by Pat Murphy
“Of course, he will. If you were to send word, I’m sure he’d come along right away.” Mrs. Selby glanced at Audrey.
Max noticed the glance, though he knew he was not supposed to. For the past decade, he had spent most of his time in the company of men, but he recognized this look. It was a look that said, “Men! Aren’t they foolish?” It reminded him of the mysterious ways in which women seemed to communicate. Put a few women together and soon they knew all about each other. They talked constantly, asking questions, telling about their lives—and that was part of it. But it wasn’t the whole story. Perhaps they read signals. They communicated nonverbally, like Sarah’s wolves. They knew each other by the cock of the head, the squint of the eyes, the precise tone of voice. They read signals that people didn’t even know that they were sending.
“Then don’t you think you should send him a message?” Audrey asked.
There was clearly only one correct answer, and Max gave it.
“Now we need to find my niece, that’s clear. Where do you suppose she might be?” she asked.
“If I might make a suggestion?” Gitana spoke up for the first time. “When she ran away, she was remembering the murder of her parents, mourning for them. I suggest that she might go to the place of the murder.”
“And if there is any evidence of the sheriff’s guilt, that’s where it will be,” Helen added.
“Well, it’s been more than a decade since the murder,” Max began. “I doubt we’ll find anything after all these years.”
Helen turned to look at him, her smile fading. He noticed the beginnings of a frown on Audrey’s face.
“But you are right in saying that’s where we’re most likely to find evidence,” Max continued, trying to recover from his misstep. “And that’s as good a place to look as any.”
After that, matters were settled quickly, with Audrey suggesting the roles for various players as efficiently as a general deploying his troops. Max, Audrey, Helen, and Gitana would go to Grizzly Hill. Cassidy would take a message to Patrick Murphy.
Cassidy questioned this division of labor, wondering if it might be wise to include himself in the party searching for evidence and perhaps leave the ladies in the safety of town. His suggestion caused Helen to straighten in her chair and say, in a wounded tone, “Don’t you think we can manage, Cassidy?” Max gave him a sympathetic look, and Mr. Orton quickly backed down, accepting his role gracefully.
22 UNEASY MEMORIES
“To believe yourself to be brave is to be brave; it is the only essential thing.”
—Mark Twain
THEY REACHED GRIZZLY HILL on a beautiful summer afternoon. The sky was a pure, unsullied blue; the crimson sun was sinking sweetly behind the oak trees. But for Max, there was a chill in the air, a chill that came from his memories of this valley.
Max remembered Grizzly Hill all too well. The remnants of the McKensies’ camp were gone—the tent shredded to tatters and the tatters blown away on the breeze, the boxes crushed for kindling by passing miners. But he remembered where the tent had stood, where he had found Rachel’s body, where her husband had fallen. He remembered sitting by the tent and drawing a sketch to send to Audrey, hoping to soothe her grief.
It was a strange place to be and a strange task that had brought him there. All backwards and difficult. There had been a dreadful murder, and he knew who had done the killing. He thought now that he had known it all along, in a deep-down, instinctive sort of way. He had never like Jasper Davis, and now he knew why.
He knew who had committed the murder, but he did not know the reason for it. Even Mrs. Selby, who loved Sarah for a long-lost lamb, could not quite bri.ng herself to believe that Jasper Davis had committed this crime. There was no reason for him to commit such a terrible act, and there had to be a reason.
He thought about this as he stood with Audrey by her sister’s grave. California poppies had grown on the mound of earth. The brilliant orange flowers nodded in the breeze. An acorn woodpecker flew overhead, a blur of black-and-white feathers, topped by a red cap. The bird watched them from the branch of an oak, then turned to drill a hole in the tree. The woodpecker was busy with its own business, unconcerned with human problems. It did not need to know the reason behind human action. Reasons were irrelevant.
In the distance, a scrub jay shrieked, scolding someone or something in the bushes on the far side of the meadow.
“It’s a beautiful spot,” Audrey said. “Just as beautiful as the sketch you sent me.”
Max studied her face. Her blue eyes were swimming with tears, and that surprised and dismayed him. Since they had set forth on their travels, she had been an intelligent, capable, cheerful companion. She had never complained, never showed a trace of being frail or delicate. When they had learned of the troubles at Selby Flat, she had competently set out to address them, without a moment’s hesitation for tears or hysteria.
“Don’t cry,” he said, realizing as soon as he said it that it was a foolish thing to say. She had every reason to cry if she wanted. He just wished she wouldn’t.
“I’m tired, that’s all,” she said. “I wanted an adventure, but now I’m tired.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
He took his kerchief from his pocket, holding it awkwardly for a moment and then reaching over to dry her tears. “We’ll find Sarah. You can be sure of that.”
She smiled at him tremulously. “Max, you’ve been a very good friend through all this. Don’t start lying to me now. How will we find her in all this?” She waved a hand at the valley, the hills beyond it, the mountains beyond that. So much wilderness to search.
“You are right. We won’t find her. But she’ll find us. You can be sure of that.”
The scrub jay scolded again, this time from a nearby tree. Max glanced across the valley, wondering what was bothering the bird. He saw a movement in the grass, then the movement became a gray wolf, calmly watching him from beneath the tree.
“That’s Beka,” he said. “Sarah can’t be far away.”
“Halloo!” Helen called from the camp. “Max! Audrey! Sarah is here!”
Audrey followed Max to the camp. She was a few paces behind when Sarah ran to greet him, rushing into his arms for a hug and then holding his hands and swinging around him, pulling him with her in an exuberant dance.
The first sight of the girl took her breath away. Sarah’s hair was exactly the color of her mother’s, a ragged mop of flaming curls. Her eyes were pure and honest blue. Her face was that of an angel—though this angel had been rather abused of late. There was a shadow on her temple, a bruise from the blow that had struck her down in the circus ring.
Sarah was laughing, an uninhibited peal of joy that echoed from the hills. Audrey smiled to hear it. This was a girl who had never been told to quiet down, to be good, to behave like a lady. Audrey remembered how she and Rachel had behaved as children—they had been tree-climbing tomboys who came home with torn skirts and skinned elbows and no explanation other than they had been playing.
Sarah was strangely dressed—she wore a pair of man’s trousers, a red-flannel shirt with a hole torn in the elbow, clothes that Audrey wouldn’t have given a tramp back home. But that didn’t matter, not a bit. The girl was strong, she was healthy, she was alive. “Sarah!” Max was saying. “Sarah, stop pulling an old man about. I want you to meet your aunt.”
Then those honest, blue eyes were considering Audrey, with an intent, unwavering stare. “Sarah,” Max started to say, “it’s not polite to stare.”
“Hush,” Audrey said, waving her hand. “Leave the girl be. Nothing wrong with looking carefully, if that’s what you want to do.” Sarah wasn’t listening—to Max or to Audrey. The girl circled Audrey like a wolf on the prowl, getting closer with each circuit. Audrey stood very still as Sarah reached out and stroked her hair, delicately touched her cheek.
At last, Sarah stopped in front of Audrey, still studying her. “You look just like your mama at your age,” Audrey said softl
y. “She liked to climb trees, too.”
“You smell like Mama.” Sarah’s voice was just as soft. “Come here, child.” Audrey took the girl in her arms and hugged her close after so many years.
A moment later, Audrey felt someone goose her. She released Sarah and whirled to find Beka sniffing her skirt at crotch level. The goose she had felt had been Beka’s inquisitive muzzle.
“Don’t worry,” Max had said, moving toward them as if to pull the wolf away.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. She had dealt with dogs before. She squatted to bring herself nose to nose with the animal. “Hello, Beka,” she murmured as Beka sniffed her face. Audrey rubbed Beka’s ears, and all was well.
Max sat by the fire, sipping tea and watching Sarah and Audrey. Over dinner, Max had been impressed by Sarah’s efforts to use a fork as he had taught her. He was also impressed by Audrey’s restraint. When Sarah gave up and picked up her salt pork in her hands, she did not chastise the girl. Rather, she showed Sarah how to slice open a biscuit and make a sort of sandwich, then tousled the girl’s curls.
It was strange how much alike the two women were. Oh, not on the surface of it. Audrey was a well-mannered lady in her forties. Her auburn hair was tied back neatly. She sat on a boulder, her knees together, her kerchief in her lap as a napkin.
Sarah was a teenage girl with the manners of a savage. She squatted in the dirt, unconcerned about the arrangement of her legs, content to lick the grease from her hands.
On the surface of it, they could not be more different. But they smiled in the same way. When Audrey laughed, he heard echoes of Sarah’s unrestrained laughter. They had the same eyes—Audrey’s were not as brilliant a blue—time had faded them. But her gaze was just as forthright, just as direct.
Sarah, finished with her dinner, was up and running in the meadow, playing a game of chase with Beka. Audrey was watching the girl. Helen was tidying up, washing the dishes in the stream. Max found his gaze lingering on Audrey.
“What was that you said earlier about staring?” Audrey asked Max in a cheeky tone.
Max shrugged. “I was just taking your advice to heart. Nothing wrong with looking carefully. I was just wondering what you were like when you were Sarah’s age.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “According to my mother, I was a handful. But not as much of a handful as this one.”
“Well, being raised by wolves is bound to affect a person. I’ve done my best to teach her manners, but…”
“You’ve done well.” Audrey’s tone was warm.
“She doesn’t quite have the knack of using a fork yet.”
Audrey shrugged. “And I can’t bring down a grizzly with a bow and arrow. Seems like using a fork is a minor problem.”
For a moment, they watched Sarah chase Beka. The sun had set, but the wolf and the girl seemed unconcerned by the darkness. Max heard Sarah’s laughter as she vanished into the night, chasing Beka. A moment later, they reappeared with Beka chasing Sarah. The chase ended in a wrestling match of the sort that had alarmed Max when he first saw it.
“How can we protect her from that sheriff?” Audrey asked. “There must be some way we can bring him to justice.”
Max frowned. “If she remembered more about what happened, we might be able to convince people that her memory is right. We might find some reason that Jasper behaved as he did. But I think it frightens her to remember.”
“Perhaps I could help with that,” Gitana said. She was sitting on the far side of the fire and Max had almost forgotten she was there. “Have you heard of mesmerism? Derived from the work of Franz Mesmer, an Austrian physician and occultist.”
Max nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
“Under certain conditions, it can be used to assist someone in remembering events that they have chosen to forget.”
“You have some experience in these matters?” Audrey asked.
Gitana nodded. “I spent some time studying in Paris with a student of Mesmer’s. I can easily mesmerize a willing subject. If Sarah is willing…”
“We can ask her,” Audrey said.
The game of chase was ending. Sarah ran from the meadow to collapse on the ground by Audrey’s feet. Max watched as she smiled up at her aunt. Sarah’s expression changed as she studied Audrey’s face, becoming solemn, concerned. “What is wrong?” she asked.
Audrey stroked the girl’s hair. “We have been talking about how we might bring Jasper Davis to justice. Gitana can help you remember what happened to your parents, remember what Jasper Davis did.”
Sarah shivered.
“Are you cold?” Helen asked. She had been sitting quietly, listening to the others. “Let me put more wood on the fire.”
Sarah shook her head. “I am not cold,” she said softly. “I am afraid.” So simple. So direct. There was no artifice in her admission.
“What are you afraid of?” Gitana asked.
“I am afraid of Jasper Davis. I remember him, and I am afraid.”
“I may be able to help with that,” Gitana said. “Mesmerism has been used to assist victims of trauma, to help ease their fears. Do you want me to try to help?”
Sarah was frowning; Max knew she did not understand all the words. She looked up at her aunt, then nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I want you to try.”
“Sit here beside me,” Gitana said. “Audrey, could you sit on her other side? Now Sarah, look into the fire.”
Sarah felt Gitana gently stroking her hair. The woman spoke in a whisper that rose and fell with the crackling of the fire. “Keep your eyes on the fire, Sarah. Watch the flames and listen to my voice. You are safe here, with your friends. You are safe among us and you can relax.”
Sarah listened to the soft voice murmuring about relaxing, about letting go, about listening only to the sound of the voice, about being safe here. She found herself drifting, staring into the fire and listening to the gentle voice that warmed her, comforted her. She let the voice soothe her. Gitana’s hand was soft on her shoulder, touching her, reminding her that she was not alone. The touch on her hair calmed her.
She drifted into a trance state, watching the flickering fire.
“Close your eyes, Sarah,” the voice said. Obediently, Sarah closed her eyes. “You are very young,” the voice said. “Just a little girl. Your mama is with you. Can you see her?”
“Yes,” Sarah said. She was with her mama. The crackling of the fire shifted and changed, becoming the babble of water in a rocky stream. The warmth of the fire became the warmth of sunshine on her face. She smiled at her mama. Mama was sitting on a boulder, writing a letter. Little Sarah was playing by the stream.
“Where are you?” the voice asked.
Sarah told the voice where she was, describing the stream and the sunshine and her mama.
“Where is your papa?” the voice asked.
Little Sarah looked around. “Where’s Papa?” she asked her mama. Mama pointed down into the valley below. She could see Papa there. He was waving to two men who rode by on horses. The men didn’t stop.
She told the voice this, and the voice asked her if she was sure that there were two men. She watched the men ride up the trail. Yes, two men. She watched them ride away. Little Sarah played in the stream, happy to be with her mama.
“Something bad is going to happen,” the voice told her. “But even when that happens, remember you are safe. You are safe with your friends.”
Something bad. Little Sarah did not know what that could be.
She admired the pretty stones in the water. She reached into the stream, feeling the cold water on her hand, and plucked out a white pebble. “Look, Mama,” she said.
Her mama stood, smiling down at Sarah. Then little Sarah heard a sound, like a stick snapping in the fire, a sudden explosion. And Mama’s face went pale, white as the stone in Sarah’s hand. Sarah looked into the valley, where Mama was looking. She saw the tall blond man with the rifle.
“Mama?” she said, but there was anot
her explosion and Mama fell to the ground. “Mama?”
“Run, Sarah. Run and hide,” Mama gasped. “What is happening, Sarah?” the voice asked.
“Mama has fallen. I have to run and hide. Mama said so. I have to run.”
Little Sarah hid among the boulders, her heart beating fast. She watched the tall blond man scalp her mother. The voice asked her what was happening, and she told the voice what she saw. “I am afraid,” she told the voice.
“You are safe here,” the voice told her. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Tell me what is happening now.”
She told the voice when she crept from the cave in the growing twilight and sat by her mother’s body. She told the voice when the wolves came, when Wauna washed her face with a warm tongue, when she sucked rich milk from the she-wolf’s teat. She told the voice when Wauna took her into the mountains.
“Listen to me, little Sarah,” said the voice. “Keep listening to me. When you grow up, you will remember what happened to your mama and papa. You won’t be a little girl anymore. You will be strong. You won’t have to run and hide. Do you understand?”
“I will remember,” Sarah said. She was sitting beside Wauna in the hills, listening to the wolves howl.
“Yes, you will remember. You will remember that man and what he did. And you will be brave and strong.”
Sarah nodded.
“When I say your name three times, you will open your eyes. You will feel warm and rested and very relaxed. And you will remember all that we have done together.”
“I will remember,” Sarah repeated. “Sarah. Sarah. Sarah.”
Sarah opened her eyes. The campfire had died back to glowing embers. By their ruddy light, she saw that her aunt had been crying; she was wiping her face with Max’s handkerchief. Max sat on the ground beside her, his arm around her shoulders. Helen’s face was wet with tears.
“How are you, Sarah?” Gitana asked.
“I feel sad,” she said. “But I remember.”
“That’s good. You remember the man who killed your mama?”
“Jasper Davis,” she said, remembering the man, remembering his scent, remembering the light on his blond hair.
