“My God,” he breathes. “What are they doing?”
Jane takes the spyglass from Mr. Stevens without asking and looks herself. Her expression is grim as she hands it off to me.
As I take my turn with the spyglass, my heart falls. The dead are thick in the water, flailing and bobbing. A few gain the bank at the S curve where we fought them earlier, dragging themselves onto land and then heading in the direction the wagon train came from, back toward San Francisco. The dead are too numerous for this to have been a random ship or even a small town that was overrun. And all of them look to be freshly turned, with none of the decay one would see in a larger horde that had been building over time.
“They’re heading west,” Jane says. “Yep. That’s a proper horde.”
I pass the spyglass off to Carolina and turn to her. “You are thinking Gideon Carr did this,” I say, intuiting her thoughts from the murderous look on her face.
“Perry, the bounty that told me Gideon was in Sacramento, said he had a new lab. Doesn’t matter what happened in Denver or to Nicodemus, or with Ghering’s failed experiments back in Baltimore . . . These men and their prejudices dressed up as science.” Jane stalks off a little ways into the woods, swearing up a blue storm as she goes, and I turn back to the rest of our group.
“Jane thinks this horde came from Sacramento,” I explain. “The work of a man we knew back in Kansas.”
“Gideon Carr, the inventor you told me about?” Carolina says, passing the spyglass to Jeb. The man looks for only a moment before handing it back to Mr. Stevens. Like the other man, he also looks like he has had the shock of his life.
“A scoundrel and a blackheart, he is,” Jane says returning. She stares at the water for a heartbeat, a muscle in her jaw working. “How far is it from here to Sacramento?”
“Twelve, maybe fifteen miles,” Carolina says. “I think we’ve got our answer as to the source of this endless stream of shamblers. Can I assume you’ve reconsidered your plan to press east?”
“On the contrary,” Jane says, the mad glimmer returned to her eyes, “I’m now even more determined to find Gideon Carr.”
I want her answer to surprise me, but it does not. Not now, not after all I’ve seen from her since our reunion, and not from the things she admitted came before. She is never going to give up. Not even if it kills her. And for all her skill and strength, I do not see any other end to this quest for revenge. There is a very slim chance Gideon Carr is working by himself, Jane seems to forget how good the man was at building alliances and using others to further his agenda. Had he not done exactly that to Jane and I in Summerland? I have very little doubt that Jane will find Gideon Carr, and when she does she will rush in and meet her tragic end.
“Of course you want to find the man,” I say. “And I am going with you.”
Jane freezes for a moment. “Are you mad?”
“No,” I say, my voice casual and even. I must choose my words carefully. If Jane thinks I am doing this out of pity, or sentiment, she will only find a way to abandon me at the first opportunity. “I am simply repaying my debts. You saved my life back in Summerland, and I owe you. If you want to go on some wild-goose chase to kill a man who has cheated death at every turn, that is your decision. But this is mine. I pay my debts.”
Jane sighs heavily. As I suspected, she will not argue. Emotions make her uncomfortable and tetchy, but obligation? That is a tune Jane McKeene will dance to.
I do not relish journeying upstream toward Sacramento, but I meant what I said. I will not abandon Jane again. I am not nearly as afraid of dying as I am of grieving for her once more.
“Miss McKeene, take my spyglass. It should aid you in this quest of yours.” Mr. Stevens holds it out, and Jane takes it with a nod. I am certain the man fairly swoons from her momentary regard.
“We’ll be cutting up past Abbottsville,” Carolina says. “And then Oroville. That will allow us to stay clear of Sacramento. We’ll then follow the Feather River up into the mountains. A piece of advice if you . . . Well, once you’re finished with your business, and heading up toward Haven: take note of the Klamath and the Paiute tribes once you get up into the mountains. They’ll mostly keep to themselves as long as they don’t see you as a threat.”
Jane nods, and as Mr. Stevens begins to tell her a bit more about the journey to Sacramento, Carolina pulls me aside, frowning. “Are you sure this is something you want to do?”
“She was—” I catch myself as I watch Jane bid farewell to the other men. “She is my friend, Carolina.”
“Well,” he says, giving her one last look. “I hope she’s worth it.”
If the Devil’s Bride is any kind of monster, as some say she is, then I fear for our land. Because the West is a bloody, brutal place, and it seems fitting our heroines should be cut from the same cloth.
—Western Tales, Volume 43
—JANE—
Chapter 39
In Which I Have Regrets and Count My Blessings
Katherine and I have only gone a few miles further upriver when we decide to settle in for the night. We see a small town, but we don’t consider knocking on doors and asking for hospitality; there’s no way to know whether the folks here are friendly to Negroes or not. But as we draw close to the town, we soon conclude it doesn’t matter.
Everything is dark and quiet. Windows are shuttered, and there ain’t a soul to be seen. The town laundry, the sign written in both English and Chinese, is still and unattended. There is no light visible in any of the houses, and the lone general store boasts broken windows and empty shelves. We decide to take a shortcut through the main street, and there’s an ominous feeling to the place that keeps us moving quickly.
“Where do you think they have gone?” Katherine asks. “We have not seen a soul since we left the wagon train.”
“Maybe word reached the town here faster than the shamblers,” I say, glancing toward the river. “If whatever precipitated this horde happened a few days ago, people could’ve cleared out ahead of the danger. Crossed the river and gone north, or made west, right for the ocean.”
Katherine says nothing, but her countenance makes it clear just how terrible an idea she believes this whole endeavor to be.
We put another mile or so between us and the river, ground we’ll have to retrace in the morning to get to Sacramento, before we make camp. By the time we do I’m exhausted. Between chasing down Richard Smith and working the wagon train, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week. The night Callie left me. I sit and lean against a tree, head tucked into the collar of my coat. It’s cold enough where a fire would be appreciated, but we have no idea where dead might be in these parts, and we decide not to risk it. Plus, the dead are not the only danger out here. The less chance of discovery by anyone, living or dead, the better.
Katherine digs a canteen and some pemmican out of her pack, handing me a decent chunk, and I chew on the dried meat while she fills my cup. The sun sets quickly, as though it, too, is eager to get away from the dead, and soon the dark presses in. There ain’t much of a moon to speak of, and the night is quiet except for the occasional rustle in the underbrush, the hoot of an owl.