Walk on Earth a Stranger (27 page)

“No!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by the ragged volley. Not a single animal falls, but they all spring away.

I lift Jefferson's rifle, and though it isn't nearly as sound as Mr. Joyner's, its heft is familiar. I've shot it plenty of times, and I know just how it handles. I sight the last animal in the herd. It struggles to keep up; probably the one Tom winged. I aim just ahead, in the direction of its flight, note the westward breeze. It's getting too far, too fast.

I am patient. I am a ghost.

Rear trigger, soft breath, hair trigger,
crack!
Smoke puffs up as the butt kicks into my shoulder. Almost two hundred yards away, the poor animal's rear legs fly out sideways, and it goes down in a cloud of dust.

Jefferson whistles as I hand the gun back to him.

“Not bad for a girl,” says Jonas Waters.

“It's not bad for
anyone
,” Jefferson snaps.

“I slowed it down for you,” Tom says, but he's grinning.

“Don't worry, we'll share it.” I realize, belatedly, that this isn't my promise to make. “Isn't that right, Mr. Joyner?”

But he's already heading back to camp alone. The hollow pit in my stomach has nothing to do with hunger.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

A
week later, the pitiful lowing of thirsty oxen echoes through the camp. Mr. Joyner is scouting ahead for water with the other men while Mrs. Joyner prepares breakfast. Everyone else in camp makes do with items that are dusty, broken, and makeshift. But come hell or high water, she has that dining table set up with the tablecloth over it. The wind ruffles it, and she rushes to smooth it flat, and square all the china.

I lick my cracked lips and say, “Mrs. Joyner, ma'am, good morning.”

The furtive glance she casts my way is toward my clothes, not my face. My chest is wrapped beneath my shirt again, though for comfort rather than disguise, and not nearly as tightly as before. I wear trousers today, which I got from Tom in exchange for two sage hens I bagged with my five-shooter. I love the skirt Lucie gave me, but it needs laundering already, and I've a strange notion to preserve it as much
as possible.

“Good morning, Leah.”

“I'm ready to go back to work,” I tell her. “My leg is much better. Jasper says it's fine for me to do some lifting.”

“That's Mr. Joyner's decision. You'll need to speak to him.” She turns her back and crouches beside the cook fire. Batter sizzles and pops as she pours it on the griddle.

“I've tried, ma'am. He won't hardly talk to me. He won't pay me parting wages, because he says I can't enter into contracts, so as far as I'm concerned that means I'm still working for him. But he won't let me work neither. He says it's not right. But I've been doing the work for months, same as Jefferson. You've seen me.”

Her shoulders sag. “That's not the point.”

“Well, what is?”

She pauses to flip the flapjacks. They're burned, as usual. “You'll have to talk to Mr. Joyner. He's the head of this family, and his decision is final.”

“Ma'am, can't you talk to him? He's still not hale after the cholera and the measles. Him doing all the work I used to—It's tiring him out something awful.”

“He knows best.”

Wind sweeps through camp and blows over one of the high-back chairs. Mrs. Joyner jumps as it hits the ground. I dash over and prop it again, making sure it's square at the table like the others.

Her eyes meet mine. Her face is drawn and strained. “Don't worry. I'll still feed you, like we agreed. It wouldn't
be Christian to let you starve. Though, truth be told, we're a little short.” At my perplexed look, she adds, “Someone's been skimming our food stores.”

“I would never—”

She holds up a hand. “I know it's not you. Mr. Joyner says Indians. Anyway, you're welcome to whatever we have; just keep in mind that we're short.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” I say, more concerned than I let on. She needs all the food she can get right now. “But honestly, I just want to be useful.”

She considers. Brightens. “I'm almost out of buffalo chips,” she says. The dried patties of half-digested grass are all we've been able to find for fuel lately. “That Hoffman girl is out gathering some.”

“I'll see what I can round up.”

I find Therese swinging a big tin bucket while Carl, Otto, and Doreen run around looking for chips to toss inside. Doreen barely pretends to look. She has both arms out like windmill blades as she runs through the dry grass, her bonnet dangling behind her as usual.

“Guten Morgen,”
I say to Therese.

“Good morning,” she says. “We are in America, we should speak American now.”

“You sound just like Lucie. Though, I think we left the United States a long time ago.” I peer inside her near-empty bucket. “No luck?”

She shakes her head.

Not as many buffalo pass through this arid place, and the wagon trains ahead have gathered up the easy pickings. “We might find more over there,” I say, pointing down a slope.

“How do you know?”

It's the first thing you learn about hunting, how to spot a watering place. “That dry creek leads toward water, at least some of the year. They're likely to gather there and do their business.”

She calls to the children and indicates that they should head toward the creek.

“Here, let me carry that,” I say.

“No!” she snaps. “I can do it.”

“I didn't mean—”

“You have a horse, you ride wherever you want, you shoot things with your gun, you go out in the night and find lost children and jump under wagons to save little girls.” Her face is fierce, her blue eyes bright.

“Well, I
did
. I don't know that Mr. Joyner will let—”

It's like talking to the wind, because her words just keep coming. “I'm always watching little ones or helping Mutti cook or washing clothes. Lee, I have washed so many clothes I have lost track. I might be the only person who is glad to be going into the desert. No water means no washing. Maybe my hands will heal a little.”

“Washing is important too.”

She shrugs. “But not very heroic. And not much fun.” Ahead of us, Doreen takes a tumble,, then she bounces back to her feet, laughing. Gazing at her sister, Therese adds, “I
miss fun.”

“Well!” I put an arm through hers, and we continue down the slope, our elbows joined. “When we get to California, I'll teach you everything I know about the fun fun job of panning for gold. Squatting for hours on end is really fun.”

She nods solemnly. “I'm sure getting your skirts soaked to the knees is fun.”

“Oh, yes. And all the mud and gravel getting lodged under your nails? No church social was so much fun.”

She is silent a long moment, watching her siblings disappear down the slope. Then: “Lee? I'm glad you turned out to be a girl.”

From the base of the South Pass, a twisty road leads up the Rocky Mountains. It's a well-earned name because the steep slopes are covered in giant rocks split open and turned on edge every which way, like God started a quarry and got distracted. Major Craven calls it the backbone of America. I tell him it looks more like a backbone breaker.

Our oxen and mules strain to pull the wagons uphill, which turns out to be the easy part. The first downhill slope is so steep that we unhitch the animals and lower the wagons on ropes. We're lucky to make four miles all day.

We repeat the process the next day and the next. The Missouri men lead the way each morning—first out, first up the slope, first down into camp. Their mules move so much faster than our oxen, and I worry that Jefferson was right, that they'll leave us behind someday.

I tell myself that I'm glad they're so far ahead. I hate the way they stare at me now, especially that Jonas Waters.

On the fifth day into the Rockies, the Missouri men are well out of sight by the time we top the first rise. The downward slope is the steepest yet, and mostly gravel, interspersed with dry brush and stunted pines. Peony balks at the path, and I don't blame her. I don't know how we'll get our wagons down safely.

Mr. Joyner and the men all confer, deciding on wagon order. I stand off to the side with the women, too far away to hear what's being said. I kick at pebbles with the toe of my boot, glaring at them as they skitter away.

Finally, the men gather their ropes and gloves and get to work. They tackle the Robichauds' wagon first. Though it's the lightest, it still takes all the men braced together against the ropes to lower it. Reverend Lowrey's wagon goes next. The men pour sweat, and gravel clatters down the slope ahead of the wheels, but the lowering goes smoothly. The dogs sport around at the bottom of the incline while Olive plays tag with Carl and Otto, as if it's a holiday and not the most dangerous part of our journey so far.

Mrs. Hoffman and Therese roll two barrels from the back of one wagon and toss a trunk out of the other. The abandoned goods of previous wagon trains litter the slope too: a box stove toppled onto its side, several broken barrels, spare wagon parts, a dressing table with a cracked mirror. Mrs. Joyner runs a finger over the wooden frame of the discarded mirror. I'm suddenly terrified she'll see everything as
a treasure, needing to be rescued.

“You ought to think about doing the same thing,” I say quickly. “That big carved headboard, the table and chairs.”

She looks back and forth between the dressing table and her own wagon. “I . . . We will not live like savages,” she says, but her voice lacks its usual conviction. “It's up to us to bring civilization to California.”

“They're just things.”

“It's Mr. Joyner's decision.”

I hold back a retort. I never know if she says this because she truly believes it, or if she just wants to end the discussion. I stare after her as she gathers her children and waddles down the steep slope to wait.

The Hoffmans' wagons bounce down a little faster but reach the bottom safely. As does the college men's wagon. Morning turns to afternoon. I catch Jefferson staring at his hands. They've become raw from the rope sliding through sweat-slippery palms.

“I have an idea!” Therese says. She runs back to her abandoned trunk and lifts out some linens, which she distributes to everyone who has thin gloves or no gloves at all. Jefferson gives her a grateful smile.

The remaining women and children skid to the bottom. I let Major Craven ride Peony down, on the promise that he'll watch her for me. I remain at the top of the ridge, ready to jump in. Jefferson wipes sweat from his forehead and gives me a nod. But when I look to Mr. Joyner for permission to help, he ignores me.

“C'mon,” he says, clapping his hands. “One more wagon to go. Let's get this done and get back on the road.” He whips off his gloves to study his hands. Scabs have ripped off, and when he wipes his palms on one of Therese's linens, they come away bloody.

He re-dons the gloves and lashes the rope around the wagon's tongue so it can be lowered backward. His hands tremble as he knots it, but his face has a fierce determination I've never seen before. This is probably the hardest he's ever worked in his life.

They push the wagon over the lip of the ridge and let it start rolling. It slips forward and then jerks to a stop, slips and then jerks. Jefferson shoots me a worried look.

Permission be damned. I run to the end of the rope, behind Mr. Hoffman, who's the biggest member of our group, and loop it around my waist and brace my legs.

The rope slips again and nearly pulls me off my feet.

“We have to slow it down,” Mr. Joyner yells.

Nobody answers. We just grit our teeth and strain as more rope slides through our hands.

Something crashes, splinters apart.

“No!” Mr. Joyner says. The wagon blocks my view, and I don't dare let go to have a look, but I assume some bit of precious furniture has tumbled from the wagon bed.

“Hold on, hold on,” Mr. Joyner says. “I'm going to push that dresser out of the way so we can keep lowering it.”

“Andrew, no!” Mr. Hoffman yells. I grip the rope with all my strength. My heels start to slide. The veins in Mr.
Hoffman's neck bulge.

Jefferson yells, “Hurry!”

“Be careful, darling!” Mrs. Joyner shouts from the bottom of the slope, but she's wasting her breath. She might as well tell a dog not to lick up its own mess.

“Almost got it,” Mr. Joyner calls out.

The rope slips again. “Get everyone out of the way
now
!” Jefferson hollers.

The wheels hit a dip. Reverend Lowrey is jerked off his feet. He slams into Jasper, and both of them tumble to their knees. My shoulders wrench, like they're about to pop out of their sockets, and the rope around my waist squeezes the breath from my body. Jefferson and Martin squat low for leverage, but the weight of the wagon drags them to their bottoms. All of us slide slowly, inescapably, dragged by the wagon's weight.

“Get out of the way,” I yell at Mr. Joyner.

“Almost got it,” he yells back.

Another rut, another lurch. The rope burns through my palms. I roll on the ground, twisting away before it can strangle me. Gravel fills my mouth and scrapes my cheek.

I'm flat on my stomach as I watch, horrified, while the wagon bounces down to the bottom, rope trailing behind. It crashes into a rock, and topples over. The headboard flies out and splinters.

Shakily, I get to my feet, looking for Mr. Joyner. I see the dresser first, a shamble of busted wood and dirtied shirts. Beside it is a man's boot, empty and alone.

“Daddy?” I whisper.

I slide down the hillside, Jasper right behind me. I'm heedless of the gravel imbedding itself into my palms or the tears blurring my vision. I know it's not Daddy, of course it's not, but I'm going to be too late again. I already know what I'll find.

I round the dresser's remains. Mr. Joyner is a broken and bloody mess, lying mashed into the gravel where the wheels rolled over him. He doesn't even look like a person anymore, and I have to turn away.

“Damn fool,” Jasper says at my shoulder just as Therese rushes up.

“Mein Gott,”
she says breathlessly. She must have started sprinting the moment she saw him go down.

My stomach is roiling, but I find my voice. “We have to take him down to Mrs. Joyner.”

Jasper wipes sweat from his brow. “You don't have to do this.”

“I still work for him,” I say.

“I will help you,” Therese says in a voice nearer to a squeak.

Jasper gets a grip beneath Mr. Joyner's shoulders. Therese and I each pick up a leg. Slowly, we half carry, half drag what's left of him to the bottom of the hill, preserving as much dignity as we can muster. In my care to avoid looking at the area of his chest and abdomen, I notice the trail of blood that scars the slope behind us.

We reach the bottom, and I look to Mrs. Joyner, expecting to find her inconsolable.