Like a River Glorious

by Rae Carson

  The pasture area is dark like ink. I’m forced to slow down, lest the trampled, lumpy sod rise up to trip me. I’m not even sure I’m going the right direction.

  A light blinks just ahead. It’s high up, like a star falling from the sky. I almost miss it when it blinks again.

  It’s a lantern, hanging in the stockade tower, shifting and spinning with the breeze, and it becomes my beacon as I press forward.

  I reach the log wall. If my sense of direction has not led me astray, I can follow the wall left and turn the corner to reach the entrance. Time to start making a ruckus.

  “Help!” I yell, waving my hands. I run along the base of the wall, yelling as I go. “Help us, please!”

  My voice sounds about as convincing as a peddler selling a map to the mother lode, but I keep at it with gusto. “Somebody, help!”

  I round the corner just as boot steps start pounding my way. Another lantern hangs at the barred entrance. One guard stands sentry, his rifle held ready. The other is dashing toward me.

  “Miss Westfall?” he says. “We heard guns. A big boom. What’s going on?”

  “It’s a revolt!” I say, and I don’t have to fake the terror and sickness in my voice. “My uncle . . . Mr. Westfall, he’s alive but hurt. He needs your help.”

  Together, we head toward the entrance, where the other guard stands. “I’m not sure we ought to leave our posts,” the guard says.

  I yank on his sleeve and allow a sob to escape my throat. “Please, I beg you. Dilley sent me to get you. Said he needs every able-bodied man. Oh, Lord help me, but I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to my uncle. You have to help him! Promise me you’ll help him!”

  A rough hand pats my back. “There, there, little lady. If Mr. Westfall demands our aid, of course he shall have it.”

  That’s right, you no-good snake. I’m just a hysterical female. “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!”

  Three knocks sound from behind the gate. “Boggs?” comes a voice. “Shelby? What’s going on?”

  The guard at the gate—Boggs—lifts the latch and cracks it open. A third man slips out, rifle in hand. Quickly the gate is closed and latched behind him, but not before a wave of stench—feces and rotting vegetables and vomit—almost knocks me over.

  It’s the guard from the tower, come to see what’s going on. I’ve got all of them now.

  “Miss Westfall says there’s trouble back in camp,” Boggs says. “They need our guns.”

  “Please hurry!” I say. “You have to help. If my uncle . . . I don’t know what will become of me . . .” I allow my face to fall into my hands so they don’t see how deeply I disgust myself with my own words.

  “All right, come along then,” says the third man. “Let’s go.” His arm descends to my shoulder.

  “No!” I say, wrenching away. “My uncle ordered me away to safety. Said to fetch you all and then stay out of sight.”

  The men hesitate, exchanging glances.

  “I’ll stay right here,” I say. “I’ll stand guard for you. Leave me one of the guns in case I must defend myself.”

  Maybe I’ve pushed things too far. I shouldn’t have mentioned a gun—the Missouri men know all about me and guns—but Shelby grabs his Colt from his holster and hands it to me. “You know how to use this?”

  I grab it from him. “Point and pull the trigger, right?” Something about the guns niggles at me. In the light of the swinging lantern, the shiny walnut hilt fairly blazes with newness. My thumb passes over a rough patch, and I peer closer, heart pounding.

  The fellow Boggs, from Missouri, snorts. “This lass could outshoot us all. You should have seen her on the trail coming out to California.”

  I’m about to insist that I’m out of practice, but then I recognize something and my breath catches. The rough patch is actually a tiny H, scratched into the hilt. An H for Hoffman.

  “Don’t worry, Shelby,” Boggs adds. “Your gun is in good hands.”

  It’s Martin’s gun. The one that disappeared the night he died. “Thank you, sir,” I say, my voice as dark as the grave. “Now, please. Go find my uncle before it’s too late.”

  More gunshots ring from the camp above. After a quick tip of their hats, they start running.

  I watch their fleeing backs, rage boiling inside me. I could shoot them right now if I wanted to. Maybe I should.

  Instead, I allow them to fade into darkness as they start climbing uphill toward the camp and the mine. I force myself to wait, to give them a few moments to get well and truly out of sight. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they can’t see me. I’m the one with the gate lantern swinging over my head.

  In case they take it upon themselves to look back, I stand straight, feet slightly apart, gun cocked and ready, like I’m proudly standing sentry. I hope Jefferson is okay. I hope Tom got inside the cabin unseen. How many people lie dead up there? By the time Jefferson yanked me away, it was clearly about to become a massacre.

  More gunshots echo. The horizon lights up, showing the trees in sharp relief, just like that awful night we lost Martin, when Dilley and his men set fire to our camp. Please hurry, Jeff and Tom. Please be okay. I send a little prayer heavenward for Muskrat and Mary, too. Then I turn toward the gate.

  The latch is huge and heavy, an enormous beam held in place by brackets. It takes two tries for me to lift it, and I don’t have the strength to set it down gently, so I let it drop with a loud thunk.

  I push the gate open.

  “Hello?” I call out. “You need to leave,” I say. “Quickly.”

  What if no one inside this stockade speaks English? And suddenly I realize that even if they did, they might not listen. I’m Hiram’s niece, who wears fancy clothes and sleeps in a fancy cabin and eats three fine meals per day. They have no reason to trust me. Not one.

  “Please!” I say louder. “The Indians at the camp meeting, they were attacked. They fought back. It’s bad up there, real bad. My uncle’s men might come here next.”

  A woman steps into the lantern light—black eyes and thin hair and mottled skin. Her breasts sag halfway down her belly, which is sunken and bony.

  “You have to leave,” I insist. “Or you might be killed.”

  “Muskrat?” she says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know where he is. I didn’t see what happened to him.”

  She frowns. “He has everything. For leaving. He’s been saving it for weeks.”

  I’m so relieved to be able to communicate with her. Gradually others come toward me. More women, children, a few young men, until there are close to fifteen. I’m betting there are even more, waiting in darkness.

  “I don’t know if Muskrat is coming. I’m sorry. But if you don’t leave now, you will probably die.”

  “If we don’t get food soon, we die,” she says. “We have no weapons for hunting, no baskets for gathering.”

  Oh, God. Why did I not think of this? “Maybe I can get you some supplies. Maybe . . .” But where? How? There might be some foodstuffs in Hiram’s cabin, but I can’t possibly round up enough to feed all these people. I couldn’t even carry everything they’ll need.

  “Here,” I say, thrusting Martin’s revolver at her. She lurches back, eyes wide, but her posture eases when she understands what I intend. “Take it. It’s a good gun.” Tears prick at my eyes. “A really good gun. Shoots straight. Almost new. It will buy a lot of food.”

  She grabs it, eyeing me warily. “And this, too.” I slip my white rabbit-fur muff from my left arm and offer it. A young man steps up and grabs the muff from my hand before I can change my mind. “Please hurry,” I say.

  The woman turns around and confers with her companions. She speaks first, fast and low in a language I don’t recognize. Two other older women speak. All at once everyone is nodding, as if they’ve come to an agreement.

  She faces me and says, “We go.” Then, with a steady glare, she adds, “Do not expect us to thank you.”

  “I . .
. No, of course not.”

  She gestures toward the others, and they fall in behind her. She leads them from the stockade in a neat single-file line, as though they’ve been practicing.

  I hope they make it, but this does not seem like a good night for hope.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The line of women and children gradually disappears into darkness. My uncle did this. He and his men. And even after Tom and Jefferson and I escape—if we escape—Hiram will still be here. I know he’s not the only one responsible for the misery of the Indians in California, but he’s the one I could have done something to stop. If only I’d had the means—and the courage—to kill him.

  But right now Tom and Jeff are waiting at the corral. I think I know which direction to go. I stare at the lamp swinging from the gate. It could light my way. It would also be a beacon, giving away my position to anyone who might be looking for me.

  Lifting my muddy skirts, I turn my back on the stinking stockade and push into the dark. I listen as I walk, hoping for the sound of nickering horses and complaining cattle, worried that instead I’ll hear footsteps or angry voices. The corral is large, but I could easily miss it in the dark. I suppose if I encounter the cottonwoods or a steep slope, I’ll know I’ve gone the wrong way.

  “Lee!” comes a whispered voice. “Over here!”

  My feet aim me in the voice’s direction a split second before my ears identify Tom’s baritone.

  “Tom!” I whisper, rushing forward. The corral’s low fence comes into view just in time to keep me from crashing into it. I lift my skirts and climb over to meet him.

  He thrusts my pack toward me. “I put the gold inside.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “Yes. The big blond fellow.”

  “Wilhelm?”

  “That’s his name. Saw me, didn’t even bat an eye. He stayed clear of the fighting. Just stood a few paces from the cabin, arms crossed, watching everything.”

  I’m not sure what to make of that. “Wilhelm might be able to write or gesture to someone that he saw you, but he can’t talk, so maybe we still have some time. What about Jefferson?”

  “Haven’t seen him. Let’s find the horses. We’ll have them gathered up by the time he gets here.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I heave the pack over one shoulder and start weaving through burros and milk cows and even a couple of oxen, looking for my mare. “Peony!” I whisper. “Where are you, sweet girl?”

  Hot breath whuffs at my neck. I spin and fling my arms around her, but she’s hard to hold on to. She raises and lowers her head, over and over, nostrils flaring.

  “I’m sorry, Peony. You’ve always been a vengeful critter, but if you let me ride you out of here tonight, everything is going to be okay.”

  I’ve become so awful that now I’m even lying to my horse. Things will not be okay. Not until my uncle no longer threatens me or my friends. Or anyone else in California. But one thing at a time.

  Gradually Peony settles. Tom appears before me, pulling Sorry by her halter.

  “Where’s Apollo?” I whisper.

  “I’ll get him next.”

  “Will he let you ride bareback? We’ve not a lick of tack between us, except their halters.”

  “I guess we’ll see,” Tom says with forced brightness. “Wait here for Jefferson. I’ll be right back.”

  I finger the gold inside the pack, just for comfort. I’m terrible at waiting. Always have been. I tell myself it’s like being on a hunt, when the slightest bit of recklessness can ruin everything. Be patient, Lee. Be a ghost.

  Something squishes in the mud nearby. Probably one of the animals, but instinct makes me crouch beside Peony’s shoulder. Two shapes appear against the darkness, and my hand goes to the empty space at my waist where my gun used to be.

  “Lee?” someone whispers. “Tom?”

  It’s Jefferson’s voice, and gladness fills me like sunshine on a rainy day.

  “Jeff!” I surge forward, my boots squelching in the paddock’s churned-up mud, and I throw my arms around him.

  He gives me a squeeze but pushes me away quick. “We’ve got company,” he says.

  Only now do I realize it’s Mary who stands beside him. She carries a small rucksack in one hand, a revolver in the other.

  “I’m coming with you,” she says.

  “I have no problem with that,” Jefferson says firmly.

  “Glad to have you along, Mary,” I say.

  Tom creeps up, Apollo in tow. “Hello, Mary,” he says, unsurprised.

  “Things are bad up there, Tom,” she says. “When they ran out of Maidu, they started killing the Chinese. The headman . . . he . . .” Her voice trembles.

  “They killed all of them?” I say. “Everyone?” I suspected that was where things were headed when Jefferson and I ran off, but hearing it is another thing entirely.

  “I wanted . . .” Her voice stumbles, as though it’s full of tears. “I just wanted to get away. Doesn’t mean I wanted anyone to die.”

  “Muskrat?” Tom asks.

  “I lost track of him,” Mary says.

  “Did you get the women and children out of the stockade?” Jefferson asks me.

  “Yes. But, Jeff, they’re in terrible shape.”

  “At least they’re out,” Tom says. “They might be the only ones who escape if we don’t get moving.”

  “Here,” Jefferson says, handing me my rifle. “It’s not loaded. We’ll have to buy ammo somewhere along the way.”

  I caress the length of the barrel. It used to belong to Becky’s husband, but it became mine when he was killed. Now it’s as familiar to me as my own hand.

  “I have your five-shooter, too,” he says, rummaging in his pack.

  “Hurry,” Tom says. “Any moment now, Dilley’s men will come for the Indians they think are in the stockade.”

  Jefferson hands me the revolver, and I shove it inside my own pack. “Let’s go,” I say. “Mary, can you ride?”

  “No,” she says. “But I can run. I once ran all day without stopping.”

  “You’ll have to tell us about that sometime,” Tom says. “For now, you’ll take turns riding double with each of us.”

  Jefferson gives me a boost onto Peony, who dances beneath me with excitement. Then he boosts Tom onto Apollo, and Mary right behind Tom. He pulls up the top rung of fencing and tosses it aside, then he rushes around the corral, smacking horses on their rumps and herding them out.

  There are still a few horses stabled by the cabin—like my uncle’s—but the rest of the men will have to round up their mounts before chasing after us. Jefferson has given us a nice head start.

  He vaults onto Sorry’s back. “We follow the creek west and downhill as much as possible,” he says.

  “Agreed,” I say. “We ride until daylight, no matter what.”

  Jefferson leads, and Tom and I fall in behind. In the distance, a volley of gunshots pierces the night sky, echoing through the hills. More than anything, I want to urge Peony into a gallop, but it’s too dark to risk it.

  Our horses splash into the creek, which will take us far away from this blasted place. Quietly and slowly—too slowly—we follow it around the pasture and into the trees. Branches close over our heads, blocking what little moonlight and starlight we had to guide us, and we are forced to slow even further.

  I comfort myself with the thought that even though the darkness makes our path difficult, it also makes us hard to pursue. If we just keep going, slow and steady, we’ll be safe.

  Then why am I not full of gladness? Why am I not rejoicing at our escape? Instead, as we clomp and splash along in darkness, my heart grows heavier and heavier.

  Finally, when I can stand it no more, I pull Peony up short. “Wait,” I whisper, too loudly. “Stop!”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Jefferson says as he and Tom rein in their mounts.

  “I have to go back.”

  “What?”

  “We’re not
escaping. Not really. I mean, maybe you are, but not me. Never me.”

  “You think Westfall will come after you again,” Tom says.

  “I know he will.”

  “Maybe he’s dead,” Mary says. “Maybe he got killed in the fighting.”

  “That would save me a heap of trouble,” I admit. “But I’ve got to go back and make sure. You three go on without me.”

  “Like hell,” Jefferson says. He’s turned his horse around, and he and Sorry splash toward us. “Listen, Lee, we have to go. This is our one chance. We’ll get back to our friends, and we’ll tell everyone what happened, and then we’ll make a plan.”

  “No.”

  “Lee—”

  “That sounds wonderful. In fact, it might be the most tempting thing I’ve ever heard. But he’ll come after me again, no doubt about it. Maybe the next time he tries to burn us out we’ll lose everyone. What if something happened to Olive or Andy? I’d never forgive myself.”

  Peony fidgets beneath me, impatient after being stuck in that corral for so long.

  “We should go,” Mary says, her voice urgent. “If Lee wants to be daft, let her stay.”

  “If I stay,” I add, “he won’t come after you. You’ll be free.”

  “Not true,” Tom says, and he cuts off Mary’s protest by saying, “He’ll figure on us coming back for you. And eventually he’ll realize the gorgeous spot you picked for us by that beaver pond is richer with gold than Midas.”

  Tom is right. My uncle knows I’d use my witchy senses to find the best spot in all the Sierras. He’ll want it for himself, for sure and certain.

  Jefferson sighs. “And he’ll keep killing the Maidu. He’ll find more. Enslave them. Work them to death.”

  “No one will be safe,” I say hollowly. “Not ever. Until my uncle is taken care of.”

  A pause. Apollo dances nervously.

  Finally Jefferson says, “You mean to do murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not you.”

  “It has to be someone.”

  “Lee, it’s a slaughter up there. You’re just as like to get killed by accident.”