The Dead Spend No Gold Page 10

  CHAPTER 8

  Virginia left Sutter’s Fort before daybreak, when no one would see her.

  The previous night, she had gone back to the dead werewolf’s room and searched it thoroughly. Under the bed, she’d found his rifle, which she now wore strapped to her back. Game was plentiful in the mountains. She would never again starve, not if she could help it. With the gun, she could provide for herself.

  The hotel was silent as she made her way down the back stairs. She stopped in the kitchen for a day-old loaf of bread and filled her canteen. She paused in the pantry doorway. She desperately wanted more supplies. It was fall; what if the snows came early? What if the miners had overhunted the game? She bit her lip, staring at a barrel of dried beans.

  Finally, she shook her head to herself. She would forage if she must, but she’d not steal from the only white woman in Sutter’s Fort to offer her friendship rather than scorn.

  She sighed and looked around the familiar workspace with a sudden pang of loss. She had been safe here, able to lose her history, memories, and herself for a while. But her past had found her, as she suspected it would for the rest of her life. She would not hide behind a false name, for she was too proud of her family for that. Perhaps a new name would come to her through marriage. She cocked her head, trying to imagine that. It seemed impossible.

  After Mrs. Harrelson had so gently fired Virginia and told her that her destiny lay elsewhere, she hadn’t thought about where she might go next. But now she realized she’d known what she was going to do from the moment she’d killed the werewolf, Strauss.

  She would destroy the werewolves, wherever they might hide.

  Feather called her a Canowiki, a Hunter. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t, but that fight to the death had changed something in her. Until then, she could barely look at the mountains, but now she knew that was exactly where she needed to go. She wasn’t afraid anymore. Maybe Feather was right. Maybe she was a Canowiki. It was the werewolves who should be afraid of her.

  Virginia went to the back door, took a deep breath, and stepped outside.

  Feather was waiting by the loading dock with a pack, hair braided, wearing a leather Indian dress and moccasins. She turned and regarded Virginia with dark, somber eyes.

  Virginia hesitated, wanting to order her friend to stay behind, but she suspected the girl wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she simply nodded to her and went down the steps. She couldn’t keep the smile from her face as Feather followed her into the alley. They left the last houses of town behind them before any of the residents were stirring. A false dawn shone near the mountains, showing crisp morning outlines. The moon was full enough that they could see the road ahead of them. They walked briskly in the cold air until they warmed up, and then the walk became almost pleasant.

  It was unusual for two women to venture alone into the wilderness, especially into the mining fields with hundreds of single men, far from home. But Virginia had heard tell there was safety in those very numbers; that the men watched out for and protected the few women in their company—at least, those who weren’t prostitutes. And even the prostitutes, she had heard, were treated well, for no man wanted to be the one to deprive the others of release. There might not be law in those hills, but there was justice, she knew. Retribution was swift and final for those who broke the common accord. The mob yesterday was proof of that.

  A few hardy women ventured into the mining camps and set up laundries and inns, providing the miners with home cooking and sewing, but most of all, with their own gentle presence. These women were getting rich, Virginia had heard, for miners would gladly pay a large portion of the precious metal they dug up just to have a woman’s company, just to talk and innocently flirt. It seemed strange to Virginia that these men would leave their homes, their women, and their comforts, only to miss them so much that they would pay much of what they had worked so hard to earn just to have a taste of home.

  There were werewolves in the mining fields, she was certain of it. If Feather was right, Virginia was able to sense such creatures, those who were part of both the civilized world and the wild, on the borders of both.

  It was going to be a three-day walk to the foothills of Thompson Peak, and then another two days of hard climbing to reach the Miwok village. The girls walked mostly at night, and only had to leave the road twice to avoid oncoming travelers. The first night was still, and they talked quietly as they walked. Virginia told Feather of her experience at Truckee Lake with the Donner Party. She was relieved to be able to tell the full story—that of the suffering from the depredations of both men and werewolves.

  Feather didn’t question any of it, only listened intently in her quiet way.

  During the day, they found shelter far enough from the road to hide their fire and to sleep, and when they awoke and waited for darkness, Feather told Virginia of the legends of her people. She spoke of Skinwalkers and Skoocooms, who to her people were a natural part of the world, no stranger than wolves or bears.

  “The Skoocoom asks only to be left alone,” Feather explained. “He does not attack my people if we stay away from his territory. We hold ceremonies in his valley and leave tribute. But I fear white men will not be so respectful. The Skoocoom will not be able to find a way to live with the white man, who wants everything for himself. The Skoocoom will have to go farther into the wilderness or perish.”

  “He should do so,” Virginia agreed. “No matter how big and powerful this Skoocoom is, men will see him as a threat and a challenge. They will hunt him down and destroy him, no matter how many men are lost doing it.”

  “A shame,” Feather said. “I saw a Skoocoom once from a distance. He was standing there among the trees, and had I not been looking directly at him, I would never have seen him. Even so, I could scarcely believe my eyes. He was as big as some of the trees, I swear, and as unmoving. I but blinked and he was gone.”

  “What does he look like?” Virginia asked.

  “I was too far away to make out the details,” Feather said. “He had the appearance of a giant man, covered in fur. He had a massive round head, but hardly any neck, and huge eyes and a large mouth. He smelled of decaying flesh, which is only to be expected. For you see, even when the Skoocoom vanishes, he leaves a pungent odor behind, like that of skunk mixed with death. It is believed that they leave this odor when they choose, as a warning.

  “When I went to look at the place where I had seen him, all I found were some tufts of hair caught on the bark of a ponderosa pine near where he had been standing and two large footprints. They looked like human footprints, only broader and much bigger.”

  “Are there many such creatures?” Virginia asked. “I have never heard of them.”

  “Thou hast heard of them,” Feather contradicted her. “The white man has many myths of giants and other fantastic beasts, some of which seem familiar to me.”

  Virginia didn’t argue. After all, a year before, she wouldn’t have believed in werewolves. “I wonder how many are left in the world,” she mused.

  Feather shook her head. “We do not know. For all we know, there may only be one. But other tribes also have tales of these beasts; when the tribes gather from far away to trade, we also trade legends and stories, so that they all become one legend. And the Ts’emekwes is always there, always at the edges of our tales.”

  “Why do you not hunt them?” Virginia asked. The Indians she knew were not shy about killing creatures that threatened them.

  “They leave us alone,” Feather said, “if we stay out of their territory. It is easy enough to ascertain the borders, for they leave their scent. The world is big enough for all of us: at least, it used to be. And also…”

  “Also?” Virginia prompted.

  “Even the bravest warriors have not been able to defeat the Skoocoom. They move faster than an arrow.”

  “Can they be killed?”

  Feather stared at her. “Thou art a Canowiki. Hunters such as thee have fought battles with the Ts’em
ekwes in the past, but no ordinary warrior would dare try. The Skoocoom cannot be found if he doesn’t wish to be. And if he decides to hunt you, he will be upon you before you are aware of him. No…we have learned that it is best to leave them alone. These white men who dig into the earth like prairie dogs…I fear they do not understand that.”

  “They don’t believe in creatures they can’t see,” Virginia said, “or in which they don’t wish to believe.” Even when the werewolves had come out of hiding to hunt the Donner Party, most had refused to accept what they were seeing. Only a few hardy souls, such as Stanton and her father, had been willing to stand up to the monsters.

  And yourself, came a small thought. The thought grew bigger, and the memories of how she’d felt while trying to defend her friends and family washed over her, filling her with strength.

  This is what it means to be the Canowiki. It’s having the willingness to fight the unknowable.

  “Take me to your village,” Virginia found herself saying before she knew she had made the decision. “If I can help you, I will.”

  Feather’s eyes glowed in the setting sun as she clasped Virginia’s hands in hers, her voice taut with gratitude. “Thank you, Virginia.”

  She was still smiling as she hefted her pack and led Virginia back onto the road in the gathering dark.

  * * *

  They heard the town long before they saw it. Even from the top of the pass, where the road led past a small waterfall into a steep gorge, they heard the sounds of men celebrating the end of a long, hard day of digging. Flickering beacons of light at the bottom of the valley reflected off the pool of water where the locals had dammed the creek. There was a single two-story building in the little hamlet, and it was lit up brightly.

  “That building is new since I left,” Feather observed.

  “How much farther to the Miwok camp?” Virginia asked, eyeing the town with a sense of foreboding. She had the feeling that something was not right.

  “Two days, at least,” Feather answered. Both of them knew what that meant. Their supplies were gone, and they were already hungry. Going another two days without food and taking the risk that they could find game along the way was going to be chancy. Virginia felt the beginnings of panic rise at the thought of running out of food.

  “We’ll explore the fringes of the town, maybe knock on some doors,” she decided. “You stay hidden.”

  Feather nodded. An Indian at the door would probably not be welcome in these parts.

  They descended into the valley. Even here, they moved to the side of the road when they saw two men walking toward them, but the men were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t notice the two girls.

  “I spent all I had to get here,” one of the men was saying as they passed. “I promised my wife I’d find enough gold to keep the farm, but I’m returning broker than when I left.”

  “Me too,” said the other man, who was even younger-looking than his young-looking friend, “but at least I’m returning with my health. Some of those men looked completely broken down, and I don’t think they were much older than I am.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments.

  “Maybe we should wait till morning,” one of them said.

  “I’m not staying in that town another moment longer. There’s something wrong there…I can feel it.”

  “You see anyone strike it rich?” the first man asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” said the other in a subdued voice. “I did. Son of a bitch worked no harder than I did. Just got lucky.” They said no more, just kept trekking resolutely up the road, away from the mountains, toward the coast, where they would have to work for a time to earn passage East.

  Most of these miners don’t have that much sense, Virginia thought.

  She’d seen dozens come through the hotel, and only a few found enough gold for more than a few nights of rest and relaxation and home-cooked meals before heading back to the grind again. It was possible the ones who were making real finds weren’t staying on at Mrs. Harrelson’s modest hotel, but Virginia doubted it.

  Why do men continued to believe that riches are just over the next hill? she wondered. Why do men believe in shortcuts? Many of the nearby ranches and businesses needed good, honest labor…but that wasn’t the way to get rich.

  When they got to the hamlet, the girls walked toward the center of the street. They heard a rustling near one of the rough buildings at the edge of town and saw a man urinating in an alley. He glared at them with blurry eyes. They kept going and reached the main street almost at once. The buildings toward the middle of town were more substantial: a hotel that looked closed. A hardware store. Across the street from the largest building in town, where all the noise was coming from, they found the general store.

  It was closed.

  “Do you think we could rouse someone if we knocked?” Virginia asked in a whisper. She pulled out the clump of money Mrs. Harrelson had given her. She hadn’t even bothered to count it, but she knew it was more money than she’d ever seen before. “If I show them how much I have?”

  “Won’t do you no good,” a rough voice answered. Virginia jumped and stifled a scream. She shoved the money back in her pocket.

  A man was leaning against the side of the store, smoking a cigarette. He pushed off the wall and lumbered toward them. He was huge, looming over them. Virginia sensed that he was fighting the impulse to grab her and take her money.

  “Pickett’s brother struck it rich up on Sisters Mountain,” he said, his words slurring. “The whole family packed up and left a few days ago. Sold everything to Bidwell’s Bar.”

  Virginia resisted the urge to step back. Feather edged her way up to stand beside her, as if in support, as if either or both of them could resist this man if he decided to rob them.

  “Where is this Bidwell’s Bar?” Virginia asked, keeping the fear out of her voice.

  The man raised his eyebrows. Obviously, he’d expected a different reaction. “Why, that’s the name of the whole town. It also refers to that noisy place across the street there. But I think even a brave girl like you might hesitate to go in there. And I ain’t got nothing against Indians, but don’t let them see your servant there.”

  Virginia almost objected. She felt Feather stiffen beside her, but the Indian girl managed not to say anything. “Is there no one else who can sell us a couple of days’ worth of food?” Virginia asked.

  “Nah,” the man said. “Bidwell’s bought up the town. He can charge what he wants. I would tell you to move on, except…if you’ll pardon me saying…I saw how much money you have. That might be enough to buy you few days’ worth of supplies.”

  Virginia felt her heart sink. The man wasn’t lying, she could tell.

  “Men are paying for a steak with a gold nugget, Miss. Even all your money will only go so far here. But I tell you what. You give me that money, and I’ll go across and fetch those supplies for you.”

  Virginia hesitated. The man looked and sounded rough, but if he was dishonest, he could have simply taken the money from her. Besides, the bills Mrs. Harrelson had given her weren’t going to help her much in the mountains. Just then, her stomach growled in hunger, making the decision for her. Reluctantly, she brought the money out. She pulled a few bills off the top and put them back in her pocket. Then she handed the rest of her cash to the hulking stranger.

  Without another word, he turned and walked across the street, and entered the saloon.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tucker’s Journal, Day 25

  I could fight the hunger no longer; I finally gnawed on one of the putrid pieces of gristly raw meat that Grendel leaves me each morning. It made me violently ill. Hrothgar hovered over me all day, worriedly patting me with his big hands. He responds to his name now, and has learned the words for “eat” and “play.”

  “Play!” he says, pushing me roughly. “Play!”

  I try to indulge him, but I can barely move. The adult came at daybreak, and I am sure i
t is intelligent, that it knows I am dying. It either doesn’t care or doesn’t know what to do about it. Probably both.

  I still think of Grendel as it, but young Hrothgar is a he—a child, another thinking being.

  This morning, he pulled at my arm, still impatient for me to play with him, and my shoulder nearly separated. He let go when I cried out, but he was disappointed.

  In the twenty-five days I’ve been here, Hrothgar has grown, and I have withered. He does not know his own strength, but I am so weak that it probably doesn’t matter. It is difficult even to hold this stub of a pencil. But I’m determined to leave a record, as well as a confession. Let this be my last testament. I will not go to my death without telling you the shameful memories that haunt me. I’ve been unable to forget, but neither have I been willing to admit to them. It is the atrocity that follows that pushed Kovac and me away from the other miners and into the mountains:

  We hadn’t travelled far from San Francisco before we fell in with a group of fifteen men who promised us they knew the gold fields. On that first morning, we came across a family of Indians on the road. A young boy, not even five years old, rode a pony; his mother and father and older sister walked, carrying baskets on their heads. Before I knew what was happening, I heard a gunshot, and the young boy slumped over and slid off the pony. The other Indians were too shocked and surprised to run, and more shots rang out.

  Our party rode on, not even bothering to move the bloody bodies off the road.

  “Let that be a warning to the savages,” said Harris, the unofficial leader of the men. He was a slender, consumptive-looking fellow, but we learned that with a gun in his hand, he was more dangerous than anyone we had ever met. We further learned this group of men considered themselves to be a martial troop, and killed any small groups of Indians they came across, anywhere they could surprise and massacre them. Harris had come from farther south in the state and told us that such vigilante posses (he called them “civil guards”) were taking action everywhere and that the natives were on the run.