Every Hidden Thing (19 page)

“Proud people,” he said. “Won't let himself be helped.”

The Indian boy stared at me scornfully for a moment, then back down at the earth. I wondered what he thought of me. A liar? Part of Cartland's crew? I wanted to explain but didn't know how. I was shocked at how bloodied and swollen he was. He seemed a lot smaller down on the ground, arms yanked back.

“I owe you a sincere apology, Samuel.”

I looked up to see Professor Cartland strolling over with the lieutenant.

“We have the real vandal here, as you see. I hope Friar wasn't too hard on you—though from what I saw, you punch above your weight. Your father's son to be sure.”

His words were friendly enough, but his smile was forced.

“He visited us first,” I said, nodding at the boy, “with three others. They went through our things pretty thoroughly. I think they were looking for heads.”

I didn't say any more; I wanted the rest to come from him. He didn't disappoint me.

“So they were.” He told a breezy version of how they'd collected the heads. He didn't mention the tooth. “I suppose
smashing our quarry was their way of getting back at us.”

“Do you think it might be an idea,” said Ned, “to give back the heads and let the boy go? Might make a more peaceable atmosphere for all of us out here.”

“Thank you for your advice, Mr. Plaskett,” the professor replied stiffly. “We'll be releasing him tomorrow.”

“We just came to warn you,” I said.

“And we're much obliged,” said the lieutenant. “You'll stay the night. Not a good idea to be out after dark tonight. There should be dinner before long.”

“We've already eaten, but thank you,” said Ned.

“Have a second dinner,” said the lieutenant affably.

By Cartland's sour expression I could tell he wasn't happy about this. Maybe he was worried we'd sneak around and peek at his finds—which was exactly what my father wanted us to do.

“That's very hospitable,” Ned said.

When I saw Rachel, I kept my face tight because I worried it would betray the sheer happiness of seeing her again.

“Miss Cartland, hello,” I said. I watched her eyes as they traveled across my bruised face.

“I hope your face isn't too badly off,” she said.

“I'm fine, thank you. Ned and I just came over to let you know there were Indians around. But you've already figured that out.”

“Yes, but thank you very much.”

“I'm sorry about what they did to your quarry.”

“There's a few things to salvage, I hope.”

It was hard to think very well, because I was so hungry to look
at her and try to breathe in her scent, but she was too far away. She was very good at this pretend formality.

After dinner I went to get my bedroll from my horse. And as I was coming back through the shadowed camp, Rachel appeared suddenly at my side.

“I'm so sorry about what happened,” she said.

There were a few soldiers and students around, but as long as we walked cordially side by side, no one was paying any attention.

“I'm all right. It made me sick to see those bones. After all the work you did.”

“Well. There are more fossils out there.”

“And you'll find them. You're like a divining rod.”

She grazed my fingers with hers. How simple a touch was. Heat coursed from my ears and cheeks. I wanted to take her and kiss her.

“I've missed you,” I said quietly, but my heart beat loud in my ears. I felt like I was running too fast down a hill. Could only go faster to keep from falling over. “I'm sorry for the mean things I said last time. I'm an idiot. Did you know that since meeting you, there hasn't been a single day—not even a single hour—when I didn't think of you?”

Looking straight ahead, she said quietly, “You make regular appearances in my thoughts too.”

“I played that word game with myself. It was terrible.”

This made her laugh. “Well, you're not very good at it.”

“No, I meant every word just reminded me of you.”

“Every word?”

“
Every
word!”

She shook her head. “You're absurd.”

“I missed your smell. That place at the base of your neck.”

I glanced over and even in the twilight saw the dark bloom in her cheeks.

“Don't make me blush,” she said.

“I'd wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to get back to sleep. It was like you were haunting me. Once I begged you to let me sleep, and you did.”

“Ridiculous,” she said. “Listen. The tooth I took, it belonged to the Sioux boy's father. That was his body we beheaded. His own
father
was the one who found the Black Beauty.”

I was so startled I had to force myself not to turn to her. This very boy was the son of the man who'd owned the Black Beauty and ridden it into battle. “He told you all this?”

She nodded. “Papa's making him take us to the place it was found.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

I kept walking, looking straight ahead. On my way here I'd made a plan—a bold and crazy one. Now I saw it crinkling up like a scrap of paper in a bonfire.

“Why would he help you?” I asked.

“Papa says he'll give him back the tooth and heads.”

“Will he?”

“I don't think so.”

It was a physical pain, a clenching up below my ribs, to think
of the Black Beauty going to Cartland. And this, too: I'd always imagined Rachel and me finding it together.

“Did he say where it was?” I asked.

“He described a place upriver, near some hoodoos.”

“Which are everywhere. It's probably a lie—I don't see why he'd help you.”

“That's why Papa's making him come with us.”

I hesitated a moment, then said, “Better hope he doesn't get free tonight and steal the heads and tooth.”

She nodded toward a covered wagon. “Even if he found the specimen wagon, he'd have trouble getting the tooth from Papa's tent.”

“He keeps it inside his tent?”

Professor Cartland himself came into view and stared at me in a way I didn't like. I said good night to Rachel and found Ned. We settled down around the fire with some of the Yalies and listened to them sing, and even joined in on a few songs. But all the singing was just background noise in my head as I made my own plans.

T
HE NIGHT COOLED. THE FIRE CRACKLED
down to embers. Gradually the camp went to sleep, leaving only the distant murmur of the sentries.

Ned's snores came and went. I would not let myself doze off. My mind was busy, body tingling with hot panic at what I was about to do. A breeze came up, and the moon's glow was shuttered by brisk clouds. From where I lay, there was just enough light to see the form of the Sioux boy against the wagon. I couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep. There was no one guarding him. They must've been pretty confident in their knots.

I waited for the sentry to change and the camp to go silent again. Barefoot, I slid from my bedroll. I made my way toward the wagon Rachel had pointed out, the same place Daniel Simpson had taken the burlap sack. I was pretty sure this was where they
kept the specimens. If I was spotted, I'd say I was on my way to the latrine and gotten lost.

Inside the wagon I shut the flaps. Dug in my pocket for matches and candle. I cupped the flame with my palm. Shelves were filled with small crates and open boxes with rock-encrusted bones. Burlap sacks were everywhere, and I had to look through several before I found the heads.

Back outside I moved quickly. No way of explaining this if I was stopped.
What's in the sack, boy?
Nothing much, just a change of clothes and a shaving kit and bar of soap. Oh, and a couple heads.

I reached Professor Cartland's large tent, set down the sack of heads. The flap hung shut but wasn't buttoned. I crouched and listened, then folded back the tent flap so that a little moonlight spilled inside. I took a silent step. I dared not light the candle in case the smell roused him. He was a dark shape at the back of the tent. There was a little folding chair where he'd laid out his clothes. I saw his jacket and patted the pockets. Nothing. My neck and armpits prickled hotly. Several stacked suitcases made a dressing table. On top was a shaving kit. I took a step closer and opened it up. Razor, strop, soap, mirror. I lifted the tray and underneath saw the silhouette of something long and pointed.

“Yes yes,” the professor said, sitting up.

My flexed hand froze above his shaving kit. I couldn't see his eyes, just the outline of his cannonball head. The light was behind me. I was just a shadow to him—I could run for it, dive into my
bedroll, and fake sleep before he raised hell. But I just stood.

“Yes yes,” he said again, and lay back down. He began to snore lightly. Heart clattering, I stood for a few moments longer, then lifted the tooth from the shaving kit.

I backed out and closed the flap, feeling like I was about to suffocate. I wouldn't let myself take a breath until I was several paces from the tent. Then I gasped air into my lungs.

When I padded closer to the Sioux boy, his eyes opened in surprise, then went straight to the small knife I'd taken from my pocket. I put my finger to my lips. Mimed what I meant to do. He stayed quiet.

I opened the sack with the heads so he could look inside. Crouching beside him, I started cutting the rope around his wrists. I worried about the sound. The boy kept looking back impatiently. Maybe wondering how I could take so long, maybe planning on attacking me when he was free. I sawed through the last cord and moved away. Knife ready in case he tried anything.

He looked at me uncertainly. From my pocket I pulled out the tooth, held it out to him. When he took it, I turned my palms upward, swept a hand out across the dark horizon, asking the question with my eyes. I'd pinned all my hopes on this. That he'd be grateful. That he'd tell me where the tooth was found. Assuming he even knew.

He began drawing in the dirt. An undulating line, which I assumed was the badlands river. He made a mark nested in one deep bend and looked up at me, making sure I understood.
Cartland's camp. I nodded. He continued drawing. I marveled that he knew the river's path so well. He drew a tight S curve and then, off to the east, far from the river, he deftly outlined three steep slopes. They looked like shrouded nuns.

“There?” I breathed. “That's where this came from?” I touched the tooth.

He looked at me, gave a single nod, then stood in a crouch. He looked toward the edges of the camp, where, at intervals, you could see a dim spill of lantern light from the sentries. Without a backward look at me, he took the sack and the tooth and started off toward the river. He disappeared among the shadows. I didn't know what more I could do for him.

I waited a moment more. Half expecting to hear a shout, or worse, a shot fired. All was quiet. He must be clear by now. How long, though, would it be before he was noticed missing?

I stared hard at the map he'd drawn, at those three hills. I couldn't remember seeing anything like them. Who knew how large or small they were? Who knew whether they existed at all? I memorized each turn of the river. With my finger, I drew the map myself and compared it to the original. I was good at shapes. Then I erased both maps with my palm. But I wanted to commit it to paper as quickly as possible. I had a pencil in my sleeping roll.

I couldn't sleep. My mind raced with all that had happened. I went to unbutton my tent flaps to let in some cooler air, when I heard footsteps. They weren't the steady tread of a soldier—they
were the sneaky steps of someone trying to be very quiet. My first thought was:
the Sioux boy
. I felt a quick squeeze of fear but crawled forward and parted the flaps to peek out.

I caught the familiar outline of Samuel, head hanging even lower than usual as he tiptoed past.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

He started and looked down at me.

“Latrine,” he said in the most unconvincing way a person could.

“No, you're not.”

He squinted. “How would you know?”

He looked so guilty. “What have you done?”

“Shhhh,” he said, looking frantically over his shoulder.

I heard the footsteps too. It was instinct: I grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him inside the tent. He tumbled down onto the blankets, and the pale moonlight was cut off as I closed the flaps and did up the buttons. I hoped it smelled all right inside.

The footsteps—certainly a soldier coming on or off duty—passed by, and then the only sound was me trying not to breathe. I sat very still, my fingers resting lightly on the blankets, afraid of touching anything in the dark. I felt his presence acutely. I thought,
He is inside the tent with me
.

Very softly, I heard him move, felt his hand find my leg. I reached for his face, gingerly touched the raised welt around his eye, the rough split in his lip. The darkness was hypnotic. It was like the entire world had now contracted to the pads of
my fingers, all my senses reaching out like the tendrils of an anemone. It was private as the inside of a dream. I wanted him to kiss me more than anything.

His breath against my cheek. “I set him free.”

I pulled back my hand. “What?”

“The Sioux boy. I let him go.”

I was barraged by a volley of thoughts. Of course it was right he was set free; I'd told Papa to do it myself. A boy beaten and tied up—it was disgusting. But the Black Beauty—he was supposed to guide us there.

“Why?” I demanded. “To sabotage my father?”

“The boy wasn't going to help you anyway! He hates you all. You sawed off his father's head—”

“
I
didn't—”

“—stole his father's sacred tooth. Beat him. Why would he tell your father anything? He probably wanted to lead you all into an ambush so they could kill you. I might've saved your lives!”

We were both angry, whispering directly into each other's ears. His lips grazed my lobe, and for a moment I lost track of what I meant to say. I pulled my head back.

“Stop making excuses. You just don't want my father to find it!”

“That's right,” he said fiercely. “I
don't
want him to find it. I want
us
to find it.”

“What do you mean?” This was just like all the other rash, ridiculous things he said.

“The boy told
me
where it was.”

“Just like that?”

“Yep. After I cut him loose. Do you have paper and pencil? I want to get it down before I forget.”

I heard him rooting around in his pockets and then a match strike. His eyes shone bright. I held the wick of my candle to his flame.

“Listen,” he said, “the map he drew for me was nothing like the route he told your father.”

“How do you know he's not lying to you?”

“Well, I gave him the heads back.” He paused, then winced. “And your tooth.”

“You wretch!” It was like a slap. Even though I'd urged my father to do exactly the same thing. That tooth was my first find. On its own it was incredibly valuable, and he'd just bargained it away. “You had no right to do that!”

“I know. But it got us a map!”

Another thought careened into my head. “You went
inside
my father's tent?”

He nodded. In the fluttering light he saw the notebook beside my bedroll and pointed to it hopefully.

“Can I just draw it, please?”

I handed the book to him, along with a pencil. For the next few minutes I watched as he traced out a map, erasing little bits, redoing them.

“I think that's right,” he murmured. “I think so.” He closed the book and gave it to me. “I want this to be ours. I want us to find it.”

I shook my head. “You keep saying that. But how?”

“We don't need our fathers' help. Or permission. We'll strike out on our own.”

I got the sense he was making this up on the spot. It was too outlandish to take seriously. “You don't have a practical bone in your body. We have no equipment.”

He leaned closer and whispered his plan to me: how we could team up with the Barnum man, Ethan Withrow. He had the manpower, and we had the know-how. We'd make a deal with him and lead him to the site, and together we'd excavate the Black Beauty. And claim the finder's fee.

So he
had
given this some thought, quite a lot. For a moment I let the plan hang there, wavering like a mirage. Then I scowled at his naivete. “And the scandal we'd create, running off together? You haven't taken that into account.”

“We'd already be married,” he said, looking straight at me. His warm eyes.

“You're not serious.”

“We'll find the skeleton together as man and wife. Will you marry me?”

It was like a gunpowder explosion in my head, my thoughts little bits of shrapnel.

“You look horrified,” he said.

I blew out the candle. The darkness was calming, but I still couldn't think properly.

“This is abrupt” was all I could say.

“You've never thought about it?” he asked.
“Never?”

Of course I had, idly, fleetingly, especially in those drifting moments before sleep, or when I imagined how a man's touch might feel. But in the morning such thoughts seemed flimsy and illogical as dreams.

“How would we get married?” I demanded. It was the first coherent thought that came to me.

I heard him exhale in exasperation.
“How?”

“Where?” It was hardly the most important issue, but it bought me time to think.

“Well, Crowe. It would have to be Crowe.”

“We'd elope?”

“Yes. We'd get the justice of the peace to marry us. Are you saying yes?”

I said nothing. My eyes cast about frantically in the darkness.

“Yes” meant my father cutting me off. “Yes” meant he would most definitely
not
pay for me to go to university—and right now there was still a chance he would. “Yes” meant good-bye to my comfortable home, to my lovely library, where I sketched Father's specimens.

But I would always be a mere helper, while his own fossils and articles multiplied like treasure. Meanwhile my own frustration and loneliness would divide and subdivide until they filled me like a cancer. At best I would teach school and become the odd lady who collected fossils around New Haven.

“Yes” meant Sam's curly hair and his fine body and his big feet and slouch and his improved kissing and his bacon smell. But . . .

“Would you let me go to university?” I demanded.

“Of course! You deserve it.”

“And you'd pay for it?”

“Even if it were my last penny.”

“And let me work in the field?

“Well. Only if it was with me.”

If anything was likely to make me swoon, it was talk like this. But before I could say anything at all, people outside were shouting, “Fire! Fire on the hill!”