Like a River Glorious
Page 72
The golden motes in the air demand to be acknowledged. I know I should make my feet run toward the stockade, but I’m caught by their glory, their warmth. I reach out with my mind in greeting. And the gold comes at me like a swarm of hornets.
Suddenly I’m choking on dust. My companions are, too. We hunch over, coughing.
“Must have been some explosion,” Tom says hoarsely.
Jefferson spits to clear his mouth.
I just stand there, hardly able to breathe, my heart racing. What just happened?
“We’ve got to get moving!” Tom says.
My feet unstick from the ground, and I run from the tent, Tom and Jefferson at my heels.
“Meet you all at the corral,” Tom says, and he dashes off in the direction of the cabin.
Jefferson’s hand on my shoulder spins me around. “Lee,” he says. “I . . .” And he cups my face in his hands and kisses me quick but hard.
Then he’s off running too, toward the barracks, and it takes all my focus to get my feet moving downhill toward the stockade, because I’m terrified and I can’t see hardly anything and I also know with sudden clarity that someday soon I want to start kissing Jefferson and not have to stop.
I skid down the hill in my useless dainty boots, trying to figure out what to say to the guards. What if they don’t believe me? What will I do then?
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.
Suddenly I’m choking on dust. My companions are, too. We hunch over, coughing.
“Must have been some explosion,” Tom says hoarsely.
Jefferson spits to clear his mouth.
I just stand there, hardly able to breathe, my heart racing. What just happened?
“We’ve got to get moving!” Tom says.
My feet unstick from the ground, and I run from the tent, Tom and Jefferson at my heels.
“Meet you all at the corral,” Tom says, and he dashes off in the direction of the cabin.
Jefferson’s hand on my shoulder spins me around. “Lee,” he says. “I . . .” And he cups my face in his hands and kisses me quick but hard.
Then he’s off running too, toward the barracks, and it takes all my focus to get my feet moving downhill toward the stockade, because I’m terrified and I can’t see hardly anything and I also know with sudden clarity that someday soon I want to start kissing Jefferson and not have to stop.
I skid down the hill in my useless dainty boots, trying to figure out what to say to the guards. What if they don’t believe me? What will I do then?
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.
