Walk on Earth a Stranger Page 17

  “Please?”

  He scowls. “If you say so.”

  The scent of beans boiling in molasses tickles my nose, makes me realize how hungry I am.

  “Here, I’ll show you the rest,” he says. “That’s the Joyners’ wagon—”

  “I know them well enough.” For better or worse. “We came west on the same flatboat.”

  “None of the other companies wanted them. They’re hauling too much. Major Craven keeps telling them to leave something behind, like that dining table.”

  “But Mrs. Joyner won’t hear of it.”

  “Indeed, she won’t. Believe it or not, she hauls out that table and sets it with a checked cloth every single night. It’s like she thinks she’s still in Chattanooga.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I can’t imagine all their stuff will make it over the mountains. Not unless we carry it.”

  “That’s probably what they hired us for.”

  He points to a single, neat wagon. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Robichaud from Canada.” A cheerful red-and-blue quilt hangs over the sideboard, as if on display. “They arrived last week. His wife speaks mostly French, but she’s practicing her English every day. She’ll weary you with questions if you get too close. They’ve got twin boys, five or six years old. It’s a sturdy wagon, well organized, and Mr. Robichaud knows a bit of blacksmithing. So they’re welcome.”

  His gaze shifts to three young men crouching around a cook fire. Easy laughter rolls from their mouths.

  “Those are the college men—Jasper Clapp, Thomas Bigler, and Henry Meek. From Illinois. Jasper says they left college before they graduated.”

  We steer our horses into a flock of sheep, who bleat as they scatter. Nugget and Coney run to meet the herding dogs, and everyone gets in a good sniff. A short Negro with arms as thick as tree trunks waves to Jefferson as we pass.

  “Those sheep belong to Mr. Bledsoe, and that’s Hampton, his shepherd.”

  “Mr. Bledsoe is the one from Arkansas, with ten wagons?”

  “That’s right. He’s got about a thousand head. He says sheep are smaller and more sure-footed than cattle, so they’re more likely to survive the trek across the mountains. Plans to get rich establishing a herd in the gold fields. It’s causing problems with the Missouri men because the sheep foul the grass, and the cattle won’t eat it. Right now the plan is to let the cattle go first and have the sheep bring up the rear.” He points. “That wagon over there is Reverend Lowrey and his wife.”

  “Just the two of them?”

  “And one more on the way.”

  My face must register surprise that he would mention such a thing, because he quickly adds, “You’ll know it as soon as you see her. The reverend says God called him west to minister to the miners in the gold fields. To be honest, Lee, it’s a pretty misfit bunch. We’re the leftovers. People the other companies wouldn’t take, mixed with a few who arrived too late to set off with the rest.”

  He’s about to say more, but we come to the end of the line.

  “That’s Major Craven over there,” he says. The tent he points to is military style—plain and exacting.

  “I heard he was a major in some kind of Indian war.”

  Jefferson’s face darkens. “The Black Hawk War. An ugly bit of business. More than a thousand Indians killed. Craven was a sergeant. Only reason everyone here calls him Major is because of Mr. Joyner.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The other companies were appointing captains, and Mr. Joyner said that since ours was so distinguished, it needed a guide with a more distinguished title.”

  “That’s . . .”

  “I know!”

  I shake my head. “We’d be lucky to make it to California if Mr. Joyner was in charge. He doesn’t know a rabbit from a raccoon.”

  “He doesn’t need to know anything. Haven’t you read the papers, Lee?”

  “Read what in the papers?”

  His eyes twinkle. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to get to California—you just aim yourself west and start walking.”

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  Chapter Eighteen

  The sun sets over the western horizon, and it’s like an omen, the way it lights up the plain in fiery gold. Major Craven makes a circuit of the camp. He’s a middle-aged man with a huge scar across his top lip that almost disappears in the brightness of his easy smile. He announces to all that our company is now complete and that we’ll be leaving on the morrow.

  When Mrs. Joyner sees that her husband has hired me, her eyes widen, and she draws in a little breath. I brace myself for her protestations, but they never come, not even when Mr. Joyner offers to let Jefferson and me sleep beneath their wagon bed. It’s the first time I don’t leave town and go off on my own to spend the night.

  We flip out our bedrolls so that they’re almost-but-not-quite touching. I spent so much time looking for him that it’s a delight to lie down side by side, to face each other in the dark. I’m not the least bit tired. I want to stay awake all night talking, soaking up the fact that he’s finally here.

  “So,” he says in a low whisper. “Tell me about this uncle of yours.”

  He’s the easiest person in the world to talk to, and now that we’re alone in the dark I don’t hesitate. “Hiram. Daddy’s brother. He . . . Well, I ran into Free Jim here in Independence.”

  “You don’t say! What was he doing?”

  “He sold his store. Now he’s on his way to California. You know he was great friends with Daddy, right?”

  “Sure. Always thought that’s why your daddy stopped going to church after the Methodists split.”

  “That’s right. Well, Jim knew a few things.” In as soft a voice as I can manage, I tell Jefferson everything: about Hiram being sweet on my mother, about how he lost both Mama and the land lottery to his brother, about how no one—not even my daddy—knows what happened to Mama in Boston that made her run away from her fine house and wealthy family to hack out a living in Indian country. I tell Jefferson every single thing, except the one thing I should never tell a soul: that of everything Hiram thought life cheated him of, the witchy girl who could find gold might be the one that rankles him most.

  “So,” Jefferson says after a long pause. “You think you’re rid of him?”

  “Maybe.” Dread curls in my belly. “No. I’m not rid of him. But I don’t think Hiram wants to kill me. He wants . . . something else. He wouldn’t say what. After I ran away, he headed west by sea. He might reach California ahead of us.”

  “You think he’ll be looking for you?”

  “I know he will.”

  “Huh.” He’s silent a moment. Then: “I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Me neither.”

  “And I don’t understand how a man could kill his own brother. Lucky Westfall of all people! Everyone liked him. Even my da.”

  I choke a little on my next breath.

  “Lee?”

  “I miss him bad, Jeff.”

  “I know.”

  The wagon bed above us groans as one of the Joyners turns over. “Long day ahead,” Jefferson says. The weight of his hand descends onto my shoulder. He gives me a squeeze, and the gesture fills me up even better than Mrs. Joyner’s badly baked beans. “Lee, I’m glad you got away. Even gladder that you’re here.”

  I smile into the dark. “Me too.”

  “I won’t let that uncle of yours near you. I promise.”

  “Thanks, Jeff.”

  We say our good nights, and Jefferson turns his back to me and falls right asleep. I lie awake awhile, listening to the sounds of our camp—crackling fires and creaking wagons, shuffling oxen and bleating sheep, and my best fri
end breathing easy beside me.

  When the bustle of morning rouses me, Jefferson is already gone. I shove on Daddy’s boots and scoot out from under the wagon to find our camp in a flurry. Everything is half loaded, and most of the oxen stand yoked before their wagons. It must have drizzled last night, because the ground is muddy and churned from all the goings-on. Mist chills the air, and gray hazes the sky, but everyone waves and smiles like it’s the Fourth of July. And maybe it is, in a way. Today begins a new life for many of us.

  While Mrs. Joyner industriously burns flapjacks over the cook fire, a huckster with a coonskin cap weaves through the wagons, a wheelbarrow squelching through the mud before him, calling out, “Pickaxes, pans, and pickles for the argonauts!” He sells two pickaxes to a man in the wagon next to us, then he approaches Mrs. Joyner.

  “Pickaxes, pans, and pickles for the argonauts! Surely you’d like a jar of pickles, ma’am? Argonauts are a notoriously hungry bunch.”

  She recoils, bristling. “I’m no argonaut. I am a Methodist.”

  The smile goes clean off his face. “Of course, ma’am. Your pardon, ma’am.” He tips his cap to her and moves on to the next wagon.

  Major Craven starts making rounds to check that everything is in order and to assign a line number. Jefferson returns with crumbs on his shirt—I assume he got breakfast with the Hoffmans—and together we hurry to load the Joyners’ many possessions before the Major reaches us.

  Less than an hour later, Major Craven gives the call. My heart leaps. This is it. I’m going to California.

  As the first wagon pulls out, I’m grinning like a cat who got into the cream. One by one the others fall into place until our company is a line stretching across the plain. The Joyners’ wagon is one of the last to go. Mr. Joyner drives the oxen, with Mrs. Joyner and the little ones walking beside it. Jefferson and I ride behind and slightly off to the left to avoid the mud kicked up by the rear wheels.

  The sun breaks through the clouds as we leave Independence, sending streamers of bright yellow to cut the mist. I take off my hat and lift my face to the sun, feeling its warmth on my skin.

  The first few days are pleasant enough, though I work as hard as I’ve ever worked. Every morning, Jefferson and I are the first to rise. Before the sun comes up, we check on the oxen and start the cook fire. When the sky brightens, the Joyner family climbs out of the wagon. Mrs. Joyner cooks breakfast, careful to ignore me, while Jefferson and I reload everything back into the wagon—a dresser and chairs, sacks of flour and coffee and bacon, traveling trunks—everything except the table with the checked cloth, which the family will have breakfast on. After the furniture is loaded, we roll the water barrel down to the river to refill it. Jefferson does that by himself some mornings so I can slip away from camp to take care of my personal needs.

  When I return, Jefferson and I lift the heavy water barrel onto the sideboard. If we’re lucky, breakfast is ready, along with something hot to drink. Frost still covers the ground some mornings, and I’m cold down to my bones, so I don’t care whether it’s real coffee, or chicory root, or tea, though I always hope for coffee. Coffee is the one thing Mrs. Joyner gets right.

  We only have a few minutes to eat, so I gobble my flapjacks, even though they’re burned on the outside and mushy in the middle. I always thank Mrs. Joyner and tell her they’re delicious. On the third day, she gives me a quick nod in response, which I take as progress.

  After breakfast, we load the dining table, yoke the oxen, and hook them up to the wagons, which is a lot easier than working with mules, apparently; Frank Dilley cusses at his mules and his Missouri men alike until he’s red in the face. I’m happy to have the ox team instead, no matter how slow they plod.

  Then it’s my turn to let Jefferson off to do his business, which as far as I can tell means swinging by the Hoffmans’ wagon to say good morning to Therese and get a second meal. He’s eating better than anyone else in our company.

  While he’s gone, I take the grease bucket from the back axle and climb under the wagon to grease the wheels. I nail down any boards jarred loose by the rough road and make sure the spare tongue and axles are lashed firmly in place. I store the tools in the box up front, latch it tight, and announce that we’re ready to roll out.

  Then we wait. I always make sure we’re done early, because you don’t want to be the wagon everybody’s waiting for. Most mornings we end up waiting on Reverend Lowrey. He can’t do the work alone, and he expects the rest of us to help out in exchange for a prayer and a bit of preaching. Everybody takes a turn, even me. Some do it out of the goodness of their hearts. I do it to get us on the road.

  Jefferson shows up again about the time the wagons pull out, and we ride side by side. The road is barely more than ruts in the ground, pushing through an endless muddy plain filled with the budding tips of yellow-green grass. The rising sun steams the land dry as we go while meadowlarks trill in greeting. It’s the best part of my day.

  Sometimes, though, Mr. Joyner rides his gelding, and Jefferson and I take turns driving the team. It is the most god-awful, bone-rattling, thankless job you could ever hope to have. Each rut is a kick to the seat of my trousers; some days it kicks me down the road from morning till night. Mrs. Joyner and the children always walk behind the wagon when one of us drives, out of sight.

  At noon, we break for an hour to feed and rest the animals and to eat lunch. Jefferson and I unload the dining table and spread the tablecloth. Mrs. Joyner adjusts it to her satisfaction, making sure the corners drape just right. Honest to God, sometimes she even unpacks the china and arranges place settings. I’m glad to take my tin plate and sit elsewhere.

  Mr. Joyner has a clever device called a “road-o-meter.” It’s attached to the rear wheel of the wagon, and through a set of cogs and levels, it records the miles traveled. He checks it after lunch each day—we’ve usually made five or six miles by then.

  It’s my job to clean up afterward and store everything away—including the china, which I must wrap in paper and pack up tight, so it doesn’t break. Someday, inevitably, the wagon will hit a particularly big rut, smashing the china all to pieces, and I know just who Mrs. Joyner will blame.

  We go all afternoon until we find a spot with the three necessities—water, grass, and timber. Frank Dilley’s Missouri men and Mr. Bledsoe, the Arkansas sheep farmer, always get there first because the horses and mules travel faster. By the time our oxen teams bring up the rear and close off the circle, they’ve had their pick of the best grazing, cleanest water, and driest spots to sleep.

  We let the cattle out to graze, feed the horses some oats if they haven’t found themselves enough grass, and get everything set up for the night. Then we eat supper, and people gather around one of the campfires to tell stories or sing songs or share dreams of what we’re going to do when we’re all rich with gold. I don’t go in for all that, because my singing voice would surely reveal my secret, and because it’s a good time for me to sneak away to take care of my personal necessities.

  The college men have a brown milk cow named Athena, who has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a cow. They milk her each morning and put the cream in a churn inside their wagon. The rough road does all the work. By the end of the day, they have a nice fat roll of butter, which they are happy to share with the families. They make the rounds every night to pass it out.

  Jasper always has a twinkle in his eye when he sees me. One night he chucks me under the chin, which makes me flinch away.

  “That’s a terrible haircut,” he says cheerfully.

  “It’s Jefferson’s fault!” I blurt.

  He rubs a hand through his own curly brown hair. “Next time it needs trimming, you come to us.” Jasper’s friend Henry has a neatly manicured beard that’s as pale and thin as the rest of him, and Tom keeps his chin clean but waxes his mustaches into sharp points. It’s like they have a barber stashed in their wagon.

&nb
sp; “I’ll do that,” I say. “Somebody’s got to keep up the standards of civilization around here.”

  He laughs. “You sound like Mrs. Joyner. Here’s some fresh butter for you and Jefferson. That’s about as much civilization as we can manage tonight.”

  Mrs. Joyner has made a loaf of bread in the Dutch oven. I tear off a piece and let a clump of butter melt into the hot, almost-cooked dough. Jasper’s butter makes even Mrs. Joyner’s bread taste good.

  “This is harder than I thought it would be,” Jefferson says that night as we lie beneath the wagon.

  We’re both used to hard work, so that isn’t what he means. Maybe it’s the hard work and no place to go home at night. No family to welcome you, even if they are sickly, like my daddy, or mean drunk, like Jefferson’s. I miss having people familiar and dear—so familiar and dear that being with them is easy. Never worrying what they’re thinking or if they care about you or what will happen if they find out who you really are.

  “It’ll be worth it once we get to California,” I say.

  “It’s already worth it!” he says. “But sleeping on wet ground, waking up cold, jumping every time Mr. Joyner says so . . .”

  “Keep your voices down,” booms Mr. Joyner from the box right above our heads. “People need their rest.”

  “You hear that?” Jefferson whispers to me, his breath tickling my cheek. “I need my rest.”

  He pulls the blanket up to his chin and rolls over, turning his back to me. Within moments, his breathing slows and lightens, like someone shedding a heavy load.

  Not me. My head spins, and I lie awake for what feels like a long time, listening to Jefferson’s breaths mingling with the patter of the rain on the wagon covers, smelling the rich scent of wet dirt. I’ve got some happiness in me, I realize with a start, where there used to be only loneliness and grief. I’ve found Jefferson. I’m earning a wage. I’m on my way to the Promised Land and mountains of shining gold.

  This thought is still in my head, as if I’ve only just drifted off to sleep, when Jefferson shakes me awake in the predawn chill.