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Authors: Peter Brown Hoffmeister
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older than I remembered.
He smiled when he saw me. “Did you like the job?”
“Yes,” I said, “and I met someone.” I’d decided to tell my parents right away. Not wait. I said, “A girl named Lucy.”
He turned his knife through the cedar at an eye, put pressure on the back of his knife with his thumb. A small chunk of bright came off. I could smell the sap.
He said, “So you like her?”
“Yes. We’re getting married.”
He stopped whittling. Butted the knife on his thigh, blade up.
I said, “Soon. At the end of this month.”
He wiped the splinters off his knees. Used his thumb to feel for burrs on the knife. “This month?”
“Yes.”
He said, “So you’re serious.”
“Yes,” I said.
He found a small burr and examined it. Took granite granules from next to his chair and set them on the sideways blade. Ran them across with a pressed thumb. He said, “And you’ve thought this through? Thought about everything?”
I saw a loose rock at the fire ring. I squatted to wedge it back in, took a smaller granite piece and puzzled it tight. I said, “No. I probably haven’t thought of everything.”
I looked at him and he raised his eyebrows. Still working that burr with the granules across his knife blade.
I said, “But I will.” I shimmed the loose rock with another flake. Wedged it tight. I said, “She and I will.”
My father popped the burr. Held up his blade and looked across. Popped again. Then he scraped the knife sideways on a block of wood to see for catch. He said, “So you’re willing to make a mistake.”
I found another loose rock in the fire ring and worked that one. Shimmed with flakes.
My mother returned to camp with full water buckets, looking too thin to carry the weight. She set the buckets down and hugged me. I could feel her ribs.
My father pointed his knife at me. He said, “Tenaya says he’s getting married.”
My mother’s fingers curled, made a fist. Her exhale sounded a note.
My father said, “This month.”
I hugged my mother and she gripped my back. I felt the ten points of her fingertips.
CHAPTER 4
This is how the war starts. Miners shoot a Miwok trapper in the back and call him a “brave.” They tell the newspaper that he’s been a horse-thief Indian
.
The next war party leaves the mangled bodies of Boden’s four companions, one of the men skinned alive. These are true stories, your history
.
The Miwoks are divided. Juarez and Jose Rey are preparing for war. Those leaders are in the mountains, waiting. Others are living in mining camps, forgetting former lives, their wives and children. Drinking whiskey in the daylight
.
During the militia’s first campaign into the mountains, twenty-two Indians are killed without a single death among the settlers. The soldiers light the wigwams with irons from the fire, and the panicked warriors run out without any organization. Jose Rey is one of the first to be shot down, and the soldiers believe he has died
.
The Yosemiti hear everything through runners. They hear that the ghosts will never come to the Valley, and they believe the story
.
Tenaya is up north in the high country. Watching past North Dome. He sees a great cloud come from the southwest and blow over Glacier Point, filling the U. It drops down and hangs like fog among the trees. But it is not fog
.
My father said, “It’s like 1850.”
“No. It isn’t,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “It is now. There are new things going on.”
I threw my water bottle on top of my day gear. Cinched my pack. Then I hiked out of camp.
• • •
The night of the mountain lion. Lion like winter storm, like the metal mirrors in the Camp 4 bathrooms, dull, reflecting, and scratched. Of the winter flood and flashes.
I took the path across Swinging Bridge. Saw the logjams left over from the swell in January when the Merced flowed a quarter-mile across, fifteen feet above the top of the bank. The bears come now to paw at the watermark, wondering
He smiled when he saw me. “Did you like the job?”
“Yes,” I said, “and I met someone.” I’d decided to tell my parents right away. Not wait. I said, “A girl named Lucy.”
He turned his knife through the cedar at an eye, put pressure on the back of his knife with his thumb. A small chunk of bright came off. I could smell the sap.
He said, “So you like her?”
“Yes. We’re getting married.”
He stopped whittling. Butted the knife on his thigh, blade up.
I said, “Soon. At the end of this month.”
He wiped the splinters off his knees. Used his thumb to feel for burrs on the knife. “This month?”
“Yes.”
He said, “So you’re serious.”
“Yes,” I said.
He found a small burr and examined it. Took granite granules from next to his chair and set them on the sideways blade. Ran them across with a pressed thumb. He said, “And you’ve thought this through? Thought about everything?”
I saw a loose rock at the fire ring. I squatted to wedge it back in, took a smaller granite piece and puzzled it tight. I said, “No. I probably haven’t thought of everything.”
I looked at him and he raised his eyebrows. Still working that burr with the granules across his knife blade.
I said, “But I will.” I shimmed the loose rock with another flake. Wedged it tight. I said, “She and I will.”
My father popped the burr. Held up his blade and looked across. Popped again. Then he scraped the knife sideways on a block of wood to see for catch. He said, “So you’re willing to make a mistake.”
I found another loose rock in the fire ring and worked that one. Shimmed with flakes.
My mother returned to camp with full water buckets, looking too thin to carry the weight. She set the buckets down and hugged me. I could feel her ribs.
My father pointed his knife at me. He said, “Tenaya says he’s getting married.”
My mother’s fingers curled, made a fist. Her exhale sounded a note.
My father said, “This month.”
I hugged my mother and she gripped my back. I felt the ten points of her fingertips.
CHAPTER 4
This is how the war starts. Miners shoot a Miwok trapper in the back and call him a “brave.” They tell the newspaper that he’s been a horse-thief Indian
.
The next war party leaves the mangled bodies of Boden’s four companions, one of the men skinned alive. These are true stories, your history
.
The Miwoks are divided. Juarez and Jose Rey are preparing for war. Those leaders are in the mountains, waiting. Others are living in mining camps, forgetting former lives, their wives and children. Drinking whiskey in the daylight
.
During the militia’s first campaign into the mountains, twenty-two Indians are killed without a single death among the settlers. The soldiers light the wigwams with irons from the fire, and the panicked warriors run out without any organization. Jose Rey is one of the first to be shot down, and the soldiers believe he has died
.
The Yosemiti hear everything through runners. They hear that the ghosts will never come to the Valley, and they believe the story
.
Tenaya is up north in the high country. Watching past North Dome. He sees a great cloud come from the southwest and blow over Glacier Point, filling the U. It drops down and hangs like fog among the trees. But it is not fog
.
My father said, “It’s like 1850.”
“No. It isn’t,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “It is now. There are new things going on.”
I threw my water bottle on top of my day gear. Cinched my pack. Then I hiked out of camp.
• • •
The night of the mountain lion. Lion like winter storm, like the metal mirrors in the Camp 4 bathrooms, dull, reflecting, and scratched. Of the winter flood and flashes.
I took the path across Swinging Bridge. Saw the logjams left over from the swell in January when the Merced flowed a quarter-mile across, fifteen feet above the top of the bank. The bears come now to paw at the watermark, wondering
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