Walk on Earth a Stranger (33 page)

“We're going to
die
here, don't you get it?” Henry says. “Fine. Go on if you have to, but I'm going back.”

Fear tears through me. We can't separate. We
can't
. I open my mouth to protest, but I'm not sure what to say. I don't know that I have the right to tell someone how they ought to die, whether going forward or back.

Little Andrew Joyner, who has been huddled at his mother's side this whole time, rises shakily to his feet. His tiny nose is peeling from the sun, and his cheeks are flushed bright red. He ambles over to Mr. Hoffman, who continues to rock back and forth, back and forth.

“Herr Hoffman,” Andy says, and for some reason, his quiet child's voice silences everyone. I didn't realize the boy had picked up any German.

Andy reaches beneath his shirt and pulls out my locket. He lifts the chain over his head.

Mr. Hoffman stills.

Andy holds it out to him. Solemnly, he says, “This locket has given me strength and courage. You should carry it for a while.”

We all stare at him. Wind whips against the canvas of the wagon. A buzzard screeches somewhere high above.

As Mama's locket dangles between the little boy and the grieving man, her voice fills my head.
Trust someone. Not good to be as alone as we've been
.

Shakily, I unfold my legs and gain my feet. My limbs thrum—with the gold of my locket and with purpose. “Take
it, Mr. Hoffman,” I order.

He looks at me, back at Andy. Slowly, he extends his arm, and the boy pours it into his open palm.

“Now, get on your feet.” I look around. “All of you. On your feet.”

No one moves.

“Now!”

Becky Joyner rises first. Then Major Craven.

“I'm going back,” Henry says. “I'll take one canteen and—”

“No, you're not, Henry Meek,” I say. “You're coming with us, and that's that, because you're my friend, and I'm not leaving you behind. You wouldn't leave a man behind, would you?” I say, with a pointed look toward Hampton. “We go together. All of us. We'll help one another. We'll
trust
one another. Together, we can make it to California. We
can
. Even if we have to crawl on our hands and knees. Even if I have to drag you by that fancy beard.”

Mrs. Hoffman is on her feet now too, along with her boys. To my surprise, Jefferson suddenly fills the space beside me. “Break's over,” he calls. “Roll out!”

Becky hitches her baby onto her shoulder and starts walking west, Olive following at her heels. Martin Hoffman trails after them.

“Do you want to ride Peony for a while?” I ask the Major.

He leans on his crutch. “The rest of you are using two legs, but I'm only using one—I think that means I can walk twice as far.” He heads off after Becky before I can tell him that's the worst logic I've ever heard.

One by one, everyone heads west, even Henry Meek. Even Mr. Hoffman, aided by Mrs. Hoffman and Luther.

“My knapsack,” he mutters to his wife. “We left it behind, didn't we?”

The candlesticks are so close that my insides hum. I walk over to the wagon and reach inside.

Mr. Hoffman's eyes go wide when I pull one out to show him. “How . . . ?”

“I know what these are,” I say. “I . . . could tell by the weight. My father used the same trick once.” Maybe it's the hunger and thirst, maybe it's the way everything else has been stripped away, but the gold purrs like a living thing in my hand.

Mrs. Hoffman looks to her husband, confused. “Those ugly things?”

I can't return Therese to them, but maybe I've helped a little. I put away the candlestick and fall back to allow them their privacy. The presence of gold fades with distance, but never leaves me. Maybe, in California, it will infuse me constantly, like the warmth of my own private sun.

I'm the last in line, giving me a clear view of everyone stretched out on the trail ahead of me, shoulders braced against the desert. The air cools rapidly with nightfall, and the stars brighten in the sky like beacons leading us onward. For the first time in days, I feel like we might make it.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

W
e started across the Humboldt Sink on Monday evening. When dawn rises on Friday, we see the lush grassy meadows and bright waters of the Truckee River straight ahead. Real water, clear and running, not at all like the mirage that led the Hoffmans astray. It's September 14, 1849, and we are in California.

We unyoke the oxen and set the horses loose. Miraculously, every single animal finds enough strength to pick up their hooves and dash toward the river, where they all stand neck deep. The oxen cry rapturously. Peony and Sorry paw at the water and splash it over their backs with their tails. The dogs chase each other through the shallows, flinging spray that soaks a delighted Andy. We all drink deep of the clearest, cleanest water we've had in weeks. If all of California is this sweet, golden times are surely ahead.

We agree that we're in no danger of meeting winter in the mountains if we stay a few days and get back our strength.
So we let the animals graze their fill while Jefferson and the major spend the days fishing.

It's tempting to let myself be idle, to rest up a bit, but I don't dare. Idle time brings idle thoughts, and mine turn inevitably to my uncle Hiram. He's probably in this territory already. He could be waiting around the next bend in the trail. It's a big place, I tell myself. You could fit three Georgias in California Territory. I might go the rest of my life without running into him.

I know it for a dangerous lie as soon as the notion takes me. So to keep my thoughts from my uncle, I busy myself with hunting. Game is scarce this late in the year, but I still bag a small deer, two snowshoe rabbits, and five golden squirrels. Becky makes stew from the squirrels. It's terrible—watery and oversalted, with spongy onions and a single shriveled turnip for flavor. We eat every single drop.

“You named that baby yet?” I ask her one night as we're scraping dishes.

“Not yet,” she says.

As I set out to hunt the next day, I find myself remembering the people we've lost, like Therese and Mr. Joyner. Even Lucie, who left. So on the last day of our respite, I start collecting rocks. I pile them one atop the other until I've made a noticeable mound.

“What are you doing?” Jefferson asks, happening by.

I think of my parents' rickety wooden crosses. Soon enough they'll be gone, worn by sun and ice or toppled by wind. “We couldn't bury Therese,” I say. “But we can still leave a marker
for her.”

“You didn't even know her!” he says.

I'm about to snap back, but the sadness in his face makes me say, “I'm sorry, Jeff. I didn't mean anything bad. It's just . . . She was going to teach me how to knit.”

His frown deepens.

Quickly, I add, “What I mean is, I've never had a lot of friends. Just you. I feel like I lost a good friend before I even had her.”

He stares at me, long and hard.

“I'm not going to mess up like that again,” I continue, to fill his awful silence. “For every Hiram I've met, there's been a Therese or a Becky Joyner. People I end up taking a shine to, once we give one another a chance. And it's too lonely out here, if you don't give people a chance.”

The pain in his eyes fades and is replaced by something softer and calmer. “Lee . . .” he says, searching my face.

An invisible force pulls me toward him, like molten gold lighting up my insides.

“I . . . I'll help,” he says, and he's off before I can answer, bending to gather a few rocks of his own.

Hampton sees what we're doing and adds more rocks to our pile. Gradually, the rest of our company trickles over and starts helping. The mound grows, higher and higher until we've built a proper monument, something no one passing this way could possibly miss. Mr. Hoffman hacks down two large pine branches and nails together a rough cross, which we stake into the ground and bolster with more rocks.

Jefferson pulls out his knife. He starts to etch letters into Mr. Hoffman's wooden cross, but changes his mind. Using his sleeve, he wipes off the surface of one of the larger rocks and etches there instead: “Therese Hoffman.” He stares at his handiwork a moment, then he adds: “Andrew Joyner. Mary Lowrey. Josiah Bledsoe. Athena the Cow.”

We heave off the next morning, ready to tackle the Sierra Nevada.

For once, I expect the worst but get the best. The Sierras are even steeper than the Rockies, and we've no spare wagon parts left in case something goes awry. But the land is lush and beautiful, and we now have eighteen souls in our company, if you include the baby, and only one wagon to handle. We lose one more ox to sour feet, but the other animals thrive in the mountains, with its fresh supply of clean water and grazing.

Blue mountain jays flit between pine boughs. Trout dart through crystal streams, and late summer flowers bloom in wild meadows surrounded by granite edifices wondrous enough to make your heart stop. Lowering our single wagon down even the steepest slopes proves little burden when shared among us all.

In spite of all this, my soul is troubled. I keep to myself as much as possible, and I take every excuse to go off and hunt.

Becky walks beside me sometimes, content to endure my silence. She's different now. Lighter on her feet, with an easy smile. Sometimes, she lets me hold the baby, who gazes up
at me with bright-blue eyes as she blows little spit bubbles through her lips.

“What's wrong, Lee?” Becky asks one afternoon as we trek through a spongy, alpine meadow. She has the baby against one shoulder, and pats her bottom as she walks.

“Why do you say that?”

“You've been so quiet. You don't even talk to Jefferson much.”

I bend down to pick up a pinecone that has rolled into the grass from the tree line. It's perfect and pristine, untouched by jay or squirrel.

“Still thinking about your uncle?”

“Yes.” I reach between grooves with a forefinger and snag a pine nut. “Hiram will find me. Somehow, he will.”

“Men can be relentless,” she agrees, “when they think a woman belongs to them.”

I don't have a chance to ask what she means, because Olive calls for her, and Becky excuses herself. I stare after her, wishing I could tell her more. Wishing I could tell someone. It turns out that a girl with all the friends in the world is still lonely when she's keeping secrets.

My gold sense is a tiny tickle on the eastern slopes, but once we cross the divide it swells, becoming ever-present, almost uncomfortable. I tell myself to pay it no mind, that there will be plenty of time for gold later. But once in a while, when no one is looking, I can't help crouching down and sifting through stream gravel until I find the thing that sings so clear to me. By the time the mountains give way to rolling
golden hills dotted with oak trees, I have almost seventy dollars' worth in my pockets.

One afternoon, while we're resting the oxen, I catch Jefferson scowling at me. He's right to be angry. I've been avoiding him. Having him near reminds me that I'm keeping secrets, that even though I wear Lucie's skirt most days, I'm still a liar.

The scowl on his face darkens when he notices me staring, becomes something deep and sorrowful. My chest squeezes with the realization: I'm
hurting
him.

My feet stride toward him even before my mind registers my decision. I grab his arm and pull him aside under the cover of a giant sprawling oak. It's time. It's past time.

“Lee—?”

“There's something I have to tell you. A secret.”

His face goes blank. “I'm listening.”

Trust someone,
Mama said.

My heart races. In my whole life, I haven't told a single soul. Jefferson is a good person to try it out on. The best person.

“Lee?”

I inhale deeply and say, “Remember how I saved those ugly candlesticks?”

“Sure.”

I reach into the right pocket of my trousers. I pull out my hand and open my palm so Jefferson can see the fistful of tiny gold nuggets and flecks I've gathered. “Those candlesticks are made of gold. Just like this. And—”

“I know.” His mouth quirks.

“You do? Did Mr. Hoffman tell—”

“I mean I know that you're . . . magical.”

I stare at him, mouth agape.

He stares back, like he can see right through me. “I've known you my whole life, Lee. Still took me a while to figure it out. But when you found that locket in the dirt, I got the most fanciful notion that you could sniff out gold the way Nugget sniffs out squirrels.”

“I . . . see.”

“Then I thought back to Dahlonega, how the Westfall homestead grew so fast, all those rumors about Lucky's stash. My mother's folk had dowsers, people who could find water or lost things. My da never believed my mama's stories, but I did. I figured that's how it was with you and gold.”

He doesn't have to look so smug.

“You're not mad?”

Jefferson considers. “Well, now that you've told me, I'll get not-mad. Eventually.” He reaches up to brush some of my lengthening hair from my eyes. “It's the strangest thing. People lie all the time, and it's nothing. But one little lie from you makes me feel so small.”

“I . . . I'm sorry, Jeff.”

“Thank you for telling me, finally.”

I nod, swallowing hard.

His eyes narrow. “Your uncle knows, doesn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, California is a big place.” He sounds as unconvinced
as I am.

“So I keep telling myself.”

“We'll deal with Hiram Westfall when we have to,” Jefferson says.

A smile slips onto my face. He said “we.”

Less than a stone's throw away, a striped tawny squirrel skitters through the blanket of crunchy oak leaves, his cheeks puffed out with acorns, and I marvel at how golden everything is in this country—the squirrels, the fat marmots who spied on us as we crossed the Sierra Nevada, the wind-rippled velvet of these grassy hills.

Softly, Jefferson says, “You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen.”

My heart stampedes in my chest.

“Did you know that sometimes they turn dark gold? Like the last edge of a sunset. I think it happens when you're sensing something.”

“I . . . No, I didn't know that.”

His eyes are so close, and the world disappears. There's just Jefferson and his familiar, perfect face and his knowing gaze and the way he's leaning forward as if to kiss me. My whole body thrums, as though I'm in a wash of glittering gold.

After a hesitation as quick as a blink, he brushes his lips across my cheek. It's brilliant and breathtaking and not nearly enough.

He steps back quickly. “Um, well, I guess you have to decide if you want to tell anyone else your secret. But we have some good people with us, and I think you might be surprised.”

“Maybe so.”

“And Lee?” His eyes dance. “You are going to be so rich.”

On October 10, we reach Sutter's Fort. It's not as big as Fort Laramie, but it's a lot busier. Walls form a huge square. They're almost twenty feet high, but an even taller building peeks out from behind them, capped by a waving American flag. Three little girls play with corn-husk dolls just outside the entrance, and men and women kneel over cook fires. Laundry flaps in the breeze between wagons, and dogs run from camp to camp, begging for scraps.

Guns thunder constantly—men discharging their rifles to be let inside. As we approach, I see signs of wear on the fort itself: cracked adobe, a tilting well cover, gates that don't quite hang straight.

“Any sign of Frank Dilley?” Jefferson asks as we dismount.

“None,” I reply, scanning the crowd. “It wouldn't make me sad to never see him again.”

“Agreed,” says Mr. Hoffman, walking beside the wagon. “Though I want
him
to see
me
. I want him to know we made it.” Then, in a softer voice, “Most of us, anyway.”

We park the wagon outside the walls and gather together. “I'll stay with the children,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “You all go inside and figure out this claim business.” Luther and Martin agree to help Mrs. Hoffman keep an eye on things, and the rest of us head up the slope toward the fort.

We haven't gone three steps before a voice rings out. “That's my horse!”

It's like being socked in the gut. My lungs refuse to draw breath, and my hands holding the rifle begin to tremble.

Slowly, inevitably, I turn.

Uncle Hiram stands straight and tall and impeccably groomed, wearing a shiny top hat and a black suit with silver buttons. Abel Topper stands at his right shoulder, a tall Negro at his left. Hiram took the sea route and arrived ahead of me, just like Jim said. Wouldn't surprise me one bit to learn he's been right here at Sutter's Fort for weeks, charming everyone in sight, knowing I'd show up eventually. By now, the entire territory of California probably thinks him a fine, upstanding gentleman.

I've been wondering what I'd do when I saw him again. Run like the wind? Shoot? Burst into tears?

Instead, I say, cool as ice, “Hello, Uncle Hiram.”

That name gets everyone's attention. Becky moves to stand beside me. Jefferson calmly begins loading his rifle. For a moment, the only sound is that of a ramrod sliding down a barrel.

My uncle puts up his hands, “Now, now, I don't want any trouble. But that's my girl you've got there, and I've come a long way to fetch her, so I'll be taking her back now.”

“No, sir,” says Henry Meek, stepping forward. His thumbs are cocked in his vest pockets like he's a man who knows his business.

“You've no legal claim here in California,” Tom adds. “And I'd be happy to see that adjudicated in the nearest court.”

Uncle Hiram's answering grin holds no humor. “Maybe
we'll solve this matter outside of court.”