California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1)

by Daniel Knapp

  "Goddamn, you are one hell of a woman! Got to say that."

  She finished loosening the second set of buttons, hesitated, looked away, then lifted his erect member through the gaps in his clothing. "I'll take my hat off when—we are, in the midst of it."

  "Suit yourself."

  She summoned up a devilish laugh, wondering for a moment how firmly he was locked onto the railing. Too strong to risk pushing him, she thought. I must begin it, loathsome as it is. Be patient and calm.

  She put one foot up outside his on the rung, then, both hands gripping the top bar, carefully swung the other foot up into place. She forced herself to laugh. "There. I did it!"

  She eased down, the skirts of her dress spilling over his legs, and immediately felt that he had grown limp. "Oh, dear."

  "Havin' a bit of a problem, am I?" He smiled sheepishly.

  "Wait." The pounding in her chest and neck had reached a crescendo again. She took a deep breath. "Here, let me reach up and grasp the overhang so I can get down easily. Then I will… bring it to life."

  "Go ahead."

  Carefully releasing one hand from the railing, she extended her right arm upward toward the spot where she had wedged the derringer. She felt along the opening in the roof skirt all the way to the wall of the car and gasped as a mountaintop to the west suddenly blocked out the light of the waning sun.

  "What's the matter?" he asked evenly, his face hardened by the dark shadow cast by the mountain behind the train.

  Wondering whether the gun had been jarred loose and fallen off the platform miles back, she didn't notice the slight change in Mosby's voice. "I… I can't seem to get a grip." Terrified now, she looked up to make sure she was not mistaken.

  Mosby shoved her backward onto the floor of the platform, then didn't even bother to get down as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out her husband's derringer.

  "You lookin for this?" He laughed and tossed the gun over his right shoulder. Stunned, Esther watched it arc in the air, bounce once beside the single set of tracks, and disappear down the sheer face of the mountain.

  Seventy-six

  She got up on her knees, screaming. "You filthy bastard! You rotten, filthy scum!" Pushing herself up, she rushed for the door. His fingers were on the handle when she reached it. "Murderer! Bastard!"

  "Got beat at your own game, did you?" He jerked her around by one arm and pulled her against his chest and legs.

  "Let go of me!" She tried to kick him.

  "Let's see what the fuck you look like!" He let go and ripped her hat off. For a fleeting moment there was a trace of vague recollection in his eyes.

  "Scum! Filthy… murdering…. scum!" she screamed, punching at him with her fists.

  He grabbed her wrist, pinned it behind her back, then took hold of her other arm. "Least you can say Todd's got good taste in mistresses."

  "I'll kill you, you sickening… vile… beast!"

  "Now, how you gonna do that?"

  Pressed against him, she felt the holster inside his jacket. "Let go of me! Let go of me! Please!"

  "Now it's please, huh? Not on your life, you connivin' little bitch! You think I didn't know who you were, what you might be up to? You think I don't know—now that I've seen your pretty face—that you were Barnett's woman before you started layin' down with the judge?" He spun her around and bent her out over the railing.

  Panting, she stared in horror at the tops of the evergreens hundreds of feet below her.

  "Take a good look, 'cause that's where you're headin'." He pulled her back. "But not before I take a little of what you were offerin', you snaky little whore."

  He let go of one arm again as he spun her around. As soon as it was free, she shoved her hand inside his jacket and clawed at his holster.

  "Wrong again!" he barked, slapping her across the face and shoving her backward toward the other side of the platform. As she fell, she struck her head just over her right ear on one of the rungs. She felt blood begin to trickle down through her hair as she looked up, dazed, and saw him pull his derringer from his jacket pocket.

  "Get up!" he shouted.

  Solana had heard her screaming. As Mosby took a step toward Esther, he did not see the Indian woman come quickly down the ladder, swing to her right, and throw herself over the rear railing, looping the ice hammer in the same motion.

  The cylinder of the blade struck him at the muscled base of his neck just before Solana crashed into his pelvis and legs, knocking him down and stunning him as he crashed against the wall of the car. Ignoring the incredible pain in both her kneecaps, she rose quickly, lifted the ice hammer, swung, and gaffed the point deep in over his left collarbone.

  Mosby shrieked in pain. Then, as she bent over to free the pick, he lashed out at her face with the gun still clutched in his right hand.

  She staggered backward, blood pouring out of a gash over one eye, then threw herself on him. Screaming in rage, he blocked her arms and took hold of the fabric of her dress with his teeth. Maddened by the pain in his shoulder, blood pumping out around the buried pick-blade, he lifted, then carried her bodily, spinning and driving her against the wall of the car.

  They were locked together now, as Esther rose groggily, unsteadily to her feet and staggered toward them. His teeth were snapped shut on the bodice of Solana's dress, his left hand wedged against her right arm, the pistol between them, suspended in his right hand, held there by their bodies and the fingers Solana had wrapped around his wrist.

  Esther saw no way to get at either the gun or the pick still lodged in Mosby's shoulder. Solana pushed forward and bit hard at Mosby's face. Spinning as Mosby howled, Esther pushed into the car, ran to the bed, and found the kitchen knife. She heard the shot just as she got back to the rear door.

  Outside, Mosby and Solana, still clutching one another, had revolved to a position on the outside railing. Solana had slipped down until her shoulders were against the upper bar. Weaving, Mosby raised the butt of the derringer over her head.

  Lifting the knife to waist-level and gripping it with both hands, Esther staggered two steps forward and plunged the blade into his back.

  Mosby groaned. He let go of the derringer in mid-swing, watched it arc away, then began to turn.

  She pulled the knife out and pushed it into him again.

  "Bastard…"

  And again.

  "Murderer…!"

  And again.

  "Rapist…!"

  She was crying now, as she tried to spin him around so she could slash at his face. She saw Solana's arms clasped around his upper back. Then, aware again of the Indian woman, she stared over Mosby's shoulder into Solana's glazed eyes.

  "Solana! Oh, God. Solana!"

  Mosby began to slide downward. As he did, Esther saw the broad expanse of blood darkening the black fabric under the gold, heart-shaped amulet Solana was wearing.

  The Indian woman closed her eyes, then opened them again. Her arms relaxed slightly.

  Enraged, Esther pulled Mosby partially away from her and pushed his face up. His eyes were still half-open. "Look at me! Murderer! Do you know who I am?"

  Mosby stared blankly at her, listening numbly as the life ebbed out of him.

  "I am Elizabeth Purdy Todd! Do you remember?"

  His head slumped forward.

  She grabbed his hair and jerked it up again. "Do you remember? In the snow, in the mountains, after you killed Seeswash?" She saw his pupils begin to roll upward and yanked violently at his hair. "The baby and the woman? Do… you… remember?"

  His eyes widened slightly as he realized who she was.

  "I am that woman!" She raised the knife again, this time in one hand, ready to drive it into his chest.

  "No."

  Esther turned to Solana, the knife high in the air.

  "Throw the knife away. Give me the pick."

  She hesitated.

  "Give me the pick. You owe this to me."

  Startled, confused, she lowered the knife and dr
opped it to the platform. It skittered and fell over the side onto the receding gravel beside the track.

  "He is almost gone," Solana said wearily. "Help me to be standing."

  Esther let go of Mosby, and he fell against the Indian woman. Together, they managed to bring her to a standing position with Mosby leaning against her, his head slumped on one shoulder, his eyes half-closed.

  "The pick."

  Esther circled Mosby and saw that the tool had worked loose and fallen to the platform. She lifted it up and turned back to Solana.

  "Give it to me!" Solana extended her left hand and took the ice hammer from Esther. She hefted it as blood began to trickle from one corner of her mouth.

  "Lift his head."

  Esther took hold of his hair again and pulled back.

  "For Miwokan… and my son," Solana murmured. Then, raising the pick and measuring, she snapped her wrist sharply and drove the point deep into Mosby's ear.

  Esther stared at them, dumbfounded, as Solana choked and tightened her grip on the ice hammer.

  "Tie my other wrist to his with your scarf."

  Esther obeyed her. When she finished, she looked at Solana again. The Indian woman smiled. "You are my sunsister, and you will do what I say."

  Esther nodded, suddenly aware that her legs were terribly weak.

  "Stay strong until it is done."

  "Is there no way I can help you?" She moved to do something about Solana's wound, but the Indian woman slowly shook her head.

  "I will be gone soon. It is what I want."

  "Oh, God, please! Don't say that!"

  "It is the truth. I am glad the blood is filling me."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Wash the blood off the iron after it is done."

  "What is done?"

  "After you throw us from the train."

  Esther fought for breath. "No! I won't do that!" she sobbed. "Please don't ask me to do that to you!"

  Solana turned her head and looked forward, along the side of the train. "When it is right, you will do it. For me. You will do what I ask."

  Esther was suddenly aware that they had left the face of the mountain behind. Green conifers whipped past in a smear of color. "I can't!"

  "You can and you will. Not here. But when it is right. If I am not gone, it will stop the pain. If I am, it will still be better. For me, and for you, later."

  Esther stared at her, tears streaming down her face. Suddenly she felt faint.

  "Hold on to my arm," Solana whispered. "Then, when you are not dizzy, do it. If they find us, they will think nothing about you. Do it… Do it for me… Do it for—" Her head fell forward onto Mosby's shoulder.

  "Miwokan…" Esther sobbed.

  She waited, holding onto them tightly, until the train began crossing the long trestle just west of the pass. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, she ripped "Uncle" Billy Graves's antique watch from Mosby's vest and slipped it into a pocket of her dress. Almost at the center of the span, she got behind Mosby, slipped her arms beneath Solanas legs, lifted and sent them toppling over the railing. Leaning over, staring back, she watched as Solana, still clutching the handle of the ice hammer, and Mosby slowly cartwheeled together through space, hit a piling, and continued downward until they struck the surface of the bubbling stream. Desolate, leaden in body, she covered her face with her hands, unaware that the slender ribbon of water flowed southward through a labyrinth of gullies, canyons, and gorges; not knowing that it would carry Mosby's blood past the site of the lean-to, then farther, through a ravine a mile east of the place where John Alexander had died; before it snaked past Lucifer Peak and spilled into the waters of the South Fork.

  ***

  Only the rapping on the front door of the parlor car stopped her from immediately lying down on the bed. Numb, she took a bucket from the lavatory, filled it with water, and washed down the floor of the rear platform. Back inside she hesitated for a moment; then, steadying herself on the chairs, she walked forward and pulled the shade aside. Sutter was pounding on the door now. Disconnectedly, she decided she had better let him in before someone heard the noise. Unlocking the door, she stepped back, watched him turn into a blur when he came in, then toppled unconscious into his arms.

  Sutter carried her to the bed. When he searched her bag for a handkerchief to clean the superficial gash above her ear, he noticed the journal. As he turned, he saw the two glasses containing sherry. He left the journal in the valise until he saw that an inordinate amount of blood discolored the unexplained water on the rear platform. He went back and checked Esther's pulse and breathing, lay the cool handkerchief over her forehead after cleaning her wound again, then quickly washed down the outside metal floor. He put the bottle of bourbon he found on the bed back into the open pantry closet. Washing out the two sherry glasses, he placed them back on the tray.

  Sutter didn't tell her he had the journal when she came to and asked that Alex take her back to Sacramento. Nor did he mention it to Alex or the conductor when he went forward, searching for a doctor, and told them Esther had accidentally fallen while standing on the observation deck. When she awoke with all of them hovering over her bed, he insisted that she was too weak to talk, and that she had already told him what had happened before she passed out again.

  The journal was in his valise when the yardmen uncoupled the parlor car in Reno and he said goodbye to Alex, Esther, and the disappointed boy. A month later, when Sutter received word that she had recovered, he drove downriver to bring her a gift. It was the gold wedding band he had slipped off her hand two-dozen years earlier, just before Marsh had removed her fingers at the fort. He did not mention Mosby's name during the dinner they shared, and neither did she. He left the journal, wrapped in brown paper, beside the well-worn, pearl-backed comb and brush set in her bathroom. Then he rode home in the weak but sufficient light of the setting moon.

  Epilogue

  South Fork, American River

  April 18, 1906

  5 a.m.

  The sound of the waterfall rushing out from beneath the lip of ice filled Alex Todd's ears as he gazed up the riverbed, watching for the first light of the sun to rise over the Sierras. She had asked him to scatter her ashes here—at sunrise. It was the least he could do, he thought, marveling again at the woman he had married, been separated from, "involved with," "remarried" in 1870, and then had lived with for the past thirty-six years.

  He was seventy-seven years old, and despite his robust health the trip from San Francisco had tired him. He was cold, even with the overcoat and boots and the blanket wrapped around him. It had been years since he had spent the better part of a night out under the stars. But she had asked him to do it, and, by God, he would. At precisely sunrise. He had not carried out her other request—to wait until after he scattered her ashes before reading the diary. But then again, she had warned him in their last conversation that the contents might be a shock. That he ought to read it sitting down. And then adding, her frail face wrinkling mischievously as she burst into a peal of pitifully weak laughter: "Perhaps at the doctor's office, in case you have a heart attack!"

  He chuckled, remembering her wry, often sardonic wit: It had not left her, even at the last when she was a silver-haired shadow of her former self. He turned briefly, his gaze sweeping downriver to the new dam going up just beyond the point where her cabin had once stood. Turning back, he looked up at the sheer cliffs on either side of the fall. All of this will he gone, he thought. Buried under the new lake the dam will create. The river, the cliffs, the waterfall—and the gold down there. All traces of her life during those first years after it happened.

  He understood now why she had saved the clipping that reported the hanging of Isaac Claussen for an obscure murder in Virginia City. But he still could not believe all the diary contained. That would take time. Knowledge too sudden. Almost more difficult than the night he had learned she was alive. Almost… incredible, he thought. But he knew Esther; knew she would never tell him
it was true unless it was. All of it. Good God, what they can hide from us.

  He thought of the quiet life they had led for more than three decades at the ranch they built on the property Murietta left her just west of Twin Peaks. Unremarkable, pale by comparison to what was on those pages of hers.

  He wondered whether she had actually killed Mosby herself. No one would ever know. He had never been found, and neither had Solana. Sutter, even if he had known anything about it, was long since dead. Whatever the facts were, Alex did not wholly approve of what Esther had done. He wished he had never left her at Bent's Fort, or that somehow he had been a part of a more lawful means of bringing Mosby to justice. But done was done, and he couldn't be certain he would not have been moved to the same vengeance. The irony that he might easily have killed Mosby himself once, in that hotel room, did not escape him.

  He didn't care a damn what anyone else might think. It had been Esther's request—in the letter he found inside the cover—that he have the diary sealed, placed in trust under irrevocable arrangements to have it delivered to her oldest surviving direct descendant in the year 1945. He had been so puzzled by that distant date, one hundred years after she began writing the diary, that he sat down and read the journal then and there. It was not until the following day that he recovered his wits enough to remember her comment about the doctor's office, or the typical closing sentence in her letter:

  "By 1945, perhaps some use could be made of this material by a writer of fiction, since surely no one will ever believe it."

  The diary was sealed, rested now in a vault at the Crocker bank. Appropriate, he thought, trying to remember what Charles Crocker's private car looked like. She could have died in the damned thing. Or in any number of other places. But she hadn't, choosing instead to take her leave two days earlier as the sun set on the Pacific and the wind hushed in the evergreens surrounding the ranch.

  Even if it all came to light now, he thought, few would deny she had tried to atone for what she'd done. He wondered for a moment if God had forgiven her. Her school in Sacramento now housed, fed, and educated two hundred homeless Indian and Mexican-American children. She had poured half her wealth into the school, the San Francisco Orphan Asylum, and other charities. With everything else she had done, she still found time to be an exemplary mother, a good wife. He was certain God would take all that into account.