Native Gold (14 page)

Mattie realized, after having made a huge show of leaving her cabin at sunrise, slinging the pick over her shoulder and stomping across the clearing, whistling "O Susanna," that she’d only thought her plans through halfway. She shifted on her haunches in the clump of manzanita and wondered just what she’d do if she did spy the thief hanging about her cabin.

She’d left her rifle inside, which was probably just as well. How could she point a gun at someone who admired her work enough to steal it? Still, she thought as a pair of pesky gnats circled frantically in front of her face, she ought not to have left the weapon for the thief’s use.

She wrinkled her nose as one of the gnats alit, attempted to slap it away, then froze in mid-swat as a movement from the edge of the wood caught her eye.

It was a little girl...or maybe a little boy. She wasn’t sure. The poor thing was naked except for a small, fawn-colored square that hung fore and aft over the parts that would tell which gender the child was. Long, tangled hair as black as pitch hung past a pair of shiny dark eyes and over bony shoulders. The child’s skin was the color of strong English tea, and by the gangly quality of the limbs, Mattie guessed the little urchin to be about six years of age.

A thrill of excitement shot through her as she watched the child steal with imperceptible noise across the clearing toward her cabin. She must be seeing her first Indian! Already she imagined the sketches she’d make—the little squaw or brave dancing before a fire in a feather headdress, riding bareback on a pony, standing proudly beside a teepee. She’d seen such drawings in the published journals of mountain men who had traveled West twenty years before, but none of them seemed to capture the vitality she saw now in the subject before her, that spirit the Pre-Raphaelite artists celebrated.

The child bypassed the front door of her cabin and crept instead over the windowsill, lifting the fabric flap and sliding in headfirst. Mattie smiled in triumph and waved away the bothersome gnats. She had her thief now.

Mustering up all the patience she could manage, she left her tools in the bushes and took one stealthy step after another toward the cabin till she stood on the pine planking of the front porch. She heard the telltale rustling of paper inside.

She’d have to move fast. By the looks of the wiry child, scampering out the window would be the work of an instant. Bucking up for the encounter, Mattie counted slowly and silently to three. Then she burst headlong into the cabin.

The boy—it
had
to be a boy—yelped and sprang up from the bed like a spooked kitten, straight up. Sketches and pencils scattered everywhere. Even before he came down, he was eyeing the window.

But Mattie was prepared. She slammed the door shut behind her and moved to block his path. She was ready for his flight to the sill. And she was ready for him to try to wrestle past her to the door. But she wasn’t ready for his heart-rending scream of terror.

For an instant, she wondered if a bear had followed her into the cabin. Surely
she
couldn’t instill such fear in the boy. But his eyes widened, and he continued to shriek, scrambling from one end of the bed to the other like a caged lion.

She wanted to catch him, but she didn’t want to scare him. Using the universal placating gesture to calm the boy, she faced her palms toward him.

"It’s all right. I won’t hurt you," she said in her gentlest voice.

His gaze still bolted in panic around the room, and he continued to whimper, but at least he stopped flailing himself across the bed.

"That’s it," she encouraged. "It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. I just want to..."

She took a tiny step closer, and he bounded from the bed toward the window, fast, but not fast enough to avoid the arm she hooked toward him.

"Wait!" she cried, hanging onto his waist as he dragged himself toward escape.

He almost made it to the sill, till Mattie managed to get both arms around his squirming torso.

He turned in her grasp then and fought like a wildcat, clawing and kicking and baring snowy teeth. His fist caught her tender shoulder, and she grunted in irritation, but she wouldn’t let go. His heels drummed at her shins, and he gave her several sharp jabs in the ribs with his elbows, but she held fast. Then his pointy little fangs sank into her forearm. She yelped in pain and tossed him back onto the bed, holding his arms fast and sitting on him to keep him there.

Catching her breath, she glanced at her injured arm. The skin wasn’t broken, but a double crescent of red throbbed where he’d bitten her. The boy still fought her with all the fury of a storm, but she had the advantage now. She watched through tendrils of her disheveled hair as his struggles weakened.

"I’m
not
going to hurt you," she reiterated, though she was sure he couldn’t understand a word. "It’s all right."

For a long while they stared at each other. He truly was a beautiful child, she decided, when his claws were sheathed. His skin was flawless and of such a rich color that it looked as if it radiated sunlight. His eyes, set deep within his face, above wide cheekbones and beneath slashing brows, were so dark as to be impenetrable. His pearly teeth hid now behind lips pressed tightly into a grim line. She wondered how long she’d have to sit on the pitiful child before that murderous look vanished from his gaze.

"You’re a strong little boy, aren’t you?" she asked, drawing an even fiercer frown from him. "I wonder what your tribe calls you. Spitting Wildcat? Charging Bear?" She glowered back at him. "Scowling Wolf?"

His small chest still rose and fell with rapid breaths, and she could see the quick beat of his heart in the hollow of his stomach. The poor lad couldn’t understand a word she spoke. How could she assuage his fear?

"My name is Mattie. Mattie. Mattie."

The boy only stared at her.

"Actually Mathilda Hardwicke, but you may call me Mattie."

The boy’s mouth parted just enough to murmur, "Coh-ah-nuya."

"Is that your name? Coh-ah—"

The boy winced as if she intended to strike him.

"I promise I won’t hurt you." She tucked her lower lip thoughtfully under her teeth and considered the boy. Her Aunt Emily had taught her that when a lady was at a loss for words in conversation, she should find some common interest. But what could a properly schooled lady from the city possibly have in common with a little savage boy?

Of course.

He liked her drawings. Enough to steal them.

She smiled at him.

"You’re my first benefactor, you know, although I must say the commission arrangements leave a bit to be desired."

The boy’s arms relaxed infinitesimally beneath her grasp.

"Do you like my sketches?" She nodded to the drawing that lay beside his head.

He warily turned to peek at it.

"That’s a steamship. I traveled aboard her to get here." She glanced toward another. "And that’s the mule that carried my bag across Panama."

He shifted to look at the second drawing, and his fists unfurled.

"This one," she said, daring to release one of his wrists to hold the picture up for his inspection, "is a tiger lily I found in the meadow."

While he studied it, she let go of his other arm and picked up the rough sketch of an acorn.

"
Utim
," he said at once.

"
Utim?
" Her heart fluttered.

"
Utim
."

They were communicating. It was a heady feeling.

"
Utim!
" she cried, beaming.

Inspired, Mattie rifled through the scattered drawings until she found one of a chubby little boy clutching a tiny wooden sailboat to his chest.

The Indian boy took the page in both hands and studied the picture with all the solemnity of a jeweler inspecting a diamond through his loupe.

"Do you like it?"

"Toy," the boy whispered as clear as day.

Mattie gasped. How did he know that word?

"Toy," he repeated louder. Then he pierced her with his ebony gaze. "Toy?"

"Yes," she replied, unnerved. "Yes, it’s a toy."

Unadulterated hunger instantly suffused the boy’s face. He wanted that toy, more than he wanted anything, more than he feared her.

"Don’t you have any toys?"

He was too transfixed by the sketch to listen to her. Slowly, cautiously, she shifted her weight off of him and took one of his small, warm hands in hers.

"Would you like to play with a toy?"

He glanced briefly at his hand trapped inside hers and set aside the drawing.

"Toy?" she asked, coming to her feet.

He scooted off the bed, his fear completely replaced by eagerness now.

Unfortunately, Mattie couldn’t think of a single thing in the cabin she could call a toy. She cursed herself for her short-sightedness. It was as rude as inviting someone to tea when your cupboards were bare.

"Hmm." She tapped her chin and looked around the room.

"Hmm." He imitated her gestures, as if they were part of some mystical rite.

She bit back a grin. How adorable the little warrior was. She could hardly wait to draw...

Draw. The pencils. Of course.

She bent toward him. "Would you like to draw a picture?"

He cocked his head at her, one brow raised in inquiry.

"Come. I’ll show you how."

With his help, she gathered up the drawings and pencils, and then pulled out two sheets of fresh paper from her portfolio. Settling him upon the stool, she placed the paper on the table before him and wrapped his fingers around a pencil.

"What shall we draw, hmm? Shall we start with something simple?" Standing behind him, she smelled the faint odor of smoke in his hair. “How about
utim
?"

"
Utim
."

She guided his pencil carefully around the curve of an acorn cap and along the smooth sides of the shell, shading the length of one side to give it the illusion of depth. When it was done, the boy dropped the pencil and excitedly picked up the page, examining it so closely his breath fluttered the paper. He turned it over and peered at the back side as well, as if he thought the object might actually have dimension.

She chuckled. His innocence was delightful. She wondered what his name was.

"My name is Mattie," she said, laying a palm across her bosom. "Mattie. What is your name?" She touched her fingertips to his chest.

He ignored her. He was far more interested in drawing than polite conversation. And, truth to tell, she could understand perfectly.

"Would you like to try another?"

The boy went through five sheets of paper over the next several hours, filling them front and back, corner to corner, before his little stomach began complaining.

A particularly loud growl made Mattie giggle, and the boy giggled back, the sound of his laughter like water bubbling over rocks. He quickly leafed through his drawings until he found the one of a small black bear she’d seen across the canyon on her way to Paradise Bar.

"
Pano
," he told her, then pointed to his stomach.

"
Pano
," she repeated with a grin. Then she growled and playfully tickled his belly. "Very hungry
pano
. We need to feed you, don’t we?"

Mattie perused her shelves. There was still ample jerky, but that was about all. The beans would take hours to cook, there was nothing she could do with the flour, and she doubted the child would be too enthused about a pot of coffee. Then her glance alit on the last tin of peaches, and she smiled.

"I’ll bet you’ve never tasted the likes of these," she sang as she opened the can and dumped the last of the precious fruit onto a dish for him.

His eyes grew round with pleasure as he sampled the sweet peaches, and he cleaned his plate before Mattie could even set out the jerky. Her own stomach grumbled in complaint, but she was too preoccupied with indulging her guest to pay it any mind.

Watching him eat, she wondered again at his beauty. From paintings, she’d expected that Indians were squat and ugly, with weathered faces and lined mouths that turned down at the corners. This boy was far from unattractive. Why, with a good barbering and the proper clothes...

He looked up, rather nervously, she thought, which she supposed was natural. She’d been staring at him, after all, and rather openly. She politely lowered her eyes, and then, with an inspired grin, turned to rummage through her carpetbag for her comb.

"Would you like me to comb your hair?" she asked while he worked on his last piece of jerky.

He stared blankly at her. She ran the comb through the ends of her own hair to demonstrate, but he seemed unimpressed. She supposed even Indian boys couldn’t get very excited about grooming.

"Here," she said, gently combing the very ends of his hair.

He gave a small sigh of defeat. Apparently, he knew the process then. He suffered in silence, only wincing once when she tugged at a particularly stubborn knot.

His hair was coarse and thick, straight as a horse’s tail, and where she smoothed the tangles from it, it hung like a glossy gossamer veil past his shoulders. He sat patiently through her ministrations, and when she finished, she was sure that, aside from the uneven ends, his lush mane would have been the envy of any woman in New York.

"Now," she said, tucking the comb away, and drawing the boy to his feet, "what about the rest of you?" She cocked an eye at his wiry body. "I wonder..."

The doctor had left a few articles of clothing behind in his travel trunk. Removing the oilcloth-covered board that proclaimed it a dining table, Mattie opened the trunk and hauled forth a faded red calico shirt. She held it up to the child.

"Well, it’s several sizes too large, but if we fold up the sleeves..."

She helped him slip his arms into the shirt and buttoned it all the way up. Then she rolled the sleeves back till they hung just above his wrists. It looked more like a dress than a shirt, but the vivid color contrasted beautifully with his black hair, and at least it would keep him warm. She only wished she had shoes to give him.

"My, don’t you look handsome," she exclaimed, while he fingered the cloth in wonder.