UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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It’s nighttime, with a waning moon to light my view. It took us three days to catch up to the Missouri men, but catch up we did, and we are now camped in a beautiful grove between the Soda Springs, which bubbles gently with soda water, and Steamboat Spring, which shoots steam high into the air. Reverend Lowrey has been telling the little ones that demons’ work engines are hidden underground. But I think anything so wondrous must be the work of angels.
The springs whoosh and spout while I lie hidden beneath a cottonwood tree, my rifle aimed at our wagon. I’m covered with brush, which makes me itch, and I fight the temptation to scratch the back of my neck. At least the itching keeps me awake. I’ve been lying here for hours, watching, seeing nothing. But that’s all right. I am patient.
The regular theft of supplies has continued. Since Mr. Joyner died, we’ve twice awakened to discover that the loaf of bread Widow Joyner cooked overnight in the Dutch oven is gone. Last night, Widow Joyner prepared another loaf and left it sitting by the coals. I could never shoot an Indian, or any man, but I plan to catch someone in the act and be as frightful as possible.
Jefferson sleeps beneath the Joyner wagon. He promised to jump up at my warning cry and help me make a dreadful racket. If the thief doesn’t come tonight, we’ll swap places tomorrow; Jefferson will keep watch while I sleep with my rifle beside me.
Yawning, I break off another piece of chicory root and put it my mouth. Chewing it floods my tongue with invigorating bitterness.
I expect our thieves to approach from outside the camp, so I almost miss two dark shapes creeping among the animals inside our wagon corral. I shift my rifle in their direction.
They’re not Indians; I can tell even in the dark. Their silhouettes are rumpled and bulky, like argonauts. One wears a broad-brimmed straw hat, just like the one worn by Henry Meek.
Coney is curled up in his usual spot between Peony’s front legs. He lifts his head as the shapes approach. The man with the hat crouches to scratch his ears, and Coney thumps his tail before lowering his heads back to his paws. My low opinion of the dogs’ guarding abilities is somewhat mitigated. At least they know friend from foe.
The men glance around and tiptoe over to the cook fire. The one in the hat bends to remove the Dutch oven’s lid.
I rise from my hiding place. The loose brush and sage drop away like a dead skin. “Stop right there, Henry Meek, or I will shoot you and your companion.” My voice is clear but soft; I don’t want to wake Jefferson or alert anyone else before I hear Henry’s explanation.
They turn to face me, and I’m the one who jumps in surprise.
With Henry is Hampton, the slave who belonged to Mr. Bledsoe from Arkansas.
“I thought you ran away,” I whisper.
“I’m still running away,” he whispers back.
Henry puts a finger to his lips and gestures for Hampton and me to follow. He grabs Widow Joyner’s bread loaf and leads us away.
I follow warily, past the Soda Springs and down an incline. Once we’re out of sight, we huddle in a small grove of birch trees. The stolen blanket is wrapped around Hampton’s shoulders.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “And talk fast before I decide to rouse the camp.”
Henry offers a chunk of bread to Hampton, who grabs it and shoves it into his mouth. He gulps it down without chewing. After a long sigh, he says, “I’m going to California to find gold, same as you.”
“But . . .” I close my mouth. I’m not exactly sure what my protestation is.
Hampton continues, “I’ll send every speck of it back to Arkansas. Buy my freedom, clear and legal. Maybe I can buy freedom for my wife too.”
Can’t blame him for that. If I still had folks back home, I’d do everything in my power to have them with me again.
“No man should have to pay for their freedom,” Henry says. “It’s a natural right—‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’ So we’ve been helping him as much as we can.” He tears off another piece and offers the loaf to me. “Go on,” he says. “Take a bite. In the spirit of true Christian communion.”
I’m not sure what makes me take it. The bread is still warm when I put it in my mouth. “I wish you fellows still had Athena. Some butter would make even Widow Joyner’s bread taste good.” But I feel wrong. I’m eating stolen bread.
Henry smiles at me. I don’t return his smile as I pass the loaf back to Hampton. “I guess the rest is yours.”
“I’m sorry we took from you,” Henry says. “But our rations are running low. We’ve been helping Wally since his leg came off. Frank Dilley ‘lost’ most of Wally’s supplies right after his leg was broken. We’ve used every persuasion at our disposal, but he remains unmoved.”
“But Widow Joyner’s eating for two, and . . .” Even in the dark, I can see how much thinner Hampton has become since he left us.
“I wanted to tell you,” Henry says. “But you being from Georgia, I just didn’t know how—”
“I love Georgia, but I’ve never held with slavery.” I scuff my boots in the dirt. “My daddy raised me right.”
“Sounds like a good man,” Henry says.
“He was.”
“My congressman spoke several times at Illinois College,” Henry says. “Made an abolitionist of me, that’s for sure. He says we’ll have to end slavery if we want to keep the country together. Not a lot I can do about that, way out west, but I figure I can help one man.”
Hampton is hanging his head. I hope his thieving ways don’t set well with him. “I’d rather take from Frank Dilley and his people,” he says. “But they pack everything up tight and keep an extra guard.”
“We’re lucky they never caught you trying,” Henry says.
Hampton nods. “Some of them—like Waters, Dilley’s foreman—well, they’re slave catchers. They get hold of me, I’m done for.”
“And we don’t want that,” Henry adds.
Hampton stretches out his bare feet, and I wince. His thick calluses are cracked and dry.
“We’ve a long way to go,” I say. “The Major says the hardest part is still ahead. Hundreds and hundreds of miles, some of it through desert, with no water and no fuel.”
“I’ll follow behind like a ghost,” Hampton says. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
“But now I do,” I say.
“Now you do,” Hampton agrees. He and Henry stare at me, waiting to see what I’ll do.
“You’ve done wrong, Hampton.”
He doesn’t argue, but his face screws up tight.
“No man should be a slave, but no man should be a thief either.”
I think I’ve spoken fairly, but it makes him angry. “Can’t steal my labor from me my whole life and then accuse me of theft.”
I open my mouth to protest but think better of it. Was I stealing from Uncle Hiram when I took my own possessions and Daddy’s colts besides? No one could convince me so. And while I can dress up like a boy and earn my way on a wagon train, there’s no way for Hampton to dress up like a free man.
“I never thought of it that way before,” I say finally.
Henry leans forward. “So are we all in accord here?”
I nod, even though I don’t like it one bit.
After a pause, Hampton meets my eye and nods too. For better or worse, I’m now part of their conspiracy.
“I have an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you send Major Craven over to help the Widow Joyner? He can drive the wagon, watch the little ones, repair the shoes they’ve outgrown—”
“Cook,” suggests Henry.
“And cook. We’ll feed him, and it won’t be a such a burden on your supplies.” I glance at Hampton. “This stealing has her afraid for her life. She thinks she’ll be murdered in her sleep and her children stolen from her. She’s got enough trouble and doesn’t need the extra strain.” I know it for falseness as soon as it leaves my mouth. Widow Joyner’s strain is nothing compared to Hampton’s, and it never will be. Quickly, I add, “If people catch you following along, there might be mercy. If they catch you stealing, you’ll be sold at best, strung up at worst. You know it as well as I do.”
“I’ll talk to Wally,” Henry says.
“Good.” I slip my canteen strap over my head, open the lid, and take a drink. Then I hand it to Hampton. A peace offering. “It’s not communion if there’s no wine.”
Hampton tips it to his lips and swallows long and hard. He wipes his mouth when he’s done. “Well, darn. The Savior got confused and turned this wine into water.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Henry says, taking the canteen from Hampton. He sips and offers it to me.
I put my hands up in refusal and look at Hampton. “Do you have something to carry water in?”
“No, sir,” he says.
“No, ma’am,” Henry corrects him.
“I know,” Hampton says. “I mean, sorry, ma’am. He told me about your situation. It’s just that you act like a sir.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’d rather be treated with respect than treated like a lady.”
Hampton presses his lips together into a firm line, like I’ve said something stupid and bothersome again, though I don’t know what.
“Keep the canteen,” I say. “Otherwise, you’ll never make it across the desert ahead.”
I get to my feet and shake dry grass from my trousers. “I would have given you something to eat if I’d known,” I say.
He nods acknowledgment.
Henry and I decide to walk back to camp separately. When I get there, Jefferson is awake and hunkered over the cook pot. He looks up as I approach. “They got it again!”
“I know,” I say. “I must have dozed off. Maybe next time, we’ll . . .” Jefferson’s gaze on me is open and honest and trusting and the very last thing I deserve. “Blast.”
“What?”
I tug on his sleeve, pulling him away from the wagon circle. Once we’re out of earshot, I whisper: “The truth is, it was Hampton. The runaway slave. He’s been following us.”
Jefferson’s eyes widen.
“The college men will take care of him from now on, in secret. In return, we have to coax Major Craven to join our wagon. He could be a big help to Mrs. Joyner.”
Jefferson mulls that over for a moment. He glances eastward, as if expecting Hampton to materialize on the horizon.
I brace myself for his protest. Instead, he says, “So much for that bread. I guess we’ll have burned flapjacks for breakfast. Again.”
I smile gratefully. “I reckon we’ll survive. Let’s go see if the Major wants to come help with the cooking.”
We stop to resupply at Fort Hall, which is less of a fort and more of a trading post consisting of two rickety blockhouses and a small stable. A constant stream of humanity flows through: trappers, Indians, argonauts, and settlers. It’s too many people. After being in the wilderness so long, I can hardly breathe.
California is bound to feel crowded too. Maybe that’s a good thing. With Hiram looking for me, the last thing I want to be is uncommon or noteworthy.
The meadows nearby are dotted with tents and wagons and even a few teepees, but otherwise, filled with lush, fast-growing grass. We let the cattle and mules graze freely to regain their strength. Meanwhile, we take our laundry down to the hot springs. I wear Lucie Robichaud’s skirt again while I scrub the rest of my clothes against Mrs. Joyner’s washboard.
Now that Mrs. Joyner knows I’m a girl, she has no problem assigning everyone’s laundry to me, and I spend the whole day scrubbing and scrubbing, until my hands are red and chapped and I can’t feel my fingertips. I almost never did laundry back home in Georgia. While I was out helping Daddy, Mama must have done a lot of work that I took for granted. Now, I understand what Therese meant by wanting to give her hands a chance to heal.
Near the trading post is a military encampment made up of low tents. On our second day at Fort Hall, their leader, General Loring, rides out to speak with the wagon companies. He’s younger than I would expect for a general, despite his long beard. One of his sleeves swings empty at his side; someone whispers that he lost an arm in the Mexican War. He dismounts from his giant roan gelding and walks among us, making conversation. His uniform shows the same dirt and wear as the common soldiers.
“You ought to go to Oregon,” he tells Frank Dilley. “California is filled with bad men—runaways and thieves. The gold will be gone in a year or two, but good rich soil lasts forever. You can pass that down to your children.”
Their conversation attracts attention. The rest of the Missouri men gather around. A few Mormons bound for Salt Lake trickle over from another company. Even Reverend Lowrey and Mr. Robichaud creep closer, ears pricked.
“Any saloon is happy to take my gold,” Frank says. “But I always get the boot when I try to pay with buckets of soil.”
His men laugh, and even I can’t help cracking a grin.
The general turns toward Lowrey and Robichaud. “What about it? Some of you look like farmers. There’s wonderful farming in the Willamette Valley. It’s good country for raising families.”
A few women have gathered too—me, Mrs. Hoffman, Lucie, some Mormons. His eyes skim over us like we’re not even here, which is fine by me. I’m bound for California or bust, no matter what he says.
But Frank Dilley jerks a thumb at me. “Better aim your sermon at that one,” he says. “I reckon Georgia there wears the pants in that company.”
Jonas Waters chortles like it’s the funniest thing. “And never have I seen pants worn so finely!” he adds.
The general gives me a puzzled look. My face flushes hot, but I keep my peace.
“I can see you’re all set in your ways,” the general says. “But since you’re a mixed company, with women present, let me warn you: We had a situation here a few weeks ago, where an Indian offered a man three horses in exchange for one of his daughters. The settler joked that if the Indian gave him six, it was a deal. This joke, as it were, at his daughter’s expense, nearly led to bloodshed, when the Indian came back with the horses.”
“That must be how the half-breed got hold of her,” Frank says, loud enough for everyone to hear. Jefferson leaps forward, but I grab his arm and yank him back.
“Ignore him,” I tell him. “Dilley’s a toad.”
Jefferson’s jaw is clenched tight, and his eyes flash darkly. For the briefest moment, he looks just like his da.
“He’ll get his in time,” Jasper says.
“I think the time is right now,” Jefferson says, but the fight trickles out of him, and he backs down.
“See what I said about wearing the pants?” Frank haws.
The general goes on for a fair bit, and all the men pay close attention. Except Reverend Lowrey, who keeps glancing my way.
As evening falls, we pack up our gear to depart in the morning. Therese and I are taking clothes down from the laundry line stretched between the Joyner and Hoffman wagons.
“Look at this!” she says in disgust, waving a dark gray stocking at me. “Luther put a hole in it again. Too big to be darned. If he trimmed his toenails once in a while, I wouldn’t have to do so much knitting.”
“I don’t know how to knit,” I admit.
She gapes at me, but she schools her expression quickly. “Well, I would be happy to teach you. No, on second thought . . .” She leans forward and drops her voice. “If you learned, Mrs. Joyner would make you knit your way to California.”
I giggle, glancing Mrs. Joyner’s way to make sure she didn’t overhear. “I bet you’re right.” I grab a table napkin from the clothesline and shake it out. If I fold it now, while it’s still sun-warmed, Mrs. Joyner might not insist it be pressed. “But will you teach me to knit later?” I ask. “When we get to California?”
Therese smiles. “Of course.”
Someone clears his throat, and I turn to find Reverend Lowery bearing down on us.
“Miss McCollin,” he says, not even knowing my name. “If I could have a private word with you?”
Therese’s eyebrows rise. She turns away quickly, but not before I notice how hard she is trying not to laugh. I stare at her back, puzzled.
“Go on, Lee,” Mrs. Joyner calls from her place by the cook fire. Her tone is smug. Like she knows something I don’t.
“All right,” I say to the preacher. “But let’s be quick about it. I’ve got work to do.”
We step away from the wagons as the sun is dipping below the horizon. The damp summer breeze has a bite of sulfur, thanks to the hot springs. We’re nearly to the river before we stop. Reverend Lowrey stands quietly a moment in his best black suit, like a crow. He clutches his Bible in one hand.
“Leah,” he says, eyes lowered. “Today’s admonitions from General Loring brought to mind my own serious neglect of duty, and I wanted to apologize to you.”
“Huh?”
“Long have I indulged in grief at the loss of Mrs. Lowrey, and thus failed to see God’s plan and purpose. I deeply regret the hurt I’ve done you, in your condition.”
I recoil a step, even though I have no idea what he means. “What exactly is my condition?”
His gaze is earnest. “That of a young woman, alone in the world, with no man for protection.”
“I’ve done a fair job of protecting myself.”
He waves his hand like a teacher erasing a chalkboard. “Everyone knows how diligently you toil. You are, in fact, an exemplary worker, and when you apply those exertions to duties more befitting your gender, to housekeeping and raising children, you’ll make a fine wife.”
“I guess.”
“What I’m trying to say is, I see our Father’s hand at work. You, all alone in the world—”
“I’m not alone.” I didn’t realize it until this very moment, but it’s true. “I’ve got Jefferson, and Jasper and Tom and Henry. I’ve got Widow Joyner and her children. The Robichauds and the Hoffmans. I am”—a touch of wonder fills my voice—“blessed with friends.”
The reverend scowls—he’s not a man used to being contradicted. “God took my beloved Mary because he has a purpose in mind for you. Our Heavenly Father, and myself—all of us—want what’s best for you. God has cultivated within me a miraculous affection for your spirited ways and comely eyes. He wants you to find the right man to marry. That man is standing before you this very moment.”
My jaw drops open. This is even worse than Jefferson’s proposal, and Jefferson had the excuse of no experience. A miraculous affection?
Finally, I find words: “Oh, hell, no.”
He steps closer, looms over me. “I know you . . . carry on . . . with Jefferson. Under the wagon at night.”
I hold my ground. “What? ”
“But I forgive you, my Gomer. I am your Hosea, and I will redeem you. Surely you see how unsuitable Jefferson—”
“What about Jefferson?”
“I don’t wish to allude to his parentage, as that is something over which he has no control.”
I lean forward so that I’m right in his face. “If you don’t wish to allude, then you’d better stop talking.”
He retreats a step. “I’m neither impugning his good qualities nor denigrating his character.”
“You are! You are definitely impugning and denigrating.”
He holds up his Bible with both hands, like it’s a shield. “Let me start over again. What I’m trying to say is, Leah, it’s not our place to question God’s will, and it is clearly God’s will that the two of us become man and wife.”
It’s a testament to my fine character that I don’t smash that Bible right into his nose. “You wouldn’t know God’s will if it tipped its hat and said howdy. My answer to you now is no and will always be no.” I turn to walk away but pause. “Because you’ve been grieving, I’m going to forget you said anything to me tonight. But I don’t want you to bring it up again. Ever.”
I stomp back to the wagons hard enough to shake the ground.
Widow Joyner is repacking a trunk with clean clothes when I return. She looks up as I approach, and her expectant smile instantly disappears. “What happened?”
“The reverend and I had a theological disagreement that ended in a permanent schism.”
“So . . . no congratulations are in order?”
In answer, I lift the toolbox and slam it onto the wagon. I have too much to do to let that preacher waste any more of my time.
Jefferson is returning from the meadow where he’s been keeping an eye on the oxen. “Hey, Lee, will you—”
“I don’t want to talk right now.” I grab the grease bucket and crawl under the wagon to check the wheels.
Men. And their no-good, fool-headed proposals.