Walk on Earth a Stranger (18 page)

“It's another day,” he says.

“You don't have to sound so cheerful,” I grumble.

“I know!” he says. “But it vexes you.”

We make twelve to fourteen miles a day for a week, through land so lovely it's a pain in my chest. Thoughts of Uncle
Hiram niggle at me like impure gold in a distant stream—faint and far, but always there. Each day is both a curse and blessing, bringing me closer to him, but also to the gold I was born to find.

So I push away thoughts of Hiram. For now, I want to enjoy the burn of hard work, the company of my best friend, and the prettiest sky I've ever seen. Hiram has taken so much from me. I'm not going to let him take this too.

One morning, it starts pouring rain and doesn't stop. We cross one creek, then a second. After lunch, we come to yet another, and by now the water is high and fast; the path, churned and muddy; the banks, steep.

The wagons squish through the mud, creeping forward at a pace that makes a tortoise look like a hare. When it's finally our turn to cross, the right front wheel drops into a sinkhole and sticks tight, and no whipping and yelling at the oxen can make it budge.

Jefferson and I unload everything, and the college men and Mr. Robichaud help lift and lever it free. Reverend Lowrey stands off to one side with his Bible and prays for us.

After the wagon is across and on dry ground, we load it back up. Mr. Joyner whips the team to hurry them, but they pay him no mind. By the time we overtake the rest of the company, the wagons are circled for the night, their campfires glowing.

As we ride up, Jefferson leans over and says, “Those mules move fast. Mark my words: One of these days the Missouri wagons are going to leave the rest of us behind.”

I'm afraid he might be right.

One Saturday, after a couple of weeks on the trail, Reverend Lowrey makes his wife drive the wagon so he can ride up and down the line exhorting everyone to spend the Sabbath as a day of rest. We've been neglecting the Lord, he says, and our travels are sure to go better when we remember Him as we ought. There's not much enthusiasm for the idea, but Major Craven decides we could use the extra day to fatten up the cattle before crossing the Kansas River. He says there's not much forage to be had between the Kansas and the Platte.

The next morning, everyone unloads what chairs they've brought along. The college boys fashion a quick pew from a split log and a pair of sawhorses. I sit on the Joyners' wagon bench, which is close enough to look like I'm participating. Reverend Lowrey drones on about fearing God and the dangers of hellfire. I allow my eyes to drift closed and my chin to hit my chest, because if it's a day of rest, then I'm going to rest. By the time services are over, I decide I like the Sabbath very much.

We set off the next day feeling restored. I gaze about as we ride, admiring the wild green fields and their copses of tall woods, stretching as far as the eye can see. The world has exploded with wildflowers—black-eyed Susans and blue chicory and yellow mustard—and the sun lounges heavy in the sky, casting the world in a golden haze.

I admit, it's even prettier than Georgia. Mama and Daddy would have loved it

The Kansas River fattens as we reach its confluence with the Big Blue, which is an odd name because it's as muddy brown with spring rain as all the rest. Major Craven says we must ferry across the Kansas and follow the Big Blue north for a while.

I think longingly of Captain Chisholm's flatboat, because these ferries are nothing but overgrown rafts made of weathered wood that looks near to splintering apart. I can't imagine them carrying wagons and oxen and horses.

Just like we did for the flatboat, we unload the wagon, then lift off the box and fill it with the wheels. It's too heavy for Jefferson and me alone, so all the families help one another—the college men and Mr. Robichaud help us, then we help them right back, which sets my back to aching and shoves a splinter into my left thumb.

Athena, the milk cow, rides across the ferry with us. She lows pitifully. Her pupils are huge and her muscles twitch, like her skin is covered with flies. Twice, she empties her bladder onto the deck.

Mrs. Joyner gathers up Andy and Olive and flees to the far end of the raft.

“What's wrong with her?” I ask Jasper.

“I don't know,” Jasper says. He kisses Athena's muzzle, but she flinches away. “I hope she didn't eat something disagreeable.”

The ferryman at the tiller says, “She been ettin' a foul-smelling weed, about eh high?” He holds his hand midthigh.
“Leaves are toothy, dark green on top, light on bottom?”

“Maybe,” Jasper says. “I haven't been paying attention. Fellows?”

Henry gazes back toward the dwindling shore. “There was something like that where we stopped for lunch.”

Tom nods. “She was eating it, all right. There wasn't much else. The whole trail has been grazed over by the argonauts who preceded us.”

The ferryman chortles. “That's jimsonweed she et. Devil's snare. Make sure she gets fresh grass, and she'll be fine in a few days.”

“Poor girl,” I say, starting toward her. I have some grass in the pocket of my trousers that I pulled for Peony—a habit I picked up while riding the flatboat—but Athena is welcome to it. Tom and Henry had the same impulse, and her eyes go buggy as the three of us close in on her. She shakes her head, lowing mournfully. Quicker than I can blink, she stumbles off the ferry and plops gracelessly into the river.

We stagger over to the side as the ensuing wave sets us to rocking. Athena's head breaks the surface, and she flounders, blowing water from her nostrils.

Mr. Joyner laughs. “She's going to drown if she doesn't get herself aimed toward shore,” he says.

“The children will miss the butter,” Mrs. Joyner says.

I gape at them both. “We've got to do something to help her!” But I have no idea what.

The ferry glides past, and Athena falls behind. The college men run to the back of the raft. “This way, Athena!” Jasper
calls. “You can do it, sweetheart. Just keep swimming.”

“Pardon, pardon me, if you please, let me help,” Mr. Robichaud says, brushing past me and pushing Jasper aside. He has a rope in one hand, a looped noose in the other.

Mr. Robichaud swings the noose into the air above his head and tosses it out. It arcs unnaturally, but somehow lands right over her head and settles around her neck. He tugs the rope gently to tighten the noose, giving it one firm yank, which gets her swimming toward the boat.

“That was something else!” Jasper says to him. “Never seen that done on water before. Thank you, sir.”

“When did you learn that?” I ask.

“I wrangled cattle back in Ottawa Valley.”

“On a plantation? Or did you drive them?”

“I'll make a deal with you,” Mr. Robichaud says. “I'll tell you about it if you practice English with Lucie.”

Jefferson warned me that Mrs. Robichaud is a chatterbox, but it would be nice to talk to another woman, which is something I can't do without an invitation, not dressed as a boy. “I'll do it,” I say.

When the ferry bumps onto shore, Jasper and Henry splash through the water to aid Athena. Her legs are wobbly, and she shakes with exhaustion and misery, but she manages to scramble up the riverbank with help and coaxing.

She's just a cow, but I'm so glad she made it, and I look for Jefferson, wanting to share the feeling with someone. He's already over by the Hoffmans' wagon, helping them reattach the wheels.

I run to assist; it's easier if we all pitch in. I'm loading a trunk when I freeze, nearly dropping it on my toes.

My throat buzzes and my knees tremble. Gold is somewhere nearby. A lot of it. In one of the Hoffmans' trunks, maybe.

“Lee? You all right?” Jefferson peers into my face. A sack of flour is balanced over one shoulder.

I jump, startled. “Sorry. Yes. I . . .” Therese and her tiny sister, Doreen, are giving me a strange look, which sets my heart to pounding. “I thought I heard a coyote,” I finish lamely. “But I was mistaken.”

I turn away and get back to work, as if nothing is amiss. The presence of gold fades, first with familiarity, then with distance, as one by one, we lift the wagons, slide the wheels back on, and yoke up the oxen. With all of us working together, the ferry empties quickly, and we roll off, glad to be on solid ground. Jefferson leaves me behind to ride off with the Hoffmans. I stare after him, my sense of gold fading even more.

I've no desire to ride alone with the Joyners, where I'm barely welcome, so I steer Peony toward the college men instead. Athena rests on the ground, her sides heaving. Tom paces with his hands in his pockets. Henry picks his teeth with a bit of straw. Jasper crouches over the cow, rubbing her with a blanket.

“Is she going to be all right?”

“I think so.”

“I could stay—”

“Don't trouble yourself,” he says.

“You'd better catch up with your family,” Henry says.

I open my mouth to snap that the Joyners are not my family, but I stop myself in the nick of time. He's just trying to be helpful.

“Go on,” he says, gesturing me away. So I turn Peony and start her after the wagons again. As I ride away, the college men and the ferry landing grow distant, but I don't feel like I'm getting any closer to the folks ahead.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
he country north of the Kansas River is wide and flat and treeless. Stumps are scattered here and there, left over from earlier wagon trains. The prairie will be abundant with grass again in another month or two, but huge swaths of trail are grazed out and fouled with manure. The good watering places are much the same—churned up and dirtied with the waste of the folks ahead of us. We often veer far from the path to make camp.

At least there's less mud. The rain is tapering off, and the air is pleasantly warm.

One morning, after I rise early and venture far to take care of my necessities, I return to find Major Craven with a scowl on his face. “There's no need for you to go off—We're getting to Indian country, and you can never tell what those savages will do.”

If he forbids me to wander off, I'll be in a heap of trouble. “Maybe the Indians just want to trade,” I say, trying not to
sound quarrelsome. I have vague memories of Daddy trading with the Cherokee, before the government chased them out of Georgia.

“Possibly, possibly,” he says. “Still, be careful. Take a dog with you.”

“I will, sir. Thank you, sir.” I'm grinning ear to ear. I should have realized he wouldn't forbid me to go off on my own occasionally; I'm a boy now.

Coney is delighted to follow me the next time. I give him lots of belly rubs, something he's always begging of Mr. Joyner but never gets. He and Peony have always been easy with each other, but before long, they're fast friends; he walks beside her every day and curls up at her feet at night.

I make good on my word to Mr. Robichaud and take some time each day to ride alongside their wagon. It's smaller and lighter than any of the others, and packed so neatly that the twins have room to sit in the back and play when the trail is smooth enough for it. They are good-natured children who get along well, often referring to each other as “
frère
,” which their mother immediately corrects to “brother.”

“We are going to live in America, we must learn to speak a little of American,” she says.

“A little American,” I say, because she has asked me to correct her. Her husband sits on the bench, eyes ahead, acting as if he doesn't overhear. “And you speak it very well,” I add.

“Mrs. Lowrey says I speak it
good
,” she says.

“You can say it that way. ‘Speak it good.' But it's better to say ‘Speak it well.'”

“I speak it very well,” she intones, then she smiles in triumph. Her English is passing fair, much better than she seems to think. She's a young woman, younger even than Mrs. Joyner, with a cheerful and chatty disposition, dancing brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles. She often stays up late, talking and singing around the campfire, and I suspect this makes her learning go faster.

The Robichauds have matching gold wedding bands—probably the most precious things they own. Those rings are never far apart, and the closer they are to each other, the more they call to me.

They're not the only ones with a bit of gold. I don't go near the Hoffmans' wagons often, but I still get a strong sense from them, and for the life of me I can't figure out what they're carrying. A treasure chest of coins, maybe. Or a hundred lockets like the one I wear. If they park too close to the Joyner wagon, it's like a beacon burning all night long. One night, I take my blanket and move farther off just so I can sleep.

Major Craven has some too. Gold pricks at me every time he stops by for a chat. Finally, I spy the pair of gold buttons at the cuffs of his shirt.

Mr. Joyner, on the other hand, makes quite a big deal about the gold cuff buttons and shirt studs he wears every day. They are shiny and pearl-studded, and while I can't speak to the authenticity of the pearls, that “gold” is barely more than a moth brushing up against my skin in the dark. He doesn't even have a decent stash of coins. I sure hope he has a plan
for paying Jefferson and me when we finally part ways.

I suspect he's not rich at all, not on his own merits, anyway. More and more, I gather that his father funded this expedition for him. Maybe Mr. Joyner is pretending to be something he's not. Pretending he's wealthy, when he has no money to his name. Pretending he knows what he's doing, when he couldn't find the end of his own nose out here on the open plain.

Pretending is exhausting. I know it better than anyone. But I hope I never go so far as to pretend to myself, like Mr. Joyner does.

One night, after a record-setting nineteen-mile day, Major Craven stops by Mrs. Joyner's dining table, which is laid out with its usual tablecloth and china. Tonight, she's even put out a vase full of black-eyed Susans, plucked while she walked during the day. She and her family sit around the table. Jefferson and I eat on the wagon bench.

She offers the Major a plate of pork and beans, and the quickest look of panic flits across his face before he gently changes the subject. “Be alert,” he says. “If the alarm sounds, the men must grab their guns and set up a defense.”

Mr. Joyner pats his rifle. “Ready, willing, and able.”

“And the women and children should stay low in the wagons until danger has passed. Can you do that for me?”

Andrew and Olive nod solemnly, but Mrs. Joyner says, “Is that wise? The wagon circle is so exposed. The women and children should run to the middle, where we'll be safe.”

Major Craven shakes his head. “If the horses and cattle get
stirred up, you'll be trampled. Best if you stay put.”

She bristles. “Better that than being captured! I'd rather risk trampling than allow myself or my children to abandon civilization and become savages.”

Andy and Olive stare wide-eyed at their mother.

“I don't know about that,” Major Craven says. “They seem more interested in cattle and horses and anything else that's not nailed down.”

“Oh. Well, I find that reassuring,” Mrs. Joyner says.

He smiles and tips his hat. “I'm glad, ma'am. Sir.”

“It's utter rubbish,” Mr. Joyner says when Craven is out of earshot.

“What's that, darling?”

“The part about not taking women or children. He only said it to make you feel better. Those savages would steal a comely lady like you in a heartbeat and make your life a misery of servitude. And they'll grab the children fast as a Gypsy.” He makes a grabbing motion at the children. Olive squeals and shrinks away, then dashes back to her father and squirrels into the safety of his arms. “That's what they are,” Mr. Joyner adds. “Gypsies. Gypsies on the plains. The best thing to do would be to exterminate the whole race.”

Jefferson freezes beside me, a spoonful of beans halfway to his mouth.

“Unless they turn from their savage ways,” Mrs. Joyner amends, and her voice has a note of discomfort in it.

“Of course,” Mr. Joyner agrees quickly.

I lean over to Jefferson and whisper, “Are you all right?”

“The Joyners know nothing,” he snaps, turning away.

Jefferson refuses to help clean up after dinner, and I don't try to make him. As the campfires burn low, the animals are all herded inside the circle for the night. The weather's nice enough that Jefferson and I take our blankets and find a spot in the grass just outside.

He's silent the whole time. I search for something to say that will get him to talk to me. I settle for: “Mr. Joyner is a fool. God forgive me for saying so, but it's true.”

“It's not just him,” Jefferson mumbles. “I mean, he's one of the worst. But everyone talks about the Indians that way. At least a little.”

It's a warm, clear night. The stars burn overhead like sparks from a fire, and the grass around us smells fresh and alive. “Hey, look,” I say. “It's the Seven Boys.”

When he doesn't say anything, I add, “You know, I think the stars are even brighter out here. No trees, no lanterns, sometimes not even clouds.”

“I'm not the eighth brother anymore,” he says softly.

“Huh?”

“I didn't stay behind.”

“Oh. Well, that's a good thing, right?”

“I guess,” he says, and he rolls over, pulling his blanket up to his shoulder.

I stare at his back, wondering if I said something wrong. Sleep comes harder for me, as it always does. I'm just starting to drift off when gold tickles the back of my throat.

It's Major Craven. He always takes a turn at watch, which
means walking the perimeter. But he's awful quiet this time, creeping along like a hunter after a spooked deer.

He peeks inside all the family wagons, though I'm not sure what he's looking for. After peering in on the sleeping Joyners, he steps back and lets out a whooping cry. “Indians! It's Indians!” He waves his arms and starts running.

Maybe it's a test; Major Craven watches the wagons, instead of focusing his attention outward. Still, I leap to my feet, grab my five-shooter, and start loading.

Jefferson startles from a deep sleep and stumbles to his feet. He hops on one foot, trying to pull on his boot. “What is it? What's happening?”

“Grab your gun and gear. Let's get inside the wagon circle.” I've got nothing but a blanket and the saddlebag I use for a pillow. I throw them over my shoulder and cut between the Joyners' and the Robichauds' wagons.

The camp is in an uproar, just as Major Craven intended. The animals churn in confusion. The Missouri men have formed a credible line of defense just inside the wagon circle, guns held at the ready. Mr. Bledsoe has done the same with his Arkansas men. Even his slave, Hampton, grips a long shepherd's staff, ready to thrash somebody on the head.

Our side of the circle has performed poorly. The college men stand outside in their long underwear, scratching their heads and yawning. The Reverend wanders around, Bible in hand, as though looking for someone to preach at. The Hoffman children huddle around Therese and her mother, with the littlest ones clutching their skirts.

The Joyners are the worst. Little Andy wails, tears running down his cheeks, while Olive cries softly in her mother's arms. Mrs. Joyner snaps at Mr. Joyner to get his gun, and Mr. Joyner curses at the Major, demanding to know that all the women and children are accounted for.

The Major ignores him, instead climbing up onto a trunk and ringing a bell. Silence gradually descends on our company. Even Andy's wailing turns to quiet sniffles.

“When I was in the militia, this is what we called a drill,” Major Craven says. The Missouri men nod knowingly.

Jefferson hobbles over with only one boot on. His blanket is in one hand, and his rifle is in the other. “Wait—None of this is for real?”

“It's real enough,” I say, thinking of the sleep we've lost.

The Major says, “But next time it could be Indians! So you have to be ready.”

“I must have kicked away my other boot,” Jefferson whispers, looking around. “Blast it, I'll never be able to find it in the dark.”

“We are now deep in Indian territory,” Craven says. “We'll be going deeper, all the way to California. In my experience, we've nothing to fear by day. They'll come to trade, and they may have food and other valuable information. For our part, it's a chance to resupply and lighten our loads.”

He looks pointedly at those of us standing by the Joyner wagon. But my conscience is clear. I can hold everything I own in my hands.

“But if they come at night, it'll be to rob us. They'll steal
our horses and our cattle if they can. So be on guard and be ready to defend yourselves!”

“Hey, Wally!” someone calls. One of the Missouri men. “How many Induns you kill in the Black Hawk War?”

The Major's face blanches.

“Ten? A hundred?” the caller persists.

In a voice almost too low to hear, the Major says, “Too many. And hopefully not a soul more. Now get back to sleep.” He hops down from the trunk.

“As if anyone could sleep after that alarm,” Mrs. Joyner grumbles.

“The man's just doing the job we elected him to do,” Mr. Joyner says. “Back into the wagon.”

Jefferson glares after Major Craven. “That was a lot of ruckus about nothing,” he says.

“Guess we better sleep under the wagons or inside the circle from now on,” I say.

“It's not true, what he said.”

“He's not talking about the Cherokee.”

“But back home they said all that about the Cherokee—that we were thieves and worse—and it's not true. You remember when Dan Hutchings killed his brother-in-law?”

“Sure.” It was a big scandal in Dahlonega. They'd been arguing over a piece of land that Dan said was his, through his wife. He hung for it.

Jefferson stares off at nothing. “Dan was a white man, as white as they come,” he says. “And nobody ever said he did it because white men are savages. But one Indian does
something bad, and suddenly all of them are bad.”

In the moonlight, his profile looks more Cherokee than ever. Mama used to say that Jefferson had a noble dignity about him, which was her way of pointing out his Indian blood while pretending to be polite. He doesn't seem noble to me. He's just Jeff.

“No one thinks you're bad,” I say softly.

He turns on me, eyes flashing. “That's not . . . I mean . . .”

“I knew a lot of Indians back when I was a little girl, and not a one of them was bad. And I know you, and you're the best person I know. Do you want me to walk on over to Major Craven and spit in his eye?”

“'Course not,” he says, but I've coaxed a little smile out of him.

“I could probably hit it at five paces.”

He says nothing, but his eyes rove my face, and he gets a strange expression.

My cheeks warm. “Come on,” I say, tossing my saddlebags and blanket under the Joyners' wagon. “Let's go find your boot.”