Walk on Earth a Stranger (19 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

L
ate the next morning, we spot a mound of dirt ringed with rocks, staring down at us from high on a hill. A small wooden cross made of not-quite-straight branches stands guard over it. The grave can't be more than a week old, but already the cross lists to the side. There's no headstone that I can see—no name, nothing to mark who this person was, who they left behind, or who carries on without them.

Major Craven and some of the Missouri men climb the hill to investigate. Moments later, they gesture wildly at one another, their angry voices carrying on the wind.

Mrs. Joyner leans over from the wagon seat. “What's going on?”

“I don't know, ma'am.”

“Well, go find out.”

So Peony and I climb the hill and discover that the grave has been scraped open. I catch a glimpse of pale, gray skin before Major Craven and his men shovel dirt to quickly cover
it up.

“What happened?” I asked.

Major Craven shakes his head sadly. “The grave was desecrated.”

I'm about to ask about the person buried here, but Mr. Joyner crests the rise. “Go back to the wagon and make sure Mrs. Joyner keeps it rolling,” he orders.

“Yes, sir.” I turn Peony around and go right back the way I came.

“So, what was it?” Mrs. Joyner asks.

“Something dug up the grave,” I tell her. “Maybe wolves or wild dogs. They're covering it up again.”

“But who was in it?”

I shake my head. “Don't know, ma'am.”

She frowns.

As we ride on, she cranes her neck, keeping the hill in view for as long as possible.

I can't stop thinking about my glimpse of dead flesh. Maybe it was a girl like me. I've got no family, no friends besides Jefferson. If I die, I'll end up in a shallow grave like that one, unnamed and unremembered.

About an hour later, the wagons stop for a short break, and Mr. Joyner catches up with us.

“It was Indians,” he announces.

“Oh, how terrible,” Mrs. Joyner says, covering her mouth.

“Indians killed him?” Jefferson asks. He's tight and coiled on the sorrel mare, like a thunderstorm about to let loose.

“It was a her, not a him. And no, looks like natural causes
did it,” Mr. Joyner says. “But Indians dug up the grave. They stole the girl's clothes. Even the blanket she was wrapped in.”

Mrs. Joyner shakes her head in vigorous denial.

I'm about to point out that we can't know what they stole if we didn't see what the poor girl was buried with in the first place, but I decide it won't do any good.

Mr. Joyner says, “Truly, these savages have no fear of God nor love of the white man.”

Jefferson rides off on the sorrel mare.

I almost ride after him, but I'm not sure he wants company. I'm not sure I want company either.

I don't know what to think about the Indians. Seems to me we don't really know anything about them. We don't even know what we don't know.

I avoid the Joyners when we stop for lunch. My appetite is gone, anyway. I keep thinking of that poor girl, with no family, out here all alone and even her grave dug up.

By the time we're moving again, I'm regretting my decision to skip lunch, and hunger makes me even grumpier. When I see Jefferson riding toward me, I almost steer Peony away. A strange look on his face makes me pull her up instead.

“What is it?” I ask

“They're saying it's cholera,” he whispers.

A chill rolls down my spine. Mama told me about cholera. “Where?” I ask. “Here?”

“It's what killed that girl we found. Cholera morbus. There was a sign on the grave.”

I didn't see any sign. They must have moved it before I got
there. “Morbus? What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “I think it means they're dead.”

Cholera usually springs up in big cities. A wagon train isn't a big city, but it's definitely dirty and crowded. We're all jammed together, treading over the same ground and cooking and sleeping, hour after hour, day after day, in the same tracks as the wagons before us. It's not like a barn that I can muck out and clean up. It's just muck.

“Are you sure?”

“They were trying to keep it quiet, but some of the Arkansas men already have it. They've moved away from the rest of the wagons, but they're afraid to go too far because of Indians.”

“Too weak to go too far either, I reckon.”

“I reckon.”

I don't know who is buried in that grave we left behind this morning, but now I know why they put the body up high, where everyone could see it. Not as a memorial, but as a warning.

Mr. Bledsoe, the Arkansas sheep farmer, catches the cholera and sickens fast. So fast that Jasper says he was probably sick already—maybe even in the early stages of consumption. Whatever the reason, within a day he's flat on his back and must be tended by his men.

I suspect Mr. Joyner is also sick. When the wagon train starts up the next morning, he seems more irritable than usual and frequently excuses himself, disappears for a while,
then rushes to catch up.

My stomach is in knots, partly from worry, because anyone could catch the cholera. Anyone. And partly because it's my monthly time. I have to slip away constantly to rinse my rags and change them for fresh ones. By evening, Jefferson has noticed. “You aren't sick, are you?” He looks me all over, up and down, as if checking for ticks.

“Not like that,” I say.

“You'd tell me if you were, right?”

“Of course.”

“You shouldn't go off alone.”

“I have to.”

“Take me with you, at least.”

“No.”

“I'm not worried about Indians, but it's easy to get lost out—”

“Jeff!” I whisper frantically. “It's my monthly time!”

He gives me a blank look. Then understanding dawns. “Oh.” I swear, if not for his swarthy skin, he'd be blushing down to the roots of his black hair.

As soon as the wagon train stops for the night, I ride off on Peony to take care of things. It's too late; I've got a bloodstain on my pants. I find a muddy stream and scrub it out as best I can, glad it wasn't worse.

The sound of moaning reaches me long before I've made it back to camp. It's Mr. Joyner. As I near the wagon, I realize he's not alone in his vocal misery. The Arkansas men are a regular choir of retching and grunting and begging for clean
water. The air is starting to smell peculiar.

Mrs. Joyner hands a cup of water through the bonnet opening, then leans wearily against the back of the box. Her skin is pale, and strands of blonde hair stick to her sweaty forehead. I hope she isn't sick too. If she is, then taking care of the children will surely fall to me. I know what my mama would tell me to do right now.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” I say, intending to offer help.

“Where have you been?” she snaps.

“Had my own business to take care of.”

“From now on your only business is Mr. Joyner. Do you understand me?”

I glare at her.

“I asked you a question, you—”

“Ma'am!” I interrupt, because if she calls me names, it'll go too far to make better. “I've done all my assigned work. If you're unhappy with it, then you can pay me seven dollars per our agreement, and we can part ways.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then: “You can't do that.”

“If you want to call me names, then it's time for me to go. I'll head back to Independence if I need to.”

Once the words leave my mouth, I realize they're not true at all. I'm for California or bust, regardless of loathsome uncles and uppity employers. I suppose I could ride on, catch up with the next wagon train, see if they wanted to hire me. Maybe Jefferson would come too. We might have to leave, anyway, if Mr. Joyner doesn't get well.

My threat has the desired effect; it takes the spine right
out of her so that she seems to shrink into herself. “That's not necessary. I just . . . With Mr. Joyner under the weather for a bit, I could use some extra help.”

“I have to take care of myself occasionally, but the rest of the time I'm happy to do what I can.”

“Mr. Kingfisher doesn't go off nearly as often as you do,” she points out.

“I . . . prefer privacy and modesty. Way my mama raised me.”

Her eyes narrow, but she nods. “Do you mind setting up the table for lunch? As close to the wagon as possible—If Mr. Joyner feels better, he may attempt to share our company.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say.

“I want that tablecloth perfectly straight. Mr. Joyner does love a tidy tablecloth.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And could you pick some flowers for the table? In times of sickness and trouble, it's more important than ever to hold to the tenets of civilized living.”

I sigh. “Yes, ma'am.”

The table is harder to wrangle by myself than I expected. I could use Jefferson's help, but he's nowhere to be seen. I can't rightly complain after disappearing myself.

Once the table is on solid footing, the wings extended, and the braces in place, I spread out her checked tablecloth. I unpack their box of fine china plates and silver and put out four place settings. I wander far afield to find a few clumps of violet prairie clover, and I pick the best ones for the vase.

When I return, Mrs. Joyner is crouched over the cook fire. The Dutch oven sits nestled in the coals. The lid rattles, loosing bits of steam.

“What's cooking?” I ask.

She looks up, startled, and her eyes are wet and her cheeks blotchy. She seems as helpless as a babe, and I feel sixteen different kinds of sorry for her and for every harsh thing I ever thought about her.

After a sniffle, she takes a rag and lifts the edge of the pot. “Water, I think.”

“No one can mess up water,” I say, and I realize it sounds like an insult, but she just smiles in response.

“Where are Andrew and Olive?” she asks with a start.

I spied them earlier, playing with the Robichaud twins. “They're fine, perfectly safe, over with our Canadian friends.”

She starts to rise but doesn't seem to have enough energy for it. She sags back down to her knees, her hand on her belly. “I should fetch them. The Robichauds are very kind, but they don't want to be bothered.”

“I'm sure it's no bother.”

“You know, I'm not even sure they're
Christian
. Mrs. Robichaud says they never put much stock in religion. Can you imagine?”

“How about I check on them? In the meantime, if you toss some oats in that water, they ought to be ready enough before we load up again. Mr. Joyner might like something plain.” My daddy always liked plain food best when he was feeling sick.

“That's an excellent idea. I'll get started on it.”

I turn to go after the children, but Mrs. Joyner calls out. “Mr. McCauley?”

I stop. “Yes, ma'am.”

“I don't mean to drive you away.”

“We're fine, ma'am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

Nothing out here is really fine or perfect. We just have to do the best we can.

Mrs. Robichaud sees me coming and waves.

She's seated on a trunk, sipping tea, wearing a light yellow calico with lace trim. She was smart to bring a warm-weather dress. “It feels already like a summer of Canada,” she says. “I don't know what it is I am to do when it makes hot.”

“When it gets hot.”

“‘When it gets hot,'” she intones.

“I'm sure you'll be fine,” I say. “Thank you for watching Andrew and Olive.” I don't see them anywhere. Maybe they're playing nearby.

She flips her hand as if it's nothing. “How are Mr. and Missus Joyner?”

“They'll be fine,” I say. I sound just like Mama, assuring everyone about Daddy. “It will pass.”

“Poor Missus Joyner,” she says. “Her and Missus Lowrey.”

“What's that?” I can't imagine what Mrs. Joyner and the preacher's wife have in common. Maybe the reverend is sick
too. Then I remember that Mrs. Lowrey is hugely pregnant.

“Ah,” I say, recalling how often I've seen Mrs. Joyner with a hand on her belly. No wonder she's so tired and troubled.

Mrs. Robichaud smiles sadly. “She has much to worry herself, yes? It is to be very bad if she gets sick.”

“I'll do what I can to help.”

“I know. I gave the
enfants
some food for lunch,” she says. “I hope that is good.”

“Very good,” I say. “I'm sure the Joyner
children
were pleased.”

“My own
children
are not feeling so well. I think they have, I don't know the word,
la rougeole
.”

I have no idea what she means, but her face is grave. “Sorry to hear that.”

“I hope Andy and Olive do not catch it. I sent them back to their mother a few minutes ago, for to be safe.”

“Thank you,” I say. They probably returned by way of the generous Hoffmans, hoping for a treat. “I hope the twins feel better soon.”

I make my good-byes and wander away, my mind still churning over the news of Mrs. Joyner's pregnancy.

Mrs. Lowrey, the preacher's wife, is alone on her wagon bench, mending a bonnet.

“Beg your pardon, ma'am,” I say.

Mrs. Lowrey jumps, startled. She's a small woman, mousey and plain, with a belly as big as a barn. She almost never leaves the wagon; her husband keeps her under tight rein. He would probably loathe what I'm about to suggest.

“I know you're busy, Mrs. Lowrey, but with Mr. Joyner sick and all, Mrs. Joyner could use—Well, not a hand, maybe, so much as an ear. It'd be a blessing if you could check in on her, and maybe offer to pray with her.”