California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1)

by Daniel Knapp

  She smiled coldly. She felt toward Mosby the charity of a wasp. The smile faded from her mouth. Wasps could be crushed. Unless they were moving so quickly, so surely, that they could not be caught. She opened the journal and untied the black-ribboned entries again. Rereading these pages, she was sure, would carry her past hatred and into the icy, efficient, eleventh-hour rage beyond it.

  South Fork Cabin

  July, 1847

  Predating these pages. Recording after the fact, as best as I can recall…

  …December 22, 1846…

  Separated from the rest of the snowshoe party this day. Down on the west side of the mountain crest, far from the pass. My own fault. Decent motives, but foolish. Willful, ignoring, forgetting that my first responsibility was to John Alexander, then myself, not the two women, who…

  ***

  She pictured the campsite. The women gone. The indescribable fatigue. The rising fear when she became lost, then the terror when she stumbled on Stanton, dead, frozen in a shell of ice. His boots. The baby. The stick of jerked beef. The note from Mary Graves. The long unbearably cold slog after the other snowshoers. The numbness in her hands. The wish to lie down and let sleep take her away to a warm, gentle place. The snow. The savage, stinging wind. The baby. The rock ledge. Sleeping. Nursing. The baby. The silence. The incredible distance and the forbidding mass of the mountains all around her. The drifts. The snowsquall passing. John Alexander's half-opened eyes. The thinness of her milk as she licked drops off her own gloves. Standing there, no energy in her, unable to go on, even though she knew if she stopped she and the baby would die. And then, the smoke, the top of the ridge, the two men. The baby…

  Aboard the Pacific Union Express

  May 7, 1869

  3:20 p.m.

  Sutter looked through the port into the first car, scanning the passengers. He could not find Mosby. He went in and tried the locked lavatory door, shrugged, and turned back. In the last car he showed the note from Esther to the trainman and passed through to the locked door of the parlor unit.

  Solana smelled the smoke from the cigar. For a moment she considered throwing the burlap off and leaping up, but then she heard Esther's voice. She had peered around the shade and opened the forward door.

  "John… you're ten minutes early. And I… I… I'm not feeling well. Could we postpone our visit until we've passed—"

  "The lake?"

  "Yes." She put her arms around him. "Yes. How sensitive you are. I'm sure these queasy feelings, memories, will pass once we're on the other side of the mountains."

  "I understand." Sutter started to turn, then hesitated. "Esther—" He took her shoulders in his hands. "I know how worried you are for Judge Todd's safety. But… please… be careful. Don't do anything foolish."

  She mustered a questioning look. "I don't know what you mean."

  Sutter stared at her, thinking. "At Promontory."

  She looked away from him just long enough to increase his suspicions. "Of course I won't. What could I possibly do, in any case? Please… can we talk about this later?"

  "Of course. Shall I come back…" He paused again, thinking as he looked past her and saw the open diary lying on her seat. " …when we are approaching Truckee Meadows?"

  "That will be fine."

  Solana caught the aroma of Sutter's cigar again when he came back out of the car and went forward. She settled, listening, all her senses sharpened, and stared up through the hole in the burlap. Only ten minutes had passed when she saw Mosby stop up on the roof of the last passenger car, pause, look down, then darken the light of the sun briefly as he jumped across the four-foot gap.

  Inside, Esther did not hear the footsteps on the roof, the slow turning of the locked rear-door handle a minute later, or Mosby's soft, mocking laugh. Trembling, she took a sip of sherry and turned another page.

  South Fork Cabin

  July, 1847

  December 25, 1846 (predated)

  Came upon Luther Mosby's lean-to in the mountains north of Squaw Peak this day. Thought at first it was a Christmas miracle, the food and the fire gifts from God…

  …The warmth. How cold his eyes are. An Indian. Making two of them. Horses. The long ride north, then west, then south. Blood on the snow on the ledge over the ravine where both the horse and the Indian lay dead now at the bottom in the whiteness and the fear and the need to trust and hope. And the baby. Oh, God, the baby. Hold my tongue. The leer in his eyes. The second horse, lying in the snow, its eye staring skyward, blank, above the metal bit covered with ice and blood… "Get up, goddamnit!"… "I can't." No feeling in my nose, two fingers. Nurse the baby. What is he doing? Oh, God, you must not do that! The baby needs it. I cannot move. Cannot keep my eyes open. John Alexander? Why do the sparks fly up over the fire that way? He is untying… This is a dream…

  Awake…

  There is John Alexander, sleeping…

  I will sing to him so he is not afraid…

  Must go on…

  Bodies…

  Four, or is it five? Bodies…

  Must eat…

  Must sleep…

  Must go on…

  Snow…

  John Alexander sleeps so peacefully…

  Squaw Peak…?

  A stream…

  Is this a river…?

  I cannot go on…

  Waterfall…

  I must go on…

  I… WILL… NOT… DIE…

  Seventy-five

  Aboard the Pacific Union Express

  May 7, 1869

  3:50 p.m.

  She was as ready as she would ever be when the train emerged from a short snowshed and she heard the noise of the rear-door handle. For a moment she was immobilized by sudden fear, but it passed. She took another sip of sherry, collected herself for ten seconds, then put the journal in her bag and snapped it shut. Putting on her hat, she got up and walked back, lurching slightly, to the rear of the car. Her knees were liquid for a moment as she opened the door and Mosby smiled, then gently pushed her backward with his body. "You're… early."

  He took out a gold pocket-watch attached to a buttonhole of his vest and glanced at it. "What's the difference?" He moved past her, eyeing the kitchen and pantry, then walked farther and looked at the bed. "So that's what the wonderful contraption looks like."

  "I told you all the mysteries would be revealed today." She took deep breaths, slowly, trying not to let him hear. She was stunned by the certainty that the antique watch Mosby was wearing was the one "Uncle" Billy Graves had loaned to her the day she became separated from the snowshoe party in the Sierras.

  "A little nervous, are you?" He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Come here and we'll take care of that."

  She walked past him quickly, sidestepping to elude his outstretched arm. "We don't have to rush, Mr. Mosby. There is plenty of time. We—won't be in Reno for some time." She continued through the curtain and sat down in her chair.

  "Sometimes rushin' it's all right, too, but have it your way." Mosby came forward and sat down in the chair opposite Esther.

  For a moment, as she saw him smile self-confidently, she took in all of his features in detail—the hawk nose, sharp gash of mouth, saber curves of moustache, even the web of fine, thatched lines under his deep, flat, calm reptilian eyes. Evil incarnate. She found herself savoring what she would do to him, how it would feel to see him dead at her feet. From out of nowhere she heard her father's voice from the pulpit, years ago:

  "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."

  She shut the train of thought off, smiled at Mosby, wondering if he could see it through the veil, then responded to the swirl of conscience that was still eddying in her mind.

  It will be no different than killing a wolf. A predator who has taken a newborn lamb, let alone more mature creatures. I will have you. No one, not even God would judge revenge as anything but justified in this case.

  "Perhaps it would be nice to have a little sherry first," she said.
/>
  He glanced at the decanter and glasses and smiled. "Nothin’ better to start the juices flowing." When he added, "Here, let me pour," the hair stood up on the back of her neck.

  She tried to ignore the increased beating of her heart as he reached toward the tray. She searched for something, anything to say to stop him from doing the pouring himself. "How… how was your trip over the roofs?"

  He paused, his right hand suspended over the hinged table between them, and looked at her. "Loved it." He smiled and started to move again.

  "You have a great curiosity about what I look like, don't you?" she asked, searching frantically now, wondering if she should take the hat and veil off, ask him if he recognized her. It was too risky. If he remembered her, she would never have the chance to set the next steps in motion. If he knew who she really was, not just that she was intimate with Alex Todd, he would have to kill her.

  He stopped again. "Sure do. You gonna take that veil off now?"

  "No… no, not now. I want that to whet your appetite. Here—" She reached toward the tray, but he had already taken hold of the decanter. "There… there is an interesting story about my… face."

  "That so?" He pushed her glass aside. "Ought to drink a toast out of fresh ones, hadn't we?"

  Would he recognize me? Would taking the hat and veil off—? It was academic now. She felt her throat constrict as he poured sherry into the glass nearest him and pushed it toward her across the table. She knew if she knocked it over or spilled it, "accidentally" he would know.

  "Know what the Romans did, don't you?" He poured a second glass and held it up.

  "What… what was that?" Her mouth was unbearably dry.

  "Always had anyone offerin' 'em wine drink first. Case of poison. Well, anyway, here's to you."

  She stared at the glass.

  He paused, frowning. "Well? Ain't you going to pick it up?"

  On the convex roof, Solana edged slowly toward the rear of the parlor car, carefully placing her steps wide apart. In one hand she held the mountaineer's ice hammer she had left in the equipment bin the night before. Behind her, the locomotive roared toward a long, low-hanging snowshed. She heard the sudden change in the pitch of the engine just as she reached the curving top of the ladder bolted into the roof at the rear of the unit. Turning, she saw the eaves of the snowshed rocketing toward her, four feet above the second passenger car. Dropping instinctively, she flattened out, splaying arms and legs on the roof and holding onto the ladder frame with her free hand. She stayed there, listening to the wild sound of her heart, until the train cleared the shed and the sun gleamed again on the curved, awl-and-pick blade of the ice hammer.

  Sutter walked forward and stopped beside the card players in the second car. "Have any of you gentlemen seen Judge Mosby? I would like to speak with him."

  One of the men looked up at him. "Take a look up in the next car. He isn't there, he probably got off at Dutch Flat."

  Sutter looked puzzled.

  "He was havin' some trouble with his stomach."

  "Wait a minute," Mosby said, reaching out and lightly grasping Esther's wrist. "Let's do it the way they do in them novels. Here." He pushed his glass past hers and under her veil until it was an inch from her lips. "Now you put yours over here with your arm touchin' mine."

  She could not believe her ears. Trembling, she took in a breath and extended her arm.

  "Now, don't you spill it on my pants." He laughed. "Wouldn't look too good. Go ahead, drink up. Wait a minute! We haven't clinked." He curled his wrist around and tapped his glass against hers, then moved the one in his hand back up under her veil. "Take a good belt. It'll loosen you up."

  He tilted the glass and watched her drain half of it. "That's the way. Now I'll drink some of mine."

  She held her breath again as he took a few drops on his tongue, swallowed, then pulled back, grimacing.

  "Damn!" He growled. "That ain't for me. Can't stand anything sweeter than Amontillado."

  Sutter listened as the head trainman told him the last time he had seen Mosby was when he got off at Dutch Flat, then shrugged as he pointed to Mosby's empty seat. As Sutter turned and walked toward it, he glanced up and saw there were two bags on the overhead rack.

  He stopped and looked at the man sitting in the window seat. "Are those both yours?"

  "Just one of them. The other belongs to the gentleman who asked to sit here awhile back."

  "You haven't seen him?"

  "Not for a half hour or so. He might be back playing cards."

  "You got anything else to drink?" Mosby asked.

  Esther thought of John Alexander, Miwokan, Murietta, Barnett, Moses, Alex, and herself, in quick succession. Her mind grew reasonably cool, and the trembling in her arms and legs subsided to a controllable level. "No… I don't know. Look back in the pantry."

  She got up when she heard him open one closet, then walked back and stood by the bed as he found a bottle of whiskey, uncorked it, and took a long swig.

  "Old Crocker, he sure knows how to live." He looked at her, then at the bed. "Why don't we get comfortable?" He walked over and sat down right over the knife, smiling.

  She was certain for an instant that her heart would flutter right up out of her throat. She smiled and paused, waiting for the pounding in her ears to slow, then weighed the possibilities: He may have ingested none of the poison. He may stay between me and the portion of the mattress I would have to reach under to get the knife if I get into the bed with him. It is too much of a risk. Better out back, on the platform; even if I have to go through with the whole detestable business to have him at his most vulnerable.

  "You want to go back and get your sherry? Might be a way to ease into things."

  She thought again for a moment. "No, I won't need it."

  He motioned to her with the bottle of bourbon. "Then why don't you sit down here next to me?"

  The fear was gone now, the trembling almost unnoticeable as she stared at him in mock softness, mustered another faint smile, and gathered herself. "I had something more exciting in mind than a bed."

  "You did? What could that be?"

  "How would you like…" She coughed. "I'm sorry. But the prospect excites me. How would you like to…?" She breathed deeply, knowing now the platform had offered the best chance all along.

  "Go on."

  "We could go out on the rear platform, while the train is moving, and there would be a slight element of danger… of being seen."

  He smiled and shook his head. "You sure are somethin', ain't you? Never met a woman like you in my life." He stared at her veil. "When am I gonna see what you look like? I know you're not bad lookin'. I could tell that in the light by the window."

  "Outside. On the platform. While we are… doing it."

  "How the hell are we going to manage that?"

  "In a way that will make it even more exciting."

  He smiled again. "If you'll pardon the expression, lay it out for me."

  "You could… sit on the outside railing—"

  "You're crazy!"

  "No… wait. Listen. You could hold onto the railing with one hand, the ladder or the support with the other, and tuck your shoes under the lower rungs."

  He shook his head. "I don't know. Sounds pretty dangerous."

  "How? You'll be gripping the rail, the ladder, firmly, with both hands, your feet will be securing you, and I'll be holding onto your lapels…" She saw he didn't completely understand. "After… after you are ready… and… I have straddled you."

  He burst out laughing. "Well, I'll be goddamned! You got a mind, all right… Still…"

  She moved past him toward the rear door. "You're not afraid, are you, Mr. Mosby? Frightened of something a woman is willing to do with you?"

  She saw him touch at his stomach and wince after he followed her out onto the platform. "Is something the matter?" She wondered if the miniscule amount of poison was working on him, slowing him just enough to reduce his edge.

  "No. It's not
hin'." He staggered slightly, but she couldn't be sure it wasn't just the train."

  "Okay. Where do you want me?"

  "Over here," she said, fighting the urge to glance up at the derringer. Leaning out, she looked forward at the nearing ledge along the face of Calafia Mountain. "It will be thrilling."

  He stared at the railing and paused. The train lurched once, but then rolled on evenly.

  "Can you feel it? The train is slowing down a bit. It will hardly be dangerous at all, so long as we keep a firm hold on the railing, the ladder, and the rungs."

  He took a step toward the outside rail and looked over just as the train swayed again. "Jesus!"

  "I'm not afraid, and I'll be… on top of you. Are you afraid?

  "Please," she continued, feeling the train rock again gently, "I know you'll love it just as much as I will. It will be something we'll never forget for… the rest of our lives."

  Mosby shrugged and grunted, "I'm with you." Turning, he leaned back against the railing; then, holding tightly with both hands, he eased one boot up behind and under the lowest rung. Then he lifted the other and snugged it as he hoisted himself into place. The car swayed yet another time. "My life is in your hands," he quipped, laughing. "Goddamn! You're right. Neither one of us will ever forget this!"

  She took a step toward him. "Oh, my. You've forgotten to…"

  He glanced down at his pants and laughed again. "Open my fly. Unbutton it for me, will you? And my long johns. Say, you're gonna have to take off your bloomers, aren't you?"

  She smiled. "I don't have anything on under this dress."

  "Think of everything, don't you? Take your hat off, too. So I can kiss you without that damn veil bein' in the way."

  "Not yet. Let us sustain the mystery—as well as the slight element of danger."