Ice and Stone

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to:

Molly Friedrich, my agent, for her constant encouragement.

Elizabeth Kulhanek and Mari C. Okuda, for their editing skills.

Laura Neditch, for insight on the extreme northern parts of our state.

Melissa Ward, for the Feather.

Alison Wilbur, for laughter in the face of adversity.

Yvonne Russo, for her thoughtful feedback on the portrayal of Indigenous people and culture in this novel. Any remaining inaccuracies are my own.

And my readers, who have kept Sharon McCone in business for over forty years.

The County of Meruk and the Meruk Nation are fictional, but the California locales bear similarities to many communities within our state. Any misrepresentations are my own. No characters depicted have any relationship to the living or the dead.

This novel was written in better times, before the corona virus and racial unrest racked our country. Therefore, no mention of either has been made. There is, however, plenty of commentary about the inequities that have finally moved us to take control and begin our journey back toward normalcy.

Meruk is the smallest and least known of California’s fifty-nine counties. Roughly triangular in shape, it abuts the Oregon border at its narrowest, most mountainous point and slopes south into wide grassland near the Lassen County line. The Meruk Nation, or “mountain people,” after whom the county is named, are peaceable and gentle; they are concerned with preserving their environment and practicing their arts; although they are the smallest nation in the state, their weavings, pottery, and basketry have spread far from their ancestral grounds.

Their calm productivity is severely at odds with their surroundings. The land, while spectacular, is often hazardous; the climate can be harsh in the extreme. The events of its bloody and cruel history are well documented in the few historical accounts of the tribe — violent events that were not instigated by the Meruk Nation but by the white people who came seeking gold, land, lumber, and numerous other riches.

Today Meruk County is relatively peaceful. The lumber industry was phased out long ago, due to its distance from the dog-hole shipping ports at the coast. Tourism is minimal, thanks to miles of badly maintained and winding roads as well as a paucity of lodging places. Large cattle ranches cover the county’s southern territory and provide the tax money that keeps the budget in the county seat of Ames balanced. People scratch out an existence by farming small plots or fishing on the Little White River or working the ranches.

Before I traveled north, I had little knowledge of the Meruk. Having been adopted and raised as Scotch-Irish, and not having discovered my Shoshone roots until middle age, I wasn’t familiar with many of the nations. But after the case I’d gone to Meruk County to pursue, I would become all too familiar with the victims of vengeance, racial injustice, and profound ignorance.