Belle flushed deeply. “Yes. The paintings depicted many different sexual positions that were suggested as ways for a wife to satisfy a husband.”
“And your husband didn’t see the value in that?”
“No. He was mortified. The Chinese maintain that a woman searches for a good sexual partner when choosing a husband, and places that above looks or financial position. I suppose my husband thought I’d leave him to find someone more talented.”
“Yes, I’ve seen some of those pillow books in Paris. In China, sex is seen as a beautiful thing, not shameful. As I recall, the female organs are referred to by quite lovely names, such as ‘Open Peony Blossom’ or ‘Golden Lotus.’”
Belle warmed to her subject. “Yes, yes! And the male organs…well.” Shame overcame her then, and she turned to a slightly different subject. “Whit. I had my Chinese pillow book with me in my ochum—wigwam, whatever Yankees call it—when your men raided our so-called Battle Mountain. Is there any chance of recovering them?”
Whit chuckled. “First, you’d have to admit that you owned such an item. Is that really something you want the men of the Mariposa Battalion to know about you?”
“Not really.”
“But I can ask around. Maybe let it be known that some San Francisco collector would be interested in paying a good price for such an item. Men will brag. I’ll hear about it soon enough.” Whit patted her knee. “Speaking of the battalion, I’d best get back. That colonel arrived, and we’re mustering into service today. I must formally report for duty.” He looked up skeptically at the gray clouds laden with rain that had been increasingly racing their way. The obscured sun created shifting patterns of darkness across his dignified, refined face.
Belle rose, shrugged off the blanket, and attired herself in her new skirt and shirt. They walked up the creek bed, viewing the wide valley that had just started turning bright green from winter rains. “This might be the big storm Huntley warned of. In which case, nobody is doing anything for the next several days, as rain down here means snow in the mountains.” He smiled at her. “As you probably are familiar with.”
Belle pinched his sleeve between her fingers. “Whit. This medical massage, the treatment you mentioned. I’ve never heard of it. Well, my Missouri physician certainly never brought it up. Would it be possible for you to try it on me?”
“Of course. I have a new theory I’m trying out as well, so you’d be of great assistance to me.”
“What theory?”
Whit spread his hand out, palm toward the ground, as if about to reveal something monstrous. They slowed their pace as they came within view of Major Ashbury’s—their—house, his trading post, the tenpin alley, the express office, the hotel. “You see, I’m almost entirely alone in my belief that this pelvic massage is actually producing a female orgasm. Yes, yes, I know, a shameful deduction. But the uterus becomes engorged with seed and the only way to solve the hysteria is through coaxing the patient to orgasm. Sexual penetration alone does not achieve this in most women. Most physicians just call it a ‘crisis,’ but almost no one admits it’s actually a female orgasm, and it releases a flood of seed and blood to other beneficial parts of the body, much as it does in men.” He smiled, more relaxed now, perhaps because she had not protested in shock or anger. “I merely deduced this from witnessing many hundreds of patients after treatment. They come to me complaining of anxiety, sleeplessness, heaviness in the abdomen, congestion of the pelvis. After the initial loss of consciousness, they leave my office with flushed skin, and maybe a bit of confusion after having lost control for a minute. Now, what does that sound like to you?”
Belle could easily guess. “A woman who wanted sex. And finally obtained it.”
“Exactly. Not sex so much per se, but the elusive orgasm that expelled the unexpended seed.”
Belle nodded. “I see. Well. This does sound like something that could benefit me.”
A crowd of about two hundred men milled around Ashbury’s store. This would be the Mariposa Battalion, who had achieved a sort of symmetrical look with the donning of mostly red shirts. They all seemed to have good rifles but shockingly bad hats. An array of headgear was displayed—beaver top hats, straw hats, a couple of Scotch bonnets, even a patent leather hunter’s cap. By far the most intriguing choices, though, were the mountain men who thought it the height of dandyism to wear curled-up, dead animals on their heads.
Belle was fascinated by all the trappings of modern society she had missed out on for a year, and she wished to stay and observe. But Huntley Ashbury was heading their way, waving them to the knot of men around his store. Today he was ebullient and convivial, and didn’t even lose his smile when he glanced at Belle.
“The commissioners have arrived,” Ashbury said. “We’ve divided into three companies, made captains out of Boling and Din. They’re making such a raid upon my eatables it might’ve been cheaper to be attacked by Diggers. The commissioners have selected a spot on the Fresno River about twenty miles from here as a reservation for the Diggers. One of King Joseph’s former men, Vowchester, has agreed to act as our interpreter and general peacemaker. He’s promised to bring all his people. I know he took part in the raid on Greeley’s store, but I have to believe in someone, eh? The scouting parties we’ve sent out have only pushed the Indians farther into the mountains. We could use another guide,” he said, glancing again at Belle.
“Yes, we will find more guides,” Whit responded, and there seemed to be some import to this exchange.
Major Ashbury continued, “Vowchester said, ‘Their hiding places are many. The other tribes dare not make war upon the Grizzlies, for they are as lawless and strong as the grizzlies. We are afraid to go into that valley, for there are many witches there.’”
Belle dared to venture, “Witches? In the Ahwahnee Valley, do you mean?”
Both men looked at her avidly. “Yes, yes. The Ahwahnee!” Whit added, “Do you know much about it?”
Belle chuckled. “I know there are no witches there. Of course they just want you to think all of that superstitious nonsense to keep you out.” Her face went sour, for she did not like to think about such things, but these two men were now her protectors, so she should learn to trust them. There was no hope of returning to her tribe—she must learn to readjust to the society of white men. “The tribe that attacked my party near the saline lake has since moved into the Ahwahnee Valley, and we visited with them a few times. It’s hardly impenetrable, unless you were to try and haul cannons and wagons. There are beautiful plummeting waterfalls, exquisite rock formations where boulders tumble from great heights.”
“You’ve been there?” Whit’s passion was palpable, and it recalled to Belle the thrill she’d felt upon viewing the valley for the first time.
“Yes, a few times. The easiest access down to the valley floor is from an opening just west of Kusoko, a giant towering spire like a cathedral.” Whit’s eyes were so glassy with fervor, Belle added, “The rock walls are carved in shiny vertical furrows, and even loftier peaks are crowned in the most ravishing gray granite. It truly is something to behold!”
“Tell me about the waterfalls!” Whit insisted, but Major Ashbury had more pressing military questions.
“Do you know if—” He paused, then seemed to think better of his phrasing. “Was it Chief Tenaya’s band who murdered your party near the lake?”
Belle paused, too. She had assumed Major Ashbury was hunting down Tenaya, leader of the Grizzlies. She had no wish to be a turncoat, but then again. Major Ashbury was correct. “Yes,” she said without conviction. “He later apologized to me for killing my daughter, husband, and twelve others in our party. He tried explaining it was just their way to discourage white men from entering California.”
Ashbury’s eyes flashed with anger. “And to gain plunder. I’m sure his apology didn’t ease your loss.”
Anger flared once again in Belle’s breast, too. “Not one bit! To see your infant’s skull smashed into pulp by some barba
rians after having made it so far across the Great Plains? No, at every opportunity I tried to convince my tribe to refrain from joining with the Grizzlies. Although,” she said to Whit, “they do inhabit the most glorious chasm on Earth. Or should I say Eden?”
“Miss Belle,” said Ashbury. “Would you consider accompanying our campaign—”
His last words were drowned out, however, by the arrival of a very feral, ruffian Spanish fellow. He sped up on short bandy legs as though propelled by tiny motors under his boots. He made a beeline for Whit with hands outstretched into claws, so sudden that Belle grasped the physician by the shoulders to steer him out of harm’s way.
The fellow, however, only seemed intent on delivering a message. “There’s a new patient for you in your tent, Doc! Poor old yokel from over Timbuctoo way was just attacked by red devils. He’s stuck through one knee and shoulder blade, proving they shot him in the back when he was trying to retreat. Let’s make haste.”
The speedy fellow saluted Major Ashbury. “I’ve already signed up for duty, Major.” Just as quickly his demeanor changed, and he made a swipe for the doctor’s arm again. Belle maintained her clutch upon her protector, so the doctor was yanked in both directions. Belle didn’t know who this impolite, corn-fed hick was, but he could not bust in and snatch away the one man in California who seemed to care about her.
His fiercely frowning eyes latched onto her, and he suddenly froze. His grip must have frozen as well, for Whit was able to extricate himself from the talons, and Belle hugged the doctor close to her bosom.
“Now listen, here, Bud,” said Major Ashbury. “The doctor has to sign up for duty first, and then he can—”
“Belle,” Bud whispered.
“Bud,” said Belle, but it was more the shape of her mouth than a sound.
How can this be? Bud is dead. He’d walked away last winter from their ramshackle bivouac in the mountains to find help and didn’t return before Indians snatched her. The Indians had assured her they had seen no other white man, and it was impossible for him to make it out of the mountains with his supplies and know-how, or lack of them. They had told her of a Captain Ashbury who knew everything there was to know and had claimed that even this captain, the King of the Tulareños, had never seen a white man of that description staggering out of the Sierra.
“You know this fellow?” Whit asked.
“Bud,” she said again, and this time a sound emanated from her mouth.
All at once the siblings rushed at each other. Bud, although shorter than his older sister by nearly a foot, lifted her off the ground and swung her about. They cried each other’s names over and over. Belle squeezed her brother so tightly she probably cut off his breath, and then she plastered many loud kisses to his dirty cheek.
When they at last separated by a few inches, Belle squealed, “A Spaniard! I thought you were a Spaniard!”
“And I thought you were a goddamned Injun!” Bud shrieked back.
He looked at least five years older now, his skin weathered like the buckskin leggings Major Ashbury seemed to favor. His hair had grown long about his neck and stuck out like a haphazard hay bale in all directions. He must be only twenty and nine now, but in the past year his nose had broadened, his lips were parched and peeling, and he looked altogether like a Far West roughneck.
“This is your brother?” Whit asked in amazement.
Major Ashbury sounded less amazed than chagrined. “This is your brother?”
Whit added, “I’ve been travelling with this fellow since San Francisco! He was very helpful in the engagement at Battle Mountain.”
“Yes,” said the major. “It was fortunate it was not he who mistook you for a Digger warrior.”
The siblings wished to reminisce, to go over the stories of last winter, to at last come to a conclusion as to how they had lost each other. Bud suggested they go to his room at Boling’s Hotel, so they walked over there.
Belle had never been to a “room” in Boling’s Hotel, and indeed it wasn’t like any hotel she could recall back in Missouri. The partitions between the hovels were merely sheets of hanging canvas, and Bud shared the eight-foot cell with another absent fellow named James Fell. They sat on Bud’s rickety cot and held hands, their knees touching. Bud explained that last winter in the mountains, it had taken him a week to find a cabin with a human being, and once he’d raised enough men willing to go back to find her, not a female bone was to be found around their makeshift shack.
“You must have suffered so much, dear Belle,” Bud nearly sobbed.
“Not so badly. Not any more than we suffered in that prairie schooner we lived in for months crossing the plains. I mean, cold is cold. Snow is snow. The only way to ever stay warm is the American way—a snug, paneled house with a rock fireplace. And a feather counterpane.”
“Or get the goddamned hell out of the goddamned mountains,” Bud said with a new ferocity, gnashing his teeth in anger and wrenching her hands. “I tell you, Bellissima. I’m going to open up a trading post to rival that bastard Ashbury’s kingdom, but we’ve got to eliminate these Injuns first. You’ve got plenty of gripes against them. I saw as well as you how they bashed in poor Samantha’s little tiny head—hell, Bellissima. I had to bury her because you were loco with grief!”
Belle didn’t want to think about Samantha. “Major Ashbury doesn’t seem like such a horrible bastard. He’s given me a room in his house in exchange for housekeeping duties.”
Releasing her hands, Bud leaped to his feet. “Housekeeping duties? What does he think you are—a maid?”
Belle closed her eyes patiently. “Well, yes, actually, Bud. What skills do I have other than keeping a house and playing the piano?”
But Bud was determined to rant. “Who the hell does he think he is—Major Frémont? Surely you must know what his tomfool out-and-out doughhead intentions are, ‘giving’ you a room in his house!”
“Well, Bud. It’s a much nicer room than this one, you have to admit.”
“I admit nothing!” Bud paced the small, smelly enclosure—he hadn’t allowed her to sit on Jim Fell’s cot, as Jim had puked on it the night before, and an army of crawling bugs infested the ticking. “Listen, Bellissima. I’m not letting you out of my sights again, but we have to exterminate these red devils of the forest. I was trying to get into the Ahwahnee Valley to find you, as that’s where I heard those critters from the salt lake went after they murdered everyone in our party. I was sure you were with Tenaya—that miserable bastard from the creek swamp. Come with us, Bellissima! You can be with the scouting party. You know your way around those parts. And if Ashbury isn’t as big of a bastard as I suspect him of being, he’ll give you the finest buffalo robes to sleep in—not that I want you to owe him anything, hear? I’ll buy them with my battalion pay, by gum!”
Belle nodded. “It’s all right, Bud. I’m accustomed to sleeping on the ground. I haven’t slept well on Major Ashbury’s hair mattress. Some sort of—female hysteria, I suppose. But I’ll come with you. I’m only acquainted with three men in California now, and I don’t want to be left alone again.”
Chapter Nine
“Look what Bud Pennington sold to me. This odd Oriental picture book with little paintings on wooden blocks.”
It was very snug inside the house as rain needles splattered the glass windowpanes. Belle kept the kitchen oven stoked, and her duties included stoking the study’s fireplace, as well. She had a teapot of hot water in her hand to warm the men’s brandies when she paused at the study door, only to hear Major Ashbury tell Whit that Bud had sold him her own Chinese pillow book! But of course Bud hadn’t known it belonged to her. She would never have shown it to anyone other than her husband Ned. It had been secreted in the bottom of her trunk in the prairie schooner coming across the plains, and it was the only item to survive her travails—not even her photograph of Samantha had traveled with her to the Indian encampment. The Indians had marveled and laughed at the pillow book but had not stolen it from her. No
w, apparently, her own brother had spirited it off from her ochum hut. It made her wonder how many of her Indian friends Bud had polished off. Of course, he hadn’t known they were her friends.
“That’s intriguing,” said Whit. “By any chance, did Bud pick up this item on Battle Mountain?”
Ashbury said, “He didn’t tell me where he got it. Why would Indians be in possession of such a remarkable item? It’s obviously Oriental.”
“Plundered, obviously, from Americans,” said Whit. “How much did you pay? Would you allow me to purchase it from you? At a profit, of course.”
Belle could stand it no more. Retreating a few steps into the foyer, she stamped her slippers loud enough to make it sound as though she had come directly from the kitchen. She pressed open the study door, practically humming a casual tune as she took the teapot to the low table in front of the couch where the men sat.
“Belle!” Whit said, apparently shocked at being caught handling the precious woodblocks.
Major Ashbury, however, had no shame, as he had no idea she even recognized the thing, and he said to Whit, “Those rocks have a curiously phallic shape.”
She had refilled only one glass with hot water, declaring lightly, “Oh! Why, thank you, Whit. You’ve found my pillow book.” She rudely snatched it from his frozen fingers and flipped through it with a smile. “How wonderful to see this again! Yes, this one was my favorite. Playing chess in a pleasure pavilion. And this one. Swinging under the willow trees.” Unabashed, she held the block so the men could view it. Yes, the couple was swinging, but the man was simultaneously impaled upon a dildo that was affixed to the swing’s seat, while impaling the woman who squatted atop him.
Major Ashbury looked at Whit as if to say, Does she really know what those people are doing in that painting? “This is your book, Miss Belle?”
“Why, yes. You stole it from my wigwam, evidently.” She didn’t want them to know she’d been eavesdropping and knew Bud had stolen it.
Sure as Shooting Page 9