Like a River Glorious (3 page)

“Jasper!” I holler as we near the wagon. “Jeff's been hurt!” Everyone is scurrying around, working fast. The sides of the canvas bonnet are rolled up for easy loading, and the bed is already nearly full. “Jasper!”

The young doctor comes running, along with several others. He waves them off. “No, no, keep working,” he says. First thing in the morning, and Jasper is in a starched white
shirt, as clean as a groom at his wedding. He's got some odd notions about dirt for a miner, but maybe not so odd for a doctor. He insists that keeping himself clean saves lives.

Jasper's eyes are narrowed, assessing, even before he reaches us. Together we lower Jefferson to the ground and roll him onto his side. Olive Joyner stands over us, rag doll clutched in one hand. “I'll get your kit,” she says, calm as a woman grown, and she dashes away.

“Bullet's not in me, Doc,” Jefferson pants out.

“I'm no doctor,” Jasper says as he peels the shirt away from the wound. “Just studying to be one.” His voice is calm and soothing, like bullets haven't just been flying willy-nilly.

“You're all the doc we need,” the Major says. He taps his wooden leg against a rock. Jasper amputated the Major's leg to save his life on our journey west.

The strange man's voice rings out from the trees. “Didn't mean to hurt nobody! It were an accident!”

“Well, you shouldn't be shooting at stuff if you're so cussed bad at it!” I holler back, and Jasper gives me a dark glance that looks so much like Mama's stop-antagonizing-people-or-else face that it puts a lump in my chest.

Jefferson hisses as Jasper starts poking around. I refuse to look at the wound, focusing instead on Jeff's pale face. “You're going to be fine,” I tell him, though I've no idea if it's true.

“Course I am,” he says through clenched teeth, but he reaches for my hand. I grab it and squeeze tight.

Olive hurries back, blond braids swinging, Jasper's medicine chest banging against her knees. The chest is nearly half
the size of the girl, and it's a wonder she lugged it here so fast.

Jasper pours water from his canteen over Jefferson's flank. Though I've never had a stomach for injuries, I can't help glancing at the wound. It's a jagged tear in the skin, still bleeding freely, but it's small. Jefferson was right. The bullet just grazed him, taking a chunk of skin with it.

“You
are
going to be just fine,” I say in relieved wonder.

“Told you so,” Jefferson says.

Jasper follows the water with a liberal dose of Hawe's Healing Extract, but I turn away when he pulls out a wicked needle and some thread.

Olive, on the other hand, stares transfixed. “That's how I sewed Dolly's pinafore,” she says.

“Skin feels a little different than calico under the needle,” Jasper says to her. “But if you can sew a pinafore, you can stitch a wound.”

Jefferson's fingers squeeze the bones of my hand together as the needle pierces his skin.

“I could do that,” Olive says.

Jasper ties a knot and snips the leftover thread. “Tell you what. Next time Lee or Jefferson bags a rabbit, we'll practice some stitches on the bullet hole.”

“Okay, Jasper!”

I stare at the girl. Such a quiet little thing, who gets teary-eyed at the slightest provocation. But I guess everyone is brave about something.

“All right, Jefferson,” Jasper says as he ties off the wrapping. “It bled a good bit, so I want you to ride in the wagon
until I know that wound is sealing properly. But you should be fine.”

Jeff winces as we help him to his feet. “Thanks, Doc,” he says.

The strange man's voice hollers out, “I reckon it's all right if you need a few more minutes, given that you have an injury.”

Our camp is already packed up. We've had to move fast before, and everyone knows exactly what to do. Major Craven is near the wagon tongue, checking the oxen harnesses. “At least they don't seem keen to murder us all,” he grumbles.

“Stupid men can be just as dangerous as murderous ones,” I tell him.

“More dangerous, often as not,” he says, and he helps us shove Jefferson onto the wagon bench.

Hampton approaches, Peony and Sorry saddled up and trailing behind him, and I'm so relieved to see them both. I grab Peony's reins and plant a kiss on her pretty white nose. “Just a bunch of fuss and noise, girl,” I tell her, and true to form, she tosses her blond mane, more annoyed than frightened.

“The sorrel's got a small gash on her foreleg,” Hampton says. “Must have panicked when the guns went off. I think she's fine, though.”

“Can't ride her, anyway,” Jefferson says.

“I'll lead her instead of tying her to the back of the wagon,” Hampton says. “Otherwise that gash will fill with dust.”

“Thanks, Hampton.”

Jefferson's sorrel mare looks as sorry as ever, with her head drooping and her tail limp like it's the worst day of her life,
but that's just her way, ever since she was a filly, so I'm not worried.

“Roll out!” Mr. Hoffman says in his big, booming voice.

The Major whips his stick over the oxen's heads, and the wagon lurches away. The rest of us follow, me on Peony, Jefferson on the wagon bench, the rest on foot. Mrs. Hoffman carries the Joyner baby to give Becky a break, and Martin Hoffman hefts his tiny sister, Doreen, onto his shoulders, much to her delight. Tom Bigler and Henry Meeks slap Jasper on the back for another job well done.

I let everyone get ahead so I can watch them all and ponder a bit in solitude. I think of the nugget I sensed, still hiding in the riverbank. I hope she stays there, bright and shining and perfectly forgotten until the end of days.

“The place is all yours!” I call out to the trees. “Good luck with it.”

“Good luck to you, too,” a voice calls back. “Sorry about your friend.”

The hair on my neck stands on end. I can't mark the man's face, so I mark his voice—deep and gravelly, landing hard on his words.

Once I'm certain we're out of sight, I grab my rifle and my powder horn and start loading.

W
e head east along the American River, passing several promising camping sites, but no one suggests we stop. Can't blame everyone for wanting to put some distance between ourselves and those cussed claim jumpers.

The sun is getting low, and trees fill our path with dapple shade as we come to a swift tributary creek. Mr. Hoffman wades in to check the depth and figure the best ford for the wagon. “It's shallow,” he says, knee deep in icy water. “We can roll right through.”

Jefferson flicks the reins of the oxen and hollers them forward.

“Wait!” I call out. “Stop.”

Everyone turns to look at me.

My gold sense is humming, strong and pure. “This is a good area. For claims, I mean. Maybe up the creek a ways.”

The Major twists on the wagon bench to face me. “You sure, Lee? Why here?”

My face warms as my companions stare. It's innocent staring; no one except Jefferson knows what I can do. Still, I feel like a deer in their sights. Especially when I notice how keen the Major is on my face, or maybe my eyes, which probably look like gemstones right now.

“I . . . er . . . well, it's the rocks. And the high bank.” I gesture toward the creek. “See how smooth they are? And how deep the bank cuts through the land? This creek floods big every spring. And flooding means gold.” I allow myself a steadying breath. Nothing about that was a lie.

It's just not the whole truth. The surface gold will be gone after a season. But here, gold runs deep too. I feel it pulsing way down in the earth, like a toothache in the root of my jaw. Back in Georgia, after the surface gold played out, everyone took to the mines, and them that own the mines make the money. There's going to be a mine here someday, for sure and certain.

“I agree with Lee,” Jefferson says, with a knowing look that no one else would understand.

“Well, okay!” the Major says. “Let's start looking for a campsite. Any objections?”

“Their word is good enough for me,” Becky says.

“For me too,” Mr. Hoffman says.

Jefferson and the Major turn the oxen upstream along the creek bank. The older Hoffman boys, Martin and Luther, scout ahead to clear branches from the wagon's path. Gold continues to sing, loud and sweet.

Becky's voice echoes in my head:
Their word is good enough for me.

I have to tell them. I have to tell them all, and I have to do it tonight.

We agreed to stick together, at least until we found a nice amount of gold. We've been through too much, Mr. Hoffman said, to give up on one another. Besides that, Jefferson pointed out, people you can trust with your life are hard to come by out here in the West. “We're family now,” Becky Joyner concurred. So after reaching Sutter's Fort, we headed into the hills to find a prospecting spot that would allow us to stake adjacent claims.

I almost told them the truth then. But keeping secrets is such a habit. Especially when your mama and daddy died for them.

My new family has a right to decide whether to throw in their lot with a witchy girl like me who could get them all killed. We got lucky with those claim jumpers. If they'd been working for my uncle, we wouldn't have gotten away with a single bullet graze.

I glance at Jefferson, riding on the wagon bench. His hand grips the edge to brace against bumps. Everything about that hand is so familiar. The shape of his knuckles, the exact color of his skin. My eyes start to sting, and I have to blink fast to keep the tears back, because if anyone else got killed over my secret, it would break my heart into a million pieces.

“Whoa!” the Major calls, and the wagon jerks to a stop. He sets the wheel brake and hops down. I knee Peony forward to see what's halted us.

The creek is dammed by a warren of branches and mud.
Above the dam, the creek widens into the prettiest pond I ever saw, teeming with cattails and buzzing dragonflies. The pond's headwater is a stair-stepped rapids, frothing white. There, a huge blue heron stands sentry like a statue, eye on the surface, waiting for his next meal to wriggle by. A lone grassy hill overlooks it all, well above the flood line, big enough to pitch a whole mess of tents.

“Glory be,” Becky Joyner whispers, staring agape.

Jefferson's big yellow dog, Nugget, gives a delighted yip and rushes forward, scattering a whole mess of sparrows.

“Beaver,” I tell Becky. “They always pick the nicest spots.”

“Beaver dam means fish,” Major Craven says, with a fever in his eyes, same as my daddy always got when he talked of gold.

Mr. Hoffman ambles over, frowning. “You sure there's enough distance between us and those claim jumpers?”

“This is California Territory,” Tom says. “Can't set up camp without taking a risk.”

“But if we make camp on that hill,” I say, pointing, “we can see folks coming at us. And we'll set a watch, just like when we were with the wagon train.”

No one protests. “Let's get to work,” the Major says.

We skirt the pond and head uphill, where we unload the wagon, let the animals out to graze, and start ringing a fire pit. We move fast and with sure hands; we've all done it a hundred times before.

Hampton whistles jauntily, and Henry shares a joke and a laugh with the other college men. I'm the only one who sets about the work with heavy hands and a frown.

We're well enough into the mountains that some of the oaks have given way to conifers, and our evening fire smells sharp of pine wood. The dogs, Nugget and Coney, are exhausted from exploring, and they curl up together as near to the fire as they dare. The Major caught a whole mess of trout, and he showed Becky how to roll them in flour batter and fry them up, which makes for the most delicious meal we've had in months—especially since the Major had a hand in cooking it.

I'm licking my greasy fingers clean when Jefferson says to everyone gathered around the fire, “Plenty of timber to be had. And this hill is sound.”

“The boys and I could have some shanties built in days,” Mr. Hoffman agrees. “Like the ones we saw along the river. Maybe even a cabin before winter.”

“I'd dearly like a cabin for the little ones,” Becky says. Her baby daughter sits in her lap, facing us all. The baby kicks her chubby legs out at irregular intervals, babbling at nothing in particular. “We're well enough into the mountains to get a little snow.”

“A cabin would keep our goods a lot drier than a shanty,” Jasper says.

“It's settled, then,” Mr. Hoffman says. “Tomorrow morning, my boys and I will lay out a foundation. Lee and Jefferson can help everyone else stake claims, all adjacent like we planned.”

Jasper lifts his tin mug as if it's full of ale instead of pine-needle tea and says, “Here's to finding our winter home.”

“What are we going to call it?” Henry asks.

“Call it?” Mr. Hoffman says.

“If it's a settlement, it needs a name.”

Luther brightens. “We could call it Good Diggins.”

Martin, his older brother, snorts and cuffs him on the shoulder. “Numbskull.”

“Don't call your brother names!” Mrs. Hoffman says from some distance away. When it comes to her children, that woman has the ears of a bat.

“But we passed too many other Diggins already!” Martin protests. “Smith's Diggins, Missouri Diggins, Negro Diggins . . .”

“How about Prosperity?” the Major says. “That's what it's going to bring us.”

Becky frowns. “Shouldn't count our chickens before they hatch, or weigh our gold before it's shining. That's just asking for the Lord to humble you.”

“You've a fair point there, ma'am,” the Major says. “What about Hope? Because if there's one thing I already have a whole mess of, it's hope.”

Maybe it's a trick of the firelight, but Becky's gaze on the Major turns soft. “I suppose that'll work,” she says.

Jefferson speaks to everyone, but his eyes are on me. “Hope is too uncertain. I mean, hopes can be fulfilled, but hopes can be disappointed.”

I've got to change the subject, because I know he's not referring to gold and I'm not ready for that conversation. “All that matters right now is we've got a glorious place to start.”

Mrs. Hoffman comes to sit beside her husband. She leans
a head on his shoulder and smiles softly. “Glory be to God,” she says.

“All ehr und lob sol Gottes sein.”
Mr. Hoffman nods solemnly.

Jasper lifts his mug again. “To Glory, California.”

“Hear! Hear!” someone mutters. Everyone raises a mug or a spoon or something in salute, except me.

“Wait!” I say. “Please. I have to tell you something first.”

Everyone hushes. The fire pops. Something splashes into the pond below.

“I . . . You need to know . . .”

Jefferson's eyebrows lift in surprise, but then he gives me an encouraging nod. He has wanted nothing but the truth from me since the beginning.

Locking gazes with him emboldens me to say, “My uncle is still after me. He didn't expect to find me surrounded by friends. But he'll regroup. He'll try again.”

“Well, he's not getting you,” Jasper says, and the others murmur agreement.

“And I appreciate that. I do. But you all need to know why. Before you decide to . . . whether or not I can stay with you.”

“What are you talking about, Lee?” Becky says.

“Bah!” says the baby.

I screw up my courage and blurt: “I can find gold! Not like normal folks. Like . . . a witch.”

The Major frowns, and the expression is so out of place on him that it turns my throat sour. “Never took you for a teller of tall tales,” he says.

Jefferson clambers to his feet, favoring his injured side. “I
think a demonstration is in order. Herr Hoffman, you still have that bauble?”

Mr. Hoffman's brows are furrowed deep enough for planting corn. But he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the heart-shaped locket my mama wore until the day she died. It's changed hands a few times, but I'm glad that something of hers made it all the way across the continent.

Jefferson takes it from him. It dangles from his fingers, sparking in the firelight. “This locket is made of nearly pure gold. Lee, turn around.”

I do as he asks, guessing what he has in mind. While I face the dark, everyone shuffles around and exchanges muted whispers.

“Okay, we're ready.”

I turn back around, and I pause a moment, memorizing my companion's faces. They're about to know everything about me. No going back after this. But I will do anything,
anything
, to keep my new family safe. Even if it means being alone all over again.

Solemnly Jefferson says, “Where's the locket, Lee?”

It's a lump of sweetness in my chest, calling as soft and clear as a whippoorwill.

“Beside the fire, in Becky's Dutch oven.”

Mrs. Hoffman gasps.

“Fancy trick,” says Henry. “You've got keen hearing, I'll give you that.”

Jefferson's eyes narrow. “We'll do it again. Turn around, Lee.”

I do so without complaint, happy to let him take charge. He's not doing it to boss me; he knows how hard it is for me to tell the truth, and he's easing my burden.

More murmurings and shufflings.

“Okay, Lee.”

It's farther away this time, and I have to close my eyes and focus. It tugs me southward, to the edge of the pond at the bottom of the hill. No, that's something different. Something bigger.

I rise to my feet and head downhill.

“Where's she going?” Mrs. Hoffman says.

“Hah!” says her husband. “She got it wrong this time.”

I pay them no mind. I'm already on my knees, digging in mud that's damp but gritty—so different from the mud back home in Georgia. My fingertips know gold the moment they touch it, and I can hardly control how fast they scrape and dig to get at it.

Finally I can hook a finger around it and pry it from the mud.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” says little Andy, and I jump. I turn to find that everyone has followed us down the hill. The half-moon gives just enough light for me to make out their faces. Jasper's eyes are bright. Becky is calm and cool as an early fall morning. But Mr. Hoffman glowers, and in the dark, his form is hulking and monstrous.

I wipe the nugget on my trousers and hold it up for everyone to see. “It's gold,” I say. “Very pure. Worth about eighty dollars.”

“You already knew it was there,” says Henry.

“The locket is in your pocket, Henry Meek,” I tell him.

Silence greets me. After a moment, he fishes it out and hands it back to Mr. Hoffman without a word. Everybody stares at me like I might bite, or maybe cast a hex.

“There's more in the pond,” I say to fill the awful quiet. “But there's even more on the east bank. A vein, I think. Close enough to the surface to get to, if you're handy with a pickax. Lots of dust in the rapids for the little ones to pan. It's a good spot. The best we've come across.”

Major Craven worries at the fabric padding his crutch with his thumb. “That's why your uncle sailed all the way around the world to find you,” he muses in a voice barely audible above the sound of the running creek.

Jefferson jumps in with, “Remember how she found Andy, that time he got lost on the prairie? He was carrying that locket.”

Becky's eyes are wide with understanding. “That's why Mr. Westfall killed your ma and pa,” she says. “That's why he wants you so badly. You have . . .”—I expect her to say “a burden” or “a curse”—“a gift from the Lord.”

“I . . . Yes, I suppose so.”

The Major straightens. “Well, Hiram Westfall can't have you.”

My relief is short-lived, because Mr. Hoffman says, “You're saying he might kill us, too?”

I promised myself I would be truthful. “Yes.”