Free Native Gold by Glynnis Campbell Page B

nearby stopped Mattie in her tracks. She gasped and wrapped her arms protectively about her. Something, some large wild animal, set the bushes aquiver as it made its escape. Her heart in her mouth, she staggered back toward the cabin, silently cursing herself for forgetting that she now lived in the wilderness.
    Panicked, she scanned the cabin’s interior for a defense of some sort. Her eyes alit at once on the rifle.
    It smelled of sweet oil, but the black steel felt cold, heavy, and forbidding in her hands. She didn’t like holding it, but she didn’t want to become some bear’s breakfast either. The beast might have run off, but it might be back, and by the looks of the thin cotton lining the window and the flimsy canvas frame door, getting inside the cabin would be the work of but one raking paw.
    Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her hands shook as she gingerly shifted the weapon in her arms, holding it as far away from her as possible.
    She didn’t want the animal cornering her in the house. The bed was too low to hide under, and there was only the one window. So she decided she’d stand guard on the porch.
    Warily she crept out the door, her eyes alert to any sudden movement from the meadow or the thick forest surrounding the cabin. She could hear her own pulse rushing through her ears.
    At first, every tiny sound made her jump—the robins fluttering in the trees, a bee making its morning rounds, a squirrel dropping a picked-over pine cone. Every flicker of a leaf in the morning sunlight, every turn of a sparrow’s wing, startled her. Her sweaty palms slicked her grip on the rifle, and she had to wipe them several times on her nightrail. Her toes curled anxiously on the pine boards. Time passed with agonizing sloth, and the gun grew heavier by the minute in her aching arms.
    Several long minutes later, fatigue finally made her relax her guard. Whatever the danger was, it seemed to be gone for good. Nothing but creatures of the small, harmless sort encroached on her parcel of land. A blue jay squawked from the low branch of a tall pine, mercilessly teasing one of those peculiar striped rodents that zigged and zagged over the roots of the tree. A pair of white butterflies made a tumbling flight toward a patch of wild sweetpeas. High against the rich blue sky, a bald black condor with outstretched wings coasted in patient circles.
    This land truly was a paradise. The air smelled sweet and clean, of fir and young grass, bay and wild mustard, and the landscape was alive with color. Dewfall painted the earth brick red, and every shade of green from light apple to deep moss colored the vegetation. The iridescent wings of the jay echoed the sky’s azure hue, and a full palette of yellows and whites, purples and oranges, dotted the clearing on the petals of wildflowers strewn across the emerald carpet.
    Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered that she had to get dressed, that she had to prepare for church, that she had to—dear Lord—bury her husband-to-be. But the land beckoned her with its loveliness, and all she could think about was sketching. The world blossomed before her. She had to capture it, quickly, before the moment vanished.
    Swinging the rifle one last precautionary time along the perimeter of her clearing, she turned a deaf ear to the call of responsibility and propriety. And for one foolish instant, she forgot about Mother Nature’s dangerous face.

Chapter 5
     

     
    Sakote had almost finished the arrowhead. Translucent flakes of obsidian made a small pile between his doubled knees, and when the stone knife chipped away a few more, the sharp point would be complete.
    The women of the village were up, making small cooking fires for acorn mush and chatting softly. Their talk didn’t disturb him. It was part of the Konkow music, as much a part of the morning as the song of the cheeztahtah— the robin, or the hum of the honeybees.
    One slender flake dropped to the ground as Sakote