The Dead Spend No Gold Read online

  A young girl was trampled by a horse, her little body kicked into the air, her limbs flopping, crushed and lifeless. The rage started to drain from his body.

  It must be done! Patrick screamed inside. They need to leave this land!

  A mother came shrieking out of a burning cabin, carrying an infant swaddled in a blanket. She was shot and fell forward into the dust, and the child went tumbling and rolling. The infant sat up, howling, and the chaos continued around it.

  Patrick reloaded twice, firing into the swirling madness that surrounded him, uncertain if he was hitting anything or not. By then, all the structures were on fire, and there was thick smoke obscuring everything. With an empty feeling, Patrick lowered his gun and stared around him. The shooting was trailing off, but only because there were no more moving targets. Bodies littered the ground, all of them Miwok, as far as Patrick could see; and most of them, to his horror, were women and children.

  Then Frank was standing in front of him, looking outraged. Frank pushed him violently. Patrick fell and did not rise. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see that horrified look on Frank’s face again.

  From the ground, he could see Chief Honon’s body, crumpled under the bodies of his wives and children.

  Patrick groaned. What have I done?

  CHAPTER 13

  James’s Journal, Day 1

  I’m going to die here, never to be found. The thought paralyzes me and deadens my limbs. I am not allowed to move around, and I am careful not to make too much noise. Tucker’s journal has kept me sane, my only companion, even if it is only the writings of a dead man.

  The journal describes what I fear will be my end as well. Nevertheless, I have read all Tucker’s entries and am resolved to add my own thoughts to it. There is little doubt I face the same fate, and I too will leave a record of my last days. If anyone ever finds this, add your lament to this tale of woe or pass it along to the next unfortunate victim.

  The small albino “child” that Tucker described is now almost as big as Grendel, but he doesn’t venture out of the cave. He seems to want to leave, but if he tries, Grendel snarls at him, making guttural noises that almost sound like language. Language or not, his intentions are clear. Hrothgar is as much a captive as I am. Perhaps that gives me empathy for him, as strange as he appears to me—and perhaps, in turn, it gives him empathy for me.

  I am certain Hrothgar’s white fur has made Grendel protective of him, for he cannot blend into the wilderness the way Grendel can.

  I will not have a chance to escape again. Hrothgar wouldn’t let me, I’m sure. Hrothgar wants to play, but I cannot indulge him much. I do not have the energy. He kicked what I thought was ball in my direction, and when it wobbled to stop at my feet, I saw it was a human skull. Needless to say, I did not return the “ball.”

  He also tries to speak, and here I do try to indulge him. He can say a few words. They come out garbled, but some I can understand. He is very expressive, in his own way. Most often he is frustrated by my lack of mobility, but when I motion to go outside, he becomes still, staring at me with his wide, red-tinged albino eyes.

  There is no doubt of his intelligence. These creatures are certainly more intelligent than other animals, perhaps even as smart as a young child. Great apes in the zoos of the East cannot form words, though they also have a native canniness that is beyond what any human can learn. If these creatures were in greater numbers, they might be dangerous. But if, as I suspect, they have but one offspring at a time, they are vulnerable to the ever-expanding domain of men.

  They are worth saving, though they may cause my own death. I should hate them, but I do not. They are natural creatures of this world, and we are the invaders.

  It has happened before, or so Beowulf tells us. Long ago, when mankind settled Europe, similar creatures fought them for the territory. Now they are gone from those lands, extinguished. But in the wild and dangerous places of the world, they still exist.

  Tucker’s naming of these beasts was apt.

  They are creatures of myth and legend.

  * * *

  Frank knew from the moment he saw the riders galloping toward him that he wasn’t going to be able to stop them, knew it from the look of vengeance on his brother’s face and the cold, blank expression on his father’s. He jumped away at the last second, barely avoiding being trampled.

  The first gunshot rang out as he rolled into the brush beside the trail. He got to his feet and ran back to the village. He roared in disbelief, waving his arms futilely, but there was no stopping the carnage once it started.

  Chief Honon fell, surprise etched into the lines on his face, and the women running to his side were cut down. It was hard enough to believe that his friends and neighbors were murdering unarmed men and women, but when they started killing the children, Frank almost dropped to the ground and put his arms over his head in denial. Instead, he grabbed a nearby rider by the leg as the man prepared to shoot a fleeing girl. The man kicked out at him and rode off.

  Frank’s mind rejected what he was seeing. He was among them, yet it was as if it was happening far away, to someone else. It was as if he was watching everything from a safe distance, observing it. He couldn’t stop the horror.

  And then one of the riders almost ran him down, and suddenly Frank was in the middle of it again, hearing the screams, the gunshots, the cries and pleas for help.

  He saw old man Partridge, their oldest neighbor, get pulled from his horse by three young Indian boys and get pummeled by rocks and sticks. Frank ran toward them, realizing halfway there that he didn’t know what to do. Partridge, bleeding from the scalp, pulled a knife. Who was Frank supposed to help? If he attacked the boys, he would be joining in the mayhem, but he couldn’t let Partridge be killed.

  I just want it to stop, he thought. I want this all never to have happened. This is a mistake.

  He had known many of these men his whole life; he knew them to be peaceful neighbors. He raised barns with them, attended their weddings, and stood beside them at funerals. These weren’t violent men; yet here they were killing women and children.

  Partridge was still standing, slashing out with his knife, while the three boys fled. A rider coming to Partridge’s aid knocked one of the children off his feet. As soon as the Miwok boy hit the ground, another rancher emerged from the smoke and dust and fired into his chest. The other two youths disappeared into the surrounding wilderness.

  Frank sensed something looming behind him, and he turned to see his father pulling his horse up nearby. There was madness in his eyes, and he was trying to reload his pistol. Frank grabbed the reins with one hand and snagged his father’s foot with the other, desperate to get his attention.

  “You’ve got to stop this!” he shouted. “This is a massacre!”

  It was as if Thomas was hearing a distant voice. He looked down at Frank, confused. Then he looked around. An expression of dawning horror came over his face, and he spurred his horse toward Patrick, who was leading a group of men setting fire to the cabins and tents. Frank ran after him, and saw his father being pulled off his horse by an Indian brave who jumped out of one of the burning cabins.

  Frank ran full tilt into the warrior, and the knife that had been plunging toward his father’s throat went flying into the air. Then Frank and the Indian faced off. Frank waved his arms frantically, showing his palms, begging his opponent to see that he meant no harm, but the warrior gave no quarter. He ran toward Frank, fingers outstretched for his throat. A rifle butt came down on top of the Indian’s head from behind, and he fell. Thomas Whitford was standing there, his rifle in his hands. He walked over to the moaning Indian, pointing the rifle at the fallen man as if to fire.

  “Don’t, Father!’ Frank cried. “He’s down.”

  The old man stepped back as the Indian got to his feet. The warrior looked ready to charge again, but Thomas shook his head warningly and tipped his gun toward the nearby edge of the forest.

  “Get out of here, Roman,” he
said.

  The Miwok looked around. None of his people were still standing. He shouted defiance at the top of his voice, and Frank knew he’d never forget the look of pain and hate in the Indian’s face. Then he sprinted for the trees.

  Quiet fell in the village, sudden and complete but for an occasional shout or cry of pain. Patrick stood nearby, a stunned look on his face. Frank strode toward him and confronted his brother face to face.

  “You damn fool!” he shouted. “You’ve killed innocents!” He pushed Patrick as hard as he could, and his brother fell without even trying to regain his balance. Patrick lay there with his arms over his head.

  The massacre was over.

  Into this silence came excited shouts. Dave Martin and his two followers, Bud Carpenter and George Banks, were chasing a young Miwok boy who had miraculously risen from a pile of bodies. Carpenter shot the boy in the back. Banks hurriedly dismounted and ran toward the still-moving body. Grabbing the boy by the hair, he pulled out his bowie knife.

  Frank ran toward the confrontation. He drew his pistol and pointed it at Banks’s head. “Don’t,” he growled.

  The knife had already begun to cut into the boy’s scalp, and there was blood flowing, showing that the boy was still alive. Banks grew still, but didn’t let the boy go. Frank heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Martin had both of his guns pointed at Frank’s back.

  “What business is it of yours if we take a prize?” Martin growled. Carpenter was busily reloading his own pistol.

  “It’s over,” Frank said. “He’s just a child.”

  “I don’t know,” Martin said. “Looks like he might get bigger.”

  “I swear I’ll blow your head off,” Frank warned when Banks looked as if he was ready to start cutting again.

  “And I’ll blow off yours,” Martin said behind him.

  “Stand down, boys,” came Henry Newton’s firm voice. “We don’t need to take no prizes. We won.”

  Martin looked ready to argue, but Henry’s glare changed his mind. Banks got up, sheathing his knife, and brushed past Frank with a baleful look.

  Martin and his friends rode back to the center of the village, shouting boisterously. Frank noticed that about half the search party was joining in the celebration, but the other half had turned away.

  * * *

  They found Hugh underneath several Indian women. He’d suffered a blow to the head early in the fight, and though it was only a minor wound, he had been unconscious through most of it.

  Hugh rose from the dead like an avenging wraith. The men gathering bodies backed away from his rage. Hugh marched to where Chief Honon lay, stripping off his white man’s clothes until he was clad only in his trousers. He took the chief’s bloody shirt and donned it. Then he turned his back on those with whom he had once longed to belong and stalked into the woods.

  The search party piled the dead in the center of the clearing. There had been few men in the village, and they had been elderly, barely able to stand, much less defend themselves. The ranchers found most of them in the burned cabins: six dead old men altogether. They also found three rifles, only one of which had been fired.

  There were twelve dead women and sixteen children, none old enough to be considered of age. The little bodies, laid in a row, were a bloody reproach of the massacre.

  They found only one dead Indian brave, his knife in Peter Samuels’s chest. The schoolteacher was the only fatality among the white men. This single warrior had also managed to wound Harold Simmons and Alan Percy. They would survive, but Simmons would be crippled for life.

  The dead warrior had been shot multiple times.

  Three Indian women and four children remained alive and inside the boundaries of the village, too wounded to make their escape. The ranchers did their best to save them, but in the night, the two Indians who were the least injured crawled away and left those who were beyond saving.

  The Indian boy Frank had saved from scalping didn’t last the night.

  By the end of the next day, all five remaining Indian captives were also dead.

  The white men had multiple cuts and bruises, most self-inflicted during their killing frenzy. It had been a slaughter, not a battle, and now that it was over, most of the men of the search party were beginning to realize it. Most of them were quiet and subdued, even those who had been celebrating earlier. Patrick sat staring off into space. Thomas Whitford sat at the edge of the clearing with a blank look on his face.

  Only the Newton contingent seemed unrepentant. They weren’t shouting and hollering anymore, but they were strutting around the village like men who had won a great victory.

  * * *

  “The Miwok braves will be returning,” Frank said. “They will want revenge.”

  The men were gathered in a circle, but there was a gap between the two groups, as a gulf was opening between those who were ashamed of what had just happened and those who were feeling righteous glory. Frank was encouraged that the more subdued group was the largest.

  His reminder that most of the warriors still lived and were out there in the woods sent the men into an even grimmer silence.

  “Let them come!” Martin shouted after a time. A few of the Newton ranch hands shouted approval, but it quickly died down. The others stayed silent.

  “What do we do with the dead ones?” Preacher MacLeod asked. “Maybe we should bury them, say some prayers or something.”

  “Savages don’t deserve no Christian burial,” Newton barked. “Let them rot.”

  Martin laughed, and the sound of it echoed through the camp. No one joined him.

  “Let the Miwok men deal with it,” Gerald Persimmons suggested. “They’ll know what to do with their own dead, will give them proper ceremonies.”

  “Who cares?” Jim Perkins broke in. “I’m hurt. I need help.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Carl Dutton agreed. “We should be getting back home. Warn others who might be headed this way.”

  Yes, Frank seethed inwardly. Warn the others that the Indians will want vengeance. Warn them that the red man is dangerous and can’t be trusted. Lie, until your lies become truth.

  He knew this incident would be recounted as a “battle,” not a massacre. In the telling, the fight would have been desperate, the ranchers prevailing only because of their valiancy and bravery. In other parts of California, it would be repeated that the red man was dangerous and must be eliminated to make civilization safe. Wherever the tribes were in the way—for water, land, or gold—similar massacres would take place and similar lies be told.

  And the white race would be triumphant and self-righteous, but the men who knew the truth would wake in the middle of the night, haunted by nightmares of the innocents they had slaughtered.

  “I say we keep looking for them,” Carpenter said. “Give them the same handling we gave the others.”

  “Let them come,” Banks agreed.

  Everyone turned to Newton, sensing that he had the final say.

  “Let’s go home, boys,” he said, sounding reluctant.

  It was midafternoon by the time the ranchers were packed up and organized. It was too late to move camp, but no one wanted to stay at the scene of the slaughter any longer than they had to.

  They were mounting their horses when three travelers walked into the village.

  * * *

  Frank was mounting his horse, facing away from the newcomers, when they arrived. He saw men grabbing their rifles out of their saddle holsters, unmistakably alarmed. He whirled, expecting to see the braves coming at them, seeking vengeance. Instead, three forlorn figures emerged from the trees and then stopped as if stunned. One of the women was dressed as an Indian, and the man had a dark complexion and looked as if he might be Miwok.

  Frank reined his horse around and spurred it, reaching the trio before anyone else. He dismounted before the horse had stopped and staggered the last few steps toward them, barely maintaining his balance. The white woman
had a rifle with a broken stock leveled at him before he’d even reached the ground. He doubted it would even fire, but there was a determined look in her eye.

  He ignored her and turned to face the onrush of men. “Hold up!” he shouted. “They aren’t Miwok!” He didn’t know if that was true, but it was the only thing he could think to say.

  The men of the search party stopped cold, and for a moment, no one moved a muscle. Martin, Carter, and a few others had rifles aimed at the newcomers, but Henry Newton motioned them down.

  The two women and the man were surrounded, but they didn’t look cowed. Frank gave a start as he recognized the white girl. It was the girl from the Donner Party, Virginia Reed.

  He stepped forward. “You might want to stay back,” he warned them. “I…You might not want to see this. There has been a… a battle here.” Frank was suddenly conscious that there was a long row of bodies in the clearing, but only one body draped over the side of a horse.

  Some battle.

  He swallowed, hating to be linked with the carnage. The Indian girl ignored him. She strode to the row of bodies, searching their faces until she found Chief Honon. She dropped to her knees, hanging her head, her hands open at her sides as if she had gone boneless. The young man, who had Indian features but was dressed as a white man, stood behind her, looking as though he wanted to help her but didn’t know how.

  “What have you done?” Virginia hissed. “What happened here?”

  To his surprise, Frank felt defensive. He’d no more wanted what had happened here to happen than they did, but he felt he had to try to explain. “Two of our men were missing,” he said. “One was my brother. We found one of their pistols by the side of the trail. There was blood on it…and an Indian blanket…”