Like a River Glorious
Page 56
“I’m showing an interest.” I swallow hard, but I’m not sure if it’s my pride or my reservations. “I’m trying to be the young lady you expect me to be.”
“In that case, I visited Don Antonio de Solá, a ranchero just west of here. He owns one of the largest ranchos in California. We need financing to expand our operation, and he needs more able-bodied laborers. We might come to an agreement.”
I chew on that a moment. If this ranchero has so much money and needs able-bodied laborers, why doesn’t he just hire more?
“You don’t have laborers to spare,” I point out. “Not if you want to expand operations.”
“We don’t. We’d have to fetch some more.”
“How would we . . . Oh.” He’s talking about the Indians. He plans to send Dilley and his men to round them up. No, I correct myself. He plans to send Dilley and his men to kidnap them.
I suspect I do know what my daddy would say. It’s okay to put down a bear if it’s a man-eater.
“That package is for you,” my uncle says, pointing to the bundle at the door. “You’ll begin wearing them immediately. And after you visit the mine today, you will launder that dress.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I say meekly.
I can’t stand to be in his company a moment more. I grab the package and take it to my bedroom.
I’m not surprised to open it and find a new pair of lady’s boots. They are elegant and beautiful, with shiny brass eyelets, silk laces in soft blue, and a tiny rosette sculpted in leather at each toe. I am surprised, however, at how practical and sturdy they seem. They’re made of stiff black leather, polished to shine, and the heel is a little less dainty than necessarily fashionable. They’re the farthest thing from the perfect, flimsy silk things Annabelle Smith back home used to wear. In fact, they’re perfect for a girl who might encounter a little mud or even hop onto a horse.
It’s a thoughtful and wonderful gift, and my skin crawls to think of donning them.
I’ve worn nothing but Daddy’s too-large boots for almost a year now. It’s the only thing of his I have left. I won’t give them up. I won’t.
But there’s no telling what my uncle will do if I don’t wear the new ones.
A smile tugs at my mouth. I know just what to do.
Quickly I shuck Daddy’s boots and retrieve the small bag of gold stashed in the toe. I shove it under my mattress. Not the best hiding place, but it will keep for a short while.
I slip on the new boots. They’re stiff, and they pinch my toes together, but I’ve no doubt they’ll fit perfectly once broken in. Strange how my uncle could estimate my shoe size so easily. Did he measure me in my sleep? I don’t remember him ever staring at my feet.
I lace up the boots and head back into the main room. Hiram is sitting at the table, eating dinner while penning a note. He looks up when I enter.
“Thank you for the boots,” I say.
His smile is as wide and kind and generous as I’ve ever seen. “They’re perfect on you!” he says. “Once you get that hem cleaned up, you’ll be as proper as they come.”
I can’t stand to play at niceness even one second more. “I’m off to the mine,” I tell him, heading for the door. “See you later.” And I swing the door wide, dart outside, and shut it behind me before he can respond.
Wilhelm is standing sentry as usual.
“Mr. Westfall wishes me to pay a visit to the mine,” I say.
It’s possible I’m mistaken, but the look he gives me seems commiserative. He offers his arm, and off we go.
Frank Dilley and several of his men are sitting in the alcove near the barrels of sugar water, playing cards. I frown. Seems to me that if we need to bring more gold out of this mine, there are plenty of able-bodied men right here who could get to work.
“Miss Westfall,” Frank says, with a tip of his hat, and the deference startles me. I can’t remember the last time he addressed me without making fun of me for dressing like a boy.
But his jaw is tight and his eyes mean. He doesn’t like being forced to pay me any respect.
“Dilley,” I say. “My uncle wants me to have a look at the Drink today.”
I don’t want to go back down there. Just stepping inside this dark, musty place makes me think of that poor man, the one who practically got his head blown off right before my eyes. But I have to do this. I have to.
Frank Dilley shrugs. “Whatever the boss says.”
But he doesn’t want to leave his card game, so Wilhelm and I continue alone.
This time, I know the way, so I lead us down the dank, slippery passage. The air moves constantly, almost like a breeze, and the lanterns lining the low ceiling sway and bob, making moving patterns of light along the walls and floor.
The sounds of splashing and clanging pickaxes grow louder as we near the tunnel’s end. We skirt a cart, half full with sopping-wet ore, and its bored burro whose ears twitch irritably at every sound, and then the tunnel opens wide into the hollowed-out cavern. I stop when the toes of my new boots meet the water’s edge.
I glance around for Jefferson or Tom or Muskrat. There are people everywhere, soaked and naked. Abel Topper stands shadowed in an alcove, whip held ready. “My uncle wishes me to do a thorough inspection,” I call out to him, and he nods.
And I don’t even bother to lift my skirts before I wade right into the muck, new boots and all.
I make a show of examining everything—the ceiling, the walls, a lone pickax leaning against a rock, its wooden haft split from so much constant moisture. Gold tingles in the back of my throat. There’s plenty of it down here, but they’ll have to do something about this water to reach it.
Wilhelm has waded in after me; in this gloomy place, his giant form feels like a huge shadow looming over my shoulder. I have to figure out a way to distract him.
I let my witchy sense pull me forward, toward the westernmost wall. At least I think it’s the westernmost; it’s so easy to get turned around down here. It’s an area of the mine that’s been much neglected—Topper seems to be focusing the miners in a different direction—and only one man is working it, doggedly attacking it with a pickax. His strikes are strong and quick, even though his body is thinner than a deer in a drought.
He hears me sloshing through the water and turns. It’s Muskrat.
“In that case, I visited Don Antonio de Solá, a ranchero just west of here. He owns one of the largest ranchos in California. We need financing to expand our operation, and he needs more able-bodied laborers. We might come to an agreement.”
I chew on that a moment. If this ranchero has so much money and needs able-bodied laborers, why doesn’t he just hire more?
“You don’t have laborers to spare,” I point out. “Not if you want to expand operations.”
“We don’t. We’d have to fetch some more.”
“How would we . . . Oh.” He’s talking about the Indians. He plans to send Dilley and his men to round them up. No, I correct myself. He plans to send Dilley and his men to kidnap them.
I suspect I do know what my daddy would say. It’s okay to put down a bear if it’s a man-eater.
“That package is for you,” my uncle says, pointing to the bundle at the door. “You’ll begin wearing them immediately. And after you visit the mine today, you will launder that dress.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I say meekly.
I can’t stand to be in his company a moment more. I grab the package and take it to my bedroom.
I’m not surprised to open it and find a new pair of lady’s boots. They are elegant and beautiful, with shiny brass eyelets, silk laces in soft blue, and a tiny rosette sculpted in leather at each toe. I am surprised, however, at how practical and sturdy they seem. They’re made of stiff black leather, polished to shine, and the heel is a little less dainty than necessarily fashionable. They’re the farthest thing from the perfect, flimsy silk things Annabelle Smith back home used to wear. In fact, they’re perfect for a girl who might encounter a little mud or even hop onto a horse.
It’s a thoughtful and wonderful gift, and my skin crawls to think of donning them.
I’ve worn nothing but Daddy’s too-large boots for almost a year now. It’s the only thing of his I have left. I won’t give them up. I won’t.
But there’s no telling what my uncle will do if I don’t wear the new ones.
A smile tugs at my mouth. I know just what to do.
Quickly I shuck Daddy’s boots and retrieve the small bag of gold stashed in the toe. I shove it under my mattress. Not the best hiding place, but it will keep for a short while.
I slip on the new boots. They’re stiff, and they pinch my toes together, but I’ve no doubt they’ll fit perfectly once broken in. Strange how my uncle could estimate my shoe size so easily. Did he measure me in my sleep? I don’t remember him ever staring at my feet.
I lace up the boots and head back into the main room. Hiram is sitting at the table, eating dinner while penning a note. He looks up when I enter.
“Thank you for the boots,” I say.
His smile is as wide and kind and generous as I’ve ever seen. “They’re perfect on you!” he says. “Once you get that hem cleaned up, you’ll be as proper as they come.”
I can’t stand to play at niceness even one second more. “I’m off to the mine,” I tell him, heading for the door. “See you later.” And I swing the door wide, dart outside, and shut it behind me before he can respond.
Wilhelm is standing sentry as usual.
“Mr. Westfall wishes me to pay a visit to the mine,” I say.
It’s possible I’m mistaken, but the look he gives me seems commiserative. He offers his arm, and off we go.
Frank Dilley and several of his men are sitting in the alcove near the barrels of sugar water, playing cards. I frown. Seems to me that if we need to bring more gold out of this mine, there are plenty of able-bodied men right here who could get to work.
“Miss Westfall,” Frank says, with a tip of his hat, and the deference startles me. I can’t remember the last time he addressed me without making fun of me for dressing like a boy.
But his jaw is tight and his eyes mean. He doesn’t like being forced to pay me any respect.
“Dilley,” I say. “My uncle wants me to have a look at the Drink today.”
I don’t want to go back down there. Just stepping inside this dark, musty place makes me think of that poor man, the one who practically got his head blown off right before my eyes. But I have to do this. I have to.
Frank Dilley shrugs. “Whatever the boss says.”
But he doesn’t want to leave his card game, so Wilhelm and I continue alone.
This time, I know the way, so I lead us down the dank, slippery passage. The air moves constantly, almost like a breeze, and the lanterns lining the low ceiling sway and bob, making moving patterns of light along the walls and floor.
The sounds of splashing and clanging pickaxes grow louder as we near the tunnel’s end. We skirt a cart, half full with sopping-wet ore, and its bored burro whose ears twitch irritably at every sound, and then the tunnel opens wide into the hollowed-out cavern. I stop when the toes of my new boots meet the water’s edge.
I glance around for Jefferson or Tom or Muskrat. There are people everywhere, soaked and naked. Abel Topper stands shadowed in an alcove, whip held ready. “My uncle wishes me to do a thorough inspection,” I call out to him, and he nods.
And I don’t even bother to lift my skirts before I wade right into the muck, new boots and all.
I make a show of examining everything—the ceiling, the walls, a lone pickax leaning against a rock, its wooden haft split from so much constant moisture. Gold tingles in the back of my throat. There’s plenty of it down here, but they’ll have to do something about this water to reach it.
Wilhelm has waded in after me; in this gloomy place, his giant form feels like a huge shadow looming over my shoulder. I have to figure out a way to distract him.
I let my witchy sense pull me forward, toward the westernmost wall. At least I think it’s the westernmost; it’s so easy to get turned around down here. It’s an area of the mine that’s been much neglected—Topper seems to be focusing the miners in a different direction—and only one man is working it, doggedly attacking it with a pickax. His strikes are strong and quick, even though his body is thinner than a deer in a drought.
He hears me sloshing through the water and turns. It’s Muskrat.
