No Eye Can See (47 page)

“I guess they have entertainment coming sometime this week at that strip of stores they call a town,” David said. He lifted his whip, turned it over to check the repairs he'd made on the cracker. He stepped outside, tied it onto the saddle's front rigging ring, came back inside. “You might hear it from here, the music at least. Funny how sound'll carry in these ravines. Sometimes I cant hear you calling me from the other side of the cabin, but I can hear a man shout about a strike that must be a couple of miles away.”

Oltipa tilted her head, the way she told him she didn't understand all that he said, and he smiled, picked up the baby again in one arm and the dog in the other. “Wish I could be here to take you. Might be nice to step out with you, listening to a tune. Maybe if they're delayed, we could do it next week. A day will come when I don't have to work so long a haul. Claim 11 be paid off and I can take you dancing. Maybe.”

He wished they could hear the entertainers. They'd have a pleasant outing he could follow with a proposal.

He gentled the baby into Oltipa's arms. As she nursed the boy, David felt a fullness inside him. He loved them both. There, he'd said it to himself. If only he could say the words to her.

Oltipa looked up at David and smiled, then brushed the backs of her fingers at the boy's chubby cheeks. David swallowed. “Let's get me something to eat,” he said. “Then I best be on my way.”

Ruth wore the same dress, the only one she had.
Why was she wearing it?
She shook her head. How silly. At least she hadn't sunk to riding
sidesaddle again. She would never do that. And she wasn't even sure why she decided to keep the lithographer work. It had been hard to leave Jason and Jessie that morning. She'd found that odd. She'd enjoyed the chatter about horses with Matthew too. Then, here she rode to work for a man whose editorial policies she detested. Now that she had her horses back, why did she stay on at the
Courier?
When she could begin the work of breeding and selling and making her living.

It was ridiculous, that was what it was. She'd be pleased when Matthew left to find his mother. “There're dozens of little mining towns,” she told him. “Some with actual theaters for performances and some with just tents, from what Esty tells me.”

Matthew had leaned on his elbows at the table that morning, and behind him Ruth could see the hearth. For the first time, she noticed how bare the house was, how unlived in—except for the clutter of the children. It was almost as if
she
didn't live there. All the things that were personal to her had been somehow moved around, taken down, or altered. She thought about telling Matthew. Telling him about the scratched face on her photograph, the cuts made on her whip with a sharp knife. Telling him that none of the children would own up to it, that she felt all alone. But she hadn't, the thought of sharing it making her weepy or worse.

“And my ma learned about this by just listening to people talking at the post office?”

“Your mother listened while she worked as a banker at the casinos,” Ruth said.

“My ma, in the casinos.” He shook his head, his wide hands around a tin coffee cup.

“She was just doing what she thought best. Supporting herself and your sister after Charles Wilson took off with her money.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Adora said she lost her purse somewhere, and so did your mother. They noticed not all that long after Charles left us. Now he's back, and
that store cost more than what the mules brought. Adora swears they built it with no borrowed money. Might actually be some of your mothers lost cash.”

“I'll go looking for Mariah and Ma soon as Mazy and Seth get back. Milking cows isn't something I'd want to do for a lifetime, but I guess everybody has to find their own way of living. Me, I like beef cows. And I grew kind of fond of your mares.”

Ruth felt herself blush. How childish. She'd poked pins into her new, broad-brimmed hat and left for work. Wearing her only shirtwaist dress.

It was all so confusing. Matt couldn't be more than eighteen at the most and she was what, nearly twenty-four. He was just a boy. He'd done a mans job in bringing the horses back, but he was still just a boy.

It was best she remembered that.

Suzanne folded her son against her breast, cooing to soothe him, the wound of his hand made worse by the guilt of her own neglect. She felt the stickiness. Blood.

“You didn't say I had to watch him, Ma,” Mariah said. “You said Ned should. You sent me pawing through your things for a tobacco twist.”

“Don't correct your elders, missy,” Lura said. “Ned's younger than you, gets tired easily.”

“I should just let you keep smoking and listen to you cough all night. You keep us awake,” the girl said.

“How did we get from your bad behavior to mine?” Lura said.

“He should have been in bed,” Mariah said. “All of us should be asleep.”

Suzanne listened, holding her sobbing child in her arms,

“Don't know how he managed to get that knife out anyway,” Lura said. “He had to climb on the trunk and balance to reach it.”

“You shouldn't have left the knives where he could see them,” Mariah told her.

“Listen. Just put a bandage on it, and it'll be fine,” Lura said. “Just one of the cuts and scrapes of childhood, all this is. Go ahead, Mariah. Get some water and we'll wipe it off good. It's hardly bleeding, Suzanne. He's just scared, is all. It's all right, Clayton, it is.”

Suzanne said, “Pig, get cloth.”

“What?” Lura asked as the dog came back with a rag drooping from his mouth. “Well, I'll be.”

“I've been teaching him. To help me, even in the wagon, or to do more than just lead me around,” Suzanne said. “He picks up things and brings them to me. Surprised me the first time.” She patted Clayton's back, and his sobs lessened into deep gulps of air. She had to stay calm so the child would quiet. She could tell by feeling his palm that it oozed blood, but the wound felt like a poke rather than a cut.

“We might work Pig into your act somehow, Suzanne. Charge even more for a dog that does tricks.” Lura dabbed with the cloth at Clayton's palm. “Spencer's built a big hotel at Horsetown. Got a concert hall with raised seating for three hundred. We could do a big show there, with the dog. Maybe even dress little Clayton up. Or”—her voice dropped as though to share a secret—”maybe this'll be the time to show a wealthy one you really need his tending, Suzanne. A lot of men like looking after helpless women, with pitiful kids. Makes them feel bigger themselves. Here you are blind, with a wounded child and a baby. Think of the possibilities.”

Zane cursed at the child, his foot throbbing from the crack of the stone. Jessie lay in a heap on the grass. He stuffed the chloroformed cloth into his vest, felt “Ruth's surprise.” He must leave it, place it somewhere Ruth would find it and know that he'd been there. She must know. The cat
hunched on the table, its tail twisting over the wooden soap containers. He brushed at the cat, laid “Ruths surprise” on the soap. Then he lifted
his
Jessie and limped toward his horse.

He had a dozen back ways out. He decided to skirt Shasta completely to not risk meeting Ruth until he was ready. His toe throbbed, pushed against the top of his boot. The brat lay like a rag across the pommel of his saddle. He'd put her out again before they reached the Wintu woman's cabin. He bumped his toe against the horse and groaned out loud.
No! Never cry out not for pain, not for humiliation, nothing, ever!
She'd done that on purpose, hurt him. Just like Ruth had. Mothers and their brats. Like that Wintu wench and hers.

He'd watch. He'd ride to the area above “Hawk's” cabin, wait to see when the jehu's horse was gone, and then he'd take her, take her and his Jessie north.

And Ruth would know who had her child. He imagined Ruth's terror, her helplessness, her life out of her control. No way to find him. No way to respond. Now she would know what he had survived during those years in the prison. Because of her. He calmed himself by breathing deeply, sucking air in through his teeth. His Jessie moaned. “You're going north with me,” he said. “You and the Wintu.” He'd forget about Suzanne for now. She'd beg to find him someday. He must focus on Ruth, on her slow demise. He smiled, placing another dab of chloroform over the girl's face. Let Ruth shrivel, knowing that her only living child was now with him.

18

Ruth had worked at the
Courier
a month now. Plenty of time to get a feel for things. And still, she resisted being under someone else's reins. Oh, she'd met and liked Madeline, the correspondent said to have coined that “Whoa Navigation” name for Shasta. But the editorials of Sam Dosh bothered her. She'd kept her tongue bridled. But today, she felt strong enough to speak of what she saw as injustices. Justice coursed through her blood. She guessed she shared that with Mazy. That and a hard time coming to decisions.

“You have a responsibility,” Ruth told the editor that morning, knowing as soon as he looked at her that she should have picked a better time. She'd already stepped into it now. “To set an example for how people might be, could be, should be. To use the press to…inspire all of us to better things.”

Sam Dosh's black eyes narrowed as he turned from the type table. He ran ink-stained fingers through flowing black hair. “My dear woman,” he said. “An editor reflects the attitudes of his readers. He can't shape them as you suggest.” He looked over the top of his glasses at her as though she were a bug. He reminded her of someone she preferred to forget. “I only print the news.”

“Sensationalizing, that's what you're doing. Just to sell papers,” she charged. “You make the worst of humanity seem reasonable and ignore the facts of decent people doing decent things. You barely gave an inch
of copy to the women who raised funds for Father Schwenninger's benevolence efforts for the orphans.”

“You actually measured the copy space?” he said.

“Don't change the subject. Why not inspire people to clean up the legal system at least? Change laws so people can be proud of their town. Investigate the jury stacking. Haven't you noticed that rich lawyers never seem to lose a case, and poor ones end up hauling freight or dealing monte no matter how just their cause? And I've yet to see any Indian found ‘not’ vagrant when that claim is made.” Her heart pounded and she felt her cheeks burn. “You could expose that.”