Crown of Dust. Mary Volmer
was confident of a destination.
The land became steeper, the earth darkened to an iron red. Lonely scrub oaks in tall grass had long since given way to ferns and evergreens; the towering pines pinched off the sky and on the crest of every hill she found the gleaming teeth of the Sierra Nevadas growing larger, more menacing. By the time the trail split again—one tail coiling its way towards those mountains, the other dipping down into a valley—her legs were quivering protest with every step, her feet throbbed, her shoulders ached. All of her bread was eaten, her canteen empty, and the coil of smoke snaking its way from the valley floor called to her above the distant murmur of running water and the coughing protest of a donkey.
The gold pan in her pack clangs against the floor as she sits. She frees herself from the straps, rolls her shoulders front to back. Her leg muscles have already begun to tighten, but her body feels numb, distant—as foreign as the river she’d followed. She pulls her shirtsleeves to her elbows, straightens her arms in front of her to find the bruises there mere smudges in the dim light. As if a bit of soap and water could wash them clean, she thinks, but she doesn’t touch them. She doesn’t touch the knots on her lower back or just below her collarbone. She can feel her heartbeat pounding in the blisters on her feet. She loosens her bootlaces, peels away the woollen sock. The skin of her heel is pregnant with white fluid, but disappointingly intact. She wants blood, proof of pain.
Below, a door opens and closes, and male voices seep through the floorboards.
‘Alex,’ she says to herself. The voice of a choirboy. She pulls her chin into her neck, scrunching her vocal cords. ‘Alex,’ she says again, and is still practising when a black man sticks his head through the door.
‘You don’t come now, it’ll be gone. They ain’t fixin’ to wait for you.’
Downstairs, she finds herself trapped by the eyes of eight men hunched around the plank table, their expressions masked by facial hair and layers of dirt. The black man sits down opposite the head, but no one seems the least surprised by his boldness. The only sound is heavy breathing and the silence pricks the hairs on her arms. She tries to sit and finds a muddy boot planted on the only unoccupied stool. The owner’s beard is yellow and a twisted smirk reveals teeth of the same colour.
A giant oak of a man to Muddy Boots’s right lets out a long curving whistle that rises upward to the low-beam ceiling and spills in a puddle on the floor. The kitchen door bangs open and the woman bustles through with a large iron pot.
‘Look out,’ she says, brushing Alex aside, and slams the pot on the table. Muddy Boots moves his feet.
‘You need an invitation?’ she asks. Alex sits, feels her cheeks flush hot.
‘All right, Preacher,’ says the woman.
‘Dearly Beloved,’ says a dark-haired man with just a hint of whisky in his voice. He stands, as if it just occurred to him to do so, and runs his hands up and down his flannel. His eyeballs search for words beneath his lids and his hands clasp so tightly his knuckles show white. ‘We are gathered here today, Lord, to thank you for your wondrous bounty.’
‘’Cept when it comes to gold,’ says a baritone to Alex’s right; the whistler, she thinks. A low chuckle catches, then dies. She bows her head, but lets her eyes dart to the pot mid-table. A large round loaf of bread sweats under a cloth and she begs her stomach silent.
‘And lead us not into temptation, Lord. No, lead us far from temptation, our Father who art in heaven. We hallow thy name, giving glory, Lord. Thanks for health, we ask for wealth. Hallelujah, let’s eat.’
Preacher’s plate is half empty before Alex is allowed to scrape the bottom of the iron pot for the last chunks of rabbit stew. What bread there was has already been snatched.
‘Don’t get used to it, boys,’ says Emaline. Her tone is thick with disappointment, and men pause mid-chew to listen. ‘Be cinching our belts by the end of the week, thanks to our new friend here.’
The serving spoon and nine faces point in Alex’s direction. Alex looks down at her plate. Alex chews. She has to tell herself to do these things.
‘But damned if he ain’t offered to buy drinks all round to make up for it!’
‘Attaboy, son,’ says the baritone and slaps her on the back, propelling the chunk of rabbit meat across the table and into the bowl of a beardless man with expressionless grey eyes. A drooping auburn moustache curtains his thin lips and frames his cleft chin.
‘No forgiveness like whisky. Ain’t that right, Preacher?’ The baritone stands, nearly brushing his head on the crossbeam. A grin fills his face. Alex flinches, afraid there’s another slap coming, good-natured though the first one seemed. The moustache man fishes with both fingers for Alex’s meat in his stew. His eyes flit to Alex and away.
‘Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,’ the baritone says. ‘Mighty hard to be polite on an empty stomach, you know. No excuse, mind you, but the truth. I ‘spect you met Preacher John yonder, but don’t ask him to remember it. The one-eyed fella next to you is Micah Daniels, also a resident here at the Victoria. Owns a sore excuse for a general store and assay office just down the walk. Claims he can figure fine, but you watch him careful when he’s weighing your gold. Been known to lighten the load some, yah know what I mean, and grows his fingernails long enough to get two dollars in one pinch of gold dust.
‘Harry Reynolds there lives in the first cabin as you come into town, along with good Mr Fred Henderson, selfproclaimed expert on rocks, animals, plants and all things natural. Next to him is our German friend Klein, master builder and jack-of-all-trades—when he feels like doing ‘em. Got no other name, so don’t go asking him. Just Klein. You met Jed—’ he nods to the black man—‘and Emaline; Miss Emaline, if you know what’s good for you.
‘My name is Samson Limpkin, but most call me Limpy on account of, well, let’s say a crooked limb. And the man you so graciously shared your stew with—’ he nods to the moustache man—‘is my cousin, David Trellona, fresh out of Cornwall and thinkin’ he knows more about mining than those Empire folks over in Grass Valley. Why work like a dog for some other man? Aye, Dave. Why indeed?’
Limpy takes a swig from his cup, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and with the same hand points at Muddy Boots, still bent over his bowl as if intent on ignoring him.
‘And that there is John Thomas. Not much on manners, but…well, not much on anything.’
‘Damn you, Limpy,’ says Muddy Boots, his mouth full of food.
Alex can feel the big man’s breath down her neck. He pulls a gold pouch from his pocket, holds it like an egg in the palm of his hand.
‘And you are…?’ Limpy asks.
The curve of Emaline’s brow, the curl of her lips, tells Alex these men know very well the name she gave.
‘A simple question, son,’ says Limpy. ‘Name?’
Men lean forward, listening, and names and faces swim as mismatched pairs through Alex’s mind. She pulls her head into her neck, says as deeply as she can manage:
‘Alex.’
‘Hah!’ says Limpy, his paw slamming down again, this time square on her back, forcing all the air from her chest. ‘Eighteen, my ass. Who said eighteen? John Thomas, trying to hide? Alex what?’
‘Shee-it,’ says Micah, thumping a small pouch of gold on the table and giving Alex a close look at the concave indention of skin where his left eye should be.
‘Why thank you, Micah. Alex what?’ Limpy asks again. Outside, a scrub jay screams the sun down.
‘Ford?’ Alex says, hearing the doubt in her own voice. Emaline’s arms cross before her and her eyes narrow to slits, but Limpy doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Alex Ford,’ he says. ‘Solid name. No more than sixteen, if that. Pay up.’ Leather pouches thump on the table. ‘Pay up, John Thomas,’ says Limpy.