Free Native Gold by Glynnis Campbell Page A

Fortunately, the next match devoured the first piece greedily and even sampled the kindling as a second course. But its interest soon waned, and only by sheer desperation and begging and blowing upon the foundering embers did Mattie encourage the fire to revive.
    It didn’t last long. A kettle of water would never have boiled over the meager heat, and she doubted the little animal she’d found inside could have even warmed his toes by the flame. But she’d done it. She’d started a fire by herself. And for some reason, that was important. It meant she could survive here. She might not know how to shoot a rifle or pan for gold or even cook herself a proper meal yet. But she could learn. She had to.
    Mattie shook out the bedroll as the fire died down, and thankfully, no small mammals issued forth. She changed out of her traveling clothes, laying them out across the cloth-covered table, unpinned her hair, and slipped on her white cotton nightrail. The blanket seemed clean, if not terribly warm, and even though the cot was a poor substitute for the downy mattress she was used to, it was comfortable enough to entice her to skip supper in favor of a long and deep slumber.
    While she slept, she dreamed.
    She was drawing. In the forest, by the light of the full moon, she sketched a shadowy figure, a man. Her hand recreated his contours with strong, angular strokes. She peered into the wood, trying to get a better glimpse at what she was drawing, but her subject kept vanishing, and the image on the paper remained unclear. She felt she must finish the drawing—was obsessed with it—and yet she was unable to do so.
    The next thing Mattie knew, she was waking to the sound of urgent knocking upon her door. The buttery hue of the room told her morning had arrived.
    "One moment," she called out, her voice scratchy from sleep.
    Having packed no wrapper, she swept the woolen blanket about her.
    The rapid knocking resumed.
    "Just a moment," she repeated, raking her hair back from her face in some semblance of civility.
    The knocking continued relentlessly.
    "Good heavens," Mattie muttered under her breath, shuffling toward the door.
    She wrenched the door open, letting in a blinding stream of light, and peered out in time to see a red and black bird flit from the house to the side of a nearby pine. But no one was on the porch. Puzzled by the disappearance of her guest, she watched the little red-crested bird. For a moment it hopped along, clinging vertically to the trunk. Then it reared back its head and began pecking furiously at the bark.
    Mattie chuckled. There was her knocking visitor.
    It wasn’t alone in the tree. Above the bird, circling mischievously, scampered a fat gray squirrel. He twitched his tail, teasing the bird, then retreated into the needles of the pine.
    Mattie stepped onto the cold planking of the porch in her bare feet and took a deep breath. The air was just beginning to warm, perfumed with the scent of wildflowers and evergreens. The first insects buzzed in patches of sunlight, and dew glistened on the shaded grasses. The sky was clear and as bright blue as the lupines she’d spotted along the mule trail. It was a glorious morning.
    Impetuously, Mattie tossed off the blanket and walked out into a pool of sunshine. After all, for all intents and purposes, she was alone. The grassy dirt was soft beneath her feet, and the sensation of the sun filtering through her thin nightrail felt sinfully good. She closed her eyes, and the sun washed her vision orange. A delicate breeze rustled the pines all around her and played with tendrils of her hair, tickling her cheek. She smiled and lifted her arms above her head, luxuriating in a huge, self-indulgent yawn of which society would never approve.
    Then she began to twirl, humming happily the tune she’d learned on the Sacramento riverboat, "Sweet Betsy from Pike," whirling till her gown floated like a great white camellia about her.
    A sudden violent rattling of the brush