The Dead Spend No Gold Page 2

  Virginia shook herself, trying to banish the bad memories, blaming the crisp cold of the early September morning. She suspected that the cold would always remind her of that winter.

  The kitchen was empty; breakfast wasn’t yet being prepared. Virginia plopped the breadbasket on the counter and collapsed into a chair at the worktable, sighing with satisfaction at having a few moments to herself. It was rare that she was alone, and even rarer that she didn’t have some chore or other to do.

  A scurrying noise drew her attention. There was something under the table.

  Virginia felt her old instincts take over. She sprang up, groping for one of the knives on the counter. Blade clutched in her hand and heart pounding in her ears, she stared at the shadow just visible beneath the hem of the tablecloth, wondering if she’d be able to strike before It—the creature she dreamed of every night—took her down.

  She steeled herself to lift the cloth away, but then a small hand emerged and pulled it aside, and two wide blue eyes stared up at her. Virginia gasped, sagging against a cabinet as relief washed through her.

  “Come out of there, you scamp,” she said, not even angry, as she dropped the knife onto the counter.

  Juliet Simpson crawled out, giggling. Virginia snatched her up and held the squealing little girl over her head. “You scared me nearly to death,” she said, chuckling.

  She sat back down at the table, the little girl settling into her lap.

  “What are you doing he…” she began, but before should could finish her question, they heard raised voices coming from the front of the hotel. Virginia recognized the voice of the innkeeper, Mrs. Harrelson, and that of Clara Simpson, Juliet’s mother. Clara was contracted to do the laundry for the hotel.

  “You ain’t got no one else, Mrs. Harrelson. I want more for a basket of laundry, or you can do it yourself,” the washerwoman was saying.

  Juliet tensed in Virginia’s arms.

  “That is not what we agreed to,” Mrs. Harrelson answered, barely holding her anger in check. Clara Simpson was always trying to get a raise in pay, and Mrs. Harrelson had acquiesced twice already. “I don’t doubt you deserve it, Clara,” the innkeeper continued. “But I simply can’t afford it. If I must, I will do the laundry myself. I’ve done it before and I can do it again, if that’s the way it must be.”

  There was silence at that, and Virginia could feel Juliet trembling, as if the anger in her mother’s voice scared her. Virginia hugged her tightly, trying to think of some way to distract her. She was a pretty little girl, but unkempt, her hair a tangle, her face smudged. Her mother was very diligent when cleaning the guests’ clothing, despite her complaints about payment. She was less diligent about her daughter’s appearance.

  Virginia had to remind herself every day that it was none of her business. Her instinct to save people could get her into trouble.

  The door burst open and a portly woman waddled into the room. She blanched at the sight of her daughter in Virginia’s lap, and a look of horror flashed over her face. Then her anger returned, turning her face a deep crimson. “Juliet! Come here this instant!”

  Juliet hesitated before sliding reluctantly off Virginia’s lap. Mrs. Simpson met her halfway and grabbed her by the ear. “You come when I say so,” she hissed, heading for the back door as she continued, “You stay away from that girl, hear!”

  “But I like her,” Juliet protested.

  “She ain’t right in the head. She done evil things…”

  The back door slammed as tears sprang to Virginia’s eyes. Footsteps echoed in the hallway and Virginia closed her eyes, struggling to compose herself.

  Mrs. Harrelson came through the swinging door from the dining room and peered into the basket on the counter. “It’s time for breakfast. Don’t dillydally, Gina. You too, Feather.”

  Feather had silently followed the innkeeper into the kitchen. The Indian girl shared a room with Virginia, though sometimes it was easy to forget she was there, she was so quiet.

  Mrs. Harrelson was a large old woman, gruff with the hotel’s patrons but with a kind heart toward those in her employ. Virginia had gotten the impression that there was a Mr. Harrelson somewhere back East, inebriated and inept.

  The innkeeper was the only person Virginia allowed to call her Gina, aside from her father. What’s more, Mrs. Harrelson knew who Virginia was and professed not to care. She too had traveled by wagon train through Truckee Lake in 1846, but fortunately for her, her party had beaten the snows by a week. “There but for the grace of God,” she had muttered when Virginia told the story, and never mentioned it again. Virginia was fiercely loyal to the woman.

  “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Harrelson asked, and Virginia realized she’d been staring at the table, remembering the glimpse of terror in Mrs. Simpson’s eyes, and more, the look on the face of the handsome young man she’d passed in the street. She had given up flirting with boys, because they always found out what had happened to her, and their subsequent rejection always hurt.

  “Nothing…I thought…I forgot something.” She rose, straightening her dress.

  Mrs. Harrelson missed nothing. “Was someone bothering you?”

  “No,” Virginia said, brushing her tears away. “I was just daydreaming, really.” She couldn’t meet her employer’s eyes.

  “Well, if they do trouble you, tell me. I won’t have those men pestering you.”

  Virginia nodded, grateful as always that her boss understood and gently passed the blame onto something else, something other than what they both knew the problem really was.

  Feather was at the stove, and though her back was turned, Virginia knew the Indian girl was listening intently to every word. It seemed that Mrs. Harrelson had a habit of taking in strays. Feather was even more out of place than Virginia. But while Virginia’s problem was unique, Feather suffered the indignities that were all too common for her race.

  Feather was small and precise in her movements, with delicate features, a sharp nose, and eyes that were always somber. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing her high forehead.

  Virginia hadn’t known what to make of the Indian girl until the night Feather had found her stealing food. Now, that had been embarrassing. Virginia had been sneaking into the kitchen after everyone had gone to bed and salvaging scraps from the garbage. She couldn’t help herself. She never ate the leftovers, and she threw them away when they went bad, but she wanted them just in case. She might need them.

  One night, she’d looked up to find those solemn dark brown eyes watching her. Virginia had stood still for the space of a heartbeat, then put the scraps back. When she’d turned around, the Indian girl had been gone. Feather never spoke of it, for which Virginia was grateful. Somehow, the experience had turned them into friends.

  When the Indian girl finally did talk, after days of silence, it was a complete surprise. Virginia had expected her to speak with a heavy accent, but instead Feather spoke with more refinement than anyone Virginia had ever met. The occasional “thees” and “thous” that peppered her conversation only made her seem more cultured. Far from being primitive, she was better read and educated than Virginia, having been raised by missionaries from childhood.

  From their brief conversations, Virginia gathered that something had happened to Feather when she’d turned thirteen, and she had run away from the missionaries. She never spoke of it, but Virginia could guess, looking at that beautiful face and those dark brown eyes. The only thing Feather ever said, late one night while they were both in bed, was that she was alone.

  “Thou callest me Feather,” she said softly. “But my real name is Litonya, Little Hummingbird. Both names mean little. White people do not want me…nor do my own kind.”

  Virginia hadn’t said anything. Tears had stung her eyes at the resignation in Feather’s voice. She understood all too well. She almost unburdened herself, but was afraid to lose another friend.

  Most of her own family was back in San Francisco. They’d managed to sh
ake their past, to blend in with the bustling populace. In the bigger city, their name didn’t stand out. But Virginia, for reasons she herself didn’t understand, longed for the frontier, longed to forge her own path. It should have been the last place she wanted to go. Against her parents’ wishes, she had taken the stagecoach back to Sutter’s Fort. She hadn’t known where she was going until she arrived.

  To this day, she understood little of why she felt compelled to return to the frontier, to the shadow of the Sierra Nevada, where they had suffered through the bitter winter, to the place where her childhood ended and she became old in spirit. She was only fifteen years old, but she felt as if she understood life and death more than any of the adults around her.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before someone in town recognized her.

  She probably should have left when people’s stares and whispers began to follow her along the streets. But something stubborn stirred within her, and she put up her chin and stayed. She would leave when she was good and ready.

  Gold was found at Sutter’s Mill in January of 1849, just north of the settlement. Thankfully, from that moment on, the girl from the Donner Party was no longer the first topic of conversation. Mrs. Harrelson was fit to be tied at first as the town cleared out. But then the flood of men from San Francisco arrived, and then successive waves of men from farther and farther away. All of these men, young and old, stopped in Sutter’s Fort for one last taste of civilization before heading into the hills.

  Virginia watched them leave with foreboding.

  Many were fresh-faced boys who had lived in the lushness of the Eastern valleys all their lives and had no idea of the hardships they would encounter. Virginia had experienced the worst of them. Even if she had wanted to flirt with these boys, and even if they had, by some miracle, remained ignorant of her past, she simply couldn’t. They were innocent boys, even the ones who were older and seemingly so much more mature. They just didn’t know.

  She saw it in their eyes when they discovered who she was. All of them had heard of the pass over the Sierra Nevada where, only two winters before, early snows caught a wagon train in a death grip, and whose members, it was said, preyed upon each other to survive.

  They called it Donner Pass now instead of Fremont Pass. Virginia was grateful the wagon train had chosen George Donner as their leader instead of her father.

  Virginia had found hidden strength in those snows, despite being led to the slaughter. She knew now that it had been planned from the beginning by creatures pretending to be human, creatures no one would admit walked this Earth. The wagon train was sent on foolish shortcuts and waylaid at every turn, yet she endured, protecting her family; but she was unable to save either of the young men who had been courting her. Bayliss died, and Jean Baptiste…changed.

  Virginia was hearing whispers of huge, dangerous wolves in the Sierra Nevada, wolves unlike any others. Still, she hesitated, the memories of her last confrontation with the creatures fresh in her mind. She couldn’t bear to approach the killing grounds. Here on the fringes of the wilderness, she waited for something to happen, though when she questioned herself, she couldn’t say what.

  She stared out the window at night and waited.

  “Breakfast is only an hour away,” Mrs. Harrelson said, breaking into Virginia’s reminisces, her gruff tone back. “Hurry, hurry, you lazy girls.”

  Virginia was thankful to be lost in the tedium of cooking breakfast and preparing the dining room for their guests. There was something about preparing food, plentiful food, that gave her enormous comfort. Besides, with her head over the steaming stove, she forgot everything but the moment at hand, and if she was lucky, at the end of the evening she would fall into bed, her food scraps tucked away. Sleep inevitably found her too tired to allow for visions of wolves.

  Feather and Virginia danced around the kitchen with practiced and fluid movements. Mrs. Harrelson left the preparing of meals to them now, after colliding with each of them more than once. As long as the customers didn’t complain, she kept it that way.

  The rest of the day passed by smoothly, despite its rocky beginnings. Before Virginia knew it, they were serving dinner.

  She didn’t notice him at first as she moved among the benches, serving stew.

  It was a full dining room; all six long-planked tables with benches were occupied. All the diners wanted seconds, all except one man, who pushed aside the vegetables and left the bread untouched. He ate only what meat he dug out of the stew, though he seemed to find little enjoyment in the process. There was something odd about his chin, as if it was out of place, and his teeth didn’t meet.

  “Is the meal all right, sir?” Virginia asked before ladling another spoonful into his bowl.

  He looked up at her blurrily, and she froze.

  He’d been beaten, his face was wrinkled and bruised, and his jaw was out of line, but she recognized him. Strauss was his name. One of the Germans. One of Them. She’d never known whether he’d survived. Both humans and werewolves had starved that winter, each hunted by the other.

  He didn’t recognize her. She had grown a couple of inches and filled out since then. What’s more, her hair was combed and her face was clean.

  “Fine,” he managed to say. “I just want meat.” His voice was garbled, as if he couldn’t get his mouth to work right, but the heavy German accent echoed in her memory. Virginia plopped the spoonful of stew into his bowl and turned away before he could see her expression.

  No, no…

  Her feet felt like lead as she moved away, heedless of other men gesturing and extending their bowls toward her. She pushed past them, ignoring their protests and almost running down the hall to the kitchen.

  Feather gave a small cry of alarm as Virginia burst in. Stew slopped out of the stewpot, splattering onto the floor.

  Feather stared at her. There must have been something in Virginia’s face, for the Indian girl doffed her apron and handed it to Virginia without a word. She had to tug on the pot several times before Virginia would release it.

  A moment later, Feather had gone into the dining room, carrying the pot of stew.

  Alone, Virginia collapsed into a chair, staring at the wall, apron forgotten in her motionless hands until the sound of cursing brought her back to herself. Mrs. Harrelson was in the kitchen, which hardly ever happened.

  What is she doing here? Virginia wondered, shaking her head slightly. The old woman was snatching pots from the stove and dropping them onto the counter hastily, as if even the hand mittens weren’t enough to handle the heat. The smell of burnt carrots and beef filled the air.

  The burnt meat had been part of her dream, Virginia realized. It was the smell she tried so hard to forget, the smell that had sometimes wafted over from the other cabins. She’d wondered, How can they be eating meat, when there is no meat to be had?

  Mrs. Harrelson was standing over her, but instead of being angry, the woman laid the backs of her fingers on Virginia’s forehead, taking her temperature. Her hand was rough but warm. Then she gently lifted Virginia’s face between her two big hands and looked into her eyes. “Go to bed, Virginia,” she said kindly. “I’ll do the rest.”

  Virginia started to get up, to move toward the stove. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can do it.” But it was clear from the tone of her voice that her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Go!” her employer commanded. “Don’t make me goose you to get you moving. Nor do I want you to burn down my hotel. Get yourself together, girl. If I don’t see you in the morning, I’ll take care of the chores. You just get well.”

  It wasn’t illness, and Mrs. Harrelson no doubt knew it, but Virginia didn’t argue. She headed for the back stairwell, avoiding the dining room, and climbed the four flights of stairs, her shoulder rubbing against the wall for support. She made it to her bed and fell upon it fully clothed. She had just enough strength remaining to pull off her shoes and draw a blanket over herself before a dazed sleep took her.

  Virginia wok
e in darkness, forgetting where she was. She remembered the cabin on the pass, the moans of hunger, the smell of human excrement, the constant cold. But this room was warm and smelled of freshly laundered sheets. Feather was breathing softly in the next bed. Sometime while she slept, in those dreams of hunger and cold, Virginia’s resolve had returned. She’d hidden for too long, sheltered by family and friends and distance.

  She threw off the blanket and rose quietly. She felt for the wardrobe, opening the lowest drawer. There at the bottom, underneath her undergarments, was the loaded pistol that she checked every day as soon as Feather went downstairs. The powder was dry.

  It was about four o’clock in the morning, if her inner sense of time was right, and the rough wooden floors were freezing to her bare feet. She barely noticed. She made her way to the entrance of the hotel, where, on a small table opposite the front door, Mrs. Harrelson kept a ledger where she signed in the guests.

  Virginia lit a candle and ran her finger quickly down the day’s entries. There he was—Herman Strauss. He wasn’t even bothering to hide his name. Probably thought none lived who’d witnessed his murderous deeds. But Virginia had seen him. She’d been there when the gunshot had nearly taken off his chin. She was the one who’d pulled the trigger. The wolf had run into the woods after that, and Virginia had believed him dead, but there was no mistaking him.

  Room 14, the ledger said next to his name. She snagged the extra key from its hook.

  She closed the book quietly and blew out the candle, then stood there for a few moments, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. He could see better than her, of course. He might even hear and smell her coming, if he was wary. But she was almost certain he hadn’t recognized her. In the past year, she’d turned from a starving waif of a girl into a well-fed, well-groomed young woman. Maybe he’d spent the evening in the bars and now enjoyed a deep, sodden sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t know it was over before she fired a bullet into his brain.

  Virginia climbed the stairs, her bare feet making no sound. She knew all the creaky spots and avoided them. She took her time creeping down the hallway, aware of every loose board, but it was impossible to get to Room 14 without making a little noise. This floor was almost empty. Mrs. Harrelson had stuck him in the end room, where she tended to put people she didn’t like.