UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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The country north of the Kansas River is wide and flat and treeless. Stumps are scattered here and there, left over from earlier wagon trains. The prairie will be abundant with grass again in another month or two, but huge swaths of trail are grazed out and fouled with manure. The good watering places are much the same—churned up and dirtied with the waste of the folks ahead of us. We often veer far from the path to make camp.
At least there’s less mud. The rain is tapering off, and the air is pleasantly warm.
One morning, after I rise early and venture far to take care of my necessities, I return to find Major Craven with a scowl on his face. “There’s no need for you to go off—We’re getting to Indian country, and you can never tell what those savages will do.”
If he forbids me to wander off, I’ll be in a heap of trouble. “Maybe the Indians just want to trade,” I say, trying not to sound quarrelsome. I have vague memories of Daddy trading with the Cherokee, before the government chased them out of Georgia.
“Possibly, possibly,” he says. “Still, be careful. Take a dog with you.”
“I will, sir. Thank you, sir.” I’m grinning ear to ear. I should have realized he wouldn’t forbid me to go off on my own occasionally; I’m a boy now.
Coney is delighted to follow me the next time. I give him lots of belly rubs, something he’s always begging of Mr. Joyner but never gets. He and Peony have always been easy with each other, but before long, they’re fast friends; he walks beside her every day and curls up at her feet at night.
I make good on my word to Mr. Robichaud and take some time each day to ride alongside their wagon. It’s smaller and lighter than any of the others, and packed so neatly that the twins have room to sit in the back and play when the trail is smooth enough for it. They are good-natured children who get along well, often referring to each other as “frère,” which their mother immediately corrects to “brother.”
“We are going to live in America, we must learn to speak a little of American,” she says.
“A little American,” I say, because she has asked me to correct her. Her husband sits on the bench, eyes ahead, acting as if he doesn’t overhear. “And you speak it very well,” I add.
“Mrs. Lowrey says I speak it good,” she says.
“You can say it that way. ‘Speak it good.’ But it’s better to say ‘Speak it well.’”
“I speak it very well,” she intones, then she smiles in triumph. Her English is passing fair, much better than she seems to think. She’s a young woman, younger even than Mrs. Joyner, with a cheerful and chatty disposition, dancing brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles. She often stays up late, talking and singing around the campfire, and I suspect this makes her learning go faster.
The Robichauds have matching gold wedding bands—probably the most precious things they own. Those rings are never far apart, and the closer they are to each other, the more they call to me.
They’re not the only ones with a bit of gold. I don’t go near the Hoffmans’ wagons often, but I still get a strong sense from them, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what they’re carrying. A treasure chest of coins, maybe. Or a hundred lockets like the one I wear. If they park too close to the Joyner wagon, it’s like a beacon burning all night long. One night, I take my blanket and move farther off just so I can sleep.
Major Craven has some too. Gold pricks at me every time he stops by for a chat. Finally, I spy the pair of gold buttons at the cuffs of his shirt.
Mr. Joyner, on the other hand, makes quite a big deal about the gold cuff buttons and shirt studs he wears every day. They are shiny and pearl-studded, and while I can’t speak to the authenticity of the pearls, that “gold” is barely more than a moth brushing up against my skin in the dark. He doesn’t even have a decent stash of coins. I sure hope he has a plan for paying Jefferson and me when we finally part ways.
I suspect he’s not rich at all, not on his own merits, anyway. More and more, I gather that his father funded this expedition for him. Maybe Mr. Joyner is pretending to be something he’s not. Pretending he’s wealthy, when he has no money to his name. Pretending he knows what he’s doing, when he couldn’t find the end of his own nose out here on the open plain.
Pretending is exhausting. I know it better than anyone. But I hope I never go so far as to pretend to myself, like Mr. Joyner does.
One night, after a record-setting nineteen-mile day, Major Craven stops by Mrs. Joyner’s dining table, which is laid out with its usual tablecloth and china. Tonight, she’s even put out a vase full of black-eyed Susans, plucked while she walked during the day. She and her family sit around the table. Jefferson and I eat on the wagon bench.
She offers the Major a plate of pork and beans, and the quickest look of panic flits across his face before he gently changes the subject. “Be alert,” he says. “If the alarm sounds, the men must grab their guns and set up a defense.”
Mr. Joyner pats his rifle. “Ready, willing, and able.”
“And the women and children should stay low in the wagons until danger has passed. Can you do that for me?”
Andrew and Olive nod solemnly, but Mrs. Joyner says, “Is that wise? The wagon circle is so exposed. The women and children should run to the middle, where we’ll be safe.”
Major Craven shakes his head. “If the horses and cattle get stirred up, you’ll be trampled. Best if you stay put.”
She bristles. “Better that than being captured! I’d rather risk trampling than allow myself or my children to abandon civilization and become savages.”
Andy and Olive stare wide-eyed at their mother.
“I don’t know about that,” Major Craven says. “They seem more interested in cattle and horses and anything else that’s not nailed down.”
“Oh. Well, I find that reassuring,” Mrs. Joyner says.
He smiles and tips his hat. “I’m glad, ma’am. Sir.”
“It’s utter rubbish,” Mr. Joyner says when Craven is out of earshot.
“What’s that, darling?”
“The part about not taking women or children. He only said it to make you feel better. Those savages would steal a comely lady like you in a heartbeat and make your life a misery of servitude. And they’ll grab the children fast as a Gypsy.” He makes a grabbing motion at the children. Olive squeals and shrinks away, then dashes back to her father and squirrels into the safety of his arms. “That’s what they are,” Mr. Joyner adds. “Gypsies. Gypsies on the plains. The best thing to do would be to exterminate the whole race.”
Jefferson freezes beside me, a spoonful of beans halfway to his mouth.
“Unless they turn from their savage ways,” Mrs. Joyner amends, and her voice has a note of discomfort in it.
“Of course,” Mr. Joyner agrees quickly.
I lean over to Jefferson and whisper, “Are you all right?”
“The Joyners know nothing,” he snaps, turning away.
Jefferson refuses to help clean up after dinner, and I don’t try to make him. As the campfires burn low, the animals are all herded inside the circle for the night. The weather’s nice enough that Jefferson and I take our blankets and find a spot in the grass just outside.
He’s silent the whole time. I search for something to say that will get him to talk to me. I settle for: “Mr. Joyner is a fool. God forgive me for saying so, but it’s true.”
“It’s not just him,” Jefferson mumbles. “I mean, he’s one of the worst. But everyone talks about the Indians that way. At least a little.”
It’s a warm, clear night. The stars burn overhead like sparks from a fire, and the grass around us smells fresh and alive. “Hey, look,” I say. “It’s the Seven Boys.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “You know, I think the stars are even brighter out here. No trees, no lanterns, sometimes not even clouds.”
“I’m not the eighth brother anymore,” he says softly.
“Huh?”
“I didn’t stay behind.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a good thing, right?”
“I guess,” he says, and he rolls over, pulling his blanket up to his shoulder.
I stare at his back, wondering if I said something wrong. Sleep comes harder for me, as it always does. I’m just starting to drift off when gold tickles the back of my throat.
It’s Major Craven. He always takes a turn at watch, which means walking the perimeter. But he’s awful quiet this time, creeping along like a hunter after a spooked deer.
He peeks inside all the family wagons, though I’m not sure what he’s looking for. After peering in on the sleeping Joyners, he steps back and lets out a whooping cry. “Indians! It’s Indians!” He waves his arms and starts running.
Maybe it’s a test; Major Craven watches the wagons, instead of focusing his attention outward. Still, I leap to my feet, grab my five-shooter, and start loading.
Jefferson startles from a deep sleep and stumbles to his feet. He hops on one foot, trying to pull on his boot. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“Grab your gun and gear. Let’s get inside the wagon circle.” I’ve got nothing but a blanket and the saddlebag I use for a pillow. I throw them over my shoulder and cut between the Joyners’ and the Robichauds’ wagons.
The camp is in an uproar, just as Major Craven intended. The animals churn in confusion. The Missouri men have formed a credible line of defense just inside the wagon circle, guns held at the ready. Mr. Bledsoe has done the same with his Arkansas men. Even his slave, Hampton, grips a long shepherd’s staff, ready to thrash somebody on the head.
Our side of the circle has performed poorly. The college men stand outside in their long underwear, scratching their heads and yawning. The Reverend wanders around, Bible in hand, as though looking for someone to preach at. The Hoffman children huddle around Therese and her mother, with the littlest ones clutching their skirts.
The Joyners are the worst. Little Andy wails, tears running down his cheeks, while Olive cries softly in her mother’s arms. Mrs. Joyner snaps at Mr. Joyner to get his gun, and Mr. Joyner curses at the Major, demanding to know that all the women and children are accounted for.
The Major ignores him, instead climbing up onto a trunk and ringing a bell. Silence gradually descends on our company. Even Andy’s wailing turns to quiet sniffles.
“When I was in the militia, this is what we called a drill,” Major Craven says. The Missouri men nod knowingly.
Jefferson hobbles over with only one boot on. His blanket is in one hand, and his rifle is in the other. “Wait—None of this is for real?”
“It’s real enough,” I say, thinking of the sleep we’ve lost.
The Major says, “But next time it could be Indians! So you have to be ready.”
“I must have kicked away my other boot,” Jefferson whispers, looking around. “Blast it, I’ll never be able to find it in the dark.”
“We are now deep in Indian territory,” Craven says. “We’ll be going deeper, all the way to California. In my experience, we’ve nothing to fear by day. They’ll come to trade, and they may have food and other valuable information. For our part, it’s a chance to resupply and lighten our loads.”
He looks pointedly at those of us standing by the Joyner wagon. But my conscience is clear. I can hold everything I own in my hands.
“But if they come at night, it’ll be to rob us. They’ll steal our horses and our cattle if they can. So be on guard and be ready to defend yourselves!”
“Hey, Wally!” someone calls. One of the Missouri men. “How many Induns you kill in the Black Hawk War?”
The Major’s face blanches.
“Ten? A hundred?” the caller persists.
In a voice almost too low to hear, the Major says, “Too many. And hopefully not a soul more. Now get back to sleep.” He hops down from the trunk.
“As if anyone could sleep after that alarm,” Mrs. Joyner grumbles.
“The man’s just doing the job we elected him to do,” Mr. Joyner says. “Back into the wagon.”
Jefferson glares after Major Craven. “That was a lot of ruckus about nothing,” he says.
“Guess we better sleep under the wagons or inside the circle from now on,” I say.
“It’s not true, what he said.”
“He’s not talking about the Cherokee.”
“But back home they said all that about the Cherokee—that we were thieves and worse—and it’s not true. You remember when Dan Hutchings killed his brother-in-law?”
“Sure.” It was a big scandal in Dahlonega. They’d been arguing over a piece of land that Dan said was his, through his wife. He hung for it.
Jefferson stares off at nothing. “Dan was a white man, as white as they come,” he says. “And nobody ever said he did it because white men are savages. But one Indian does something bad, and suddenly all of them are bad.”
In the moonlight, his profile looks more Cherokee than ever. Mama used to say that Jefferson had a noble dignity about him, which was her way of pointing out his Indian blood while pretending to be polite. He doesn’t seem noble to me. He’s just Jeff.
“No one thinks you’re bad,” I say softly.
He turns on me, eyes flashing. “That’s not . . . I mean . . .”
“I knew a lot of Indians back when I was a little girl, and not a one of them was bad. And I know you, and you’re the best person I know. Do you want me to walk on over to Major Craven and spit in his eye?”
“’Course not,” he says, but I’ve coaxed a little smile out of him.
“I could probably hit it at five paces.”
He says nothing, but his eyes rove my face, and he gets a strange expression.
My cheeks warm. “Come on,” I say, tossing my saddlebags and blanket under the Joyners’ wagon. “Let’s go find your boot.”