A Family Apart (15 page)

Frances fumbled for the right words to cover her mistake. “If work needs to be done, what difference does it make who does it?” She ducked her head and scrubbed hard at the utensils.

“My, my,” Mrs. Busby said. “I like the way you think, young man.” She picked up a bleached flour sack and began to dry the utensils that had been washed and rinsed.

I’ve got to be more careful
, Frances reminded herself, so when Margaret came to shoo Frances out to play with the other boys, she went without protest.

As she left the kitchen, Frances heard Mrs. Busby say to Margaret, “Frankie is a gentle boy,” so she deliberately found Elton and picked a quarrel They pummeled each other and rolled in the dirt, until two of the men pulled them apart.

“Just havin’ fun,” Elton mumbled to his father.

“Is that right, Frankie?” Jake asked.

Frances shook her head. “No, but the fight was my fault. I pushed him.”

Mr. Mueller laughed loudly. “An honest answer. The boys are angry now, but in a few minutes they’ll be friends.”

Frances held out her right hand toward Elton. “Shake on it,” she said.

Grudgingly Elton did. The sun had dipped low and
red in the western sky, and it was time for the party to end. Within a few minutes Elton and his family were in their wagon, heading for their own farm. The few families who had tarried shouted their good-byes, too, until the Muellers were the only guests who remained.

“They’ll stay the night,” Margaret explained to Frances, “because the ride back to their home would take them far too long. If you have no objections, we’ll offer your bed to Klaus and Frieda. We’ll put little Karl and Matthew in with Peter, and we’ll lay pallets on the floor in front of the kitchen fireplace for you, Johnny, and Fred.”

“A houseful of boys!” Mrs. Mueller laughed, waggling a finger at them. “And you must all go to sleep without chattering late into the night, because we have to rise early to begin our drive home.”

As darkness fell, quilts and pillows were carried to the kitchen and piled on the floor near the fireplace. Barker curled up under the table by the wall as though to protect the spot that belonged to him.

Frances glanced around the kitchen. It was so different from home, where they lived in only one room and all the children shared one big bed. For just an instant Frances yearned with all her heart for her own home, with her brothers and sisters and Ma. Then she sharply reminded herself that this place was her home now, and she would do her best to accept the fact that there was no turning back.

Margaret paused to look at Frances. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t think. You and Peter must want a bath after your long journey. Well, we can bring the tub into the kitchen and take care of that as soon as I have some water heated.” She picked up the kettle and headed toward a large pottery crock of water.

Frances stumbled in front of Margaret, blocking her way. “No!” she cried. She tried to talk calmly. “Petey is much too tired,” she said. She faked an open-mouthed yawn. “And so am I. Could we wait until tomorrow?”

Frances held her breath in suspense until Margaret shrugged and said, “If you’d rather.”

“I’d much rather,” Frances insisted.

Margaret glanced at Petey, who was almost asleep on his feet, too tired to protest being taken from Frances to be tucked into a strange bed. “I suppose you’re right,” Margaret said. She scooped Petey into her arms while Mrs. Mueller gathered Karl and Matthew and headed for the stairs.

Fred, who was a younger version of his brother Johnny, immediately pulled off his square-toed boots, his stockings, and his trousers and dove into one of the pallets. “Ha, ha!” he shouted. “I got the best spot!”

“That’s what you think,” Johnny said as he winked at Frances. “You got the quilt with the itchy, nasty old bedbugs in it”

Fred scrambled out of the quilts so fast he kicked the pallet apart. “Bedbugs? Where?” he demanded.

Johnny laughed loudly, and Fred angrily tried to make up the bed again, muttering, “You think you’re so funny, but that was dumb. You’re a dumb, stinkin’ old skunk’s bottom!”

Frances returned Johnny’s grin. “I’m still hungry,” Johnny said to Frances. “I’m going to get an apple. You want one, too?”

Frances took the apple that Johnny held out to her and followed him outside, sitting next to him on the stoop in the darkness.

“How old are you?” Johnny asked.

“Thirteen,” Frances said.

Johnny sounded smug. “I’m fourteen.”

“I’m near to fourteen.”

“I’m near to fifteen.” He paused, taking a large bite from the apple. “My pa and your new pa are best friends.”

The apple cracked as Frances bit into it. Tart juice sprayed her face, and she wiped it away with the back of one hand.

“We used to live in Pennsylvania. That’s near New York, where you come from,” Johnny said. “But I don’t remember it much, because I wasn’t very old when we moved to Nebraska. Did you like traveling on a train?”

“Sort of and sort of not,” Frances mumbled around a mouthful of apple. She swallowed hard and said, “At first it was different—all the new things to see. I never saw a farm before. But trains stop a lot to get water and wood, and they rock back and forth and rattle, and it’s hard to sleep.”

“That sounds boring.”

“It was kind of boring, except for when we had to stop to put out a brushfire and when some outlaws robbed the train.”

“Huh!” Johnny whirled to stare at Frances, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. “You’re making that up!”

“Am not!”

“Then tell me. Tell me about the outlaws!”

“The fire first,” Frances said. “I’ll tell you about the outlaws later.”
Much later
, she thought. She didn’t want to tell him about Mike and what he had done. To make her story about the fire last longer, she put in everything she could remember, even the way the hot sparks shot from the smokestack on the train.

As she finished, Johnny let out a long whistle. “You’re good at telling a tale! Tell about the outlaws now.”

Frances shook her head. “I’ll tell you some other
time. I’m ready to go to sleep.” She stood up and walked around the stoop to the bench. Once more she washed her face and hands.

Johnny watched her. “How come you’re washing up again? Nobody said you had to.”

“We always washed up before going to bed. That was one of Ma’s rules.”

“Your ma? But—oh.” Johnny quickly looked away, then turned and threw open the kitchen door.

Only the banked coals in the fireplace lit the kitchen. Frances took off her jacket, boots, and stockings and climbed under the quilts, as far away from Fred and Johnny as she could get She pulled the quilt up to her chin. It was warm and cozy, and she burrowed deeply into it. She squeezed her eyes shut. Jake and Mr. Mueller still were talking in low tones in the parlor. Then the house was still, except for the creak-crack of the wooden stairs as the men went up to bed.

The house was filled with people, yet Frances had never felt so lonely. When would she see Megan again? And Peg and Danny and Mike? Although she tried to fight them back, hot tears spilled down her cheeks, and she gave a loud sniffle.

She heard Johnny turn toward her. “Ma said you had to leave your other brothers and sisters,” he whispered. “If I had to leave Matt and Karl and even old froggy Fred over there, I’d cry, too.”

Frances sniffled again and mumbled, “I don’t mean to cry.”

“My pa said it’s all right to cry sometimes. He told me he cried once when he was a grown man and right out in front of everybody. He cried ’cause he saw a man get shot and killed.”

Frances wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t wake me,” Johnny said. “I couldn’t sleep, thinking of the fine story you told about the fire.” There was a long pause, then Johnny said, “Hey, Frankie. I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Me, too,” Frances said, surprised that she really was glad.

The quilt at the far end rose in a quivering hump. “Close your big, ugly mouths,” Fred growled. “I’m trying to sleep!”

Frances stuffed a fist in her mouth, suppressing a giggle, which turned itself into a yawn. The Cummingses were good people, and at least Petey was with her. She wouldn’t let herself think of anything else. Frances yawned again and slid headfirst into sleep.

T
HE SKY WAS
barely light when Frances, Johnny, and Fred were rousted out of bed.

For a moment Frances didn’t know where she was. Her body was still caught in the rocking, jerking rhythm of the train. Instinctively she reached out for her family but was jolted awake as her fingertips met only the hard plank floor.

Megan, Mike, Danny, and Peg—were they all right? Had they awakened with eyes still burning from tears, as she had? And what was Ma doing?
Ma
, Frances thought.
Oh, Ma, what have you done to us? How could you have sent us so far away?

“Get up, sleepyheads!” Mrs. Mueller called, and Frances forced herself to roll from under the warm quilt and pull on her stockings and boots.

Frances carried in armloads of wood for the stove and fireplace, while Johnny made a few trips to the well,
filling the large pottery crock with water. Mrs. Mueller and Margaret bustled from table to stove, and before long everyone was eating hot buckwheat cakes with cane molasses and crisp pan sausage. Petey was so happy to be eating he didn’t look at all sad or homesick.

Barker was the first to hear the hoofbeats. He rose to his feet and growled.

Margaret held up a hand for silence. “Riders,” she announced.

Jake and Mr. Mueller pushed back their chairs and strode through the parlor to the front door.

“It’s the marshal,” Jake called. “A couple of men are with him.”

Barker and the children raced after the men to the front porch, the women following. Frances saw Margaret and Mrs. Mueller glance at the men on horseback, then at each other with concern.

The marshal touched his hat to the women and smiled easily. “Mornin’, Jake, Klaus. You got quite a passel of young’uns there.”

“Meet our new sons,” Jake said proudly. He picked up Petey and put an arm around Frances’s shoulders before introducing them to Marshal Dawson.

The marshal was a big man, brown from the sun. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a leather jacket that looked much like the ones Frances had seen on the frontiersmen in St. Joseph. The men who were with him were dressed the same way. Although the marshal had a friendly smile on his face, his two companions scowled. Both men carried rifles in slings on their saddles.

Margaret stepped forward. “Care for some breakfast, Marshal Dawson? Maybe a cup of coffee?”

“Well, maybe I—”

“We got business to take care of,” one of the other men growled. “There’s no time for that.”

The marshal nodded reluctantly. “Jake, we’re huntin’ a pair of runaway slaves.”

Mrs. Mueller sniffed contemptuously. “Bounty hunters!”

“Hush,” Margaret whispered, but the men ignored her, and the marshal continued.

“We’re pretty sure that they crossed the river somewhere below St. Joe and are probably headin’ north into Canada. Big, strong fellow and a woman ’bout maybe five feet tall. Her mistress said the woman might a’ been wearin’ a shawl she give her. It’s black with some blue flowers embroidered in one corner. You seen any sign of them, Jake?”

“No,” Jake answered.

“All right, then.” The marshal again reached up and touched the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Cummings, Mrs. Mueller.”

“Just a minute!” snapped one of the men. “You’re going to take his word for it?”

“No reason to doubt Jake’s word,” Marshal Dawson said.

“Well, I don’t trust a one of these New Englander settlers.” He twisted in his saddle to spit on the ground, wiped his mouth on his jacket sleeve, and stared hard at the group on the porch. His glance finally came to rest on Frances.

“How about you, boy?” he asked. “What do you know about these runaway slaves?”

“I don’t know anything.” Frances stared back at him, unblinking, until the man finally looked away.

The other bounty hunter leaned forward and made an effort to appear friendly. “Maybe you folks haven’t heard there’s a reward offered on the slaves.”

No one answered.

He sat upright again and shrugged. “It’s going to get worse around here for anybody who’s helpin’ slaves to escape.” As though to prove his point, he pulled his rifle from its sling and held it ready, resting the stock against his right boot

Marshal Dawson pulled on the reins, tugging his horse toward the left. “Sorry to have bothered you folks,” he said. “You understand, the law’s the law, and seeing that it’s carried out is my job.”

The men rode grudgingly with him. As soon as the marshal and the bounty hunters reached the road, Mr. Mueller glanced up at the sky. “We’ve overstayed our welcome. Well help you with the chores.”

“No need,” Jake said. “You’ve got a long ride. Better get on your way.”

Mr. Mueller gripped Jake’s hand. “I know I’ll be seeing you soon,” he said.

The Muellers’ horses were hitched to their wagon, and a covered basket of food was handed up.