Native Gold (29 page)

"Aw, Miss Mattie," Zeke said sheepishly, "maybe you should get back to your cabin. I s’pose frontier justice ain’t what you’re used to."

"Justice?" she demanded. "For what? Why are you beating him? He’s done nothing wrong!"

"Nothin’ wrong?" Harley spat. "You call an Injun stealin’ our women nothin’ wrong?"

"He did not steal me," she insisted breathlessly. "And I am
not
your woman."

"Aw, come on, ma’am," Jasper whined. The bloodthirsty gleam in his eyes was almost too much to bear. "Just stand back so’s we can give the savage his due."

Mattie felt sick. If she hadn’t thrown herself over him, Sakote would have been beaten to a bloody pulp by now. The men she’d befriended, dined with, trusted, still stood by like a pack of wolves eager for the kill. And beneath her, Sakote lay still, silent despite the brutal battering he’d already endured. Who, she wondered, were the savages now?

"Go away," she told them, her voice low with misery and betrayal. "This man has done nothing to warrant your hatred. He’s been only kind and decent toward me. He didn’t steal me. I followed him. He only meant to return me safe to my home."

The men, dubious, stared and shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

"He didn’t nab you from your cabin?" Zeke asked, scratching his head.

"No."

"He didn’t steal you away to make you a white slave?" Jeremy wondered.

"Of course not."

"He did not," Frenchy inquired, delicately clearing his throat, "compromise you?"

Mattie blushed at that. She
longed
to be compromised by Sakote. But she lifted her chin and answered him. "No."

The men looked almost disappointed.

"I thought you were good men, decent men," she told them, swallowing hard, her eyes wet with furious tears. "I thought you cared about me. I thought you were my friends."

With that, she gathered her skirts and her dignity and bent to attend to Sakote. She touched his back lightly, and he recoiled. There were no marks as yet, but she was sure there’d be bruises tomorrow.

"Oh, Sakote, my poor, dear Sakote."

Sakote brushed her hand aside with a grimace and hauled himself painfully up to his haunches. He was a warrior. The last thing he needed was a woman fussing over him like a sickly babe. Especially in front of the white men.

He’d known what they would do. He’d been prepared for their violence. In fact, before he’d dropped his weapon, he’d intended taking on the whole company of miners—until that man spoke of Mati’s safety. Then he realized he couldn’t let his pride endanger her. No matter what they did to him, he couldn’t let her get hurt. So he surrendered the rifle. He let them beat him. And he showed his courage in the Konkow way, by his silence.

But now, Mati tried to steal that courage from him.

He wouldn’t allow it. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he slowly stood and faced the
willa
, creasing his forehead in a mask of anger meant to intimidate enemies. Even Mati gasped at his stern expression. He eyed the miners one by one, as if marking them for death. Some of them sullenly held his gaze. Most of them looked away. When he was satisfied that his pride, the pride of a Konkow warrior, had been restored, he turned to leave.

"Sakote!" Mati cried.

Curse the woman, he thought, hesitating in his tracks. Now the whole
willa
camp knew his sacred name. He frowned and strode away.

"Wait," she begged.

He continued walking.

"Please, Sakote, wait."

"You’d best do what the little lady says, Injun, unless you want a bullet in your back." Sakote froze. It was that big man, the one with the pale yellow hair, the one who wanted to make certain Mati was unhurt. Now the man looked as full of shame as a boy caught in the women’s
hubo
. "I don’t cotton much to savages," he said, "what with their poachin’ and scalpin’ and whatnot, but it’s plain as day you’ve turned Miss Mattie’s head for some reason."

The other miners put up such a protest at that, Sakote wondered if they might beat the big man now, too.

"Quit your bellyachin’, boys. Like I said, it’s as plain as day," he told them, then spoke again to Sakote. "Now I’m real sorry me and the boys roughed you up, and, well, bein’ Miss Mattie put herself in harm’s way to keep you safe, I’d say you owe her at least a word or two."

That he understood. Mati
had
shown bravery. Though it shamed a warrior to have a woman beg for his life, Mati’s courage somehow made him feel proud. And the man was right. He shouldn’t let that go unanswered.

But the white men knew his name now. They’d felt his body crumple beneath their kicks. He was vulnerable. That made his people vulnerable. And above all, he must protect the Konkow.

He must end it now—his contact with the white world, his contact with Mati—no matter how painful. And he must end it quickly.

Scowling to hide his broken spirit, he turned to her. "You have shown much bravery," he said. "I give you thanks." Then he made a crossing motion with his arms, the formal gesture of dismissal. "But now it’s finished between us.
Akina
."

Mati gasped, and the anguish that flickered in her eyes felt worse to him than all the pummeling he’d endured. He knew he would carry the scars from her stricken look for a very long time. All the weight of the world bowed his shoulders as he turned toward home, toward the place where, for better or worse, he belonged.

Swede frowned and ran a hand over his stubbled cheek as the Injun vanished into the trees. He guessed he and the boys had really done it this time. Miss Mattie’s face reminded him of the time his little girls’ runt lamb had refused to nurse, and up and died. They’d looked at him with just such hurt, like it was his fault. There’d been nothing he could say to fix things then, and there was nothing he could say now.

Aw, hell, he thought, it was probably best this way. Even the Injun knew it. Mattie’s heart might be broken now, but things would only get worse if she took up with a savage. That was no kind of life for a well-bred white woman. The sooner she accepted that, the better.

None of the men spoke up to offer their condolences or apologies, but then Swede’s throat, too, was clogged with shame. The wind kicked up in the pines, sawing a sorrowful tune to fill the silence. But it wasn’t loud enough to cover the sob that sneaked out of Miss Mattie as she walked, her head held high, past them and into her cabin.

It was a sound Swede couldn’t get out of his head. Not the next morning, when the man from Marysville brought a letter from home. Not the following day, when Red unearthed a gold nugget near as big as a gambling die. Not even that night, when Tom cracked open a good bottle of whiskey to celebrate and poured everyone a dram. Miss Mattie holed up in her cabin, and without their pretty ray of sunshine, the whole camp took on the air of a funeral.

Then, as if the incident with the Injun wasn’t sorry enough, on Sunday afternoon, the worst trouble any of them had ever faced rode into Paradise Bar.

Nine men, himself included, had stayed behind in the camp—Frenchy, Bobby, Tom, Zeke, and the Campbell brood. Everyone else chose to try their luck in the creek instead of risking it all on the game of chance Tom dealt across the makeshift card table.

By noon, the Campbells had lost interest in the gambling. They set up a row of tins along an oak branch and took turns blasting them to smithereens with a rifle. Every few minutes, the loud bang would jolt Frenchy awake, which was the only thing keeping him in the poker game.

Swede mopped his brow with the back of his sleeve. He hoped the others couldn’t tell it was his bad hand and not the late afternoon heat that made him sweat. But then, he’d never been good at bluffing, especially when he was this drunk.

"Aw, shucks! I fold." Bobby slammed his cards down. He tipped back his stool and downed a slug of whiskey, burping loudly.

"Ye play like a damn milkmaid," Tom complained, mocking the boy. "I fold, I fold."

Bobby banged his fist on the table, toppling Tom’s stack of Double Eagles.

"Damn you, Tom!" the boy hollered, his eyes glazed with liquor. "You take that back!"

Tom’s face began to redden. "I’ll take it back when ye pick up your cards and start playin’ like a man."

"And just what would a limey leprychaun know about that, huh?" Bobby challenged, jutting out his chin.

"What did ye call me?"

Dash fired off a rifle round, censoring Bobby’s reply.

Swede rolled his eyes. Zeke shrugged. Frenchy was no help. His drunken gaze roamed lazily from man to man, like he was watching children tossing a ball back and forth at a snail’s pace.

Swede let out his breath in a heavy sigh. Ever since the night they’d beat up that Digger Injun, everyone seemed to have grown a temper as nasty as a mule and a kick just as bad. And Mattie had only made things worse, pining away all alone in her cabin, depriving the men of her company. Lord, who would’ve thought a ruffled skirt and a pair of big, wide, innocent eyes could cause such a stir? It made him wonder how they’d gotten along before she came. Hell, most of the boys stayed as drunk as skunks just to keep from lamenting over Miss Mathilda Hardwicke. Himself included.

But mostly he drank out of shame.

Miss Mattie had put them in their place, all right. That poor savage didn’t deserve what Paradise Bar had dished out. It was just all too easy to assume he meant her harm. But Swede knew, from the looks of him, that the man had sacrificed himself to keep Mattie safe. And damned if the Injun didn’t know well enough to end things before they got out of hand. Swede had to hand it to him—the Digger had a head on his shoulders and his own brand of honor. It was no wonder Miss Mattie had taken a shine to him.

He took another swallow of his tin cup of whiskey while his fellow players exchanged insults and compared their lineage, their faces growing more purple by the minute. Finally, he whacked the back of Bobby’s head before the lad could have a conniption fit.

"Come on, boys," he said, his tongue thick, "just get on with the game."

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. Tom bristled, but resumed scrutinizing his hand. Zeke silently folded. Frenchy, however, had fallen asleep where he sat. His head lolled backward, his mouth hung open, and his cards splayed loosely in his hand.

Tom made no bones about examining Frenchy’s cards. He clucked his tongue. "He’s only got two pair, and low numbers at that. Swede, ye haven’t got piss, have ye?"

Swede scowled, humiliated yet again. He threw in his hand, and Tom scooped the pot toward his growing stash with a chuckle.

"Care for another round?" Tom licked his thumb, ready to deal.

"Not for me," Zeke said, spitting tobacco on the ground.

Frenchy snorted in his sleep.

Bobby got up sullenly from his spot, clearly finished.

Swede wiped a hand across his blurry eyes. "I’m all done in." He was about to see if he could push himself up from the table without staggering sideways when he heard the distant bray of a mule. The weekly deliveries weren’t due, so it could mean only one thing. A stranger was coming to Paradise Bar.

Henry Harrison, "Ace" to those who presumed to challenge him to cards, had never worked so hard to maintain his legendary poker face as when he first glimpsed Paradise Bar. He’d heard about the gold camps. Indeed, he’d always intended to try his luck with the pick and pan. But the lure of one-eyed jacks and his own easy brand of mining had kept him in decent clothes, good whiskey, and San Francisco. Until recently.

His fortune had turned nasty, spurred on by a sore loser who had flapping jaws and friends in high places. The charge was tampering with the deck, and not even the offer of a sizable donation to the city could keep the law off his tail. So he’d sent the meddling gossiper to an early grave with the help of Mr. Deringer, as he had countless others who’d dared to cross him. Only this time, it had turned him into a wanted man.

Fortunately, Lady Luck had always been his mistress, and it wasn’t long before she dealt him a wild deuce. It seemed his older brother had, the letter poetically informed him, "passed out of this world and on to the next." Needless to say, he decided it was time to pay his respects to dearly departed, gold-fevered Dr. James Harrison, who’d conveniently settled in a remote mining camp in the middle of nowhere.

He hardly remembered James. If it wasn’t for the boastful letters he got from him every couple of months, the man could have dropped off the face of the earth for all Henry knew. Truth to tell, they’d never spent much time together anyway, what with the eight years between them. But blood was blood, and if you couldn’t turn to kin in times of hardship, what good were they?

Still, clinging for dear life to the back of a pesky mule all the way up the canyon, he’d had second thoughts. He was plainly out of his element. In the wilderness, every flicker of light, every rustle in the bushes had him as spooked as a new bride. It was no wonder he’d shot that Injun kid at the last switchback, what with the boy sneaking up on him like that. And now that Paradise Bar proper sprawled in all its dilapidated glory before him, only the possibility of inheritance and the memory of the gallows awaiting him in San Francisco kept him from hightailing it all the way back to the Bay.