Walk on Earth a Stranger (23 page)

A movement to my left catches my eye. It's Reverend Lowrey, huddled in the shadowed lee of the wagon. He's on his knees in prayer.

The wagon's curtain is whisked aside. “Ma'am?” I say, expecting to see Mrs. Lowrey.

It's Mrs. Joyner. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and her hands are bloody. It's the first time I've seen her without a cap on her head, and her wet blonde hair is plastered to her face. Her own belly swells as she stands on the back of the wagon bed, wearing the grimmest expression.

“I'm s-sorry,” I stutter, not knowing what I'm sorry for just yet.

She rubs sweat from her forehead with her upper sleeve. My gaze jumps between her bloodied hands and the wagon bed, which is silent and still.

“Not your fault,” she says softly. “Reverend came to get me right after you left. Mrs. Lowrey . . .”

I want to tell her it's all right, that I understand, that she can speak plain to me, woman to woman.
Her water broke. Her laboring came.

“. . . she fell sick last night, I gather. She strained all alone for hours. Reverend didn't get help at first because he said the outcome would be God's will.”

“What?
”

The reverend jumps up at my voice. The Bible dangles from his arm like a piece of overripe fruit. Fingers jammed between the pages mark the passage he was reading. His face is a swirl of worry and hope. I don't know how he can hope. Surely he hears the silence.

Mrs. Joyner shakes her head.

The reverend opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I came too late,” she says. “I'll tell the others. See if there's someone who can come stay with you.”

“The babe?” he squeaks out.

“I'm sorry.”

He doesn't respond, just stands frozen. For the briefest moment, his features twist with gut-wrenching pain.

Then he hefts his Bible and stalks off. “Blessed be to God!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “Even the father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the father of mercies and the God of all comforts, who comforteth us in all our tribulation . . .”

“Can you help me down?” Mrs. Joyner says in a quiet voice.

“Yes, ma'am.”

I offer her my hand, and she practically falls into my arms. I'm lucky I don't topple under her weight.

She steps away from me as soon as she's steady on her feet and wipes her hands on her skirt, as if wiping away my touch. “I need to get back to Mr. Joyner,” she says, her voice trembling. “He still hasn't recovered. This morning's exertions nearly undid him.”

She staggers, and I move to steady her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Let me help you.”

She stiffens, as if to fight me, but common sense prevails. “Thank you.”

I spare one more glance at the preacher's wagon. There's a dead woman inside. Not much older than I am. And she's all alone. Her husband is off stomping around the camp. Mrs. Joyner has to take care of her own family. There's no one to keep Mrs. Lowrey company until she can be prepared for burial. Not that she needs company. She's dead; I know that. But someone should do something.

This has been a terrible day right from the moment I woke, from Major Craven's injury to Mrs. Lowrey's death, and I didn't do a thing to make it better. I froze in panic instead of running from the buffalo. I didn't check on Mrs. Lowrey right away, even though Mrs. Joyner was terrified for her. I didn't say anything to Frank Dilley and his gang of ruffians during the buffalo hunt.

Leah Westfall was never like that. Only Lee McCauley is so scared and useless.

We reach the wagon. Mr. Joyner is propped up on his mattress, looking wan and tired. Olive sits at his feet, playing with a doll.

I'm about to leave when Mrs. Joyner says, “Where's Andy?”

“I thought he was with you,” Mr. Joyner says. “He was bored and whining. I couldn't sleep. So I told him to go find you.”

Mrs. Joyner looks gut-punched. “I was . . . I couldn't . . .
When did you see him last?”

“Hours ago,” he says. “Around lunchtime.”

It's like her chest cracks open and all the air rushes out as she cries anguish.

“He's got to be around here somewhere, ma'am,” I say. I know it's rude to interrupt their conversation, but I can't abide one more bad thing happening today. “I'll go find him.”

She turns around. “Help me down. I'm coming with you.”

There's no point arguing, so I help her down again. This time she practically jumps into my arms and hits the ground running.

She scurries around the circle of the camp so fast I can barely keep up, checking every wagon, asking people if they've seen her little boy. I follow after her, reaching out with the gold sense for my mother's locket. But after one complete circuit of the wagons, I have to admit the worst: The locket is not nearby.

A crowd has gathered around the Reverend Lowrey, who is sermonizing about the many virtues of his late wife, but they shift their attention when Mrs. Joyner comes running up. “Has anyone seen Andy?”

Reverend Lowrey immediately offers to pray for the boy.

“We will turn the whole camp outside in,” Mrs. Robichaud promises. “Where he is hiding, we go to find him.”

I close my eyes and stretch my gold sense out to its limits. The hidden treasure in the Hoffmans' wagon shines like daylight, and Major Craven's cuff links tickle the back of my throat. But the familiar tug of Mama's locket is definitely
nowhere near. “We need search parties,” I say, opening my eyes. “In case he wandered away. I'm going out with whoever wants to go with me.”

Frank shares a meaningful glance with another fellow. “We know where he is,” he says.

“Where?” cries Mrs. Joyner.

“The Indians were eyeing him and his pretty blond hair. They wanted that boy of yours. We find the Indians, we'll find your son.”

“We don't
know
that,” I say. I am done being silent.

“Well, you look wherever you want,” Franks says. “We'll be the ones to find him.” He and several others grab their powder horns and start loading.

The Indians didn't take Andy. We passed them on our way back from hunting buffalo, and I didn't sense the locket once. But there's no way I'm saying so to Frank Dilley, a man who raised a shotgun to his own leader just for getting hurt. How much worse would it be for me if he found out I had witchy powers?

I grit my teeth as I watch the Missouri men ride out in a pointless pursuit. Jasper must stay behind and tend to Major Craven. That leaves me, Jefferson, Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Robichaud, Tom, and Henry to search. I ask Jefferson, “Think Nugget or Coney could track him?”

“With all the people and animals that have muddled through here, they'd be lucky to track him if they could see him.”

He's right. “So we spread out and think like a little boy and
try to figure out which way he went.”

“We need a signal,” Mr. Robichaud says. “If anyone finds him, fire two shots into the air.”

We all agree, and we split up and spread out from camp.

The land grows shadowed with dusk. Tiny bugs rise from the grass, fogging my path, while frogs chirrup endlessly. My throat is hoarse from shouting Andy's name, but there has been no sign of the boy, not even the faintest tickle of gold sense.

A gunshot rings out from the direction of camp. In its echoing aftermath, I can't tell if another shot follows. I turn Peony around and breeze her all the way back.

The campfires are burning bright when I arrive. I dismount and walk Peony between wagons into the circle. Everyone else is there—Frank and his men, Tom and Henry, Mr. Robichaud, Mr. Hoffman and his two oldest sons, Jefferson.

“Who found him?” I ask. “Where was he?”

Jefferson shakes his head. “No one found him.”

“I heard a gunshot.”

“Rattlesnake.”

“Is anyone bit?” My heart will burst if one more person gets hurt today.

Jefferson's face is grave.

“Who? Who was it?”

“Athena. Jasper's milk cow. Tom shot once to kill the snake and then once to put her down.”

Tears spill out of the corners of my eyes, and I scrub at
them with the back of my hand. It's too much. Everything that could go wrong since I woke up this morning has gone wrong. And now sweet Athena, with her soft brown eyes and fine lady lashes.

“Grab some dinner, Lee,” Jefferson says. “You'll feel better after you get something to eat.”

“I'm going back out. I won't let today end this way.”

“Lee—”

“I won't.”

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E
veryone is staring at me. “I'll welcome anyone who wants to help,” I call out.

No one volunteers.

Frank says, “You go back out there in the dark, you're asking to get yourself killed. The Indians'll put an arrow through you. You won't even hear it coming.”

I look him dead in the eye. “A brave man would offer to come with me.”

“I forbid it. You ain't going out there.”

“Try to stop me.” I whirl and head toward Peony.

“If you're not back in the morning, don't bother!” he shouts after me. “We'll leave without you.”

My hands are shaking and my eyes are blurry with tears that won't fall. Footsteps pound after me. I brace myself, but it's only Jefferson.

“Lee?”

“Don't you start,” I snap. “And don't you dare try to change
my mind.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“Oh.”

I unhitch Peony. She nips at my arm, but her teeth don't touch me so I know she's not serious. I stroke her neck by way of apology, but her skin twitches under my palm. She needs a good rub down. I've worked her hard all day.

“Thanks,” I say softly. To her and to Jefferson.

“You're a McCauley, right? Lee McCauley. That makes us family.”

I choke out a laugh, and then the tears dribble down my cheeks and I'm rubbing my sleeve across my face. “I don't know what you're talking about, Jefferson Kingfisher.”

“I knew you'd throw that back at me,” he says.

“Too bad you can't pick your family.” It's what Daddy always said about his mother-in-law, my Boston grandma who refused to return my mama's letters after she ran away to Georgia.

“Maybe you can.”

I stare at him, not sure what to say. I'd pick him for family, for sure and certain, if I could.

“I'll get the sorrel mare and the dogs,” he says.

The contents of the Joyners' wagon are stacked outside. I'm quiet as a mouse as I get some feed for Peony and refill my canteen. But the canvas flap whips open, revealing a red-eyed Mrs. Joyner.

“Just restocking,” I say. “Then Jeff and I are going back out.”

“Promise me you'll bring him back,” she says.

My shoulders tense. Daddy taught me never to make promises I couldn't keep. “We'll look all night.”

She reaches out her arms and begs me to come close. When I do, she bends down and wraps her arms around my neck. “We're lucky to have you with us, Lee McCauley. You're a good man.”

I extricate myself awkwardly, duck my head, and tug my brim at her. My heart is in a tangle, and I don't know what to say. I've lost everything—my parents, my home, my gold, my daddy's Hawken rifle, his saddle. I even lost my name. Leah Westfall, the girl who took care of Lucky Westfall's farm for him and panned for gold—she doesn't exist anymore. But maybe Lee McCauley isn't so bad after all. I stood up to Frank Dilley a few minutes ago, and now I'm going to go search for a little boy, because it's what
I
want to do.

“I should get going,” I say.

As Jefferson and I climb into our saddles, Therese comes running up, her skirts in one hand, a bundled kerchief in the other. “Here!” she says breathlessly, handing the bundle up to Jefferson. “For you and Lee. Might be a long night.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Cornbread! We used the last of our cornmeal today. Thought everyone could use a treat after that stampede and Major Craven and . . .” She looks down at her feet.

“Thank you, Therese,” I say.

“I . . . I wish I could go with you.” She straightens, forces a grin. “Anyway, good luck!” She dashes off, and Jefferson
stares after her.

I lean over and rap my knuckles on his leg. “Let's go.”

He snaps out of his thoughts. “Let's go,” he agrees.

I cluck to Peony, and we ride into the wide, black night, lit only by a giant, prickly sky and a low, menacing moon. The grass muffles the horses' steps. Insects buzz against a whipping breeze, and a coyote yips in the distance, coaxing a growl from Nugget.

“So what's the plan?” Jefferson asks. “How are we going to find him?”

I can't tell Jefferson my real plan, which is to crisscross the land until I feel the tug of gold. So I say, “Andy knows us. He'll answer to our voices. So we head down every trail, every path that a four-year-old might take, and we call his name until we find him.”

“That's it?”

“That's it. Think like a four-year-old boy.”

He says nothing.

“You've had more practice thinking like a four-year-old boy than I have,” I point out.

He frowns. “You already searched downriver?”

“Yep.” I sensed a tiny bit of gold dust, the same trifling amount found in almost any river or stream, but nothing as big as a locket. “I'm confident he did not go in that direction.”

“So we head upriver,” he says. “He's a smart boy. At four, I would have known to avoid the river and quicksand. After we go far enough, we'll turn inland until we find another trail or wash and then make our way back to camp. Like cutting
slices out of a pie.”

That makes sense to me. “How big a pie?”

“As far as a four-year-old can walk. Did I ever tell you about the time, after my mama left, when I decided to walk into town to find her?”

“Never heard that one.”

“I was only five, but I made it more than halfway to town, all the way past the old sawmill. I was sitting there, by the side of the road, when your daddy found me and took me home.”

“Daddy came looking for you?” Hearing something about him that I didn't know before is like a drop of water in the desert.

“I don't remember if he was looking for me on purpose or if he found me by accident. All I'm saying is that a little boy with single-mindedness of purpose will make it farther than you might think.”

I nod. “Upriver it is, then.”

The dogs dart ahead, tails wagging, even though I know they're as exhausted as I am. That's what I like about dogs. They're always happy to help out and be with their people.

“Andy!” Jefferson's shout makes me jump.

I add, “It's Lee and Jeff! Come home!”

“What if he's hurt and can't answer us?”

“We need to make our path twisty, make sure we look in every crack and crevice.”

“We can go faster if we split up,” he says, and guides the sorrel mare away from me.

“No!”

He startles at the strength of my answer. Jefferson could pass within ten feet of Andy, and if he's tucked into a holler or huddled under a bush, he'd never notice him. But not me. I'll sense him in the dark, clear as a meadowlark's song, as long as I get close enough.

“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” I tell him, knowing it's a weak argument. I think of a better one, which I almost don't say, but the words come tumbling out, anyway. “Also, Jeff, I couldn't stand it if something happened to you. I'm not letting you out of my sight this far from camp.”

“I . . . All right.”

For the next hour or so, we zigzag back and forth along the bank of the Platte. The air cools. Coyote silhouettes skim the land in the distance. Twice, the dogs take off after something rattling in the grass, but they return when we call. Once, we startle a small herd of antelope drinking at the river's edge. But Andy never answers our cries, and when we come to a tributary stream that's too deep for him to have crossed, we turn inland and start cutting the pie.

We make it all the way back in sight of the wagons with no luck. The only gold nearby is the Hoffmans' hidden treasure, and I'm used to the weight of it in my head now. The dogs dash past us to return to camp, and we have to call them when we turn and head out again.

“Tom searched this direction already,” Jefferson says, stifling a yawn.

“We checked every direction once,” I say. “Now we're
checking again.”

His shoulders slump, and his face is wan. If he says he wants to grab some shut-eye and start again in the morning, I'll let him go.

Instead he takes a bite of Therese's cornbread and a swig from his canteen, rolls his shoulders, and leads us back into the night.

We follow a dry creek that cuts into the hills. It's just low enough that we can't see our campfires from the creek bed. I have a good feeling about it, like it's a place that might feel cozy and interesting to a child. We follow it for miles, long after I think we must have gone too far. I sniff the air, detecting a zing of moisture. If a storm comes up, a wash like this could flood in minutes.

“What's your problem with the Hoffmans?” Jefferson says all of a sudden.

“What? I don't have any problem with them.”

“They're the only family you never visit. You've made friends with everyone else.”

“Well, there are so many of them, it seems like they don't need friends.” That sounds ridiculous the moment I say it. “I didn't mean that.”

“Therese thinks you hate her.”

“I don't even know her.”

“That's why she thinks you hate her. You avoid their wagon. She's convinced it's because she talks funny or because you don't like Germans. I told her that's nonsense. It
is
nonsense, right?”

“I . . .” It's not her I've been avoiding. It's the two of them,
together
—something I'm not sure I can bear. “I'll keep company with whomever I choose. I don't have to explain it to anyone.”

He's silent a long moment. Then: “That's not like you, Lee. You're a better person than that.”

“There isn't any good or bad about it. I just—”

“The Missouri men don't keep company with me because I'm half-Cherokee. Reverend Lowrey never let his wife keep company with Mrs. Joyner because she's a Methodist. And Mrs. Joyner didn't want to keep company with you for a long time because she thought you were a runaway scamp and a bad influence. So what's
your
rotten excuse for not keeping company with Therese?”

“I don't . . . I didn't . . .” I sigh. Sometimes, having a best friend with uncanny clarity is the most irritating thing in the world.

“Therese is nice. You'd like her.”

I'm a worse person than Frank Dilley. “I'm sorry, Jeff. I thought I was giving you . . . freedom, I guess. To be with her. I know you're sweet on her.”

He doesn't say anything.

“You're right,” I add. “I know you are. She
is
nice. Bringing us that cornbread was a kindness.”

“Thanks, Lee. But—”

“Sh,” I say, holding up my hand. “I heard something.”

He whispers, “What is it? What do you hear?”

It's not what I hear; it's what I sense. A tickle in the back
of my throat. “I'm not sure. Let's keep going.”

Other wagon trains have traveled down this gulch. We pass a broken wheel, half-buried in the dirt. A little farther on, an empty barrel. Cold campfires.

“I don't hear a thing,” he says.

“It's close.” I dismount and lead Peony by the reins.

“What's close?” Frustration tinges his voice.

“I'm looking for tracks,” I say, bent over. “Footprints, anything he may have dropped.” Gold buzzes between my ears now, just like a cat's purr.

Ahead, an abandoned wagon lies toppled over. The wood is white in the night, like the bones of a skeleton. A ribcage of hoops curls up from the spine of a wagon bed. My sense pulls me toward it, toward Andy . . .

I stop a hundred feet shy.

The locket is so, so close. But I see no place big enough for a boy to hide. I slow down, moving cautiously. Ten feet away. Five.

I fall to my knees.

The locket is smashed into the dirt, the chain broken. There's no sign of Andy anywhere.

“Is that—?” Jefferson half asks.

“Yeah.”

“You and your big owl eyes! I wouldn't have seen that in the dark if it was dangling from my nose.”

“Got lucky, I guess.” I don't feel lucky at all. Andy's not here. I didn't have a second plan. Despair washes over me.

“He has to be close,” Jefferson says.

A rustling in the grass alerts me. Three rangy silhouettes materialize around the broken wagon. Coyotes. They must have a den here. The dogs lay back their ears and growl.

“Nugget, Coney, stay.”

“There's something under that wagon,” Jefferson says.

“A coyote den.”

“Maybe. Something moved.” He hurries forward.

Probably just spring pups, but I grab my rifle from Peony's saddle holster and jog toward the wagon on Jefferson's heels. The coyotes mark our approach with ears pricked forward, but they don't move. “Andy!”

There's a small cry in response.

“I'm going to fire my gun, sweet pea. Don't panic.” I lift the butt to my shoulder and put a round in the dirt beside the nearest skulking coyote. They scatter. The dogs take off after them, and I let them. I rip off the ramrod and start reloading, just in case.

“I can't believe you missed that shot,” Jefferson says.

“Who says I missed?” I tell him. “I'm tired of killing things today.”

A bare foot protrudes from under the wagon bed. Jefferson nods to me, creeping forward.

Please be okay
. “Andy, it's us, Lee and Jeff,” I say. “We're here to help you.”

That's all the warning we give before Jefferson grabs Andy's ankle and drags him out. He screams, pounding Jefferson's arms with his tiny fists. Jeff gathers him tight to his chest and whispers reassurances as the boy wails, raking lines into his
shoulders with his fingernails.

“Grab my canteen,” Jefferson says.