Like a River Glorious Page 12

  Plenty of prospectors will be passing winter in this area, for sure and certain. We can’t see them, but you don’t have to be a dab at tracking to find marks of their passage.

  We come to a flat stretch of land, where the river seems to widen and slow. We pause at the edge, sizing things up.

  “We’d have to swim the horses,” Jefferson says.

  “At least the current doesn’t look too bad,” I say. “Tom, is that gelding of yours a good water horse?”

  “The best,” Tom says proudly.

  “All right, then. Let’s do this,” I say, leaning down toward my boots.

  We all tie the laces of our boot pairs together and hang them around our necks. Jefferson and Tom remove their saddlebags and flip them over their shoulders.

  I urge Peony forward, and she splashes happily into the river, her tail whipping up as much water as possible onto her back, giving no thought to her rider’s preference to stay dry.

  The water is icy cold on my bare feet. I wince as it reaches my thighs, then suddenly we’re swimming, bobbing downstream as much as across it, the water soaking me past my waist.

  “Dear Lord in heaven, that’s cold!” Tom calls out.

  I hold my guns high and cluck at Peony to swim faster as the chill works its way through my whole body.

  Finally we reach the opposite bank, at least a hundred yards downriver from where we entered. The horses clamber ashore over a small lip of grass and rock. Then Sorry explodes into a sudden shake that showers us all with river water.

  “Blasted horse,” Jefferson mumbles, wiping water from his eyes and forehead.

  I’m shivering fit to burst. “We need to find a campsite and get a fire started,” I say, teeth chattering.

  We’ve hobbled the horses and laid out our blankets beside a roaring fire. I didn’t bring a change of trousers, so I’ll have to wear them as they dry. Our rifles are laid out and ready, all loaded, which makes me a little nervous. Daddy had a “no loaded guns in the house” rule on account of potential backfires, and it’s strange to have mine heavy and full beside me, even though I’m not hunting. But this is California Territory, and we have to be prepared for anything.

  “I don’t like the way Sorry and Peony took to the trail,” Jefferson says, poking at the fire with a stick. “They’re a bundle of nerves.”

  “Apollo seems fine,” Tom says.

  We’re across the river and far enough from the claim jumpers that we should be safe. But my neck is still prickling.

  “I trust my horse,” I tell them. “If Peony says something isn’t right, I believe her.”

  “I’ll keep first watch,” Jefferson says.

  “I can do it,” Tom says. One of his law books lies open across his lap, and he’s trying to read by the meager firelight. “I need to study up on property law before we reach Sacramento.”

  He’ll be looking at his book more than he’ll be looking out for danger. “Jeff, you do it,” I say. “If I were to guess, I’d say someone has eyes on us. Horses don’t like it when they can sense a critter but not see it.”

  “You think we’re being followed?” Jefferson asks.

  “I think you’d better stay extra alert tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious, Jeff. Someone snuck up on both Hampton and Martin, and neither of them are shirkers.”

  He grins. “You’re worried for me, aren’t you?”

  “Course I am.”

  “Know what I think?”

  I scowl at him, which only widens his grin.

  He steps closer, puts a hand to my chin, and lifts it so I can’t avoid his gaze. “I think you’re in love with me,” he says.

  I stare at his lips. What comes out of my mouth is: “Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, you have the swagger of a rooster and the swelled head of a melon.” But what I’m thinking is how much I’d like to try that kissing thing again.

  On the other side of the campfire, Tom is trying awfully hard to pretend to be invisible. Heat fills my cheeks, but Jefferson doesn’t seem to care one whit that we’re overheard. “You’ll admit it soon enough,” he says. “I told you I’d change your mind about . . . things. And I will.” His thumb caresses the line of my jaw. He bends forward until his lips are so close to mine I can feel the warmth of his breath.

  I’m about to go up on my toes to close the distance between us, to kiss him the way I want to, but he suddenly steps back, leaving me cold and off-balance. “I’ll wake you when it’s your turn to keep watch,” he says, and the look he gives me is so smug I could spit.

  True to his word, Jefferson shakes me awake in the dead of night, and I blink rapidly to clear the sleep from my mind. He’s let the campfire burn low, which is why chill has worked its way into my hands and feet. A breeze rustles the branches around us, and something dark and winged swoops low overhead.

  I throw off my blanket and reach for my revolver. After a good yawn and stretch, I grab my five-shooter and check for moisture.

  “There’s some pine-needle tea for you by the fire,” Jefferson whispers. “Still hot.”

  “Thanks. Seen or heard anything?”

  “Maybe. I’m staying up with you.”

  A little thrill snakes through me. Maybe it’s just an excuse to kiss me again. But common sense prevails, and I shake my head. “You need your rest as much as anyone.”

  Nearby, Tom rolls over in his sleep, mumbling something I can’t parse.

  “I’m not going to sleep anyway, after hearing all that racket.”

  “Something big, huh? Maybe a deer.”

  “Maybe a catamount,” he says. “There’s at least one in the area. I’ve seen tracks.”

  “A catamount won’t come near the fire,” I say. But I decide to grab my rifle as well. She’s not as easy to fire quickly, but one well-placed shot will take down anything.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  I hear what he’s not saying. Something big could be worse than a catamount. It could be a person.

  I shove my revolver into its holster and heft my rifle. “Going to make a quick circuit,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll scare off whatever’s out there.”

  He starts to protest but changes his mind. He knows better. “Stay within sight,” he orders.

  “Yes, sir!” I give him a mock salute and head into the trees.

  As promised, I keep the silhouettes of our camp in sight as I work my way around. Pine needles and oak leaves crunch beneath my feet. The air is damp, but the sky is clear, the moon high and half full. It feels like a storm is coming, but with that sky so clear, it might not be here for a while yet.

  I pause where the horses are hobbled, sleeping peacefully. Except Peony, who raises her head and gives it a tiny toss of greeting. She nuzzles into my shirt, looking for a treat.

  “What are you doing awake, girl?” I whisper, stroking her warm neck.

  A branch snaps behind me.

  I whirl, bringing up my rifle.

  A figure stands there, dark, tall and unidentifiable. Firelight glints off the barrel of a shiny Colt revolver, pointed right at my head. I’m furious at myself. I was worried about Tom not keeping a good watch, or Jefferson not taking it seriously enough, and I’m the one who got caught.

  “Jefferson!” I holler. “We got company!”

  “Don’t make no difference, girl,” says a familiar voice. “We got him, too.”

  My heart tumbles into my toes. “And I got you, Frank Dilley,” I say. “Go ahead and shoot. I’ve got better aim than you, and you know it. Let’s see who’s left standing.”

  Dilley just grins. “If my boys hear a gun go off, Bigler and Kingfisher are dead men.”

  “How do I know they’re not dead already? You’re the kind of man who would knife someone in the back.”

  He turns his face toward the campsite and hollers, “Bring ’em this way. Gotta show the little lady we mean business.”

  The horses are awake now. Peony strains against her hobble, and I don’t b
lame her one bit. Sorry snorts, tail swishing as booted footsteps crunch through the underbrush toward us.

  It’s Jefferson, all right, with a gun to his head, held by a rough-looking man I don’t recognize. Tom comes up right behind him, still in his long underwear. He winces as the gun to his own head digs into his scalp, forcing him on. Behind him is Jonas Waters, Dilley’s foreman.

  Our meager fire provides a little bit of light, and the moon a little bit more, but it’s too dark for me to see what’s on Jefferson’s mind, whether he’s scared or angry or sorry or sad, and I want to go to him more than anything. Instead I say, “You boys are wasting your time. We’re headed to Sacramento, just like my uncle asked. There’s no need for any of this.”

  Dilley laughs. “Your uncle’s not in Sacramento. Never has been.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll take you to him. But the whole bit about Sacramento was a fib. If you knew where he really was, there’d be no convincing you to leave your flock of girl-worshipping lackeys.”

  “Then where is he?” Jefferson demands, and the man holding the gun knocks him in the temple so hard that Jefferson bends over, holding his head between his hands.

  “If you hurt him again, I’ll kill you,” I say.

  “Easy, Lee,” Tom says. His voice is soft, almost soothing. But I know him well enough now to understand that his mind is working this problem of ours, turning and turning like a mill on a creek. “We wanted to speak with Mr. Westfall, didn’t we? If these gentlemen are willing to escort us there, we’ll go willingly. Isn’t that right?”

  He means to buy us some goodwill. With guns pointed at each of us, it’s the best plan we’ve got.

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s right. If you’re taking us to my uncle, there’s no need for all this bossing around. We’re glad to go.”

  If I can get them to lower their guns, lower their guard, we have a chance at escape.

  But while Dilley might be a mean, conniving worm who deserves the bottom of my boot, he’s no fool. “Glad to hear we can expect your cooperation,” he says. “But just in case, I have a special treat for you.”

  A fourth man comes toward me, melting from the forest like a ghost. He holds something bulky in his hand. Not a gun.

  “You’re going to take two big swigs of that,” Dilley says.

  “I’ll do no such thing! If you—”

  “You must want your Indun lover to die,” Dilley says, and the man with Jefferson does something that makes Jeff grunt in pain.

  “Stop it!” I yell. “I’ll do it. Just give it here.”

  The ghostly man hands me a bottle. The glass is cold and hard in my hand. Fumbling in the dark, I twist the stopper open. A familiar scent wallops me in the face. Bitter and stringent.

  “Drink,” Dilley says. “Or your friends die.”

  I put the bottle neck to my lips and upend it. Cool liquid pours onto my tongue, and it’s so startlingly foul that I immediately spit it out.

  “Kill him,” Dilley says.

  “No, no, I’m sorry! I’ll drink it! It just surprised me, is all.”

  I wait one heartbeat. They don’t kill Jefferson. I tip the bottle to my lips again, and this time I’m ready for the awful taste, so bitter it almost burns. I hold it in my mouth and think desperately for a way out.

  “That cost me a fair bit,” Dilley says. “You do that again, and we’ll knock you out the hard way.” To the ghostly man, he says, “Make sure she swallows.”

  The ghostly man approaches. He is so huge, huger even than Mr. Hoffman, and a cowl covers his head, making it impossible for me to see his face.

  I swallow. It burns going down, and I choke a little.

  “One more sip,” Dilley says.

  Warmth fills my belly, spreads throughout my torso, into my limbs. “I think one is plenty. I feel . . . strange.”

  “One more sip,” he repeats, and the ghostly man looms over me.

  So I tip the bottle to my mouth once again, intending to take a smaller sip this time. The ghostly man’s arms dart out. He grabs the bottle with one, my chin the other, and he forces the laudanum into me until I’m coughing. He pinches my nose and tilts my head back. After a few seconds, I can’t help it. I have to swallow, or I’ll never breathe again.

  The ghostly man releases me, and I stagger back, colliding with Peony’s flank. The world is starting to spin. My belly rumbles in protest, but I don’t seem to care. I guess it would be good if I vomited it back up. No, no, it wouldn’t be. They might kill Jeff and Tom. They might . . .

  My limbs buzz, and the sky feels wide open, like it’s beckoning for me to spread my arms and fly right up to that glowing moon.

  “Can you sleep on horseback?” Dilley asks.

  “Huh? Horse. Of course. Of course I can sleep on a horse.” I giggle.

  Dilley scowls. “All right, men, get some of this juice into those two. Then we’ll mount up and get out of here. We’re still too close to their mining camp.”

  “Where we going, Frank?” I ask, and it’s the last thing I say before falling to my knees while a hole of blackest night sucks away the moon.

  Chapter Eleven

  I wake to the swaying jolt of Peony’s steps. I’m bent over her neck, hands tied behind my back. My shoulders ache from the strain, like they’re being pulled from their sockets. Rope digs into my thighs. I’m tied to my saddle.

  Confused, I blink against the too-bright daylight. I don’t have a saddle. I lost it in the fire.

  Just in front of Peony and me is a large roan rump, muscles working with each step, tail flicking back and forth. The rider—dark and cloaked, maybe the ghostly man from last night—rides bareback. It must be his saddle we’ve borrowed.

  My throat aches with the need for cool, clear water. I’ve lost my hat somehow, and even though the air is chilly, the sun beats down on my back and neck. Straining against the ropes, I twist as best I can, trying to spot Jefferson and Tom. There. Sorry plods along two horses back, and Jefferson is slumped over her withers. When he shifts in his seat, it feels like my heart starts beating again.

  Apollo walks behind Sorry, with Tom in a similar state—bound, listless, barely awake.

  Those slimy snakes drugged all three of us. I don’t know much about laudanum, but I remember giving the Major a fair bit, right before we cut off his leg. He was conscious again after only a few hours, and I didn’t swallow that much more than he did. Of course, I’m a slip of a girl compared to him, so maybe the laudanum would have a greater effect on me.

  Even so, we can’t have been traveling more than a day. We’re still near enough to our camp that if we escaped, we might be able to navigate our way home.

  I wriggle against my bonds to test them and instantly regret it. My skin is already raw, the rope digging a line of bright pain into my wrists, and my hands ache with cramps. Disappointment is like a rock in my gut. There’ll be no escaping unless I can convince Frank to untie me, and he’s already proved immune to my appeals.

  Peony nickers, sensing that I’m awake.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, sweet girl,” I whisper. “I promise.”

  “Look who just woke up!” Dilley crows from somewhere off to my right.

  The ghostly man reigns in his horse and turns it around. Peony stops short to keep from colliding with it, and I’m jolted forward against the rope.

  He clicks to his roan and trots toward me until our horses are neck to neck. His face is still shadowed by his cowl, but I can make out pale lips so full they’d be the envy of any lady if not for the wicked scar slashing diagonally across them.

  “Time for some more juice,” Dilley says, and the ghostly man reaches beneath his cloak and retrieves the bottle. It’s already half empty, and the liquid is sickly brown in the sunlight. How much did they force into Jefferson and Tom?

  “Please!” I say. “No more. I’ll cooperate. I just need some water. . . .”

  My pleas fall on deaf ears. The ghostly man unstop
pers the bottle, grabs my face with a huge hand, and tips it to my lips.

  It goes down a little easier this time, because my traitor tongue and throat don’t realize it’s not fit to drink, so eager are they for water.

  The ghostly man grunts in satisfaction, then continues down the line to tend to Jeff and Tom.

  The bright sunlight is suddenly pulsing. The air isn’t chilly at all. I was wrong about that. It’s as warm and fine as a summer’s day.

  My limbs go slack. I let myself fall back against Peony’s neck. “I love you, Peony.”

  I don’t know how long we travel. Days, I suspect, because sometimes it’s dark when I wake, and I’m on the ground, tied to a tree instead of a horse. I’m always glad to wake into the dark, because it’s softer on my aching eyes, which are as dry as a desert.

  My belly roils with nausea, and my very bones groan with pain. Dilley feeds us hardtack and coffee, but what I need is water. One night after we’ve made camp, I vomit it all up into the dirt.

  Dilley’s solution is to force more laudanum into me, and it’s glorious. I swallow it eagerly, even though I know it will be worse when I wake, even though my tongue is thick and my lips splitting from thirst. It’s just like when we crossed the desert into California; if we don’t get real water soon, we’ll die.

  It’s morning. I stir long enough to realize the Missouri men are packing up camp. Jefferson and Tom are already tied to their saddles, listing sideways in their drug-induced hazes. I pretend to be asleep still, so the ghostly man won’t come chasing after me with another dose so soon.

  How much laudanum have I had? Too much, for sure and certain. A girl’s head was not meant to feel this god-awful. My bowels cramp like everything inside is as dry as a summer gourd. My muscles ache and my wrists are rope charred and my fingers tingle with numbness.

  Quietly, carefully, I take stock of my surroundings. Fewer pines, more oaks. Rolling hills smothered in golden grass. We’ve come west a ways, well out of the mountains. The river is nowhere to be seen.