by Rae Carson
It scares me a little. It means I have something to lose again.
I’ve rubbed down Peony, and I’m heading back to camp with her tack when I hear the rumble and creak of wagon wheels. I pick up my pace and round the hill to discover the college men, back from their supply run. They left with nothing but their mounts and saddlebags, but they’ve returned with a cart horse and a small cart practically bursting with goods.
I run forward to help unload, but I stop when I see the long line of folks coming up the road behind the cart. Most are small-statured men, with glossy black hair tied in long braids down their backs, and each one carries a mule load’s worth of equipment and supplies. They wear simple, billowy clothes, and slippers on their feet, except for one man who wears silk robes and a broad, flat hat. The man in silk carries nothing but a walking stick. He raises a hand toward the college men as he passes, and they wave back. The group continues past our camp and heads into the hills.
“Are those Indians?” I ask. “The Maidu we heard about?”
“No, those are Chinese laborers,” Tom says.
I stare at their backs as they disappear over the ridge. I’ve never seen a Chinese person before, at least not in real life. Annabelle Smith back home boasted about encountering some in Savannah, but all I’ve seen are newspaper cartoons and lithographs.
“It’s called a coolie gang,” Tom says, frowning. “No better than slave labor.”
“You talked to them?”
“To the headman,” Jasper says. “His name is Henry Lee.”
“For true?”
“Maybe not originally,” Jasper says. “He was educated by British missionaries in the city of Canton. He speaks excellent English—with a British accent!”
“And he’s well read,” Henry says, lifting a bag of oats from the cart. “He was familiar with the poetry of William Wordsworth.”
“You don’t say.” I have no idea who William Wordsworth is. “You said they’re slaves?”
“Not the headman,” Jasper says. “But he owns work contracts on the others. He’s looking for a big mining operation or a rancher to hire the whole crew. He’ll collect the wages for all of them, and probably send most of it back to China. We saw a dozen groups like this at Mormon Island. There are hundreds of Chinese here already, and more coming.”
“The coolie contracts won’t last long,” Tom says. “Mark my words. There’ll be no slavery in California, not for Negros and not for Chinese.”
“Will they become American citizens? Like the Mexicans in California?”
He doesn’t have the chance to answer, because Andy and Olive are tugging at our sleeves, and even though there are only two of them, it feels like we’re outnumbered. “Chickens!” Olive says.
“Show us the chickens,” Andy insists, dragging Jasper toward a wooden box with holes in it.
“Just pullets,” Jasper says. “We didn’t want grown hens until we could build a proper henhouse.”
“Couldn’t find a milk cow,” Tom says to Becky, who comes trailing behind her children. “They’re in high demand, apparently. But we brought something else for you. A present.”
“Oh?” Becky peers over the cart’s edge.
The Major heaves a sack of cornmeal onto his shoulder, and Jasper moves aside a barrel of beans, revealing a brand-new box stove, shining black with curved legs. Beside it is a matching flue pipe.
Becky gasps.
“That ought to help with the cooking, yes?” Jasper says with a grin. “And keep that cabin we’re building warm this winter.”
“But . . . how much do I owe you for this?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Not a cent,” Tom says. “It’s a gift. We used the gold that Lee found for us. It cost every last bit, and we’re all dead broke, but we’ll just get more, right?”
Gold comes hard but goes easy, Mama always said. Whenever she worried Daddy and I were getting greedy, she’d remind us that some of the folks in Georgia who found the most gold ended up the worst off. “But they didn’t have a witchy girl to help them,” was how I always replied, which always made her madder than a hornet. She hated the word “witch.”
“In fact,” I say, “I kept filling your flour bags while you were gone. You’re not dead broke. Not even close.”
Andy pipes in with, “I helped!”
“Me too!” says Olive.
Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out two pieces of hard white candy. Peppermint scent fills the air. He hands them to the little ones, saying, “For your hard work,” and is answered with a chorus of thank yous.
Henry turns to me. “We got something for you too, Lee.”
“You didn’t need . . .” Words leave me when he pulls out a large package wrapped in paper and twine.
Henry hands it to me. “Open it!”
Jefferson peers over my shoulder as I use my knife to cut the twine, then fold back the paper to reveal beautiful calico in soft green. I lift it from the package.
It’s a dress. An honest-to-God dress, with rich brown ribbon trim, a white lace collar, and the fullest, swishiest skirt I’ve ever seen.
At my stunned silence, Tom jumps in with, “Not saying you have to stop wearing trousers. Nothing like that. It’s just . . . we recalled you once telling us how you miss dresses and that you’d like to have a nice one for special occasions.”
“We had to guess at the size,” Henry says. “I thought this color would be lovely on you!”
“It might be too big,” Jasper adds. “But the lady at the counter assured us a dress is easier to take in than let out.”
“I’m a dab at the needle myself,” Henry says. “I could help you.” He’s practically beaming, so pleased is he to present this gift to me.
I swallow hard and blink. “It’s pretty,” I breathe, fingering the fabric. “The prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
Tom and Jasper share relieved smiles.
“If you don’t like it, we got an extra,” Henry says, reaching into his own bag. “It didn’t seem right for you, but . . .”
He retrieves a lavender calico dress, shakes it out, and holds it up against his chest.
“That’s big enough to fit you,” I say. “No, I like this one just fine. More than fine.”
He grins and folds the other dress back up.
“Two boughten dresses,” I say, marveling. Seems like an overindulgence to me.
“The seamstress gave us a deal,” Henry says. “It would appear there are far more dresses than women in the state at the moment, one being easier to ship west, and the other less willing. But we might be able to trade it for something later.”
“Let’s get all this unloaded,” Jefferson says. He wears an odd expression, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“We ought to find a dry spot for all that fresh ammo you brought,” Major Craven says. “And we need to build a henhouse before those chickens get any bigger.”
“And I guess I need to learn how to work a stove,” Becky says.
Everyone stares at her. It’s easy to forget she didn’t cook a day in her life before hitting the trail, at which point she only cooked over an open fire. Becky gives us a sheepish shrug. “Sukey, my slave in Chattanooga, always managed the stoves.”
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of my chest. It’s almost too ridiculous for words, that a grown woman could be so helpless.
But Hampton is frowning. “Don’t look at me to help you with it.”
“I . . . Of course not,” Becky stammers.
The Major steps forward, rubbing his beard. “I’ve been around a woodstove or two,” he says to Becky, “and I reckon you and I, we can figure this out together. If you don’t mind me being in the way.”
She smiles at him. “Thank you, sir.”
Everyone helps unload and find places to store everything. Most of it goes into the lean-tos, a bit in our saddlebags. Barrels and sacks of foodstuffs remain in the cart, off the ground, which is rolled under a huge oak and covere
d in canvas.
Jefferson is the only one who goes about the work with a sour face. His look is so dark, his motions so brusque and hurried, that I finally sidle up to him and ask, “Jeff?”
“See all this stuff?” he says with a sweep of his hand. “It looks like we’re rich already, and us only being here a couple of weeks.”
Understanding is like a click in my brain. “Oh.”
“People are going to start talking, no doubt about it. They’ll talk about how prosperous Glory, California, is. Miners will come from all over to stake claims nearby. Everyone will hear about the group of folks, women and children among them, with a half Indian and a Negro besides. And when they do—”
“My uncle will come to fetch me.”
He nods. “If we don’t get robbed first.”
I glance over toward the cart. Major Craven is using his crutch to shift some stones aside and pound out a flat area for the new box stove, his amputated leg swaying as he works. It’s a marvelous feat of balance. “I can do more with one leg than most men can do with two,” he always says.
“People will recognize descriptions of the Major, too,” I say. “I couldn’t stand it if something happened to any of them.”
“I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you,” he says, his dark eyes suddenly intense on me. We stand a moment in silence, staring at each other. He has the finest face I’ve ever seen, with his high cheekbones and serious eyes and a wide mouth that always has a gentle curve, all surrounded by the thickest, shiniest black hair that a girl could run her fingers through.
I swallow hard. “So, what do we do?”
“Let’s talk it out with everyone at supper tonight.”
We sit around the campfire, which isn’t as huge and roaring as usual on account of the fact that the Major and Becky have gotten the stove fired up and hotter than blazes. They made a huge pot of rabbit stew, thanks to Martin’s hunting success, which is a bit watery, but still delicious with the fresh onions, turnips, potatoes, and carrots that the college men brought back.
Beside me, Jasper is showing Olive how to work stitches into the rabbit’s untanned hide. “Rabbit skin is thinner and more delicate than human skin,” Jasper says. “So once you’ve gotten the hang of it, we’ll move on to something else. Maybe a deer, or better yet a boar.”
Across from me, Jefferson is cleaning his rifle, but he steals glances through the wavering firelight, which I pretend not to notice.
Everyone else spoons up their stew, enjoying the rest and silence after a hard day’s work.
Finally, as Becky starts gathering dishes, I clear my throat. “Jefferson and me, we think we should set a double watch tonight,” I say.
“And every night,” Jefferson adds.
“Not a bad idea,” the Major says, bouncing the Joyner baby on his knee. “Someone on the hill near the lean-tos and the cart, another at the corral.”
“Still worried about claim jumpers?” Becky asks. “We have some fine neighbors now. Well, maybe not fine, but they’re perfectly friendly.”
“People are going to start talking, friendly or not,” I say. “Once they see our fancy new box stove and those chickens and that cart full of goods, they’ll figure we’re doing well. Maybe too well.”
“I’m big now,” Andy says, all seriousness. “I can stand watch.”
Henry Meek rubs at his scant beard. “We should hide as many of our supplies as possible.”
“At least we don’t have to worry about Indians stealing our things,” Becky says. “I haven’t seen a single Indian since we left Mormon Island.”
Jefferson glares at her, and I don’t blame him for being angry. People pretend he’s a white man when it suits them, erasing part of who he is. Besides, Becky shouldn’t assume danger on that front, since we’ve had nothing but fair dealings with Indians. I guess it’s hard to get past your notions about people sometimes, even when your own experience tells you otherwise.
“Hopefully,” Jeff says, “the fact that we’ve seen so few Indians means we’re not trespassing on their territory.”
“They have no territory,” Becky says.
Jefferson clenches his jaw, then he opens his mouth to snap back, but Hampton says, “I’ve seen ’em. They watch me from that big stand of oak trees sometimes, when I’m tending the oxen and horses.” At Becky’s gasp, he hastily adds, “They’re not threatening at all. Just curious, I think.”
“They’re nomads,” Becky says. “Here today, gone tomorrow.”
“Calling them nomads,” Jefferson says, “is just a fancy way of saying it’s okay to squat on their land.”
Becky is about to protest, but Henry interrupts. “I suspect they don’t want trouble any more than we do,” he says.
Hampton adds, “I went over to talk to them, but they’d disappeared. They left behind the most beautiful baskets, full of acorns.” His gaze grows distant. “I’ve never seen anything as pretty as that weaving.”
“What’d you do with them?” I ask.
“The baskets? I left them there. Weren’t mine. That was somebody else’s labor, and somebody else’s meal.”
“That was good of you,” Jefferson says.
“A day later, the baskets were gone,” Hampton says. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about from them, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Doesn’t mean we have nothing to worry about from others,” I point out. “So far, the only people who’ve tried to hurt us or take our stuff is other Christians. Like those claim jumpers.”
“I’ll dig a cellar for our cabin,” Martin says. “I’ll be all day about it, if need be. We can hide our supplies there.”
“Don’t bother,” says the Major. “Ground’s too hard. Solid granite and shale, most of it.”
“There’s a soft, grassy spot up the creek a ways,” Tom says. “Past the rapids, out of sight.”
“I can pull up the sod,” Martin says. “Jefferson and me’ll dig it out. We’ll cache some dry goods there, things the rodents won’t care about.” He and Jeff exchange a quick nod.
“Speaking of rodents,” Tom says, “we could use a cat or two.”
Olive looks up from her practice stitches. “I’ll take care of her. I’ll feed her and pet her all the time so she wants to stay with us.”
Tom nods solemnly. “I’m sure you would do a great job at that. There probably won’t be any kittens until spring, but I’ll keep an eye out.”
“I’m going to practice with my five-shooter, starting tomorrow,” I say. “So don’t be alarmed when you hear my gun going off.”
“I’ll join you,” Jefferson says.
“Me too,” Martin and Jasper chorus.
“I hate guns,” says Henry.
The Major uses his crutch to stand. “If any of Mrs. Joyner’s customers ask about our goods, I’m going to say we traded with things we brought from back east. No sense letting people know how much gold we’ve found.”
We all exchange glances around the fire. It’s a bold-faced lie and a sin, but no one protests.
“Heirloom jewelry,” Becky offers softly. “We’ll say I brought heirloom jewelry from my father’s plantation in Tennessee. Traded it in Sacramento.”
“Well, that was mighty generous of you!” the Major says, grinning.
Becky smiles back. She’s had an awful lot of smiles for the Major lately.
It puts me in mind of Jefferson, and I look across the fire and catch him staring at me. Again.
“Lee and I will take the first watch,” he says firmly.
“I’ve got my eye out for trouble,” I mumble as I stand, but I’m not sure which way I should be looking.
Chapter Five
Our wagon train was hardly a week out of Independence before we realized that standing watch was near useless. Even on the flat prairie, there were too many dips and gullies, too many cattle, too many tents and wagons, to keep an eye on everything, especially in the dark. The Major, who was never more than a sergeant in the Missouri
militia, taught us to walk the perimeter to keep attackers guessing and cover more ground. After the Major was wounded in the buffalo stampede, Frank Dilley took over leadership of the wagons. Frank was a terrible person, but a decent enough leader and guide, and he kept right on assigning perimeter watches.
So Jefferson and I make a wide, silent circuit of our camp in the dark, rifles loaded, coats buttoned tight against the night chill. Moonlight ripples across the water of our beaver pond. As we skirt the shore, a great smack! sounds, and we whip up our guns in reflex. Then we share a quick laugh. Just a beaver, slapping the water in warning at our approach.
We continue in silence. Being with Jefferson used to be as easy as breathing. I think of his pathetic marriage proposal, back when we were first thinking on taking to the trail west. I thought the proposal was just for show, to make traveling together easier. I didn’t realize at the time that he was sweet on me.
Now everything is different. Now, being with Jefferson is both familiar and strange. Like a brand-new pair of boots from the same cobbler. Shinier, newer, maybe even nicer, but they don’t fit the same until you’ve walked in them a spell.
“I heard about Old Tug,” Jefferson says.
“He’s a rascal,” I say.
“You like him?”
“Not particularly.”
“Good.”
The smugness in his voice pleases me, for some reason. “He didn’t really want to marry me. He said I was ugly and manly. Just wanted to make his friends jealous that he had a wife.”
“You’re not ugly.”
I smile into the dark.
“And you’re not manly,” he adds.
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”
We walk on, giving the lean-tos and tents wide berth so as not to wake the others. In the distance, one of the horses whinnies. Just Sorry, I’d wager, bellyaching as usual.
“Olive says you don’t want to get married at all.”
“That girl needs to mind her own business.”
“Is it true?”
My sigh is lost in the night breeze. I’m not sure what to tell him.
“Lee?”
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully.