River of Red Gold, Updated 2013 Edition: A History Novel

Author’s Note

This book started when I was digging in my garden, expanding it to move the climbing beans away from the squash. My shovel stopped on a layer of hard clay into which small flat stones had been pressed. Struggling to dig through it I was surprised to find a straight edge and a right-angle corner. Then I understood. This was once the floor of a cabin facing the barely discernible old road angling down across our front pasture. For years on this remnant of a once-large ranch at the start of the Sierra foothills, we had been finding rusty square nails and other bits of the past. The rock wall around the lawn of our old farmhouse contains petrified wood, gold-bearing quartz, and a purple-obsidian core from which arrowheads had been flaked. While installing a water line, my husband found pieces of hand-blown bottles that had probably been disposed of down an outhouse, a once common practice. The former owners had told us that in the 1940s their turkeys had unearthed a stash of gold coins while scratching and fluffing holes in the dirt to lie in and cool themselves. One day a man from the East Coast knocked on our door and asked if we had found the grave of Perry McCoon. At the time I’d never heard of him, but I knew that the bones of a story lay all around us, and I decided to dig them up.

I interviewed descendants of local pioneers. In particular I am thankful to Ellen Cothrin Rosa, who maintains a large family collection of historical papers passed down through her mother, Kitty Sheldon Cothrin. From her I learned that a young survivor of the Donner Party had moved to this place a few weeks after her 1847 rescue from the snowbound mountains. Next I went to the helpful staffs of the History Section of the California State Library and the Sacramento County Archives and Museum Collection. I read every published and unpublished work available at that time and put puzzle pieces together until I had my own Mother Lode, a story far more dramatic and significant than I had imagined.

I could have written this as straight history (if any history is straight), but I wanted to share it with a broader audience, the more so at this 150th anniversary of the Donner Party and the upcoming 150th anniversaries of the Gold Rush and California Admission to the Union. I wanted people from all walks of life to know what I have learned. The tools of fiction allowed me to flesh out historically sketchy characters and convey emotional and spiritual sides of the story.

My five years of research and writing were buoyed by walks along the Cosumnes River, which hurries down through the boulders before stilling

itself in quiet stretches and spreading out on the Sacramento Valley floodplain. Many evenings I stood near the river where the air is fragrant with moss, lupine, peppermint, and other herbs. Deer and coyotes stepped out to look at me. I ran my fingers over the smooth inner surfaces of mortar rocks where native women had pounded acorns into meal, and I began to feel that I was not alone among the oaks and cottonwoods. No sudden revelation this, but a growing awareness and a welcoming feeling. The history of this place ran deeper than words in diaries and letters. I expanded my research.

Anthropologist Jerald Johnson of Sacramento State University was generous with his time. I am also indebted to many other scholars, including James A. Bennyhoff, Malcolm Margolin, Albert Hurtado, James Rawls, S. F. Cook, R. F. Heizer, who have written of the destruction of the California Indians and their durability. I am grateful to the Miwok people who shared with me the dignity and expansiveness of their culture. For that side of the story I used the voice of magical realism, which comes to literature from south of the border, ultimately the native peoples. I make no claim that it is the authentic voice of the individuals who walked this land before me, but I believe their descendants will understand when I say it is what I heard when I listened.

For the Donner side of the story I owe thanks to George Stewart (Ordeal by Hunger) and Joseph King (Winter of Entrapment: A New Look at the Donner Party). As a child, I listened to my father, Arthur L. Smith, a spellbinding storyteller and admirer of fellow-Idahoan Vardis Fisher, author of the Donner Party novel The Mothers: An American Saga of Courage (1943). Never had I imagined that I would later live in a place where a survivor had lived. The memoir of Eliza Donner Houghton, written 65 years after that tragedy, provided many fascinating details. Only four years old at the time, she consulted with her sister Elitha, who was ten years older. From that source I took the description of Perry McCoon’s adobe cabin and the ancestral home of the native people who worked on his ranch—not much changed from the place I often visit a bit upriver from my house. From Elitha comes the description of the hornet-grub excursion. I am also grateful to Elitha’s descendants and the descendants of her neighbors for sharing their insights into her quiet strength.

Finally, without Bill Geyer, my tirelessly interested husband and a California historian in his own right, this book could not have come to fruition. I also wish to thank the writers who helped me hone the craft—Cleo Kocol, Louise Crawford, Jay MacLarty, Liz Crain and Gene Munger—Ruth Younger for English editing and Araceli Collazo for Spanish. Sloughhouse pioneer-descendant Janis Blawat James ably assisted with production. And I cannot leave out my Go! coach, Bud Gardner.

All errors and liberties with language are my own.

Fact and Fiction

Whereas in most historical fiction a fabricated plot and fictional characters are imposed upon an historical setting, I have used real events as story guideposts. The book moves from documented event to documented event, and the names of the characters are unchanged. In most historical novels, conflicts between the needs of storytelling and historical facts are resolved in favor of fiction, but I veered toward history. I filled in the gaps between the exciting, shocking, and at times almost unbelievable events, providing motivation and connective tissue. María (also Indian Mary and Mary) and Pedro Valdez were sketchy in diaries and oral history, so I all but created them. While their presence brushes history with a fictional gloss, to omit them because they left no papers and others recorded only a few of their actions would have perpetuated a greater fiction: that the gold rush was about men of European and North American origin. I hope this book inspires readers to reflect upon the connection between the land and those who walk upon it, the influence of gold in our lives, and the extent to which the past lives in the present.

Readers interested in the details of fact and fiction should read the Endnotes.

Naida West, August 1996

Rancho Murieta

Fifth Printing Note

During the years since this novel was first published (August 1996), thousands of readers have gifted me with praise and appreciation. Some of them also shared information from their family collections. A few times I revised the Endnotes of upcoming printings to reflect those contributions. In this fifth printing, 3rd edition, I have for the first time, altered some of the main text, as well as the Endnotes, to reflect new information. Details of the Donner Party are continually being updated by Kristin Johnson, who first published Unfortunate Emigrants: Narratives of the Donner Party in July 1996. Since then Johnson, an academic librarian, has maintained a reader-friendly website, New Light on the Donner Party, which operates as a clearing house for existing and new research by interested parties, and also discusses how she separates myth from fact, given the many contradictory voices. This new edition of my novel contains a number of changes attributable to that

outstanding resource.

Naida West, June 2013

This portion of a rare map is the earliest to show California’s gold region. Published by an act of Congress in 1848. It is a tracing of an earlier map by John Bidwell. The instructions to sea captains refer to a rocky island covered with white bird quano, now known by its Spanish name, Alcatraz, meaning pelican. Tulares indicates marshland. Ro de means Rancho of. On the east, the Sierra Nevada mountains were unmapped as of 1848. On the far west, the narrow neck of water entering the San Francisco Bay was called The Golden Gate. Minor spelling corrections have been made for the sake of clarity.

Contents

This book is divided into four main parts plus endnotes and other items (as noted below) and 100 chapters. Use the search feature of your ebook reader software to find the part names, or enter a chapter number (e.g. 36) to find a particular chapter. (Some reader software may have created a table of contents out of the file structure used to create the ebook.)

I Pedro and María

II Elitha

III Golden Dreams

IV Coyote’s World

Endnotes

About The Author

Copyright

Additional Comments about River of Red Gold

I Pedro and María

Howchia Speaks:

Once I was Eagle Woman. Now I am an oak tree.

When I walked these paths the nights came often and life in the village hurled past like the river in the time of early flowers. When I died I should have gone to the happy land, but I looked back, unable to turn away from the home place I loved. Thus my spirit lingers. But I did not choose to inhabit a being so long-lived or to stand overlooking the dancehouse—a hollow in the earth now, overgrown with high grass—where the outpourings of our human hearts once rent the sky and the mysteries of the universe were felt so deeply. Through the soil of human time my roots suckle the rotted acorn husks and bones of my people. My trunk is sculpted and broad, and even while it bleaches in the sun, my taproot, far below, sips from a pool of wet sand as eternal as the river.

An occasional vehicle parks here, and the new people picnic on the river beach. The laughter of children in the water pleases me and I think how I played there as a child, as did my little son and his daughter after him. But the new people leave at dark. They miss the orange moon rising over the eastern hill and layers and layers of sparkling stars. They miss the music of owls and the urgent drum of frog calls, and the rustling of night animals.

In the quiet time I fathom all that happened here.

Next time I die I shall look forward and walk the pathway of ghosts, for now I yearn for the cheer and dances of the spirit world. Before an evening fire I shall tell the stories and my people will exchange sly smiles when they hear that despite the melancholy teachings and sober striving of the new people, many of them would like to live much as we did. For the spirits that live in the boulders and the river and the plants and animals are beginning to touch them too.

Out of the heat waves over the tired grass comes Old Man Coyote. He seems to float, a dirt-brown shag on high slender legs, trotting his rounds, head cocked a little askew. He stops beneath my branches.

I greet him the old way. Where are you going?

Just ate a cat over there. He flips his head toward the gigantic houses. That pampered sack of lard didn’t even have claws. Heh heh. They’ll blame Hel-eh-jah, Moutain Lion. I’ll rest for a while and then trot over to Stan’s ranch and check on the lambs.

A familiar glint lights his eye. Maybe I’ll sneak inside his helicopter and wait ’til he’s hovering over the hills trying to find me. Then I’ll howl in his ear. Woo-ooo woo-woo!

Coyote never stops scheming.

My ancestors came to this river, I say, and life was much the same for a long time. Then in only a few seasons everything changed.

Uh-uh-uh, he warns in a rising tone. You’re looking back again. He loves to mock me for breaking the custom of my people, who tried to look forward.

I’ll bet you miss the big times, I tease back.

Those dancing clowns trying to be me? That was the best part. Woo-oo-oo!

Have you ever stopped to think, Old Man, that at the slightest whim the new people could bulldoze me and exterminate you? We exist in their obliviousness.

He turns in a circle and plops down in my shade, his pink tongue draped thinly over the humps of his incisors. They can’t kill me.

A smile tickles up my bark. You made us to be like you, Coyote, optimistic and inquisitive. Sometimes I wonder, don’t you? What would have happened if the Spaniards had learned of the gold, or if they had stopped the North Americans from—

If if if, he sniffs.

I laugh, for he is right, and it is good to laugh. The twists and turns of Condor dreams—the events of the world—cannot be predicted, though many have tried. Have you heard? I tease, Some people say Condor is dead.

He jumps up feigning terror, looking all around, but then plops down again. Ground Squirrel is still chasing his wife, he says. Blue Heron is on the riverbank hunting as always, and you still tell good stories.

A breeze rattles my leaves, unsettling the ghosts of the past, and I see again the man named Pedro Valdez.

1

Sutter’s Fort, summer 1844

The night was warm, and within the fort’s adobe walls a candle cast a restless halo on the ceiling. Pedro lay naked on his rawhide cot, ankles crossed, fingers moving over the ancient helmet on his chest, down the holy cross of the nose and eyebrows. The earthy fox-den smell seemed particularly strong, and it conjured up a disturbing memory of the house of Pedro’s childhood, in the small pueblo of San José. It had been dark there too.

The wooden latch had rattled. Pedro and his brothers bolted up in their bed. Mother rose to her feet as the door creaked open, the spinning-wool tumbling from her lap.

Father, Old Pepe, stood in the candlelight—home at last. About his loins he wore only a vine of wilted leaves. His hair was long now, and white as his beard. His hooded eyes avoided the stares of the family as he crossed the room to the bed he shared with Mamma. Smears of blood marked his footsteps on the hard clay floor.

His voice rasped high, the pride gone out of it. I found much gold, he said, but the Indians took it. Again. Threw it away. Flung it into a thorn thicket. He looked down, muttering until the words all but vanished. The devils stole my helmet too. And my horse, and my clothes.

Ashamed, the old man had walked forty leagues across the big valley. To Pedro that now seemed an eon ago, and yet the memory still gave him a sick feeling.

By a miracle of the Virgin the helmet had been found among the ashes along the Stanislaus River after the Indian uprisings of 1829. Pedro ran a thumb over the rough spot in the metal where a spike had broken off. He’d been very young when Old Pepe told him and his brothers about the heroic ancestor who had worn the helmet while riding with El Cid Campeador. In the fabled olden days El Cid and his freedom fighters had liberated Spain from the Moors and pushed them back across the sea. They saved Europe for Christ. Their manly deeds rang down the centuries, and now the helmet lay in Pedro’s hands, passed down from Valdez to Valdez in an unbroken chain of military service to the Crown of Spain. Dazzling Spain, powerful colonizer of continents.

Spain ran in Pedro’s blood. Grandfather Valdez had sailed the Atlantic to serve in New Spain, Mexico now. Father, Pepe, had come north to the remote garrison on the Bay of San Francisco to pacify Indians in the regions served by the northern missions. He’d been thirteen years old, a bastard son, his mother an Indian. Hence he’d remained an enlisted man all his life. Only a man of pure blood advanced in military rank. The helmet had been Old Pepe’s sole inheritance, and yet no prouder or more loyal soldier ever served the Spanish Crown. Before gold drove him mad. Ay madre, Pedro sighed, it took a proud man to go insane, a man with too big a dream.

Dreamers had clawed for gold in the coastal hills and valleys for sixty years, and every time excitement flared the ore proved of little or no value. During Pedro’s lifetime men had stopped looking. All but Old Pepe. With a mad twinkle in his eye he declared, I am the only one looking far enough to the east. People made the crazy sign by their temples. Children pointed to Pedro’s ragged pantaloons and taunted, See how grandly he dresses! His father has a big gold mine.

The laughter still rang in Pedro’s mind. He crossed his other ankle. Any fool could see that the Indians of Upper California lived in hovels and wore shell beads. If they’d had gold, some of them would be drinking from golden chalices and wearing golden ornaments. A man had to be crazy to think gold abounded where tens of thousands of Indians lived in poverty, a people acquainted with every rock in their land. Grudgingly, sadly, Pedro had agreed with the town. Old Pepe had gone soft in the head. Recently he’d begun to understand that it was this disloyalty to his father that made him feel sick. It ran against the grain of Spanish pride.

Yet those bloody footprints held no attraction for Pedro. Like his father, he too had left home very young, signing for military duty when he was fourteen. A revolution had rocked Mexico, barely felt on this northern frontier, yet it proved to be a quake with lasting tremors. In eighteen years Pedro had served an emperor of doubtful character, more than one shadowy general, a junta, and the people of Mexico. It was hard to keep track. Now he served under Captain John Sutter, a naturalized Mexican citizen who had no ties at all to Spain. As justice of the peace, Sutter controlled the vast interior valley. In the five years since Pedro helped lay the Captain’s first adobe brick in this uncharted land, he’d done his share of pacifying Indians.

Mother of God, he said aloud, spreading his hands over the solid curve of the steel. In a way it represented his soul, his destiny, but the helmet wasn’t enough. At thirty-three, a man had to think beyond barracks and mess meals, especially a man of mixed blood. Terreno burned in his imagination. Land. A sweep of it peppered with cattle and worked by Pedro’s own skilled vaqueros. Land gave a man a bit of nobility. Someday when he saw the right place he would apply to the governor, who sometimes rewarded soldiers with land grants. But being of mixed blood, Pedro also needed a strong letter of recommendation from his superior officer, Captain John Sutter.

Wrapping the helmet in the old sarape, Pedro replaced it beneath the cot and puffed out the candle. As the wick smoke scented the warm air, he thought about tomorrow, when he would ride up the Cosumnes River. Captain Sutter was reaching farther east for native laborers and militiamen, illness having decimated the Indians of the big valley. Pedro would ride to where the first foothills mounded toward the Sierra Nevada, the Snowy Range.

He turned on his side to his sleeping position. Tomorrow he’d do some trick riding. Indians loved it. It loosened them for talk.

oOo

María Howchia pushed her basket of acorn meal into the scooped-out sand where the river would leach out the bitterness. The village dogs began to bark.

She stood up to listen, the tattoo of womanhood new on her chin, her hair singed straight across her brows and shoulders. Squealing children added to the din, and then she heard the pounding of horse hooves. She headed toward the excitement. The u-machas and dancehouse were a blur as she ran, and her amulet bounced between her budding breasts. She rounded the berry brambles, crossed the dry streambed, and stopped in her tracks.

A fully clothed man stood upright on a galloping horse, one boot before the other. His bent knees flexed with the running gait, and he flew like a bird—arms wide, white sleeves billowing. His hat, attached to his neck by strings, sailed behind his head. He circled the field where ti-kel was played and then galloped toward her out of a gilded dust cloud, his reddish hair flaming in the low sun. Gooseflesh rippled down her limbs.

The gathering umne, the People, gaped as the flying rider crouched to retrieve the reins, which had lain loose across the horse’s neck. He stopped the horse and sprang to the ground, arms upraised, smiling at his admirers. His glance met hers and a spark of magic shot through her.

She moved between her parents, touched the arm of Father, Grizzly Hair, and asked, Is he a black hat? The hat the stranger returned to his head was indeed black with a red band. It had the same stiff brim Father had described as the mark of the enemy Español warriors who lived near the western sea.

Father, hy-apo of the umne and a man of knowledge, stood tall and powerful. Sunlight caught the polished bones in his earlobes and the broad planes of his face, and his topknot made him look even taller—the long hair gathered in rabbit-skin lacing so it stood like a tree on his head, spilling over the top in a plume. She saw agitation beneath his practiced calm. Not answering, he stepped toward the stranger and asked in Spanish, Where do you come from and where are you going?

The umne crept forward to hear, María Howchia among them.

The stranger squared his shoulders, lifted his chin—a thin line of trimmed hair sketching a square jaw—and spoke in Spanish slowly enough to be understood.

I come from the establishment of Capitán Don Juan Sutter, from his hacienda on the River of the Americans. It would please me to talk with you.

She noticed that Father’s name for the big river to the north was also used by the Españoles. But that wasn’t on the western sea. It was only a half-day’s walk to the north.

He flew like a bird, she said quietly into Mother’s ear. The man’s hair had glints of red like the red-tailed hawk. Proud Hawk she named him in her mind.

The stranger removed the wood-framed saddle, the straps from the horse’s head, and a puzzling metal thing from its mouth. Then he and Grizzly Hair walked toward the village center. She and the umne followed. Important talk would come. Father and the stranger sat opposite each another in the village clearing, and María Howchia found a place among the umne near enough to hear. Dogs sat down beside their people-friends.

Capitán Juan, the stranger began, addressing Father by the name the mission long-robes had given him. Mañana yo me voy al establicimiento del Capitán Sutter. El necessita más trabajadores… As he talked he held himself with dignity, which indicated he came from honorable people and his demeanor honored Father—not what she expected from a black hat, if that’s what he was.

Most of his Spanish rolled past her as she examined his face—the slight hawk-like curve of his nose, the trim mustache. His gaze swept across her as he talked, and briefly their eyes met. Strange eyes, the color of an evening pond fractured as when pebbles are dropped and ripples cross from different directions. Penetrating eyes that invited her. She realized she was holding her breath.

She knew enough Spanish to understand that he was urging the umne to go to Captain Sutter’s place.

Clearly suspicious, Father talked of fair trade. However María Howchia’s older brother Crying Fox listened with enthusiasm, as did many other young people.

Later Proud Hawk joined the family fire, stretching his legs out and placing one square-toed boot across the other. As María helped her mother Etumu prepare supper, she stole glances at him and his black hat, which lay on the ground beside him. On its red band was a mark that resembled the track of a crippled turkey. When he looked into her eyes, another spark of magic sizzled through her.

She’d been reaching into the fire with the blue-oak tongs, picking up the red-hot cooking stone, when his power weakened her grip and she dropped the stone into the nu-pah, splashing the uncooked acorn porridge on her legs and feet. Mother scowled. Grizzly Hair shot her a silent question. Embarrassed, she dashed under the shade porch of the family u-macha and made her way down into its comforting darkness.

There she stayed, listening to the talk of Father and Proud Hawk. Soon she heard the distant singing of Grandmother Dishi returning from her shell-drilling place near the river. The old feet knew the trail and her outstretched hands kept her from bumping into things. Giving her time to arrive, María peeked out the entrance of the u-macha and saw Crying Fox seated next to Proud Hawk. They made room for Grandmother.

Mother’s movements seemed stiff and unfriendly as she offered salad with ant vinegar to Proud Hawk. He ate that and strips of roasted ground squirrel, but refused the nu-pah, the mainstay of the umne. As the night shadows darkened and the fire brightened, María Howchia began to feel foolish to have run away, but it would draw attention to her foolishness if she returned, so she stayed in the u-macha.

Everyone around the fire ate in silence now, and the howling of several coyotes sounded like laughter directed at her. Eventually Proud Hawk stood up and yawned in an exaggerated manner. With a nod to each member of the family and a glance around the village to all the other people seated around their dying fires, everyone covertly watching him, he walked toward the field where he had performed and the grazing horses spent the nights. Father and Crying Fox, and the other men of the umne retired to the sweathouse for the night. She knew they would talk about the Español.

Alive with strange feelings, she left Grandmother already snoring on her mat and went back outside to help Mother gather the cooking baskets and bank the fire. Not wanting to ask Mother a rude question about why she’d been unfriendly toward the visitor, María Howchia said, The black hats don’t capture people for work at the missions anymore. The war at the time of her birth had achieved that victory.

Etumu’s eyes widened, and in the light of the glowing embers her normally peaceful face had a fierce expression. Her words stung like wasps. They can never be trusted.

Mother never spoke of the long-ago battles. Something awful must have happened. Scooping cold ashes over the smoldering firewood, María asked, Why does Proud Hawk want us to go to Captain Sutter’s place?

Proud Hawk?

María’s face and ears heated.

Mother finally answered. He wants men and women to collect grass seed.

But that’s women’s work!

Capitán Sutter expects men to gather too.

Pondering this amazing statement she asked, Is Capitán Sutter a long robe?

Talk to your father about those things. Etumu went to her sleeping place on the porch of the u-macha. Father and Crying Fox went to the sweathouse. The dog curled up beside Mother. María Howchia lay down on her mat an arm’s length away, too excited to close her eyes. Gazing through the porch roof, a loose weave of willow branches, she located the first campfire of an Immortal twinkling high above the world. She listened to the river-baby spirits singing in subtle harmony while a chorus of crickets kept time in unexpected rhythm. Inhaling the fragrance of the night moisture on dry grasses near and far, she wasn’t spooked at all by the who-who of an owl close by. Things were different now. The war against the black hats was long ago. She decided to speak to Crying Fox after the sleep, and together they would convince their parents it was safe for them to go to Captain Sutter’s place.

It wasn’t long before all the campfires of the Immortals glittered and winked in the sky, the brighter with Mother Moon still in her eastern house. The mat whispered as María Howchia sat up and rose to her feet.

Where are you going? Mother was not asleep!

To pass water.

Don’t go to the black hat. He will hurt you. Patient, soft-spoken Etumu never gave orders. She taught by example.

He is our guest, Mother, and he is polite. Actually he shouldn’t have looked into María Howchia’s eyes quite so long, but she knew he meant no harm.

Etumu’s tone was flat and final. Black hats are cruel.

María persisted, though such behavior was frowned upon. I think he is too young to have fought in the war. Besides, the world has changed since then. I heard his music and it was good.

Silence.

Irritated at Mother’s old ways, she left the porch, intending only to peek at the man from a distance and see whether he slept like normal people. She stepped quietly across the loose pebbles of Berry Creek and up the bank to the open field. The pale spot that was his shirt came into view. A horse nickered.

Silently she drew nearer, listening for sleeping sounds, but the drumbeat of her heart covered all sound—river, frogs, crickets. His magic pulled her. She craved more of it. She couldn’t stop herself. A twig cracked beneath her heel.

Que va? The deep and resonant voice of a man-singer.

Yo, she said. Thin and weak.

The pale shirt moved. He sat up and thumped the ground beside him. "Ven."

That meant come. Her heart drummed ever louder as she stepped toward him, pulled like Mouse when he couldn’t resist the magic of O-se-mai-ti, Grizzly Bear. Like a sleepwalker she arrived next to the man, thrilled by scents of leather, aromatic smoke, and man-musk.

Knees weakening, she lowered herself beside him. She lay on her side facing him, her neck and face burning with excitement and naughtiness.

Proud Hawk lay with his head on his big saddle, and he lightly cupped her high shoulder with a warm and gentle hand. The hand slowly moved down to her waist where it rested in the curve, leaving a fiery pathway on her skin. She could hardly breathe.

Indita mía, he said softly, his smoky breath connecting them in the warm night. That meant, my little Indian girl.

She reached over and touched the surprising softness of skin next to the bristly line of hair along his jaw. Is Captain Sutter’s place a mission? she asked.

No, Indita mía, es un castillo, un presidio, un pueblo.

Presidio! That was the home of the black hats, even more dangerous than a mission.

It is more of a pueblo, he continued, a village where people make things and grow wheat and raise cattle. His hand retraced the glowing pathway up her side and down again, stealing her breath as it went. Would you like to go there with me? Resonant, low, musical.

Her heart leapt and she almost exclaimed Ho! But a wet nose startled her—mother’s dog, who always stayed near her mistress. The dog was now sniffing Proud Hawk.

The man’s hand remained on the swell of her hip, but he called quietly, Hola.

We are only talking, María Howchia added in the tongue of umne. The man is kind.

Spanish rolled from his mouth. Your daughter is safe. She goes to her house now.

Gently he nudged her away while saying loud enough for Etumu to hear, I came here to make friends. Go now, Amapolita. I have no wish to upset your family.

Amapola was the Spanish name for the golden poppy that bloomed in the season of second grass. He had named her Little Poppy.

2

After the pretty Indita left, Pedro lay studying the stars that salted the black sky. He never tired of matching the constellations with stories he’d been told, some from old Spain, some from his Indian grandmother. Far and near, coyotes howled, a sleepy sound in the warm night.

It came to him that this was the perfect place for his rancho. Like the other villages on his ride up the River of the Cosumne it had plenty of Indians to work for him, but here at the start of the foothills the land had a manly feel. He would build his house on a rise overlooking the river. In the summer when he sat on his veranda, climbing roses on the pillars would perfume the air and Indias would be in the cookhouse preparing tortillas and tamales. His shy Spanish wife would sit beside him in high comb and mantilla. His clothing would be imported from Mexico, silver brads down his slim trousers to the bleached cotton that belled out. His bolero would be beautifully embroidered with colorful thread. Having him as their teacher, his vaqueros would excel. He’d be a leading citizen of Alta California, Sutter’s respected neighbor, General Vallejo’s friend, and a loyal retainer of the governor in Monterey. Men would come to his hacienda to discuss important matters.

Soon he was dreaming.

When he awoke the pretty Indita stood at his feet as naked as Eve but for a sparse skirt of cattail leaves. Surrounding her were the bare children of the village, black eyes sparkling. Birds chattered and whistled from the thickets along the river, and dawn tinted everything rosy. Invigorated by the freshness he sprang to his feet and spread his fists wide, stretching. Mingled with the scent of dewy grass was the faint, peachy scent of the Indita.

She said in Spanish, I’m going to Captain Sutter’s place with you.

The Captain liked young girls. I think you should stay home, he said, realizing that his decision about this place had changed the tune he’d sung to her last night.

But before the sleep you said—

Show me the place for swimming.

She eyed him, then turned to lead, her firm little buttocks shifting, her hair singed off just above tender shoulders. He followed her scent cloud. Children grabbed both his hands and trotted beside him, smiling up like he was a god. Patrón, he corrected in his mind. He remembered the poppy-petal feel of her skin. Yes, the Capitán would surely take her, and Pedro didn’t want her used by him or the scoundrels his distillery attracted. She should stay here and soon he would be her patrón. At the thought he felt a sudden tightness in the prickly wool of his pants. One good thing about clothing was that it hid this condition. Yet the men in these villages went about entirely naked. Ay madre!

He followed her through the village where naked and near-naked people smiled at him. Some were spooning their fingers into baskets of congealed acorn porridge.

The Indita walked straight into the water with the children, and they all swam like tadpoles. Indians were jokingly said to be amphibious. Brown faces grinned at him from the moving water, wide where the river spread out after coursing around two sides of a small island. With her hair slicked back the girl looked as young as the others. On shore, Captain Juan gazed at the rising sun in the way of Indian chiefs, while the men and women of his tribe came down the path from their little pointed houses, wading into the river.

He wanted to be a part of this communal bathing. Not the normal behavior of a patrón, but he sensed it would serve as a link today. Water was sacred to Indians. Stripping quickly he waded in and paddled out through warm water to where it was deep and cooler. He was relieving himself when the chief, finished with the sun salutation, joined his people in the river. The Amapolita swam to Pedro.

He asked, What do you call this ranchería?

Ranchería, she answered with a teasing grin.

Of course it was an Indian home. "I mean what name? Comó se llama?"

As she bobbed in the water a crease appeared between her perfectly shaped brows. No name.

He’d heard this before. Some Indians didn’t name their villages, yet they named every boulder and hill. Come with me, he said, beckoning with his head.

He swam to shore and led her up the bank to where they could see the face of a large granite boulder. He knew that in springtime the river would roar over it, and that’s why the giant rock was smooth and rounded. Gesturing, he asked, What do you call that?

She seemed puzzled, and then said a bit uncertainly, Sacayak?

Sacayak, he repeated. Rancho Sacayak. What does it mean?

A huge smile bunched her cheeks, teeth dazzling. With two quick steps, she skimmed into the water and swam away. Amphibians indeed.

oOo

Later in the day he thought of that boulder as he nudged Chocolate up the path with seven Indians—three walking ahead, four behind. Sacayak seemed to mean something secret to these people. All the better. On the little hill near that granite boulder he would build his house, and on a warm day the riffles of the river would freshen the air of his veranda.

The Indita’s parents had opposed her coming with him. Very well. She and her brother had stayed at home. The five young men who did come walked with quivers slung over their shoulders and bows in their hands. The two young Indias carried their huge conical baskets on their backs secured by thongs around their foreheads, in the way of their women. The older men of the village had stayed at home, keeping the horses—no doubt stolen from missions and ranches. But Indians on foot wouldn’t slow Pedro. They had the amazing ability to trot all day, and besides, today he was taking his time. On the way back to the fort he would collect Indians from the other villages that he’d visited coming upstream. Trick riding was the key.

At the top of the first hill, he sat his horse and looked back at the brown people in the open meadow, still watching. As he waved to them he pondered a mystery. Here at the start of the foothills the natives were naked and harmless as Adam and Eve. In the Big Valley the half-clothed Horse-thief Indians, mission fugitives for the most part, plagued the rancheros in the coastal valleys, yet they rarely killed people. But on the coast, where people of all races hid beneath clothing, a man had to watch his back. When Captain Sutter sent Indian children to work at the establishments of his coastal creditors, to help allay his mounting debts, he specified that they not be quartered with Indians who’d been in missions. Otherwise they’d return to him after the specified amount of time spoiled by the attitudes of rebels.

Captain Juan was the biggest of the Indians below, a strapping man well over six feet, not counting his topknot. Beside him stood the lovely little poppy. A chief’s daughter often became the mistress of the señor, but for now the excitement coursing through Pedro was for the land. He would need to draw a map of the place and ask Captain Sutter to write a letter of recommendation to Governor Micheltorena stating that he, Pedro, was of good character and had acquitted himself well in his work. It would take time for the paperwork to creak through the Mexican government, so he must start immediately. The prospect of Rancho Sacayak greatly improved his outlook toward the future.

He memorized the layout for the map. Below on his right the River of the Cosumne wound its way through the low hills. Sufficient water remained in the river even now, at the end of the long dry summer. He had examined the clay chinking on the conical huts and found it to be of fine adobe quality. Bien. The fertile soil in the meadow where he impressed them with his riding would nourish his corn and beans. Native grapevines festooned the trees along the river. Blackberries and good herbs abounded.

Exhilarated, he galloped downhill and up the next hill, catching up with the Indians. Riding at a walk again, the image of the Indita came to him, sweet and innocent in the forward way of the unspoiled natives. He was pleased with the way he’d handled himself. A love song sprang to his lips and he sang with mournful gusto.

El tormento de amor que me abraza

En mi pecho no encuentro consuelo.

The torment of love that grips me

In my bosom cannot be consoled.

.…

oOo

After Proud Hawk rode away, María Howchia looked at the dusty willows and sun-baked boulders and felt trapped in a world too small. Pounding acorns at the chaw-se, the outcroppings of mortar rocks, she noticed Crying Fox’s crimped lips as he straightened arrows nearby.

She suspected that he too was thinking about leaving against Father’s wishes. Crying Fox’s best friends had gone. Her friends Blue Star and Burns Fingers had gone too. Women were the best gatherers and Proud Hawk had said he wanted gatherers. He had invited her to his home to help.

She recalled the gray eyes, the proud bearing and musky scent. Her skin remembered his touch. She could think of nothing else.

At the family’s supper fire Grizzly Hair spoke loud enough for all the umne to hear. Kadeema’s people, who live on the River of the Americans, he gestured toward the north, no longer work for Captain Sutter. So he sent his scout here. Our people should not do what others refuse to do. Clearly it upset him that so many young people had gone.

Etumu’s basket-weave cap bobbed up and down in emphatic agreement. Her black eyes flashed at María Howchia as she said, The black hats do not purify themselves. People who go to the place of the black hats will lose their strength.

María Howchia had little appetite, although the steaming basket held her favorite bulbs. She sat against the earthen collar of the house among her father’s wilted tobacco plants and felt equally limp. Grizzly Hair and Etumu meant to protect their children, yet they were wrong to keep looking toward the past. The black hats hadn’t captured people for a long time, and Captain Sutter wasn’t to be feared. He just wanted seed pickers.

She said, I heard that Kadeema’s people left Captain Sutter’s fort because they were sick for their home place.

Crying Fox added in vigorous voice. That’s true. That’s why they left. But we wouldn’t be homesick. We would return after the harvest. Captain Sutter pays fine goods for trabajo. That was Spanish, meaning everyone doing whatever was ordered, all at the same time. The tongue of the umne had no such word. Father had learned about work at the mission.

The Español wants to befriend us, María Howchia reminded her parents. He wouldn’t invite us to his place if it were dangerous.

Suddenly Crying Fox stood up, squared his shoulders and pointed to the west. After the sleep I will go to Captain Sutter’s place.

María Howchia held her breath. This could be seen as disrespectful to Father.

Grizzly Hair didn’t move, his forearms remained on his knees, a juicy duck thigh dangling in one hand. Four drips fell. Looking at nobody in particular his voice came as flat as his expression. Every man must find his own way.

Etumu stood up, scowling, disapproving.

For the first time in her life María Howchia didn’t care whether she upset her mother. A woman must find her own way too, she announced. I will go with Crying Fox.

Grizzly Hair gave the duck thigh to Etumu’s dog, pushed to his feet, and walked toward the west path, possibly heading for his power place. Seeing this, Etumu left Grandmother Dishi fumbling with her food and went down inside the u-macha.

María exchanged a glance with Crying Fox. They had defeated their parents, but it brought no pleasure.

oOo

Pedro squinted into the setting sun. Only a few varas remained between him and the fort. He had collected sixteen Indians from the villages. Better than expected. Grouped by village, they trotted along behind. Sutter’s five-league square New Helvetia stretched alongside the American River down to where it joined the wide Sacramento. The place was more than a rancho, actually a fledgling town. Someday, Pedro mused, Rancho Sacayak would be such a place, but without the bad men Sutter attracted. And without the squalor of San José with its four to five hundred people, including renegade mission Indians and filthy mahalas servicing the cholos from Mexico—an ant heap of drunkenness and broken spirits. Señor del Cielo, no. One or more of Pedro’s three brothers probably remained on the family plot in San José, a mere square vara as all town allotments were. Not enough land for four brothers to earn a living. Never did Pedro want to return.

He recalled how the shame of his father had pushed him to excel at horsemanship. He’d won contests and a measure of respect. Now he sank back in the saddle resting his hands on the big round Sinaloa horn, rocking with the gait. The heat, thanks be to God, was departing with the sun. He could feel his military life fading with it. Rancho Sacayak was the bright, happy thing.

Chocolate whinnied as they neared the fort, now dark against the red sunset, the distant air smoky due to Indian grass-burning. The remaining corner of the high adobe wall appeared to have been finished in the week since he’d left—a massive structure in an oak grassland. Está bien. He could assign the adobe makers to the harvest.

Indians and Kanakas came running, calling, Viene el Señor Valdez! The Captain’s pack of bulldogs rushed at him, barking—English dogs the Captain acquired in the Sandwich Islands. Pedro beckoned the new Indians, who hung back timidly. Perhaps they were afraid of the guards with bayonets pointed upward, or the cannons they stood beside.

Returning the salute, Pedro sat tall as he rode through the big gate. The new Indians followed, their heads pivoting in every direction. The grain-soup aroma of pi-no-le reminded him of his stomach. He’d have Señor Daylor put a beefsteak on the grill. Bill Daylor refused to cook California food, a disappointing aspect of Sutter’s Fort, but the Englishman made good leavened bread.

Pedro tied Chocolate to the stair rail, heard footsteps, and turned. He found himself looking straight into Perry McCoon’s lopsided grin, with that maddening dimple digging a hole in one cheek!

Looks like the greaser’s back, and about time it tis, the bastard drawled.

Another reason Pedro wanted a rancho. McCoon and his ilk. The Captain had made it clear that Pedro would lose his rank and be sent back to Monterey if he took the bait of the English-speaking men who worked here. Fortunately, not all of them were as bad as McCoon. Pedro moved to mount the stairs.

McCoon planted a boot on the first stair, his blue eyes sparking with mean humor. He had recently oiled the perfect wave of dark hair on his forehead, over a nose so straight it could have been planed. The cabrón was vain, a lady’s man North Americans called him. Worst of all, he flattered himself to think he was Pedro’s equal on a horse. Pedro was considering changing the shape of that nose when Sutter emerged on the landing above, arching his brows in delight to see the new Indians.

Esteemed Capitán, Pedro said with a salute, these strong young Indians are ready to serve you. Ay, ay ay, he needed to keep a tight rein on his anger. Sutter was the only man in the great valley whose recommendations for land grants influenced the governor.

Smiling with approval, Sutter bobbed his head toward the soup troughs. Tell dem to eat. And Lieutenant Valdez, come to my room ven you haff eaten.

McCoon removed his foot.

3

After the sleep María Howchia stepped from the river and brushed dry with her tuft of wing-feathers. Father stood at the edge of the sandy beach as he did each morning, facing the sun as it rose, absorbing power. He hadn’t spoken yet. Never had his eyes seemed as rocklike as when he’d looked at her before the sleep. She forced back tears at the memory, but returned to the u-macha to pack.

Inside the dim u-macha she saw the curve of Mother’s back on her mat. Quietly reaching into the rafters María untied her large burden basket, the bottom of it containing acorns that she’d taken from the family silo before the sleep. No doubt food would be at hand in the fort, but to be safe she would carry the staple of life.

On top of the acorns she placed her folded deerskin mantle. Then her cloth skirt. She must look her best for any big time that might be held. She added the family’s old cooking basket and her bone awl for coiling redbud. She might need to make a basket. She picked up her small stone mortar. It was heavy for travel, but the fort might not have a grinding place. She lifted the mantle and placed the stone beneath it, and then set her seed beater and seed cradle on top.

Her rabbit-skin blanket lay on her mat, unneeded in this warm weather. On such a long journey it might be damaged. But if she left it here, she’d have to return before cold weather.

She scowled, wondering how long she would be gone.

Crying Fox intended to return home after Sutter’s seeds were stored, before the time of rain. But she might need more time to win her man. And even if he agreed to marry her, she couldn’t be sure he would return with her to live in the u-macha with her parents for the proper time while they decided if he’d make a good husband. She hoped he would. If so she wouldn’t need to carry the blanket now. But Father said other peoples didn’t follow custom. Maybe Proud Hawk would ask her to stay at his house. Maybe he already had a good blanket and hers wouldn’t be needed. In the mission, married men slept with their wives every night, having no sweathouse. Maybe it was the same at the fort.

Never had she felt so frozen in indecision.

As she stared at the blanket it seemed to cry out not to be left behind. Dogs might come in and shred it while she was gone. She saw herself making it—the care with which she’d rolled the pelts, fur side out, sewed the soft tubes end to end into long hollow ropes, and then wove the fur-tubes over and under. The blanket spoke of suitors who had brought the rabbit pelts, including the man Father hoped she would marry. But she had rejected them all, waiting for a special man. Only respected married women had as many pelts. The blanket meant she was attractive to men. It spoke of all the warm glances and coupling at the two big times since she’d become a woman. In the time of cold rain she’d snuggled under the rabbit fur, tucking the silkiness around her, and drifted into pleasant dreams.

Etumu turned over and looked at María. You are going then. A hurt tone.

María nodded over the big round opening of her gathering basket. If she took the blanket, Mother would think she didn’t intend to return. The sudden dimming of the light made her look at the doorway.

Are you coming? It was Crying Fox standing on the porch looking down the ramp. He’d been waiting with his full quiver across his chest.

Tears of frustration welled. How could a blanket do this to her? Making it so hard to leave home?

Want me to go without you? Crying Fox asked.

She looked at her older brother, recalling her bravado before the sleep. But then she remembered Proud Hawk’s hand on her back, and said, I’m coming.

She folded and placed her rabbit-skin blanket in the basket, leaned the big basket against the wall while she jammed her grass-weave skullcap on her head, and then paused. Father had said the women of the Españoles wore cloth skirts. Perhaps she should wear hers for the journey. No. She must protect it for the big times. Then a new thought. Captain Sutter paid in cloth for the collection of grass seed. Soon she could make herself a new skirt. Hurriedly she dug under the blanket, feeling for the length of striped muslin, pulled it out, and tied the skirt around her hips. Now she wouldn’t appear old-fashioned to Proud Hawk.

The sudden return of light told her Crying Fox was leaving. She slipped the deer thong around the basket, bent her knees, rump to the basket, placed the thong across her forehead and stood up with a little jerk to center the weight. At the doorway she turned toward Mother and said, I will return.

Etumu said nothing. This was the way of the umne, quickly so as not to bring tears. She knew Mother would think of her each day, as she would think of Mother. Outside, she nearly bumped into Father. His long wet hair was plastered to his shoulders. He stood beside the house, less imposing without his topknot. Greatly relieved, she saw no anger in him. His eyes spoke of pain and love.

Daughter. You are young, and the men at Sutter’s place have no understanding of polite behavior.

Soon I will have fourteen años, she reminded him. He had taught her to count birthdays like the mission people did. But despite being adult she felt the fright of a fledgling leaving the nest. She was leaving the protection of this man of knowledge, going to a man who might send her back to the umne.

The square-shouldered back of Crying Fox crossing Berry Creek beckoned. She trotted after him, pulled by the magic of Proud Hawk.

oOo

Following Crying Fox on the tamped trail, she felt stronger in her purpose with each step, for she could see the recent tracks of his horse. She could still hear him saying, Indita mía. This was no dream. He was her man, unlike any other. She had lain awake in a fever of wanting him.

Walking ahead, Crying Fox seemed absorbed in thought. She caught up behind his bunching calves and strong buttocks, the delicate heron bones swinging in his earlobes.

Why didn’t you bring your horse? she asked.

Father said it might be stolen from the fort.

Who would steal it?

Raiders. Maybe Sick Rat and Gabriel. Maybe Maximo’s men.

I don’t think Sick Rat would steal your horse. Gabriel’s men sold stolen horses to Americanos at the Lake of the Tulares at the southern end of the great valley. That was terribly far away. Sick Rat hadn’t returned home after the war, but remained with the horse thieves.

Crying Fox’s feet landed perfectly on their sides, rolling flat to push off. Raiders round them up in the night, he said.

Would she be safe in such a place? She felt safe with her brother and hoped Proud Hawk would protect her at the fort. She wanted to talk about him, but once when they were children, Crying Fox had said to her, Don’t talk until you have thought four times about what you are saying. That had embarrassed her and she’d never forgotten it.

She asked, Am I pretty?

In stride, Crying Fox turned his head just enough to reveal a half-smile.

Pleased, she resumed thinking about Proud Hawk. More than four times she had thought about marrying him, but she couldn’t bring herself to mention it to Crying Fox. He might assume an Español was an inappropriate man for her. In age, Proud Hawk was between her and her parents, so very unlike old Jacksnipe Song, with his saggy neck and worn teeth. Her man could stand on the back of a running horse!

Crying Fox kept a determined pace. They rested at the Omuchumne village, politely accepting food and learning more about Captain Sutter. People said he possessed power, and he and his fighting men had killed whole villages on the southern river where the Mokelumne lived—killed them with guns and a wheeled cannon. Father had told of such guns.

Omuch said, Captain Sutter ordered his men to cut off Rafero’s head. They left it on a iron spike on the gate. Birds ate it. The empty skull hung there for two long-dries. The big eyes of the Omuchumne matched the horror creeping through María Howchia.

Later, walking behind Crying Fox, fear niggled her stomach, but Proud Hawk’s magic beckoned through it. The river had turned south and left them. They were now on the fainter trail heading westward over flat oak grasslands. The dry grass on either side of the trail stood to their shoulders, some of it over her head. The sun was hotter away from the river. Perspiration stung the chafed places where the basket rubbed her back and shoulders.

All day they walked at a fast pace. At last Crying Fox stopped and pointed. She followed his finger to something in the distance, black against the blazing low sun. The fort of Captain Sutter. The size of it made her uneasy and she turned to look but couldn’t see the comforting green line of vegetation that marked her river. They walked onward.

The sun was low when they began passing cattle and sheep, animals Father had described. Men in hip wraps sat alongside a field of high, strong-looking grass gone to seed. One of those men jumped up to scare a flock of birds away. These must be the seeds we are to collect, said Crying Fox.

Suddenly, several dogs barked and bounded toward them. Demon dogs with horribly flat faces and huge loose lips, maybe shape-changers! Just when she expected to be eaten alive by whatever monsters they really were, Crying Fox lunged toward them screaming like a cougar and waving his arms. The smooth brown demons stood at bay and allowed him to walk past, though they barked and surely saw the telltale waver in his gait. With her stomach in a hard knot María caught up to her brave brother. On her heels, the barking demons followed all the way to the immense wall of the fort. Weakened by