Walk on Earth a Stranger
Page 8
Strange how you don’t notice things until they’re taken away.
Chapter Five
Finally, Jefferson peeks his head out the doorway and says, “I think it’s clear.”
I slide off Peony and loop the reins of both horses through the porch rail. “Let’s get this done,” I say, and my voice is heavy with the knowledge of what I won’t find.
Jefferson makes Nugget stay outside. She whines as the door shuts behind us, but I feel better knowing she’s out there keeping an eye on things.
“This way,” I say to Jefferson, and I lead him into the kitchen. The pine table I used last night to clean the Hawken rifle is askew, the braid rug beneath it wrinkled. One of the four chairs lies toppled on its side.
Jefferson helps me lift the table. I get down on my knees and peel back the rug to reveal two floorboards that almost-but-not-quite match the others.
“This isn’t a very good hiding place, Lee,” Jefferson says over my shoulder.
Tears are already streaming down my face. I push down on the boards just so, and the opposite ends pop up so I can grab them. “Guess we never figured on actually getting robbed.” I reach into the hole.
“Anything?”
“It’s gone,” I say in a dead voice. I pull out an empty flour sack, the one we were going to start filling next. It’s still folded into a neat square.
“What’s missing?”
“A three-pound flour bag.”
“Of gold?”
“Yes.”
“Like that one there? Except full?”
“I said yes.”
“Oh, heavens, Lee,” Jefferson says. “Three pounds of flour . . . That would be the same as . . .”
“Almost six pounds of gold.” I sit back on my heels, holding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. “That bag was worth well over a thousand dollars.”
Enough to take a whole family to California, easy.
“Where did you find it all?” Jefferson’s voice is filled with breathless wonder, and maybe a little anger.
“Here and there,” I say, avoiding his gaze. The lie sets ugly in my heart. “We got lucky.”
“And now it’s gone.”
I wipe my eyes quickly and get to my feet. “I have something for you.”
“What?”
I close my eyes and turn in place. “Just have to remember . . .” There. On the shelf above the box stove, where Mama’s wrapping-paper flowers sit in their plain wooden vase. I walk over, upend the vase, and the nugget drops into my hand. I hand it to him. “This one is yours. I . . . chanced upon it after I chased a white tail onto your claim.”
He grips the nugget tight, saying nothing. He’s still staring at the empty flour sack on the floor by the hole. It’s stamped CULBERT & SONS, LTD. FLOUR MILLERS.
“We had to import sacks special from England,” I say. “To get the small size. Daddy hoped people might think they were really filled with flour at first glance.”
Jefferson tears his gaze from the sack to stare at my face instead.
“Please say something, Jeff. Daddy was going to take it all to the Charlotte mint, where no one knows who we are, but he got so sick. It’s just been sitting here for more than a year and . . . Well, Mama said people would hate us for being too rich too quick. I couldn’t stand it if you were one of them.”
Jeff shakes his head. “It’s not that.” Finally, he shoves the nugget I gave him into a pocket. I thought he’d forgotten it.
“Then what is it?”
He squats down beside the empty sack, brushes the top with a finger. The fever burns in his eyes. He’s picturing it full of sweet, raw gold. All of a sudden, he snatches his hand back like he’s bee-stung.
“Let’s go get Sheriff Weber,” he says. We head out the back door, where Nugget greets us with a little yip.
“Don’t tell!” I say, and he freezes on the porch step. “About the gold, I mean. People might think there’s more. They might . . .”
His shoulders rise and fall with a breath. “If you say so.” Before mounting up on the sorrel mare, he turns to me and adds, “But, Lee? You could have trusted me.”
I nod, even though shame makes the back of my throat hot. There’s so much he still doesn’t know. So much I can’t say.
“We should grab a few of your things,” Jefferson says. “I’m sure someone in town would take you in while—”
“No.”
“Lee—”
“I’m getting help, and I’m coming right back. This is my home, Jeff.”
He frowns. “Promise me you’ll keep your guns handy. I’ll stick around as much as possible.”
“Thank you.”
As we ride toward town, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us. Maybe it’s the continued dead silence of the woods, or the way Nugget keeps her ears perked and sticks so close to Peony that she nearly gets stomped.
Not that it matters. Anyone who’s watching is wasting his time. I’ve already lost everything.
News of the murder sends the town of Dahlonega into a frenzy, and the next few days are a blur. I have visitors every waking minute, which makes me feel a lot safer but puts a terrible ache in my head. Everyone’s condolences have an edge of excitement to them. When Mr. Cooper, superintendent at the U.S. Mint, lends all his assayers and other staff to Sheriff Weber for a search of the woods around town for the murderer, it becomes almost like a holiday.
Mama said to run, but I’ve no place to go. This is my home. I’ve worked just as hard to build it up as Mama or Daddy ever did, and I won’t let anyone scare me away. So I sit in my house for days, pretending to be grateful for company, waiting and waiting for news that doesn’t come. I keep the five-shooter close by and ready, breaking a rule about loaded guns in the house. I hope to hear that bandits have been raiding the mountains, that mine isn’t the only house they hit, because that would mean I’m probably safe now. It would mean Mama wasn’t trying to warn me about anyone in particular.
The search of the woods reveals nothing. Sheriff Weber asks around at Mrs. Choice’s hotel and Free Jim’s store, where they say a steady stream of strangers have been passing through all week on their way to the gold fields of California. He eventually concludes that the awful deed was perpetrated by bandits looking for Lucky’s secret stash—which I assure him never existed—and that they’re probably well west of here by now, along with all the other good-for-nothings.
I’m not convinced he’s right, and it makes me a little sick for my parents’ murders to be put to rest so easily. But God help me if I’m not a little relieved too. I don’t know what I’m going to do next or how I’ll run a homestead all by myself. Maybe after the funeral I’ll finally have time and space to think it all through, away from prying eyes and wringing hands.
Everyone inquires politely about my parents’ relations, as if somehow their asking will conjure up the kin everyone knows I don’t have. Mama’s family cut her off when she married my daddy, and she hasn’t talked to them since moving away from Boston. Daddy has no blood left but his brother, Hiram, a fancy lawyer way down in the state capital of Milledgeville. In a place where family connections spread out like wild grapevines covering the trees, I’m all alone.
Chapter Five
Finally, Jefferson peeks his head out the doorway and says, “I think it’s clear.”
I slide off Peony and loop the reins of both horses through the porch rail. “Let’s get this done,” I say, and my voice is heavy with the knowledge of what I won’t find.
Jefferson makes Nugget stay outside. She whines as the door shuts behind us, but I feel better knowing she’s out there keeping an eye on things.
“This way,” I say to Jefferson, and I lead him into the kitchen. The pine table I used last night to clean the Hawken rifle is askew, the braid rug beneath it wrinkled. One of the four chairs lies toppled on its side.
Jefferson helps me lift the table. I get down on my knees and peel back the rug to reveal two floorboards that almost-but-not-quite match the others.
“This isn’t a very good hiding place, Lee,” Jefferson says over my shoulder.
Tears are already streaming down my face. I push down on the boards just so, and the opposite ends pop up so I can grab them. “Guess we never figured on actually getting robbed.” I reach into the hole.
“Anything?”
“It’s gone,” I say in a dead voice. I pull out an empty flour sack, the one we were going to start filling next. It’s still folded into a neat square.
“What’s missing?”
“A three-pound flour bag.”
“Of gold?”
“Yes.”
“Like that one there? Except full?”
“I said yes.”
“Oh, heavens, Lee,” Jefferson says. “Three pounds of flour . . . That would be the same as . . .”
“Almost six pounds of gold.” I sit back on my heels, holding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. “That bag was worth well over a thousand dollars.”
Enough to take a whole family to California, easy.
“Where did you find it all?” Jefferson’s voice is filled with breathless wonder, and maybe a little anger.
“Here and there,” I say, avoiding his gaze. The lie sets ugly in my heart. “We got lucky.”
“And now it’s gone.”
I wipe my eyes quickly and get to my feet. “I have something for you.”
“What?”
I close my eyes and turn in place. “Just have to remember . . .” There. On the shelf above the box stove, where Mama’s wrapping-paper flowers sit in their plain wooden vase. I walk over, upend the vase, and the nugget drops into my hand. I hand it to him. “This one is yours. I . . . chanced upon it after I chased a white tail onto your claim.”
He grips the nugget tight, saying nothing. He’s still staring at the empty flour sack on the floor by the hole. It’s stamped CULBERT & SONS, LTD. FLOUR MILLERS.
“We had to import sacks special from England,” I say. “To get the small size. Daddy hoped people might think they were really filled with flour at first glance.”
Jefferson tears his gaze from the sack to stare at my face instead.
“Please say something, Jeff. Daddy was going to take it all to the Charlotte mint, where no one knows who we are, but he got so sick. It’s just been sitting here for more than a year and . . . Well, Mama said people would hate us for being too rich too quick. I couldn’t stand it if you were one of them.”
Jeff shakes his head. “It’s not that.” Finally, he shoves the nugget I gave him into a pocket. I thought he’d forgotten it.
“Then what is it?”
He squats down beside the empty sack, brushes the top with a finger. The fever burns in his eyes. He’s picturing it full of sweet, raw gold. All of a sudden, he snatches his hand back like he’s bee-stung.
“Let’s go get Sheriff Weber,” he says. We head out the back door, where Nugget greets us with a little yip.
“Don’t tell!” I say, and he freezes on the porch step. “About the gold, I mean. People might think there’s more. They might . . .”
His shoulders rise and fall with a breath. “If you say so.” Before mounting up on the sorrel mare, he turns to me and adds, “But, Lee? You could have trusted me.”
I nod, even though shame makes the back of my throat hot. There’s so much he still doesn’t know. So much I can’t say.
“We should grab a few of your things,” Jefferson says. “I’m sure someone in town would take you in while—”
“No.”
“Lee—”
“I’m getting help, and I’m coming right back. This is my home, Jeff.”
He frowns. “Promise me you’ll keep your guns handy. I’ll stick around as much as possible.”
“Thank you.”
As we ride toward town, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us. Maybe it’s the continued dead silence of the woods, or the way Nugget keeps her ears perked and sticks so close to Peony that she nearly gets stomped.
Not that it matters. Anyone who’s watching is wasting his time. I’ve already lost everything.
News of the murder sends the town of Dahlonega into a frenzy, and the next few days are a blur. I have visitors every waking minute, which makes me feel a lot safer but puts a terrible ache in my head. Everyone’s condolences have an edge of excitement to them. When Mr. Cooper, superintendent at the U.S. Mint, lends all his assayers and other staff to Sheriff Weber for a search of the woods around town for the murderer, it becomes almost like a holiday.
Mama said to run, but I’ve no place to go. This is my home. I’ve worked just as hard to build it up as Mama or Daddy ever did, and I won’t let anyone scare me away. So I sit in my house for days, pretending to be grateful for company, waiting and waiting for news that doesn’t come. I keep the five-shooter close by and ready, breaking a rule about loaded guns in the house. I hope to hear that bandits have been raiding the mountains, that mine isn’t the only house they hit, because that would mean I’m probably safe now. It would mean Mama wasn’t trying to warn me about anyone in particular.
The search of the woods reveals nothing. Sheriff Weber asks around at Mrs. Choice’s hotel and Free Jim’s store, where they say a steady stream of strangers have been passing through all week on their way to the gold fields of California. He eventually concludes that the awful deed was perpetrated by bandits looking for Lucky’s secret stash—which I assure him never existed—and that they’re probably well west of here by now, along with all the other good-for-nothings.
I’m not convinced he’s right, and it makes me a little sick for my parents’ murders to be put to rest so easily. But God help me if I’m not a little relieved too. I don’t know what I’m going to do next or how I’ll run a homestead all by myself. Maybe after the funeral I’ll finally have time and space to think it all through, away from prying eyes and wringing hands.
Everyone inquires politely about my parents’ relations, as if somehow their asking will conjure up the kin everyone knows I don’t have. Mama’s family cut her off when she married my daddy, and she hasn’t talked to them since moving away from Boston. Daddy has no blood left but his brother, Hiram, a fancy lawyer way down in the state capital of Milledgeville. In a place where family connections spread out like wild grapevines covering the trees, I’m all alone.
