Like a River Glorious
Page 74

“I guess we’ll see,” Tom says with forced brightness. “Wait here for Jefferson. I’ll be right back.”
I finger the gold inside the pack, just for comfort. I’m terrible at waiting. Always have been. I tell myself it’s like being on a hunt, when the slightest bit of recklessness can ruin everything. Be patient, Lee. Be a ghost.
Something squishes in the mud nearby. Probably one of the animals, but instinct makes me crouch beside Peony’s shoulder. Two shapes appear against the darkness, and my hand goes to the empty space at my waist where my gun used to be.
“Lee?” someone whispers. “Tom?”
It’s Jefferson’s voice, and gladness fills me like sunshine on a rainy day.
“Jeff!” I surge forward, my boots squelching in the paddock’s churned-up mud, and I throw my arms around him.
He gives me a squeeze but pushes me away quick. “We’ve got company,” he says.
Only now do I realize it’s Mary who stands beside him. She carries a small rucksack in one hand, a revolver in the other.
“I’m coming with you,” she says.
“I have no problem with that,” Jefferson says firmly.
“Glad to have you along, Mary,” I say.
Tom creeps up, Apollo in tow. “Hello, Mary,” he says, unsurprised.
“Things are bad up there, Tom,” she says. “When they ran out of Maidu, they started killing the Chinese. The headman . . . he . . .” Her voice trembles.
“They killed all of them?” I say. “Everyone?” I suspected that was where things were headed when Jefferson and I ran off, but hearing it is another thing entirely.
“I wanted . . .” Her voice stumbles, as though it’s full of tears. “I just wanted to get away. Doesn’t mean I wanted anyone to die.”
“Muskrat?” Tom asks.
“I lost track of him,” Mary says.
“Did you get the women and children out of the stockade?” Jefferson asks me.
“Yes. But, Jeff, they’re in terrible shape.”
“At least they’re out,” Tom says. “They might be the only ones who escape if we don’t get moving.”
“Here,” Jefferson says, handing me my rifle. “It’s not loaded. We’ll have to buy ammo somewhere along the way.”
I caress the length of the barrel. It used to belong to Becky’s husband, but it became mine when he was killed. Now it’s as familiar to me as my own hand.
“I have your five-shooter, too,” he says, rummaging in his pack.
“Hurry,” Tom says. “Any moment now, Dilley’s men will come for the Indians they think are in the stockade.”
Jefferson hands me the revolver, and I shove it inside my own pack. “Let’s go,” I say. “Mary, can you ride?”
“No,” she says. “But I can run. I once ran all day without stopping.”
“You’ll have to tell us about that sometime,” Tom says. “For now, you’ll take turns riding double with each of us.”
Jefferson gives me a boost onto Peony, who dances beneath me with excitement. Then he boosts Tom onto Apollo, and Mary right behind Tom. He pulls up the top rung of fencing and tosses it aside, then he rushes around the corral, smacking horses on their rumps and herding them out.
There are still a few horses stabled by the cabin—like my uncle’s—but the rest of the men will have to round up their mounts before chasing after us. Jefferson has given us a nice head start.
He vaults onto Sorry’s back. “We follow the creek west and downhill as much as possible,” he says.
“Agreed,” I say. “We ride until daylight, no matter what.”
Jefferson leads, and Tom and I fall in behind. In the distance, a volley of gunshots pierces the night sky, echoing through the hills. More than anything, I want to urge Peony into a gallop, but it’s too dark to risk it.
Our horses splash into the creek, which will take us far away from this blasted place. Quietly and slowly—too slowly—we follow it around the pasture and into the trees. Branches close over our heads, blocking what little moonlight and starlight we had to guide us, and we are forced to slow even further.
I comfort myself with the thought that even though the darkness makes our path difficult, it also makes us hard to pursue. If we just keep going, slow and steady, we’ll be safe.
Then why am I not full of gladness? Why am I not rejoicing at our escape? Instead, as we clomp and splash along in darkness, my heart grows heavier and heavier.
Finally, when I can stand it no more, I pull Peony up short. “Wait,” I whisper, too loudly. “Stop!”
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Jefferson says as he and Tom rein in their mounts.
“I have to go back.”
“What?”
“We’re not escaping. Not really. I mean, maybe you are, but not me. Never me.”
“You think Westfall will come after you again,” Tom says.
“I know he will.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” Mary says. “Maybe he got killed in the fighting.”
“That would save me a heap of trouble,” I admit. “But I’ve got to go back and make sure. You three go on without me.”
“Like hell,” Jefferson says. He’s turned his horse around, and he and Sorry splash toward us. “Listen, Lee, we have to go. This is our one chance. We’ll get back to our friends, and we’ll tell everyone what happened, and then we’ll make a plan.”
“No.”
“Lee—”
“That sounds wonderful. In fact, it might be the most tempting thing I’ve ever heard. But he’ll come after me again, no doubt about it. Maybe the next time he tries to burn us out we’ll lose everyone. What if something happened to Olive or Andy? I’d never forgive myself.”
Peony fidgets beneath me, impatient after being stuck in that corral for so long.
“We should go,” Mary says, her voice urgent. “If Lee wants to be daft, let her stay.”
“If I stay,” I add, “he won’t come after you. You’ll be free.”
“Not true,” Tom says, and he cuts off Mary’s protest by saying, “He’ll figure on us coming back for you. And eventually he’ll realize the gorgeous spot you picked for us by that beaver pond is richer with gold than Midas.”