Once the women have finished their work they begin to wander off, and Maria comes over, one of the older boys who spit the pig helping her to sit. The smaller boy next to me shrinks into my side, and I see the bigger boys eyeing him in a way I don’t like.
“They pick on you?” I ask.
“They said I’m not worth anything because I don’t have a mama,” he says. “I have no name, and my papa was a gringo. There ain’t no home for me.”
“You stay here next to me until they leave,” I say, because I am not above backhanding some sense into a kid if I have to.
I might be a monster, but even I’m not about to let some kid be terrorized.
Maria settles and offers me coffee, which I happily accept. Once it’s poured she gives me a toothless grin. “Callie came through this morning, told me you would probably be by to look for her. You two have a fight?”
Maria sees far too much. I shake my head, pushing aside my discomfort. “Actually, I’m looking for a man. Any of your ladies seen him?” I pull the bounty sheet for David Johnson from my dress pocket, unfolding it and handing it to Maria. She frowns and sucks her teeth, and then nods.
“I heard a rumor that Luz complained about a white man bothering her girls, getting a little rough. This could be him. Lots of money, not enough sense. Though, that’s every man.” Maria laughs, and I chuckle along with her.
“Luz’s is on the way to Stockton?”
“Yes. You want me to send word that you’re looking for him?”
I shake my head. This was a lost cause. I knew it before I even set out, but I suppose I’d hoped I could get a lucky break. Stupid, Jane. Just goddamn ridiculous.
Going after David Johnson would waste time I didn’t have. I had to get to Sacramento before Gideon Carr could disappear once more.
“Thank you for lunch, Señora Maria.” I take a chunk of leftover fat and drop it on the ground for Salty. The boy immediately sets in on the remaining beans on my plate, and I realize that he was trying to be polite and not eat everything before he knew I’d had my fill. For some reason, that makes me like the kid even more.
Maria hands me another orange from the bowl on the table and gives me one last toothless grin. “After I heard what you did to Perry, lunch is the least I can do. That man.” She says something in Spanish, and I look to my translator.
His cheeks go ruddy. “I shouldn’t say that out loud. I’ll get in trouble.”
“Good idea,” I say, tipping my hat to Maria as I stand to leave. She holds up a hand, stopping me before I go.
“I give you information and lunch, so you do me a favor.” It ain’t a question.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Richard Smith. He has a ranch toward the edge of town, heading north. He took liberties with Anna’s daughter,” she says. Her expression is mild, but the meaning is clear by the hardness in her voice. “His house has a blue door. He looks a lot like this man,” she says, tapping the wanted poster so I’ll get her point.
I nod, because I know the place. “Dead or alive?”
Maria gives me a gap-toothed grin and shrugs. “Use your knife.”
I stand and tip my hat at her, the same hat I’ve worn ever since I left Summerland, before scooping up the wanted poster and tucking it into a pocket. Maria is doing me a favor, because I need the money. And I ain’t above trading one bastard for another.
One less monster in the world will always be a good thing.
Tomás stands as well, and it ain’t until I’m walking back through the orange grove that I realize the boy intends to follow me.
“You can’t come with me,” I say.
“Why not?” he asks.
“Because it ain’t safe.”
He lifts his shirt and along his side is a jagged scar, old but violent enough to stoke my rage.
“Those boys do that to you?” I ask, half ready to go back and teach them just what cruelty reaps.
“No, my papa, before my mama left him. He came back and killed her, and he said he was going to kill me, too. He slashed me, but I ran, and by morning he was gone.” He lowers his shirt. “You don’t know Spanish, and all of California speaks it. You keep me safe and I can translate for you.”
His logic is sound. The Californios, descendants of the Spanish invaders and the native Indian population, have managed to keep their traditions strong. Perhaps without the dead upending the world the ways of the Eastern states would have taken a stronger foothold out here, but as it is the places I’ve traveled have thus far felt more like Spain than Baltimore. Haciendas and ranches rather than farms and Georgian architecture. Most everyone I’ve met speaks at least a little English, but Spanish seems to be much more common; having an interpreter would be very useful.
But how am I supposed to care for a kid while tracking Gideon Carr?
Jackson appears behind the boy and gives him the once-over. He’s dressed in a flamboyant red waistcoat and dark suit, and he jerks a thumb in the child’s direction. “This kid is smart, and almost the same age as Lily. I think she’d like him. Plus, you know his father will eventually find him and kill him. Men like that, they can be slowed but they can’t be stopped. You gonna let that happen?”
I sigh and rub my hand over my face. “Okay, fine, you can come with me.” I point at his bare feet. “As soon as we get some money, we’re finding you a pair of boots. Now, you know where this Richard lives?”
He nods slowly.
“Good, you point the way.”
The boy blinks, and for a moment fear is writ large on his features. His eyes widen and his lips part as he realizes that he’s made a deal with la diabla, and for a moment I think he will change his mind and stay.
But then the boy sets his jaw. “You will want to go the back way, through the fields, otherwise he will shoot you before you even get close. Follow me.”
As we take our leave Jackson tips his hat at me and says, “This, Jane, is how you find your way back.”
I pull out my knife with a low chuckle.
I sincerely doubt that.
As the wagon train crested the Sierra Nevadas and the entirety of the Golden State was laid bare before our eyes, I knew that I had never beheld true beauty until then.
—William Meyers, A German Immigrant in the West, 1872
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 32
Notes on the Impossible
Traveling to Sacramento while protecting 150 souls is exhausting.
At night we sleep in shifts, everyone taking a watch, and it feels like I have barely rolled out my blanket and shut my eyes before I am being shaken awake.
“Your watch,” Sue says with a wide yawn.
“Thanks,” I mumble before climbing out of my bedroll and stumbling toward the low burning fire.
Every able-bodied adult in the wagon train has taken a shift, and as I walk toward the fire and the pot of coffee burbling enticingly, a few of the younger men try to catch my eye. I ignore them, focusing on pouring coffee in my cup, and Carolina sidles up next to me with a low chuckle.
“Even rumpled and half asleep, you still manage to turn heads,” he says, holding his tin mug out so I can fill it for him. I pour him a healthy measure, and when one of the dandies comes over with his cup held out and a flirtatious half smile on his face, I look him dead in the eye and return the pot to the fire.