California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1)

by Daniel Knapp

  A portion of one of the curtains fell, still burning, and wafted onto Arabella's desk. It set a newspaper and several letters ablaze. In minutes the desk itself was burning. Then the kerosene lamp exploded onto the carpet, and the room was suddenly an inferno. Outside, shingles caught fire rapidly, and the flames lapped up and along the side of the building.

  Next door, the roof was ablaze now, sending windblown sparks onto the bordello's overhanging eaves.

  Just outside Arabella's office, flame broke through the base of a thin wall and raced up and forward through the decorative flocking along the hallway. Before anyone in the parlor or the rooms upstairs knew what was happening, the fire had taken hold over half of the first floor. Fed by a draft from raised windows, it leaped a half foot, then a foot at a time, up the carpeting and railings of the front and rear staircases.

  Holding Esther's arms down, Mosby drove into her again and again. She couldn't move. Each time he rammed home she thought something would tear open. I never meant for it to be this way, she thought, appalled and ashamed that around the rim of her disgust, the pain, her hatred, she was experiencing the beginnings of a delicious sensation. She fought it off, waiting for the moment he released her arms and she could reach under the pillow for the gun.

  She remembered how her emotions had overruled her, almost brought her down in the gambling tent on Portsmouth Square. She tried not to think of Mosby inside her, about to release his seed in her again. I must let it happen. I must give him his complete pleasure. When he is done and lying beside me with his eyes closed, perhaps even dozing, then I will do it… and I will succeed… and be gone before anyone realizes what has happened.

  She felt Mosby suddenly grow limp in her and saw him gaping in disbelief at the window.

  "Jesus Christ!” he shouted. "Will you look at that!"

  She turned and saw the flames leaping up past the window, covering it in a matter of seconds. Tendrils of smoke filtered around the sash and began extending into the room. She thought it strange that she felt no fear.

  "The whole fuckin' place is on fire!" Mosby shouted, leaping up and pulling on his pants.

  Almost in a state of shock from the sight of the flames and what had taken place on the bed, Esther reached under the pillow and searched for the gun. Distracted, she inadvertently pushed the weapon out under the backs of the pillows and heard a faint thud as it fell to the carpeted floor. She froze.

  Mosby pulled on his boots. "Get the fuck up and get dressed, less you want to roast right here!" He left his shirt and jacket on the chair. The belt and holster hanging from his bare shoulder, he rushed to the door and opened it.

  Esther saw a naked man run past and topple down into the stairwell as a blazing hallway railing gave way. A giant hand seemed to hold her rigid in its grip. She willed herself to move, turned over, reached down, and groped for the gun. She could not find it.

  Mosby turned and saw her lying face down on the bed. "Are you fuckin' crazy?" He came back and jerked her up off the bed. "Where are your clothes? In that closet?" Without waiting for an answer, he charged to the closet door, opened it and recoiled as smoke billowed out and around him. An instant later, flames surged up through the floor of the closet as he grabbed Esther's dress and threw it at her.

  She was on her hands and knees now, trying to reach the gun on the floor under the bed. He pulled her to her feet and slapped her face. Pointing to her high-buttoned shoes beneath the skirt of the mattress cover, he snapped: "You're on your own now. I got my own hide to think of."

  Numbly, Esther sat down, pulled on the shoes, and put on the dress after he raced out through the door of the room. She was standing, immobilized again by shock, terror, and frustration when he came back. The curtains in the room were ablaze, and the wallpaper had begun to peel and roll up around the window. There was a wild look in Mosby's eyes.

  "There's no fuckin' way out!" He glanced out the window and shook his head. The shed-roof along the side of the house was afire. "Those bastards! They could have shouted, let us know…!"

  He came over and shook Esther by the arm. "What's the matter with you?" he snapped. "Come on!" He jerked her forward and out into the hallway. The floor was ablaze at either end. The stairway was gone. Fingers of blazing heat clawed up under Esther's veil and tore at her face. She backed into the room again.

  "Wait here!" Mosby bellowed.

  She peered out through the door and saw him leap a low wall of flame and try the door to another room. Moving quickly to the bed, she pulled at its brass foot-post and moved it away from the wall. Picking up the gun, she cocked it and ran back to the doorway. Mosby was at the door to another room. She saw him open it as she raised the pistol, but halfway through her upward swing, the floor beneath Mosby gave way in a shower of flame and sparks, and he dropped from sight. She heard him scream in pain, but then there was nothing but the deafening, unearthly sound of the fire. Staring down through a gap in the hallway floor, she tried to see where he had fallen but couldn't make him out. Enraged, she flung the gun after him. Smoke blew into her eyes and mouth, and she backed away involuntarily and closed the door.

  She looked around and saw all four walls going up in flames. She coughed as the smoke level dropped rapidly from the ceiling and a shaft of fire suddenly roared up through the floor beside her. Jumping back, she felt the flames licking at her right calf before she saw the hem of her dress was afire. Quickly, she bent down and slapped the flames out. When she stood erect again, she felt herself almost go. The heat was almost unbearable. Another column of flame shot up in front of her. Dizzy, she turned and saw the curtains were completely consumed now, a pile of sparkling, paper-like ashes below the window. She realized the lower half of the sash was partially raised. Rushing to it, she gripped the smoldering lower slat and tried to open it further. It wouldn't budge. She choked on a billow of smoke. Forcing herself not to give up, she threw Mosby's shirt and jacket off the ladder-back wooden chair where they lay, lifted it, and smashed the glass out of the window.

  She looked out. The overhanging shed-roof on the side of the house was gone. A thick oak beam ran out and away from the building just left of the window to an upright stanchion. It was smoldering but still not ablaze. She got out onto it and slowly, carefully, walking foot in front of foot, eased her way to the stanchion, crouched down, and leaped into the alley. She felt a sharp pain as one of her ankles twisted when she landed, but the heat of the burning house next door was so intense she ran out into the street without stopping.

  Only then, when she glanced left and right, did she realize that one side of the street was afire for a block in either direction. The entire bordello was ablaze now, flames reaching thirty feet into the sky from its glowing roof. Scores of people were standing dazed or running about, almost haphazardly, not knowing what to do. She thought she saw Arabella, but then the face was swallowed up in a throng of people running straight at her. Esther stepped back so she would not be trampled.

  She heard bells ringing and turned. A team of horses pulling a tank wagon full of water churned into the street. Half-dressed volunteer firemen dropped from it and began uncoiling hose. She looked up and saw sparks and small bits of burning debris floating across the street onto the roof of her hotel and the adjacent buildings. Suddenly, as though her hearing had just been restored, she realized people were screaming.

  Limping, she made her way to the first intersection and, pushing through gaping onlookers, turned away from the area of the fire. When she was about a block away, she stopped and leaned against the side of a building. She glanced up and saw that the sky was almost as bright as day. Small sparks sailed over, even at this distance. Crowds of people ran toward the fire. She moved on and rested against a street lamp. In the flickering gaslight, she watched as another fire wagon rushed by. A man in a buggy carrying a woman who was either unconscious or dead raced past in the opposite direction. Only then did the recent imminence of her own horrible death reach her consciousness. For a moment she imag
ined herself back in the doorway of the room and gasped. She began to weep, at first silently, then uncontrollably, shaking and sobbing in the aftermath of terror. She sat down at the curb and held her head in her hands, trembling.

  She didn't realize almost an hour had passed before she got control of herself. All she knew was that she was lucky to be alive and that Mosby was dead. She stood up and suddenly heard the voice of Elizabeth Purdy Todd in her brain. "I am glad it was not I who killed him," she heard the voice say. But then Esther Cable took over, and she felt cheated.

  Still partially dazed, shaking, exhausted, she walked aimlessly for hours. Her dress was charred along the hem and on one shoulder, her shoes covered with soot. Dark charcoal fingermarks ran diagonally across one of her cheeks. She could shake off neither the chagrin of having failed to have her revenge nor the small measure of relief she also felt about not killing another human being.

  The shivering and the constriction in her throat Passed. She walked on, numbly, stooping to pick up a newspaper when she saw the word "Adams" in the headline. It was an afternoon edition, dated the day before, the first Friday of 1855. She had been so involved in preparing herself for her confrontation with Mosby that she had not even bothered to eat, let alone leave her hotel room until after dark. She opened the paper:

  "BLACK FRIDAY. ADAMS AND COMPANY FAILS."

  Below, in a subheadline, she scanned the words: "Run on Page Bacon & Company Causes Bank To Close Doors."

  For a moment it did not register. But then the meaning emerged in her mind. She had not transferred much of her account to Wells Fargo. Most of it, perhaps over $900,000, was still at Adams. If they were bankrupt, so was she. At least to the extent of her deposits. Strangely, it did not seem to matter.

  Walking slowly along the side of a gambling establishment, she dropped the paper and looked at her locket watch. It was two thirty in the morning. She suddenly felt faint. Stopping for a moment, swaying, she fought the feeling off and continued on around the corner. Her head tilted downward, not looking where she was going, she ran straight into a man walking in the opposite direction. The force of the collision knocked her down.

  "Forgive me, señora," she heard the man say.

  She was still dizzy from the collision when he reached down and began helping her to her feet.

  Partially bent over, she brushed at her skirt. "I'm terribly sorry. It was my fault. I wasn't paying attention." Only then did she look up into his face.

  It was Murietta.

  Three

  SILVER AND STEEL

  Fifty-eight

  Sacramento

  May 7, 1869

  9 a.m.

  Absorbed by the almost total recall the diary pages evoked, Esther didn't hear the ceremonial band begin playing fifteen minutes before the scheduled departure of the Union Pacific Express. Thoughts of the massacre, the night with Mosby, the fire, the reunion with Murietta, and the complex eighteen months that had followed shut off all sense of the present. She turned another page and remembered her short-lived relief and thankfulness for not having killed Mosby in the bordello. The irony of that righteousness and her subsequent discovery of Mosby's survival made her laugh out loud. Only then, as the sound of her bitter laughter reverberated in the parlor car, did she become aware of the military air the band was playing, the festive noise of the crowd.

  She glanced at the locket watch, and more thoughts tumbled across her mind. If I had told Murietta everything during that first six months of 1855, before Mosby rode to—God, the absurdity of it—to a judgeship on Gwin's coattails. If I had told Joaquin everything then, he would have helped me, it would have been over and done with, come what may… and so much more could have been prevented. But then again, considering how much Joaquin had changed, he might not have lifted a finger for me, as amazing as that seems now…

  Esther sighed, stood up, and peered out of the parlor car. She couldn't see the bandstand. Curious, she walked back and opened the door to the rear platform. Making sure no one was back this far, she stepped out and went to the railing. A twin-stacked paddle-wheeler nearly startled her out of her wits as its steam whistle sent a loud, congratulatory note across the river toward the train. Glancing forward, she saw Solana. Above her, Mister Sam nodded in the locomotive window. Young Todd's excited face was visible just beyond him. The music and the sound of the crowd milling around the main station building rose to a deafening level as the last of the passengers boarded. She thought of her late husband Bull Carter's partners, then saw Billy Ralston hand some coins to a young man who had carried his bags from the hotel. Finally, Alex Todd came through the throng and boarded the train.

  She wondered if he and Mosby would be sitting near each other. No matter, Esther thought. There are too many of Alex's friends, too many witnesses for Mosby to attempt anything on board. And, God willing, he would never see the other side of the Sierras.

  Esther glanced up the side of the train again. Two cars forward she saw John Sutter leaning out of a window, watching her. Sutter nodded, his bald head gleaming in the morning sunlight, and she smiled back. He has the note in his pocket. She pictured what she had written before handing it to him just after dinner in the hotel lobby the previous night.

  To the Conductor or Trainman:

  My instructions to you notwithstanding, Captain John Sutter has my express permission to visit with me, should he wish to, at any time following the train's departure from Dutch Flat.

  Esther Cable Carter

  Esther recalled Sutter's surprise when she had said, "I'd like to spend some time with you tomorrow. This note will allow you to come back to the parlor car. Can you join me one half-hour after the train leaves Dutch Flat? I'll be resting until then."

  He had been delighted. And after expressing his opinion that Mosby's intention to do Alex Todd harm was probably just talk, that time had undoubtedly cooled the firebrand's anger, Sutter had said good night.

  But it was not just talk. And Mosby's anger would never cool. Esther knew better than to entertain even a hope of that. Once he set his mind to something… He had spent a year badgering Arabella Ryan in his attempt to find the woman he had been with the night of the fire. Fruitlessly. But he had.

  Esther dismissed thoughts of the past for the moment as she scanned the crowd for Solana. Giving up, she reentered the parlor car and locked the rear door. Inside, she cracked one window to reduce the rising heat. Once the train was rolling, the overhead vents would cool it down. It will be hell until then. But it would be a small price to pay if she could send Mosby to hell when the sun reached the western heavens. Holding the journal closed on her lap, she began rehearsing the elements and timing of her plan as it would unfold after the train pulled into Dutch Flat.

  Forward, on the side of the locomotive obscured from the station, Solana stood on her tiptoes in the gravel between two sets of tracks. She smiled, motioning to young Todd Carter, and the boy leaned out of the cab window, straining against the belt strapping him to a built-in metal seat. She hoped the boy would not suspect her motives for wanting to be aboard the train.

  "You will be good?"

  "I wouldn't do anything to make Mister Sam put me back in one of the passenger cars."

  "You are lucky to ride in such a—machine." She wondered if he would understand and act on what she was saying, make it easier to stay aboard the train by reducing the amount of time she would have to remain concealed in the equipment bin. "I am just an old Indian woman," she went on. "I could never be so lucky, to have such a ride, even for a short distance."

  "You are not just an old Indian woman! You're special, and I love you very much—almost as much as mother!" He thought for a moment. "Do you want to ride in the locomotive?"

  "They would not let me." She saw the sudden determination in the boy's expression.

  "Maybe Mister Sam will. I'm going to ask him."

  "No! I cannot ask you to do such a thing for me."

  "Why not? You do all kinds of nice things for me.
I'm going to ask him."

  She watched as he pulled himself back into the cab and waited until the engineer stopped talking to his coal-heaver.

  "Mister Sam?"

  Sam Collett turned away from his gauges and levers, looked at the boy, and winked. "Busy now, son. Talk to you after we git goin'."

  "I just have one question to ask. Please."

  The engineer's handlebar moustache curled down in a slight frown. "All right, then. What is it?"

  The boy took a deep breath. "Can… can Solana ride with us?" He thought quickly. "Just… just to Dutch Flat? She's… she's an Indian. She's never been on a train."

  Collett moved over, his massive body towering above the boy, and glanced down at the Indian woman.

  Solana held her breath.

  Collett ran a hand over his moustache and scowled. "Well… I don't know. Against regulation for you to be here, even." He turned to the boy. "Skeered of goin' alone? I'll take good care'a yah."

  "I'm not scared, Mister Sam. Honest I'm not. I just know Solana would love it. She's… she's been so good to me. Please?"

  "Well, all right. But just to Dutch Flat. She kin kitch a ride back here on the first empty supply. Have to stay out of the way, though. You tell her that."

  When Solana climbed up into the cab, the engineer took one look at her broad-boned, pale-brown face, exchanged deprecatory glances with his Russian assistant, turned away, and stifled a laugh. The white woman's purse and the black dress with the white, Quaker-style collar were one thing. But the tiny hat sitting askew on her head and the contrasting Maidu moccasins on her feet were an absolute sketch.

  Esther fingered one corner of her journal, thinking: We stop at Dutch Flat for ten minutes or so. Mosby gets off and comes to the window, as instructed last night. I then tell him to return, via the ladders and the roofs, exactly one hour after we have left Dutch Flat. The danger will appeal to him. He will go forward first, out the front door of his car, before he returns this way. No one will see him come, no one will ever know he was here in this car.