by Marc Graham
After breakfast, we followed a trail to a nearby mineral spring whose warm waters raised a plume of steam that filled the air with heavy mist. The morning’s clear sky had given way to low clouds pregnant with snow, so we wrapped our clothes in an oilcloth before slipping into the heavy water of the salt bath.
“So you really believe in it?” I asked, picking up our conversation as I settled against a smooth rock ledge.
“Reincarnation? Certainly.” Mae waded through the waist-deep water and joined me on the rock.
These conversations had played a big part in our courtship, and continued into our marriage. Mae’s education in a Jesuit mission school far outstripped my humble learning, and I had to venture far beyond Missus Warren’s nearly-forgotten philosophy lessons to keep up.
“Nature is filled with cycles of death and rebirth,” Mae continued her line of reasoning. “The seed dies, then is reborn in the flower it produces. We are but another part of nature, and it is only fitting that we be subject to the same laws. Our bodies may die, but our souls are the seed to a new life that grows out of the old.”
“But scripture says it’s given to a man once to be born and once to die,” I said. “Isn’t that a contradiction?”
“No more a contradiction than Lazarus,” she said.
“How’s that?” I asked as snow began to fall, the flakes dancing on the rising mist of the pool.
“The Gospels tell us that he died and was raised,” she explained. “Surely he must have died a second time. If that is possible, why not a second birth as well? Besides, in reincarnation it is not the man who is reborn. Jim Robbins has not lived before and will not live again, but the spark within him may find life in a new form, many years from now.”
She raised a slender arm from the water to catch the falling flakes.
“Take this snow, for example,” she said. “Each flake is distinct and has an existence of its own. It lives for a time, then melts and is absorbed into the pool. It evaporates, blends with the steam and is drawn back into the clouds. After a time, it again falls as rain or snow and begins the cycle anew.”
I let the thought sink in as I drew Mae into my arms.
“Well, I just hope it’s so,” I finally said.
“Why is that?”
“Because I want another chance at this.” My voice was husky as I wrapped an arm around her waist and stroked her hair. “I want to find you when we’re both young. I want to grow up falling in love with you, and grow old falling in love with you even more. I want a life I can look back on and not remember a single day that didn’t have you as its best part.”
Mae turned to face me, and we shared a lingering kiss.
“I’m not picky,” I said, when she at last pulled back from me, hands cupped on my cheeks. “It doesn’t have to be right away— next life, the one after that. I can be patient. But, one of these lifetimes, I want this.” I placed one of her hands over my heart. “And this.” I placed my hand over hers. “Every waking moment for a hundred years.”
“Hello, the camp.”
The greeting came from the darkness as we settled down for dinner. We jumped at the sound of another human voice, but recognized it immediately.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked as I stepped outside and waved the traveler in.
“Is that any way to greet a friend?” Dave said as I took his horse’s reins from him and led him to the tent. “I ride through the cold and dark, and that’s the welcome I get?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “Get inside and thaw out. I’ll take care of your horse.”
He stomped his boots and ducked under the tent flap while I led the horse to the makeshift stable under a spread of pine boughs. I put out fresh fodder while the other horses made room for the newcomer and gathered around him to share their body heat. Satisfied he was in good company, I turned back toward the tent.
A light scratching in the snow stopped me in my tracks as I looked for the source of the sound. My blood ran with ice when my eyes met the steely gaze of a grey wolf who stood poised midstride a few yards behind the horse pen. He stared at me and his nostrils flared as he picked my scent off the breeze. Satisfied I was no threat, he set his ears forward, sat back on his haunches and opened his mouth in a wide yawn.
“Hey there, fella,” I whispered, and stepped gingerly toward the beast.
The wolf loosed a nervous whine, but let me come a few steps closer before his raised hackles and bared teeth brought me to a stop. I squatted as best I could on stiff joints, and made myself appear as harmless as possible.
The wild thing cocked his head and studied me a few moments more before he limped toward me, one rear leg cocked up. He sniffed my outstretched hand, sat in front of me and locked his eyes on mine. I found myself lost in the glowing, amber orbs, at one with the animal.
I sensed—knew—the loneliness of isolation from the pack, the pain of forced separation from his mate. I felt the pain of his solitary existence, alone in the world, no companion for warmth, for help in the hunt, for security or affection. My heart recalled the ache of loss, of the need to go on without any desire to do so. Misery welled up between us until it found expression in a great, mournful howl.
As quickly as it came upon me, the spell was broken. I blinked my eyes and looked around, but the wolf was nowhere to be seen. Only a fresh set of tracks in the snow suggested he’d been there at all. I took a moment to catch my breath and gather my wits, then rose and limped back toward the tent.
“Are you all right?” Dave asked, bursting through the tent flap as I approached.
“I think so.”
“That wolf sounded awful close,” he said, and strained his tracker’s eyes into the surrounding darkness.
“Yeah, but he’s gone.” I led him back into the tent, where Mae had a stew simmering on the stove. “Now, you mind telling us what brings you all the way up here?”
Dave accepted a serving of stew from Mae, and shoveled a couple of spoonfuls into his mouth before answering.
“Much as I hate to interrupt your little honeymoon,” he said around a mouthful of cornbread, “I figured you’d rather take the train to California than walk.”
“The line’s done?” I said.
“First car rolled into Virginia City two weeks ago. The crew’s all buttoned up, and we’re getting ready to head west. Stro cabled from Sacramento—he’s got a line for us to lay out of a place called San Wakeem, or somesuch.” Dave wiped his hands on his shirt front and fished a yellow telegram out of his pocket.
“Looks like it’s back to the world,” I told Mae after I scanned the sheet. “But we won’t be going anywhere tonight. Best turn in and get a jump on it first thing in the morning.”
By daybreak, we’d polished off the last of the stew and started breaking camp. The horses were soon loaded, and it was just past noon when we started down the eastern slope of Carson’s Range. I looked back toward the mountains that had been a heavenly retreat, not knowing the hell they would soon become for me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Stanislaus County, California—June 1872
My love—Thank you for a most exquisite send-off. Find me as
soon as you can. Ever—Mae.
I reread the note before folding it and tucking it in my shirt pocket. Mae had left before sunup to join the crew in celebration of DuanWu, the Dragon Boat Festival. Most of the crew had left the day before, loaded down with picnic baskets and bundles of fireworks for the four-mile trek to the banks of the Stanislaus River. Mae and a handful of others had spent the night in the rail camp and set out first thing this morning.
My advance survey crew was camped some eight miles farther down the line and, with the Chinese gone as well, the empty camp had a funereal air. Even though I knew the reason for the silence, I was haunted by the shadow of a fear, and shuddered as a chill ran down my spine.
“Everything all right?” Dave asked as I swung into Rigel’s saddle beside him.
“Fine,�
�� I said, shrugging off the icy hand of dread. “Just a little chilly this morning.”
“It’ll warm up soon enough,” he said. “All the more reason to get a move on. I don’t want Thomson using the heat as an excuse to hold us up.”
Stephen Thomson—chief of my survey crew and nephew of one of the officers of the Stockton & Visalia Railroad—had created more than his fair share of problems during his six months on the line. The most recent had been a three-mile stretch of road over hilly ground that required several tons of earth to be moved from the tops of the hills into the vales between them.
“They say the damn Celestials can move mountains,” the arrogant young man had said. “Let’s see how they do here.”
A detour of only a few hundred yards would have set the line on smoother ground. Dave and his grading foremen, however, were eager to put the brash young surveyor in his place. They’d finished the work two days ahead of schedule.
“Y’know, Jim,” Dave said as we set out from camp, “you really don’t have to ride up. I’ll take care of Thomson. You go join Mae for the party and catch up with us tomorrow.”
Thomson normally chafed at our constant looking over his shoulder, but had taken the unusual step of asking us to review his proposed route for the final approach to Oakdale, our destination for this part of the line.
“Nah,” I said regretfully. “We’ve kept little Stephen waiting long enough as it is. I need to be the one to say ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ on his route. Besides, this is a day for the crews. A lot of them still haven’t accepted me. I’d just as soon let Mae and Shu enjoy the day with their people, without my getting in the way.”
“You are a dumbass, you know that?” Dave said, gracious as always. “You’re their people now.”
I just shrugged at that as I nudged Rigel into an easy trot and set out along the line, marked every thirty or forty yards by a red-flagged stake. After less than an hour, the smells of coffee and ham welcomed us, and the survey camp appeared from behind the crest of a shallow hill.
Unlike the Transcontinental, the short line afforded the forward crew the relative luxury of the main camp. Most of the surveyors, though, were men accustomed to wide-open spaces and could only take a night or two of sleeping in the tent city before making their escape back to the field. This did not at all suit the lead surveyor, and Thomson’s large tent stood conspicuously apart from the other men’s bedrolls spread around the campfire.
“Morning, gents,” Paul Kimball greeted us in his deep, booming voice as we rode into camp.
Paul was an old hand at surveying, and about as even-tempered as they came. I’d assigned him as Thomson’s assistant, hoping the boy might learn something from the railroad veteran. Kimball also made the best coffee west of the Rockies, two cups of which he had ready for us by the time we dismounted.
Dave and I each took a cup and joined the men around the fire, absent their chief.
“How’s the boy coming along?” I asked after a couple sips.
“Oh, he’s coming,” Kimball allowed.
“ ‘Coming’ means not quite there, don’t it?” Dave said.
“Well, I ain’t yet seen me a man that ain’t got a bit farther he can go,” Kimball said. “And, truth be told, he’s actually made a couple of good decisions over the past few days. Won’t be long till he’s able to take a piss without getting his trousers wet.”
Dave and I joined in the laughter that rumbled around the fire.
“Goddammit,” squawked a petulant voice from the tent. “How many times do I have to tell you oafs to keep it down while I’m trying—”
The voice broke off as puffy, bleary eyes came into focus first on Dave, then me. They opened wide enough for me to see the red rims around bloodshot eyes that told of at least one sleepless night.
“Jim,” Thomson stammered when he again found his voice.
“Stephen,” I replied. “You were saying?”
“Hmm? Oh, I—uh—no, it’s just that I . . .”
The color drained from his face and he ducked back into the tent. The sounds of retching soon explained the hasty retreat.
I glanced at the faces around the fire. Dave seemed as bewildered as I was, while the others shared looks of amusement, tempered with a touch of embarrassment.
“What the hell’s going on, Paul?” I demanded.
“Aw, Jim,” he drawled, “he’s still just a kid. We all had to work out our own kinks along the way.”
“How long’s he been on the bottle?” I said.
Paul bit his cheek and lowered his eyes to the fire. The other men stared at the same bit of nothing.
“How long?” I demanded.
“A couple weeks,” Kimball finally said. “I mean, he’d usually have a drink at night, to take off the chill. Past couple of weeks, though, he’s been hitting it pretty good. But it ain’t hurt the schedule,” he insisted.
I struggled to keep my temper in check, tried to remember if any bad news had come along that might explain the change. I could think of nothing, so—with a compassionate response ruled out—I steeled myself to deliver a little lesson.
“You men start breaking camp,” I ordered, and tossed the remainder of my coffee into the flames. “Dave, lend them a hand.”
“Jim—” he started, before I cut him off with a glare. He took a deep breath and nodded his agreement.
I stalked toward the tent, the weight of five pairs of eyes heavy on my back. The stench of cheap liquor and vomit almost made me gag as I stepped through the flap. A half-dozen empty bottles were strewn about the floor, even though the men had only camped here for two days. Thomson had stopped retching and was now rinsing his mouth from a seventh, half-full bottle.
I slapped the bottle from his hand, and some of the contents spilled down his chin onto a sweat-and filth-stained shirt.
“What’s going on here?” I said.
“Jim, I’m sorry,” he slurred. His eyes bobbled as he tried to focus on mine. “I didn’t think they’d really do it. I didn’t think they’d really hurt anyone.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Who did what?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He hiccupped and belched a foul cloud in my face.
“I’m here because you asked me to review your survey route. Now, what the hell are you babbling about?”
“Well, if nothing’s happened, then I guess it doesn’t—”
I cut off the words as I grabbed the stinking shirtfront in my fists and bent Thomson backward.
“Answer me, you little shit,” I said, “or I’ll rip your tongue clean out of your mouth.”
“Charlie,” he managed to squeak through the tight grip at his throat. “Charlie Garrett,” he added as I released some of the pressure. “He and his boys were planning some kind of trouble for the Chinks—I-I mean, for the Chinese crews—while they were having their festival.” He swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple pressed against my knuckles. “They were gonna do it last night—that’s why they wanted me to call you up here, get you out of the way—”
“Where are they?” I said, my words nearly inaudible.
“But, if there hasn’t been any trouble yet, maybe they changed their minds,” Thomson continued, talking past me as though he’d forgotten I was there.
“Where are they?” I shouted, shaking him roughly.
A cold, sober look cleared the blurry eyes that now stared straight at me.
“Dunno,” he slurred. “I only wish they’d done what they said they were gonna do. Wish I could’ve had a hand in teaching those filthy Chinks a lesson—showing me up the way they did. No one should’ve been able to make the schedule through that kind of terrain, no one. They’re devils—have to be. And you,” he hissed, crazed eyes fixed on mine, “you’re practically one of them now, speaking their gibberish, fucking their women—”
Before I knew what had happened, I found myself alone in the tent, fire coursing through my arms and legs, and a lingering roar echoing in my ears.
It took a moment before I recognized the sound as my own voice. I stepped through the swinging flap to find Thomson crumpled in a heap, his animal eyes staring fiercely up at me.
“You men,” I said to Kimball and the others, “shut him up and tie him up. He doesn’t leave here until you hear back from me, understood?”
A dirty sock was stuffed into the captive’s mouth before I’d even finished speaking.
“Jim, what’s going on?” Dave asked as I whistled for Rigel.
“Garrett,” I said, and leapt into the saddle.
“What about—” He cut himself off and pointed back along the survey route. “Jim, look.”
I looked where he pointed, scanning the line until I spied a running figure dressed in a bright-blue chenshan and with a long, black braid streaming out behind.
“Keep him here,” I said, indicating the bound Thomson. “If he tries to run, shoot him.”
I kicked Rigel into a gallop and raced to meet the messenger. In less than a minute, I drew rein and jumped down before the horse had come to a complete stop. I wrenched my bad knee and hopped the last few paces toward the runner on one leg.
“Ninyang,” I greeted the boy as he all but collapsed in my arms. “What is it?”
“Trouble,” he panted. “At the river.”
“Take care of him,” I told Dave as he caught up to me, then climbed back into the saddle.
“Jim, what’s going on?”
I owed him that much of an answer, and held the reins tight.
“Garrett and his men are making trouble at the river,” I said. “Get Ninyang up to the camp, then come after me.”
Without waiting for an answer, I pointed Rigel toward the river and let loose the reins.
The California countryside flashed by as seconds blurred into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, weeks, a lifetime. After an eternity, I reached the river where the crew held their celebration. Bright paper lamps and pennons and other decorations hung from the trees by the banks of the river, but the mood was anything but festive. The Chinese gathered into several clusters, some stunned and mute while others shouted and gestured angrily.