Like a River Glorious

Bad men are never all bad, and good men are never all good, and it makes it hard to know up from down.

We’re tying off string at the edge of Hampton’s claim when I notice Jefferson staring at me. “You don’t have to watch my eyes,” I grumble. “When I sense gold, I’ll tell you straight.” “That’s not why I’m looking,” he replies, and Hampton fails to keep the grin from his face.

I’ve come so far, but in some ways, I haven’t gone any distance. I’m still hiding from bad men. I’m still trying to figure how to make my own way, my own fortune.

all the magic in the world is rubbish compared to good people who take care of their own.

My home is not a place; it’s people.

I think you’d better stay extra alert tonight.” “Okay.” “I’m serious, Jeff. Someone snuck up on both Hampton and Martin, and neither of them are shirkers.” He grins. “You’re worried for me, aren’t you?” “Course I am.” “Know what I think?” I scowl at him, which only widens his grin. He steps closer, puts a hand to my chin, and lifts it so I can’t avoid his gaze. “I think you’re in love with me,” he says. I stare at his lips. What comes out of my mouth is: “Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, you have the swagger of a rooster and the swelled head of a melon.

Because a girl can’t inherit. So here I am, all the way out in California, trying to rebuild some of what I lost. As a single girl, I can, you know. But once I get married, everything belongs to my husband. Even my own self. I have to give up the name Westfall and change it to my husband’s. Don’t you see? Once I get married, I lose everything all over again.

I need air and light and a kind word. I need my friends. I need Peony. I need my guns.

A woman married is a woman with nothing of her own. Everything she’s ever worked for belongs to her husband.

People pretend he’s a white man when it suits them, erasing part of who he is.

So I pull harder. More gold coats my arms and legs. I don’t have to look to know I am a golden statue, shining like the daughter of Midas. Except the gold is mine. I’m the one in control. Come.

How did you get here? To California, I mean.” “I walked across the ocean. On water, like your Jesus.” It takes a split second to realize she’s funning me. “On a ship, you dolt. In the hold, actually. I stowed away.

What did we ever do to him?” Jefferson asks. “We exist,” Tom says simply. “Look at us. Look at who we are.” We’re a half-Cherokee boy, a one-legged war veteran, three confirmed bachelors, and two uppity women. Little does Frank know we also have a runaway slave with us, but I’d die before I told.

Dilley’s the kind of fellow who feels that being a white man makes him better at everything than everyone who isn’t. And if the facts prove otherwise, he’ll try to destroy the facts.

So far, the only people who’ve tried to hurt us or take our stuff is other Christians. Like those claim jumpers.

My home is not a place; it's people.

I should mark my surroundings better. I should look for exits, weaknesses, but I can’t make myself focus, and after a moment, I don’t even care. Dear Lord, I’m weary.

Mary left me a bristle brush and some soap, and I get to work scrubbing everything, paying special attention to my face and dirt-encrusted fingernails. I soap down my hair and dip beneath the water to rinse, then finger comb it as best I can. Strands of hair come away from my scalp and float like water bugs on the surface. I keep combing, and more hair comes away. Then more. I decide to leave my hair alone.

The Major sits on a log, whittling at an oak branch. I can’t tell what he’s making, but he goes at it with the same fervor that Nugget and Coney get digging a hole, forgetting the world around them. He’s a man with busy hands, that’s for sure. He’s always carving, hammering, or sewing something. I’ve seen him create tables and benches, shoes, halters, and even a leather tie necklace for Olive, which he made by boring a hole into a bit of quartz and working the leather strap through. Afterward, he declared himself the finest jeweler in all of Glory, California.

Becky jumps up from the table, the one that made it here all the way from Chattanooga. Her red-checked tablecloth is spread across it just so, the corners perfectly aligned, and a vase full of purple alpine rises from the center. It’s like God dropped a tiny tavern right into the middle of the wilderness

As Jasper, Major Craven, and Old Tug skirt the pond toward the beaver dam, Becky says to me, “I must be a better cook than I thought!” I blink. “It must be from all the practice.” I step forward to grab the table, just like I’ve done hundreds of times, but I stop short, laughing. “What’s so funny?” Becky asks. “I was about to put the table away in the wagon. Then I remembered we don’t have a wagon anymore.” She grins.

What are you doing here again, Frank?” I ask, my hand twitching next to my holster. “Did you come to buy our claims already?” Because if he has, I’ve got a mother lode of no for him.

The reverend bristles. “Have you all turned savage?” he says. “Mr. Westfall is offering you safety. Honest pay for honest work.” He shakes his head as if overcome by deep sorrow. “‘For the love of money is the root of all evil—’” “Oh, quit your sermonizing!” I holler. I’ve had it with thieving, self-righteous pigs. “No one wants to hear Scripture right now, especially from you.” He straightens in his saddle and opens his mouth to stubborn it out. “You’re not going to propose to me again, are you, preacher? Because if you do, my ‘no’ might be accompanied by a boot in your face.” “I think—” “I think you should be on your way. You’ve said your piece.

Morning,” comes a voice at my ear, and I jump. It’s Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher, bleary faced and yawning, suspenders hanging at his sides. His black hair is badly mussed, like a family of mice nested there during the night. “What’s got you so tickled?” he grumbles in response to my smile. “You have Andrew Jackson hair.” Jefferson frowns like he just bit into a sour persimmon. “He’s the last fellow I care to resemble. You know what he did.” I wince. “I was just thinking about the picture they had at school and . . . I mean, I’m sorry.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Well, so long as I don’t have Andrew Jackson eyebrows, I’m still the finest-looking fellow for at least”—he glances back at our distant camp, toward Becky Joyner at the griddle, the Hoffman boys helping their father check the wagon, Henry Meek grooming his scant beard—“a hundred feet.” I harrumph at that. Jefferson is the finest-looking young man for a hundred miles, but I’d never say so aloud. Wouldn’t want it to go to his mussy-haired head