Like a River Glorious

by Rae Carson

  I nod. “But he spent nearly a thousand dollars just buying passage on a ship for him and Abel Topper. Besides, Frank Dilley and that weasel Jonas Waters and those Missouri fellows aren’t working for free. I guess what I’m asking is this: How can he afford to buy out all our claims? He’d need four times what he stole from me. Maybe more. Where did that money come from?”

  “Maybe he’s wealthier than you thought,” Becky says.

  “Maybe it’s all a bluff,” Jefferson says.

  “Maybe . . .” The Major is still rubbing at his beard as his mind turns on the problem like a mill. “He’s working for someone else.”

  Jasper’s mouth forms an O.

  “Someone with money,” Becky says.

  “Daddy once told me that Hiram had a problem with debt,” I say. “He was impatient. Didn’t want to wait around for life’s finer things, so he borrowed and bought and got himself into so much debt he couldn’t see straight. Daddy bailed him out once. He bailed himself out another time. And that’s all I know about that.”

  “So maybe he’s in debt again,” the Major muses.

  I whisper, “And he knows just the witchy girl to get him out of it.”

  Chapter Nine

  I let the thought sink in. A shiver runs through me like Hiram’s shadow is already blocking out my sun. Then someone clears his throat behind me, and I jump.

  It’s Old Tug. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “I’ve been talking with my boys, and we ain’t in no hurry to accept this deal. Seems nefarious. Besides, if we wanted to spend our lives working for a rich man, with aught to show, we’d have stayed in Ohiya.”

  Becky smiles bright enough to light the gloomy sky. “I’m so glad to hear that, Mr. Tug.”

  He blinks, caught in her brilliance, but he collects himself quickly. “We think this Dilley fellow means business, though. I’d bet my last snuff he started them fires. So if we’re going to stay and prospect here, we need to do something about him.”

  The Major steps forward. “I could not agree more, sir.”

  “I’ll ask again,” Jefferson says. “What do we do?”

  Everyone starts throwing out ideas. Old Tug wants to find Frank Dilley and help him come to an accidental end, and even though the idea doesn’t set right in my gut, I can’t say I’d be sorry. Henry suggests we flee to Oregon Territory and give farming a go. “A good wheat crop is practically worth its weight in gold,” he says. “Maybe in Oregon we’d see the Robichauds again.”

  Becky wants to build up the town, inviting more and more people to stay to increase our numbers. “He can’t take down a whole town, isn’t that right?”

  The ideas come fast and fierce, but none of them are good enough.

  “I’ll do it,” I yell, interrupting everyone. “I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?” Becky says.

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” Jefferson says.

  “I’ll go to Sacramento.”

  Everyone starts to protest, but I hold up a hand to forestall them.

  “Not with Frank. I’ll go of my own accord. Maybe I’ll take a couple of you with me, if I get volunteers. I need to face my uncle, find out what’s going on. Maybe he’s working for someone else. If so, this person needs to be informed what kind of man my uncle really is. At the very least, if I leave, you’ll all be safe for a spell. It’ll buy us time to come up with a real plan.”

  “No way, Lee,” says Jefferson, his voice low and furious. “Not a chance. Once your uncle has you, he’ll never let you go. And I . . . You can’t . . .” A muscle in his jaw twitches.

  Old Tug says, “You think maybe we can go over your uncle’s head to whoever is pulling his strings.”

  Becky frowns. “Isn’t that leapfrogging a demon to make a deal with the devil?”

  “I hope not,” I say.

  “We need you here,” Jasper says. “You’re—” He glances around at the Buckeyes. “Um . . . essential to our undertaking.”

  I glare at him. He’s about as subtle as a charging buffalo.

  “Lee’s right,” the Major says.

  “What?” Becky practically shrieks, and the Major winces. “You can’t possibly think—”

  “He won’t kill her,” he insists. “And if anyone can talk to him, maybe it’s his niece. But Lee . . .” He turns to me. “If you leave, and you don’t come back in a reasonable amount of time, we’re coming after you.”

  A few of the Buckeyes nod agreement, trying to look serious and fierce. But it’s just bluster. They hardly know me at all.

  “You saved my life,” the Major continues, indicating his amputated leg. “You and Jasper. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. So just because I think sending you to Sacramento is the right strategic decision, it doesn’t mean I’m turning my back on you.”

  “I’m going with her,” Jefferson says.

  “No, absolutely not,” the Major says. “Next to Lee, you’re the best marksman in this outfit. We need you here.”

  “Jeff, I vowed I’d find out who did this to us and end him. If that means confronting my uncle, then it’s something I’ve got to do. If I don’t go, my uncle and Frank Dilley will keep hurting people I care about. And the Major is right; they need you here.”

  “No.” He snaps out the word so hard and angry that I recoil. He takes one long stride forward and grabs my shoulders. “I’m not getting separated from you again, understand? Be as stubborn as you want; it doesn’t matter. Where you go, I go.”

  He’s a whole head taller than me now, with shoulders that block the sun and a black-eyed gaze as fierce as I’ve ever seen. I should feel small next to him, but I don’t. I feel bigger, too, like we can do anything together.

  Jeff says, “Those weeks traveling to Independence, after I left Georgia. They were a torment. I thought I’d made the worst mistake of my life, leaving my best friend behind. But then you showed up in Independence, and I got a second chance, and hell take me, but I’m never leaving you all alone again.”

  Everyone around us has gone silent. The Major glares at us both. Old Tug studies me, eyes narrowed beneath his bushy brows. If he has any brain in his head, he’s trying to reconcile Jefferson’s little speech with the fib I told him about a beau back in Georgia.

  “I’m going, too,” Tom says, stepping forward.

  “What? No!” Henry exclaims.

  “They’ll need someone with knowledge of the law,” Tom says, his voice gentling. “Property law, especially. Lee’s uncle will try to make a claim on her. Someone needs to make sure he has no legal recourse.”

  We talk it out awhile longer, arguing back and forth, but in the end it’s decided. Jefferson, Tom, and I will gear up and leave for Sacramento in two days.

  The Major sits on a log, whittling at an oak branch. I can’t tell what he’s making, but he goes at it with the same fervor that Nugget and Coney get digging a hole, forgetting the world around them. He’s a man with busy hands, that’s for sure. He’s always carving, hammering, or sewing something. I’ve seen him create tables and benches, shoes, halters, and even a leather tie necklace for Olive, which he made by boring a hole into a bit of quartz and working the leather strap through. Afterward, he declared himself the finest jeweler in all of Glory, California.

  “What do you want, Lee?” he practically growls.

  “You’re spitting mad at me, Major, and I ought to know why.”

  He sets the branch down in his lap, pointy end sticking off to the side, and looks up at me. “This trip to Sacramento,” he says. “It’s an awful risk. And you’re taking my best man with you.”

  “Well, he’s my best man, too.”

  His gaze softens. “I know, Lee. I truly do. It’s just . . .” He stares off in the direction of Becky’s breakfast table. She bustles around, refilling coffee, avoiding stray hands, checking on the porridge, wiping up a spill. All the while, she smiles and smiles. No power in the world can shake that smile.

  “You’ve got the Buckeyes to help now,” I remind him. “They’re pull
ing their weight just fine. They never complain about watch shifts. They’re only drunk sometimes. Some of them even help rebuild.”

  He sighs. “But they’re doing it all for her. Their intentions are . . . I just don’t trust them, not one bit.”

  Ah. So that’s it.

  I settle beside him on the log and stretch out my legs. “You’re sweet on her,” I say softly. “Aren’t you.”

  He grabs his branch and starts whittling like the fate of all California depends on it. Swick, swick, swick, goes the knife.

  “You mean like Jefferson’s sweet on you?” His tone is accusatory, but his cheeks are burning red.

  “Yes,” I say honestly. “That’s what I mean.”

  “Don’t matter,” he says, scowling down at his branch.

  “How so?”

  “She’s the finest lady I ever knew. Too fine for me.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “She’s beautiful and young and so learned. Did you know she speaks Latin? Latin! Those fine manners, that smile . . . She’s bewitching every bachelor west of Indian Territory without even trying, and probably a few married men besides.”

  “Not the college men,” I say with a smile.

  He snorts. “No, not them. But Widow Joyner will never look twice at me when she can have her pick. She’s had four proposals already, and those are just the ones I know about.”

  I almost laugh. Becky has been looking twice at the Major, all right. And three and four times besides.

  It’s a glorious morning, with a sky blue as cornflowers touching down on distant mountain peaks that shine white with snow. The oaks and aspens are losing their leaves, making the distant woods feel stark and barren, but it’s a beautiful barrenness, all wild and thick. A giant condor circles above, and I reckon we appear tiny and insignificant to him, like ants on a hill.

  After a moment, I have the courage to ask what’s really on my mind. “Is it your leg? Is that why you think she won’t look twice at you?”

  He doesn’t flinch from my question. “Of course it’s my leg. And those other things I mentioned, too. But mostly my leg.” He brandishes his knife at me. “Don’t get me wrong, girl. You’ll never hear me complain about the rocky path the good Lord has set before me. I’m lucky to be alive, and I thank God every day in my prayers.” He returns to whittling, but it’s more deliberate now, less hurried, like maybe he got something off his chest. “But she deserves better,” he murmurs. “She deserves the best.”

  “You’re a war hero,” I protest. “A natural leader.”

  “That was a terrible war. Not even a war, it was just . . . running around and shooting and being bullies. There was nothing heroic about it, and it’s not worth even a moment of your thoughts.”

  The Major fought in the Black Hawk War, according to the Missouri men. It happened around the time I was born, and I don’t know anything about it but the name. The Major won’t talk about it, though, and it makes me wonder what kind of horrors he was part of. The Missouri men seem to think he’s violent. A killer. That’s why they appointed him leader of our wagon train, until he lost his leg.

  But the man I know isn’t like that at all. I think of Major Craven carrying Andy around on his shoulders or helping him catch bullfrogs in the pond, the way he made that necklace and new shoes for Olive, how hard and quietly he works to provide Becky with furniture and every other comfort he can think of. Mostly, I think of the way his eyes follow Becky everywhere she goes, like she’s more precious and beautiful than all the gold in California.

  “Maybe you ought to let Becky decide what she needs,” I say.

  He just shrugs. “She’s still mourning her husband.”

  I laugh.

  “What?”

  “When we were at Mormon Island, Becky saw a dress she fancied. All black. She thought it would be proper mourning dress.”

  “So?”

  “So, she bought a bright blue bonnet instead, and some ribbons for Olive. I guess mourning just wasn’t that important to her.”

  “Huh.” He gazes off into the distance.

  “And maybe you don’t want my opinion on the matter,” I continue, “but I’m going to give it anyway. You are the best, Major. I don’t see how she can do better.”

  A tiny grin creeps onto his face. “You’ll keep this conversation to yourself, won’t you?” he asks in a sheepish voice.

  “Course.”

  He bends over and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “You’re a good friend, Lee Westfall.”

  We’re up before dawn, when light barely kisses the mountain peaks and frost sparkles on fallen autumn leaves. The tree frogs chorus in the dark—I’ve never heard anything so small make such a large noise, not even crickets in the summer back in Georgia. Everyone rises to see us off, even the Buckeyes, and lanterns swing from more than a few hands. Becky’s breakfast smells warm and wonderful; she has a loaf of bread rising in her Dutch oven by the fire, and biscuits browning atop the woodstove. I look around at everyone, at the new lean-tos, the first row of logs outlining a new cabin, the canvas tents shared by the Buckeyes—all washed in the warm glow of fire and lantern light. These people are my home, I realize in my gut. And I’m sorry to leave them.

  The Major lets me borrow his knapsack, since my saddle and saddlebags burned to a crisp in the fire. I stow some jerky and hardtack, my canteen, ammunition for my revolver, my blanket, and an extra shirt and stockings. I keep the gold I’ve found the past few days in my pockets. I feel safer with it on my person, and I like the way the magic of it caresses my skin, making it softly buzz.

  I also pack my rifle and five-shooter. The grip on the pistol was charred in the fire, but luckily it was unloaded and came through the flames otherwise unharmed. I was worried about it, but the Major took it apart, cleaned and tested it, and assured me it was fine.

  One thing I don’t bother taking is extra feed for Peony; we expect good grazing as we travel, even this late in autumn. Peony tosses her head with excitement as I lead her toward one of the Major’s log benches to mount up; I haven’t exercised her near enough lately. She’s gotten plump on meadow grass, and her winter coat is coming in thick, so she looks like ball of golden fluff.

  “You okay with me riding bareback again?” I ask her. She snorts a little, which I take for assent. “That’s my girl. Maybe we’ll get you some new shoes in Sacramento.”

  The Major steps forward. “If you three aren’t back in a month, we’re coming after you.”

  “We’ll make it back,” Jefferson says from his seat atop Sorry. “I promise.”

  “It’s tradition in my family to have a day of thanksgiving in the fall,” Becky says, frowning. “But I’m not keen to celebrate without you.”

  I grin. “We’ll just have another celebration when we get back.”

  “Twice the food!” Jefferson says, and I roll my eyes because Jefferson can eat more than any human I’ve ever known.

  Tom has one foot in the stirrup of his gelding when Henry rushes forward. “Wait!”

  Henry throws himself at Tom and buries his face in his neck. After a startled moment, Tom wraps his arms around Henry’s shoulders and squeezes tight. They whisper something back and forth, and then Henry steps back, tears brimming.

  Becky gives me a quick hug. “Bring back some chickens if you can,” she orders, pressing a couple of cool, small items into my palm. I don’t have to look at them to know they’re gold nuggets. “And another butter churn.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “And! If you find one, get yourself a new dress.”

  “Really?”

  “A nice one,” she says with a firm nod. “Christmas is coming. A lady ought to have something proper to wear. Think of it as a bonus for all your hard work along the trail. You know . . . you and Jefferson are the best hires my husband ever made.” Her voice has a touch of sadness, but only a touch, and I cast my gaze in the Major’s direction.

  Coney runs circles around the horses’ legs, c
ertain he’s about to go off on a grand adventure. Nugget does her wobbly, limping best to join her friend, but Olive grabs her and pulls her back. “No travels for you,” she scolds, sounding like a woman grown. “Not until that leg has healed.”

  Andy hurries forward to wrap his arms around Jefferson’s legs, and Jeff reaches down to give him a pat. Then the boy extricates himself to corral Coney. “Bye, Lee! Bye, Tom! Bye, Jefferson!” he calls out with a giant grin. He just lost his first tooth, and I suspect it will be days before he stops showing off the gap in his smile.

  With a final wave, we turn our mounts away. We skirt the pond and follow the creek down the slope leading to the American River.

  Chapter Ten

  “Stop fidgeting, silly girl,” I say to Peony. She’s been dancing all morning as we traveled, head tossing, nostrils flaring. Maybe it’s because she got so used to wearing a saddle.

  “Sorry’s been fretting, too,” Jefferson says at my back. He rides just a few lengths behind me. I twist so I can see her. The sorrel mare’s eyes roll about, and her tail twitches like her flanks are covered in flies.

  Behind them, Tom and his gray gelding, Apollo, take up the rear. Apollo is as calm as a babe.

  “We haven’t been exercising them enough,” I say to Jefferson. “And now they’re as giddy as Andy with a candy jar. They’ll settle.”

  “Hope so, or this is going to be a long trip.”

  But as I straighten, my neck prickles. I’ve known Peony her whole life, ever since she came slipping out of her mama, a bundle of wet legs. She’s a good horse. The best horse. I trust her as much as I trust anyone, and right now, she thinks something is wrong.

  We reach the river and head west. “Look for a ford,” Tom calls to us. “It would be best to avoid those claim jumpers who attacked us. Let’s go around them if we can.”

  “Agreed,” says Jefferson.

  “I want to be well past them before we make camp,” I add.

  A path meanders along the river now, which makes for easy riding. The prickly scent of burning pine from a nearby campfire fills the air. We pass a blackberry bramble that hugs the water’s edge; a mess of fishing line is all tangled up in the branches.