The Dead Spend No Gold Page 19

  “We can’t stay here,” Patrick said. He was standing in the middle of the clearing, trying to get everyone’s attention. “We need to get as much distance from here as possible before dark.”

  The search party reassembled reluctantly and followed the path away from the cliffs. It would mean a half a day of backtracking and a day’s journey out of their way, but for once, there was no argument. In another day, their road would lead them to the lowlands and other white folk, but for now, they faced the constant threat of attacks by Indians and other, unknown beings.

  Frank knew when they were nearing the high lakes, for insects attacked them in dark, swirling clouds, making everyone, man and beast alike, miserable. When they saw the green valleys in the distance, they started to relax, probably thinking the Indians wouldn’t dare follow them this far. As if to rebuke them for letting down their guard, it began to rain hard. The men put on their slickers and rode on. They were recognizing landmarks now. They were close to home. Frank could sense the men’s spirits improving.

  When the ranchers set up camp, they again assigned two guards to each side of the campsite. They were determined to remain watchful through the night. Frank served his turn on watch in the middle of the night, and never once got sleepy or sloppy. Each time he was the slightest bit inclined to nod off, he remembered the four heads on stakes, their laughing yet horror-filled expressions, and he snapped awake.

  Incredibly, they found one of the guards, Bud Carpenter, asleep in the morning, sitting with his back against a tree. When they woke him and asked about Ben Torrance, his fellow guard, he couldn’t tell them anything.

  “I don’t understand,” he kept saying. “I couldn’t have fallen asleep. I must have been knocked on the head.” He felt his scalp and but found no bump or bruise. “I couldn’t have fallen asleep!” he insisted.

  They broke camp quickly. Just outside the clearing, they found Torrance, flayed and spread out on a boulder, with the same insane, grinning expression as the other dead men.

  “He waits until they’ve frozen in death, then sets their features,” Jean Baptiste said. He was talking to Virginia, Feather, and Frank, but some of the nearby ranchers heard him, and word quickly spread through camp, though “he” became “them” in the retelling. Most of the men were still convinced it was the Miwok hunting them.

  They grew angrier. Rifles and pistols were kept close at hand. Frank prayed no Indian would have the misfortunate to happen to appear. He or she would be shot, regardless of the circumstances.

  The ranchers made camp that night with the foothills and the mountains behind them, most of them certain they had escaped the danger.

  “Where’s Jeffers and Banks?” someone asked as they were making dinner. Silence fell as the searchers realized that none of them had seen the two men since setting out earlier that day.

  They spent the next half hour searching the surrounding area, shouting the missing men’s names, before gathering around the campfire again.

  “They were riding right behind me,” Hawkins said. “At least, I thought they were…”

  “How’s this possible?” Percy said. His wounds from the Indian village were getting worse, and it seemed all he did was complain. Now his voice had a tinge of panic. “How could they disappear without any of us noticing?”

  “Maybe they just lit out,” Partridge said. “Skedaddled. Banks always was a big talker. The bigger the talker, the smaller the man, I always say.”

  “You shut up,” Martin said, bristling. “George is a friend.” Carpenter stood beside him, equally angry.

  Partridge just shrugged, as if to imply Birds of a feather...

  “No,” McCarthy spoke up. “My man Jeffers would never leave without telling me. Something else happened.”

  “Maybe the Indians have a spy,” Martin said. “Maybe someone’s helping them.” Several of the men cast glances in Feather’s direction. “I’ll say it if no one else will,” Martin continued. “We have one of the enemy among us.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Frank said.

  “We should bind her, at least,” Carpenter said. “Make sure she stays put.”

  Frank got to his feet, his hand drifting down toward his gun. The other men stared at him. “No one is touching her,” Frank said. “She’s been with me the whole time. She’s in as much danger as the rest of you.”

  Martin turned and faced him, and with a sinking feeling, Frank saw the man’s hand fall to his own gun with a practiced motion.

  Frank would never know whether Martin would have actually drawn on him, because to his surprise, Patrick came to Feather’s defense. “How would she be telling them anything? And why?” he said. “They know where we are; they don’t need a spy.”

  “But how can we trust her not to slit our throats in the middle of the night?” Carpenter asked.

  Frank scoffed. “Look at her,” he said. “If you’re afraid of such a little thing, then you should have stayed home. You don’t belong among us men.”

  The ranchers backed down, more afraid of scorn than of Feather. Besides, they didn’t really believe the small Indian girl had anything to do with what was going on. It was anger talking, and bluster, and she was a convenient target.

  Nevertheless, when Frank sat down again, Virginia put her hand on his arm and said, “Thank you, Frank.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed as if her hand lingered on his arm longer than was necessary to express her thanks. He decided then and there that if he escaped this terrible trap, he would court her. To hell with the Donner Party. And to hell with what his brothers and Father wanted.

  Most of the men didn’t bother setting up tents that night. They sat wide awake, in a circle, their backs to each other and their rifles under their rain slickers, trying to keep their powder dry. Despite the danger, or perhaps because he was exhausted from the constant vigilance, Frank found himself nodding off. When he did, he drowsily imagined that the unknown creature was crouched right behind him. He woke with a start, his heart pounding, and looked behind him; then he became equally certain that it was in front of him, always there, always waiting, waiting to kill.

  Virginia squeezed his arm again, as if reassuring him, but when he looked down at her, she too was staring off into the darkness. The rain continued to pour down on them.

  Morning dawned, and never had the search party witnessed a more welcome sight. Frank rubbed his hands over his face, grimacing at the length of his stubble, and did a quick head count. Fifteen.

  Fifteen of them were left, counting the three newcomers. Fifteen out of the twenty-three who’d left the Miwok village. When they included the Jordan brothers among the missing, more than half of their original search party was gone. From their faces, Frank guessed that the others were having similar thoughts. The men looked around at each other as if counting who wasn’t there, as if suddenly realizing how many of their friends were simply gone. They had yet to see who was attacking them, much less being able to fight.

  The rain let up and the ranchers could hear the river in the distance, giving them renewed hope. There was little to pack; no cook fires, no tents; no one had even bothered pulling out blankets to warm themselves. They were saddling the horses when Johnny Hawkins suddenly cried out. There in the mud, just outside the camp, were two giant footprints filled with water, with the same five toes as a man’s but twice as broad and twice as long.

  “That’s impossible,” Persimmons said.

  “The water must have made the footprints bigger,” Hawkins muttered, “…somehow.” But the outlines of the prints were as sharp and fresh as if the creature had made them but a moment before.

  When they reached the river, they found that instead of the usual quiet flow, it was a raging torrent.

  It must have rained even harder in the mountains, Frank thought. There is no chance that we can cross that.

  “What now?” Martin shouted. He raised his head and let out a shout of frustration.

 
; From far in the distance came an answering bellow, a booming cry, impossibly low and deep.

  Hawkins paled. “What was that?”

  No one answered. Those who knew weren’t saying. Frank glanced at Virginia, trying to catch her attention.

  Maybe it’s time to tell them, he wanted to say. They’ll believe us now.

  But Virginia didn’t return his glance. She was staring at the river.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She turned to him with a forlorn but determined look. “I must prepare myself for darkness,” she said. “He is coming.’

  “No sense standing here all day,” Patrick shouted. “Stark’s Crossing is a day to the north. There’s a ferry there.”

  It was the only solution, but they were uneasy.

  “It’s like every mile we travel, we get farther away from home,” Carpenter complained.

  “The rate we’re being picked off, won’t be anybody left to make it home,” McCarthy added.

  The party started north along the muddy banks of the swollen river.

  “He shall not let anyone escape alive,” Feather said quietly, so that only Frank, Jean, and Virginia could hear her. “The god, Ts’emekwes, is angry.”

  “He is not a god,” Virginia said. “He can be defeated.”

  Feather blushed, but didn’t retract her statement.

  Virginia was grim. “I must confront him.”

  “You?” Frank asked, looking down at the young girl who was a full head shorter than him. A party of adult men was running for their lives, and here she was talking about taking on the creature all by herself. “What can you do?”

  “She is the Canowiki,” Feather said. “It is her destiny.”

  Frank shook his head in amazement. “I’ll help.”

  “No,” Virginia said. “You’re not a Hunter.”

  “I’ll be there,” he repeated stubbornly. “Whether you want me to be or not.”

  “We will all help,” Feather said. “But in the end, she will defeat the Skoocoom. She is the Canowiki.”

  It was as if this statement decided the issue, for the threesome, at least.

  But Frank would not allow Virginia to face the danger alone.

  If that meant he had to confront the monster, so be it. He would do what was necessary.

  CHAPTER 17

  For a second night, no one went missing. The ranchers continued on in higher spirits. The river’s opposite shore seemed so close. If they reached the far side, most would consider themselves almost home. Surely there they’d be safe. Surely the beast wouldn’t follow them that far.

  The sun broke through the clouds for several hours, and soon there was joshing and banter among the men, which hadn’t been heard for days. It was strange; more than half of the friends and neighbors who’d set out with them were gone, and yet somehow they managed to carry on casual conversations, even to laugh. Perhaps laughing in the face of death gave them courage.

  Frank felt none of the relief the others felt. Virginia turned her head this way and that, as if she sensed something no one else could. And then, as the sun sank toward the horizon, the clouds and the rain returned. It turned dark in moments, and it seemed as if it was nighttime already. It was as if nature itself was reminding them that they weren’t yet out of trouble. The men fell silent and rode on, miserable and wet.

  From the foothills in the east came a long, eerie cry, as if someone with a deep voice was giving a deafening bellow. It wasn’t an animal; it sounded almost human, but unlike any voice they’d ever heard. No human voice could go so deep or carry so far.

  “Skoooooooo! Coooooooom!” the voice proclaimed, again and again. It sounded closer with every howl, and then, right when it seemed to reach the very edge of the trail, it stopped. The horses were skittish; the men took up their rifles and looked about with watchful expressions.

  “Skooo! Cooom!”

  The party turned toward the sound, rifles gripped in trembling hands. Despite the constant howling, nothing emerged from the thick brush.

  “Move on!” Patrick shouted. “The ferry is only an hour’s ride away. Move!”

  They hurried the pace then, breaking into a trot, and as they saw the ferry in the distance, they broke into a gallop.

  They were at the crossing within an hour. Against expectation, the ferry was at a wider spot in the river, but the water ran smooth and easy here, as if it were a lake. Frank had taken this ferry once before, but after paying the outrageous toll, he had found other, cheaper crossings thereafter. He remembered a dock with a square building built on top of it. There had been an equally expensive dining room there, and—this Frank had gladly paid for—clean, hot water for baths. In the meantime, the ferryman, Joshua Stark, had made enough money for a larger ferryboat, which was attached to a narrow chain that ran all the way across the river between two large derricks, one on either side.

  As the party approached the crossing, it became clear to all of them that their unseen enemy had beaten them there. The structure on the dock was lopsided, as if it had been knocked off its base. The ferryboat rode deeper in the water than it should have. The derrick on the other side of the river was knocked over. The derrick on their side of the river still stood, but the guiding chain strung between the two was broken, one end lost somewhere in the depths of the smooth water.

  A man hung from the other end.

  He was a fat man. His neck had stretched under his weight, and his body was barely hanging by a shred of skin. His face was unrecognizable, but had the same gargoyle rictus of a smile as the other dead men. Frank had no doubt it was Joshua Stark, who had been obese and who had only gotten fatter as he got richer.

  Frank passed the body with his gaze averted. He could see the man was dead; he didn’t need to see more. He continued on to the ferryboat. There was a huge hole in the bottom, exactly in the middle. It was as if someone had punched through the thick wood with one blow. Over the side of the sunken boat, Frank saw other, obscenely bloated bodies floating in the river. He quickly counted eight people. It wasn’t only men. There were women and children among them.

  No one said a word. Frank glanced at his companions, who were either slumped in their saddles or staring at the swinging body. They looked defeated. Not even Preacher MacLeod mentioned giving the dead a proper burial.

  “We can still cross,” Patrick said at last. “I’ve crossed here before. It’s shallow most of the way across. There is a deep current only in the very middle. It will push us downstream a ways, but there are plenty of places to land on the other side.”

  The others worried over the decision. It was getting dark. The current would be stronger than normal because of the runoff from the recent rain. Some of the ranchers couldn’t swim, and the horses were tired from being pushed so hard. If the ferry had been operational, there was no doubt that they would have braved the crossing in the darkness. But now? Exhaustion robbed them of their adventurousness.

  On the other hand, their enemy was on this side of the river. Their foe hadn’t remained in the mountains, but had followed them to the river’s edge. Some of the men were muttering about a beast, perhaps having overhead some of Feather and Virginia’s conversations. Most seemed to understand now that it wasn’t Indians who were killing them.

  “I’m going, whether the rest of you come or not,” Patrick said. “I’m not staying here another minute.”

  Thomas Whitford rode to the edge of the river and stared across. Dark was falling, but the other side was still visible. He sighed. “Go ahead, son. You scout it for us. Take Carpenter and McCarthy with you. Their horses seem to have some stamina left. ”

  Now that he’d been given permission, Patrick seemed uncertain. He turned to Carpenter and McCarthy. “Uh…you ready, boys?”

  “Hell yes,” Carpenter said. “Let’s get it over with.”

  The rest of the party watched from the dock as the three riders waded into the river. As Patrick had claimed, the water only reached the horses’ knees u
ntil they were about halfway across. Finally, almost two-thirds of the way across, they reached the swift, deep channel and hesitated. One by one, each bent his head to whisper to his mount, stroking it, encouraging it. Then they spurred the horses into the current.

  They were carried downstream but still made swift progress crossing what was left of the river. They were heading toward a wide, shallow bank. Patrick’s horse gained footing and lurched up the sand, and Patrick’s heart rose and he stifled a whoop of joy. There was still enough daylight for all of them to get across, even the most tired. The men on the other side of the river started cheering.

  And then Patrick’s horse was jerked backward. Suddenly, it was struggling in the current again, bobbing up and down. Patrick’s shouts could be heard clear across the river. The other two riders never even made it to the bank. First McCarthy, then Carpenter abruptly vanished, as if their horses had been yanked straight down underwater. Patrick and his horse struggled to stay afloat, and he abandoned his mount and swam for it just as the horse disappeared into the current.

  He almost made it. He was upright and wading desperately toward the bank when something rose out of the water behind him. It seemed as if the river itself had risen up, but as the water splattered down, the monster that was hunting them was revealed.

  It resembled a man, but was half again as tall as Patrick, and twice as wide. Its huge head seemed to be attached directly to its shoulders. Its arms and legs were extra long and wiry, and strong…so strong. It grabbed Patrick by the neck with one hand and lifted him out of the water.

  Patrick’s deep voice had gone shrill and high; when he cried out, it didn’t sound like him at all. The beast held Patrick at arm’s length, as if examining him curiously, then twisted Patrick’s head from side to side, as if he was a doll. What happened next, Frank didn’t understand for several moments. He couldn’t make sense of it. Had Patrick’s hat come off?