By the grotesque way the leader lay against the wall—knee bent at an acute angle, smoking gun at his side, eyes fastened on the stars, the last gurgle from his throat sounding like a stream trickling and bubbling over a pebbly surface—Dollie knew he was dead. She ran to where Miss Wren lay in a crumpled pile. Dollie lifted her nurse's head. The bodice of her pale blue dress was rich with red blood. "Dollie, you and Edward must get away," she whispered, her voice dry as dust. "Bitters will return." "Don't die, Miss Wren," Dollie pleaded, laying her hot forehead against Miss Wren's cheek. Miss Wren made a motion to kiss her child's forehead. It seemed to Dollie that she could smell the blood from Miss Wren's bodice, and that smell of life oozing away cloaked Dollie's vision in a scarlet sheet. Her burning tears flooded across the nurse's lips. But Miss Wren didn't mind. "Dollie," called Edward, anxiously from across the room, "what is happening?" For a moment Dollie said nothing, beyond comprehension. Twenty-four hours ago, they had been in Sacramento, and their nurse had hugged them as they lay in a warm bed in Sacramento's finest hotel. This morning she had brushed Dollie's hair until it crackled, then had neatly braided it. Earlier her fists had been raised to defend them. Only a few hours ago her steady hands had brought them each a plate of beans and sourdough. When Dollie felt near crying, Miss Wren had said, "Courage, children, we shall get out of this in fine order. What had happened to cause such a cavalcade of death? Dollie wondered. First Jake, who caused no one any pain, who was just doing his job, fetching a couple of children and a talkative nurse. Then Miss Wren. How could people of courage and kindness die while others like Bitters continued to haunt the world? For the first time in her young life Dollie confronted death—and not just death, but random, indiscriminate death, without reason or cause, death that chose to extinguish good as often as evil, the innocent and the guilty, those who were in the center of danger and those who were on the periphery. "What happened?" Edward called a second time, on the floor, holding himself up with his palms, trying to see. Dollie leaped to her feet, suddenly overcome with the anger of grief. "She's dead!" she screamed. "Miss Wren is dead! Are you satisfied? Now you know." Edward, lying helplessly on the floor, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. Then Dollie remembered Miss Wren's dying words. Keep moving, she thought, that would help still the pain. Courage, Miss Wren had said. To Edward, Dollie said, "We must get away from here. Bitters might return." She searched her memory. How long ago had Bitters left? Two hours ago? Four? How much time did they have before he returned? Edward, thin and pale, shoved his fists against his eyes as if that could rub away the pain. He pulled himself up into his chair and wheeled himself around, facing the door. "I'll look for the horses," Dollie said. She went outside. It was cold; goose bumps flickered over her thin arms, so she clutched her arms around her. She had never seen such bright silver stars. She ran towards the nearby buildings, searching for the horses. She found the wagon, but nothing else. Then, in the distance, she heard a whinny. She saw one of the horses that had been pulling the wagon. "Here, horse," she called, because she didn't know what else to say. She held out her hand, running toward the horse. It immediately shied from her and trotted into the dark. For a short time, Dollie followed, but she quickly realized how fruitless it was, and in frustration, gave up. Dollie looked at the open door of the saloon, from which amber light spilled. What should she do? Should they put themselves in Bitters's hands and hope for the best? Dollie shuddered at the thought. Should they stay and confront Bitters? Maybe they could ambush him. Not likely they could surprise and overcome a seasoned outlaw. Should she go for help by herself, leaving Edward here by himself or perhaps try to hide him? She couldn't do it. As she saw it, the only option they had was to go out into the wilderness, hide until morning, then try to find a town. Help couldn't be far away, could it? Could it? Hadn't they seen dozens of men on the trails? Surely, they would chance across someone. She returned to the dilapidated building where Edward waited expectantly in the doorway. "Well?" "The horses must have run away from the gun shots," Dollie replied. "What are we going to do?" asked Edward, his eyes large and frightened. "We can't stay here." "We only have one choice, Edward. We have to strike out on our own." "But we don't know our way, we don't know where we are, the chair, it is night, the . . . ." "There are a thousand reasons not to do it, and only one reason to do it—Bitters. Do you want to stay?" With determination hardening his features, Edward sat erect in his wheelchair, turning it into a throne. "I think we should take the guns with us." "Good idea," she said. Dollie steeled herself, then went to Miss Wren’s body. "I hate to leave her like this," said Edward, gazing down at their nurse. "Isn't there something we can do?" "I don't see how we have a choice," said Dollie. "We don't have anything to bury her with and Bitters might return at any moment." At the thought of the outlaw, the recollection of his latent cruelty, a sense of urgency shuddered through her. "We have to get out of here." "You're right," said Edward reluctantly. Gingerly, Dollie picked up the pistol that lay near the nurse. She looked at Miss Wren. "Thank you," she whispered, then turned away before tears could well up in her eyes. Dollie unstrapped the holster from the outlaw. She tried strapping it on her hip, but it kept sliding down her legs. Finally, she secured it over her left shoulder, so the holster slapped against her right hip. It actually worked rather well, and Dollie felt pleased. Edward retrieved the revolver from the leader's hand. He stuffed it between his thigh and the chair. "Let's go," he said. Dollie grabbed a couple of blankets from the floor and stuffed them around Edward's legs. She slung a canteen over the back of the wheelchair, then pushed the chair into the blue and silver moonlight. An owl hooted; Dollie heard a whirr of wings. She maneuvered the wheelchair off the steps, then they trudged into the unknown dark. As the tumult, excitement, and confusion of the evening began to dissipate, Dollie grew tired. From the comfort of the wagon-bed, the foothills of the Sierra had seemed gentle and rolling. Now, as she tried to push the wheelchair up the hills, she realized how steep they could be. The wheels caught on roots and sank into soft earth. Sometimes she stumbled over rocks that stuck out of the ground. They constantly had to fight their way through dry brush. When they came to the crest of a hill and started down the other side, the wheelchair began to accelerate. They barrelled down the hill, faster and faster, until they hit a fallen tree. Edward went flying, as did Dollie, the blankets, the chair, and worst of all, the pistol. Dollie lay in a pile of soft pine needles, weeping with exhaustion and frustration. "Maybe we should rest for the night," suggested Edward, touching his sister's small shoulder. Wiping her eyes, Dollie got to her feet. "Let's go a bit further," she urged. When she made a movement to aid Edward, he waved her away. "If you can do it, I can do it myself. You find the revolver." Dragging his immobile legs behind him, Edward pulled himself into the chair. Dollie retrieved the blankets, but the revolver was more difficult to find. She groped among pine needles, but could find nothing. "We can't spend any more time looking for it. We'll make do with this one." She hefted the Colt. It looked even larger in her small white hand. She shoved the revolver back into the holster, and they trudged into the frosty Sierra night. The moon, white with fatigue, was beginning to slip behind a peak when they finally decided to rest. A pine tree, deep green in the moonlight, provided shelter. They huddled beneath it; the bed of pine needles provided a soft mattress. With the blankets wrapped around their bodies, they lay on the ground. Suddenly, it seemed the quiet wasn't quiet anymore. Dollie heard sounds chime across the crystal, cold air. She began to realize how little she knew about the mountains. What wild animals lurked out there? Mountain lions? And did they hunt at night? Did wolves slink in the darkness? What creatures did the Sierra harbor? Snakes, owls, and other animals she couldn't even imagine. The fact that she didn't know preyed on her imagination even more, and despite her immense exhaustion, she couldn't sleep. "Whooo," sounded in the distance. A moment later she heard an animal's scream from somewhere not far away. She lay in front of Edward and felt for the gun, carefully lifting it out of the holster. She held it tightly by the handle, pressing the barrel against her chest. There was a dampness in the air. The cold began to penetrate the blanket. She felt her whole body tense, as if she were shivering, not just on her skin, but in the pit of her stomach, and the shivering was radiating outward. She clutched the blanket to her throat, but it seemed to do little good. At last, though, her eyelids slid shut. Exhaustion took over. Despite the cold, despite the enormous unknown enveloping them, despite the nagging sense of something lurking in the dark, Dollie slept. When Dollie awoke in the morning, she was white with frost. The thin blanket was stiff with the damp cold. Opening her eyes, she immediately felt miserable. Not only was she cold, but now a gnawing hunger squeezed her stomach. When she stretched, her muscles screamed in protest. Her arms and shoulders ached, and from pushing the wheelchair, muscles across the back of her neck shrieked in agony. Her thighs throbbed; her feet were sore. Every movement was an avalanche of pain. Groaning, Dollie pushed herself into a sitting position. Edward, feeling her movements, woke also. The sun was peeping over the hilltops, gilding the peaks on the opposite side. Dollie stood up to reconnoiter. The foothills, gray and green spread out before them. Behind the foothills stood the Sierra Nevada mountains, a range of mountains separating California from Nevada territory, already the scene of several famous, as well as many more unknown, tragedies—the Sierra, snow-capped and brooding in its beauty, towering into the cobalt blue sky. Men called these mountains the Sierra, and there was a significance in the way they said it. The Rockies were plural and simply a barrier to be overcome individually. But the Sierra was more than just a series of mountains. It was an abiding presence, power without sentient, might without consciousness, strength without pity. A soaring, vast, inhuman bulk, the Sierra cared not what humanity did. Human beings could climb all over her sides, like so many pests, and the Sierra paid not the faintest attention. The laughter of just one snow storm would wipe them all away, bury them under a ton of white death. The Sierra destroyed indiscriminately, without joy nor pleasure, without sorrow nor compassion. When it was finished, only the Sierra was left standing, stark against the deep blue, airless sky. Dollie looked at the mile after dark mile of forest that gradually thinned. The mountains became more and more barren in the higher altitudes until only gray granite glistened and, above that, snow sparkled in the sun. The Sierra was wilderness, was uncaring and unreasoning. Like death, it mattered not to it whom it destroyed. It was eternal. It was the Sierra. Dollie had an overwhelming feeling that this awesome presence was what she had to confront, battle, and overcome. Not a particular man, not starvation, not a predatory animal, but the implacable and terrible Sierra. She sensed, that for the rest of her life, that image would follow her; she would never be able to dislodge it. If she and Edward should die out here, she wondered, would anyone find their bones? For the first time in her young life, she felt utterly alone, facing the gigantic, uncompromising, inhuman peaks of the Sierra. She grew cold at the daunting task before her. "What is it?" asked Edward, looking up at her with sleepy eyes. "We have a long way to go, that is all," she whispered grimly. From the painful tightening of her stomach, Dollie recognized the immediate problem was to locate food. Edward seconded the idea when he said, "I'm hungry." Dollie sighed, annoyed at yet another detail she did not know. She said, "I'll push you for awhile, and as we travel, we’ll look for food." Although for the life of her, Dollie couldn't imagine what it would be. "Who knows, maybe we'll find the road right away and someone on it." As she pushed Edward in the chair, the wheels bumped and rolled over clods of earth, over roots and branches, and rocks thrusting out the ground. She pushed the chair around fallen trees, down draws and over cracks in the earth. The movement of shoving the black, glistening wheelchair over the resisting earth and the warmth of the sun began to thaw Dollie's chilled limbs. Gradually, her aching muscles stopped screaming. In a sunny meadow, she saw an area of dark green leaves. Amongst the leaves were some plump, dark-purple berries. "Wait here," she said to Edward. "I promise not to go anywhere," he said, dryly. Dollie started to walk into the serrated leaves, but thorns pricked her ankles and legs. "Oww," she yelped, quickly stepping back. Kneeling, she carefully reached in and plucked one of the dark berries from its vine. What if it was poison? she wondered. Well, better to die of poisoning than starvation. She popped the plump berry into her mouth. "Well?" asked Edward. The fruit burst in her mouth, and the flavor, sweet and tangy, gushed over her tongue. "Delicious," she exclaimed, juice dribbling down her chin. After lifting the hem of her dress and making an apron of it, Dollie filled the bowl she had created with the pebbly fruit. She carried them back to her brother. The two of them ate until they were gorged. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything so good," declared Edward, smiling through purple lips, as he lay back patting his stomach. Dollie recalled the banquets at which they had feasted with their father, of the huge golden turkeys he had carved, of the hams gleaming with honey, of the sweet potatoes with brown sugar or rich with golden butter pooling in the middle, and for desert—mince pie, spicy on the tongue, or chocolate cake, moist and rich. As good as all that had been, she couldn't remember a time when she felt more satisfied than now, with her belly full and the sun warm on her face. At last she sighed and rose. "We had better get started again." The sun was now high in the sky, a huge, bronze shield. As she trudged over the seared, yellow hills pushing the chair before her, the holster slapping against her thigh, the sun began to beat down on her intensely. Sweat trickled into her eyes and down her back, making her itch. Her hands began to ache. Panting, they crested a hill only to see another range of saffron hills stretching for miles in front of them. They saw no sign of human life, no friendly campfire, no trail dust, no lonely cabin or tent or prospector. Dollie spotted a stream meandering beside the hill on which they were perched. She said, "I'll fill up the canteen and bring you some water." As she ran down to the creek, two frightened brown bundles lopped away. Hot and dry, paying no attention, Dollie dropped beside the stream, drinking deeply from its crystal coolness. In the brush nearby she heard stirring, then a snuffle and a growl. She looked up, water dripping from her mouth. Along the creek, the high reeds parted. At first, Dollie did not know what she was staring at. Rising on its hind legs, with brown fur bristling, the creature stood perhaps six feet tall, towering over her. But she had seen pictures, enough to know it was a bear. And a grizzly, she guessed, recalling something Jake had once told her—"Some bears are larger, others stronger or faster or taller, but if there is any creature more irritable, irascible, and downright cantankerous than the California grizzly, God didn't put it in California, that's for sure. The grizzly is ferocity personified," Jake had added. "Two hundred pounds of hatred, expressed with muscles, huge claws and a mouth of yellow teeth." The grizzly growled again, more loudly, displaying yellow teeth. Jake had also said that surprise in a grizzly instantly translated to hatred, and this one roared. Dollie scrambled to her feet. She was only ten feet away from the grizzly, and could smell the rush of its rancid breath as it streamed over her face. "Edward!" called Dollie. Edward, terrified, watched silently. The huge beast made a step toward Dollie, pawing the air. Dollie pulled out the Colt. Using both hands, she held the revolver in front of her and squeezed the trigger. The bear let out a loud roar, dropped to all fours and rushed toward Dollie. It swiped at the her, catching Dollie's shoulder and face. Knocked down and out, Dollie went tumbling, the pistol flying. The bear rose up again, standing over the unconscious girl. Frantically, Edward looked around, searching for some way to help his sister. He saw a small pine, about eight or ten feet long and narrow, that had fallen on the ground. He hoisted it, holding it out in front of him as if he were a knight and the tree a lance. Giving the wheel a couple of turns, "Haaaaiiiii!" he shouted as he started down the hill. The wheelchair gained speed as it sped down the steep incline. Edward aimed his lance at the bear's chest. The blankets, which had been around his legs, went flying, so he had the appearance of an enormous gray bat. The bear, perhaps having never seen anything like this, stared at the onrushing boy bouncing down the hill in the wheelchair, the lance stuck out eight feet in front of him. With the sharp pole, Edward hit the bear squarely in the chest. The grizzly roared and tumbled over. Edward went flying over the top of the bear, plummeting into the creek. Whether hurt, enraged, or amazed, the grizzly growled once and trotted into the woods behind its cubs, leaving Edward thrashing in the creek and Dollie unconscious beside it. The stream was surprising powerful as it tugged at Edward, trying to pull him under. He spat water, choking. Floundering because of his useless legs, he nonetheless used his arms made strong by wheeling his chair and was able to pull himself to the edge of the stream, then out of it altogether. Gasping with exertion, icy water dripping from his hair and nose and chin, Edward bent over his sister. "Dollie," he called, softly, touching her face. She had four scarlet welts that angrily sliced their way from her forehead, over one eyelid, and across one cheek. Blood was everywhere—on her face, in her sandy-colored hair, on her neck, on her clothes. Delicately, Edward trickled clear water from the stream over Dollie's face, trying to wash away some of the blood. But as quickly as the pink stream flowed away it was replaced by a scarlet fountain spilling over. His wheelchair was floating in the middle of stream, drifting away, so the only way he could get around was by dragging himself with his arms. Although it was slow and difficult, Edward grabbed Dollie's wrist and pulled her away from the creek, a couple of feet at a time, up the side of the hill, until they were under a tree. He retrieved one of the blankets and spread it out. He pulled Dollie onto it, covering her with the another blanket. He tore a strip of cloth from the sleeve of his shirt. As best he could, he cleaned her wounds, drying her face. She groaned occasionally, but beyond that she did not stir. After a time, Edward crawled awkwardly back to the stream. He took a long drink, then fashioned a large leaf into a cup. Dipping it in the stream, he filled it with water. Holding the cup in the palm of his left hand, he pulled himself with his right arm back to Dollie's inert body. The journey seemed to take forever, and he had to stop frequently and rest, panting. Finally, he returned to Dollie's side, though half the water in his makeshift cup had spilled. Dipping the cloth in it, he touched it to her cracked lips. She sighed in her sleep. A thought began to insinuate itself in Edward's mind, like a snake winding its way among boulders—What if Dollie was dying and he was helpless to save her? What could he do? He fretted the thought over and over, as if it were a loose tooth he kept worrying with his tongue. As Dollie lay inert on the blanket, Edward began to explore the surrounding countryside, making wider and wider forays, always keeping his sister in sight as he crawled about. After a time, his hands grew tired clutching the grass and his elbows were sore, torn and bloody. Thirty or forty yards from Dollie, he discovered a patch of berries. He tentatively nibbled one. It was tangy and sweet. Eagerly, he devoured it, then several more. He managed to carry some back to Dollie. He tried pressing one against her lips, but it did no good. He squeezed the juice from one, allowing it to gradually trickle between her lips. At least it would provide some nourishment, he thought. It was growing late. Edward retrieved the revolver from beside the stream. There was no dusk, nor twilight. Instantly the night covered them, as the sun dropped behind a peak. Edward pulled up his legs, so his knees were beneath his chin. He kept the pistol in his lap, leaned his head against his knees, and wrapped his arms around his legs. It grew colder. Shivering, Edward watched over his sister, tucking the blanket under her chin. The milky moon had an icy halo of glittering rainbows around it. Sounds began to chorus through the darkness. Did he hear a snarl? He pressed his lips together tightly, as if fear might enter his mouth, dive down his throat and strangle him. At times, he thought he could see bile-yellow eyes gleaming, gazing at him. The dark bushes seemed to stir. "Go away," shouted Edward at the dark, brandishing the pistol. "We're not ready to die here. There's nothing for you to wait around for." For a few moments, he thought it might be Death itself, some black indistinct presence, lurking about them, waiting for Dollie to die. But if there was anything there—and Edward could never quite be sure—it disappeared at the brave echoes of his voice. When dawn broke, he was hollowed-eyed and frost-capped. When sunlight struck his sister's mauled face, she stirred and moaned. She blinked . . . once, twice, then fully opened her eyes. Edward had never realized how blue they were. For a moment, overwhelmed suddenly, now that he perceived the danger was past, he lowered his head. Tears welled up in his eyes. "You're all right," he said simply. Blinking, Dollie groaned, for the lid of her left eye was swollen from the scratch of the bear claw. She delicately touched the claw marks on her face, feeling the forming scabs. Lifting herself on her elbows, she asked, "How long have we been here?" "Since yesterday afternoon," said Edward. "And you took care of me the whole time?" "I didn't do all that much 'cept watch over you." "It was enough," she whispered. The blood had dried, leaving ugly maroon scab-lines on her skin. She stretched, moaning as her nerves crackled and snapped under the movement. She felt the powerful blow of the grizzly spasm down the length of her body. Her entire body was one ache. When she rose, she wavered for a moment, then stood straight and erect. "I'm hungry." After a breakfast that consisted of the last of the ripened berries, Dollie and Edward went down to the creekside to look for Edward's wheelchair. After searching for a while, they discovered it had worked its way a hundred yards down the stream. It was tangled amongst branches and weeds. Dollie tested the chilly waters, then waded into the creek until the dark, rushing water was above her knees. Still she couldn't reach the chair. For a time, they pondered the problem, then Edward had an idea. Dollie fetched two fallen branches; one of the branches had a secondary branch that stuck out at an acute angle. Edward lay on the bank, holding out the branch in front of him. Dollie clutched that branch in her left hand; in her right hand, she held the other. That one she used as a hook, trying to snag the chair. The water was above her waist. It tugged at her insistently. Several times she stretched to reach it. Finally, she lunged and managed to hook the wheel of the chair. "Pull!" she yelled. Using his sore arms, Edward pulled the stick and Dollie and the wheelchair toward the bank. The swift current pulled the chair and Dollie away from him. He strained and heaved. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and he clenched his teeth. His shoulders quivered, his hands ached as he dragged his sister closer and closer to shore. Finally, she staggered up the slick, muddy side of the stream, slipping and sliding, gasping for breath. The two of them tugged the wheel chair the remaining distance. Then both collapsed on the bank, exhausted. The wheelchair, though dripping, muddy, and icy cold, otherwise appeared undamaged. In a few minutes the sun dried it off, and it looked as good as new. Edward pulled himself into it. "I have an idea," he said. "Didn't Jake tell us that prospectors pan for gold along the streams and rivers?" "Right," said Dollie. "Well, if we follow this stream, it seems to me that eventually we should come across some prospectors. What do you think?" "I think it's a great idea," Dollie said enthusiastically. They started out again, following the creek. As much as he could, Edward turned the wheels of his chair until his hands were blistered and sore. Frequently, the ground was broken, and at times like that Dollie pushed him over the rough terrain. Although the going was slow, still they made progress. They soon grew hot and sweaty, but there was always the stream nearby, and they would stop for a drink. Now, with a plan, the future did not seem so bleak. In fact, pushing their way through piles of golden leaves, they began to laugh and joke occasionally. Edward started to sing the song they had heard on the trail, the song Jake had sung. It not only to make them cheerful again, but also made Jake come alive, as if he were still with them. The weather it was dry. The sun so hot, I froze to death, Susanna, don't you cry." Then Dollie joined in the chorus: For I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee." Together they sang, their young voices ricocheting off the mountain tops. Boisterously, they shouted. Dollie marched to the beat while Edward tapped the arms of his chair in rhythm. For I come from . . . ." Suddenly, Dollie was staring down the shiny barrel of a gray nightmare. Fear instantly choked her, and coated her shoulder blades with a wet, cold sheen of sweat. Confused, she backed away, stumbling. She fell over a rock, thrusting up from the earth, scraping her knee. "From Alabamie with what on your knee?" asked Bitters, with a gravelly croak in his voice, a sneer on his thin lips. "What you got on your knee? Huh, little girl?" He lunged at her. Edward let his wheelchair roll in front of the outlaw, and they tangled. As he stumbled and fell, Bitters backhanded Edward. Edward went sprawling, the wheel of the chair on its side, spinning in the air. Bitters lurched to his feet to chase Dollie. Panting more from terror than exertion, Dollie scrambled over some rocks. She ran among some brush. Waving his Colt, Bitters blundered after her. "Come back, little girl," he called mockingly, "and I'll teach you how to play the banjo." Dollie dodged behind a large boulder, crouching. Panting softly, she pressed her cheek against the warm stone. Dollie pulled the revolver from the holster. She held the finger of her right hand on the trigger. With her left hand, she gripped the barrel. And listened. Dollie waited, feeling her heart pound frantically in her chest. Moment by moment her heart slowed. For a while came the sound of Bitters searching for her, sounds of crunching gravel, crackling brush, snapping dried branches. Eventually, the sounds died away. It grew utterly still. She watched a sharp shadow on the rock gradually move across the granite, its dagger point burying itself in the earth. The raucous squawk of the jay returned. Dollie gave a long, drawn-out sigh and sat back, relaxing. Now, she had to start giving some thought to how to save her brother. She crept around the side of the boulder to discover if she could see Bitters. Abruptly, a gloved hand clamped cruelly on her on her wrist, yanking the pistol out of her hand. "There you are!" Bitters said with smug satisfaction. Dollie bit his hand, tasting the acrid tang of filthy leather. He howled and doubled his hand into powerful fist. Just as he was about to pulverize her, his fist drawn back and raised in the air, he stopped. A look of pain and surprise flitted across his angry features. His eyes slowly closed and like a giant tree, he crashed forward, falling at Dollie's feet. There stood an Indian. Broad-shouldered and powerful, he held a thick branch in his hand. In all his finery, his blue coat with gold buttons, Wema, the chief Jake had shown her, came up beside the brave, joined by two other Indians. How long ago had it been since Jake had pointed out the chief to them? It seemed like forever, but in actuality it had been only two days—two days in which the they had experienced a world of pain, loss, and suffering . . . and heroism, courage, and bravery. Now, what would happen with Wema? Dollie wondered. The chief, dignified and stoic, came forward. The brave, bending over Bitters, looked up at Wema. He said a word in his native language. "Dead," no doubt it meant. Wema nodded. "Why was he after you, this man?" Wema asked Dollie in English. "He kidnapped us." "Kidnapped?" he asked. "My brother and me . . . he stole us. He wanted Judge Hardgrove to pay him money and he would return us to him. But he was going to kill us, I know it." "You know Judge Hardgrove?" Wema asked. "He is our father." "You are Judge Hardgrove's children? He is a good man. A fair and just man." Dollie blushed as if she, herself, had been complimented. It was strange to hear her father spoken of as if he were some great figure, like President Fillmore. Dollie thought of him as warm, with a beard that tickled her ear when he lifted her onto his lap. "We will take you to our friend Judge Hardgrove," said Wema. "Dollie look at me!" shouted Edward, laughing and grinning. One of the braves had lifted the boy onto his shoulder. Holding Edward, he trotted up to the group. Edward beamed as they started down the trail. They went back to the chair. The Indians were not quite sure what it was, and they gathered around the tipped-over conveyance. Dollie righted the chair. She pushed it back and forth on its wheels. "See? You can sit in it, and another can push you." "I will sit in it," said Wema, solemnly. The rest of the group gasped as Wema sat in the high-backed chair. Dollie pushed him forward a few yards. For an instant he gripped the arms of the chair, then he relaxed. She wheeled him in a circle. She stopped and the Chief rotated the wheels himself. "It is a wagon without horses," he said. "I guess in a way it is," said Dollie. "You will push," he told one of his braves. To another, he said, "You will carry Judge Hardgrove's child." Dollie was lifted by a pair of strong and bronze arms onto a muscular shoulder. She was on level with Edward. "Go," Wema said, and the little group started off down the trail, the children on the shoulders of the Indians. Wema rode in the wheel chair, dignified and regal, as if it were a throne. Dollie glanced back only once to see the outlaw laying in the trees, hand thrown out, as if he were reaching for something he would never obtain. In slightly more than an hour, Dollie and Edward spotted the first buildings of Nevada City. When they reached the outskirts, a crowd began to gather quickly, curious to see two children being carried by Indians with the Chief being pushed in a wheelchair. By the time they reached the main street, a huge throng of prospectors, merchants, gamblers, saloon-keepers, ladies of pleasure, lawyers and a journalist or two, not to mention dozens of people whose occupations were unclassifiable, seethed around the group of Indians with the children. Like a parade, they made their way down the dusty street until finally a man in a black suit with glasses on his nose and a beard came into the street to see what all the ruckus was about. "Dollie!" he cried. "And Edward!" His voice was a mixture of pain and pleasure, shock and surprise, relief and joy. Dollie slid from the Indian's shoulder and ran to her father. Finally, she could cry. She could weep for Miss Wren who had died so bravely and for Jake who had died heroically just doing his job. She could cry for the bear that had almost killed them, she cried for Edward who had protected her through a long freezing night. Her father gathered her into his arms, and perhaps he was crying too. Lightly, his fingers touched the wounds on her face. He gathered Edward into his other arm, and as he held the two children he said, repeatedly, "I didn't think I would ever see you again, ever see you again." Turning to the Chief, he said, "Wema, how can I thank you?" "By giving me this chair," the Chief said. "It is yours," he told the Indian. "I'll have another made for you," he whispered to Edward. Wema nodded, satisfied with the hard bargain he had driven. Wema signaled to one of his men to push the wheelchair, then led his men out of the white man's city with no less pomp than Queen Victoria could have summoned, leading a procession through the streets of London. As for Dollie and Edward, they had quite a story to tell their father. In less than a month, rainy winter was upon Nevada City, but the story of the two children who had fought outlaws, bears, frost, rivers, and hunger enthralled the miners for many a cold and showery night. "Did you ever hear the story of . . . .?" |