{"product_id":"crown-of-dust-isbn-9781569479865","title":"Crown of Dust","description":"The gold rush has taken hold of the Wild West. Pioneers from around the country congregate in makeshift settlements like Motherlode in hopes of striking it rich. It’s here that Alex, disguised as a boy and on the run from her troubled past, is able to blend in among the rough and tumble prospectors living on little more than adrenaline and moonshine. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWord spreads quickly when Alex becomes the first in Motherlode to strike gold. Outsiders pour in from wealthy east coast cities, primed to cash in on the discovery. But these opportunists from the outside world have no place in Motherlode and threaten to rip the town—and its residents—apart. Alex must fight to protect her buried secrets—and her life. And against the odds, it’s here, in this lawless outpost, that Alex is finally able to find friendship, redemption, and even love.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eCrown of Dust\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“There are subliminal echoes of L. Frank Baum in Volmer’s mythmaking . . . But Volmer keeps whimsy in check with a terse present-tense voice that invests her pioneers piquant inner lives and a poker-faced lyricism.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Carefully researched and meticulously imagined. Volmer has written a new story of the California gold rush that is as believable and transporting as any I have ever read . . . Volmer’s characters are wonderful and the story is tense and engaging. A wonderful read.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Karen Joy Fowler, author of \u003ci\u003eWe Are All Completely Beside Ourselves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Any illusions about the glamour of digging for gold are totally  shattered by Mary Volmer's \u003ci\u003eCrown of Dust\u003c\/i\u003e, a grim and carefully  researched book about the California gold rush . . . Volmer, in her  remarkable first novel, has re-created the reality of an era that few  can even visualize now.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mary Volmer possesses such fierce powers of description, I could almost feel the dust of Motherlode clinging to the hem of my skirt. In \u003ci\u003eCrown of Dust\u003c\/i\u003e, Volmer has created an intensely physical and utterly enjoyable novel, filled with unforgettable characters.\" \u003cb\u003e—Michelle Richmond, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Year of Fog\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Volmer’s distinctive, beautifully written debut is set in the California gold rush country in the mid-19th century . . . [her] prose is taut and restrained, moving the story along at a healthy clip as her hardscrabble characters rumble and stumble through their dusty domain. Volmer’s found a fat vein of gold in some heavily mined territory.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e Starred Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Volmer paints a moving portrait of outcasts and nonconformists who build their own community . . . evocative historical background and thoughtful social observation make this a promising debut.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Volmer’s colorful debut is in many ways a typical Western, heavy on action and subplots involving miners, unions, and strikes . . . fresh and different.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Volmer’s first novel is a pleasant effort . . . She captures the authenticity of place and the spirit of the period through the greed, exhilaration, disappointment and hope of the characters.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eMary Volmer was born in Grass Valley, California, and now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Saint Mary’s College and master’s degree from the University of Wales, Aberystwyth, where she was a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar. She has been awarded residencies at the Vermont Studio Center and Hedgebrook and now teaches at Saint Mary’s College. She is also the author of \u003ci\u003eReliance, Illinois\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cp\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Emaline searches the sky for storm clouds from the doorway\u003cbr\u003e of the Victoria Inn. The man snoring at her feet grunts,\u003cbr\u003e rolls over, and curls himself around an upturned bottle of\u003cbr\u003e whiskey. She picks up her skirt, steps over him onto the\u003cbr\u003e porch. Can’t predict the weather this time of year. Fools\u003cbr\u003e even the wild flowers. Mistake three days of sunshine for\u003cbr\u003e the start of May when one hard freeze will snap the petals\u003cbr\u003e right off and kill the early batch of mosquitoes already\u003cbr\u003e swarming.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Across the road, the chapel’s canvas roof sags like wet\u003cbr\u003e clothes on a line. It won’t take another snow like the last.\u003cbr\u003e Klein promised to fix the damn thing, but he’s probably knee\u003cbr\u003e deep in the creek with the rest of them. It’s no wonder nobody\u003cbr\u003e in these parts has struck pay dirt yet, what with their canvas\u003cbr\u003e tents and frame cabins so easy to desert. Why would the earth\u003cbr\u003e give up its gold just to be abandoned on rumor of another\u003cbr\u003e strike? The soil is a shrewd old whore and has learned better\u003cbr\u003e than to give her gold for free.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A person should have a solid foundation, Emaline always\u003cbr\u003e says, some sort of permanence in her life, a place for luck to\u003cbr\u003e grow. That’s why she’s insisting on having the chapel finished.\u003cbr\u003e Nothing establishes a place like inviting God to stay. She\u003cbr\u003e imagines a tidy steeple with a sensible wooden cross, a simple\u003cbr\u003e oak pulpit and rows of sober pews. No stained glass. No\u003cbr\u003e gaudy ornamentation. Save that for the Baptists who mistake\u003cbr\u003e the sound of their own voices for the word of God. Behind\u003cbr\u003e the chapel she pictures a cemetery with graves surrounded\u003cbr\u003e by white picket fences to keep souls from drifting. Emaline\u003cbr\u003e is tired of drifting. That’s how she thinks of it; not pioneering,\u003cbr\u003e certainly not running, but drifting. True, Motherlode isn’t\u003cbr\u003e much to look at. Not yet. But she has a feeling about the\u003cbr\u003e place; call it intuition.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The ravine walls stand at attention on either side of her\u003cbr\u003e valley and the cedars that brush the rim are a feathered fringe\u003cbr\u003e in the glare of the afternoon sun. A movement up the road\u003cbr\u003e catches her eye. She squints to see better.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Preacher,” she says. The man at her feet grunts but doesn’t\u003cbr\u003e move. Emaline nudges him with her toe. “John.” She kicks\u003cbr\u003e him harder. Another grunt. “Goddamnit, John! Wake your\u003cbr\u003e sorry ass up and look down the road.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She reaches under him with her toe, lifts with all her might,\u003cbr\u003e and John rolls sideways down the steps to land in a stupor\u003cbr\u003e at the bottom. A stocky black man steps out of the building\u003cbr\u003e behind her and stares in the direction of Emaline’s gaze.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “T’ain’t no one but Randall, missus. And his mule.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I can see who it is, Jed.” But her shoulders slump and\u003cbr\u003e she lets out a breath, slowly, hoping Jed won’t notice. “And\u003cbr\u003e don’t be calling me no missus.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Jed crosses his arms in front of him and places his hand\u003cbr\u003e to his chin, a common posture for him. It’s hard to tell whether\u003cbr\u003e he’s deep in thought or simply hiding a smile. Emaline sits\u003cbr\u003e down, knees apart on the steps above Preacher John and\u003cbr\u003e glares back at Jed.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Whatever you say, Miss Emaline,” he says, retreating into\u003cbr\u003e the building just as another, smaller figure appears around\u003cbr\u003e the mass of manzanita marking the edge of Motherlode.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e * * *\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Randall, I tell you,” says Emaline, “if God ordered wine on\u003cbr\u003e Sunday you’d bring it a week later Monday.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Now, Emaline,” says the muleteer. His beard hangs to his\u003cbr\u003e waist and the tobacco stain blooming about his lips is the\u003cbr\u003e only way she can locate exactly where the whiskers end and\u003cbr\u003e his mouth begins. “You know I can’t make the wagon come.\u003cbr\u003e Sacramento ain’t no closer now than it were a year ago – ’less\u003cbr\u003e you want me to come without the molasses and the mail.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Preacher John moans at her feet. She nudges him with her\u003cbr\u003e toe for no other reason than to remind him she’s here. Sober\u003cbr\u003e on Sundays, he’d said. At least he’s that, sober on Sundays.\u003cbr\u003e She shakes her head and is happy to let Randall believe this\u003cbr\u003e gesture is meant for him. She heaves herself from the steps\u003cbr\u003e and Randall stumbles back, regains himself. The mule behind\u003cbr\u003e haws its pleasure, or displeasure – hard to tell with mules –\u003cbr\u003e and the sound ricochets off the ravine walls and falls below\u003cbr\u003e the squawk of the scrub jays.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Dangerous work I’m doing,” says Randall. He rubs his\u003cbr\u003e toe in the dirt. He spits. The mule brays again, louder this\u003cbr\u003e time. “Man’s – A man’s gotta be careful, take his time.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Careful? How much time you lose playing five-card\u003cbr\u003e between Sac’ town and Grass Valley?” She’s yelling now above\u003cbr\u003e the mule and she can see its ears rotating, its neck straining\u003cbr\u003e to look behind.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Ah hell, Emaline.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Ah hell, nothin’ . . .” Her voice trails off. She pinches her\u003cbr\u003e eyes to slits, thrusts her neck forward to see what the mule sees.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Who are you?” Emaline says. The mule goes quiet.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The stranger shifts under his load, pulls his duster hat low\u003cbr\u003e as if he could hide there beneath it, as if my piss-poor eyes\u003cbr\u003e can see anything but his shape anyway, she thinks. She can\u003cbr\u003e see that he’s small. Narrow shoulders, his pack just about as\u003cbr\u003e wide as his whole back, his trousers and flannel draping over\u003cbr\u003e him like they have only bone to cling to. She’s known too\u003cbr\u003e many men to judge this one’s threat by his size.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Randall?” she asks.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hell if I know.” He shrugs, but seems content that he is\u003cbr\u003e no longer her focus.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The mule’s ears rotate as if it too is waiting for a response,\u003cbr\u003e and the stranger seems to shrink down inside of himself in\u003cbr\u003e a way that raises the hairs on the back of Emaline’s neck.\u003cbr\u003e The mule shifts its weight foot to foot, shakes its halter.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I’m talking to you! Who are you?” Emaline charges\u003cbr\u003e forward and the mule rears its ornery self, eyes wild as if\u003cbr\u003e she’d struck the damn thing. Packages jar from the animal’s\u003cbr\u003e back and slap the ground. Some burst open and precious\u003cbr\u003e flour thickens the air and powders the red mud of the road.\u003cbr\u003e Randall’s beard trails behind him as he hustles after the frenzied\u003cbr\u003e animal, tripping in a wake of pinto beans and hollering,\u003cbr\u003e “Goddamn you, Contrary Julie!” Red-speckled hens poke\u003cbr\u003e their heads round the side of the inn, pick up their skirts and\u003cbr\u003e run toward the mess of oats and beans. Scrub jays descend\u003cbr\u003e in blue streaks to scold and scratch. Emaline bustles about\u003cbr\u003e the muddy road, shooing chickens, flailing at jays, salvaging\u003cbr\u003e what she can: a sack of potatoes, a side of salt pork. By the\u003cbr\u003e time she charges back to the stranger she’s sweated clean\u003cbr\u003e through her dress. At least, she thinks, catching her breath,\u003cbr\u003e at least he’s seen fit to pick up a sack of flour. He holds it\u003cbr\u003e there like a shield between them.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I suppose you can pay for these goods?” No response.\u003cbr\u003e Up the road, beyond the grove of manzanita, the echoes of\u003cbr\u003e a braying mule and a swearing man do battle. “I don’t take\u003cbr\u003e credit nor scrip, and – Look at me.” Small black eyes peek\u003cbr\u003e out beneath the duster hat. “And I ain’t here to nursemaid\u003cbr\u003e no runaway mamma’s boy. Your name, if you got one?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But his mouth pops closed. Flour sifts from his shoulders\u003cbr\u003e as he rummages in a small pouch at his waist.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Alex?” he says, but it sounds like a question, a question\u003cbr\u003e she forgets when he holds out what looks to be a gold coin,\u003cbr\u003e San Francisco mint – double eagle, no less. The potatoes thump\u003cbr\u003e to the ground. She snatches the coin. Such a pleasing weight,\u003cbr\u003e twenty dollars. She gives it a bite, finds herself softening.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Well, Alex,” she says, placing the coin in her dress pocket,\u003cbr\u003e patting it twice, “you got the voice of a choirboy.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Haven’t got a sign up yet,” says the woman, closing the\u003cbr\u003e door firmly behind her. Her voice fills every inch of space\u003cbr\u003e her body leaves open and she moves with an agility surprising\u003cbr\u003e and a little frightening in such a large woman. “But that’s\u003cbr\u003e what I call her – the Victoria Inn.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She thumps the pork and potatoes on a plank table, or\u003cbr\u003e rather a series of tables held as one by a grubby cloth. Alex\u003cbr\u003e follows suit with the sack of flour and a puff of white escapes.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Victoria, like the Queen,” the woman says. She dusts her\u003cbr\u003e hands on her apron and motions with her head to the waterstained\u003cbr\u003e portrait of a crowned woman on the opposite wall.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Two windows of distorting mason glass offer the only light\u003cbr\u003e in the room and the painting’s features are indistinct. The\u003cbr\u003e face of a youthful older woman, Alex thinks, or an aged\u003cbr\u003e young woman, with round cheeks to match her chin.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A ramshackle bar traverses one corner and three-legged\u003cbr\u003e stools are scattered about. It smells of alcohol, yeast and\u003cbr\u003e strong burned coffee, and Alex’s stomach grumbles with\u003cbr\u003e hunger, clearly not the response the woman is waiting for.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Emaline puffs a curl from her eyes. It catches in the frizzy\u003cbr\u003e halo framing her angular face. She turns on her heel and\u003cbr\u003e charges up the stairwell into a shaft of hallway light without\u003cbr\u003e pausing to see if Alex follows. She stops by one of eight\u003cbr\u003e doors in the narrow corridor, her hand on the latch, and\u003cbr\u003e squints in the same probing manner she used on the muleteer,\u003cbr\u003e the scowl on her face made deeper by crease lines like\u003cbr\u003e poorly healed scars.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alex pulls the duster hat low, makes an effort to look aloof,\u003cbr\u003e would have spit as the muleteer had done if they hadn’t been\u003cbr\u003e inside.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e No one, yet, has taken her for a girl. No one, yet, has\u003cbr\u003e looked this closely.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You’re from where, you say?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alex hadn’t said, and is so relieved by the question she\u003cbr\u003e fails to answer.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “That’s a question,” says the woman.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Pennsylvania.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Don’t talk much, do you?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alone in the room, the darkness is complete and endless,\u003cbr\u003e even as Alex feels the closeness of the walls, the low ceiling.\u003cbr\u003e Little by little her eyes adjust and the corners of the room\u003cbr\u003e take shape. The bed smells sharply of cedar. The only other\u003cbr\u003e furniture is a three-legged stool resting at a slant on the\u003cbr\u003e uneven floorboards. There is no window, no need for\u003cbr\u003e curtains; a single candle burned nearly to the nub sits on\u003cbr\u003e the floor by the bed. The woman’s heavy steps descend the\u003cbr\u003e stairs. Victoria, like the Queen, Alex thinks, and sees again\u003cbr\u003e the whitewash peeling down the inn’s face, the unpainted\u003cbr\u003e balusters, the ornamental balcony propped precariously over\u003cbr\u003e the porch. She eases down to draw a line in the dust with\u003cbr\u003e her finger. A few days is all she needs, to rest, to think.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e How far had she come since stepping off the steamer into\u003cbr\u003e the frenzied chaos of the Marysville docks? Was it only three\u003cbr\u003e days ago that she’d stood there on the river bank amid that\u003cbr\u003e sea of canvas sacks, barrels and boxes? Delicate chairs, end\u003cbr\u003e tables and bookshelves looked out of place perched alongside\u003cbr\u003e kegs of black powder, stacks of picks and shovels, piles\u003cbr\u003e of hydraulic tubing coiled like earthworms. Alex pulled her\u003cbr\u003e duster hat low, avoiding the eyes of the men scurrying back\u003cbr\u003e and forth, hauling skeins of fabric and barrels of whiskey.\u003cbr\u003e She wanted to be back on the boat, surrounded by the hissing\u003cbr\u003e blast of steam and the clank of pistons, away from cursing\u003cbr\u003e muleteers and braying donkeys and important-looking men\u003cbr\u003e dressed in black. But after Marysville the river split in two,\u003cbr\u003e the Feather shooting north, the Yuba branching east, both\u003cbr\u003e too rough for riverboats.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alex followed the Yuba because it sounded foreign and far\u003cbr\u003e away from San Francisco, because those men she had seen\u003cbr\u003e on the boat – lawmen, perhaps, with their trimmed mustaches,\u003cbr\u003e their pressed black trousers – were heading north. She’d joined\u003cbr\u003e the line of wagons rolling east, kept her head low, spoken to\u003cbr\u003e no one, and stopped briefly at a shanty store on the edge of\u003cbr\u003e town. It was here she’d learned of her need for boots.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Best there is,” the merchant claimed, stroking the blackened\u003cbr\u003e leather with an arm that ended in a rounded stump of\u003cbr\u003e flesh. As he spoke, he gestured with the arm, as if forgetting\u003cbr\u003e his fingers were gone. “Made special for a colonel. Small\u003cbr\u003e man – they all are. Killed by Comanche, ’fending women and\u003cbr\u003e children. For you, forty dollars. Boy don’t deserve boots like\u003cbr\u003e this. A man’s boots. War hero’s . . .”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Gaps in the wall behind him let in streamers of light and\u003cbr\u003e the roof shuddered with every gust of wind.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The hell kinda shoes are those? You steal ’em off your\u003cbr\u003e mama’s feet? Won’t last the week. Not half a week,” said the\u003cbr\u003e merchant. His cackle turned to a cough. Alex stepped back.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Wait now, thirty dollars then,” said the man. “Can’t\u003cbr\u003e believe I’m saying it – three kids and a wife back home . . .”\u003cbr\u003e He bowed his head, rubbed his salt-and-pepper beard with\u003cbr\u003e his good hand. “Should just save ’em for my son, but with\u003cbr\u003e his one leg, won’t do much good, see.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alex said nothing, fearing the high pitch of her voice. She\u003cbr\u003e shook her head no, turned to leave.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Goddamn! Goddamn, twenty dollars,” said the merchant,\u003cbr\u003e dangling the boots from his stump by the laces.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She had rested in thickets, when she rested at all, and\u003cbr\u003e followed the twisted path of the Yuba to Rough and Ready,\u003cbr\u003e a town whose citizens had looked both rough and ready for\u003cbr\u003e all manner of mischief, staring openly at any passers-by as\u003cbr\u003e if assessing their worth. Here she bought a loaf of bread\u003cbr\u003e and a gold pan from what could have been the same grizzled\u003cbr\u003e merchant, apart from the missing arm. She put the\u003cbr\u003e bread in her pack and the pan under her arm as if it strengthened\u003cbr\u003e her disguise, as if gold had been the reason she’d come\u003cbr\u003e to California, as if, when she turned off on to a narrow\u003cbr\u003e road to the northeast, she was confident of a destination.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The land became steeper, the earth darkened to an iron\u003cbr\u003e red. Lonely scrub oaks in tall grass had long since given way\u003cbr\u003e to ferns and evergreens; the towering pines pinched off the\u003cbr\u003e sky and on the crest of every hill she found the gleaming\u003cbr\u003e teeth of the Sierra Nevadas growing larger, more menacing.\u003cbr\u003e By the time the trail split again – one tail coiling its way\u003cbr\u003e toward those mountains, the other dipping down into a\u003cbr\u003e valley – her legs were quivering protest with every step, her\u003cbr\u003e feet throbbed, her shoulders ached. All of her bread was eaten,\u003cbr\u003e her canteen empty, and the coil of smoke snaking its way\u003cbr\u003e from the valley floor called to her above the distant murmur\u003cbr\u003e of running water and the coughing protest of a donkey.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The gold pan in her pack clangs against the floor as she sits.\u003cbr\u003e She frees herself from the straps, rolls her shoulders front to\u003cbr\u003e back. Her leg muscles have already begun to tighten, but her\u003cbr\u003e body feels numb, distant – as foreign as the river she’d\u003cbr\u003e followed. She pulls her shirtsleeves to her elbows, straightens\u003cbr\u003e her arms in front of her to find the bruises there mere smudges\u003cbr\u003e in the dim light. As if a bit of soap and water could wash\u003cbr\u003e them clean, she thinks, but she doesn’t touch them. She doesn’t\u003cbr\u003e touch the knots on her lower back or just below her collarbone.\u003cbr\u003e She can feel her heartbeat pounding in the blisters on\u003cbr\u003e her feet. She loosens her bootlaces, peels away the woolen\u003cbr\u003e sock. The skin of her heel is pregnant with white fluid, but\u003cbr\u003e disappointingly intact. She wants blood, proof of pain.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Below, a door opens and closes, and male voices seep\u003cbr\u003e through the floorboards.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Alex,” she says to herself. The voice of a choirboy. She\u003cbr\u003e pulls her chin into her neck, scrunching her vocal cords.\u003cbr\u003e “Alex,” she says again, and is still practicing when a black\u003cbr\u003e man sticks his head through the door.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You don’t come now, it’ll be gone. They ain’t fixin’ to\u003cbr\u003e wait for you.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Downstairs, she finds herself trapped by the eyes of eight men\u003cbr\u003e hunched around the plank table, their expressions masked by\u003cbr\u003e facial hair and layers of dirt. The black man sits down opposite\u003cbr\u003e the head, but no one seems the least surprised by his boldness.\u003cbr\u003e The only sound is heavy breathing and the silence pricks\u003cbr\u003e the hairs on her arms. She tries to sit and finds a muddy boot\u003cbr\u003e planted on the only unoccupied stool. The owner’s beard is\u003cbr\u003e yellow and a twisted smirk reveals teeth of the same color.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A giant oak of a man to Muddy Boots’s right lets out a\u003cbr\u003e long curving whistle that rises upward to the low-beam ceiling\u003cbr\u003e and spills in a puddle on the floor. The kitchen door bangs\u003cbr\u003e open and the woman bustles through with a large iron pot.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Look out,” she says, brushing Alex aside, and slams the\u003cbr\u003e pot on the table. Muddy Boots moves his feet.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “You need an invitation?” she asks. Alex sits, feels her cheeks\u003cbr\u003e flush hot.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “All right, Preacher,” says the woman.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Dearly Beloved,” says a dark-haired man with just a hint\u003cbr\u003e of whiskey in his voice. He stands, as if it just occurred to\u003cbr\u003e him to do so, and runs his hands up and down his flannel.\u003cbr\u003e His eyeballs search for words beneath his lids and his hands\u003cbr\u003e clasp so tightly his knuckles show white. “We are gathered\u003cbr\u003e here today, Lord, to thank you for your wondrous bounty.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “’Cept when it comes to gold,” says a baritone to Alex’s\u003cbr\u003e right; the whistler, she thinks. A low chuckle catches, then\u003cbr\u003e dies. She bows her head, but lets her eyes dart to the pot\u003cbr\u003e mid-table. A large round loaf of bread sweats under a cloth\u003cbr\u003e and she begs her stomach silent.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And lead us not into temptation, Lord. No, lead us far\u003cbr\u003e from temptation, our Father who art in heaven. We hallow\u003cbr\u003e thy name, giving glory, Lord. Thanks for health, we ask for\u003cbr\u003e wealth. Hallelujah, let’s eat.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Preacher’s plate is half empty before Alex is allowed to\u003cbr\u003e scrape the bottom of the iron pot for the last chunks of\u003cbr\u003e rabbit stew. What bread there was has already been\u003cbr\u003e snatched.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Don’t get used to it, boys,” says Emaline. Her tone is\u003cbr\u003e thick with disappointment, and men pause mid-chew to listen.\u003cbr\u003e “Be cinching our belts by the end of the week, thanks to our\u003cbr\u003e new friend here.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The serving spoon and nine faces point in Alex’s direction.\u003cbr\u003e Alex looks down at her plate. Alex chews. She has to tell\u003cbr\u003e herself to do these things.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “But damned if he ain’t offered to buy drinks all round to\u003cbr\u003e make up for it!”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Attaboy, son,” says the baritone and slaps her on the\u003cbr\u003e back, propelling the chunk of rabbit meat across the table\u003cbr\u003e and into the bowl of a beardless man with expressionless\u003cbr\u003e gray eyes. A drooping auburn mustache curtains his thin lips\u003cbr\u003e and frames his cleft chin.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “No forgiveness like whiskey. Ain’t that right, Preacher?”\u003cbr\u003e The baritone stands, nearly brushing his head on the crossbeam.\u003cbr\u003e A grin fills his face. Alex flinches, afraid there’s another\u003cbr\u003e slap coming, good natured though the first one seemed. The\u003cbr\u003e mustache man fishes with both fingers for Alex’s meat in his\u003cbr\u003e stew. His eyes flit to Alex and away.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” the baritone\u003cbr\u003e says. “Mighty hard to be polite on an empty stomach,\u003cbr\u003e you know. No excuse, mind you, but the truth. I ’spect you\u003cbr\u003e met Preacher John yonder, but don’t ask him to remember\u003cbr\u003e it. The one-eyed fella next to you is Micah Daniels, also a\u003cbr\u003e resident here at the Victoria. Owns a sore excuse for a general\u003cbr\u003e store and assay office just down the walk. Claims he can\u003cbr\u003e figure fine, but you watch him careful when he’s weighing\u003cbr\u003e your gold. Been known to lighten the load some, yah know\u003cbr\u003e what I mean, and grows his fingernails long enough to get\u003cbr\u003e two dollars in one pinch of gold dust.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Harry Reynolds there lives in the first cabin as you come\u003cbr\u003e into town, along with good Mr. Fred Henderson, selfproclaimed\u003cbr\u003e expert on rocks, animals, plants and all things\u003cbr\u003e natural. Next to him is our German friend Klein, master\u003cbr\u003e builder and jack-of-all-trades – when he feels like doing ’em.\u003cbr\u003e Got no other name, so don’t go asking him. Just Klein. You\u003cbr\u003e met Jed –” he nods to the black man – “and Emaline; Miss\u003cbr\u003e Emaline, if you know what’s good for you.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “My name is Samson Limpkin, but most call me Limpy\u003cbr\u003e on account of, well, let’s say a crooked limb. And the man\u003cbr\u003e you so graciously shared your stew with –” he nods to the\u003cbr\u003e mustache man – “is my cousin, David Trellona, fresh out of\u003cbr\u003e Cornwall and thinkin’ he knows more about mining than\u003cbr\u003e those Empire folks over in Grass Valley. Why work like a\u003cbr\u003e dog for some other man? Aye, Dave. Why indeed?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Limpy takes a swig from his cup, wipes his mouth with\u003cbr\u003e the back of his hand, and with the same hand points at\u003cbr\u003e Muddy Boots, still bent over his bowl as if intent on\u003cbr\u003e ignoring him.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And that there is John Thomas. Not much on manners,\u003cbr\u003e but . . . well, not much on anything.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Damn you, Limpy,” says Muddy Boots, his mouth full of\u003cbr\u003e food.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alex can feel the big man’s breath down her neck. He pulls\u003cbr\u003e a gold pouch from his pocket, holds it like an egg in the palm\u003cbr\u003e of his hand.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And you are . . . ?” Limpy asks.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The curve of Emaline’s brow, the curl of her lips, tells Alex\u003cbr\u003e these men know very well the name she gave.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A simple question, son,” says Limpy. “Name?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Men lean forward, listening, and names and faces swim as\u003cbr\u003e mismatched pairs through Alex’s mind. She pulls her head\u003cbr\u003e into her neck, says as deeply as she can manage:\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Alex.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hah!” says Limpy, his paw slamming down again, this\u003cbr\u003e time square on her back, forcing all the air from her chest.\u003cbr\u003e “Eighteen, my ass. Who said eighteen? John Thomas, trying\u003cbr\u003e to hide? Alex what?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Shee-it,” says Micah, thumping a small pouch of gold on\u003cbr\u003e the table and giving Alex a close look at the concave indention\u003cbr\u003e of skin where his left eye should be.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Why thank you, Micah. Alex what?” Limpy asks again.\u003cbr\u003e Outside, a scrub jay screams the sun down.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Ford?” Alex says, hearing the doubt in her own voice.\u003cbr\u003e Emaline’s arms cross before her and her eyes narrow to slits,\u003cbr\u003e but Limpy doesn’t seem to notice.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Alex Ford,” he says. “Solid name. No more than sixteen,\u003cbr\u003e if that. Pay up.” Leather pouches thump on the table. “Pay\u003cbr\u003e up, John Thomas,” says Limpy.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Now just hold on a goddamn minute,” John Thomas says,\u003cbr\u003e his fair skin turning the red of Micah’s empty eye socket. “I’ll\u003cbr\u003e pay you later.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “My ass.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hell yes, your ass – you calling me a liar?”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Both of you better sit yourselves right back down,” says\u003cbr\u003e Emaline, barely raising her voice. “Y’all know I don’t permit\u003cbr\u003e no gambling at the dinner table. And you, Alex –” the serving\u003cbr\u003e spoon again jabs her direction – “finish up so I can get to\u003cbr\u003e getting done with dinner.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e With the plank tables separated, the room feels smaller,\u003cbr\u003e cluttered. The ramshackle bar at the far end of the room\u003cbr\u003e now dominates, the counter lined with tin cups and a few\u003cbr\u003e glass canning jars, and now the elbows of Limpy and the\u003cbr\u003e one-eyed Micah. Bloated whiskey jugs on shelves behind\u003cbr\u003e the bar are blurred in the orange lamplight and look, to\u003cbr\u003e Alex, like a row of rotund women. Several card games\u003cbr\u003e are already in progress when Alex eases her way up the\u003cbr\u003e stairs.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hey,” says Emaline, pushing through the kitchen door.\u003cbr\u003e She thumps a stool down next to her own. “Stick a while.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e And something, the weight of her filling that doorway,\u003cbr\u003e or the calm authority in her voice, triggers an old habit of\u003cbr\u003e obedience. Alex sits, but remains above on the stairwell with\u003cbr\u003e her chin tucked into her knees. She hadn’t liked the suspicious\u003cbr\u003e glances the woman had been casting through dinner.\u003cbr\u003e She prays the woman’s eyes are as poor as they seem.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Whatever suits you,” says Emaline, dismissing her with\u003cbr\u003e a wave of the hand.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “’Scuse me, gents, Emaline . . .” Limpy’s voice and body\u003cbr\u003e rise as one from the bar and the saloon goes silent. “A toast.\u003cbr\u003e To Alex and his gentle way with mules. May his way with\u003cbr\u003e women be less costly, but just as exciting!”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He tips his glass, leads a collective swallow, motions to\u003cbr\u003e Jed to fill his cup again. “Now don’t you dare smile there,\u003cbr\u003e Alex, don’t.” Alex does not feel like smiling, makes no\u003cbr\u003e attempt to smile. Six coins left, she thinks. She’d felt so rich\u003cbr\u003e with twelve.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And speaking of costly,” says Limpy, downing the next\u003cbr\u003e glass, “how ’bout it Emaline? Nearly hit it today. Sho’ ’nough\u003cbr\u003e pay dirt. Pay you double price. I say I’ll pay you double,\u003cbr\u003e tomorrow –”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Now hold on there, Limp. You know the woman doesn’t\u003cbr\u003e take credit, and I’m a hell of a lot prettier than you anyway –\u003cbr\u003e and richer,” says Micah, winking his one eye.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The hell –”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And I can hold my liquor.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Alex is only vaguely aware of what they’re saying. The rest\u003cbr\u003e of their banter is lost beneath the groan of the accordion in\u003cbr\u003e the corner – a tune that just might be “The Old Oaken\u003cbr\u003e Bucket” or “Clementine,” or a wobbly combination of the\u003cbr\u003e two – and as if called by this racket, miners begin to trickle\u003cbr\u003e into the saloon. No less than thirty, if she had a head to\u003cbr\u003e count, and she doubts whether some of those mud-stained\u003cbr\u003e canvas pants and holey flannels had ever been, or would ever\u003cbr\u003e be washed. It would certainly ease the competing stench of\u003cbr\u003e rotting canvas, stale tobacco, whiskey. The men lean on the\u003cbr\u003e bar and against the walls\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Soho Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301401219301,"sku":"NP9781569479865","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781569479865.jpg?v=1767724298","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/crown-of-dust-isbn-9781569479865","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}