The Dead Spend No Gold Page 18

  “What the…?” Frank exclaimed. He started to flush, wondering what trick these three people—who were practically strangers, after all—were up to.

  “Just wait,” Virginia reassured him.

  Even before he’d doffed his last bit of clothing, Jean Baptiste Turned. His chest expanded as if it was going to explode, then sprouted fur. At the same time, his arms and legs thinned and lengthened.

  Frank stumbled backward with a cry, ready to run for his horse and ride away. He felt a tight grip on his arm and looked down to see Virginia’s hand grasping him.

  “Wait,” she said. He froze, watching, waiting, Virginia gripping his arm with surprising strength.

  Jean continued to transform. He dropped to all fours, and at the same time, his hands and feet turned into paws. His face changed as well, his jaw protruding and his teeth becoming fangs. His eyes grew larger and turned a dark orange, almost red. They stared at Frank with distrust throughout the whole process, never really changing expression even as the man became a beast.

  Then a gray wolf stood there, appraising Frank with his uncanny stare. The creature twisted around to lick the wound on his hind leg.

  The animal was real, but resembled something out of Frank’s nightmares. The glistening, visceral fluid that still covered the beast was that of something at birth, something terrible. The wolf-that-was-a-boy seemed wary, turning his head to one side as if shy about being seen. Yet when it swung its head back, there was a defiant tilt to its snout, and in those dark orange eyes, Frank saw something of the noble soul behind the frightening exterior.

  “All right, Jean,” Virginia said. “He’s seen enough.”

  The transformation was reversed. Frank was just as mesmerized as before, unable to turn his eyes away until the young man stood before him naked. Jean immediately reached for his clothing.

  “You’re a…a Skoocoom?” Frank blurted.

  “Of course not,” Virginia said, exasperated. “He’s a werewolf, what else?”

  “A werewolf,” Frank repeated dully.

  “Yes, obviously,” Virginia said, sounding irritated. “We showed you this to prove that if one mythical beast exists, so might another.”

  “It’s not possible,” Frank said, even though he’d just witnessed it.

  “All your education doesn’t explain that, does it?” Virginia challenged. “Your science can’t describe that which it refuses to believe exists. We’ve shown you this so you’ll believe us. The Skoocoom is dangerous and real.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Frank asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “But Feather has. And I have no reason to doubt. I somehow…just know.”

  “She is a Canowiki,” Feather said, as if that explained everything.

  “A Hunter,” Jean added, having fully dressed. “It is part of her nature to know these things. She fought My Kind at Truckee Lake, which they call Donner Lake now. I was Turned there, but she kept me as a friend, despite the change. I swore not to become a monster like those others, preying on defenseless men and women.”

  Feather reached out and took his arm as if in sympathy and support. Jean Baptiste looked down in surprise.

  “Ts’emekwes are not really supernatural creatures,” Virginia said. “They are as real and natural as you and I—or the werewolves. But they conceal themselves and remain unknown, for mankind is afraid of them. They hide in the shadows. The Skoocoom is no danger to us when left alone. But men have invaded its territory, and it defends its home. It doesn’t care if we believe in it or not, or whether we intend to do it harm or not. It will kill anyone in its territory, even the Indians to whom it’s grown accustomed. We have roused it from its slumber, and there will be no stopping it until we are all gone, or until it is dead.”

  Listening to Virginia, Frank suddenly got the feeling that someone or something was watching them. The forest around them had become quiet. The noise of the search party had receded into the distance, and they were alone on the mountainside.

  “It’s here,” Virginia said quietly.

  “Here?” Frank asked, becoming very still. “What’s here?”

  She held out her hand to shush him. “Don’t speak,” she whispered.

  Virginia extended his gun to him, and he took it. He cocked it and waited.

  The disturbance, when it came, was downslope, out of sight. There was a loud thump, accompanied by a rumbling sound that continued. When the rumbling finally stopped, they heard men screaming.

  Then there was a brief silence, followed by alarmed shouts and a flurry of gunshots.

  Jean Baptiste was already back on his horse, and this time, Feather got up behind him. He spurred the horse down the trail. Frank mounted his horse and held out his hand. Virginia hesitated only an instant, then took his hand, swinging up behind him. He galloped down the trail.

  They reached the copse of trees to find the men of the search party in turmoil. Johnny Hawkins, holding onto a frightened horse, whirled at their approach and fired a wild shot over their heads.

  “Stop shooting!” Frank heard Patrick shout.

  His brother was motioning for the men to create a circle facing outward, and Frank and his companions entered the circle before it closed. Patrick and Thomas were shouted orders. The trail on the far side of the trees crossed a steep cliff face just wide enough for one horse and rider at a time.

  “What happened?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hawkins said. “Something charged the center of our line. I only caught a glimpse of it, but it was huge. It bowled over Perkins and Dutton, horses and all. Tipped them right over the side of the cliff.”

  Frank stared over the precipice. It went straight down for a hundred feet before it ended in talus, a rough mixture of boulders, rocks, and gravel. Then there was another steep drop-off down to the stream far below. Frank was overcome by the vertigo he always had at heights, the sense that something, some malicious spirit, would snatch him and toss him over the edge before he was aware it was happening, and his heart lurched as he stepped back.

  Standing on solid ground, and yet so close to death…this is something that no one who wants to live can ever get used to, he thought.

  There was no sign of the missing men.

  “Whatever…whoever it was, they’re gone,” Frank said. “No one could survive that fall.” He glanced back at Virginia, but she was stone-faced. She gave him a quick shake of her head, as if disagreeing with him.

  He swallowed, remembering the young man changing into a wolf.

  “It was a boulder. It had to be,” Thomas Whitford said. The old man looked frightened, something that Frank had never seen. All the confidence that his stepfather had started this journey with was gone, replaced by guilt and uncertainty.

  “It’s the same thing the savages did to the miners,” Dave Martin said.

  “Just like them to make a sneak attack,” Henry Newton agreed. “Not face us man to man.”

  You mean, like armed men against women and children? Frank wanted ask aloud.

  As they spoke, clouds covered the late afternoon sun.

  “We’ll camp here tonight,” Patrick said. “We’ll explore the path tomorrow, make sure it’s safe.”

  “But what if they come back?” Johnny Hawkins protested.

  No one responded.

  They backtracked a short way into a wooded section to establish their camp. No one said why, but Frank was certain that they all felt better among the shelter of the trees. Thomas assigned two men to stand guard on each of the four sides of the camp, to be relieved twice during the night. Feeling on edge, but secure that the men on watch would rouse them if trouble threatened, the search party settled down to sleep.

  There were no disturbances in the night, but in the morning, two of the guards, Jesse Sherman and Joe Foster, were gone.

  CHAPTER 16

  James’s Journal, Day 6

  Grendel has forgotten me. He doesn’t mean to neglect me, but I am starving to death. The canteen has not
been filled in more than a day.

  Until thirst woke me, I spent most of the last three days sleeping. As my world diminishes to a dark corner of a cave, my dream life seems to be expanding. I dream of my brothers, and the ranch, and everything I love about being outdoors.

  Then I wake to the stench and the darkness, and I can barely move, as if, instead of days of inactivity, I had walked a hundred miles. It makes no sense that I am so tired, or that my muscles hurt so.

  Grendel has been absent for three days, I realize as I empty the canteen of its last drops. With Grendel gone, Hrothgar is more interested in me again. He seems lonely. He walked up to me this morning and said in his deep voice—so strange coming from a being that is no more developed than a child—“Friend.”

  “Friend,” I agreed. I lifted the canteen and tried handing it to him. “I need water.”

  Instead of fetching some for me, he motioned for me to get up and follow him. He held the branches away from the entrance, and I was blinded by the enhanced daylight bouncing off the golden walls. I climbed unsteadily to my feet, using the silky golden wall for support. I never yearned for gold, but the more I am in its presence, the more beautiful I find it. I don’t care if it can make me rich; its lustrous shine and soft, smooth surface is something precious in its own right. Strange that it should be the cause of so much misery.

  I pushed away from the wall, tottered to the entrance, and entered Fairyland.

  That’s how it appeared to me. I left the awful smells of the cave, the lack of movement and air and light, and entered a scene that was the most beautiful in all the world.

  Of course, I’d seen it before, and sights equally as magnificent. California is a beautiful place, a wonderland, unspoiled and pure. But I never really appreciated it before. It was always around me, and I took it for granted. After days in darkness, I saw it with new eyes, like a once-blind man miraculously seeing for the first time.

  The trees in the box canyon seemed so straight and vibrant, each placed right where it should be. The pond beyond was a brilliant blue, the water clear to the bottom, and glittering there, like coins in a fountain, were golden nuggets. The grass was green, untouched by any animal. The cliff walls were as formidable as the ramparts of any castle.

  It is a paradise on Earth, and it belongs to Grendel and Hrothgar.

  I don’t blame them for wanting to protect this. I recalled the mining camps, with their piles of scrap and torn earth and muddy waters. Man destroys that which he loves. I had a vision of the future of California, with all the trees cut down, all the grasses trampled and eaten, all the rivers clotted with mankind’s waste. There would be no room for the wild and the dangerous. I felt ashamed.

  I filled the canteen slowly, then took a long drink. I refilled it, taking my time, hoping Hrothgar wouldn’t force me to return to the cave right away. The sunlight on my face was caressing, soothing. I lay back in the grass and stared at the bright blue sky and white clouds floating lazily across it.

  There’s wind outside this canyon, I thought. But inside it, all is peaceful and still.

  Hrothgar watched me intently, and I could tell he was pleased that I was happy.

  I looked toward the narrow canyon entrance and thought about making a run for it. But Hrothgar is bigger than I am, and even if I was a match for him, even if I had a knife to oppose his fearsome claws, I have no desire to hurt him. He is only doing that which his nature requires of him. I am the intruder here; me and my kind.

  We spent the afternoon peacefully together. I taught Hrothgar two more words, “water” and “sun.” Maybe he’ll bring me out again, if he can only understand how much I need it. Maybe he’ll want to learn other words.

  When the sun dropped below the walls of the canyon, Hrothgar rose and motioned me back into the cave.

  I wondered if death might be preferable. Let it be quick, instead of this slow wasting away, I thought as I lay in the long grass, my eyes closed, but then a glimmer of hope rose in me. Having let me out of my prison once, Hrothgar might be inclined to do it again.

  My reluctance showed in my movements as I rose and followed him to my prison, finally lowering myself to sit in my little corner. Hrothgar stayed in the front chamber of the cave longer than usual. We didn’t interact, simply sat companionably. He spends most of the time in the cave’s dark depths, doing what, I do not know. But this time, he was near me in the cavern when I heard a sound coming from the back.

  I froze, knowing Grendel had not returned.

  There is someone else in this cave! I thought.

  I was suddenly certain that Hrothgar and Grendel were not the only two beasts in this cavern.

  Somewhere in the darkness there was another; perhaps others.

  * * *

  The night the two guards went missing was the last time any of the party slept soundly.

  Preacher MacLeod raised a fuss while the party broke camp.

  “This is God’s judgment upon us for murdering innocent men and women!” he cried. “He will smite us for our hard-heartedness!” He wasn’t really a preacher, but the nickname was apt. No one paid any attention to him, regardless, for he had helped lead the charge into the Indian village, as bloodthirsty as any of them.

  The worst was not knowing what had happened to the missing men, or how they were being picked off. Among the search party, Frank alone had an idea of the foe they faced. It wasn’t Indians. That idea was frightening enough, but they were men; they could be fought. A creature of myth that no one could actually see? That weighed on him. He felt helpless, and that was the most unpleasant feeling he’d ever felt. If he was going to die, he wanted to face his enemy, not suddenly be snuffed out as if he was unimportant to this world, just another victim.

  The group was unnaturally quiet as they packed, eyes darting around, watching the forest as they worked, shadowed by a feeling of unease that none could shake.

  The ranchers reached the edge of the cliff in short order and there, at the head of the trail, they found the heads of the missing men: Carl Dutton and Jim Perkins, who had disappeared in the rock fall, and the two guards, Jesse Sherman and Joe Foster. The heads had been stuck on sharpened stakes. Their faces were frozen in what appeared to be laughing expressions. It made them appear as if they had gone gibbering mad in their last moments.

  “Why would the Indians pose them like that?” Martin asked into the silence. “If I catch one of these savages, I’ll…I’ll…” His voice trailed off as he tried to imagine something worse than what he was seeing.

  I was wrong that it is worse not to know, Frank thought. This is much worse.

  “Can’t we go another way?” Johnny Hawkins asked, staring up at the sheer cliff, trying to see if there was anyone up there. He always had his hand near his holster now, as if ready to draw his gun at any moment.

  “It will take us an extra couple days to get home if we do,” Henry Newton said. “I don’t want to stay out in the wilderness one day longer than I have to. We need to get back to civilization, see if James and Oliver have returned.”

  His forlorn hope was so dismaying that no one said anything for a few moments. Then Hawkins spoke up. “We need to inform the authorities.”

  His statement was greeted with another uncomfortable silence as the men wondered, Tell them what? That we massacred a village?

  “We fought a battle; we lost some men,” Thomas agreed, understanding what everyone else was thinking. “Let the federal troops take care of it now.” The Whitford patriarch had been a shadow of himself since leaving the Indian village, but there was some of the old command in his voice. Meanwhile, Patrick stayed silent.

  “All this proves is that the Indians are as dangerous as we thought,” said George Banks. “We did the right thing. Let’s get going.”

  There were mutters of agreement among the men.

  They will have rationalized all of it by the time we reach home, Frank marveled. It will have all been the Indians’ fault. If we make it home, that is.
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br />   No one moved. Several of the ranchers were staring at the cliff face where two of their fellows had fallen.

  Finally, Fred Carter snorted, “Don’t no one want to go home?” He spurred his reluctant horse forward onto the narrow trail. The rest of the search party watched him instead of following right away. He crossed the open cliff, hugging the mountainside all the while. Reaching safety, he gave a whoop, waving his hat in the air as he shouted to them, “Come on, you cowards!”

  Then it was as if a curtain fell over him.

  Carter only had time to give a brief cry of alarm before a dust cloud obscured him. The rumble of the rockslide reached the rest of the searchers after the rocks had carried the man away.

  When the dust cloud cleared, the path was gone, and a huge part of the hillside had dropped away as if sliced off by a knife. General panic followed, many of the men wheeling their horses, nearly causing others to fall while they retreated to the illusory safety of the trees. Only after they stopped did they realize that they had left the four heads still mounted on the stakes. No one volunteered to go back and give them a decent burial.

  “My God, it’s happening again,” Virginia said in a low voice.

  “What’s happening again?” Frank prompted, turning his head so she could hear him, mounted behind him as she was.

  “Soon it will be every man for himself,” she said. “We’ll be picked off one by one. We need to stick together, to protect each other. No matter what happens.”

  “Agreed,” he said.

  Patrick and Thomas were standing apart from the others. I should be with them, Frank thought. That’s what is expected of me. But he knew that Virginia would not be welcome at their side. He’d never seen men die before, and now…it was as if a lifetime of experience had been condensed into a few days. Gone were his childhood visions of glory in battle against the Indians. Amazing that he’d ever had such illusions, when most of his playmates had been Miwok children. Somehow the savage Indians of his imagination weren’t the same Indians he knew: those were the good Indians. He realized now that Indians were simply other human beings with different customs and history. It was the white men who had painted the picture of the savage.