Tom is right. My uncle knows I’d use my witchy senses to find the best spot in all the Sierras. He’ll want it for himself, for sure and certain.
Jefferson sighs. “And he’ll keep killing the Maidu. He’ll find more. Enslave them. Work them to death.”
“No one will be safe,” I say hollowly. “Not ever. Until my uncle is taken care of.”
A pause. Apollo dances nervously.
Finally Jefferson says, “You mean to do murder.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not you.”
“It has to be someone.”
“Lee, it’s a slaughter up there. You’re just as like to get killed by accident.”
“I’ll chance it.”
“I’m not going back,” Mary says. “No matter what. You can drop me off right here, and I’ll run all the way to San Francisco if I have to.”
Using knees and hands, I direct Peony to circle around back the way we came, and she’s such a dab at bareback riding that she responds to the slightest touch.
“Wait, Lee,” Jefferson says. “I’m going with you.”
“Me too,” Tom says. “Or we’ll never be free of this man.”
Mary begins to cry softly.
“You don’t have to come, Mary,” Jefferson says.
“We can give you some of our supplies and wish you Godspeed,” Tom agrees.
Mary lets go of Tom’s waist long enough to wipe her face. “It was all just bluster. Truth is, I have nowhere to go.”
We face one another in the dark, wasting precious moments as thoughts chase themselves around in my head. At last I say, “I have an idea.”
The rise leading toward the mine is awash with firelight, and the scent of burning wood fills the air. Things are awful up there, and if I have my way, they’ll get even worse.
“There’s a way to ruin my uncle completely without doing murder,” I add.
“Oh?” Tom says.
“He’s done most of the work himself already. We just need to help him along.” I pull everyone close. “This is what we’re going to do.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The uprising is over, and the mining camp is littered with bodies—limbs pale against dark earth made muddy with blood. It’s impossible to identify the fallen, but based on what I see of the living, the dead are mostly Indians and Chinese.
Jefferson and I crouch in shadow behind the arrastra. We’ve circled around, sticking to the trees, until we reached a good hiding place. From here, we have a perfect view of the entire camp—the mine is to our immediate right, and stretching below us are the barracks, the stables, my uncle’s cabin, and the Chinese tents. The barracks are a raging inferno. Heat washes my face.
“Glad you grabbed the guns when you did,” I whisper.
Boggs and the stockade guards are nowhere to be seen. They’re either dead, or on their way back to the stockade, or out trying to round up the horses we let loose. There’s no sign of Frank Dilley, whom I suspect did not survive, but several foremen remain, trying to put out the fire. Abel Topper works his way through the dead bodies with an ax. He aims for someone’s neck, then raises the ax. I have to look away, but I can’t avoid the sound of the blade crushing flesh and bone.
There’s no sign of my uncle or Muskrat.
“There,” Jefferson whispers, pointing. “Look.”
I follow the direction of his finger and discover Reverend Lowrey. His back is turned to me and he’s covered in mud, but there’s no mistaking the huge Bible under his arm. Pity he survived the uprising.
That thought sets my belly to twitching, though, because even if Lowrey is a self-righteous son of a goat, he doesn’t deserve to die. I need to finish this business quick and get back to the good people I care about. Otherwise, I’m on my way to becoming as mean-spirited as Frank Dilley.
Reverend Lowrey is speaking to someone. He shifts to the left, revealing his companion, and it’s like a rock sticking in my chest, because there’s my uncle, looking as prim and perfect as you please, with nary a scratch or even a smear of mud.
“Blast,” Jefferson mutters, echoing my own thought, because my uncle being a special case, I’m not sure it exactly qualifies as mean-spirited to wish death upon him.
We wait in silence. To our right, between us and the mine, are three stacked barrels beneath a canvas awning, which are nearly full of gunpowder, fresh from one of Hiram’s trading errands. I rummage through my pack and pull out the dress—the first one Hiram got for me. I put the skirt hem in my teeth and tear until I have a nice rip going. While I rip up the skirt, Jefferson retrieves his tinderbox.
Now we just need the signal.
Jefferson whispers, “How much longer do you think—”
Someone screams, distant but forceful.
Everyone in camp stops what they’re doing and stares in the direction of the stockade, even though it’s way out of sight. My uncle’s hand goes to the gun at his hip.
The scream comes again, louder and drawn out. “Wow,” Jefferson mutters. “Nice work, Mary.”
Hiram shouts some orders that I can’t quite hear over the raging fire of the barracks, but several men check their guns and start making their way through the Chinese tents toward the creek and the pasture.
“Still too many left,” I say.
“The gunshot might take care of that,” Jefferson says.
Hardly a moment later, a single rifle shot rings out.
“It’s the Indian camp!” Topper hollers. He gestures for every-one left to follow him. “Leave the barracks; it’s lost to us. We need every gun, every able-bodied man.”
They obey without hesitation, and there’s murder in their eyes as they weave through the bodies, toward the creek and away from the mine. Everyone, that is, except Hiram.
Another shot cracks the air. We were right to give Jefferson’s rifle to Mary, figuring it would boom louder than a revolver. Everyone heading away breaks into a run. This time, my uncle turns to follow, though at a leisurely pace.
“Mary was slow to reload,” Jefferson observes.
“If she sticks with us, we’ll teach her true,” I say.
I watch my uncle’s dallying back. He plans to arrive at the stockade after all the dirty work is done. That’s why his vest and jacket are as clean as the morning. He gets people to do his killing for him. My mama and daddy were an exception.