"The kokoni! The kokoni of the white man! I saw it! I saw it!"
"What?" Sakote said, frowning. "Where? Where did you see this kokoni?"
The women behind him had grown silent, and he knew their ears were pricked up like those of a vigilant doe.
Hintsuli dropped his head guiltily. Sakote tipped it back up by the chin and raised a brow in question.
"At the white healer’s hubo," Hintsuli murmured.
"What?" Sakote hissed. He cast a dark look over his shoulder, and the women returned to their labors. "What were you doing at the willa camp?" he whispered.
"I wanted to see if the dead man left any...toys." He used the white man’s word.
Sakote compressed his lips. Ever since Noa had given Hintsuli that painted wood spinning toy, the boy had been obsessed with the playthings of the white man.
"I told you not to go there. I told you it was dangerous," he scolded. “Maybe you’ll listen next time."
He knew Hintsuli hadn’t seen a ghost. Sakote had chanted the words of protection to keep the white healer’s kokoni away. It was probably only Hintsuli’s guilty imagination that made him believe he’d seen the spirit of the dead man.
But Hintsuli wasn’t satisfied.
"You don’t believe me," the boy said with a glower. "Come see for yourself then. He is terrible—all white, like ashes. His robe is white deerskin, so thin you can see the trees through it. His hair is the color of fallen leaves and longer than grandfather’s. And he moans." Hintsuli’s face became grim. "It is the song of the dead."
Sakote wondered at this. Something had frightened Hintsuli. He could feel the boy’s heart hammering like a woodpecker as he held him against his leg.
"You’ve seen this with your own eyes?" Sakote asked.
The boy nodded.
"And you’re sure it wasn’t a white deer or—“
"It was the kokoni of the white man," he insisted, adding, "and he was dancing the dance of the dead."
Sakote scowled. What could Hintsuli have seen? He stared at the boy a long while, and then sighed. He’d have to save his carving for another day. Clearly, Hintsuli would give him no rest until he solved the mystery of the white man’s kokoni.
Sakote ignored the dubious glances cast his way by the women, who might doubt his wisdom, but wouldn’t dare to challenge the son of a headman. He shrugged on his deerskin cloak, retrieved the stone knife and broken point, and, as a measure of caution, slung his bow and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. If Hintsuli had seen something, Sakote was certain it was mortal, and therefore vulnerable to the weapons of man.
"Come," he said. "Show me this kokoni of yours."
Sakote slipped carefully, slowly, silently through the stand of pines until he could just glimpse the healer’s house between the sprays of green needles. Hintsuli, obediently quiet, tugged at the back of Sakote’s breechcloth. Sakote nodded once. There was a figure standing before the cabin. For a moment, his eyes tricked him, and his heart tripped as he thought maybe Hintsuli was right, that it was the healer’s ghost. Then he frowned at his own foolishness.
He had to get closer to get a better look. Indicating with a movement of his palm for Hintsuli to stay there, he crept through the manzanitas until he could get a better angle on the dwelling.
Hintsuli was right about one thing. Sakote could see the trees through the thin white wisp of a garment. But that wasn’t all he could see. His breath caught in his chest as a light breeze caught the fabric, pressing it close against a body that was not only mortal, but unmistakably female.
Her skin was as pale as acorn milk, and the long curls spilling over her shoulders gleamed in the sun like a field of yellow grass. She had a delicate appearance that reminded him of a slender flower blowing in the wind. Where her garment clung to her, he could see the outline of her gently flaring hips, the peaks of her breasts, and the intriguing spot where her legs were joined, and the thought of all those womanly curves, barely concealed, fired his blood. She turned toward him then, and he saw her face was radiant with some secret joy. Gazing at her, Sakote felt that joy enter his own spirit. For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe, but stood entranced by the white woman’s magic, drinking in her power, feeling his heart beat strong, as if for the first time.
Then a sudden rattle came from a clump of manzanita close to where he’d left Hintsuli. The woman heard it, too, and whipped around, her eyes wide. She clutched a white man’s long rifle before her, and it was pointed near the place where Hintsuli was hiding.
Sakote didn’t even think. In one smooth movement, he nocked an arrow to his bow and aimed for the woman’s heart.
A good warrior would have shot instantly. He should have. But something in the woman’s magic, something about the way her hands trembled on the weapon, made him hesitate.
The gun wavered before her for an interminable time, but she finally lowered it. Another rustle of the brush revealed the source of the noise—a mother quail with her brood of chicks. The woman pressed her palm to her breast.
She laughed in relief, her voice as playful as a babbling creek. "Are you my big hulking beast then?" she said as the quail scurried in a straight line across the grass. "And you’re so proud of your children that you’ve brought them marching by my house? Well, a good morning to you," she said, bowing her head, "even if you did scare the devil out of me."
Sakote frowned. Who was this woman who spoke with the animals?
"You stay there,” she told the quail, “while I fetch my sketchbook."
Sketchbook. That word was strange to Sakote’s ears. Sketchbook. Maybe it was another weapon. He should get Hintsuli out of danger. The woman twirled and disappeared into her house. Only then was he able to thaw himself from his shooting stance. As swiftly as he could, he shouldered his bow, returned for his little brother, and set off through the wood for his village.
"I told you it was a kokoni," Hintsuli boasted when they were out of hearing.
"It’s not a kokoni." Sakote spoke the truth. The lady was no evil spirit. She was far more dangerous than a kokoni. She was white, and she was a woman. "It’s Coh-ah-nuya," he lied.
Hintsuli’s eyes grew as round as river pebbles. Coh-ah-nuya was a horrible old woman who ate children for supper. She was imaginary, of course, but useful for the disciplining of young boys. And Sakote would rather frighten his little brother with a lie than risk encountering the white woman again.
"Coh-ah-nuya," Hintsuli repeated with hushed reverence.
"Don’t go near that hubo again," Sakote warned, stomping carelessly off through the leaf fall.
He didn’t know why, but now that the danger was past, he felt irritable, as if the wind drove thistles against his naked back. There was something about that woman, some secret power she possessed, that disturbed him. He should have pierced her heart with an arrow the moment she took aim at Hintsuli, he thought with self-disgust. She could have ended his life with a single bullet. His little brother relied on him for protection, and Sakote had frozen like a startled deer. Something had stopped him, some force he couldn’t name, and he swore he’d break his bow before he let anyone make him feel that helpless again.
The gun exploded, nearly deafening Mattie and knocking her shoulder out of its socket, despite the steadying grip Swede had demonstrated. Everyone peered forward through the puff of smoke.
"Didn’t even hit the tree," Granny at last proclaimed.
Zeke punctuated her statement with a spit of tobacco.
"Gor’, ‘tis only the lass’s first time," Tom said, hooking his thumbs in his suspenders.
"The first time I ever shot a gun, it near blew up in my hand," one of the Campbell boys assured her.
And then everyone else joined in with so many words of advice and encouragement that Mattie could scarcely sort them out.
She couldn’t help but smile, despite the ringing in her ears and the ache in her shoulder. The miners of Paradise Bar had cleaned up "real nice," in Swede’s words. Today their faces
were scrubbed, if not shaved, and most of them looked as if they’d actually run a comb through their hair. If their clothes still had a reddish cast to them from the dust that seemed to permeate everything, it wasn’t their fault. There wasn’t a decent laundry to be found north of Marysville.
The church service had been the strangest she’d ever attended. Tom Cooligan, who was as near they had to a minister, presided over the informal gathering—miners seated on several three-legged stools and rough-hewn wood chairs pulled up under the outdoor altar of a cedar. There were only a half dozen Bibles between the lot of them, and the men crowded around the books as if seeing them for the first time.
Which Mattie suspected was true. Halfway through the sermon—an extemporaneous outpouring about the sufferings of humanity, centering largely on the sufferings of the Irish in particular and liberally laced with that country’s wit and love for truth-stretching—Mattie realized that this was not an ordinary Sunday exercise. A good quarter of the miners were missing—gone to work their claims. Those who remained looked anything but comfortable. The men who sported cravats tugged at them. Some shifted on their perches, as if eager to be done. A few drifted off to sleep. Mattie saw a bottle of spirits being passed down the back row. And those who studied the Scripture most intently exchanged nervous looks with Mr. Cooligan, like stage actors waiting for cues.
Bless their hearts, Mattie realized, they’d done this for her. They probably never congregated for worship, not a bunch of straggling men, far from the influence of home and family. They’d honored her by sprucing up and dusting off their Good Books so her husband-to-be could be buried with grace.
The funeral was thankfully brief. As the makeshift plank coffin was lowered to its final resting place, Frenchy delivered an eloquent eulogy. The Campbell lads put their backs and shovels to covering the grave, and Swede gently led her toward a huge oilcloth-covered table of split logs, where the rest of the miners began laying out a feast of sorts.
Mattie was half-starved. She hadn’t eaten any supper, and this morning, she’d been so busy defending her home and sketching woodland creatures that she’d only stuffed a morsel of jerky into her mouth for breakfast.
Now they treated her like a queen. Tom brought her a kerchief for a napkin, and Frenchy poured her a tin cup of coffee, which was as black as coal tar and just about as tasty. Amos served as cook, presiding over his outdoor kitchen—which consisted of pots and pans roosting on rocks of varying heights around a bed of coals—with all the panache of a medieval alchemist. He served up slices of smoky ham and, of course, a cauldron of beans that had probably been cooking for days. He fried up a pan of potatoes and onions, throwing in a tin of oysters for good measure. And for dessert, he set four knobby-crusted dried apple pies to baking over the embers.
After Mattie was served, the men wolfed down slabs of ham and bowls of beans as if they were the last in all the world, which couldn’t be further from the truth. They made quick work of the pies and slugged down the bitter black coffee, chewing up what they couldn’t drink.
Following the banquet, Billy and Bobby Cooper, blushing furiously, their hats in their hands, provided entertainment with their rendition of "Clementine." Their mournful harmony resembled the cry of a coyote Mattie had heard coming up the canyon, but she applauded enthusiastically at the conclusion of the song.
Tom Cooligan followed, playing a merry tune on a tiny tin whistle, and Amos took a break from his cooking to sing a slave song his father had taught him.
The men adamantly refused Mattie’s help in cleaning up, which she would have been glad to do, seeing that they mostly just wiped down the plates with dirty kerchiefs and stacked them up for the next meal.
After that, the thread of piety began to unravel. A few men wandered off to play cards on a blanket spread over a patch of ground. A couple set up a table for monte. Some grabbed up their picks, pans, and shovels, and lit out to work their claims. Others resigned themselves to an afternoon in the shade with a jug of fermented cider for companion.
Even Tom, who’d preached the word of God all morning, couldn’t resist the lure of commerce. He set up a desk of sorts, covered with a square of blue chintz, where, for a spoonful of gold dust, he would scribe letters for those who couldn’t write. Mattie noted with some surprise that it was his hand that had penned Dr. Harrison’s return letter to her.
Two Mexican brothers slumped against a tree on a brightly colored woven blanket, their hats pulled down over their eyes, and dozed. Amos left with a nod of his head to go visit a friend in the valley. Frenchy eyed the monte table, but chose instead to keep Mattie company.
And now she was learning to shoot a gun. Swede had reloaded the rifle and had his big arms wrapped rather familiarly around her, nearly swallowing her up as he guided her aim toward the row of empty tin cans perched on the branch of the live oak.
"That’s it, ma’am. Slow and steady. Just squeeze it nice and..."
The report came earlier than she expected, and her elbow was thrown back again, this time banging hard into Swede’s belly. He grunted, staggering back a pace, and she turned in horror to apologize. But the rifle was pointed at him now, and he stepped judiciously backward, throwing up his arms. She wheeled toward the others in turn, who did likewise.
"Perhaps," Frenchy suggested, licking his lips nervously, "Mademoiselle would care to lower her weapon, eh?"
Mattie did so at once. "I’m sorry. I didn’t..."
The Campbell boys sprang to her rescue.
"Why, that’s all right, ma’am."
"Don’t you worry none."
"Why, the first time I ever—“
"She hit the tree!"
Mattie spun around to look. The cans still stood in their jaunty little line, taunting her.
"See there?" the youngest Campbell said. "Right below the burl. That’s your bullet hole, ma’am."
Mattie grinned, despite the fact she’d missed her target by nearly a yard. There it was indeed. A bullet hole. Proof that she could fire a rifle and hit...something.
"My aim isn’t very good," she admitted.
"Ah, but your form," Frenchy said with a wink, "she is perfect."
"Now, ma’am," Swede told her, "you gotta hold on to that pistol like a runaway mare."
Mattie nodded solemnly. She’d never ridden a runaway mare. She’d never even sat astride a horse. She had ridden a mule on her recent journey, but it ran about as fast as molasses in winter.
"I’ll try," she promised. This time she’d be ready for the noise. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Swede, in a show of staunch bravery, resumed his position as instructor. He helped her steady the rifle toward the target.
"She cain’t shoot straight with her eyes closed," Granny muttered.
Mattie reluctantly opened her eyes and sited along the barrel toward the first tin on the left.
"Real gentle now," Swede whispered. "Slow...slow..."
The tin on the far right jumped off the branch almost before she heard the bang from the gun. Then a wild whoop went up from the men around her.
"Yippee!"
"She done it!"
"Shit-howdy! I mean, shoot!"
"Ma’am, you blowed a hole clean through that one!"
Mattie’s grin went as wide as her bullet had. The Campbells hooted and hollered and tossed their hats in the air. Swede clapped her hard on the back, and then blushed at his own roughness. Granny applauded. Even Zeke’s narrowed eyes twinkled at her as he nodded his approval.
"The bears and the wildcats and the Indians," Frenchy said, "they had better watch out for you, no?"
Mattie smiled. With her present skills, if she aimed at an Indian’s heart, she’d be lucky to shoot the feather off his headdress. But she’d improve. There was plenty of time to practice. In another fifty or so attempts, she’d be as handy with a gun as a mountain man.
By the end of daylight, she was weary and out of ammunition. The Campbells escorted her safely home, where she fell onto her c
ot in exhaustion. Her arm quivered like a baby bird, and her shoulder felt like it had been kicked by a mule about a hundred times. Lord knew how it would feel tomorrow.
She wearily punched her pillow flat and smirked. Some mountain man she was.
CHAPTER 6
Mattie hadn’t used a broom since the time she’d picked up the maid’s when she was twelve years old, only to have it slapped out of her hand by her Aunt Margaret. But she soon found there was no trick to it, and despite the tenderness of her shoulder, by late morning, every cobweb, ash, and ball of lint had been swept from the tiny room and out the door.
Encouraged by the improvement, she decided to make use of the scraps of dirty calico drooping on nails stuck into the walls. She ripped them down, wet them in the bucket of water she’d hauled up from the creek, and set about wiping down the shelves, table, chairs, even the stove, which blackened the fabric beyond redemption.
Of course, she thought, tossing the rags into the inky water and flopping down on the bed, now something would have to be done about the enormous cracks in the walls. Apparently, wallpaper was out of the question. More fabric was in order, she supposed, something in a cheery yellow, something flowery. She’d have to send for some chintz from Marysville the next time the express man came. By then, with any luck, she’d have harvested enough gold from the good doctor’s claim to pay for improvements.
The following month she’d purchase a new down mattress and coverlet. Then she’d order new oilcloth for the table, curtain fabric, and a pane of real glass for the window.
If she planned carefully, setting aside the profit she didn’t need for food and a new frock now and then, by the end of the year she might have, if not a mansion, at least a well-furnished cottage of which she could be proud.
She let her gaze drift to the tools propped in the corner—the pickaxe, shovel, and miner’s pan. Tomorrow she’d make her first attempt at gold panning. Thank God there was gold in California, or she might find herself destitute indeed. There was no occupation for a decent lady with limited domestic talent, unless she resigned herself to becoming wife to one of the callus-handed miners of Paradise Bar.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 102