Like a River Glorious (26 page)

J
efferson is suddenly at my side. He pulls a hand away from my ear and says, “We have to find cover.”

I'm only too happy to comply. He yanks me out of the light and into the shadows. Guns continue to fire. My head pounds with them, and my ears ring.

We reach the Chinese tents. “No one will look for us here,” he says, and he ducks into the headman's tent, pulling me down behind shelves filled with sundries. In the dark, the jars look like black blobs that occasionally spark with reflected lantern light.

After a moment, my heart calms and my head clears enough to say, “Was this how the plan was supposed to go?”

“No,” he says, his voice fierce. “But it's the way it's going now. Same plan, just a day early.”

More shots ring out.

“We have to get to the stockade,” I say, yanking on his sleeve. “The ones who are left, the women and children . . .
Frank and Hiram might go for them next. And we have to . . . Oh, God, Jefferson, what's happening?”

It's too terrible. A mind is not meant to see these things, or even think of them. But I'll see them forever. I'll remember the way that Indian was whipped during the sermon. The knife in the back of the other man. People going down like sacks of wheat, screams of pain. The dead body lying limp in the mud of the stockade. The way the man's head snapped back when Frank Dilley shot him in the mine, and how his blood sprayed the nearest lantern, casting mottled shadows all over the walls.

Jefferson's arms wrap around me, and I'm snugged tight to his chest. He smells terrible—of sweat and gunpowder and dirty creek water—but I don't care. It seems like I've wanted his arms around me forever.

He says, “We'll have to be silent and quick if we're to get there before Frank and his men.”

I start to rise. “Then let's go!”

He yanks me back down. “We wait for Tom. We agreed to meet here if things went bad.”

“What if he's . . .” I can't finish my own question.

“We'll give him a chance.”

“And the rest of the plan?”

“Gunpowder is already in place outside the barracks, near the shanty where they stash the rotgut. Someone will set it off. We didn't get as much powder from you as we wanted, so once it got dark, Muskrat grabbed a couple of the lamps that were lying around for tonight's meeting and doused the back wall of the barracks with oil. For days, Tom and I have
been gradually stacking firewood and blankets and such—anything that catches fire—against the back wall on the inside. Should burn long and hot now.”

“Our guns are in the barracks!”

“Yep. In a chest near the door. We hoped to retrieve a few in the confusion. Might not be able to, if the fire gets out of hand. Either way, I expect Mary will scream her head off about the Indians trying to burn the camp. She'll convince everyone she saw a whole bunch heading toward the tents with more gunpowder.”

Everything is so much clearer, so much less impossible, when Jefferson is here. “And that will give us time to get to the stockade.”

“Yes.”

“It will be guarded.”

“That's our biggest problem. Mary was going to take them some moonshine tomorrow, laced with laudanum. Tell them it was on Dilley's orders, being the thanksgiving day and all, and just because they drew the watch shift didn't mean they shouldn't celebrate. It wouldn't have been enough to knock them out, but it would have made them sleepy and slow.”

Slow enough that they couldn't aim their guns, especially in the dark.

“It was a good plan,” I say.

“It was Muskrat's plan,” Jefferson says. “That man is one of the smartest people I've had the pleasure to know.” High praise, coming from Jefferson. “But now I don't know how we'll get the stockade open,” he adds.

“We'll think of something. But . . . Jeff? You could have told me everything.”

The bitterness must be plain in my voice because his “How?” comes out sharp and angry.

“I don't know. Somehow. Mary sees me every morning.”

“Do you have any idea how closely your cabin is watched?”

“I . . . No, I guess not.”

“In order for me to visit your window, we had to count watch shifts, make several bribes, and Mary had to—”

“I'm sorry. You're right.”

Footsteps sound at the tent's entrance, and a shadow blocks the night sky. I freeze in Jefferson's arms, which tighten around me.

Then a voice comes. “Jeff?”

“Tom!” I whisper, launching to my feet and barreling toward him.

He hugs me right back, but only for a second. “We have to reach that stockade and then get out of here.”

“But what do we do about the guards?” I ask.

“Maybe we ask the guards for help?” Jefferson suggests. “Tell them a riot is happening, and Westfall has ordered every able-bodied man to the fight?”

“That might work,” I say.

Tom rubs at his jaw. “Maybe. Especially if it comes from you. Everybody knows you've got special status around here. Hiram calls you his lady.”

The thought makes me see red. But if it helps us out now, then I'm glad for it.

“If we're escaping tonight, we could use our guns. Also, my pack. I have some gold hidden in my mattress. It could pay for our journey back.”

“No time,” Tom says.

“I don't mind saying good-bye to the gold,” I say, “but my guns . . .”

“We do need that gold,” Jefferson says. “We're days from home. Maybe weeks. We'll need supplies on the way, and we've got nothing to trade.”

“I won't be able to stop long enough to find gold along the way,” I add. “Not if we're pursued.”

The three of us stare at each other.

“We split up,” I say at last.

“No!” Jefferson says. “I'm not letting you out of my sight. Never ag—”

“I can get the guards to leave the stockade. I'm
Miss Westfall
, right?” I say it bitterly. “They'll take orders from me. But not if I have you and Tom in tow.”

“She's right,” Tom says. “Jefferson, you hurry back to the barracks and fetch our guns. Unless it's too dangerous; use your own judgment there. Meet us at the corral. Lee, you run to the stockade and tell them they're needed at the mine. Sound a little panicked if you can. Tell them to hurry.”

“What will you do?” Jefferson asks.

“I guess it's up to me to sneak into the cabin and get Lee's gold.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “That cabin is too near the camp meeting. You'll be seen.”

“Not if Mary has done her job,” he says. “Everyone will be racing to the mine soon enough.”

I hate this idea. I don't want to let either one out of my sight, but I'm not sure there's any help for it.

“All right,” I say with no small amount of reluctance. “Tom, the gold is hidden in my mattress. Lift it to find the hole underneath. My bedroom is the one with the quilt hanging in the doorway, along the east side of the cabin. There's a pack in the chest at the foot of my bed. I'd dearly love it, but it's not as important as that gold.”

“Got it,” Tom says.

“Both of you, promise me that if you can't get inside quick and easy, you'll let it go and head to the corral. Don't take any unnecessary risks.”

“Agreed,” Tom says.

“Agreed,” Jefferson says. “But I don't want you to lose that five-shooter.”

“Better it than you,” I say in a wavery voice. I'd rather lose a dozen guns than lose Jeff.

An explosion shakes the earth, rattling my very bones.

“That's our signal,” Tom says. “It's a fair bet that barracks is on fire now.”

Even though I can hardly see a thing, my gold sense prickles all over, as though the air is filled with sparkling dust. Then comes yelling. Beating footsteps. A female voice screaming—Mary, no doubt.

The golden motes in the air demand to be acknowledged. I know I should make my feet run toward the stockade, but
I'm caught by their glory, their warmth. I reach out with my mind in greeting. And the gold comes at me like a swarm of hornets.

Suddenly I'm choking on dust. My companions are, too. We hunch over, coughing.

“Must have been some explosion,” Tom says hoarsely.

Jefferson spits to clear his mouth.

I just stand there, hardly able to breathe, my heart racing. What just happened?

“We've got to get moving!” Tom says.

My feet unstick from the ground, and I run from the tent, Tom and Jefferson at my heels.

“Meet you all at the corral,” Tom says, and he dashes off in the direction of the cabin.

Jefferson's hand on my shoulder spins me around. “Lee,” he says. “I . . .” And he cups my face in his hands and kisses me quick but hard.

Then he's off running too, toward the barracks, and it takes all my focus to get my feet moving downhill toward the stockade, because I'm terrified and I can't see hardly anything and I also know with sudden clarity that someday soon I want to start kissing Jefferson and not have to stop.

I skid down the hill in my useless dainty boots, trying to figure out what to say to the guards. What if they don't believe me? What will I do then?

The pasture area is dark like ink. I'm forced to slow down, lest the trampled, lumpy sod rise up to trip me. I'm not even sure I'm going the right direction.

A light blinks just ahead. It's high up, like a star falling from the sky. I almost miss it when it blinks again.

It's a lantern, hanging in the stockade tower, shifting and spinning with the breeze, and it becomes my beacon as I press forward.

I reach the log wall. If my sense of direction has not led me astray, I can follow the wall left and turn the corner to reach the entrance. Time to start making a ruckus.

“Help!” I yell, waving my hands. I run along the base of the wall, yelling as I go. “Help us, please!”

My voice sounds about as convincing as a peddler selling a map to the mother lode, but I keep at it with gusto. “Somebody, help!”

I round the corner just as boot steps start pounding my way. Another lantern hangs at the barred entrance. One guard stands sentry, his rifle held ready. The other is dashing toward me.

“Miss Westfall?” he says. “We heard guns. A big boom. What's going on?”

“It's a revolt!” I say, and I don't have to fake the terror and sickness in my voice. “My uncle . . . Mr. Westfall, he's alive but hurt. He needs your help.”

Together, we head toward the entrance, where the other guard stands. “I'm not sure we ought to leave our posts,” the guard says.

I yank on his sleeve and allow a sob to escape my throat. “Please, I beg you. Dilley sent me to get you. Said he needs every able-bodied man. Oh, Lord help me, but I don't know
what I'd do if something happened to my uncle. You have to help him! Promise me you'll help him!”

A rough hand pats my back. “There, there, little lady. If Mr. Westfall demands our aid, of course he shall have it.”

That's right, you no-good snake. I'm just a hysterical female.
“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!”

Three knocks sound from behind the gate. “Boggs?” comes a voice. “Shelby? What's going on?”

The guard at the gate—Boggs—lifts the latch and cracks it open. A third man slips out, rifle in hand. Quickly the gate is closed and latched behind him, but not before a wave of stench—feces and rotting vegetables and vomit—almost knocks me over.

It's the guard from the tower, come to see what's going on. I've got all of them now.

“Miss Westfall says there's trouble back in camp,” Boggs says. “They need our guns.”

“Please hurry!” I say. “You have to help. If my uncle . . . I don't know what will become of me . . .” I allow my face to fall into my hands so they don't see how deeply I disgust myself with my own words.

“All right, come along then,” says the third man. “Let's go.” His arm descends to my shoulder.

“No!” I say, wrenching away. “My uncle ordered me away to safety. Said to fetch you all and then stay out of sight.”

The men hesitate, exchanging glances.

“I'll stay right here,” I say. “I'll stand guard for you. Leave me one of the guns in case I must defend myself.”

Maybe I've pushed things too far. I shouldn't have mentioned a gun—the Missouri men know all about me and guns—but Shelby grabs his Colt from his holster and hands it to me. “You know how to use this?”

I grab it from him. “Point and pull the trigger, right?” Something about the guns niggles at me. In the light of the swinging lantern, the shiny walnut hilt fairly blazes with newness. My thumb passes over a rough patch, and I peer closer, heart pounding.

The fellow Boggs, from Missouri, snorts. “This lass could outshoot us all. You should have seen her on the trail coming out to California.”

I'm about to insist that I'm out of practice, but then I recognize something and my breath catches. The rough patch is actually a tiny
H
, scratched into the hilt. An
H
for Hoffman.

“Don't worry, Shelby,” Boggs adds. “Your gun is in good hands.”

It's Martin's gun. The one that disappeared the night he died. “Thank you, sir,” I say, my voice as dark as the grave. “Now, please. Go find my uncle before it's too late.”

More gunshots ring from the camp above. After a quick tip of their hats, they start running.

I watch their fleeing backs, rage boiling inside me. I could shoot them right now if I wanted to. Maybe I should.

Instead, I allow them to fade into darkness as they start climbing uphill toward the camp and the mine. I force myself to wait, to give them a few moments to get well and truly out of sight. Just because I can't see them doesn't mean they can't
see me. I'm the one with the gate lantern swinging over my head.