Under a Painted Sky (3 page)

ANNAMAE'S DARK PUPILS WIDEN A FRACTION, AND
she begins to knead her scar with her thumb. “It's a long way to California.”

“A friend of my father's is headed that way,” I say. “I've got business with him.”

She begins to pace again, but only goes back and forth once before stopping in front of me. Her gaze comes to rest on a bloodstain on my robe. “If we're going, we best get you something to wear.”

“We?”

“I'm going with you. I should've left two hours ago to meet my Moses wagon. It's probably long gone now.” Her mouth sets into a grim line.

She was planning to escape? While I never heard of a “Moses” wagon, Father told me wagons were used as part of the Underground Railroad movement to free the slaves. “But they hang runaways.”

“Then we'll swing side by side. I asked God to send me the right wagon, and now I think you's it. Alone, people will think I'm a runaway. But with you, maybe I can fool 'em.”

“It won't be easy. I just killed a man, and they will come after us.” My throat goes dry at the notion. “And I don't know the way, exactly.”

“Don't want safety, only freedom.”

Before I can answer, she says, “Be right back. Have a sandwich.” She closes the door behind her.

The tray holds two thick wedges and a pot of tea. If I tried to send anything down the hatch, my stomach would throw it back up again.

Blood oozes out of Yorkshire's nostrils like two earthworms. By now, the entire pillow beneath his head is soaked with blood, the same blood that covers my arms. I bend over the tub and scour it from my body, trying not to look at the red stain on the lip.

Pressing a washcloth to my face, I steam out my grimace.

No one will believe that Ty Yorkshire's death was an accident. Six months here, and people still refused to shake Father's yellow hand. They will send men after us. With luck, the sheriff won't discover my crime until morning. Leaving now will give us a good seven or eight hours before they sound the alarm. By then, God willing, we will be on the Oregon Trail, though first we need to cross the Missouri River.

Annamae returns, holding a basket of clothes and a saddlebag. She sets the basket on the floor.

“Two girls on the run. Not ideal,” I mutter, jamming my feet into a skirt.

“I can't decide what sticks out more, you's yella face or my black one.” She stuffs a sandwich into her mouth.

I shake out a blue flannel shirt. Too big. I throw it back into the basket. Then a thought wiggles into my head. I press a pair of trousers to my waist.

“What if we weren't two girls, but two young men, off to make our fortunes in the gold fields?”

Annamae puts her fists on her hips and frowns at the basket.

Then she unbuttons her dress.

We layer up for warmth and to give ourselves some manly bulk. I don't have much going on upstairs. Thank God for small favors. Annamae, though, has bigger problems. She takes a knife from her saddlebag and cuts the two pink ties off her apron. The ties are trimmed with a bit of cream-colored lace. Yorkshire spared no expense in his unseemly operation. Jamming one of the ties and the knife back into the bag, she uses the other tie to bind her bosom. “Always thought these would be the end of me. There's been talk of Mr. Yorkshire replacing Ginny, his older Negress. She's already thirty-three.”

I shudder at the thought of being conscripted into Yorkshire's stable, an employment that would be worse than death. Plucking the gun from Yorkshire's holster, I place it on the floor. It's a Colt Dragoon pistol, a handsome five-shot firearm with a sharp nose. Mr. Trask kept one just like it in a cigar box by his cash register.

“You know how to shoot that?” asks Annamae, buttoning her third shirt.

“Only how not to shoot my foot,” I answer.

Even on its tightest setting, Yorkshire's belt drops off my hips. It needs another hole. I set it on the floor, then position the prong of the belt a few inches past the last eyelet. The black book on the bedside table might do the trick. “Could you get me that Bible?”

She fetches it and kneels down next to me. “Which verse you want?”

“God helps those who help themselves,” I say, though I doubt that one's in the book. “Quickly, use the book and help me knock in a hole.”

She clasps the Bible to her chest. “You want me to be struck down?”

“Oh, sorry. Here, hold the pointy part against the strap, like this.” I show her. Putting down the Bible, she takes the belt, and pokes the prong into the leather where I want it.

I take up the Good Book myself, then in one swift movement whack it down over the metal prong, driving it into the leather. I pray that nobody heard.

“Sweet Jesus!” Annamae cries out. Her mouth opens in horror.

“Thank you, Lord,” I whisper piously. My heart pounds hard enough to knock some of its own holes through my chest.

The belt still slings low across my hips, but maybe it will give me a boyish swagger. I reholster the gun, hoping I will never need to use it, especially since I don't know how to load it.

Annamae pats down Yorkshire's pockets. She recovers a few dollars and a powder horn, then pulls two gold rings off his pinkie fingers. Shoving them into her saddlebag, she stands back to examine me. Her eyes land on my wet hair. “We need hats.”

“He doesn't need his anymore.” I unhook Yorkshire's black hat and hand it to her. “Wide brim, it'll hide your face.”

“There's more downstairs. Miss Betsy probably still watching the front so we'll go out the back. But hush, mind you. She got rabbit ears.”

Annamae stuffs the last sandwich into her saddlebag, while I sling on my violin case, pulling the strap extra-tight. All the layers slow my movement, and the gun hangs heavy against my thigh, but I might as well get used to it. No longer am I Samantha Young, the curious-looking miss from Bowery Lane in New York City. I am a desperado.

I wipe my palms on my trousers and try to stop breathing so loudly. Slowly, Annamae opens the door.

After dropping the key into the laundry chute in the hallway, Annamae leads the way to the back of the hotel. Shadows thrown by sconces along the burgundy walls give the illusion that the hallway's on fire. I stick close to Annamae and try not to think about Father in the Whistle.

We tiptoe downstairs and through another burning corridor leading to the back entryway. A rack of antlers yields an assortment of hats and coats. Annamae slips into a wool frock coat, while I cram my hair into the plainest hat I can find, appalled at the ease with which I've gone from law-abiding citizen to wanton criminal.
Father, you raised me better, but I'm out of choices right now.

I reach for a coat, but the
shhh, tap
of a scraping cane freezes my hand. Annamae grabs my wrist and pulls me to the door. She yanks it open. As soon as we both clear the doorway, she pauses for a heart-stopping moment to ease it shut without making a sound. Then we dash away toward St. Francis Street.

After half a block, my legs shake like a newborn foal's. Annamae is not even breathing hard. The fabric of her frock coat swishes rhythmically as she pumps her arms up and down. She has slipped into her disguise as easily as if she's been wearing men's clothes all her life, her shoulders forming solid bumps even under the many layers.

By contrast, my garments feel like they're wearing me, not the other way around. “I can't,” I wheeze, pausing to catch my breath.

She grabs a fistful of my shirt and hauls me forward. “Oh yes you can.”

The uneven roadway and my oversized trousers vie for who can trip me first, but I manage to make it to the street corner.

Annamae glances back toward La Belle Hotel. No one is following us.

On St. Francis Street, a line of covered wagons stretches as far as I can see, and then all the way back to St. Louis, three hundred miles away. People from as far away as Maine journey to St. Joe, the step-off point into the Wild West, which lies on the other side of the Missouri. Teams of four to twenty oxen or mules fidget and snort, rocking their “prairie schooners,” as they are called. We hurry by men hunched over their cigarettes or sleeping on their wagon benches as they wait for their turn on the ferry.

We also pass men on horseback, most between the ages of fifteen and forty. Like the Greek heroes who quested after the golden fleece, these “Argonauts” seek gold, following the Oregon Trail until it diverges south to California. They aim not to homestead, but to strike it rich before the gold runs out. Plenty of them stopped by the Whistle, on the hunt for last-minute necessities like rolling paper for their tobacco. Argonauts are not women.

Moving silently as fog, we reach the wagon closest to the water and duck behind a pile of sandbags, out of view. My breath comes in gulps, and I collapse into an ungainly heap on the ground. I know the distance between La Belle Hotel and the riverfront to be less than half a mile, but it feels as if I have run clear back to New York.

Annamae hauls me up with one hand. “Look.” She points over the sandbags. To our right, the first wagon jostles about, its team skittish and alert. On our left, the wagon second in line seems to have shut down for the night, its driver slumped back in his seat, and his oxen still.

The shoreline lies ahead of the first wagon by ten yards. There, several men warm their hands around a bonfire, including the ferry master, a man in a naval cap. The flames burn bright enough to light the adjacent ferry building, which is little more than a shack with a counter and a clock.

The ferry's last run is at ten thirty. I hiss in my breath when I note the time: a whisker past ten.

“We need to be on the next ferry,” I whisper, just as a bell clangs to signal the ferry's return journey. River current drives the ferry, which is really just a wooden platform, held on course by a cable running from one shore to the other. I've only seen it carry one wagon at a time.

“We better pray no one's inside,” says Annamae, nodding to the first wagon. “I'll go see.”

The bonfire crackles and spews out a few embers.

“Wait, hand me the powder horn,” I say. “If we're going to stow away, we'll need a distraction.”

Annamae rummages through her saddlebag, while I pull a handkerchief from my violin case. She leaves me the horn, then sneaks off. With her dark coat and black hat, the night swallows her in moments. I sprinkle gunpowder into my handkerchief, then knot it into a bundle.

Annamae hurries back to me. “Something blocking the back, so I couldn't see much. But I didn't hear no sounds.”

I grimace. “It's either that one or wait until morning.”

She shakes her head.

“Meet you at the back of the wagon in a few seconds,” I say. Then I inhale some courage and walk toward the bonfire. All present peer out at the oncoming ferry, whose oil lanterns illuminate its inky path. Every inch of me wants to flee. I force my feet to a stroll, like I have not a care in the world.

When I get to the bonfire, a few of the ten or so men turn their heads but none of their gazes linger on me. I fake interest in the oncoming ferry, hoping the dark obscures my features. When no one's looking, I drop the bundle at the fire's edge.

Then I head back toward Annamae, taking long strides. After a few seconds, the packet explodes.

I sprint. Men grab their hats and hit the ground. Animals scream, rearing up and trying to break out of their yokes. Whips and curses fly as their owners scramble to bring their teams back under control.

I reach our wagon, still heaving as its oxen try to flee. Annamae jams our gear through the back opening, then hauls herself in after it, squeezing by a large wooden object. I suck in my stomach and wedge in after her. Please, God, let us be the only ones aboard.

I spy farm equipment and feed, but nothing with a pulse. The wooden object that blocks the back opening is a clock as tall as the canvas ceiling. I exhale in sweet relief.