Her smile falters, and she indicates a direction with a lift of her chin. “I think he has something you’ll want to see.”
I’m not sure what that means, but I nod acknowledgment and head off toward the outhouse.
Behind it is Jefferson, surrounded by a gaggle of braids and skirts, which is odd because the town girls—even the younger ones—usually avoid him. He stands at least a head above them all; tall enough so the hem of his pants sits high, revealing feet that are bare, even in winter— He must have outgrown his boots again. His face is framed by thick, black hair and a long, straight Cherokee nose he got from his mama. An old bruise yellows the sharp line of his cheekbone.
He sees me, and waves a bit of paper. He extricates himself from the girls and meets me halfway, at the entrance to the small white clapboard that serves as our schoolhouse. The girls eye me warily, but they don’t follow.
“It’s gold, Lee,” he blurts before I can open my mouth to ask. “Discovered in California.”
My stomach turns over hard. “You’re sure?”
He hands me a newspaper cutout. It’s already smudged from too many fingers, and it’s dated December 5, 1848—more than a month ago.
“President Polk announced it to Congress. So it has to be true.”
Thoughts and feelings tumble around too hard and fast for me to put a name to them. I sink down on to the slushy steps, not caring that my second-best skirt will get soaked, and I rub hard at my chin. Gold is everywhere. At least a little bit of it. How much gold would it take for the president to make a special announcement?
“Lee?” he says. “What are you thinking?” His usually serious eyes blaze with fever, a look I know all too well. A look that might be mirrored in my own eyes.
“I’m thinking you’re going to head west, along with this whole town.” That’s why everyone’s so somber. Dahlonega was built on a gold rush of its own, and every child for miles will understand that change is coming, whether they want it to or not.
He plunks down beside me, resting his forearms on skinny knees that practically reach his ears. “They’re saying the land over there is so lush with gold you can pluck it from the ground. Someone like me could . . .”
Silence stretches between us. He hates giving voice to the thing that hurts his heart most; he hardly even talks about it to me. Jefferson is the son of a mean Irish prospector and a sweet Cherokee mama who fled with her brothers ten years ago, when the Indians were sent to Oklahoma Territory. Not a soul in Dahlonega blamed her one bit, even though she left her boy with his good-for-nothing da.
So when Jefferson says “someone like me,” he means “a stupid, motherless Injun,” which is one of the dumber things people call Jefferson, if you ask me, because he’s the smartest boy I know.
“Daddy will want to go,” I whisper at last. And I want to go too, to be honest. Gold is in my blood, in my breath, even in the flecks of my eyes, and I love it the same way Jefferson’s da loves his moonshine.
But, Lord, I’m weary. Weary of trying to be as good to Daddy as three sons, weary of working as hard as any man, weary of the other girls scorning me. And I’m weary of bearing this troubled soul, of knowing things could go very badly if someone learned about my gold-witching ways. If we moved west, to a place where there was still gold to be had, it would start all over again, harder and more troublesome than before.
Then again, maybe California is a place where a witchy girl like me wouldn’t need an explanation for finding so much gold. Maybe it’s a place where we can finally be rich.
“Da will want to go,” Jefferson says. “But we don’t have enough money to put an outfit together. Look at this.”
He unfolds the newspaper, and the bottom of the article is a list of all the items a family needs to go west: four yoke of oxen, a wagon, a mule, rifles, pistols, five barrels of flour, four hundred pounds of bacon . . .
“That’d cost more than six hundred dollars,” I say.
“For a family of three, like yours. But even one person needs at least two hundred.” He shakes his head. “There’s got to be a different way.”
I know from his tone, as surely as I know Mama’s locket doesn’t contain a lick of brass, that Jefferson wants to go west more than anything. “You’re going to run away,” I say.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He scuffs his bare foot against the step, sending a wave of sludge over the edge. “I could take the sorrel mare. Hunt my way there. Or work for somebody else, taking care of their stock. It’s just that . . . It’s just . . .”
“Jeff?” I peer close to try to figure him. He has a wide mouth that jumps into a smile faster than lightning. But there’s nothing of smiling on his face right now.
“Remember the year the creek dried up, and we caught fifty tadpoles in the stagnant pool?” he says softly.
“Sure,” I say, though I have no idea why he’d bring it up. “I remember you dropping a handful down my blouse.”
“And I remember you screaming like a baby.”
I punch him in the shoulder.
He jerks backward, staring at me in mock disapproval. “Your punches didn’t used to hurt so much.”
“I like to get better at things.”
His gaze drifts far away. Rubbing absently at his shoulder, he says, “You’re my best friend, Lee.”
“I know.”
“We’re too old for school. I only come to see you.”
“I know.”
All at once he turns toward me and grasps my mittened hands in his bare ones. “Come west with me,” he blurts.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Marry me. Or . . . I mean . . . We could tell people we’re married. Brother and sister, maybe! Whatever you want. But you’re like me. With your daddy sick, I know it’s really you working that claim, same way I work Da’s. I know it’s your own two hands as built that place up.” His grip on my hands is so tight it’s almost unbearable. “This is our chance to make our own way. It’s only right that— Why are you shaking your head?”
His words brought a stab of hope so pure and quick it was like a spur in the side. But now I’ve a sorrow behind my eyes that wants to burst out, hot and wet. Jefferson is partly right: I’m the one who makes our claim work. He just doesn’t know how much.