“Thanksgiving is a stupid celebration,” Mary says.
We all turn to stare at her.
“You’re grateful enough to have a holiday, but then you go and slaughter Indians and steal their land. It makes no sense.”
I start to protest, “We didn’t slaughter them. Not all—”
Mary mutters something in Chinese, and even though I have no idea what she’s saying, I’d bet my witchy powers it’s something unseemly. Then she adds, “Your people. You. There’s no difference.”
“Giving thanks is not stupid,” Tom says. “Killing Indians is.”
Jefferson says nothing, but he looks back and forth between us, his mind obviously busy.
“Well, I don’t know if the holiday is stupid or not,” I say. “But I’m thankful for all of you just the same. And I’m thankful for Muskrat. We wouldn’t have escaped without his help.”
“Hear! Hear!” Tom says, raising his canteen once more, and we all follow suit, even Mary.
We drink for a moment in silence. Then Jefferson says, “I didn’t see Muskrat go down.”
Mary looks back over the path we’ve been traveling. “It’s not right,” she murmurs. “That he should be the one to make the plan, but we should be the ones to get away.”
“Maybe he did get away,” Tom says.
“I hope so,” I say, but my voice lacks sureness.
“Break’s over,” Jefferson says. We mount up, sobered, and it doesn’t feel like a holiday at all.
We’re too far west to encounter more mining camps, but the creek eventually reaches a river—which turns out to be the Yuba—and at their conjunction is a small trading post. We ask directions, trade my gold for supplies, and follow the river until it joins up with the Feather, which leads us due south, exactly the way we want to go.
With the mine a total ruin, any of Dilley’s men who survived will winter in Sacramento, looking for work. So we skirt Sacramento to avoid them, instead of visiting the town. There’s probably a better, shorter way to go, but we surely don’t know it, and it takes more than a week just to reach the American River.
The American is well traveled, with little paths and roads worn all along its banks, and we pick up our pace. I’m so eager to see Becky and the kids, the Major, Jasper and Henry, Hampton, even Old Tug and the Buckeyes. I hope Nugget has made a full recovery, that Olive has nursed her back to perfect health. I hope everyone has found mountains of gold.
When we find the tributary creek that leads to our beaver pond, the horses recognize home, and it becomes difficult to keep them to a wise, leisurely pace. And when the trees break onto our beautiful pond and the tiny town growing on the hill above it, my heart is so full of happiness I think I might burst.
There are more tents and shanties than when we left, more people. A wide path winds around the pond and straight up the hill to what almost looks like a town square. In the middle of the square, a tall sign post has been pounded into the ground. On the sign are the burn-etched words: WELCOME TO GLORY, CALIFORNIA.
Becky’s cabin seems to be Glory’s cornerstone, and it has a temporary canvas roof now. Attached to the west wall is a wide awning that stretches far enough to shade several tables and benches.
Even though it’s midday, a few miners sit on the benches drinking from tin cups. Becky bursts from the cabin carrying a tray piled with biscuits. She rushes to the miners, serving each one with a growl and a frown, and I’m so happy to see her I can hardly stand it. I dismount, and Mary slides down behind me.
Beside us, Jefferson chuckles. “Looks like Widow Joyner has finally had enough of smiling and being nice,” he says.
Just then, Becky wags her finger at the nose of a particularly gnarled-looking fellow, and I can’t hear what she’s saying, but it’s clear she’s giving him a piece of her mind. The gnarled fellow just grins in response.
“Indeed,” Tom says. “It seems she is embracing her true nature.” He gestures toward a sign hanging from the awning.
I stop short. The sign’s large black letters read THE WORST TAVERN IN CALIFORNIA. And below it, in smaller letters: BAD FOOD, BAD SERVICE.
Jefferson bends over laughing, and I’m trying very hard not to laugh, too, when Becky finally turns and sees us.
The men at the table are caught in the sudden sunbeam of her smile, and they don’t care one whit when she drops her tray beside them, sending biscuits flying everywhere, and starts running toward us.
“Olive!” she calls. “Fetch the Major. Lee and Jeff and Tom are back!”
Becky throws her arms around me, and I hug her right back. We cling to each other for a moment, and then she steps back, smoothing her apron and otherwise collecting herself.
Looking primly toward Wilhelm and Mary, she says, “I see we have company.” Then her gaze roves Jefferson and Tom, and her eyes narrow. “You all look terrible. Worse than terrible.”
“It was a rough time,” I tell her. “Becky Joyner, this is Wilhelm.” Wilhelm nods. “And this is Mary.”
“Hello,” Mary says, and suddenly it occurs to me that Mary can’t possibly be her real name. Later, when we’re alone, I’ll ask her if there’s something else she’d like us to call her. A Chinese name.
Becky frowns. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, though I’m not sure it’s true. “I’ve been sick with worry, Lee. Jasper and the Major were hatching a plan to go after you. What happened?”
I sigh loudly and follow it with a deep breath, as if by doing so I can purge all the bad things that happened and fill myself with clean air and friendly faces and safety. “We have a lot to tell you.”
The news of our return flows through Glory like wildfire. Henry and Jasper come running first, and Henry is so happy to see Tom that he hugs him like he’ll never let go while tears stream from his eyes. We repeat the story to the college men; then Olive returns with the Major and Hampton in tow, and we tell the story a third time. We’re about to launch into a fourth telling for Old Tug and a few of his Buckeyes, but Becky intercedes.
“Food and rest,” she insists. “There’ll be time for the telling later. Lee, you and your friend Mary can share the cabin with me and the children for a while.” She looks pointedly at Mary. “I could use an extra hand running the tavern, if you’re not afraid of rough men and rougher work.”