The Dead Spend No Gold Page 13

  A third wolf, with gray fur, ran full speed into the light of the camp, barreling into the wolf charging Feather and locking his jaws on the attacker’s neck. This new wolf was smaller, scrawnier than his opponent, but with the advantage of surprise.

  By then, the first wolf had rolled away from the fire, its fur scorched, leaving an acrid odor of burnt hair. Virginia tried again to bring the rifle around and shoot it, but the blow to the wolf had broken the stock. The weapon misfired.

  She threw the rifle at the creature, which flinched just long enough for Virginia to draw her bowie knife.

  The werewolf circled her, relishing the fight, in no hurry for it to end.

  The other two wolves were still locked in mortal combat as Feather watched them, knife raised. The rescuing wolf had a firm hold on his opponent’s throat, while his eyes pleaded with Feather. As the larger wolf’s head was held in a death grip, she stepped forward hesitantly. The attacker flailed in the clutches of his opponent, but he couldn’t escape as the Indian girl approached.

  The desperate look in her rescuer’s eyes swept away her uncertainty.

  She sprang forward and thrust the knife to the hilt into the pinioned wolf’s neck. It howled, but the sound faded quickly to a gurgle. Finally, it stopped twitching. The smaller wolf let go, covered in blood. Feather watched him warily, still holding the knife, but the wolf was already turning in the direction of the other fight. So did Feather.

  Virginia and the big wolf circled each other. She backed up to the fire, cutting off an angle the big wolf could use to get at her. The creature had been toying with her, but the death of its packmate put an end to the play.

  The wolf tensed. Virginia knew its final lunge was coming.

  It jumped for her throat, no doubt expecting her to scream and run. Three things happened at once. The wolf Jean Baptiste leapt as well and caught the creature’s rear leg. Feather threw her knife with all her might and the blade punctured the werewolf’s side. And Virginia, instead of retreating, shoved her bowie knife deep into the creature’s chest.

  The beast froze in midair, its forward momentum stopped by Jean’s hold on its hindquarters as its life left its body.

  It dropped among them, dead.

  They stood staring at each other, breathing hard. Jean Baptiste was trembling, and he moved out of the firelight. At the edge of darkness, they saw him transform back into human form. He was naked, his body covered in blood. Feather blushed and turned away. Even in the shadows, Virginia saw that Jean Baptiste was also embarrassed. Being trapped with others in a cabin for an entire winter had stolen Virginia’s modesty, but apparently Jean had retained his. Or…something had changed.

  “Jean?” Virginia said, taking a step toward him.

  Jean gathered up one of the blankets and covered himself. He moved into the darkness, then returned fully dressed. He was carrying one of his boots and limping because of a large gash on his ankle.

  “Thou art hurt,” Feather said. Instinctively, she moved toward him, but stopped in mid-stride.

  Jean didn’t seem to notice. He sat down near the fire and examined his wound. “I’ve had worse,” he said.

  Virginia took some linen bandages from her rucksack. She knelt by Jean’s leg and started to bandage his ankle, but she was clumsy about it. Finally, Feather snorted and said, “Let me do it.”

  Virginia moved aside and Feather took her place beside Jean.

  “Why are you here, Jean Baptiste?” Virginia asked. She’d meant to lecture him, but she was unable to keep her voice from shaking.

  “A good thing I was, wouldn’t you say?” he said cheerfully. When Virginia didn’t smile, his face fell. “I followed you because there are others of my kind in town,” Jean explained. “They know who you are, Virginia. You’re…famous among Our Kind.”

  “Our Kind?” Virginia asked.

  “That is what they…we…call ourselves,” Jean said, looking uncomfortable.

  Virginia softened. “It wasn’t your fault, Jean,” she said. “You didn’t ask to be bitten.”

  He swallowed and stared into the fire, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. “I try not to be like them. But sometimes…the hunger comes over me, and…I no longer think like…like a human.”

  Feather stared at him intently, her bandaging forgotten for the moment, but said nothing. Jean Baptiste seemed uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

  “Let me help you,” he said. “My sense of smell and hearing will give you warning long before you realize anything is amiss yourselves.”

  No,” Feather said, turning to Virginia. “He is a white man, and a Skinwalker. Neither are welcome in my village. You are the Canowiki, so you are welcome.”

  “I am half Indian,” Jean burst out. “I pretend to be Mexican so that I won’t be treated as a half-breed, trusted by neither side of my heritage.”

  Virginia nodded, unsurprised. Feather, on the other hand, was rattled. It occurred to Virginia that though she had always thought of the girl as Indian, a white family had raised her. She too had said that she was distrusted by both sides of her heritage.

  “Thou art a Skinwalker,” Feather said, her dilemma resolved by this undeniable fact. “It matters not if thou wast once one of The People.”

  “But I won’t Turn unless there is danger,” Jean pleaded. “I will stay human, I promise.”

  Virginia raised her eyebrows at Feather, as if to say, It is your decision.

  Feather stared at Jean Baptiste for a long moment. “If you trust him, Virginia,” she said finally.

  Relief lit up Jean Baptiste’s face.

  Daylight was still hours away.

  “Make yourself useful, Jean,” Virginia said, picking up the blanket he had cast off and taking it back to her sleeping spot. “You get next watch.”

  * * *

  She awoke to the sound of whispers. Feather and Jean were awake and talking softly. Virginia was surprised. Feather had never been much of a talker. They sounded almost…friendly.

  “Both Bayliss and I were trying hard to win her favor, but she intimidated us both,” Jean was saying.

  “She had never been kissed?” Feather asked. “Never?”

  “Not so much as a peck on the cheek.”

  “Who kissed her first?”

  “Me, of course. Bayliss was just as shy as she was. Bayliss was…” Jean’s voice faltered, as if he was only just remembering what had happened to his friend. “He was a good man.”

  “How didst thou fight them off?” Feather asked. “I heard thou wert plagued by more Skinwalkers than anyone had ever seen before.”

  “Not all of them traveled with our wagon train, but yes, there were more than enough,” Jean said. “I think if it wasn’t for Virginia, none of us would have survived. She kept us together and organized, she and Mr. Stanton. Her father too, when he was there.”

  “But I still do not understand how a few humans could fight off a pack of Skinwalkers.”

  “Because the werewolves miscalculated in leading us to that spot,” Jean answered. “They were starving, just as the humans were. They were weak, disorganized, fighting among themselves. If Keseberg hadn’t created so many factions, and if he’d commanded a concerted effort, he might have killed us…them…all. But he acted as though there was no hurry. He seemed to think the werewolves could have what they wanted when they wanted, without hindrance. Thus, the resistance Virginia and Bayliss and the others put up took them by surprise. It was easier to attack those who denied the werewolves’ existence, or who didn’t know about them.”

  “She is a Canowiki,” Feather said. “I am not surprised at her strength.”

  “A what?”

  “She is a Hunter,” Feather said.

  There was a long silence. “Of course,” Jean said. “I should have realized. My people call such as her Kanati.”

  “I saw it in her immediately,” Feather said.

  “I did not,” Jean sighed. “She was a pampered little girl in her hometown, a littl
e princess. Yet when the moments of greatest danger came, she always knew what to do. You must be right.”

  Virginia grew more uncomfortable with every word. They were acting as though she was some kind of hero, instead of the frightened girl she really was. She groaned and turned over, as if just waking up. Then she sat up, careful not to look either of them in the face so as not to betray that she had overheard them. She imagined them exchanging a glance.

  “You let me sleep?” she asked. The sun was several degrees above the horizon.

  “We will reach my village before dark,” Feather reassured her, smiling. “We will be safe among my people tonight.”

  Virginia nodded, acting as if she hadn’t heard a thing. She looked down at her clothing and realized it was torn and bloody. She pulled out the gingham dress she wore in town and reluctantly changed into it, turning away but not seeking to hide herself.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  * * *

  The wolf pack began trailing them late in the morning. Virginia could see their sleek shapes winding among the trees, at the very edge of the horizon. They were ordinary wolves, she sensed, not werewolves. But why were they following them?

  “I will see what they want,” Jean said. He slipped into the trees to remove his clothes. Feather seemed determined not to look in his direction. And yet…yes, she snuck a glance.

  A short time later, the lean gray shape of Jean’s wolf form returned. He got dressed and joined them. “I don’t speak wolf, exactly,” he said. “But my sense is that they lost their pack leader. All the other males are either too old or too young to take his place. I think they were inviting me to lead them.”

  “What a chance!” Feather laughed. “How canst thou refuse?”

  Jean Baptiste didn’t join her in laughter. “I’ve wondered what would happen if I joined a pack,” he said. “I believe I would forget what it is to be human.” For a time, they walked in silence. Then Jean added, “Such a life seems very alluring.”

  “No one would think less of you,” Virginia said.

  “You don’t think so?” Jean said. He didn’t look at Feather, but he was obviously waiting for her reaction.

  “It would be too easy,” Feather said firmly. “Thou must stay human, even if it is uncomfortable. It is thy true nature.”

  Jean Baptiste seemed grateful for these words. “That’s what I told them. Or signaled to them. Whatever it was I did, they seemed to understand.”

  They continued on, Feather leading, with Jean close behind and Virginia following him, watching her friends. Feather, it appeared, had decided that Jean was more human than wolf. It was a start.

  Lower down in the foothills, on the wide plateau above the valley, they passed wide and shallow lakes surrounded by wetlands. Higher up, they started to see small blue lakes everywhere there was a hollow among the rocky cliffs, with broken boulders extending down into the water and beyond.

  The trail wound around and between these endless and nameless lakes. It was slow going. The path would descend into a gully, run along a dry creek bed and up another hill, then down another steep gully, all the while progressing only a few hundred yards forward. But every time they were tempted to strike out overland, they saw it was impossible; the terrain was covered in deadfall trees, thick underbrush, and broken, jagged basalt rocks.

  They slowly drew closer to the base of Thompson Peak.

  The hills became rocky, and the trail was lined with ledges of broken stone. The air took on a crispness and freshness, as if there was less of it and it was more precious. The trees were getting smaller, and some were precariously perched on broken slopes.

  They reached a small plateau at the top of a particularly steep section of the trail. There was a small meadow there, with a serpentine stream running down the middle of it. For much of the year, this was a mountain flood plain, and it was still green from the summer growth, still wet only a few inches below the surface. Wildflowers filled the meadow, small but colorful, and in their profusion, as dazzling as any garden: purple and red and white blooms, each claiming a strip of the field.

  It was dry enough near the edge of the meadow to camp, but they found the banks of the stream muddy and the grass churned up.

  “This is my people’s fall camp,” Feather said. “I hoped they would be here, but the snows have not yet fallen, so perhaps they linger on the slopes above.”

  She motioned for the other two to wait, strode to the middle of the encampment, and knelt. Then she returned, shaking her head. “Someone else camped here,” she said. “White men. They have broken up the soil and muddied the waters. This will not be useable as a camp until the lands and waters have recovered.”

  “White men?” Virginia asked.

  Feather nodded.

  “Probably miners,” Jean said. “They would use this spot, if they found it.”

  “This far up?” Feather sounded alarmed.

  “There are more miners arriving every day,” Jean Baptiste said. “Eventually, they will fill these hills.”

  “But where will my people go?” Feather exclaimed. “Our life is hard, living so high up the mountain. The game doesn’t stay here when the weather turns cold, and neither can my people.”

  Virginia and Jean didn’t answer.

  “They stay in the summer camp, higher up the mountain,” Feather said, finally. “It is another half day’s journey. We cannot get there before dark.”

  “Shall we camp here?” Virginia asked.

  “The water is fouled,” Feather said. “But there is a smaller meadow a little higher.”

  They crossed the broken ground and climbed the steep hill on the other side. After struggling through the thick undergrowth, they found the smaller level spot undisturbed. A full hour before sunset, they set up camp, too tired to go on. Jean hovered near Feather, helping her whenever possible, but the Indian girl was too worried to notice.

  Just before the sun dropped below the horizon, a series of gunshots rang out. The trio scrambled to their feet, grabbing their weapons, even though it was clear that the shots had come from a distance. It was difficult to tell with all the echoes in the ridges of the mountain, but it seemed to Virginia that the shots were coming from farther up.

  Feather’s face was white, as if all her fears were coming true. Jean reached out a hand to comfort her, but she shook it off. “We have to go,” she said, leaning down and gathering her things.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Virginia said. “The slopes are too steep, too rocky. We can’t see where we’re going.”

  “I know the way,” Feather insisted.

  “But we don’t,” Jean said. “Feather, my foot is swelling. It’s difficult enough to walk in daylight, much less at night.”

  Virginia was thankful he had backed up her instead of Feather.

  Feather said, “Then we shall leave you here. We do not need you.”

  He reached over and took her hand. “Please, Feather. I promise we will leave first thing in the morning.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and she sat back down.

  The firing died away until there was only an occasional single gunshot. Whatever had happened, Virginia sensed it had been short, intense, and one-sided.

  They let the fire go out.

  None of them slept that night. They lay shivering and wide awake in the darkness.

  CHAPTER 12

  Frank mounted up and followed Patrick and their father away from the mining camp with growing apprehension. He recognized the stiff posture of Thomas Whitford’s back as meaning he was angry but holding it in. It would burst out at some unpredictable future moment, raw and unrestrained.

  Patrick was leaning forward in his saddle as if he couldn’t wait to fight.

  The Newton faction was making no effort to hide their feelings. Frank doubted more and more that there would be any discussion with the Miwok. The men had their rifles ready. There was fire in their eyes.

  It was clear to Frank that whoever had attacked the miners
’ camp, they hadn’t been Indians. But who else could it be? Other miners, trying to steal the claim? There was no evidence of that, either. If so, where were they? Why kill to claim-jump and then abandon what you had killed for?

  He remembered the look of certainty in Hugh’s eyes when he blamed his fairytale creature.

  Frank had always believed the wilderness held more wonders and dangers than most men could see or would acknowledge. He’d spent a happy childhood in the company of the natives and saw things through their eyes, realizing not everything could be proven or shown to exist by evidence. Some things simply were. The world was a mysterious and magical place.

  Unlike his brothers, he never lost this sense of wonder, despite being the only one of them to be educated. His brothers turned their backs on these childhood ideas and called them superstitions, treating the Indians as primitive, barely human.

  The search party hadn’t gone far before Frank realized that their number had shrunk. He counted twice to be sure, then spurred his horse to catch up with Patrick. “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “I count twenty-two in our party. We’re missing four men, besides Hugh.”

  They stopped the cavalcade. “Who’s missing?” Henry Newton shouted, as if he was ready to shoot them for deserters.

  “I think it’s the Jordan brothers,” McCarthy said. His ranch was the closest to the Jordan ranch.

  “It’s gotta be them,” called young Peter Samuels, the schoolteacher at Old Springs crossroads, the one member of the party who was not a rancher. He was dressed in his schoolteacher’s clothes and seemed out of place, but was as handy in the saddle as any of them. “The boys always talked about trying gold mining. I’ll bet they stayed behind. They probably think they can just grab the claims.”