by Daniel Knapp
Inside, the bear was blinded for a few seconds by the sudden light in the doorway. Then his weak eyes picked up the blurred movements of the men in the far end of the ring and, just beyond them, the contrasting light of the open gate. The bear was up in an instant, rushing through the doorway, roaring and racing straight at the cluster of men.
When they heard the sound, they froze. The bear burst into their midst before they had a chance to turn. Slashing and snapping as it hit them, the bear bit off half a hand, bowled another man over, and kept moving for the open gate. Now only Mosby, half-turned, and the dead mestizo lay between the bear and freedom. Mosby swung around. As he did, the bear took a swipe at him in midstride, never stopping. One claw sunk three quarters of an inch into Mosby's left arm just above the elbow. He screamed. In its curving, downward slice, the claw severed the tendons and ligaments in Mosby's left elbow. He screamed again as the blow spun him and sent him sprawling.
By the time the Americans had recovered their wits, regrouped, and chased after the bear, firing ineffectually as it quickly closed the distance to the edge of the woods, the two mestizos were out of the ring, on their horses, and riding fast. Dazed, Mosby rolled over in the dirt, wincing with pain, and saw Murietta at the small window-ledge, climbing. Mosby fired at him and missed. He fired again and grazed Murietta's ribs. The shot knocking him off balance, Murietta fell back onto the dirt floor of the ring.
The shots brought the others back through the gate. Two of them held Murietta up, and two more stood on his boots while Mosby, his left arm hanging limp and bleeding heavily, punched the Californio repeatedly in the face. Mosby broke off one of his teeth. He cracked three of Murietta's ribs. He kneed Murietta in the stomach and groin until he vomited; then, just as he was about to crush the Californio's skull with the butt of his gun, Mosby, staggering from loss of blood, passed out.
"Throw the greaser in there," Claussen said, gesturing toward the outbuilding. "We'll let the son' bitch starve a few days until Mosby's feelin' better. Then we'll have ourselves an old-fashioned hangin'." He tied a neckerchief around Mosby's biceps and pulled it tight. "Take him up to the house," he said. "I'll see if I can't stitch him up." He glanced at the man with only half a hand left. "Nothin I can do about that, Shorty, cept coat it with pitch."
From what seemed to be a long distance, Murietta heard the latch snap shut and the bolt slide into place. They had thrown him onto the tamped dirt floor of the outbuilding. It did not feel like hard-packed earth. It was soft and wet. Then the acrid, musky combination of odors registered through all the pain and loss of feeling. Murietta realized the floor was nearly covered by the urine and feces of the bear he had set loose. The grizzly was probably miles away by now, nursing its wounds, foraging for food. Imaginese, he thought. ¡Qué gracia! What gratitude! His own sardonic sense of humor and the fact that it remained unbroken amid so much pain amused him. He started to smile just as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Twenty
Esther gave birth without difficulty on September 5. When she awoke from the long sleep that had engulfed her after Solana had sliced and tied the umbilical cord, the thought of taking the baby to the river and drowning it briefly crossed her mind. But the sight of the helpless infant, its poignantly jerking, spastic movements, wrinkled pink face, and Cupid's mouth erased the notion and unlocked at least a portion of her ability to feel again. Within minutes, as the baby suckled at her breast, she knew that the birth had somehow been cathartic.
She did not know whether it was ridding herself of the last trace of Mosby that had clung to her for so long, or the enormous power of maternal instinct that had torn away a portion of the emotional dam inside her brain. She had never fully understood the almost total loss of normal feelings—all but hatred for Mosby and anger under severe provocation—and she did not understand this sudden, partial restoration of them. But she didn't care. What mattered was that they had returned to her, and she gazed at the baby, Solana, the Indian woman's child, and at each item in the cabin with new eyes. Slowly, with an only slightly muted sense of delight, she examined each thing, each person and felt traces of happiness, contentment, even a whisper of exhilaration. That incipient feeling passed quickly as she turned her attention again to the baby nursing in the crook of her arm.
She lay thinking about the child long after Solana locked the cabin, blew out the light, and went to sleep. Over and over Esther searched her mind, sifted and weighed her true feelings about the infant. For hours she speculated on what would become of the child, what she would do with it, for it; whether she would keep it or give it away. If she kept it, would they stay here? If she gave it away, whom would she give it to? None of the answers crystallized completely. The one that almost did disturbed her.
She thought about this half-drawn conclusion separately, testing it, reexamining it until she became drowsy. There was no way to be certain now. It was too early. But as she drifted toward sleep, she guessed that the feeling, or lack of it, for the child would continue. She knew she cared for it, cared about its well-being, wanted it to be healthy, and would do all she could for it. More than she would for most human beings. But it was Mosby's son. She did not love it. Perhaps that will change, she thought. A part of her hoped it would. In time, she would know. And with that answer would come those to all the other questions.
In the morning, after the runner brought him the news, Miwokan arrived at the cabin. He presented Esther with a second spear, identical to the first, for her son. He looked at the boy and said, "Yes, he will be a fine warrior. Look at the long bones."
Esther hoped he was wrong. She wished for this child a life of peace, as free of turmoil and hardship as God would allow. She watched as Solana picked up the swaddled child in one arm and showed it to her husband. As Miwokan examined it, nodding in approval, Esther noticed there was no difference in the degree of love in Solana's eyes as she shifted her gaze back and forth from her own child, slung in her right arm, and Esther's, in her left. As Solana kissed Esther's boy on the forehead, the beginnings of a plan for the child started to form in Esther's mind. But then it was lost, as Solana took a step backward, laid both infants down for a moment, pulled open the upper portion of the crude cloth garment she was wearing, then placed both infants at her breasts.
"Think if we had two of them!" she said, starting to laugh as the infants made rapid sucking sounds.
Miwokan frowned for a moment, remembering the belief that had persisted down through the generations. "No," he said. "Twins bring only sorrow and suffering."
"I did not say twins, husband. Just two. Two of them close in a line."
The sight of her holding the pair of them, the babies ravenously draining the milk-laden breasts, filling the room with the sound of sucking, smacking, gurgling, and swallowing in frantic haste suddenly made Miwokan laugh. Then Solana began laughing too, and quickly Esther joined them. They did not stop until tears ran down from their eyes. For Esther the tears had an additional source. She, too, saw the humor, the exaggeration in the scene, and that was one origin of the crying. But she was also overcome by happiness. Not only could she see, she could feel and respond to what was happening to a degree she had not experienced in almost ten months.
Miwokan stayed the entire afternoon, and they feasted on a wild duck he had caught and roasted. Before he left, he fished a small hide pouch from a carrying bag strapped around his waist. It was a gift for Esther, from the two of them. Esther opened the pouch and pulled out the delicately beaded necklace he had made. Hanging from it was a hollow, heart-shaped amulet of thin, pounded raw gold. Unexpectedly, she found she could open it. Inside lay a tiny, finely woven heart fashioned from silver tips of fur taken from the grizzly skin in his hut. She closed it and looked at the two of them, profoundly touched, unable to speak, remonstrating with herself for dismissing their beliefs, the myth they were building around her. What difference did it make whether or not the concepts were childlike, born of ignorance and superstition, if they sprang fr
om a source that yielded so much caring and love for another human being?
Miwokan, sensing her inability to express her gratitude, put a finger to his lips, then pantomimed a flight of words from his mouth and summarily brushed them away with a sweep of his open hand, signaling that such words were meaningless. He stepped toward Solana. Extending two gently arced forefingers and making a small circle with his thumb and the two smaller digits, he touched Solana's chest and slowly, undulatingly, rolled the arced fingers upward and over toward Esther. Then he repeated the gesture from his own heart. The expression locked Esther's tongue. Finally—awkwardly, she thought—she shaped the fingers of her right hand and confirmed her love for them in the same manner.
Only after Miwokan had gone and she was gazing at the amulet was she aware that she had been looking at its back. She felt impressions on one finger and turned it over. In the center of the heart, Miwokan had painstakingly formed the fine outlines of a sunburst. Something about the pointed, thick-based, curving representations of the sun's rays seemed vaguely familiar. She glanced up and saw that the rays were cut into the hammered gold in precisely the same shape as the bear claws that encircled both shafts of the stone-headed spears.
Murietta awoke in darkness. At first he could not remember where he was. But then the stench around him, and the pain, brought it all back. He rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. It was too painful, and he lay back down, his head resting blessedly on one of the older, more dried out and solid bear chips. At first he could see nothing, but then the outlines of the bare storage room and its high-beamed ceiling dimly took shape. A distant twinkle of light caught his eye. He started to retch from the cloying, ammoniac stench of the bear waste, forced down the foul tasting matter in his throat, and stared at the star. He could see it through the single, high, foot-and-a-half-square window.
The pain was almost intolerable, and for a moment, as he rose to his feet, the room began to spin. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to pass out. When he was steady again, he opened his eyes slowly and looked up. The window was two feet out of reach and too small for him to get through. There was no sense trying the door. It would only be a painful waste of what little strength he had. He turned slowly, searching the walls. They were absolutely bare.
He looked back up at the window. He could not tell how much time had passed, but guessed he had been unconscious for more than twelve hours, that it was just after midnight. All he knew was that sometime after the sun was up the next day, the day that followed, or the day after that, the Americanos would kill him. And probably that was not all. The gringo with the torn arm would probably have a few more gifts for him before his neck snapped in a noose. There was no waiting. The window was all he had. He stared at it, studied the rock and adobe wall beneath it until he became dizzy again. His head finally cleared, and he walked toward the window unsteadily, leaned against the wall, and took off one boot. He dug two toeholds with a spur and put the boot back on. Wedging the pointed toe of one boot into a chink in the adobe, he set his jaw in anticipation of the pain and sprang upward.
His fingertips caught the edge of the window. He held on, waves of pain washing through him. Chilling sweat ran down his body as he felt for the second toehold, found it, and jammed the boot-point in. The oval rocks lining the window made it a little easier, but not much. Summoning all his strength, he dropped one hand, lifted his leg up the wall, and carefully pulled one boot off. He chipped out a new set of toeholds, lay the boot carefully on the window ledge, and climbed higher.
His arms were lying on the window ledge now. He rested for several minutes, regaining his breath. When the pain subsided, he slipped the boot back on and began pulling himself through the window. By extending one arm, laying his head on it, tilting his shoulders toward the floor of the room and flattening the other arm along his torso, he managed to work through to his waist. His hips just failed to clear the opening.
Letting himself back in, finding the higher set of toeholds, he rested again, then tried to pry the oval rocks from the adobe. They were too deeply set for him to gain enough leverage with his fingers. He thought of the spur again but quickly realized the rocks were too tightly placed for him to do more than make a lot of noise.
His calves ached now. Pulling himself up, he tried to gain enough purchase on the window ledge to rest them, but the pain in his ribs sent him back down. He missed the toeholds and landed on one foot, toppling over backward. Frustrated, he lay there panting, gripping and squeezing his outstretched hands again and again in frustration. Soft, wet bear feces spurted between his fingers and made a slopping, oozy sound. And then the thought struck him.
When his heart stopped pounding, he rose again, slowly took off his clothes and threw them through the window. Wearing only his boots, he crouched and began smearing the bear waste over himself. When he was coated with it from hip to thigh, he rubbed his palms and fingers clean on one wall until they began to hurt. Buoyed by hope, he returned to the wall below the window, paused to rest, then sprang up again. The wall scraped the skin on his chest but he caught hold of the ledge. Resting at each toehold, he repeated the earlier maneuver until he was hanging half in and half out of the window. The rocks chafed and tore at him, but this time, his flanks as slippery as a basted pig's, he pulled free.
Bracing himself, his hands down on the outside of the building, he balanced on his thighs and then reached back to grasp the upper inside edge of the window. Pulling and turning at the same time, forcing his mind to shut out the pain, he lifted his other hand, grasped the lower inside edge of the window, and jerked himself to a sitting position. Breathing hard, he held on, rested his forehead against the building, and listened. He thought he heard someone laugh up at the ranch house, but then all was still again.
Rested, Murietta pulled his legs through the window one at a time, found a footing on a pair of jutting rocks on the outside of the building, and slowly climbed down to the floor of the ring.
Outside, he wiped down with an undershirt, put on his clothes and inched his way to the corral. He found his horse and led it, one step at a time, toward the tack shed. The other horses suddenly began shying, moving restlessly, spooked by the dark, moving figure. He had purposely circled downwind of them, and they did not pick up the scent of the bear. His own horse balked, whinnied once, and began to rear, but when Murietta whispered to it and gave it several soft strokes on its neck, the horse was gentled by the familiar sound and touch.
His saddle was in the same place he had hung it the previous morning. Somehow he found the strength to throw it up on the horse. He waited for a moment, resting, then pulled and buckled the cinch. When the bit, bridle, and reins were in place, he hauled himself up by the pommel and eased one leg over. He ached, he was dizzy again, and he was sure he would vomit all over the horse's mane. But the wave of nausea passed. Quietly, he backed the horse out from under the shed roof, reined it around, and squeezed gently with his thighs. The horse walked until he was well away from Claussen's place, heading south over the tracks made by the two mestizos who had fled.
He tried loping and found that he could tolerate the pain. He squeezed the horse's flanks harder, and it broke into a gallop. For a minute or two, sitting in the saddle loosely, Murietta was certain he would have to slow down. But then the smooth flow of pain brought on by the animal's rhythmic movements and pounding hooves turned into a numbness that enveloped and held him steady. Following the tracks by moonlight, he rode south—as Claussen and the other gringos would expect him to—until he reached a stream that ran east to west. He crossed it and made a third set of tracks until he reached a loamy, unmarkable stretch of clover a hundred yards farther. Ahead of it was a long slope covered with high grass. It led down into a field of wheat swaying gently in the wind. Satisfied, he backed his horse the hundred yards to the stream he had crossed, turned east in the shallow water, and followed it toward the dim, gray outline of the Sierras.
In the morning, after he slept, he w
atched from a great distance as Claussen, Mosby, and four other Americans rode south across the stream, stopped, studied the tracks, and continued on through the clover, the high grass, and the wheat. When Murietta was satisfied they would not return, he turned north and headed deeper into the mountains.
Twenty-one
Esther lay in bed with the baby, thinking about what Sutter had told her that morning: Alex stopping at the fort, inquiring about the survivors, then heading off to find William Eddy, whom Sutter had said was one of the last persons to see his wife alive. She glanced at the calendar Sutter had left with her. September 7, 1847. More than half a year had passed since news of her "death" had reached Alex, and he was still searching, seeking, not yet ready to believe. Turning, she glanced at Solana, who was in the rocking chair between the bed and the wall, dozing and toeing the crude cradle in which her son slept.
Esther suddenly thought she was experiencing another spell of dizziness when she saw the door buckle inward and strain both its bolts. Then it buckled and groaned again. This time she heard the sound of wood being sliced. The door creaked a third time after something thudded twice against it in rapid succession. Solana had come sharply awake at the sounds. The two women watched in mounting disbelief, then fear, as the metal base of the smaller bolt lifted nails out of wood and fell to the floor. The wooden cross-bolt continued to buckle inward, then snapped just before the door flew open and they saw the grizzly.
