Native Gold

by Glynnis Campbell

  His loins ached, and he pressed her hips against his need, longing beyond thought and beyond reason to join with her, this woman who drove him to the edge of madness.

  "Ah, Sakote," she whispered breathlessly against his ear. The sound seemed like the wind of destiny.

  He reached down with one desperate arm and gathered her skirt aside, letting his fingers glide up along the fawn-soft skin of her thigh. By the son of Wonomi, he wanted the white woman. He wanted his man’s-knife inside her and her legs wrapped around his bare back.

  Mattie wanted...Lord, she didn’t know what she wanted. Him. More of him. All of him. He left her with a ravenous hunger impossible to quench, though she fed on his delicious flesh with lips and teeth and tongue till she could scarcely breathe. Her hands explored his body with blind need, memorizing each curve and swell. She turned her ear to his wide, warm chest, reveling in the strong, rapid beat of his heart against her cheek. She quivered as his callused fingertips grazed her thigh. And she gasped as he pressed his hips boldly to hers, branding her with his iron-hard desire.

  Floating in a sleepy haze of rich sensations, Mattie made no protest as he pulled her into a faint patch of moonlight, his hand slipping higher up her leg, over the hollow of her hip, along the edge of her linen drawers, inside the fabric. She moaned and arched closer.

  But something stopped him. Just as his fingers began to tangle gently in her woman’s curls, he blew out a long, sharp breath and pulled away, leaving her cold. Stunned, she mewed in complaint and lifted heavy-lidded eyes to his face.

  Whatever battle waged there was hard-fought. Sakote’s brow darkened with deep furrows, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, despite the vulnerability of his parted mouth and the winded heaving of his chest.

  "No," he said gruffly. "No." He took a full step backward, clenching his fists as if he fought for control. "We must go."

  "But—“

  "Come!" he barked, grabbing her rifle and setting off, expecting her to follow.

  Sakote thought he’d rather be shot by Yana arrows than endure this torture. His body wanted Mati. His man’s-knife ached with need.

  But nothing had changed. He and Mati were from two different worlds. And if they didn’t take care, if they let their passions cloud their thoughts, those worlds might collide. There wasn’t much time. He’d hesitated too long already.

  Everyone had heard the gunshot. The young braves in the village would come soon to investigate. Then the miners would come. And in the dark and confusion, their fear would create misunderstanding. Someone would get hurt.

  No, for the sake of his people, Mati and he must not be found together.

  He couldn’t abandon her. She wasn’t safe here. And if she tried to return home, she’d lose her way in the dark. He helplessly shook his head. Though it was a great risk, he had to take Mati back to her cabin.

  "Come," he said more gently when she didn’t budge. "I’ll take you home."

  Bewildered, she turned to him with welling eyes, but he had to ignore her. If a hunter let himself be distracted by every wide and innocent gaze, he would starve. But that watery gaze swiftly turned to ice, and with a glare of accusation and a furious snap of her skirts, Mati strode off ahead of him.

  He quickly caught her and took the lead, glancing back from time to time to make sure he didn’t travel too quickly for her, but he didn’t want to look at her face. Like his sister, Mati wore her thoughts in her eyes, and he was ashamed at what he knew he’d see there, ashamed of the pain and rage he’d caused.

  But he could change nothing. Mati didn’t understand. She couldn’t. She was a white woman. She’d never had to protect her people, never felt fear for her family, never worried about food or shelter or cold or sickness. She didnt realize that the peace between the Konkows and the miners was like a thread of spider’s web, easily destroyed by the wave of a hand.

  As they crept through the trees, Sakote listened carefully. He heard no white men in the forest, which troubled him greatly. He could always hear the willa as they clumsily made their way through the leaves. He should hear them now, unless...unless they lay in wait.

  When he finally emerged into the clearing, it was too late. He was right. A crowd of miners stood guard outside Mati’s cabin, teeth bared, eyes glowing fiercely in the moonlight. A dozen weapons instantly swung about to murder him.

  Mattie didn’t notice them at first. In fact, she collided with Sakote’s back when he halted suddenly. She was surprised she didn’t break on impact, for between hurt and anger, she felt as brittle as bone china.

  "Hold it right there, Injun!"

  She peered around Sakote’s massive arm, the one clutching her gun, and gasped. Standing before them, brandishing rifles, revolvers, knives, and pickaxes, were the residents of Paradise Bar. Swede, holding aloft a flickering lantern, stood at the fore.

  Dash spoke. "If you hurt one hair on Miss Mattie’s head, Digger, I swear..."

  Frenchy finished the oath. "I will carve your red carcass up like a Christmas goose!"

  "Put down the gun, son," Zeke said, spitting a wad of tobacco onto the ground.

  Mattie blinked. "What is this about? Mr. Jenkins? Mr. Swede?"

  Much to her consternation, the men ignored her.

  "Lay down the rifle nice and slow," Swede repeated, cocking his weapon.

  Sakote made no move to surrender the weapon. Mattie’s heart flipped over. Did the miners mean to shoot the both of them?

  "For heaven’s sake," she pleaded with Sakote, tugging on his arm, "put the gun down."

  He refused, growling some word at her in his own language. Her jostling only made the miners more nervous.

  "Back away, Miss Mattie," Tom advised.

  She’d had enough of the men’s inanity. "And just what do you intend to do then?"

  "Shoot the bastard!" Harley cried, and his brothers joined in with enthusiasm.

  "You’ll do no such thing!" Mattie protested. "Can’t you see—“

  "Go on and put the gun down now," Swede said softly to Sakote, "so’s the lady don’t get hurt."

  Mattie looked up at Sakote, his black hair gleaming in the moonlight, his eyes like polished beads of jet. His breath slowed somewhat, but there was an anxious sheen of sweat above his lip.

  She stroked the sleek muscle of his upper arm. "It’s all right, Sakote. They won’t hurt you. They’re my friends."

  He turned to her, and she thought she’d never seen such sad and wise eyes as his. He warred with some great decision as he searched her eyes. Then he sighed, dropping his shoulders in surrender.

  The rifle had barely thudded on the ground when the miners rushed forward to haul Mattie out of harm’s way. Before she could cry out in dismay, four of them wrenched Sakote face-down to the ground. A dozen guns aimed at his naked back, pinning him there.

  "No!" she screeched.

  Red kicked him once in the ribs, and Sakote grunted in pain, spurring the Cooper boys to throw in a couple of hard punches.

  "Stop it!" she shrieked, battling against Tom and Frenchy, who tried to restrain her. "What are you doing?"

  "Don’t ye worry, Miss," Tom said. "The boys’ll make this Digger so black and blue he won’t be able to move for a week, never mind tryin’ to abscond with our womenfolk."

  "Abscond..." Mattie gasped. Was that what they thought? "He didn’t..."

  But the mob wouldn’t listen to her. They’d already made up their collective mind. They formed a circle around Sakote and began pummeling him with fists and the butts of their rifles as if he were a rabid dog they had to kill.

  With a cry of horror, Mattie finally tore herself from Frenchy’s grasp and broke through the maddened crowd. Before another cruel blow could land on Sakote, she threw herself atop him, shielding him with her own body.

  "Don’t you touch him!" she screamed. "Don’t you dare touch him!"

  The ugly pack still brandished fists and weapons, their monstrous leers and rolling eyes made garish by the lurching light of the o
il lamps. Mattie scarcely recognized them. Good Lord, would they strike her down, too?

  "Aw, Miss Mattie," Zeke said sheepishly, "maybe you should get back to your cabin. I s’pose frontier justice ain’t what you’re used to."

  "Justice?" she demanded. "For what? Why are you beating him? He’s done nothing wrong!"

  "Nothin’ wrong?" Harley spat. "You call an Injun stealin’ our women nothin’ wrong?"

  "He did not steal me," she insisted breathlessly. "And I am not your woman."

  "Aw, come on, ma’am," Jasper whined. The bloodthirsty gleam in his eyes was almost too much to bear. "Just stand back so’s we can give the savage his due."

  Mattie felt sick. If she hadn’t thrown herself over him, Sakote would have been beaten to a bloody pulp by now. The men she’d befriended, dined with, trusted, still stood by like a pack of wolves eager for the kill. And beneath her, Sakote lay still, silent despite the brutal battering he’d already endured. Who, she wondered, were the savages now?

  "Go away," she told them, her voice low with misery and betrayal. "This man has done nothing to warrant your hatred. He’s been only kind and decent toward me. He didn’t steal me. I followed him. He only meant to return me safe to my home."

  The men, dubious, stared and shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

  "He didn’t nab you from your cabin?" Zeke asked, scratching his head.

  "No."

  "He didn’t steal you away to make you a white slave?" Jeremy wondered.

  "Of course not."

  "He did not," Frenchy inquired, delicately clearing his throat, "compromise you?"

  Mattie blushed at that. She longed to be compromised by Sakote. But she lifted her chin and answered him. "No."

  The men looked almost disappointed.

  "I thought you were good men, decent men," she told them, swallowing hard, her eyes wet with furious tears. "I thought you cared about me. I thought you were my friends."

  With that, she gathered her skirts and her dignity and bent to attend to Sakote. She touched his back lightly, and he recoiled. There were no marks as yet, but she was sure there’d be bruises tomorrow.

  "Oh, Sakote, my poor, dear Sakote."

  Sakote brushed her hand aside with a grimace and hauled himself painfully up to his haunches. He was a warrior. The last thing he needed was a woman fussing over him like a sickly babe. Especially in front of the white men.

  He’d known what they would do. He’d been prepared for their violence. In fact, before he’d dropped his weapon, he’d intended taking on the whole company of miners—until that man spoke of Mati’s safety. Then he realized he couldn’t let his pride endanger her. No matter what they did to him, he couldn’t let her get hurt. So he surrendered the rifle. He let them beat him. And he showed his courage in the Konkow way, by his silence.

  But now, Mati tried to steal that courage from him.

  He wouldn’t allow it. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he slowly stood and faced the willa, creasing his forehead in a mask of anger meant to intimidate enemies. Even Mati gasped at his stern expression. He eyed the miners one by one, as if marking them for death. Some of them sullenly held his gaze. Most of them looked away. When he was satisfied that his pride, the pride of a Konkow warrior, had been restored, he turned to leave.

  "Sakote!" Mati cried.

  Curse the woman, he thought, hesitating in his tracks. Now the whole willa camp knew his sacred name. He frowned and strode away.

  "Wait," she begged.

  He continued walking.

  "Please, Sakote, wait."

  "You’d best do what the little lady says, Injun, unless you want a bullet in your back." Sakote froze. It was that big man, the one with the pale yellow hair, the one who wanted to make certain Mati was unhurt. Now the man looked as full of shame as a boy caught in the women’s hubo. "I don’t cotton much to savages," he said, "what with their poachin’ and scalpin’ and whatnot, but it’s plain as day you’ve turned Miss Mattie’s head for some reason."

  The other miners put up such a protest at that, Sakote wondered if they might beat the big man now, too.

  "Quit your bellyachin’, boys. Like I said, it’s as plain as day," he told them, then spoke again to Sakote. "Now I’m real sorry me and the boys roughed you up, and, well, bein’ Miss Mattie put herself in harm’s way to keep you safe, I’d say you owe her at least a word or two."

  That he understood. Mati had shown bravery. Though it shamed a warrior to have a woman beg for his life, Mati’s courage somehow made him feel proud. And the man was right. He shouldn’t let that go unanswered.

  But the white men knew his name now. They’d felt his body crumple beneath their kicks. He was vulnerable. That made his people vulnerable. And above all, he must protect the Konkow.

  He must end it now—his contact with the white world, his contact with Mati—no matter how painful. And he must end it quickly.

  Scowling to hide his broken spirit, he turned to her. "You have shown much bravery," he said. "I give you thanks." Then he made a crossing motion with his arms, the formal gesture of dismissal. "But now it’s finished between us. Akina."

  Mati gasped, and the anguish that flickered in her eyes felt worse to him than all the pummeling he’d endured. He knew he would carry the scars from her stricken look for a very long time. All the weight of the world bowed his shoulders as he turned toward home, toward the place where, for better or worse, he belonged.

  Chapter 18

  Swede frowned and ran a hand over his stubbled cheek as the Injun vanished into the trees. He guessed he and the boys had really done it this time. Miss Mattie’s face reminded him of the time his little girls’ runt lamb had refused to nurse, and up and died. They’d looked at him with just such hurt, like it was his fault. There’d been nothing he could say to fix things then, and there was nothing he could say now.

  Aw, hell, he thought, it was probably best this way. Even the Injun knew it. Mattie’s heart might be broken now, but things would only get worse if she took up with a savage. That was no kind of life for a well-bred white woman. The sooner she accepted that, the better.

  None of the men spoke up to offer their condolences or apologies, but then Swede’s throat, too, was clogged with shame. The wind kicked up in the pines, sawing a sorrowful tune to fill the silence. But it wasn’t loud enough to cover the sob that sneaked out of Miss Mattie as she walked, her head held high, past them and into her cabin.

  It was a sound Swede couldn’t get out of his head. Not the next morning, when the man from Marysville brought a letter from home. Not the following day, when Red unearthed a gold nugget near as big as a gambling die. Not even that night, when Tom cracked open a good bottle of whiskey to celebrate and poured everyone a dram. Miss Mattie holed up in her cabin, and without their pretty ray of sunshine, the whole camp took on the air of a funeral.

  Then, as if the incident with the Injun wasn’t sorry enough, on Sunday afternoon, the worst trouble any of them had ever faced rode into Paradise Bar.

  Nine men, himself included, had stayed behind in the camp—Frenchy, Bobby, Tom, Zeke, and the Campbell brood. Everyone else chose to try their luck in the creek instead of risking it all on the game of chance Tom dealt across the makeshift card table.

  By noon, the Campbells had lost interest in the gambling. They set up a row of tins along an oak branch and took turns blasting them to smithereens with a rifle. Every few minutes, the loud bang would jolt Frenchy awake, which was the only thing keeping him in the poker game.

  Swede mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve. He hoped the others couldn’t tell it was his bad hand and not the late afternoon heat that made him sweat. But then, he’d never been good at bluffing, especially when he was this drunk.

  "Aw, shucks! I fold." Bobby slammed his cards down. He tipped back his stool and downed a slug of whiskey, burping loudly.

  "Ye play like a damn milkmaid," Tom complained, mocking the boy. "I fold, I fold."

  Bobby banged his
fist on the table, toppling Tom’s stack of Double Eagles.

  "Damn you, Tom!" the boy hollered, his eyes glazed with liquor. "You take that back!"

  Tom’s face began to redden. "I’ll take it back when ye pick up your cards and start playin’ like a man."

  "And just what would a limey leprychaun know about that, huh?" Bobby challenged, jutting out his chin.

  "What did ye call me?"

  Dash fired off a rifle round, censoring Bobby’s reply.

  Swede rolled his eyes. Zeke shrugged. Frenchy was no help. His drunken gaze roamed lazily from man to man, like he was watching children tossing a ball back and forth at a snail’s pace.

  Swede let out his breath in a heavy sigh. Ever since the night they’d beat up that Digger Injun, everyone seemed to have grown a temper as nasty as a mule and a kick just as bad. And Mattie had only made things worse, pining away all alone in her cabin, depriving the men of her company. Lord, who would’ve thought a ruffled skirt and a pair of big, wide, innocent eyes could cause such a stir? It made him wonder how they’d gotten along before she came. Hell, most of the boys stayed as drunk as skunks just to keep from lamenting over Miss Mathilda Hardwicke. Himself included.

  But mostly he drank out of shame.

  Miss Mattie had put them in their place, all right. That poor savage didn’t deserve what Paradise Bar had dished out. It was just all too easy to assume he meant her harm. But Swede knew, from the looks of him, that the man had sacrificed himself to keep Mattie safe. And damned if the Injun didn’t know well enough to end things before they got out of hand. Swede had to hand it to him—the Digger had a head on his shoulders and his own brand of honor. It was no wonder Miss Mattie had taken a shine to him.

  He took another swallow of his tin cup of whiskey while his fellow players exchanged insults and compared their lineage, their faces growing more purple by the minute. Finally, he whacked the back of Bobby’s head before the lad could have a conniption fit.

  "Come on, boys," he said, his tongue thick, "just get on with the game."