by Daniel Knapp
Mosby watched as Claussen moved to the older man and removed a knife from under his belt. He grabbed a shock of the Indian's silver-gray hair and jerked him to a sitting position. The unconscious man's eyes opened briefly, then closed once more. As Claussen lifted the blade, he saw the old furrow over the Digger's left ear again. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the scar and remembering how the Indian had gotten it. Smiling with certainty, he drove the knife in hard under the old man's breastbone and left it there.
He cut the thongs around the older Indian's wrists and let him drop near the first one. Claussen motioned to the man Mosby had hit in the face. "Jenkins, git down and lay the young one on top of him. Sideways, kinda. Wrap his hand around that knife butt. Make it look like they's in a drunken brawl." Claussen pondered the two dead Indians for a moment. "Git me the knife in the young one's sheath," he said. "And that necklace the old geezer's wearing." Claussen smiled in self-satisfaction. "I got a notion how we might be able to use 'em."
Esther sat bolt upright, perspiring and wide awake. The book about the missions had fallen to the floor beside her bed. She looked at her watch. It was well past midnight. She could not remember falling asleep. She looked up and saw the pale quarter-moon hanging in the center of the open window beyond the footboard. A light breeze stirred the gauzy curtains for a moment, and from somewhere she heard the wail of a baby. Filling out in her mind, the moon suddenly was transformed into the rounded, heart-wrenchingly sad-eyed face of little Moses. The painful image faded as her thoughts progressed to Mwamwaash, then Solana—then Miwokan. Suddenly she knew why the Indian Claussen had been talking to had looked vaguely familiar.
She had not seen him in at least two years. His silver hair had grown inordinately long, and the old scar over his left ear had been concealed. Had she seen it, gotten a better look at him, she would have known sooner that the Indian was Miwokan's brother.
Fifty-two
Barnett was unreachable until almost noon the following day. Red-eyed and exhausted after a sleepless night, Esther caught him on his way to a carriage he was taking to the new state capital at Vallejo. She still had nothing to support her suspicions, and she could not bring herself to tell Barnett about the cache of gold buried at the base of the waterfall. Tightened like a guitar string from fatigue and frustration, her emotions snapped, and she could not hold back the tears. To put her mind at ease, Barnett instructed an aide to enlist a handful of deputies to accompany Esther to Miwokan's village.
It took until late afternoon to round up even two lawmen. They were uninterested at best, plainly annoyed that they had to ride more than a hundred miles going and coming for what they assumed was nothing. They were already talking about finding a place to stop for the night when they saw Miwokan's brother and the younger Indian. Two crows that had been plucking at the dead men flew off as they approached.
Esther gasped and turned her head away. The more heavyset of the two deputies took off his hat and stared down at the bodies for a moment. "Well, that's that, ma'am." He started to wheel his horse around for the ride back to Sacramento.
"Just one minute! Certainly you are not going to leave them here?"
The second deputy, a tall, gaunt man with enormous ears, stared at her. "Nothin' we can do for 'em now, ma'am."
"For God's sake, you can at least bury them."
"No shovels, ma'am. Besides, we don't do that."
She looked at the bodies and a faint awareness that something was incongruous about them flashed through her mind. The off-key note was lost for a moment in rising anger. "You don't do that? You don't bury people lying dead along the side of a road? What kind of law officers are you?"
The heavy-set deputy rolled his eyes up in exasperation. "That's undertaker's work. We'll send someone out…"
"You'll do no such thing!" she shouted. "By the time anyone gets to them, they'll be mutilated."
"You got no right to get sharp with us, ma'am," the gaunt deputy said. "You got no authority to tell us what we have to do. Anyways, you're actin's though these here was white folks. Plain to see they's just two drunken Indians killed each other in a fight."
"They shoulda thought about gettin' a decent burial before pickin' this place to kill each other," the other deputy said.
Esther was looking at the two dead men again, and what she began to realize overrode her urge to lash out with her reins at the face of the nearest peace officer. She got down from her horse and, fighting back nausea, reached out and pulled the younger Indian off the body of Miwokan's brother. She started to wretch at the sight of the wounds and blood, but the gagging stopped as she looked away and thought about the element that seemed to be missing. Then it struck her.
"There is only one knife."
"So what?" the heavy-set deputy said. He got down from his horse, not yet aware of what she was driving at. "Could've been throwed or knocked away in these bushes."
"Look for it," Esther said.
"Now lissen…"
"You idiot," Esther hissed. "Can't you see it would be practically impossible for them to stab each other in this way—in the heart and in the throat, at almost the same instant—even if they had two knives?"
The gaunt man got down now and looked more closely at the bodies. "She's right, Lemuel. Either one of these cuts would've stopped the other in his tracks. Couldn't have struck the second blow, stabbed the first one back."
The searched the underbrush carefully, then covered a circle of ground as far as a knife could possibly be thrown. They found nothing.
"Looks like they's murdered, all right," the gaunt man said.
"And more will be killed unless we get to the village in time," Esther said, getting back on her horse.
The two deputies looked at one another uneasily, then at Esther, both of them aware that she was a friend of Warren Barnett. "How many men you say was with these two?" the heavier man asked.
"At least five."
The gaunt man whistled. "We better stop by Negro Bar on the way, see if we can round up a few more men." He looked at Esther and sheepishly dropped his gaze. "Afraid we won't have time to bury 'em, ma'am. But maybe we can get someone to come down from the Bar and do it."
"Perfect," Claussen said. Lying next to him at the edge of the woods, Mosby nodded. Twenty yards away the watchman circled the storage shed on the eastern end of the sprawling South Fork Mining Company complex. Claussen waited until the watchman was beyond the building, then moved to the shadows underneath an enormous ore chute. The watchman circled back, and Claussen waited until he passed, a yard away, before stepping out from behind the braced chute support. He took one step, cupped his hand over the watchman's mouth, shoved the dead young Miwok's knife into his back, and held him until he stopped squirming, his knees buckled, and he fell.
Mosby watched as Claussen dropped the Indian necklace next to the dead watchman and waved the other four men over. When they were at his side, he gestured to the storage shed. Three minutes later, the four men returned with axes, picks, and kerosene. Mosby bent down and took a half-finished pint of whiskey out of the dead man's pocket. He found a small pouch of gold dust in the watchman's money belt and took that as well. He held the pouch up and saw the initials that had been burned into the leather: SFM Co. Smiling, he handed the bottle and the pouch to Claussen. The red-bearded man looked puzzled for a moment. But then he understood and nodded in approval.
"I'm sorry for the delay, but we got to rest the horses for an hour or so, ma'am," the gaunt deputy said.
Exhausted herself, Esther nodded and looked at her watch as the other deputy and the five miners riding with them dismounted. It was four in the morning. One of the men, a muscular black cook well over six feet tall and with a completely bald head, walked over to her. "Kin I lay out your bedroll, ma'am?" he asked in a gentle voice. "You might ought to git some rest."
"Thank you. I'm very grateful to you for coming."
"I seen this kind thing before," the black man said. "Done to mah own kin
d. Wa'n't nobody willin' to do nothin' 'bout it. Wasn't gonna be like them folks."
Esther nodded. She calculated the time it would take, riding hard, to reach the village. "Do you think we'll be ready to leave in an hour?"
The black man turned a corner of her blanket back and stood up. "First light, ma'am. Deputy say we be leavin' at first light."
Solana stirred, turned over under the fur blanket, and then awoke, listening for the sound that had aroused her. She heard it again—a faint wooosh, like the flight of a bird, followed by a soft, thicker noise that was accompanied by an almost inaudible crack. She thought one of the small boys in the village had risen early and was trying his skill with a bow and arrow on a tree stump. She clucked disapprovingly. There were only three dozen people in camp now. Most of the fathers were gone. A score of those who remained were children, and the boys were difficult to manage with only five men left.
She got up and went to the rear entrance of the hut. She heard the sound again just as she stepped outside. This time she noticed that the hushing of the arrow in flight seemed unusually short. What seemed like the quick splintering of light bark and the noise of the arrowhead as it lodged in the soft core of a young tree followed the wooosh almost immediately. She had only the light of the false dawn to see by. She had taken three or four steps when she stumbled over the body of the sentinel. She crouched down and saw it was the young male who had just gone through his initiation ritual. There was a dark, gaping split in his head from crown to eyebrow.
She heard the sound again and waited as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A white man in miner's clothing emerged from a hut twenty feet to her left. He was carrying an ax. The blade did not shine. Another man and then another moved from one hut to the next. Across the clearing, a heavy, bearded white man and a taller one with a moustache walked toward the dying campfire. She recognized Isaac Claussen from Placerville. In the faint glow of the logs the tall man's long, broad knife glistened and dark liquid dropped from its tip. The bearded man motioned to a sixth white carrying a pick, and they started toward Miwokan's hut.
Solana's mind was still not keeping pace with her quickening pulse. She heard a child wail and simultaneously remembered Mwamwaash just as she started back toward the rear entrance. She screamed, veered, picked up a spear lying against the hut and ran at Claussen.
She was halfway to him when someone knocked her down from behind. She rolled over and saw the tall white man with the moustache lift the long rifle by its muzzle, crouch, and adjust his swing as she rolled over on her stomach again. The flat of the stock came down hard on the back of her head, but the grip and part of the barrel hit the flesh across her back and shoulders, cushioning the blow so it did not kill her. She heard Claussen say, "She's finished. Let's get on with it, Luther," before she blacked out.
She felt herself rotating slowly, pulling at the earth with her fingers because her legs did not work, as she regained partial consciousness a few minutes later. Blood ran down around her ears and over her cheeks. She opened her eyes and saw that they had Miwokan, three of them, and the bearded man was talking to him. She saw the man with the moustache then, holding Mwamwaash upside down by his ankles. The boy was sobbing. She tried to call out, but she could not open her mouth. She attempted to crawl but could not move. The blackness enveloped her again, briefly, then she heard Claussen's voice.
"Where's the fuckin' gold?" he said, swinging up with the thick, solid butt of his knife into Miwokan's stomach. "Where you heathen bastards got it hid?"
Miwokan smiled at him. Claussen smashed him in the nose.
"No one's gonna help you," Claussen said. "They all gone. You better tell me."
Blood seeped down over Miwokan's split upper lip. "There is no gold for you. Only the death it brings."
Claussen punched him with the knife butt again, this time under the diaphragm. Miwokan choked, then retched. He forced the bile down and pulled himself erect. He locked his knees so his leg muscles would stop quivering.
"You think you're smart, don't you, you Digger bastard?" Claussen nodded at Mosby. "Dip that boy into the fire for a minute, Luther. We'll just see if his daddy don't want to talk."
Solana watched, helplessly immobile, as Mosby lowered the screaming boy until his hands were almost touching the logs. Mwamwaash shrieked in agony as the heat seared his fingertips and palms. The higher pitch of his voice and his pleading eyes unleashed something in Miwokan, a surging power he had not felt in years. He lifted himself from the men holding him and spun left, then right, throwing them off. Diving at Mosby, he bowled him over with his shoulders and pulled his son away from the fire in the crook of his outstretched arm.
The boy was under Miwokan now as he rolled and got up on all fours. He heard the other white men coming behind him. He gazed briefly at Mwamwaash's terrified, pain-filled beseeching face. "Forgive me," Miwokan said, turning the boy over on his side. He lifted his arm and brought the side of his hand down sharply on the flank of his son's neck, snapping it and killing him instantly. He started to get up, but the men were already on him.
Mosby waited until he got his wind back, then stood up and brushed at his clothes as two of the men held Miwokan again.
"Sand," Claussen said, whistling and raising his eyebrows. He turned to Mosby. "Got to hand it to him, Luther. He's got sand."
"You can no longer harm him," Miwokan said.
"No, but I can hurt you, Digger. An' I'm goin' to, 'less you tell me where the damn gold is!"
Miwokan was silent. Claussen turned to one of the men. "Get me an arrow. Caleb, Jared, get him on his feet."
When his man brought the stone-tipped shaft back, Claussen removed the arrowhead and sharpened the wooden tip with his knife. After he finished, he held the sharp point up and showed it to Miwokan. He flicked at it with his fingertip, then traced a red welt across Miwokan's chest.
"You ought to know about this little trick, Digger. i seen one o' your Apache cousins use it." Claussen turned to Mosby and smiled coldly. "This don't make him talk, nothin' will. Hold him steady. He ain't gonna like this at all. Hold them goddamned legs tight."
Claussen stepped up to Miwokan and inserted the point of the arrow shaft into one ear. "How's 'at feel? Huh? Feel good?"
Miwokan moaned, gritted his teeth, and tried to think of something else. Claussen slowly pushed the point farther in. Cold beads of sweat broke out all over Miwokan's body as the excruciating pain spread from his ear to the side of his head, then his jaw, his neck, and one shoulder. A low, animal sound came up from his throat and through his clenched teeth.
"Goddamnit it," Claussen screamed. "Why'n't you tell me where it is?" He pulled the point out a bit. "You tell me now, won't you?"
"No," Miwokan muttered.
"Why, goddamnit? Why?" He held the point poised.
"Because you will kill me anyway."
"You heathen son'bitch," Claussen bellowed. Enraged, losing control completely, he jammed the point through drum cartilage and brittle bone into Miwokan's brain.
"Goddamnit, Isaac, now look what you done!" Mosby said. "There's none left to tell us where it is."
"We'll find it," Claussen snapped, angry with himself. "Look around. See if any of 'em's still alive."
While they were searching, Claussen spilled the contents of the whiskey bottle on Miwokan's upturned face and chest. He took out the pouch of gold dust and scattered it by one of Miwokan's hands. Prying open the fingers, Claussen inserted the empty pouch in his palm. With one foot he pushed the Indian's head over on its side. Picking up a long rifle by its barrel, he lifted it high and stamped the butt down hard on Miwokan's skull.
Solana felt Mosby turn her over. She stayed limp and held her breath. She was certain he would detect the pulsing beneath her eyelids, the thundering sound her heart was making in her ears. Mosby stood up and turned, and she got a good look at him before he shouted, "They're all dead. We'll never find it without help. Let's get the hell out of here."
Full consciou
sness slowly returned to her. She lay there watching surreptitiously as they spread the kerosene and set the village afire. When they were gone, she dragged herself to Miwokan, listened for a heartbeat and, finding none, slowly rolled him into the campfire. She pushed along the ground to Mwamwaash. He was not breathing, but except for his hands, there were no marks on him, no blood. Hoping against hope, dragging him by one arm, she crawled until they were beyond the searing heat of the blazing huts.
Isaac, she thought, trying to take her mind off the terrible pain and pulsations at the back of her head, down her neck, and across her back. "Isaac Claussen and Luther—something," she said out loud. "I am only an Indian, only a woman. But one day, if it is in my power to do it, I will kill you both for this."
The sun was up when Esther and the men found Solana, propped up against a tree, staring blankly and rocking Mwamwaash back and forth in her arms. Feeling as though the blood had been drained out of her body, Esther walked dazedly to the river and soaked a piece of her undergarments to wash Solana's head wound. The rest of them moved through the smoking village. She didn't need to go and look herself or hear the details. She knew them from the stunned silence of the men as they picked their way through the hacked and charred bodies—five men, ten women, and twenty children.
The tall, gaunt deputy came back after what seemed hours. "Found this." He showed Esther the pouch bearing the SFM Co. brand. "And this." He held up the whiskey bottle. "There's a bunch of axes and picks scattered around, and a couple of kerosene cans… They all got the South Fork Mining Company mark on 'em."
Appalled, Esther wondered for a moment if he knew she owned the company. The thought that Claussen had used SFM Co. equipment suddenly made her nauseated.
