Let Sleeping Gods Lie

by David J. West

  Boles shook his head vehemently. “There was no big bone, yes sir. Why? Big Bone?” he whispered at Zeke questioningly holding out his own hands as if sampling how big a bone could be.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Jack. “Forget I asked. I can’t believe I asked.”

  Porter was puzzled. “Who else would want the book and bone? Who else even knew about them?”

  “Perhaps those who worship the Old Ones,” said Mary.

  “Who would that be?” Porter asked her, but Mary merely shrugged.

  “What bone?” Zeke looked at Boles who matched Bloody Creek Mary’s shrug.

  Jack said, “The Orientals did tear down that cairn. And Williamson’s upper flume does go right by there.”

  Porter dabbed at his bloody chin. The blood dripped from his beard like a constant rain. “Yeah, but Williamson didn’t erect that cairn. That thing was probably as ancient as the hills itself.”

  “Still couldn’t hurt to go and talk to him, since Fei Buk ain’t telling us anything more,” said Jack.

  Zeke spoke up, “Hey we brought back your mule and cart, so what is fair? And what about all the money they had? Boles and I counted out one hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Porter cocked an eyebrow at Zeke and the downcast Boles behind him. “Did you now? One hundred and fifty dollars, huh? But you said nothing was taken from the Chinese?”

  Zeke and Boles looked sheepishly at one another.

  “You can keep that fifty—twenty-five dollars apiece—if you bury them and MacDonald.”

  “Yes sir, but you want us to bury them Chinese, too?” drawled Boles. “What for?”

  Porter stood, his bruised yet muscular body covered in sweat. “To show some damn respect to the dead, that’s what for! I think I’ll call what you stole from them and me square for that. Since I had just paid them two hundred dollars. Get it done.”

  “Yes sir,” said Boles, leaving the sack with the offered hundred and fifty dollars behind.

  Dawg coughed up a chunk of boot.

  “That dog, I swear! Yes, sir,” laughed Boles as Zeke tipped his hat and shoved his friend out the tent flaps.

  “You’re in a forgiving mood tonight, all things considered,” said Jack.

  “Plenty I don’t know yet. And I need some answers.”

  “Answers will come when we look where the book was found,” said Bloody Creek Mary.

  “Guess we better go look at those Chinese diggings tomorrow,” said Porter as he gripped his dragoon pistol. “And I still need a good night’s rest.”

  A Stiff Corpse

  In the morning, Porter got up and dabbed some salve on his bruises. He’d bought it from a soiled dove that was expert in such things—he didn’t remember her name, but she had been good at herbs and poultices. He did recall that he had asked her why she did her line of work when she was so skilled with the herbal remedies, and she replied that she enjoyed the work. He couldn’t argue but remained puzzled. It wasn’t more than a week or two after that that she had been killed by some John of hers, and Porter shook his head thinking that he would never understand some people.

  He trotted down to the Round Tent for breakfast, Dawg scampering beside him as if he were still a puppy discovering everything for the first time. Porter could already smell the bacon Bloody Creek Mary was cooking. The sun splashed through the treetops and birds sang. It was almost hard to believe last night had been so dark and bloody. As he approached the rear of the tent, he could see the blanket-covered cart containing not only MacDonald but also the three Chinese. Dark blood leeched into the ground beneath the sagging cart.

  Dawg crept up and sniffed at an exposed hand hanging outside the slats.

  “Stay away from there,” Porter commanded, and Dawg backed away.

  Porter went into the back entrance of the tent and complained to Jack, “Why are they back there?”

  “Yes, sir. Zeke and Boles swore they would take care of it in the morning. Yes, sir,” he mocked.

  “That ain’t funny.”

  “Yes, it is,” replied Jack with a grin. “What’s the problem?”

  “I didn’t want to be reminded of it this morning is all. I don’t want Dawg thinking he has a snack of those men.” Porter sat on a bench at one of the tables. He glanced over and lamented that his favorite chair, his only chair, was smashed to bits, and he cursed softly.

  “He already has a taste for thieves,” said Jack, as he rubbed at Dawg’s muzzle.

  “They weren’t thieves so far as we know. Moses was a good man.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought they would be here already and get them off to Boot Hill but seems you aren’t the only one to sleep in,” said Jack.

  “I’d say I earned it last night.”

  “Oh, you did. I swept up a couple of Stoney’s teeth this morning when I cleaned up.”

  “I swept them up,” said Bloody Creek Mary, as she carried the pan of bacon and eggs and slipped them onto Porter’s plate.

  “Thanks,” he grunted, before whispering a swift prayer over his food.

  “She swept them up,” corrected Jack, with a nod to Mary. “But I did wipe down the table as best I could. You know, for MacDonald.”

  “You’re a hero,” she quipped.

  “He have any kin we should notify?” asked Porter between bites.

  “MacDonald? No. But say, I did find something when Mary was sweeping.”

  “What?”

  Jack held out a curious golden pin. It resembled a hairpin, it was small, only a couple inches long but had a wider butt end almost half the size of a penny—and a curious glyph that resembled a wavy, five-pointed star was engraved deeply upon it. It was black in the recesses and stood out clear from the golden hue of the rest of the pin.

  Porter stared at it curiously. “What do you reckon that is?”

  “I would think a lady’s hair pin, but there ain’t no ladies around here.”

  “Where was it? Why didn’t we see it last night when we was looking for clues?” asked Porter.

  Jack explained, “Because it was embedded in McDonalds left hand. He must have tore it free of his killer.”

  Porter spun the thing about in his own fingers, examining it from every angle. It was inexplicable, resembling nothing he had ever seen before. “You ever seen the like before Mary?”

  She frowned and looked away. “Maybe some of my people have.”

  “You know something?” Porter cocked an eyebrow at her as he wolfed down the last bite of breakfast.

  “No,” she said unconvincingly. “But we could ask Ghost Horn. He might know.”

  Ghost Horn was a shaman. Porter had only seen the old man once but had never spoken to him. “If we could find him, would he talk to me?”

  “No. But he might speak with me,” she said.

  “Then maybe we ought to see if we can find him after we go and take a look at Fei Buk’s dig. Deal?”

  Bloody Creek Mary nodded. “I’ll get the horses.”

  “Jack, you see to it that Zeke and Boles take care of those bodies. Watch the place, Mary and I will go check out the diggings and talk to Williamson and anyone else we can to find out about this. And keep your eyes skinned for trouble, someone might come back looking for that pin.”

  “Will do, but hey, all that running around hunting for answers, that could be awhile. A long while.”

  “Yep, but I’m sure you can manage same as when I go on runs to Sacramento.” He stepped out of the Round Tent and into the bright sunlight.

  Mary came around the corner, already mounted on her horse. She tossed Porter the reins to his.

  Jack argued, “Yeah, but then I have Bloody Creek Mary to help me when you’re gone.”

  “I’m sure you can convince Zeke and Boles to stick around awhile. They’ll make more working for us than they will panning,” said Porter, as he put a foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. He patted the neck of his appaloosa.

  Jack shrugged. “I can try and convince them of that,
but they’re dumb.”

  Porter grinned. “Like I always say, you’ll manage,” he called over his shoulder, as the appaloosa trotted away.

  “Can I at least keep Dawg for the troublemakers?” Jack asked, trying to hold on to Dawg’s collar. The big hound broke away and ran after Porter.

  Porter laughed. “He stays with me.”

  It wasn’t a terribly far ride to where Fei Buk and his kin had been digging. It was just upriver from the local claims of those who lived in Murderer’s Bar. Most of the Forty-Niners wanted nothing to do with the newcomer Chinese, so they had to go further afield to stay out of trouble. They had chosen Scorched Devil Ridge because it was inhospitable and steep. It seemed that no one else wanted it… yet. Porter could relate to that, his own people, the Mormons, had claimed the Great Salt Lake Valley because they thought no one else would want it. That wasn’t quite true either but close enough in this instance.

  One cold stream of white water came tumbling down the gulch and half of that was taken in a flume for Williamson who had been among the first to build such contraptions. Porter recalled that each party, Williamson and the Chinese, could have argued the other was using their space and resources, but the Chinese had been amiable to ignore the flume, and Williamson was more concerned with diggings along the river bottom. So far there had been no contention. Porter wondered if that unspoken truce had remained. Could there have been a problem and thus the hurry to escape the territory? The Chinese site was far enough away that if there had been gunshots, he and the rest of Murderer’s Bar might very well have not heard them. But Fei Buk didn’t even have a gun, and Williamson was old and unlikely to ride up to see the flume’s origin and Oriental camp unless the water wasn’t flowing. As Porter rode along the trail it was plain that the flume was still going strong. The wooden box was to capacity with a swift current carrying untold gallons of water rushing by every second. Williamson’s camp neared, Porter could see the faded green canvas of his tent.

  “Hey, Williamson! How you doing?” Porter called out as he and Bloody Creek Mary rode closer. “It’s James Brown from the Round Tent Saloon.”

  There was no sound but the rushing of the water from the flume as it met the river. It had its own dull roar that you would get used to and forget how loud it was once you were close by for a day or so. Every now and then Porter reminded himself that the sound of nature was loud, and we just turned it off in our own heads.

  “Williamson? You around?” he called again as they trotted closer. “It’s James Brown.” The camp looked as if it had not been worked for a day or two. Most of the larger tools were stacked neatly beside a makeshift shed. A rockerbox was lying turned on its side near the tent. A stack of firewood was corralled next to the cookfire ring, but the ring was cold and there wasn’t even the hint of a smolder from the black coals remaining within the stone circle.

  Dawg sniffed a tree and promptly marked his territory.

  “Knock that off, this ain’t your turf.” Porter dropped from the saddle and ventured to poke inside the tent.

  Bloody Creek Mary remained perched in the saddle and cast a wary eye round about them.

  As Porter drew back the tent flap, the smell slapped him awake. The cool mountain air and closed tent had stopped the rank stench from being worse. Williamson lay stone dead on his back, fully clothed, atop his blankets on the cot. His face was a frozen mask of horror, with mouth agape and dead white eyes open as if he had passed while screaming in terror. His fingers were clutched upward in half-curled fists as if he had been about to fight back at some unseen antagonist. Porter could see no wounds. No blood or strangulation marks. Williamson was mighty old, Porter thought, perhaps he simply had an aneurism or heart attack. But that look on Williamson’s face, it was pure terror forever chiseled into his wrinkled, marble-like visage.

  Dawg stuck his nose inside and whined, then scampered away.

  “He’s dead,” Porter said as he stepped out of the tent. “Looks like he might have just had a heart attack and passed on,” he continued before Bloody Creek Mary could ask what had happened, but she remained silent and stoic as ever. “But it is strange. As if he was crying out in terror.”

  “When death comes is anyone ready?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Few enough, I reckon.”

  He listened to the dull roar of the river a moment before he mounted his horse and continued his train of thought out loud. “I can’t see that Fei Buk had anything to do with it, but maybe if he found Williamson like that, he thought he better clear out before anyone like Stoney and the Mountain Hounds decided he might have been responsible. Not a real forgiving lot around here for his kind.”

  “We still go to their camp?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we’re most of the way there anyway,” agreed Porter, kicking his appaloosa’s flanks to mount up the steep path. Dawg happily raced beside them.

  They followed the trail alongside the flume for some time, gaining a good bit of altitude. Despite the day wearing later, the chill in the air was palpable, and their breath came out in clouds for the first time of the season. Winter might be early, yet.

  The Chinese camp was abandoned. Clearly Fei Buk, Wong, and the other burst gall-bladder man that Porter did not know the name of, had not left anything of value. Why would they? he asked himself. What did he really expect to find up here? There was bare patch of ground where their tent had been and a stone circle denoting their camp and cookfire. In another winter, no one would be able to tell anyone had lived here for a spring and summer. Given time, this place would look just like it did before gold was discovered.

  Porter dismounted and strode about the campsite. He kicked at a small smooth river stone and pondered a long moment then looked toward the still rushing flume. A few trails of hardpacked ground ran like a crossroads from the area. One went further into the woods to the left where they must have built a privy, and another trail went to the right where they had their diggings. Porter followed that path and glanced over the section of mountain beside the stream that the Chinese had cleared. Soon enough, no one would be able to tell they had dug there either.

  Dawg ran back and forth crossing the stream and racing up the other side as if trying to catch a scent that was long gone.

  Porter strode back to where Bloody Creek Mary remained on her horse. “Don’t make sense,” he said. “There are no answers to anything up here.”

  “That’s because the questions don’t come from here,” she replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They weren’t really digging here. That ground too grown over,” she pointed out. “No one has dug there for weeks.”

  Porter glanced back and saw she was right. Small tufts of grass and dandelions were sprouting up on the hillside where they had done some digging, but not at least for a couple weeks.

  “Now you’re talking,” said Porter. “But where were they digging then?”

  Bloody Creek Mary gave as close to a smile as she ever did, kicked heels to her horse, and followed the trail and flume farther up the ridgeline. “To wherever that stone marker was.”

  Porter laughed to himself. “You’re something all right. Come on, Dawg,” he said to his hound as he mounted his horse and trotted after her, the dog at his heels.

  They came to a spot where the ridge continued up like a razorback, but a trail was dug out across it at least six feet wide. The flume continued with the creek farther up, staying on the opposite side of the ridgeline. The passage opened to a bowl-like dug-out. It would have been invisible to anyone far below on the river. A stand of trees remained like a shield wall blocking the view but to anyone who stood where both Porter and Mary were, far above the river. Porter recognized some of the sand bars far below. The wide spot had a furrow of piled earth where the Chinese must surely have been digging into the fresh soil. Why? What was here? Dragon bones? Copper books? Golden pins with etchings of stars? It was free of most rock and did not look like an ideal spot to dig for gold.
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br />   Dawg growled.

  “What is it boy?”

  They were not alone.

  The Dark and Bloody Ground

  A handful of Indians were at work upon the edge of the steep embankment trying to bury something. Only one had a crude spade, the others were using sticks and baskets, even their hands, as they pulled the reddish soil over a gouge in the hillside.

  “What the hell is this?” barked Porter.

  Mary translated quickly, because the Indians, while not appearing armed, outnumbered them by five to one.

  Two continued in their efforts to bury something, while several paused, staring in surprise. Two more stood defiant, now facing Porter and Mary.

  One answered in a stern tongue that Porter had no way of understanding.

  “We should go,” said Mary. “They say we are intruding on a sacred burial ground.”

  “Hogwash. I know enough about the local tribes to know they don’t do that. They bury their folk in open air travois or cremate them, they don’t do this, digging like dogs burying a bone. ‘Sides, the Chinese were digging here. What’s going on?”

  The largest of the Indians, a strong young man, stepped forward. He cast down his shovel and shouted something at Porter.

  “Uh huh.” Porter moved a hand closer to his six-gun. “Mary, what did he say?”

  Mary was walking her horse back and away. “Slow Badger says we must leave. They say this spot is dedicated to the deep old gods.”

  The brave known as Slow Badger started toward them, unarmed yet defiant and with a determined look upon his face.

  “Slow Badger, huh?” asked Porter. He reached into his pocket and produced the golden hairpin with the strange design on it and held it out so Slow Badger could see it. “You recognize this?”

  The strapping young brave paused and gasped before looking back accusingly at the other one who had stood staring at them.

  “Looks like we found our culprit.” Porter drew his gun. “What’s his name? I ain’t gonna hang a man without knowing his name.”

  Mary cautioned, “They aren’t going to let us hang him.”