The Dead Spend No Gold Read online

  “Of course,” Frank said, his heart beating faster.

  Enough trees surrounded the clearing to create a windbreak. The sun was shining and the ground was sufficiently dry for them to make camp. It was midday, but for once there was no reason to push onward. Starting the fire took some doing, but they soon had enough of a blaze to keep it going, even with the damp firewood. Frank got up and pulled the last of his food from the saddlebag. He handed Virginia part of a loaf of bread and his waterskin, and dared to plop down next to her.

  Virginia sat tantalizingly close to Frank as they enjoyed the fire’s warmth in silence.

  He wanted so many things: to take her in his arms, to hold her, to lie back and listen to the murmuring river with her. But something made him hold back. How does she feel about me? he wondered.

  He looked inside himself and realized he held her in the same awe as the rest of the men did because of what she had done. But he’d come to know her, so what he felt toward that warrior aspect of her seemed to be distinct from what he felt toward the girl herself. The hero was the Canowiki, as Feather would say; the girl was Virginia, a straightforward, brave young woman who loved her friends. But, he admitted to himself, really, they were both her.

  One thing was for certain. She was never going to be like other girls.

  It had never occurred to Frank that he could meet a woman stronger and more capable in a fight than he was. He realized, somewhat to his surprise, that it didn’t bother him.

  Virginia was a wonder, true, but she was also a young woman, and he could help protect her, could help fulfill her needs. And that’s what he would do—he would help her on her journey, wherever it led.

  If she would have him.

  How can I be feeling this way with my brother barely in the ground? Frank wondered. With James still missing? His grief and desire became one large tangle of emotion, his heart aching with it.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” Virginia said, as if reading his mind. “He was a brave man.”

  Frank didn’t answer. He sensed she had not liked Patrick. She had heard the men talking about the massacre at the village and blaming much of it on him. But she must know that Frank had loved Patrick, despite their differences.

  “I…I feel…That is, I shouldn’t…” she stuttered, so unlike the confident woman he had come to know. She paused, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling for you right now. Not now, when you have suffered such a loss.”

  Frank turned toward her in amazement. Could it be true? Was she feeling the same way he was?

  He brushed her cheek with his fingertips, and she turned, finally meeting his gaze. She buried her face in the hollow of his neck with a sigh. He tightened his hold and drew her closer.

  Somehow, love gave meaning to the loss. That was good; otherwise, he’d be like his father, who felt only desolation and emptiness. The love of this girl could save him from that devastation, Frank knew.

  “Virginia,” he breathed, and kissed the top of her head. “When you walked up to the Skoocoom, I thought you would die and I would never get to hold you like this.”

  She looked up then and they stared into each other’s eyes for a long time. Then, slowly, her eyes closed and their lips met in a long, deep kiss.

  Then she pulled away. “We can’t,” she said sadly. “I want to, but we can’t. Your father will need you.”

  “Virginia…”

  “No, Frank,” she said. “It can never be. I am a Canowiki. I can never be like other girls. I can’t go home with you and be a rancher’s wife.”

  I don’t care! he wanted to shout, but he kept silent. She was right. Without Patrick…without James…his father would need him.

  But though she had pulled away from him, he couldn’t help but notice that her gaze lingered on him whenever he wasn’t looking.

  There had to be a way.

  * * *

  In the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, Litonya and Jean Baptiste also stopped early for the night. They made a fire and sat on opposite sides of the flames.

  “I hate being a Skinwalker,” he said after a long silence. “It was not my choice. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone.”

  Litonya looked at him gravely. “I have,” she said.

  She got up and went to his side. When she sat down, she fit comfortably into the curve of his arm. They kissed, for how long, Litonya couldn’t tell. It seemed forever, and yet only an instant.

  Litonya rested her forehead in the crook of his shoulder, sighing deeply.

  “What’s wrong?” Jean asked.

  “I am not worried about thee being a Skinwalker, as long as thou hidest it,” she said. “But I fear my people will not accept thee because thou art a white man.”

  He laughed. “So I can be a wolf, but not a white man?”

  “I am serious,” she said.

  “But I am as Indian as you are,” he protested. “Well, I’m half Indian.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Perhaps by blood. But thou art not like me. Thou thinkest like a white man.”

  He began to protest, but she set her fingers on his lips. Then the fingers curled in a come-hither sign, and he moved toward her, and they kissed again. “I will make them see…” she murmured.

  In the morning, Litonya found herself comfortably settled in Jean’s arms, and it felt as if she’d always been there, as if she’d spent a hundred mornings being held by him.

  “Feather…” she heard him say as he awoke.

  “Hush,” she answered. “I am Litonya now.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ll try harder to remember.”

  They set out before the sun was an hour above the horizon. They followed the same trails they had used in the days before; they were drying out now. The gray rock cliffs were dry already, and the ponderosas’ bark was turning from dark red to soft orange. They were glad of the horses, and they rode companionably, and without their guard up.

  So they were caught by surprise when several Miwok braves appeared before them on the path. Litonya recognized Lokni, the one the white men called Roman. He was probably the chief now, she realized. He was the nephew of Chief Honon and a renowned warrior.

  The Indians walked quickly toward them. They didn’t even look at Litonya. They bypassed her and went directly to Jean Baptiste. They pulled him roughly from the saddle, knives in their hands.

  “Stop!’ she cried in her own language. “He is one of The People!”

  Lokni grabbed Jean by the hair and prepared to cut his throat. He stopped at the last moment, then twisted Jean’s head to one side, letting him go with a disgusted sound.

  Jean managed not to cry out in pain. He rose, holding his throat. “I am Apache,” he said in English, not knowing the language Litonya and the others spoke.

  Lokni stared at him for a long moment before speaking to Litonya in Miwok. “I don’t care. He has lived too long among them.”

  Litonya slid off her horse and ran to Jean’s side. “Are you going to kill all the white men?” she asked.

  “Was he there?” Lokni demanded. “Was he one of those who attacked the village?

  “No,” she said. “He was with me. I swear it.”

  Lokni turned to the other braves, who gave their adamant opinions. Though she couldn’t make out the conversation, Litonya could tell they were opposed to letting Jean live. When Lokni turned toward them again, the knife was clenched tightly in his fist. Litonya used the last and only argument she had left.

  “I am bound to him,” she said. “He is mine. We have become one.”

  Lokni stopped at this, and stared at Jean Baptiste as if seeing him for the first time. He didn’t look impressed. “Him?” was all he said, but a world of disgust was contained in that one word.

  “He will be allowed to live…for now,” Lokni said reluctantly. “But when we arrive back at camp, it must be approved by the elders. I am not yet chief.”

  Litonya breathed easily again. He was con
fident enough to say “not yet,” as though his being accepted as chief was a foregone conclusion. It was a troubling thought, for Lokni had always been more aggressive than Chief Honon. But perhaps when he held that authority, he would see, as the former chief had seen, that there were too many of the white men and they were too well armed to fight.

  “Thank you, Lokni,” she said. They were safe for now. He would not go back on his word.

  “Why are you not with the Canowiki?” he asked abruptly, still displeased.

  “She fought the Skoocoom and defeated him,” Litonya said. “My duty was done.”

  “The girl killed it?” he asked. “By herself?”

  “We helped,” Litonya said. “Jean Baptiste and I.”

  Lokni seemed to realize that she hadn’t answered his question. He repeated, “The girl killed it? The Ts’emekwes is dead?”

  “He is gravely wounded,” Litonya answered. “He will not attack us again.”

  “Why are you so certain?” Lokni demanded.

  Litonya suddenly felt uneasy.

  “Chief Honon was wrong to seek the Canowiki,” Lokni said. “The Ts’emekwes were never our enemy, as long as we left them alone.”

  Litonya didn’t argue with him. She didn’t mention the attack on the village that had precipitated her quest. If the white man hadn’t come to mutilate the earth in his search for the yellow metal, the Skoocooms would have left them alone. “It is done,” she said. “The Ts’emekwes is defeated. He is gravely wounded. He will not confront us again.”

  “You are wrong,” Lokni answered. “If it was only the one, or even him and the white child, then perhaps we would be safe. But there is another.”

  “Another Skoocoom?”

  “The mother of the others,” Lokni said. “She is bigger and stronger than the one who attacked us. Our people have moved our village to the far borders of our territory. We hope that she will inflict her vengeance on those who harmed her children, not on us.”

  Litonya was stunned. They’d known about the white-haired Skoocoom, but they had always thought there were only the two of them. Now it made sense. Somewhere, there had to be a mother of the child. “I have to go back,” she said. “I have to help the Canowiki.”

  “Go!” Lokni said. “But don’t come back with the half-breed. He is not welcome here.”

  “You forget,” she said softly. “I, too, was raised by white men.”

  Lokni didn’t respond at first. Then he looked her in the eyes, and she felt her heart sink at the coldness in his voice. “I did not forget,” he said.

  CHAPTER 19

  Frank was in no hurry to return to town, and it seemed to him that Virginia wasn’t eager to return either. He recalled how she had been treated by the townsfolk and became indignant in retrospect, even though he’d been one of the people who had shunned her.

  From now on, he vowed, I won’t allow anyone to treat her with disrespect in my presence.

  Virginia surprised him again by appearing in a heavily worn and stained set of men’s clothing the next morning. Not one of the boldest Eastern girls of his acquaintance would dream of appearing so, but oddly, it suited her, especially given her preference for riding astride the horse.

  She was a strong and capable young woman, and it would have been a shame to ask her to conform to convention, especially when that convention made no sense. This girl was unlike any Frank had ever known, completely feminine, yet as tough and capable as a man. Actually, he’d always suspected the women around him hid their unconventional thoughts and feelings, as well as their own capabilities. Virginia made no effort to act “ladylike,” and yet she was completely captivating.

  They stopped twice along the way, dangling their feet in the cold waters of the river, taking turns sharing their life stories. Up until that horrible winter in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada, Virginia’s life hadn’t been that different from any other emigrant girl’s, but now it was forever changed.

  Frank didn’t scoff as she described how the werewolves caused the Donner Party’s troubles. He listened to her tell of the growing hunger and cold, and though it wasn’t that chilly for a fall night, he shivered in sympathy. “I’m going to hunt them down,” she said, setting her jaw in a way that he was beginning to recognize. When she did that, she meant what she said. “I will find all the werewolves who preyed on us in our helplessness, and they will pay.”

  “Not today, I hope,” Frank joked.

  Virginia laughed, and some of the tension went out of her. “No, I’ve done enough for today.”

  When they arrived at the outskirts of Bidwell’s Bar, it was almost dark, and the streets were deserted. The only lights and sounds came from the saloon.

  “Strange,” Frank mused. “When I was here last, this was a thriving town. Murphy was just putting up his saloon, and new families were arriving. But Father did mention that things were changing.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” Virginia said darkly.

  There must have been a fire roaring in the saloon’s huge fireplace, because the front doors were wide open, despite the autumn chill. Frenzied shadows from inside were being cast into the street. Virginia fell silent as they approached.

  “What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

  “I’m pretty sure the owner of this saloon sent two of his employees after me,” she said.

  He reined in his horse. “After you? Why would he do that?”

  “Because he meant to kill me,” Virginia said.

  “But why?”

  “Because they were werewolves, Frank.”

  As that sank in, Frank realized what it meant. “That must mean…then Bidwell is a werewolf, too?”

  “That’s what I believe,” Virginia said, stopping in the darkness of the street.

  Frank stared at the light spilling out of the saloon’s open doors, and saw movement inside and heard laughter. “He can’t do much to us right now,” he said. “Not with so many people around.”

  “Unfortunately, neither can I.” Virginia gave him a sideways smile.

  Frank nodded. They put up their horses in the stable in the back of the saloon before approaching the door and stepping into the middle of the revelry.

  Virginia tensed, her slim body seeming to gain an inch in height.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said in a low voice.

  Most of the people dancing and drinking were strangers. It took awhile to make sense of the chaos, but eventually Frank spotted the remnants of the search party huddled in one corner. Each man had a full glass before him, but none wore an accompanying smile.

  “There she is!’ came a loud voice. “The hero of the expedition! Here’s the little lady who they claim fought a grizzly bear all by herself! Wrapped the beast in chains and tore its leg off, the way I hear it! It’s a feat that shall never be forgotten in these parts. Seems almost…unnatural, don’t it?”

  The loud voice belonged to Bidwell, who stepped from behind the bar with a big smile that did not reach his eyes.

  Virginia looked at Frank with raised eyebrows. He glanced over at the men in the corner and caught Preacher MacLeod’s eye. The man just shrugged, as if to say, What else could we tell them?

  “In celebration, the next round of drinks is on the house!” Bidwell called as he stood in front of them, beaming.

  The room erupted in celebration. Bidwell returned to the bar, poured a couple of drinks, and brought them over to Virginia and Frank. Frank took his and downed it. He didn’t drink often, but this seemed to be exactly what he needed. Virginia waved the barkeep off.

  “Come now,” Bidwell said. “I ain’t never heard you were so picky about what you drink, Miss Reed. A big, strong girl such as yourself can drink with us boys, can’t you?”

  Virginia flushed.

  Frank stepped forward, took the other drink from Bidwell, and downed it, too. Then, fortified, he leaned down toward the shorter but much broader man. “She doesn’t want to drink …with you.”


  Bidwell pushed him away, so fast Frank didn’t see it coming. By the time he recovered his balance, Virginia and the stout man were toe to toe, and appeared to be ready to come to blows. A hush fell over the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said, intervening. “The offer of free drinks was generous of you, but we’re exhausted from our trip.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Bidwell said. He glared at Virginia, but his words were soft. “I can understand that.”

  Frank took Virginia by the arm and led her to the corner where the other survivors watched in miserable silence.

  “Where’s my father?” Frank asked Preacher MacLeod. “Is he all right?”

  “He’s feeling better,” MacLeod said. “He’s taking it hard, but he seemed to come back to himself about halfway to town. Finally remembered that he has a surviving son. He wanted to wait up for you, Frank, but I made him go to bed. Bidwell gave us the whole top floor, free of charge. But he insisted we stay and join the celebration. Most of us didn’t feel like we could refuse.”

  The preacher downed the drink before him, and Frank noted that his speech was slurred. “Besides, he’s been pouring us whiskey, and I was never one to turn down free drinks, God help me.” The final words of his little speech were muttered under his breath, almost a prayer.

  One of Bidwell’s men brought them all another round. Virginia gave him a hard stare, and every muscle seemed to be at alert, as if she was gathering herself for action. The man walked away, and she relaxed slightly.

  Frank leaned over and whispered, “Is he one of them?”

  “I think all of Bidwell’s men are Skinwalkers,” she said.

  Frank looked around the table at the last few survivors of the search party: Partridge, who owned the smallest spread and worked for the Whitcombs most of the time. Johnny Hawkins, the young man from New York. Gerald Persimmons, the old, weathered ranch hand. Preacher MacLeod, who had obviously been knocking back drinks all night. Henry Newton sat a table by himself, his bullet-shaped head down, staring at the bottom of his glass, his son still missing and all his men gone. And there was Frank’s father, who—he hoped—was safe upstairs.