Page 28 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
Virgil heard Nettie’s scream from the bottom of a gulley. He leaped onto a sluice box, kicking it over in his scramble to get up to even ground.
Owen galloped by, but Nettie was still screaming and Harley was wailing. Virgil ran harder than he ever had in his life, legs pumping, feet pounding. When he would have veered into the cabin for his gun, he heard Marigold’s bone-chilling scream and saw them falling into a huddle on the hillside above the cabin.
He ran up to them, thighs hot, lungs aching, barely able to gasp out, “What?” Harley lifted his arms so Virgil snatched him into his chest.
“Bear.” Marigold was shaking and white.
“Jesus.” He crouched and touched Nettie’s shoulder where she was clinging to Marigold. “You hurt? Let me see.”
“I’m okay.” Nettie stood to demonstrate.
Virgil reacted on instinct. He scooped her into his arms so tight he was liable to crush both of these tiny bodies to death if he wasn’t careful, but Jesus Christ. He’d seen a man mauled by a grizzly once, when he’d been in the army. It was horrifying.
“What the hell were you doing up there?” He glowered at Marigold, so scared for the bunch of them his guts hurt.
“Picking berries.” She was shakily trying to get to her feet.
“Why do you think they’re called bear berries?” he shouted. “You should have taken the gun. Or Levi, with the slingshot.” He stood, keeping both children in his arms. His muscles shook, but he couldn’t unlock his arms to let them go. “Pick near the Ute camp where the smoke from the fire keeps the animals away.Think, Marigold!”
“Well, I didn’t know, did I?” She brushed at the grass clinging to her dress and glared up at him through eyes that were teary with fear.
His old guilt of “should have been there” reared inside him, and his mouth filled with a sour taste of failure.
A rifle shot sounded above. They all looked up the hill.
There was a crash of dry branches, an angry whinny from the horse. Owen wasn’t taking time to reload. Virgil gathered himself, half expecting the animal to break from the trees and charge them.
“Get to the cabin,” he started to say, but there was another shot. The revolver.
A faint but triumphant, “Whoo-hoo!” echoed down to them.
“Hekilledit?” Marigold stacked her hands on her chest.
“I’ll go help him skin it.” Virgil stooped to set the children on their feet. His heart was still rolling like a paddlewheel. “You get back to the cabin.”
…
Two hours later, Virgil walked back to the cabin with the recovered pails, one half full of berries, the other holding Marigold’s apron.
Walker and Antelope had turned up to help skin the four-hundred-pound animal and get it down to Yeller for quartering and hanging. They had accepted the hide and a portion of meat in exchange.
All the miners would get a small cut for their pots tonight. Gristle would turn the rest into roasts, sausage, jerky, bear grease, and bone broth. Levi had claimed one of its biggest teeth.
Owen paced alongside Virgil. He was in high spirits, and Virgil had a feeling it came from more than making such a dangerous kill. Owen was anticipating a proper introduction to Marigold after catching a glimpse of her when he’d galloped by on his horse.
She was behind the cabin, dulling Virgil’s best knife by cutting handfuls of tall grass, leaving it in bunches to dry for Levi’s mattress, judging by the sacks on the logs.
“The infamous Mrs. Davis,” Owen said.
Marigold stiffened. Virgil snapped him a glare, but Owen wasn’t looking at him. He was watching Marigold straighten and turn and find a polite, but cool, smile.
Virgil switched his attention to watching her, maybe a little too closely. Women tended to appreciate the look of Owen’s sandy-blond hair and boyish grin and sky-blue eyes. He wasn’t as tall as Virgil, nor as broad across the shoulders. Today he had blood on his shirt and dirt on his knees, but he didn’t show his age as obviously as Virgil did, or have a nasty scar on his face from a saloon fight.
“Please call me Marigold.” Her features eased slightly as she recognized him. “Thank you for coming to our rescue, Mister…?”
“Stames. You can call me Owen.” He gave her an appreciative look that made Virgil want to elbow him in the ribs. With his pocketknife. “I wouldn’t have known you needed rescue if I hadn’t heard this one scream.”
Nettie was tossing a small sack of beans back and forth with Harley. Owen snagged it from the air and set it on Nettie’s head.
