Walk on Earth a Stranger (15 page)

“Okay.” I almost beg him not to go. I'm not ready to be alone again.

He tips his hat to me. “Until tomorrow, then.”

I watch his back as he walks away, and I'm unhitching
Peony before I realize I forgot to ask him about Jefferson.

Noon tomorrow can't come soon enough. I spend the next hours meandering through town, searching the face of every stranger, hoping to find Jefferson, worrying I'll run into the brothers instead. Evening falls, and I head out of town as the clouds break open, a coral sunset lighting up the western horizon.

The first empty spot suitable for camping is nearly a mile from the town proper. Tree stumps are everywhere, jutting out of the muddy ground like grave markers. But there are no trees; everything has been chopped down for firewood and wagons. I lie down in the open beneath the stars, and I let the sound of chirruping crickets and the scent of a hundred campfires lull me to sleep.

The next morning I make a circuit of all the groups forming up to head west. There are at least a dozen companies, each larger and more sprawling than the last.

I pass a woman bent over an honest-to-goodness box stove, and something about her makes me pause. She turns to grab a wooden ladle, and I glimpse her face. It's Mrs. Joyner!

Somehow, she convinced someone to unload that stove for her. Certainly not Mr. Joyner, who I've never seen carry anything heavier than a cigar. I raise my hand to wave, surprised at how glad I am to see her safely arrived, but I flash back to her prim mouth and hard eyes as she gave me the good riddance. I let my hand drop and slink away before she can spot me. That's one wagon train where I won't be welcome.

I resume my search for Jefferson. Time and again I see
someone with his lanky form and dark hair, but then he turns around, or moves in a way that Jefferson would never move, or calls out in a voice I've never heard.

Finally, the sun is high enough that I head into town for my meeting with Free Jim. The Hawthorn Inn is easy to find, though calling it an “inn” is generous and optimistic. It's little more than a giant shack, with wax-paper windows, sleeping cubbies curtained off with sheets, and a huge, canvas awning pretending to be the roof of a busy dining area.

Free Jim is already sitting at one of the long benches, a mug before him on the table. Though the inn is crowded, there's a bubble of space around him, so I climb over and plunk down beside him.

“I ordered us up some fried catfish,” he says by way of greeting. “Hope you don't mind.”

My mouth waters. “Thanks, Free Jim!”

“It's just Jim now.”

I peer at his profile. “But Missouri is a slave state. It would be better if—”

“Do you have to go around introducing yourself as ‘Free Lee'?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why should I?”

Because I couldn't stand it if something happened to him, but I take his point.

A serving girl not much older than me sweeps by and plops our plates down before us.

“Eat up,” Jim says.

The fish is a bit rubbery, like it sat out a day or two before getting cooked, but I can't afford to turn down a meal. I'm halfway through when Jim says, “What are your plans?”

I swallow my mouthful. “Find Jefferson. He said he'd meet me here. Then we'll figure out how to get to California.”

He nods. “Some folks thought the two of you ran off together.”

“I wish we had.” If Jefferson had been around, those brothers wouldn't have dared rob me. Then again, maybe his Cherokee blood would have made him a tempting target. The thought turns my stomach. “Have you seen him? He left a few days before I did, so I really thought he'd be here by now.”

“I haven't, no.” At the look on my face, he adds, “Sorry. Some companies have left already, even though the grass isn't growing in yet.”

It's an awful possibility, that we could come all this way and not find each other.

“The reason I ask about your plans,” Jim says, “is that I'm heading out tomorrow. Found a good company willing to have a Negro along. You're welcome to join me.”

I stare at him. “But. . . Jeff. . .”

His smile is sympathetic. “I figured you'd say that. But in honor of your daddy, I had to offer.”

“You could wait! Just a few days. We could look for Jefferson together.”

He stabs at his catfish. Puts down his fork. “I may not get another opportunity. I have two wagons full of goods. Plenty
of money from liquidating the store. But it doesn't seem to matter. Only one company will have me along, and I have to go.”

I mash the fish on my plate with my fork; my appetite gone. I guess I don't blame Free Jim—
Jim
—one bit for wanting to head off with a big outfit. It's what I'd do, if not for Jefferson.

“Well, good luck, Jim,” I say wistfully. “I hope you find mountains of gold.”

His eyes flash. “I hope so too.”

Everyone gets the fever. Even rich men. “Jim, you said something in the store. About Hiram.”

Jim dabs his mouth with his kerchief and twists to face me. “How much do you know about him?”

I shrug. “Not much. That he's Daddy's older brother, a college-educated man. He came south from Boston with my mama and daddy; they were all great friends. But when Daddy won a parcel in the land lottery and he didn't, Hiram left for the big city to practice law. We didn't see him much, not for years at a time.”

“Did you know that Hiram and Elizabeth were going together?”

I nearly choke. “No, Mama never said.”

“They were planning to marry.”

I gape at him.

“She was running away from something in Boston, something awful. So when the Westfall brothers decided to head south during the gold rush, she asked to come along. She and Hiram fell in love. They were going to get married when they
reached Georgia.”

My meal rolls around in my belly. “But she married my daddy.”

Jim nods. “She changed her mind at the very last moment. That's about the time your daddy and I were getting on as friends. Reuben comes to me one day and says, ‘Jim, I'm going to marry Elizabeth, and my brother is going to be heaping mad, and I don't know if she'll ever love me or if Hiram will ever forgive me, but it's something I got to do.'”

I stare down at my plate, trying to take in his words. Conversation hums around us, like buzzing insects. A breeze gusts through the dining area, flapping the awning.

“He never told me why,” Jim adds. “But he was wrong about one thing and right about the other: Yes, Elizabeth did love him, and no, Hiram didn't forgive him. Especially after the lottery, when your daddy got a nice piece of acreage and he came up with nothing. And a few years later, when Reuben and Elizabeth had a daughter, a beautiful baby girl they named Leah, Hiram left Dahlonega for good, and I only saw him but once or twice after that.”

“So he murdered them out of
revenge
?”

“I can't say what's in that man's head, but maybe so.”

The serving girl sweeps by and collects our plates. I realize I'm squeezing the golden locket with my hands, twisting, twisting, twisting at the chain. I force my fingers to let go. “Hiram paid us visits, when I was little. And Daddy went to Milledgeville a few times, before he got sick.”

Jim nods. “Reuben told me they'd reconciled, years later.
But your uncle has a politician's face. Never can tell what that man is thinking. He lies slicker than a huckster with a love potion.”

I'm still not convinced Hiram wanted revenge. He was after
me
, what I can do.

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell Jim everything—about the gold dust that used to be hidden beneath our floorboards, about Hiram tricking my daddy into leaving the estate to him. It's even on my mind to tell Jim that the gold coins in his pocket are singing to me like a hymn, that I know for sure and certain he's carrying at least twenty dollars.

But I say nothing.

“Did you ever hear tell why your mama left Boston?” Jim asks.

“No. She hinted that something bad happened when she was a girl. Why did she?”

Jim frowns. “I don't know. I was hoping you did.”

“Daddy never told you?”

“I don't think Reuben ever knew.”

“Oh.”

A sudden thought almost makes me jump out of my seat: Maybe Mama had witchy powers too. Maybe that's why she was so prickly whenever I found gold. That's why she never let me use the word “witch” in the house.

I sigh. I'm full up on heartache and ire, on frustration at not knowing enough, and it's making me fanciful.

“You're sure you can't come with me?” Jim says as he rises from the bench.

I stand up too, even though I'm not ready to say good-bye. “I'm sure.”

“Will you be all right if Hiram finds you in California?”

I swallow hard. “I guess we'll find out.”

He reaches out and grasps my shoulder. “I wish I could tell you more.”

My eyes feel hot, and my throat constricts. “It's more than I knew before.”
Please don't go,
I want to cry out.
You and Jeff are all I've got
.

He gives me a sad smile, then thrusts out his hand. It swallows mine when we shake. I hold on longer than I should.

“I have a lot to do before sunup tomorrow, so I have to go,” he says, gently pulling his hand away from mine. “Take care of yourself, Lee. I surely hope to see you in the gold fields.”

My cheek twitches with the effort to not cry. “I surely hope so too. Thanks for dinner. For everything.”

Watching him walk away is like losing home and Daddy and friends all over again. I don't have it in me to talk with anyone else today. Not even to search for Jefferson. I loose Peony from the hitching post and ride her out of town to our camp on the muddy rise.

I sit there a long time, knees to chest and locket in hand, watching busy Independence go about its day while the shadows grow long, thinking about Mama and Daddy and Hiram and gold-witching and questions that will never have answers now that the only people who know them are gone.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

M
orning brings a new day, and I take up the search with renewed determination. I have to find Jefferson. If I don't, I have nothing. No one.

I'm methodical, picturing the town and its surroundings like checks on Mrs. Joyner's tablecloth. I explore each check at a time, corner to corner, and move on to the next. I learn the town forward and backward—every alley, every lean-to, every wagon. Faces become familiar. Some even call out as I pass by: “Hey, Lee! Found your friend, yet?”

And so it goes, day after day, for more than two weeks, past the full moon and Easter Sunday. I haunt the town and the staging areas like a ghost, searching for the one familiar face in the whole world that still means something to me.

By the middle of April, grass shoots start poking up through the prairie mud. Every couple of days, usually on a morning without rain, a wagon company heads west. As soon as it's gone, a new one sprouts in its place. My supplies run
low. An egg that cost me a penny in Georgia costs a dime here. There's no grazing to be had, and grain for Peony is even more expensive. I spend futile hours looking for a rabbit or squirrel that has somehow managed to evade everyone, but I just end up discharging my revolver and wasting ammunition. At night, I sleep outside wherever I can find a dry place to spread my blanket, usually on the rise a mile outside of town. Most nights I settle for “almost dry.”

As my store of coins dwindles, so does my hope.

Three weeks into April, I'm forced to consider leaving without Jefferson. My heart is heavy as I make one more circuit of the staging area. I wander among the few companies that remain, even peeking toward the one with the Joyners. There's no sign of Jeff. Reluctantly, I turn away and head back to the town, unsure what else to do.

“Hey, Lee!”

The voice comes faintly over the muddy fields. A man on horseback waves his hat at me—one of the cattle drivers. I don't remember his name, but I've since passed him at least twenty times, watching his herd dwindle from hundreds of cattle to dozens as he sold them off. This is the first time he's called out to me. At my urging, Peony trots toward him. Maybe he remembers that I was looking for someone.

“Did you find your friend?” he asks as I pull up.

It's hard to keep the disappointment from my face. “Not yet. Guess I'll give him another day.”

“There aren't many more days to give.” A wad of chewing tobacco puffs out his cheek, and he shifts it to the other side.
Brown juice stains his graying beard. “I'll be taking the rest of the herd out soon.”

I repeat the same thing I've said a hundred times the past few weeks: “Well, good luck. Maybe I'll see you in California.”

“I could use an extra hand. The rest of my crew ran off with other companies when the weather turned. I've only got about a sixty head left. Too much work for one man, but not quite enough for two. So one and a half seems about right. I've seen you on that pony. You ride well, and a sturdy little lady like that should do fine on the trek. You interested?”

My head spins. I haven't given much thought to working my way west. When I had the Hawken, I figured I'd buy as many supplies as I could and hunt for the rest. “What's the pay?”

He turns his head to squirt out a line of tobacco juice, then he squints at the horizon. “Board, if that'll suit you. All the way to California, or wherever you hop off. 'Course, a fair bit of it it'll be beef.”

It's a good offer. Still, I hesitate.

“And two dollar and two bits a week, to be paid whenever we decide to part ways,” he adds in response to my silence. “If any of the cattle make it as far as San Francisco, I figure I can sell them for five to ten times what I can get here. So there might be a bonus.”

I do the arithmetic in my head. I'd end up with around fifty dollars. More than enough to buy pickaxes and lumber and food to get me started. “Sir, I don't recall your name.”

“It's Jacob, Jacob Jones.”

“Mr. Jones, it sounds like a fair offer. But I still need to look for my friend. We planned to meet here and go together.”

“Could be gone with another train already. Could be waiting for you there.”

“Could be.” It feels like no matter what I decide, it'll be a mistake.

Jacob says, “Have you checked the post office lately?”

“He's not going to mail me a letter.”

“Sure. But folks leave messages for one another at the post office. Maybe he left a note, saying where he went.”

My heart leaps. Why didn't I think of that? Of course there would be a place where folks could leave messages. I turn Peony toward the bluff, then pause in my saddle to look back. “Thank you, Mr. Jones!”

“Leave him a message too, in case he comes looking for you.”

“I will.”

“Then come back and ride west with me!” he shouts. “I'll be leaving tomorrow or the day after. Good luck!”

I almost ask if he's willing to hire two hands. Maybe I can find Jefferson and bring him back here. For the first time in weeks, I feel a spark of hope.

I wait in line for the postmaster, who has all the hurry of a cow chewing cud. His pocket watch gives the back of my throat a slight tingle. I bet he thinks it's a fine piece, and I'm irritated enough from waiting, waiting, waiting that I've half a mind to tell him it's less than forty percent pure.

When it's finally my turn, I lean on the counter and say, “Did Jefferson McCauley leave anything for me?”

“I don't know. Who would the letters be addressed to?”

“Lee Westfall. Or maybe Leah Westfall.”

He peers at me.

“My sister,” I add quickly.

“Let me check.” He steps away from the counter and flips through a box of letters. Every time he lifts one up to get a better look, my heart pounds a little harder. His hands are empty when he returns to counter. “No, sir, Mr. Westfall, I'm sorry, but there's nothing for you or your sister.”

“Oh.” I was so sure this was the bit of luck I'd been waiting for. “How can I leave a message, in case . . . our friend shows up?”

“You write a letter, pay the postage, and I hold it for him.”

“All right,” I say, fishing in my pocket for pennies. “Do you have pen and paper?”

He's already reaching for them. “It costs extra.”

Of course it does, but I gladly pay.

It's been months since I've had reason to write anything, more than a year since I've used stationery, and my penmanship is a disgrace. Best to keep things simple.

April 20

Dear Jeff,

Hope you are
safe
well. I am here in Independence waiting for you. I can be found in that
clump
Grove of
Hickory stumps about a mile north of Town.
If you don't come soon
I will wait as long as I can. Please leave a Message with the Post Man. Where can we meet? Address to Lee McCauley. I'll explain later.
Sincerely,
Yours,
Lee

I blow it dry, fold it shut, and hand it back to the postmaster, who has been helping other customers while I wrote. I watch as he drops it in the box, and when Jefferson does not appear instantly to claim it, I head outside.

The general store draws me like a moth to a flame because two pretty, blue, gingham dresses are now displayed in the window. The more I stare at them, the more I consider the possibility that I miss skirts even more than I miss my daddy's rifle. For some reason, the thought of meeting Jefferson while looking like a boy makes me feel funny inside.

Then I see the prices. Twenty dollars each!

Someday, I'll be rich. I'll use my magic to find so much gold in California that I'll be able to buy all the dresses and rifles a girl could ever want. I'll buy carrots and sugar cubes for Peony too. White sugar cubes just because I can afford them. And I'll have a tidy house with an oak bannister and a bright dormer—

“Hiram!” comes a voice.

I flatten myself against the wall like a rat trapped in the pantry corner. My eyes frantically search the crowd. Maybe Jim was wrong about Hiram taking the sea route. He probably turned around and came up the Mississippi in a steamer. Caught up to me when I was down with fever.

“Hey, Hiram, over here!”

The man shouting and waving is no one I recognize. He has a curly beard and an army issue jacket. His gaze leads my attention across the street and—

“Lemuel!”

A little sob escapes my lips. It's not my uncle. Just someone who shares his name.

But Uncle Hiram will surely be waiting for me in California. It's a big territory, I tell myself. Big enough to disappear in, maybe. Especially if he's looking for a girl.

My hands don't get the message though, and they refuse to stop trembling as I untie Peony from the hitching post. She nuzzles my fingers, looking for a treat.

“Sorry, girl. We don't have enough money left for—”

“Lee McCauley!”

There's nothing but jump left in me. I whip my head around, half ready to run, and find Mr. Joyner bearing down on me. His suit is as pristine as always, and I don't have a single notion as to how he's not as mud-spackled as the rest of us. “Sir,” I say, surprised. “Glad to see you.” I'm even more surprised that I mean it. It's good to see a familiar face, even if it's someone I don't care for much.

“I can't believe my good luck. Have you signed on with a wagon company yet?”

“No, sir,” I say, and immediately regret it. I don't fancy being chased off by his wife again.

“Our hired hands took off. Thought they could make more money with another company. They'll regret it, though.”

“Oh. I'm real sorry to hear that.” Though not at all surprised. “Must be hard on Mrs. Joyner.”

“It is, thank you. The thing is, now I need a couple hands to help manage the wagon and cattle. I found one fellow already, but I need another.”

“You offering me a job, Mr. Joyner?”

“You've proven yourself reliable and of decent moral character.”

“I don't think your wife agrees, pardon my saying.”

He has the grace to seem confused. “Mrs. Joyner accepts my judgment in these matters. I remember that day, Mr. McCauley, when you helped us load the wagon without asking for pay. I was going to offer you a job the next day, but you disappeared.”

I don't like the Joyners, and I'll probably never like the Joyners. But this might be my last chance to travel in a big company. Might be my last chance to head west this season at all.

I've done all I can. I came here to meet Jefferson, just as I said I would. I've looked for him. I've left a message for him. If I wait any longer, it'll be too late. It's time for me to give up the search and hope our paths cross somewhere else.

My heart is a stone in my chest as I say, “Board as long as I'm with you. And two dollars and fifty cents a week until we get to California or part ways.”

He hesitates.

“I've got another offer,” I say. “Heading out tomorrow.” He doesn't need to know that my other offer is with a single soul,
when I'd rather travel with a big outfit.

“Done!”

He spits into his palm and holds out his hand. I stare at it.

I've never entered into a contract before. Not formally, like this. And I still wouldn't, if he knew I was a girl.

I spit into my own palm, and we clasp hands, shaking firmly.