Like a River Glorious (2 page)

S
unrise comes late to California. Even when golden light washes the sky, and the snow-tipped peaks of the Sierra Nevada glow pink as winter roses, we remain in shadow for a spell, dwarfed by the slope of the land. Inevitably, a spark sears a crease in the mountains. Within moments, it becomes a flood of light, too bright to look on. The shadows are browbeaten away, and our camp is swathed in color—tall green pines and waving yellow grass along the blue rapids of the twisting American River.

I stand facing east, my hand shading my eyes. At my back are the sounds of our waking camp: tin pans clanking, breakfast fire crackling, dogs splashing through the shallows.

“Morning,” comes a voice at my ear, and I jump. It's Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, bleary faced and yawning, suspenders hanging at his sides. His black hair is badly mussed, like a family of mice nested there during the night. “What's got you so tickled?” he grumbles in response to my smile.

“You have Andrew Jackson hair.”

Jefferson frowns like he just bit into a sour persimmon. “He's the last fellow I care to resemble. You know what he did.”

I wince. “I was just thinking about the picture they had at school and . . . I mean, I'm sorry.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. “Well, so long as I don't have Andrew Jackson eyebrows, I'm still the finest-looking fellow for at least”—he glances back at our distant camp, toward Becky Joyner at the griddle, the Hoffman boys helping their father check the wagon, Henry Meek grooming his scant beard—“a hundred feet.”

I harrumph at that. Jefferson is the finest-looking young man for a hundred
miles
, but I'd never say so aloud. Wouldn't want it to go to his mussy-haired head.

“A whole month in California,” he muses, “and you've never missed a sunrise.”

“Course not. It's the finest thing I ever saw.” I gaze east again. That's where we came from, the lot of us. We started off a company of almost fifty wagons and three times that many people, but some went their separate ways. Some died. Now all that're left are eighteen souls and a single wagon between us.

“There are finer things,” he says softly. My cheeks warm, from sunshine and the sure knowledge that Jefferson is studying my face.

I'm saved having to reply when Becky Joyner calls out, “Breakfast is ready!”

“I smell eggs,” Jefferson says quickly. “Can you believe it? Eggs! For a while I thought I'd eat nothing but quick bread and prickly pear for the rest of my short life.”

“Burned eggs,” I clarify. Becky never saw a breakfast she couldn't improve with a liberal charring.

“Well, I'm glad for them, burned or not. C'mon, let's wash up.” We head toward the river's edge and crouch to wet our hands.

Jefferson rolls up his sleeves and scrubs at his forearms. “Once we find a good claim spot, I'll head back down to Mormon Island to get some chickens. If we have enough gold, I'll look around for a good milk cow, too.”

“We'll have enough,” I assure him, and we share a small, secret grin.

At Mormon Island, we talked to a family who'd had a rough time of the crossing and were already giving up and going home. It's a shame, because my gold sense is buzzing like it always does in these hills, soft and smooth like a cat's purr. There's plenty of gold for everyone here, at least for now.

As I reach forward to splash water onto my face, the buzzing intensifies, becomes almost unpleasant—like bees swirling a hive.

Jefferson's hands go still above the water. “Lee?” he whispers, with a quick glance behind to make sure no one is listening. “Your eyes are doing that thing again.”

According to him, my eyes turn more golden than brown when I'm near a find, like tiger's-eye gemstones, he says.

“There's something nearby,” I whisper back. “A nugget, I think. Not that big, or I'd be near senseless.”

“Well, let's find her!”

“I . . . okay, sure.” It feels peculiar to stretch out with my gold sense while his eyes are so intent on me. He watches me all the time now. Sometimes he glances away when I catch him at it, but sometimes he doesn't. Just stares like a man with nothing to hide, which always gives my belly a tumble.

“So how does it work, exactly?” he says. “You just close your eyes and—”

“Breakfast is nearly done for,” Becky calls out. “You miss it, you fend for yourself.”

I shoot to my feet, a little relieved. “Breakfast first,” I say. “Nugget later.”

Jefferson frowns. “All right.” He grabs my upper arm as I'm turning away. “No, wait.”

His hand feels huge and strong now. A man's hand. When he gazes down at me, he looks just like the boy I grew up with. But he's changed so much this last year, it's like a stitch in my side. Like I've lost part of him. We've changed together, I reckon. We're still best friends, for sure and certain, but there are parts of Jefferson McCauley and Leah Westfall that are long gone, dropped like so much baggage in the land we left behind, or maybe scattered like seeds across the continent.

“Lee, there's something I need to ask you.” He looks down at his boots, that frown still tugging his lips, and suddenly my heart is like buffalo stampeding in my chest.

I yank my arm from his grip. Whatever he has to say, I'm not ready to hear it. I know I'm not, and I open my mouth
to tell him I'm in no mood for another no-good, fool-headed proposal, but the words can't seem to find their way out.

“We've been friends our whole lives,” he says. “Best friends. And I'm not sure how to get past that to . . .” He pauses. All of a sudden his gaze snaps to mine, his face filled with determination. “To what I want.”

My heart curls in on itself.
No, Jefferson, not now. Not yet.

“I'm not sure it's what
you
want,” he continues. “But a man ought to make his intentions clear, and my intentions are to—”

A rifle booms, too close.

Jefferson lurches forward, eyes flying wide.

I reach to catch him as another gun sounds—a pistol this time, closer to camp.

Mrs. Hoffman screams as Jefferson sags into my arms.

“Lee?” Jefferson whispers, his eyes glazing. “I think I'm shot.”

I have to find cover. I have to get him somewhere safe. A shot zings past my ear. The horses neigh in panic. I drag Jefferson back toward the line of pines, his heels digging furrows in the damp earth.

“Everyone, get behind the wagon!” the Major yells.

Gunpowder scent fills my nose as more shots ring out.

We reach the trees. I spot the thickest trunk and yank Jefferson behind it. He settles gingerly to a sitting position. “It's not that bad,” he says, but his dark Cherokee complexion has gone white like curdled cream.

I crouch beside him. I itch to grab my gun, to run and make
sure the little ones are hidden away. But not until I know Jefferson is safe. “Show me,” I demand.

He shifts to reveal his right flank. His shirt is in tatters and soaked in blood.

“The bullet's not in me,” he says, and I'm glad to hear the strength in his voice. “It burns a fair bit, but I'll be fit in no time.”

I yank my kerchief from under my collar and untie it. “Here.” I thrust it toward him. “Wad it up and press it against the wound. I'll be right back.”

Crouching to make myself small, I creep through the trees toward our wagon and the campsite.

“You be careful, Leah Westfall,” Jefferson whispers at my back.

Through a break in the pine branches, I see the wheels of our wagon. More gunshots rip the air, and I dare to hope some of my people are firing back. I'm desperate to lay eyes on them, to make sure everyone is all right. But until I figure out who is attacking and where they're coming from, I have to be patient. I have to be a ghost.

I inch forward on silent feet.

There, tucked behind one of the wagon wheels. Little Olive and Andy Joyner are huddled tight, like a ball made of limbs. Olive's face is streaked with dust and tears, but when she catches my eye and sees me put a finger to my lips, she gives me a quick, brave nod.

The younger Hoffman boys are crouched behind the opposite wheel, their tiny sister, Doreen, sheltered between them.
Otto holds his daddy's pistol clumsily in one hand, like it's a snake that might bite. I can't see Mr. Hoffman, but I know he's nearby; I know it because he carries my mama's locket now. But not even the sweet siren call of gold can tell me whether he's alive or dead.

Beside the wagon is the Major's triangle tent. It's caved in a bit, and a tiny flag of fabric waves in the breeze near the top—a bullet hole. I hope to God no one is inside.

There's no sign of Becky Joyner and the baby, the older Hoffmans, the three college men, or Hampton. We left the horses tied up in a nearby meadow, including my precious Peony, but there's no way to know how she's doing. I'm not the praying type, but I can't help slipping a little something heavenward:
Please, please let everyone be all right.

More shots crack the air—two from across the river, one due south. Just three people shooting at us, far as I can tell, and only the one rifle between them. The revolvers aren't much of a menace at this distance, but I need my own rifle and powder horn if I'm to take care of the fellow who winged Jefferson. They're in the holster of Peony's saddle, which is laid out across a log on the other side of our still-smoking campfire. Out in the open.

A cry pierces the air. The Joyner baby. It's followed by shushing and murmuring, which does absolutely nothing to quiet the tiny girl but fills me with so much relief I'm suddenly a little unsteady. Becky and the baby. Both alive.

The guns go silent all at once. The birds have fled, and my companions are as quiet as the grave in their hiding spots,
so it's just Baby Girl Joyner, wailing her little head off to the open sky.

A man's voice rings out. “Didn't realize y'all had a baby!”

Only the daft and the desperate attack a camp full of people without scouting it first.

From somewhere to my right, Tom Bigler shouts, “We have six children under the age of ten and some womenfolk besides!” Tom studied law at Illinois College, and he's been speaking on our behalf more and more since we arrived in California Territory.

“You Mormons?” the strange man calls out. “We don't hold with Mormons.”

“No, sir,” Tom says. After a pause . . . “Is that why you're shooting at us?”

I hold my breath. We've heard a lot of grumbling about the Mormons since we got here, though as far as I can tell they're just regular folks who don't make any trouble. I'd hate to hear we were attacked because someone thought we were Mormons.

But I'd hate it even more to learn they're my uncle's men, looking for
me
. Because that would mean this is all my fault. We haven't seen Uncle Hiram since that day at Sutter's Fort, but I've been expecting him to come calling, and not in a friendly way.

“This here a good spot for color?” the man hollers. “Found anything?”

Tom doesn't respond at first, and I know he's considering his answer. The man's voice came from the south. Maybe I
can creep around our camp and come up behind him. I'll have to be very slow and careful, like I'm hunting a deer.

I start to creep back, away from the wagon, but Tom's voice stills me. “This is a very good spot,” he lies.

Our group has been waiting on word from Jefferson and me that we've reached a promising location. This stretch of river does have some gold. But not a lot. Not enough to stake claims here. The others think we've got an eye for prospecting, us being born and raised in Georgia gold-mining country. But the truth is, I've got witchy powers that lead me to gold as sure as the west leads the sun.

“Well, maybe we want this spot for ourselves,” the man says.

Not my uncle's men, then. Just a few cussed claim jumpers.

“We haven't staked claims yet,” Tom says. “Got here last night. Already found a bit of dust without even trying. But if you let us pack up and be on our way, we'll find ourselves another spot, and you can have this one with our blessing.”

A long pause follows, interspersed with mutterings. They can't get away with this so easily. Not after they shot Jefferson. I'll be glad to get everyone safe, sure, but I'd almost give up Daddy's boots to mark their faces. I want to know trouble when it comes at me next.

“You got ten minutes,” the man calls out. “If any of you start loading guns, we start shooting.”

“That's a deal,” Tom says. “We'll be away before you know it.”

I can hardly believe my eyes when Becky Joyner pops up from behind a large boulder, baby over her shoulder. She
boldly hastens to the campfire and, using her free hand, starts chucking things into the back of the wagon—the still-hot griddle, the water bucket, the baby's blanket. Though the air is crisp, sweat sheens her face, and short strands of blond hair have curled wet against her neck.

When no one shoots at Becky, Hampton appears from behind a large tree trunk. “I'll fetch the oxen and hook them up,” he says.

“I'll help,” says Otto, crawling out from under the wagon.

Major Craven hobbles out with his crutch from behind the same boulder Becky used for cover and hurries toward his tent to pack it up. I've no time to mark the others, because I'm already dashing back into the trees to fetch Jefferson.

Jeff has pulled himself to his feet. He leans against the tree trunk, and his breaths are fast and shallow. The bloodstain has spread down the side of his trousers.

“Don't think I can ride,” he gasps as I wrap one of his arms around my shoulders to bolster him. “Just get me into the wagon.”

We stumble through the trees. He's so tall now, and heavy enough that my thighs burn. When did he get so big?