by Rae Carson
I am wrung out. Spent.
My knees are wobbly and my heart is like hummingbird wings in my chest as I turn about, peering through the rain and the dark for Jefferson. Now that I’m no longer calling the gold to me, streams of it wash from my dress, my arms, my boots, swirling into the mud. It mixes and washes away, mixes and washes away until it’s no more. It would take a witchy girl to know the gold was ever there.
Something cracks my cheekbone. Pain explodes through my eye.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What have you done?” someone screams.
Another blow rattles my teeth and splits my lip. Blood dribbles down my chin.
My uncle is going to kill me. I have ruined him, and he’s finally going to kill me. I just hope Jefferson got away in all the chaos.
I struggle to remain standing. I sense another blow coming, and I try to dodge, but I’m not fast enough, and it glances against my temple. My vision turns starry, and I drop to my knees.
“Hiram,” I manage through my busted, swelling lip.
My voice stops him. He crouches down, gets right in my face. His eyes are wide and bereft, his cheeks smeared with mud. Traces of gold cling to his sopping coat, though I’m sure he has no idea.
He grabs my upper arms, and he shakes and shakes. “Why, Leah? How could you? Your very own father! And after everything I’ve done for you.”
“You mean steal my home, destroy my family, kidnap me, and box my face?”
“I just wanted us to be together, to be family. Now, I’ll have to . . . I’ll never . . .”
“You’ll never be able to borrow money again,” I say. “No one will agree to work for you. You’ve lost everything. You’re ruined.”
He gapes at me.
“And my father,” I add, “is Reuben Westfall. He always has been. He always will be. Doesn’t matter who I was born to. He’s the man I’d pick for my daddy, no matter what, and that counts way more than blood, to my way of thinking.”
Even in the darkness, I feel Hiram’s features harden. I feel the rage growing inside him like a storm cloud, and I know, for sure and certain, that I have yet to understand the violence this man is capable of.
So I don’t know why my next words come out of my mouth, but they do. “And you are nothing to me. Less than nothing. You are a viper to be stepped on. You are not worthy of my love, or my time, or even my words. From this day forward, I shall not speak to you again.”
He yells something unintelligible, raising his arm to give me the beating of all beatings. This is it. The moment he kills me.
Like lightning, another hand comes up, catches Hiram’s wrist as it descends toward my face. And the blow does not come.
I blink through the rain, trying to make sense of it.
Jefferson stands over me, fierceness in his face. He is like a mama bear, protecting her cub. Blood streams from his temple, like he fell and struck his head on a rock, but it doesn’t seem to be slowing him down now. With his other hand, he grabs Hiram by the throat and shoves him back. My uncle falls onto his rear, squishing up mud. He tries to get up, and suddenly Wilhelm is there too, pushing him back down.
Wilhelm’s hand reaches inside his coat. He draws out a bottle of laudanum.
I should tell him to stop. I know I should. Instead, I watch, somewhat horrified, somewhat glad, as he yanks the stopper, puts the bottle to Hiram’s lips, and forces him to drink.
Hiram tries to scuttle back like a crab, but Jefferson has his shoulders in a firm grip, and Hiram can only guzzle helplessly as Wilhelm forces any remaining laudanum in the bottle down his gullet.
Jefferson rises, reaches for my hand. “Tom and Mary are waiting,” he says, trying to lead me away, but I resist.
“Wait,” I say. I step forward and tug on the sleeve of Wilhelm’s coat.
My uncle has clasped his arms around his knees, and now he’s rocking back and forth in the mud, rocking, rocking.
Wilhelm turns to stare at me, an apology in his face, though in this darkness I could be mistaken.
“Wilhelm, we’re leaving. You coming?”
His eyes widen. I’ve well and truly surprised him. His mouth opens and an odd sound comes out. He’s trying to talk.
I wait for the sounds to form words in my ears, to make any kind of sense, but they don’t. He sounds like a baby babbling. He tries once more, but frustration clouds his features and he goes silent. Finally he nods once, firmly.
“Let’s go, then.”
I’m not sure where Abel Topper is, or Reverend Lowrey, or who else might have survived. I decide I don’t care. I just want to be away from this place.
“This way,” Jefferson says, with a wary look in Wilhelm’s direction.
We follow after. The air smells of mud and wet soot and something else, something tangy. Blood, maybe. Though the dark and the rain make seeing nearly impossible, Jefferson leads us unerringly past the burned-out barracks, down to the pasture, and across the creek into the trees.
By the time we find Tom and Mary and the horses, I’m shivering with cold. Tom has rounded up an extra mount for Mary, but when he sees Wilhelm, he just shrugs and hands over the reins.
Jefferson boosts me up onto Peony, and everyone else mounts, with Mary riding double with Tom again. Jefferson clucks to Sorry, and together they lead us toward the great valley and eventually home.
We follow the creek downstream all through the night, wanting to be as far from Hiram’s Gulch as possible before dawn breaks. The rain and darkness force us to travel with agonizing slowness. We trust Jefferson to lead; when we hunted together as children, he always tracked and I always shot, partly because his sense of direction is so good it’s almost like magic.
As the sky begins to brighten, casting the golden hills with their twisted oaks in a gray, rainy haze, we urge our mounts to go faster. After less than an hour, Apollo begins to protest, and we’re forced to stop and rest lest he turn up lame.
“Mary can ride with me and Peony next,” I say as we stretch our legs and grab a quick bite of jerky.
“I don’t have much in the way of supplies,” Jefferson says. “I wasn’t prepared. I thought we’d be leaving tonight.”
“We’ll make do,” Tom says. “By the way, happy thanksgiving, everyone.”
“Happy thanksgiving,” everyone returns, somewhat glumly. Wilhelm says nothing, of course, but he raises his canteen with the rest of us, and I’m shocked to discover a hint of a smile on his face.
“Thanksgiving is a stupid celebration,” Mary says.
We all turn to stare at her.
“You’re grateful enough to have a holiday, but then you go and slaughter Indians and steal their land. It makes no sense.”
I start to protest, “We didn’t slaughter them. Not all—”
Mary mutters something in Chinese, and even though I have no idea what she’s saying, I’d bet my witchy powers it’s something unseemly. Then she adds, “Your people. You. There’s no difference.”
“Giving thanks is not stupid,” Tom says. “Killing Indians is.”
Jefferson says nothing, but he looks back and forth between us, his mind obviously busy.
“Well, I don’t know if the holiday is stupid or not,” I say. “But I’m thankful for all of you just the same. And I’m thankful for Muskrat. We wouldn’t have escaped without his help.”
“Hear! Hear!” Tom says, raising his canteen once more, and we all follow suit, even Mary.
We drink for a moment in silence. Then Jefferson says, “I didn’t see Muskrat go down.”
Mary looks back over the path we’ve been traveling. “It’s not right,” she murmurs. “That he should be the one to make the plan, but we should be the ones to get away.”
“Maybe he did get away,” Tom says.
“I hope so,” I say, but my voice lacks sureness.
“Break’s over,” Jefferson says. We mount up, sobered, and it doesn’t feel like a holiday at all.
We’re too far west to encou
nter more mining camps, but the creek eventually reaches a river—which turns out to be the Yuba—and at their conjunction is a small trading post. We ask directions, trade my gold for supplies, and follow the river until it joins up with the Feather, which leads us due south, exactly the way we want to go.
With the mine a total ruin, any of Dilley’s men who survived will winter in Sacramento, looking for work. So we skirt Sacramento to avoid them, instead of visiting the town. There’s probably a better, shorter way to go, but we surely don’t know it, and it takes more than a week just to reach the American River.
The American is well traveled, with little paths and roads worn all along its banks, and we pick up our pace. I’m so eager to see Becky and the kids, the Major, Jasper and Henry, Hampton, even Old Tug and the Buckeyes. I hope Nugget has made a full recovery, that Olive has nursed her back to perfect health. I hope everyone has found mountains of gold.
When we find the tributary creek that leads to our beaver pond, the horses recognize home, and it becomes difficult to keep them to a wise, leisurely pace. And when the trees break onto our beautiful pond and the tiny town growing on the hill above it, my heart is so full of happiness I think I might burst.
There are more tents and shanties than when we left, more people. A wide path winds around the pond and straight up the hill to what almost looks like a town square. In the middle of the square, a tall sign post has been pounded into the ground. On the sign are the burn-etched words: WELCOME TO GLORY, CALIFORNIA.
Becky’s cabin seems to be Glory’s cornerstone, and it has a temporary canvas roof now. Attached to the west wall is a wide awning that stretches far enough to shade several tables and benches.
Even though it’s midday, a few miners sit on the benches drinking from tin cups. Becky bursts from the cabin carrying a tray piled with biscuits. She rushes to the miners, serving each one with a growl and a frown, and I’m so happy to see her I can hardly stand it. I dismount, and Mary slides down behind me.
Beside us, Jefferson chuckles. “Looks like Widow Joyner has finally had enough of smiling and being nice,” he says.
Just then, Becky wags her finger at the nose of a particularly gnarled-looking fellow, and I can’t hear what she’s saying, but it’s clear she’s giving him a piece of her mind. The gnarled fellow just grins in response.
“Indeed,” Tom says. “It seems she is embracing her true nature.” He gestures toward a sign hanging from the awning.
I stop short. The sign’s large black letters read THE WORST TAVERN IN CALIFORNIA. And below it, in smaller letters: BAD FOOD, BAD SERVICE.
Jefferson bends over laughing, and I’m trying very hard not to laugh, too, when Becky finally turns and sees us.
The men at the table are caught in the sudden sunbeam of her smile, and they don’t care one whit when she drops her tray beside them, sending biscuits flying everywhere, and starts running toward us.
“Olive!” she calls. “Fetch the Major. Lee and Jeff and Tom are back!”
Becky throws her arms around me, and I hug her right back. We cling to each other for a moment, and then she steps back, smoothing her apron and otherwise collecting herself.
Looking primly toward Wilhelm and Mary, she says, “I see we have company.” Then her gaze roves Jefferson and Tom, and her eyes narrow. “You all look terrible. Worse than terrible.”
“It was a rough time,” I tell her. “Becky Joyner, this is Wilhelm.” Wilhelm nods. “And this is Mary.”
“Hello,” Mary says, and suddenly it occurs to me that Mary can’t possibly be her real name. Later, when we’re alone, I’ll ask her if there’s something else she’d like us to call her. A Chinese name.
Becky frowns. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, though I’m not sure it’s true. “I’ve been sick with worry, Lee. Jasper and the Major were hatching a plan to go after you. What happened?”
I sigh loudly and follow it with a deep breath, as if by doing so I can purge all the bad things that happened and fill myself with clean air and friendly faces and safety. “We have a lot to tell you.”
The news of our return flows through Glory like wildfire. Henry and Jasper come running first, and Henry is so happy to see Tom that he hugs him like he’ll never let go while tears stream from his eyes. We repeat the story to the college men; then Olive returns with the Major and Hampton in tow, and we tell the story a third time. We’re about to launch into a fourth telling for Old Tug and a few of his Buckeyes, but Becky intercedes.
“Food and rest,” she insists. “There’ll be time for the telling later. Lee, you and your friend Mary can share the cabin with me and the children for a while.” She looks pointedly at Mary. “I could use an extra hand running the tavern, if you’re not afraid of rough men and rougher work.”
Mary nods. “Hard work and I are old friends, ma’am. I have a different trade in mind for myself, but tavern work will do for now, if you’ll have me.”
“Good. I just hope you’re a terrible cook. This establishment has a reputation to maintain.” To Jefferson, Becky says, “I’m afraid your shanty was taken over by a couple of boys come south from Oregon; you’ll have to build a new one, but I know just the place. And you.” She peers up at Wilhelm, frowning. “You look like you could do the work of ten men. We’ve a new blacksmith in town who has more orders than he can handle, and he needs an assistant.”
And just like that, we are folded back into the community as if we never left.
Becky serves us a meal of half-baked bread topped with lumpy gravy, and no poorly cooked food ever tasted so fine. Afterward, I fall into a bedroll and sleep like the dead.
In the morning, the Major comes by carrying a new pair of boots. “I made these for you last night,” he says. “To replace the ones your uncle burned.”
He must have been up all night. Tears of gratitude fill my eyes, and my lips tremble so badly I almost can’t force the thank you from my mouth. Because they look just like Daddy’s boots, with laces, low heels, and the shiny curve of steel at their tips. Except they’re smaller and newer, and they fit just right.
Later, I help Jefferson build his shanty, which for now will be a large tent stretched over a wooden frame. We work mostly in silence, just glad to be together and safe. First we level out the area a bit with shovels, then I hold the posts steady while he pounds them into the ground. I love watching him work—the play of muscles in his forearms, the look of intense focus in his eyes, the way he laughs when a post snaps in two, instead of getting angry and swearing the way his father would have.
At one point, he looks up from digging a post hole, his face full of mischief. He says, “You know, Lee, this shanty will be big enough for two.”
My heart is suddenly racing. “Only if they don’t mind getting cozy,” I manage.
“Oh, trust me. I don’t mind.”
“In that case,” I say, and it’s my turn to tease, “I bet Wilhelm would join you if you asked.”
Speak of the devil and you summon him, because movement catches my eye and I turn to find Wilhelm trudging up the rise, carrying something. It’s a slate, and he clutches it tight with both huge hands.
“Hello, Wilhelm,” I say. “Did you and the blacksmith come to an arrangement?”
He nods, but he won’t meet my gaze.
“I’m glad,” I say, only to fill the silence.
Wilhelm stares at the slate. Then his feet. His scarred lips press together firmly. Clank, clank, clank goes Jefferson’s hammer.
Finally Wilhelm raises the slate toward me, indicating with his chin that I ought to take it, along with a bit of chalk.
I do, and I turn the slate over to discover that he has written something.
I am not a bad man.
I stare at the words a long moment. I can talk just fine, thank you very much, but it seems right not to. So beneath his words, I write, Then you’ve come to the right place.
I hand it back, and he offers me a hesitant grin. Then he turns away and heads back down the
hill toward the blacksmith’s stall.
Only two days after our return, a courier rides into camp, his saddlebags bursting with letters. Everyone gathers around, hoping for a bit of correspondence or even just news. He calls out a few names I don’t recognize, and various miners step forward to claim their letters. Then he hollers, “Leah Westfall!”
I’m so taken aback that I freeze. After a heart-pounding silence, I step forward on wary feet. I’ve no family back home. The only people who know me, know where I am, are my uncle and his men.
The courier hands me the letter and moves on to the next bit of correspondence as I step away. Suddenly my friends are surrounding me—Jefferson, Becky, Jasper, Hampton, Mary.
“Who’s it from?” Hampton asks.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mary says.
It’s addressed to me in flowing, beautiful script. Not my uncle’s handwriting, I note with relief. I turn it over, and I nearly drop it when I see the wax seal. It says OFFICE OF THE TERRITORIAL CIVILIAN GOVERNOR OF CALIFORNIA.
“Well, aren’t you fancy!” Jasper says, delighted.
I use my thumb to break the seal and unfold the letter. I read quickly. “It’s an invitation,” I say. “A formal invitation to the Christmas ball in Sacramento, on behalf of the new governor, Burnett himself.”
“Oh, my,” Becky breathes.
“It says I’m to select a contingent from the thriving American settlement of Glory, California, to accompany me.”
We all stare at the invitation in wonder.
“You’ll have to leave in the next few days if you’re to make it on time,” Jasper says.
Jefferson is the first person to ask, “But why?”
And with that single question, my brief pleasure at feeling flattered evaporates.
“People have been talking about Miss Leah,” Old Tug says.
I blink. “Really?”
