Native Gold (9 page)

Feeling her way to the matches, she relit the candle and set it atop the stove. By the flickering light, she approached the woodpile, wary of more furry residents. She chose a few chunks of firewood and stuffed them into the belly of the stove. Then she tucked splinters and small odds and ends from the pile around the larger split logs, arranging them as she would flowers. She lit a match from the candle and held it to the biggest log. The match burned, but the wood remained uninspired. The flame bit her, and she dropped the match with a yelp, popping her affronted finger into her mouth.

Three matches later, the thing still wouldn’t light. Exasperated, she flung open her satchel and dug out a piece of drawing paper she’d purchased in New York. It was foolish, she knew, and wasteful, but she was determined to get the stove lit if it took all night and her entire stack of precious paper. Fortunately, the next match devoured the first piece greedily and even sampled the kindling as a second course. But its interest soon waned, and only by sheer desperation and begging and blowing upon the foundering embers did Mattie encourage the fire to revive.

It didn’t last long. A kettle of water would never have boiled over the meager heat, and she doubted the little animal she’d found inside could have even warmed his toes by the flame. But she’d done it. She’d started a fire by herself. And for some reason, that was important. It meant she could survive here. She might not know how to shoot a rifle or pan for gold or even cook herself a proper meal yet. But she could learn. She had to.

Mattie shook out the bedroll as the fire died down, and thankfully, no small mammals issued forth. She changed out of her traveling clothes, laying them out across the cloth-covered table, unpinned her hair, and slipped on her white cotton nightrail. The blanket seemed clean, if not terribly warm, and even though the cot was a poor substitute for the downy mattress she was used to, it was comfortable enough to entice her to skip supper in favor of a long and deep slumber.

While she slept, she dreamed.

She was drawing. In the forest, by the light of the full moon, she sketched a shadowy figure, a man. Her hand recreated his contours with strong, angular strokes. She peered into the wood, trying to get a better glimpse at what she was drawing, but her subject kept vanishing, and the image on the paper remained unclear. She felt she must finish the drawing—was obsessed with it—and yet she was unable to do so.

The next thing Mattie knew, she was waking to the sound of urgent knocking upon her door. The buttery hue of the room told her morning had arrived.

"One moment," she called out, her voice scratchy from sleep.

Having packed no wrapper, she swept the woolen blanket about her.

The rapid knocking resumed.

"Just a moment," she repeated, raking her hair back from her face in some semblance of civility.

The knocking continued relentlessly.

"Good heavens," Mattie muttered under her breath, shuffling toward the door.

She wrenched the door open, letting in a blinding stream of light, and peered out in time to see a red and black bird flit from the house to the side of a nearby pine. But no one was on the porch. Puzzled by the disappearance of her guest, she watched the little red-crested bird. For a moment it hopped along, clinging vertically to the trunk. Then it reared back its head and began pecking furiously at the bark.

Mattie chuckled. There was her knocking visitor.

It wasn’t alone in the tree. Above the bird, circling mischievously, scampered a fat gray squirrel. He twitched his tail, teasing the bird, then retreated into the needles of the pine.

Mattie stepped onto the cold planking of the porch in her bare feet and took a deep breath. The air was just beginning to warm, perfumed with the scent of wildflowers and evergreens. The first insects buzzed in patches of sunlight, and dew glistened on the shaded grasses. The sky was clear and as bright blue as the lupines she’d spotted along the mule trail. It was a glorious morning.

Impetuously, Mattie tossed off the blanket and walked out into a pool of sunshine. After all, for all intents and purposes, she was alone. The grassy dirt was soft beneath her feet, and the sensation of the sun filtering through her thin nightrail felt sinfully good. She closed her eyes, and the sun washed her vision orange. A delicate breeze rustled the pines all around her and played with tendrils of her hair, tickling her cheek. She smiled and lifted her arms above her head, luxuriating in a huge, self-indulgent yawn of which society would never approve.

Then she began to twirl, humming happily the tune she’d learned on the Sacramento riverboat, "Sweet Betsy from Pike," whirling till her gown floated like a great white camellia about her.

A sudden violent rattling of the brush nearby stopped Mattie in her tracks. She gasped and wrapped her arms protectively about her. Something, some large wild animal, set the bushes aquiver as it made its escape. Her heart in her mouth, she staggered back toward the cabin, silently cursing herself for forgetting that she now lived in the wilderness.

Panicked, she scanned the cabin’s interior for a defense of some sort. Her eyes alit at once on the rifle.

It smelled of sweet oil, but the black steel felt cold, heavy, and forbidding in her hands. She didn’t like holding it, but she didn’t want to become some bear’s breakfast either. The beast might have run off, but it might be back, and by the looks of the thin cotton lining the window and the flimsy canvas frame door, getting inside the cabin would be the work of but one raking paw.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her hands shook as she gingerly shifted the weapon in her arms, holding it as far away from her as possible.

She didn’t want the animal cornering her in the house. The bed was too low to hide under, and there was only the one window. So she decided she’d stand guard on the porch.

Warily she crept out the door, her eyes alert to any sudden movement from the meadow or the thick forest surrounding the cabin. She could hear her own pulse rushing through her ears.

At first, every tiny sound made her jump—the robins fluttering in the trees, a bee making its morning rounds, a squirrel dropping a picked-over pine cone. Every flicker of a leaf in the morning sunlight, every turn of a sparrow’s wing, startled her. Her sweaty palms slicked her grip on the rifle, and she had to wipe them several times on her nightrail. Her toes curled anxiously on the pine boards. Time passed with agonizing sloth, and the gun grew heavier by the minute in her aching arms.

Several long minutes later, fatigue finally made her relax her guard. Whatever the danger was, it seemed to be gone for good. Nothing but creatures of the small, harmless sort encroached on her parcel of land. A blue jay squawked from the low branch of a tall pine, mercilessly teasing one of those peculiar striped rodents that zigged and zagged over the roots of the tree. A pair of white butterflies made a tumbling flight toward a patch of wild sweetpeas. High against the rich blue sky, a bald black condor with outstretched wings coasted in patient circles.

This land truly was a paradise. The air smelled sweet and clean, of fir and young grass, bay and wild mustard, and the landscape was alive with color. Dewfall painted the earth brick red, and every shade of green from light apple to deep moss colored the vegetation. The iridescent wings of the jay echoed the sky’s azure hue, and a full palette of yellows and whites, purples and oranges, dotted the clearing on the petals of wildflowers strewn across the emerald carpet.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered that she had to get dressed, that she had to prepare for church, that she had to—dear Lord—bury her husband-to-be. But the land beckoned her with its loveliness, and all she could think about was sketching. The world blossomed before her. She had to capture it, quickly, before the moment vanished.

Swinging the rifle one last precautionary time along the perimeter of her clearing, she turned a deaf ear to the call of responsibility and propriety. And for one foolish instant, she forgot about Mother Nature’s dangerous face.

Sakote had almost finished the arrowhead. Translucent flakes of obsidian made a small pile between his doubled knees, and when the stone knife chipped away a few more, the sharp point would be complete.

The women of the village were up, making small cooking fires for acorn mush and chatting softly. Their talk didn’t disturb him. It was part of the Konkow music, as much a part of the morning as the song of the
cheeztahtah—
the robin, or the hum of the honeybees.

One slender flake dropped to the ground as Sakote studied the point to discover the best place to make the final cut. He set the blade gingerly to the edge.

"Aaaah!" Hintsuli flung himself out of the brush with a panicked cry, making Sakote slip with the knife. The arrowhead split into two useless pieces, the work of the morning instantly destroyed. But Sakote, too concerned to be angry, dropped his tools and sprang to his feet, catching Hintsuli against his thighs.

"What’s wrong, little brother?"

The small boy’s chest heaved from his running. He panted like a bear run to ground, and he trembled in Sakote’s arms.

"The
kokoni!
The
kokoni
of the white man! I saw it! I saw it!"

"What?" Sakote said, frowning. "Where? Where did you see this
kokoni?
"

The women behind him had grown silent, and he knew their ears were pricked up like those of a vigilant doe.

Hintsuli dropped his head guiltily. Sakote tipped it back up by the chin and raised a brow in question.

"At the white healer’s
hubo
," Hintsuli murmured.

"What?" Sakote hissed. He cast a dark look over his shoulder, and the women returned to their labors. "What were you doing at the
willa
camp?" he whispered.

"I wanted to see if the dead man left any...toys." He used the white man’s word.

Sakote compressed his lips. Ever since Noa had given Hintsuli that painted wood spinning toy, the boy had been obsessed with the playthings of the white man.

"I told you not to go there. I told you it was dangerous," he scolded. “Maybe you’ll listen next time."

He knew Hintsuli hadn’t seen a ghost. Sakote had chanted the words of protection to keep the white healer’s
kokoni
away. It was probably only Hintsuli’s guilty imagination that made him believe he’d seen the spirit of the dead man.

But Hintsuli wasn’t satisfied.

"You don’t believe me," the boy said with a glower. "Come see for yourself then. He is terrible—all white, like ashes. His robe is white deerskin, so thin you can see the trees through it. His hair is the color of fallen leaves and longer than grandfather’s. And he moans." Hintsuli’s face became grim. "It is the song of the dead."

Sakote wondered at this. Something
had
frightened Hintsuli. He could feel the boy’s heart hammering like a woodpecker as he held him against his leg.

"You’ve seen this with your own eyes?" Sakote asked.

The boy nodded.

"And you’re sure it wasn’t a white deer or—“

"It was the
kokoni
of the white man," he insisted, adding, "and he was dancing the dance of the dead."

Sakote scowled. What could Hintsuli have seen? He stared at the boy a long while, and then sighed. He’d have to save his carving for another day. Clearly, Hintsuli would give him no rest until he solved the mystery of the white man’s
kokoni
.

Sakote ignored the dubious glances cast his way by the women, who might doubt his wisdom, but wouldn’t dare to challenge the son of a headman. He shrugged on his deerskin cloak, retrieved the stone knife and broken point, and, as a measure of caution, slung his bow and a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. If Hintsuli
had
seen something, Sakote was certain it was mortal, and therefore vulnerable to the weapons of man.

"Come," he said. "Show me this
kokoni
of yours."

Sakote slipped carefully, slowly, silently through the stand of pines until he could just glimpse the healer’s house between the sprays of green needles. Hintsuli, obediently quiet, tugged at the back of Sakote’s breechcloth. Sakote nodded once. There
was
a figure standing before the cabin. For a moment, his eyes tricked him, and his heart tripped as he thought maybe Hintsuli was right, that it was the healer’s ghost. Then he frowned at his own foolishness.