Like a River Glorious

by Rae Carson

  Olive’s hand slips out of mine. She takes some clean cloth from Jasper’s chest, pours water from a canteen over it, and begins to bathe Martin’s face.

  “Jeff,” Martin says, and Jefferson is beside him in an instant. “Send all my gold to Mutter, yes? And tell her I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jefferson says. “You’ll be back to hunting rabbits with me in no time.”

  “Please, Jeff.”

  A muscle in Jefferson’s jaw twitches. “All right.”

  “That laudanum,” Martin says dreamily, eyelids fluttering. “No wonder Mr. Joyner liked it so much.”

  “Olive,” Jasper says in a tight voice. “Bend over Martin’s mouth and listen carefully to his breathing for a moment.”

  Her eyes are huge and bright in her face as she follows his instructions.

  “You hear that?” Jasper says. “The wheeze? Can you hear how moist it is?”

  Olive nods, blinking hard to keep tears back.

  “Remember that,” Jasper says. “We’re going to talk about it later.”

  “Okay, Jasper.”

  Martin’s eyes don’t close, but the light leaves them. He’s still breathing, though. Just a little. He’s not dead.

  Henry’s singing voice suddenly fills the air, a high, clear tenor that echoes through the hills.

  Hidden in the hollow, of His blessed hand

  Never foe can follow, never traitor stand

  Not a surge of worry, not a shade of care—

  Martin gasps once, loud and strong, and then . . . nothing.

  We all stay a moment, just staring down at him. From behind me comes the hiccupping sound of Becky Joyner’s sobbing. Olive crawls into my lap and buries her face in my chest. I wrap my arms around her.

  Jefferson swears softly, using a word I’ve never heard from his mouth before. He turns away so we can’t see his face.

  “Let’s get him back to camp,” Jasper says, his voice so tight and controlled it makes my chest ache. “Find a place to bury him.”

  “But what happened?” Becky practically shrieks. “I don’t understand! Hampton was hit on the head and he’s going to be fine. What’s a little broken leg to you? You’re a doctor! You could have fixed—”

  “He broke his back,” Jasper says gently. “His spinal cord was near severed by the fall. His organs were shutting down. If that didn’t kill him, the blow to the head would have. His skull was in tatters. It’s a wonder he survived as long as he did.”

  “Oh,” Becky says. I’m glad she asked, because I had the same questions.

  Jefferson turns back around. His eyes are wet. “His Colt’s missing,” he says. “It wasn’t enough they killed him. They robbed him, too.”

  Henry squeezes his shoulder. “Come on, give me a hand with him.”

  Henry and Jefferson lift Martin—Henry at the shoulders and Jefferson at the feet. Jeff’s face is desolate. He looks so awful that I yearn to run over to him, wrap my arms around him, let him cry into my shoulder. Or maybe I want to cry into his. First Therese and now Martin. The poor Hoffmans will curse the day they decided to head west. To come all this way for nothing, except to lose two children.

  But I can’t let myself float down that river right now. Instead I get to my feet, heaving Olive up with me. She clings tight, so I continue to hold her as I follow everyone back to our burned-out camp.

  The Major returns just as we do. He carries something on his back, wrapped around his neck.

  “No!” Jefferson yells. He sets Martin’s feet down and runs forward.

  It’s Nugget, and her golden fur is slick with blood.

  “She was shot,” the Major says.

  Olive squirms from my grasp and I let her go, suddenly numb. I’m not sure I can stand on my own feet anymore. I’ve known Nugget since she was a wriggly puppy. She came all the way across the continent from Georgia with us.

  Jefferson leans forward to kiss his dog’s muzzle. Nugget’s tail thumps once, weakly, and her pink tongue snakes out to lap clumsily at his face.

  “She’s alive!” Jefferson exults. “You dumb girl, what did you go and get yourself shot for?”

  “It’s her back leg,” the Major says. “She can’t walk right now, but I don’t think the bone’s broke.”

  That does it. Tears burst from me like a dam breaking. I don’t know how I’ve held it together until now, only to lose it over a bit of happiness, but I fall to my knees and quake with sobs.

  Through tears, I note the Buckeyes, led by Old Tug, start to trickle into our camp. They’ve worn a path up the creek and around the pond by now. I hastily wipe at my face and try to get myself under control.

  “I’m so sorry,” I hear Becky say in a shaky voice. “I don’t have breakfast for you gentlemen today.”

  The Buckeyes survey our camp, faces grave. They seem to come to a silent agreement. Old Tug grabs a shovel. Another man dons his gloves. Without hesitation, without a word, they get to work cleaning up.

  Olive’s gaze turns fierce. She strides over to the Major and Jefferson, who are now kneeling over Nugget’s prone form. “I’m going to fix you up, Nugget,” she says, hand on her hips. “Just you watch and see.”

  We bury Martin in the meadow. The dirt is too shallow for a proper grave. Like we did for his sister months ago, we bury him as best we can, then pile rocks on top, high and thick to mark the resting place of our friend. I take the Major’s ax and chop down a couple of pine branches, strip them, and lash them together to make a rickety cross, which Jefferson pounds into the ground like a claim stake.

  It takes two days of light rain for the ruins to cool enough to sort through properly. The woodstoves fared the best. They are ugly now, tarnished black, and one of the door hinges is stuck, swollen and slightly melted by the heat. The Major takes a file and spends a day working it out until it opens and closes with barely more than a hiccup. All our oil’s burned, so there’s nothing he can do about the final little squeak.

  Everything inside the cabin was lost—all the Joyners’ remaining furniture, their bedding, Becky’s cooking supplies and food stores, her stationery and fancy feather pen, and a whole box of ammunition. Her quick dash inside as the fire was raging wasn’t for naught, though. She still has the papers proving her husband’s ownership of the cargo in San Francisco, and she still has a small bag filled with coins and bits of gold—payments she received for her breakfasts.

  There was another bag of gold she didn’t find when she dashed inside, the one filled with dust panned by Olive and Andy, along with the occasional pinch of gold from one of the miners. But on the second day, Tom lifts up a blackened pine branch and the remains of a chair to reveal a thin, lumpy sheet of golden metal on the ground. The gold dust melted in its bag and re-formed into this flat, round thing, like one of Becky’s clumsy flapjacks, except it shines in the light when the ash is brushed away.

  Gold doesn’t melt easily. Something made this fire extra hot.

  The chest I dragged from the college men’s shanty turns out to be full of odds and ends—clothes, tools, candles, pens, and ink. But it was so heavy because it also contained books from their time at Illinois College. When they realize I saved the books, Henry bursts into tears, and Tom wraps his arms around me and hugs me so tight I worry he’ll never let go.

  Peony, Sorry, Apollo, and Artemis wander back to their half-burned corral without being rounded up. We find the Joyners’ gelding a mile away, nibbling happily on a thick patch of poison oak. He seems plenty glad to see us, though, and lets us halter him and lead him back home.

  We’ll likely never see the oxen or the cart horse again.

  With the Buckeyes’ help, we clean and salvage and sort. The children pitch in when they can, but sometimes they’re so underfoot that Becky sends them off to pan for gold. She makes them stay within sight, though. No one goes anywhere alone anymore.

  On the evening of the second day, we all hunker around the fire pit on logs recently cut to re
place our destroyed furniture. Becky didn’t much feel like cooking, and no one blamed her, so we eat cold oats soaked in water, with a bit of bacon and salt for flavor. Old Tug and a few of the Buckeyes are with us. They worked hard all day, and the least we can do is let them join us for supper.

  Even Hampton has joined us. Jasper isn’t comfortable letting him off alone, not until he’s sure that concussion is long gone, and not while people are shooting at us and setting fire to our camp.

  I watch the Buckeyes close. A few of them give Hampton measured looks.

  “Didn’t know you had yourselves a Negro,” Old Tug says.

  “Hampton is a free man,” I say, and it comes out snappier than I want.

  “Came west with us all the way from Missouri,” Henry chimes in. “We all vouch for him.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Old Tug says. “Being from Ohiya, most of us are of an abolitionist spirit. We don’t hold with slavery.” There are murmurs of agreement from the other Buckeyes, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Tug shoots a line of tobacco into the dirt, rubs any residual off his beard, and says, “Having cleared that up, me and some of my boys, we’re thinking of moving our tents here.”

  No one says anything.

  “We’ll keep our claims where they are,” he continues, “but we’d live here. That is, if you all don’t mind. It’s a mighty fine spot for a town.”

  “Wouldn’t have to walk so far for breakfast, neither,” another says.

  The college men put their heads together and whisper among themselves. Becky and the Major exchange a look and a nod. Jefferson leans over and whispers, “We should think about it.”

  Suddenly all of my companions are looking at me, and I know why. It’s my secret. And it’s probably my uncle who got Martin killed.

  Keeping my secret from these men will be hard with them so close. But given recent events, I’m not sure it would put us in any more danger than we’re already in. In fact, having a few rough-looking men hanging around might be a mercy.

  I clear my throat. “Well, Mr. Tug, I’m not sure any of us are staying. We haven’t made a decision about whether or not to rebuild and keep trying at our claims.”

  He frowns. “Why not?”

  “We just lost someone very dear to us,” Becky says gently, a lot more gently than I’d manage. “I don’t know that we can stand to lose even one more soul.” Her voice wavers a bit with that last. She leans down and kisses her baby girl’s forehead, possibly to hide tears.

  “Someone set those fires on purpose,” Henry says. “They knocked out the men we had on watch, shot our dog, and set those fires. We’re just not sure it’s safe to stay.”

  Old Tug chortles. “Course it ain’t safe, you lily-livered pretty boy. It’s California.”

  “It’s particularly not safe for us,” I say.

  My companions turn to me, the big question in their eyes: Will I tell him the truth?

  “Why? Because you’re a bunch of soft—”

  “Because . . . because these are rich claim lands, as you well know. You are your boys are doing just fine, aren’t you? Able to afford a paid breakfast every single day.”

  Several nod agreement.

  “You can’t keep something like that a secret,” I continue. “Everyone is going to want our land.”

  “If it’s anyone’s land,” Jefferson mutters, “it’s the Indians’.”

  My face warms. He’s right, and it was a thoughtless thing to say.

  Hampton stands. Jasper leans forward, ready to launch himself to help Hampton if he needs it, but the man is steady as an oak on his feet.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Hampton declares. “Just a few days ago, I had a roof to keep my wife comfortable, and a few fixings besides. Almost everything’s gone now, but I’m not giving up. I’m going to get it all back. Every bit.”

  He sits back down.

  “I’m not leaving either,” Jasper says. “I’ve been doctoring for months now. Maybe even . . .” He shuffles his feet a bit, looking sheepish. “Maybe even saved some lives. I’m doing what I came to do. No sense giving up.”

  Tom says, “I haven’t decided.”

  “Tom and I are thinking of going to San Francisco,” Henry adds.

  “I want to practice law,” says Tom. “That’s what I came to do. San Francisco seems like the place to do it.”

  Jefferson says, “I’m going where Lee’s going.”

  “Major?” I say, mostly to divert everyone’s sudden attention from Jeff and me.

  The Major has a few bits of thick leather in his hand, along with a large bone awl. He’s making shoes for Olive, who recently grew out of her last pair. He takes a deep breath. When he looks up, it’s in Becky’s direction, and his pleading heart is in his eyes.

  I catch my breath. He’s carrying a torch, for sure and certain. No, it’s more than that. Major Wally Craven has fallen head over heels in love with Widow Joyner.

  “Becky?” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

  Becky blinks at him, her cheeks coloring. “I’m frightened,” she admits. “Maybe I ought to go back home to Tennessee, if that’s what it takes to keep my children safe. But . . .” She looks the Major straight in the eye. “I don’t want to.”

  Old Tug rubs at his tobacco-stained whiskers. “What do you want, Mrs. Joyner?” His voice is kinder than I’ve ever heard it.

  She smiles back. “I want to keep serving you breakfast, Mr. Tug. And all the rest of you Ohio boys. I want to make a home here in California for my children. I want . . .” This time, she looks at me. “I want to stay with my friends.”

  I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “I want to stay, too,” I say. Jasper gives me a wide, relieved smile, but I hold up a hand to forestall any celebration.

  There’s no getting around the fact that our very lives are in danger. My friends have gone mad, wanting to stay. Gold fever has made them take leave of their senses. Maybe it’s made me take leave of my senses, too. It’s amazing what a body will risk when there’s a smidge of hope to be had.

  “I’m staying on one condition,” I tell them. “I’m going to find out who did this to us. And I’m going to end him. It’s the only way we’ll be safe.”

  Old Tug nods agreement, but I only care about the reactions of my friends. They’re nodding, too, even though they know exactly who I suspect, exactly who I’m talking about. My uncle Hiram Westfall did this, as sure as the sun sets over the Pacific.

  “Fine by me,” Jefferson says. I look up to find his eyes alight, his face fierce.

  “In that case . . .” I turn to Old Tug. “If my companions don’t have any objections, I officially invite you and your boys to join us here. We’d be glad of the extra company.”

  The extra gunpower, I mean, and everyone knows it.

  Jefferson adds, “As long as you respect our claims and don’t make any trouble.”

  Old Tug grins, flashing his tooth. “As long as you respect our claims and don’t make any trouble. We’ll settle in tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lumber to rebuild doesn’t come easy. We cut so much down for the cabin and the store of firewood—all of which was lost in the fire—that we have to hike a ways to find good trees and then use the horses to lug everything back. Our hill is now scarred black, and the autumn mud has a particular stickiness to it, being full of ash. As we fell more and more trees, even the hills around us turn barren. The wind and rain hit us harder now, and the mud never dries.

  The beaver disappear from our pond, and I don’t blame them. We lived in peace with them for a while on opposite ends, hearing their tails smack the water occasionally. With all the Buckeyes setting up tents, I suppose there are just too many people.

  The banks of the pond and the outlet creek below lose all their grass, churned up by miners’ boots. Deer that used to visit our meadow in the evenings are nowhere to be seen. Hampton, with the help of a few Ohio men, expands the corral to make room for the new horses. Within a week, the meadow
is grazed out. Feed will be a lot more expensive from now on.

  The world is changing around us, and we’re the ones changing it. A funny feeling in my gut says we’re not making it better.

  I don’t see a single Indian. It niggles at me that even though they’re near enough to help us, they never show themselves. Becky is frightened of them, but I rather suspect they’re frightened of us. Maybe Jefferson is right and this is their land we’re squatting on.

  I’m so tired from panning and pickaxing and chopping and carrying and keeping extra watch shifts that my very bones ache. I sleep on cold, wet ground in a threadbare blanket I got in trade for two rabbit skins. Some nights it’s so cold that I take my blanket and sleep in the corral with Peony. The ground is just as churned up with mud, the air just as cold, but she stands sentry over me all night, fast asleep herself more than half the time, and she never steps on me once. It puts a warmth in my heart, if not my skin.

  Becky says I can sleep in the cabin with her and the children once it’s rebuilt, and I’m not going to decline. The rebuilding might take a while, though. The college men leave for Mormon Island with our leftover gold and come back with the sad news that most everyone has gone to Sacramento looking for work to wait out the winter, and everything we need is in short supply, especially canvas, hammers, and chickens.

  So no shanties, no eggs, no chicken coop, and no cabin for a good long while.

  They bring back plenty of oats, bacon, beans, flour, and coffee, though, and the Buckeyes don’t complain one bit about getting the same breakfast almost every morning.

  One day I’m late abed after a long night on watch, sleeping close to Jefferson this time, on a hard patch of rock that makes my neck ache but is relatively clean of mud. We’re far away from the noise of camp; it’s the morning sun, shining against my eyelids, that makes me stir. Beside me, closer than is necessarily proper, Jefferson snores as loud as a locomotive.

  The camp is as clean as we can make it, and rough lean-tos are starting to replace the shanties that burned down. I’ve found more gold for everyone, carefully and quietly so as not to arouse the Buckeyes’ suspicions. There’s nothing holding me back from making good on my word. Today will be the day I start finding out who tried to burn us out.