The Dead Spend No Gold Page 7

  “Hold off, there, girl. Stand back.” He stepped toward her, hands out.

  “Come for laundry,” Feather said, assuming a thick native accent.

  “No, you can’t. It’s dangerous here. You must leave now.”

  “Laundry!” Feather repeated, as if she didn’t understand the man. “Mistress send me. Beat me if I come back, no laundry…”

  The deputy turned to his comrade. “Damn Injun’s gonna get herself killed. Shamus, haul her outta here.”

  The other man reached for her, and she rushed between them, shouting, “Let me in!”

  One of the deputies caught her, lifting her into the air as she screamed. Virginia darted behind them to the back door. She slipped inside and ducked behind the counter near the door. Just in time, for Strauss poked his head into the back room, probably wondering about the shouting.

  Virginia caught a glimpse of his face.

  He was still half-man at that point. His muzzle was beginning to protrude, and it was raw and glistening from his burns, his teeth and mangled jaw even more noticeable. His eyes were glowing red, and his face was covered with black fur. But he was fully clothed, and his hands were still human enough to hold a pistol.

  The werewolf turned back to the front room, and Virginia heard Juliet sobbing. That hit her hard. Even if she’d wanted to back out, she couldn’t. She knew only too well the horror that little girl was feeling.

  It was dark inside the laundry, and it smelled of soap, but overlaying that was a wild, gamey odor that was only too familiar. Memories flooded back; memories of waiting at the entrance to the cabin, the creatures approaching, with only her gun to protect her family and friends. The same fear and resoluteness filled her now, and she raised the knife and walked swiftly into the dark room before she could change her mind.

  Strauss wasn’t expecting her, that was clear. His head—his snout—was pointed at the front window. Virginia was halfway across the room before he Turned. He transformed instantly, his clothes ripping as his larger muscles and thickening chest burst from the fabric. He could have just shot her, but the gun dropped out of his paws. She could almost feel his ravening need to tear her apart with tooth and claw. His jaws were already snapping as he leaped.

  That moment seemed frozen in time. Wide-eyed, Juliet clutched at her mother’s dress. Clara Simpson’s eyes were closed, probably in prayer; she was oblivious to Virginia’s presence and the werewolf’s Turning.

  Virginia stabbed upward at the wolf’s chest, but he twisted away, so she only caught him with a glancing slice. They both fell backward into the outer room.

  “Run, Juliet!” Virginia cried as she and the wolf landed against one of the counters. The structure collapsed under their weight and tangled them in shards of timber, but it gave Virginia a chance to get to her feet.

  The foes faced off. The wolf was charred over half his body; raw, red flesh was already beginning to decay and fester. Without clothing to contain it, the odor was overpowering. Virginia gagged even as she leapt toward the werewolf again. He was there, welcoming the attack, and at the last second, she dove toward his legs and cut at his tendons.

  She missed, but he was forced backward, into the front room. She rolled and shot a glance into the corner. The mother and child were gone, the front door hanging open. The wind slammed it shut just as the combatants landed in the middle of the room and again faced off.

  Something trickled down Virginia’s face, and she licked at it. It was salty and tasted of iron.

  She was no longer frightened. Indeed, she felt exhilaration, joy in the chase, the hunt, and the kill. He was hers—would be hers. The creature that had once been Strauss saw her excitement, and she saw a moment of doubt pass across those glowing eyes. Then he snarled and lunged at her.

  This time he didn’t dodge, but forced his way through her next slash and started to close his mangled jaws on her neck. She shoved the knife into his chest with all her strength. The wolf grunted and started to rise, then fell backward with a strangled sound like a kicked dog.

  He thrashed once or twice, and then the light went out of his orange eyes. Within seconds, the creature had Changed into a man, a naked man covered in shreds of clothing. Virginia was standing over him, her knife dripping blood, when the front door burst open and men rushed into the room.

  * * *

  Virginia found herself outside before an awed and silent crowd. On the wooden planks of the sidewalk, Mrs. Simpson and her daughter were still crouched in fear, Mrs. Harrelson beside them. Pike gently took the bloody bowie knife from Virginia’s hand.

  Everyone’s eyes went to the knife, which dripped blood onto the worn gray planks, and then back to Virginia. She felt nothing; she was numb. It was as if she was waking from a dream.

  She heard a cry of joy, and then Juliet was running toward her, grabbing at her legs and looking up at her with a shining face. “Thank you for saving us,” she said.

  Virginia started to feel again, and that was a mistake. Suddenly she was shaking so badly she could barely stand.

  “Juliet!” Mrs. Simpson screamed, rising to her feet. “You get away from her this instant!” She pulled her daughter away. “You are a witch,” she hissed. “Don’t think I didn’t see. You and that creature…both of you are unnatural.”

  “This young woman just saved your life,” Pike said. “Show a little gratitude.”

  Clara Simpson whirled on him. “He wanted her! He only took us because of her!” She took Juliet by the arm and clomped down the sidewalk and down the steps to the street, dragging Juliet behind her. Juliet turned her head and beamed at Virginia over her shoulder, her gratitude undiminished.

  The sheriff was still holding the bowie knife. He suddenly remembered it and absently wiped the blood off on his trousers before handing it back to Virginia.

  Mrs. Harrelson emerged from the crowd, followed by Feather. She put her arm around Virginia. “Come, girl, let’s get you home.”

  They walked slowly across the street. Virginia’s legs didn’t want to work. She walked mechanically, stumbling, but Mrs. Harrelson’s strong arms caught her each time. She didn’t lead Virginia to her small cubicle of a room, but to the kitchen.

  This is my true home, Virginia thought, looking around the room.

  “I have some lemonade made,” Mrs. Harrelson said. “You sit right here and I’ll be back with a glass.”

  Feather sat next to Virginia and took her hands, her voice low but triumphant. “Thou art a Canowiki.”

  Virginia certainly didn’t feel like some mythical Hunter. She felt like a very young, shaky, and entirely average girl.

  “I need thy help, Virginia Reed,” Feather said solemnly. “I humbly ask thee to come to the aid of my people.”

  “I was lucky,” Virginia said, shaking her head. “I caught him by surprise.”

  “No,” Feather answered. “Only the greatest of warriors can kill a Skinwalker with only a knife. Thou art a Canowiki.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Feather didn’t look disappointed, but then, she rarely showed emotion at all. She sat unmoving, her dark eyes serious but not betraying anything. It seemed as if she was simply waiting for Virginia to change her mind.

  Canowiki.

  “I just want to stay here, work quietly, and live in peace,” Virginia insisted. “Or if I must leave, I want to go to a place where no one knows my name.”

  But that was not to be.

  Later that evening, Mrs. Harrelson came into the kitchen and helped the girls fix dinner. Virginia was only too happy to stay in the kitchen and let the others serve. They had an extraordinary number of guests, and Virginia preferred to avoid the stares. With dinner served, she began doing the dishes. When the last diner had left the dining room, Mrs. Harrelson came in and sat at the table.

  “Leave off those dishes, girl,” she said. “Come sit with me a moment.” When Virginia obeyed, the innkeeper pulled an envelope from her apron and handed it to Virginia. In it was more money th
an she had ever seen in her whole life.

  “This is three months’ worth of wages,” her boss said.

  “I don’t understand.” Virginia protested. “Are you…you want me to leave?”

  “What?” The older woman looked startled. “Of course not. You’re one of the best workers I’ve ever had. That’s just the problem. You’re no kitchen drudge, Virginia. You have more important things to do.”

  Suspicion bloomed in Virginia’s mind. “Has Feather been talking to you?”

  “She didn’t have to,” Mrs. Harrelson said. Her voice suddenly took on a strong Scottish brogue. “In my home country, we call girls like you Daughters of Andraste, the goddess of war in the ancient religion, of whom there are a few worshippers even now. There was one such in my village. She was burned as a witch.”

  “A witch?”

  “Instead of being grateful for your intervention, Clara Simpson is saying that she saw you and Strauss transform into those…creatures.” She snorted in her indignation. “The simpleton is mistaking the one for the both of you.”

  “You know about the…”

  “…the werewolf?” Mrs. Harrelson completed her question. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? But what Mrs. Simpson is saying is dangerous. I’ve seen it back in Scotland. Rumors take hold and…well, combined with what happened to you before…” She shook her head, and the lines of her face seemed to deepen.

  “We are beyond witch burnings, surely,” Virginia protested.

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Harrelson said. “But not beyond ostracizing those who are different and strange to us.”

  Virginia hung her head. “I understand. I…I would hurt your business.”

  “Hurt my business?” Her employer gave a belly laugh. “Dear girl! Folks would be filling my dining room for months just to get a look at you. But I won’t do that to you, Virginia. You aren’t a sideshow freak. No…it is time to move on.”

  Virginia tried to hand the money back. “This is too much.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Harrelson said, getting up from the table and wiping her hands on her apron. “The gold miners are overpaying for everything, and I’ve seen enough hard times in my life to take their money.”

  Still Virginia did not move.

  “Virginia, I couldn’t save my spirit-sister from the flames, but I can help you,” the innkeeper said gently. “Now, off to bed with you. You too, Feather. I’ll finish up. But I want you gone by morning, Virginia. I insist.”

  CHAPTER 6

  By noon the next day, the ranch house was ominously quiet, leaving Frank to await the eruption. Patrick made himself scarce when their father looked like he was getting ready to explode.

  But when Thomas Whitford emerged from his office, his voice quiet and controlled, it alarmed Frank more than if he’d shouted his fury. He was thin lipped and white faced. His handlebar mustache, which was usually proudly waxed upward, drooped. Only twice had Frank seen his father this grim: once was upon the death of his wife, Frank’s mother. The second time was when gold was discovered in the hills above the ranch.

  “Get the crew together,” the old man said. “Find Patrick. Tell him to ask the Newtons to join us. We leave at noon.”

  “We should take care of this ourselves,” Frank said. “I don’t trust Henry Newton.”

  He expected his stepfather to be angry over the comment, but Thomas didn’t seem upset. “Oliver is his son. He needs to come along. In fact, I think we need to include as many men as we can get. Tell Patrick to round up volunteers from the other ranchers, like he suggested.”

  “I’ll tell him, Father,” Frank said. He turned to go.

  “Oh, and Frank?” Thomas’s grim resolve softened for a moment. “Remind Patrick this isn’t war…it’s a search party. Nothing more.”

  That isn’t going to happen, Frank thought. The moment the men got together, they’d be itching for a fight, no matter whether they found the missing boys or not. They were waiting for an excuse to drive away the Indians once and for all. But he didn’t argue. If the savages have done anything to Oliver or James, he thought, why, I’ll be right there with the rest of the men in exacting revenge.

  If only Oliver had been missing, Frank wouldn’t have worried. Oliver had a habit of shooting off his mouth about searching for gold, so it didn’t surprise Frank that he’d disappeared. But James was conscientious; he wouldn’t just run off without warning.

  Frank found Patrick in the barn. Frank was halfway through his explanation when Patrick dropped his pitchfork, jumped on the back of his favorite horse without saddle or bridle, and rode off with a whoop of excitement.

  Strange he should so hate the Indians, Frank thought. Sometimes he seems almost a savage himself.

  Patrick was known and liked by all the neighbors, which is why Father had chosen him to gather them. Frank would have had to start with introductions. He’d lost touch with some of them, and others had moved in after he’d left for school.

  He sighed and started ringing the dinner bell. The sound of the bell at such an odd time would signal something amiss, and the ranch hands would come running. When they started showing up, most were more than willing to join the search party.

  “Pack up your gear,” Frank said when they were assembled. “We’re going after Oliver and James.”

  “Everyone?” Fred Carter asked. He was a short, stout man who lived for his sons. He sounded worried.

  Frank hesitated. Jesse and Emanuel were probably old enough to go along with the search party, but then, someone had to stay behind. “We’ll leave your boys to take care of things,” he said. Carter looked relieved.

  “Why the hurry?” Ben Torrance asked. He’d showed up late. He was a slow-moving man and deliberate in his actions. Quick, fast-talking Joe Foster was beside him. “What’s happened?” Foster chimed in.

  “Maybe nothing,” Frank said. “But Father’s worried that James and Oliver may have gotten in trouble with rustlers.”

  “Rustlers?” Torrance drawled. “Or Indians?

  “Most likely both,” Foster laughed, slapping his friend on his back.

  “It’s only been a couple of days,” Torrance said. “More likely, they couldn’t resist panning for a little gold up there in the mountains.”

  “Oliver, perhaps, but James would have returned, or at least sent word,” Frank said.

  “How long are we gonna be gone?” Foster asked.

  Frank made a quick estimate. “We’ll need…a week’s worth of supplies.”

  “Why a week?” Foster asked. “Let’s reprovision at Bidwell’s Bar.”

  “We’re going to bypass the town,” Frank said. “It’s getting a bad reputation. The riffraff have taken over.”

  Foster frowned. He had a taste for liquor and gambling.

  “Father’s orders,” Frank cut off Foster before he could object.

  “Should we take our guns?” This from young Johnny Hawkins, who had arrived from New York a couple of years before, completely enamored by the lore of the West. Frank reluctantly nodded.

  The men split up, most of them running for the bunkhouse, others for the barn to saddle the horses.

  Old Persimmons hadn’t spoken. He was their oldest ranch hand, and always got along with the Miwok. He sidled up to Frank and said in a low voice, “Are you sure about this this? Some of these men are pretty jumpy. They think the Indians are going to scalp them in their sleep. It wouldn’t take much to set them off.”

  Frank wanted to blurt out, No, I’m not sure about this at all! Hawkins’s question about guns had him worried that the weapons would be used. But Father had made his decision, and Frank wouldn’t undercut him by expressing doubt. “It’s what Father wants,” he replied.

  Persimmons nodded knowingly, as if he knew what Frank had wanted to say. “I hope the Boss knows what he’s doing.”

  By the time the party was assembled at midafternoon, they numbered twenty-seven. The Whitford ranch accounted for nine men; Henry Newton brought nine more, including hi
mself. Of the neighbors, all four Jordan brothers came along, as well as old man Partridge and his man Carl Dutton. Peter McCarthy brought along his foreman, Harve Jeffers. Preacher MacLeod came alone.

  Most of the ranchers brought along only their hunting rifles, but all the Newton men carried pistols as well as rifles. Dave Martin had two guns holstered at his hips, adding credence to rumors of his gunfighting history.

  Thomas Whitford never spoke, simply surveyed the grim-faced and heavily armed men before mounting his horse and riding out at the head of the column.

  I wish Father would remind them not to get trigger happy, Frank thought unhappily. Before it is too late.

  He fell into place behind Thomas, feeling a sense of misgiving that bordered on foreboding.

  * * *

  Jameson was luckier than most miners, having found a small vein and worked it hard for a day or two before the others noticed. He was a small man and easy to overlook. Even luckier, he’d managed to set aside a nest egg by sneaking the tiny nuggets and dust into town before anyone could hit him over the head and take them away.

  He surveyed the little valley that his fellow miners were working. It had been beautiful when they’d gotten there: basalt rock cliffs with pine trees and brush, and a small, pastoral meadow in the middle where they’d camped. Now everything was churned up, the soil, water, and trees stripped, cut, dug up, and thrown aside. All the beauty was gone.

  Sometimes Jameson felt as if they were industriously trying to recreate hell.

  Everyone’s head was down; everyone was either panning or digging. A couple of the fellows were getting ambitious, cutting down the last of the junipers from among the rocks to build bigger works, mimicking their more successful brethren on the main river. Everyone below these men would be left with nothing, so everyone was hurrying to finish their claim before moving up the stream, leapfrogging those who had leapfrogged them.

  There had been a small group of Indians camping in the meadow when they’d first arrived, and the miners had chased them off. They’d surrounded the Indian camp one night and fired their weapons in the air—though Jameson suspected that a few of them had also shot into the camp. In the morning, the Indians were gone. There had been a small pool of blood in the clearing, and that image often came back to Jameson as he tried to sleep, his tired muscles and aching bones keeping him awake at night.