More gunshots echo. The horizon lights up, showing the trees in sharp relief, just like that awful night we lost Martin, when Dilley and his men set fire to our camp. Please hurry, Jeff and Tom. Please be okay. I send a little prayer heavenward for Muskrat and Mary, too. Then I turn toward the gate.
The latch is huge and heavy, an enormous beam held in place by brackets. It takes two tries for me to lift it, and I don’t have the strength to set it down gently, so I let it drop with a loud thunk.
I push the gate open.
“Hello?” I call out. “You need to leave,” I say. “Quickly.”
What if no one inside this stockade speaks English? And suddenly I realize that even if they did, they might not listen. I’m Hiram’s niece, who wears fancy clothes and sleeps in a fancy cabin and eats three fine meals per day. They have no reason to trust me. Not one.
“Please!” I say louder. “The Indians at the camp meeting, they were attacked. They fought back. It’s bad up there, real bad. My uncle’s men might come here next.”
A woman steps into the lantern light—black eyes and thin hair and mottled skin. Her breasts sag halfway down her belly, which is sunken and bony.
“You have to leave,” I insist. “Or you might be killed.”
“Muskrat?” she says.
I shake my head. “I don’t know where he is. I didn’t see what happened to him.”
She frowns. “He has everything. For leaving. He’s been saving it for weeks.”
I’m so relieved to be able to communicate with her. Gradually others come toward me. More women, children, a few young men, until there are close to fifteen. I’m betting there are even more, waiting in darkness.
“I don’t know if Muskrat is coming. I’m sorry. But if you don’t leave now, you will probably die.”
“If we don’t get food soon, we die,” she says. “We have no weapons for hunting, no baskets for gathering.”
Oh, God. Why did I not think of this? “Maybe I can get you some supplies. Maybe . . .” But where? How? There might be some foodstuffs in Hiram’s cabin, but I can’t possibly round up enough to feed all these people. I couldn’t even carry everything they’ll need.
“Here,” I say, thrusting Martin’s revolver at her. She lurches back, eyes wide, but her posture eases when she understands what I intend. “Take it. It’s a good gun.” Tears prick at my eyes. “A really good gun. Shoots straight. Almost new. It will buy a lot of food.”
She grabs it, eyeing me warily. “And this, too.” I slip my white rabbit-fur muff from my left arm and offer it. A young man steps up and grabs the muff from my hand before I can change my mind. “Please hurry,” I say.
The woman turns around and confers with her companions. She speaks first, fast and low in a language I don’t recognize. Two other older women speak. All at once everyone is nodding, as if they’ve come to an agreement.
She faces me and says, “We go.” Then, with a steady glare, she adds, “Do not expect us to thank you.”
“I . . . No, of course not.”
She gestures toward the others, and they fall in behind her. She leads them from the stockade in a neat single-file line, as though they’ve been practicing.
I hope they make it, but this does not seem like a good night for hope.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The line of women and children gradually disappears into darkness. My uncle did this. He and his men. And even after Tom and Jefferson and I escape—if we escape—Hiram will still be here. I know he’s not the only one responsible for the misery of the Indians in California, but he’s the one I could have done something to stop. If only I’d had the means—and the courage—to kill him.
But right now Tom and Jeff are waiting at the corral. I think I know which direction to go. I stare at the lamp swinging from the gate. It could light my way. It would also be a beacon, giving away my position to anyone who might be looking for me.
Lifting my muddy skirts, I turn my back on the stinking stockade and push into the dark. I listen as I walk, hoping for the sound of nickering horses and complaining cattle, worried that instead I’ll hear footsteps or angry voices. The corral is large, but I could easily miss it in the dark. I suppose if I encounter the cottonwoods or a steep slope, I’ll know I’ve gone the wrong way.
“Lee!” comes a whispered voice. “Over here!”
My feet aim me in the voice’s direction a split second before my ears identify Tom’s baritone.
“Tom!” I whisper, rushing forward. The corral’s low fence comes into view just in time to keep me from crashing into it. I lift my skirts and climb over to meet him.
He thrusts my pack toward me. “I put the gold inside.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Yes. The big blond fellow.”
“Wilhelm?”
“That’s his name. Saw me, didn’t even bat an eye. He stayed clear of the fighting. Just stood a few paces from the cabin, arms crossed, watching everything.”
I’m not sure what to make of that. “Wilhelm might be able to write or gesture to someone that he saw you, but he can’t talk, so maybe we still have some time. What about Jefferson?”
“Haven’t seen him. Let’s find the horses. We’ll have them gathered up by the time he gets here.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I heave the pack over one shoulder and start weaving through burros and milk cows and even a couple of oxen, looking for my mare. “Peony!” I whisper. “Where are you, sweet girl?”
Hot breath whuffs at my neck. I spin and fling my arms around her, but she’s hard to hold on to. She raises and lowers her head, over and over, nostrils flaring.
“I’m sorry, Peony. You’ve always been a vengeful critter, but if you let me ride you out of here tonight, everything is going to be okay.”
I’ve become so awful that now I’m even lying to my horse. Things will not be okay. Not until my uncle no longer threatens me or my friends. Or anyone else in California. But one thing at a time.
Gradually Peony settles. Tom appears before me, pulling Sorry by her halter.
“Where’s Apollo?” I whisper.
“I’ll get him next.”
“Will he let you ride bareback? We’ve not a lick of tack between us, except their halters.”