foot in Placerville again was foolish. She would
certainly not go out of her way to visit the mining community, but having
Barnett double back seemed unnecessary. She decided to pass the time with
Murietta while Barnett attended to his political affairs.

Constant traffic had packed down the
widened wagon-road into Placerville. Only a little of the surface was slick
with snow, and they quickly covered the distance from the river to the ridge
overlooking the town. The silence of the pine forest didn't seem unusual or in
any way alarming this time. It was winter, and snow covering the ground and the
heavily laden evergreens muffled all sound. But now, as Barnett slowed the
horses on the crest between two sloping hills, Esther thought she was dreaming,
reliving an expanded version of the nightmare that had unfolded the last time
she was here.

The town had grown so much it was almost
unrecognizable. There were ten times as many people. Most of them were gathered
now, a lake of bearded faces and flannel shirts, undulating, hissing and
growling like lava, around the hitching rails in front of a saloon on the main
street. Off beyond the far edge of town, incongruously, a small group of people
was holding a religious service, singing a hymn. As Esther and Barnett drew
closer to the larger mass of miners, they saw the rifles and clubs.

A sick feeling spread through Esthers
stomach. "Warren, I want to turn around. I don't want to be here."

Barnett reined up fifty yards from the
crowd. "Esther, I've got to find out what's going on."

"Your business can wait, can't it? …
Please.
" Then she saw the two men tied to the hitching rail. One of
them was Murietta. "Oh, God… It's Joaquin. They have Joaquin. Do
something
,
Warren."

Barnett eased the team of horses into the
rear of the mob. "
Make way!
" he shouted. "
Make way!
"

"Who the hell do you think you
are?" one miner barked, raising a length of oak and seizing the reins.

"My name is Warren Barnett, sir. I
am a state senator, and I demand to know what is going on here!"

"Get down off that fuggin'
wagon," another man bellowed. "Or they'll be takin' you back to San
Jose in a pine box."

A tall, strapping man in a suit, vest,
and string tie pushed through the crowd. Esther recognized him immediately. He
had slapped the horse out from under the man they had hanged here thirteen
months earlier.

"Hold on," he said. "Let's
not go off half-cocked." He turned to Barnett. "Would you kindly get
down, sir?"

Barnett hesitated for a moment, then
climbed down off the buckboard. Esther's eyes darted from Barnett to the tall
man with the pleasant face and enormous, square jaw, then beyond the crowd to
Murietta, who stood glaring at a fat, red-bearded man. Beside him, the second
man lashed to the hitching rail winced with pain as he struggled to free his
wrists from their bonds.

"My name is William Coleman," the
tall, strapping man said, his extremely pale-blue eyes as cold as snow.
"Are you indeed a member of the state senate?"

Barnett glanced around him and took in a
deep, chest-swelling breath. "I am, sir. And I wish to know what the
charge is against these two prisoners."

Coleman regarded him coolly. "Do you
have any credentials? Can you prove you are who you say you are?"

"I have identification."

"I'd like to see something
official," Coleman said.

"I have letters addressed to me. And
I came seeking you out at the suggestion of Senator Gwin."

"Gwin spoke about a matter he wished
me to discuss with Barnett, but since I have never met the man, I cannot vouch
that you are he."

"Good God, aren't letters addressed
to me enough?"

"Unless you have something official…"

"I do not. And this is outrageous. I
will see to it…"

"See, my
ass
," the
red-bearded man shouted. "You got nothin' official, you got nothin' to say
in this affair."

The crowd roared in approval. Esther
slipped down from the buckboard and, emotion overriding reason, began making
her way toward the edge of the buildings.

"You will answer for this
indignity," Barnett said.

"Go to hell, you goddamned
windbag!" someone shouted.

"What is your name?" Barnett
said angrily, as the red-bearded man pushed through the milling prospectors to
where he stood.

"Claussen. Isaac Claussen, if it
makes any goddamned difference."

Esther heard the name, remembered
Solana's comments about the man, and stared at him for a moment from the edge
of the crowd.

"You will answer—"

"I will, shit," Claussen cut
Barnett off. "One of these two greasers shot a man last night and another
an hour ago. And we're about to try 'em."

"You can't do that!" Barnett
said, taking a step forward. Immediately Claussen and three other miners seized
him by the arms and neck.

Esther moved cautiously along the edge of
the building toward the hitching post.

"Let the man loose," Coleman
said. "He has done nothing—as yet. Sir, this is the way here. They have
been accused of a crime, and they shall be tried for it."

The man tied up beside Murietta shouted
at the top of his voice. "
We have done nothing… nothing!
"

"Shut up," Claussen bellowed.

Esther was within ten feet of the
hitching rail when the miners turned their attention to Murietta.

He spoke calmly. "If you would
examine the bullet in the wounded man, you would find that it is from a rifle.
We carry only…"

"
Examine the bullet?
" a
small, wizened old miner shouted. "You crazy goddamned greaser. The man
may be dead in an hour, and you want someone to tamper with him?"

Barnett jerked free of Claussen's grasp
and faced Coleman. "You seem to be a reasonable, intelligent man. Surely
only one of these men could have fired the shot, if indeed one of them fired at
all."

They had all turned back to Barnett and
Coleman again. Esther moved immediately behind Murietta and began working on
the leather thongs around his wrists. He showed no sign of her presence,
remained perfectly still.

"That's true," she heard
Coleman say. "But which one?"

"The point," Barnett said.
"The very point. How can you try two men for a crime only one man could
commit?"

"You think one'a them's gonna own
up?" Claussen shouted. The crowd roared again, eager to get on with it.

"Can't you
wait
?"
Barnett pleaded. "Hold these men until you are able to examine the
bullet?"

"Who says we ever gonna be able to
do that?" Claussen sneered.

Suddenly a burly arm curled around
Esther's throat, pulling her away from Murietta. "
She's tryin' to cut
'em loose!
"

Squirming, Esther broke free and fell in
the mud at Murietta's feet. Two miners grabbed her and held her arms. Claussen
broke through the crowd and confronted Esther. "What the hell you think
you're doin'?"

"
Setting these men free!
"
Esther screamed, struggling. "You have no proof that they did
anything!"

"You cannot reason with this
animal," Murietta said, gazing levelly at Claussen. "He is out for
blood. He has a personal grudge against me."

Claussen punched Murietta hard in the
face.

"
You beast,
" Esther
screamed as she wrenched loose and lunged at Claussen. Clawing at him, she
grabbed at his beard and yanked violently.

Claussen howled and threw her off.
"Take hold of her," he ordered. "This here's gone far
enough."

"Hang 'em," someone shouted.
"
Hang all of them!
"

Several miners seized Barnett again.

"You will answer for this," he
shouted. "
Take your hands off her!
"

Coleman, carefully weighing the mood of
the crowd, took a step forward. "Isaac… it can wait for a moment while we
talk."

"Talk, shit."

"If this is really Barnett,"
Coleman said, lowering his voice, "it could spell trouble for you—us—if
anything happens to him or the woman."

"We're all in this together," a
prospector shouted.

The crowd responded, "
Yeah!
"

"There is some question about who is
guilty," Coleman said quickly. "It would be better not to hang
them."

"What are we supposed to do?"
Claussen countered. "Let 'em off clear and free?"

Coleman scanned the crowd. "No.
Punish them." He leaned over and whispered something to Claussen.

The man next to Murietta on the hitching
post worked at the leather loops encircling his right wrist.

"Better'n hanging," Claussen
said, nodding his head. "Yeah. We'll horsewhip 'em and send 'em
packin'."

"Just the two prisoners,"
Coleman said. "When it is finished, we will let the others go."

"What do you say t' that, boys?"
Claussen shouted.

The crowd roared its approval. Someone
produced a mule whip. Two men jerked and twisted Murietta over by his ankles
until his arms crossed; two more men quickly snugged lariats around his ankles,
holding him, legs splayed, as Claussen spit on his hands, rubbed them together,
and took the whip.

"
You will be tried for this!
"
Barnett shouted.

Claussen eyed him, thought for a moment,
smiled, then handed the whip to one of the miners. "Twenty men, twenty
lashes. One lash each man. You'll have to try us all."

Coleman whispered to Barnett, "They
are almost out of control. This is better than a double hanging, isn't
it?"

Barnett groaned, and Esther gasped as
Murietta's shirt was ripped off and the first man laid the whip into him. A
long cut opened across Murietta's shoulder blades.

"Don't
say anything," Coleman whispered to Barnett. He turned to Claussen.
"Twelve will be enough," he said, raising his voice. "And take
that woman away. Take her into the saloon where she cannot see or hear this."
He motioned to one of the miners. "You. Stand guard over her."

"Sit over there on one of them
benches, ma'am," the enormous miner standing guard said, after two others
had deposited her inside the saloon. His piggish eyes were too small for his
face.

Esther stared at him for a moment, her
mind whirring. "Would you tell me your name?"

"Carter. Bull Carter," he said,
taking his hand off the holstered pistol he was wearing.

"Please help me," Esther
pleaded. "I must stop them!"

"Can't do that, ma'am."

Esther's mind raced. "I'll give you
five hundred dollars if you'll help me."

Carter thought for a moment. "Like
to," he finally said. "But there ain't nothin' I could do with a
crowd like that."

Esther heard the whip snap outside.
Almost hysterical, she rushed toward the door.

Carter caught her by one arm, took out
the pistol, and held it on her. He glanced around. "I'm not goin' to have
no trouble from you, lady." He pushed her toward a curtained door off the
main room of the saloon. "Git in there and stay quiet. I don't want to
hurt you."

The room was a large parlor that led into
the living quarters of the saloon-owner and his wife. She was rocking in a
chair, staring at the red calico material that covered the wall behind her
husband. He was lying on a pine plank, his face covered by a muslin dish towel,
his hands folded neatly across the vest of his Sunday-best suit. Esther saw
that the dead man was wearing his gunbelt, glimpsed the handle of the pistol
protruding from the holster. A little girl of five rolled a hoop around the
room with a stick.

When the child finally noticed Esther,
she smiled and ran up to her father's bier and lifted the dish towel. She
frowned and came back to Esther.

"Daddy got shot by a greaser. Momma
said so."

"In that icy water all day long,
runnin' this house of the devil at night," the woman in the rocker said.
"All for nothin'." She got up and stalked out through the curtain
past Carter.

Esther crouched and took the child in her
arms. "You poor baby," she said comfortingly. Noticing that Carter
was watching the whipping outside through a window, she whispered in the little
girl's ear. "If you will get me your father's pistol, I'll give you a
dollar. But it has to be a secret."

The
child put a finger to her lips, eyed Carter, then ambled over to the pine
plank. Hiding the pistol behind her, she came back and handed it to Esther.
Rising and swinging in one motion, Esther brought the butt down hard on the
side of Carter's head.