by Poppy
Poppy had a terrible feeling the prayer before the heavenly gate was going to be even longer. Perhaps she could make smooth spots for both her knees and her hands. Scratch, scratch.
"Now he has mounted another step and reached his full strength and powers, and he is indeed in need of our prayers."
Poppy peeped up from under her lashes and felt better. Every one of those miners hunched around the empty grave looked as uncomfortable as she felt, and every one of them was trying to scratch a smooth spot in front of him. Every pair of work-knotted hands was busy. Only Jack was kneeling properly, head bowed, hands folded.
"Each of you know your own weaknesses. I lay it upon you now to make a special prayer for this our brother, to send up your prayer in the field in which you know what it is to suffer, and indeed we are all sinners and sufferers in this world. So now let us pray and invoke the special indulgence for our beloved sinner. To each his own now, in silent prayer."
Not being a man, Poppy felt a general prayer was better in her case. Scratch, scratch. What had she done? Where she had intended to smooth small resting places for her hands and knees, she had leveled a large patch of earth. Had anybody noticed? She glanced around. Not a single person was watching her. They were all much too busy doing exactly what she had been doing, scratching at the dirt in front of them, sifting it through their fingers. But they seemed watchfully aware of what they were doing. One man was even bending far over into the grave, pulling away at the dirt on the inner side.
"Now he is at life's turning point, the years that point his destiny. Let us hold strongly to our faith as we pray for him now."
She should fill in that hole. Pat, pat.
Andy's elbow dug into her ribs. "Stop that. Look."
She followed the direction of his pointing finger and gulped. The heap of dirt and pebbles she had separated out shone with gold. She saw two nuggets the size of her thumbnail.
Even as she stared, the man who had been pawing so frantically into the side of the grave jumped to his feet, both hands flung over his head. "Strike!" he howled. "Gold! Strike! Big strike!" An enormous nugget glittered in his fist.
They were all on their feet, howling and capering. Only Jack rose quietly and stood looking at the preacher.
"This doesn't seem a suitable burial spot, sir. I suggest we find another and dig a new grave. I'll get my shovel."
The preacher looked around and licked his lips. Then he said firmly, ''The good Lord put this here for us to find when He made the earth. Now it can wait another thirty minutes while we bury our brother as is proper."
The men looked at each other. Then one said, ''Everybody get his shovel and start working under those trees. They don't look likely. And nobody stakes until the Reverend has said amen."
"Amen," the men howled and ran for their shovels.
"Come, Poppy," Jack said, every inch the officer in charge of a work crew.
"I'm with you," Poppy said and scrambled up.
She was careful not to look at Andy as she pulled out her kerchief and dropped it beside him. Perhaps Jack did not notice, but he made no comment when Andy did not follow them to the spot under the trees.
The men carried the coffin and dug with a will. Shovels in hand, they stood with bowed heads while the Reverend said a short, crisp service. Then they lowered the coffin and stood quiveringly alert, awaiting the final words.
"I'll be happy to stay and fill the grave," Jack murmured.
"You are a true English gentleman," the Reverend said. He bent, grasped his shovel in one hand, and raised the other hand in benediction. "We now commit our brother to the mercies of the earth and the good Lord. Amen."
In two breaths, the clearing under the trees was deserted except for Jack and Poppy. Then Andy ran up, holding his short-handled shovel. "I'll help," he said breathlessly and, hand behind his back, wiggled his fingers for Poppy to take the bulging kerchief.
Jack filled the grave, patted it smooth, and laid two crossed branches on it. Then without a look at the furious activity on the plateau or any comment, he led the way to their horses and tightened the girths. When they were well away from the plateau, he began to angle off from the stream.
"Full moon tonight," he called over his shoulder. "Should be bright as day. I saw some fiat grazing land over this way, maybe five or six miles across. Easy riding. We can keep going until we hit water."
Poppy did not protest. If half the weight in that kerchief was gold, their money worries were over for weeks to come. She dared not pull it out to look, but she could feel its heavy weight in the pocket against her thigh as a promise of food, shelter, and comfort. As long as she had that, she did not mind how late they rode.
Andy whispered the question that had been in her own mind. "Why didn't Jack stay and stake us a claim there?"
"A couple of those men were wearing guns."
"I saw."
"I think Jack decided they felt that was their plateau, and they couldn't like a stranger coming in."
"Anybody can stake, that's the law," Andy said importantly.
"The law about claims is what the miners on the spot decide," Poppy said. "They decide, and they're good 'about abiding by it, but I think Jack was right. Besides, he's got his heart set on Grass Valley."
"He thinks it's richer than that?" Andy asked with awe.
"He must."
Andy whistled and drooped tiredly against her shoulder. The sun went down, and the blue twilight was brief. Then the moonlight was brilliant, turning the yellow tableland to silver across which their horses moved accompanied by their black shadows. Jack led the way steadily but slowly, for their horses were tired and beginning to stumble, toward a long, dark line of shadows showing against the sky.
Poppy was nodding by the time they reached them. When she realized her horse had stopped, she jolted fully awake and looked around. For a moment she thought she was in a dream. A silver stream rippled between rows of willow, widening into deep pools and then narrowing to curve on to the next pool. In the grassy spot beside the narrowed part of the stream was a squat, dark structure. All silver and black, it was like an illustration in one of those romantic books the ballet girls used to give her when Daisy was not looking, the solitary, romantic crypt beside the murmuring stream where the beautiful girl had died for love.
Jack dismounted and went up to the structure, found a door and peered in. "Some kind of shelter. The vaqueros must use it when they're out herding. Needs airing. Indeed, it needs airing. Here's their fireplace. They've left some wood, too."
Poppy slipped off her horse and steadied Andy to his feet. "You go wash. I'll start water boiling and heat the beans while Jack gets the tent up."
Jack kept sniffing the shed all the time she was cooking dinner. Finally he decided, since the night could turn cold, to pitch Poppy's tent close beside it for a windbreak while he and Andy rolled up in their blankets in the shelter between the outside wall and the open door. The odor could not bother them too badly as long as they slept in the open. Poppy and Andy did not care. They had ridden hours longer than usual, and all they wanted was to eat, then stretch out and sleep.
Poppy dropped down into sleep. In her sleep she kept dreaming, twisting and muttering protests as she dreamed. She was in a deep black well, a cool well lined with silver, cool water, cold silver, and yet fiery sparks kept stabbing at her. She moaned and half woke. She must have been dreaming of that fire in San Francisco when the sparks showered down and stung and burned her. That was strange. Then she started convulsively, sat upright, pulled her bare arms out of the blanket, and stared at them.
Pink bumps. Her arms, even her hands, were swollen with pink bumps all over them. Measles, but she had had the measles. Smallpox, then, and that was deadly. Then she pulled her blanket away and looked down at her white camisole. Not pink bumps, black bugs, and they were jumping and hopping all over her. Her hair, she could feel them moving in her hair.
With a howl, she jumped up hopping and kicking, slapped at the
jumping, biting tormentors, trying to brush them off, shaking her arms, swinging her legs. And still she was covered. Her hair, each separate hair, felt as if it had its own moving creature. That was the complete horror.
She ran for the deep pool and jumped in. She pulled off her clothes, threw them on the bank, and ducked her head under water, pulling her hair out of its pins, swishing it through the running stream. She raised each leg in turn, washed it free, and then worked on her arms. Even her waist and back were bitten and itched intolerably. She stretched out in the water and let its soothing coolness flow over her. That helped, as long as she stayed exactly where she was.
Then she heard a deep, muttering exclamation from the shed and the thud of feet hitting the ground. Quickly she paddled to the far end of the pool, crouching and sheltering in the shadows of the willows, as Jack ran down and jumped into the middle of the pool, tearing off his clothes and throwing them up on the bank beside hers.
"What is it?" Poppy called. "What are these things?"
"Fleas," Jack yelled in a terrible voice. "Thousands of fleas. That smell. Why didn't I recognize it? They store their uncured hides in that shed. And those cattle are alive with fleas!"
"I'm alive with fleas," Poppy almost sobbed. "What can I do? They're still on me. In my hair. Oh."
"Stay where you are. I'll get the soap. Work up a good lather all over. Stay where the stream runs fastest, and they'll wash away."
He splashed out and back again and threw the soap to her. Poppy bent forward, modestly spattering water in front of her, and managed to catch it. She soaped herself all over, ducked and splashed, then washed again. Then kneeling, she soaped her hair thoroughly, scrubbing until she worked up a lather even with the miserable homemade soap, and floated on her back and let her hair stream free around her. She could almost feel the horrible little creatures struggling to hold on in the mass of suds and surging water, before floating helplessly away. They were gone. She was pink bumps from ankles to forehead, but she was free of them and clean.
Then she thought of Jack and peered up the pool to where he stood waist-deep in the water. He had their clothes and was beating and whipping them vigorously against the water, stretching them out to let them float and then beating them again. Finally he looked at each piece, nodded with satisfaction, twisted it as dry as he could, and tossed it up into the branches of the willows to dry. Then he ducked, pulling at his hair, scratching and tugging, and ducked again.
"Jack, poor Jack, you need the soap. There isn't much left, but here it is. Catch?"
He jumped and caught it, then began to lather himself with cracking slaps. Poppy lay back in the water and let the coolness flow over her. She knew the minute she left the water, every separate bite would sting and itch like fire. For now, the water felt like cool silk against her skin.
Then a wave of suds hit her face. Jack's suds. Of course, the water was running this way. She clamped her eyes against the blinding sting and fumbled forward, groping, trying to feel clean water. Finding some, she splashed handfuls against her face. She tried to open her eyes, but they closed again involuntarily, tears streaming down her cheeks. That horrible homemade soap, literally as strong as lye. She fumbled around again, and her foot slipped on a rounded rock. She went under the water. Rolling helplessly, she flung out her arms to try to balance herself, and felt herself caught and pressed close against Jack's bare, wet body.
"Poppy," Jack said hoarsely, pulling her face up out of the water. "Poppy, did you swallow any? Can you breathe? Are you all right?"
"All right," Poppy gasped, gulping and coughing. "All right. I can swim."
They stood, arms around each other, molded together, close in the bright running water. His skin under her hands was smooth as wet satin and yet muscular and strong, the long muscles of his shoulders rippling as cleanly as the running water around them.
His body was a long, lean pillar of strength, from narrow hips to broad shoulders. Her smaller, softer curves fitted against him, her head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder, as he bent his head and kissed her. When his lips claimed hers, hotly, demandingly, she learned in one burning instant that Jack never had felt toward her as a brother to a sister. This was a man's demand on a woman.
His body was sweet, young, strong, and clean, with all the power of manhood still in its first youth. This was a young lover for her young girlhood, found here in a primitive Eden. She could feel his whole length pressed against her and his masculine response to her. Her own body crept closer and glowed in answer to his desire.
His arms shifted to lift and carry her, when a voice shrieked through the silver-flooded night.
"I'm on fire. I'm on fire. Where are you?" Andy yelled.
They fell apart and looked at each other. The moment was over, shattered beyond mending.
"In the water," Poppy called. "Bring us our saddle blankets."
"Why?"
"Because everything else is full of fleas. And so are you. So come and jump in and wash them off."
Chapter Thirty-six
AS soon as it was daylight, and they had gulped some coffee, they fled from the beautiful, flea-infested meadow. They were aware they had not left all the pests behind, but they could do individual combat with those that were left. They were tired and uncomfortable with their rough outer clothes rasping their bitten skins. Their still wet underclothes, in which they had been sleeping, were rolled in an untidy bundle with the blankets.
As they rode, the land changed to gentle, soft hills and placid, small ponds. By midmorning they were riding through a pleasant valley divided into small farms. Poppy looked wistfully at the little frame homes. But even if the people were hospitable, those two rooms housed whole families. Then she realized that Jack, aided by some navigator's sense he seemed to have even on dry land, was leading them with some definite goal in mind.
Unreasoning hope sprang into her mind. "How far to Grass Valley?"
"Too far." After a moment, Jack relented. "I've heard of a place that should be just what we need. The men who passed through it at different times used to talk about it evenings, when they were trying to remember they hadn't always been cold, broke, hungry, and lonely."
Poppy raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure it's the kind of place you want to take Andy and me?"
"Exactly the kind. Now we can pay."
"Oh." Poppy blushed and patted the lump in her pocket. "I don't know how much there is. I haven't looked."
"I was careful," Andy cried. "You were in such a taking over the funeral, Jack, and I had to hurry, and I couldn't wash it, but there are six big nuggets and the rest are grains, not dust. With some dirt, but I did my best."
"A good best, I'm sure, and now we'll all enjoy the profits," Jack said and reined his horse. "There. Those trees. Look to the west. That should be it."
They reached a well-traveled road and followed it into a small town. A long rambling building, with stables and other small structures grouped around it, sprawled beneath huge, dusty oaks. There was a neatly raked gravel entrance, with geraniums in tin pails marking out the half circle of drive. But it was the green painted sign above the broad veranda that set Poppy gasping. It was the Hot Springs Hotel. She read the sign: Rooms and Meals. Hot Mineral Baths. Stage-coach Stop.
Poppy rode up to the veranda steps, jumped from her horse, and handed Jack the kerchief. He weighed it in his palm. Then loosening the knot, he stirred the contents with one finger. He nodded.
"I think you can tell the hotel keeper we'd like a suite."
"They won't have that."
"Then two adjoining bedrooms."
''Those aren't diamonds," Poppy said.
''They'll do. You and Andy arrange the accommodations while I take care of the horses and find an assayer. Don't wait for me. I'll join you as soon as I've had a look around." He pulled out a nugget and handed it to her. "In case the owner doesn't have a trusting nature."
Poppy waited only for Jack to untie the portmanteaus from behind the saddles
. Then she and Andy made an effort to walk sedately as they went into the hotel. She had almost forgotten such places existed. Carpets on the painted floors, pretty colored-glass chandeliers, upholstered chairs, and a glimpse of a dining room with red and white tablecloths. She thought she caught a whiff of an odd odor, but it was a clean one.
Even the bedroom had small rag rugs and brightly painted furniture. The bed pillows were of real feathers. Everything was immaculate. She looked around and could have wept with happiness and relief.
When the plump, pretty girl who had showed them upstairs said they had robes for those who wished to use the baths, Poppy did not hesitate. She said they wanted three wraps, immediately, please. She also wanted every stitch she and her brothers were wearing taken away, also immediately, and boiled.
