UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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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 friend 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.
“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.
“It’s another day,” he says.
“You don’t have to sound so cheerful,” I grumble.
“I know!” he says. “But it vexes you.”
We make twelve to fourteen miles a day for a week, through land so lovely it’s a pain in my chest. Thoughts of Uncle Hiram niggle at me like impure gold in a distant stream—faint and far, but always there. Each day is both a curse and blessing, bringing me closer to him, but also to the gold I was born to find.
So I push away thoughts of Hiram. For now, I want to enjoy the burn of hard work, the company of my best friend, and the prettiest sky I’ve ever seen. Hiram has taken so much from me. I’m not going to let him take this too.
One morning, it starts pouring rain and doesn’t stop. We cross one creek, then a second. After lunch, we come to yet another, and by now the water is high and fast; the path, churned and muddy; the banks, steep.
The wagons squish through the mud, creeping forward at a pace that makes a tortoise look like a hare. When it’s finally our turn to cross, the right front wheel drops into a sinkhole and sticks tight, and no whipping and yelling at the oxen can make it budge.
Jefferson and I unload everything, and the college men and Mr. Robichaud help lift and lever it free. Reverend Lowrey stands off to one side with his Bible and prays for us.
After the wagon is across and on dry ground, we load it back up. Mr. Joyner whips the team to hurry them, but they pay him no mind. By the time we overtake the rest of the company, the wagons are circled for the night, their campfires glowing.
As we ride up, Jefferson leans over and says, “Those mules move fast. Mark my words: One of these days the Missouri wagons are going to leave the rest of us behind.”
I’m afraid he might be right.
One Saturday, after a couple of weeks on the trail, Reverend Lowrey makes his wife drive the wagon so he can ride up and down the line exhorting everyone to spend the Sabbath as a day of rest. We’ve been neglecting the Lord, he says, and our travels are sure to go better when we remember Him as we ought. There’s not much enthusiasm for the idea, but Major Craven decides we could use the extra day to fatten up the cattle before crossing the Kansas River. He says there’s not much forage to be had between the Kansas and the Platte.
The next morning, everyone unloads what chairs they’ve brought along. The college boys fashion a quick pew from a split log and a pair of sawhorses. I sit on the Joyners’ wagon bench, which is close enough to look like I’m participating. Reverend Lowrey drones on about fearing God and the dangers of hellfire. I allow my eyes to drift closed and my chin to hit my chest, because if it’s a day of rest, then I’m going to rest. By the time services are over, I decide I like the Sabbath very much.
We set off the next day feeling restored. I gaze about as we ride, admiring the wild green fields and their copses of tall woods, stretching as far as the eye can see. The world has exploded with wildflowers—black-eyed Susans and blue chicory and yellow mustard—and the sun lounges heavy in the sky, casting the world in a golden haze.
I admit, it’s even prettier than Georgia. Mama and Daddy would have loved it
The Kansas River fattens as we reach its confluence with the Big Blue, which is an odd name because it’s as muddy brown with spring rain as all the rest. Major Craven says we must ferry across the Kansas and follow the Big Blue north for a while.
I think longingly of Captain Chisholm’s flatboat, because these ferries are nothing but overgrown rafts made of weathered wood that looks near to splintering apart. I can’t imagine them carrying wagons and oxen and horses.
Just like we did for the flatboat, we unload the wagon, then lift off the box and fill it with the wheels. It’s too heavy for Jefferson and me alone, so all the families help one another—the college men and Mr. Robichaud help us, then we help them right back, which sets my back to aching and shoves a splinter into my left thumb.
Athena, the milk cow, rides across the ferry with us. She lows pitifully. Her pupils are huge and her muscles twitch, like her skin is covered with flies. Twice, she empties her bladder onto the deck.
Mrs. Joyner gathers up Andy and Olive and flees to the far end of the raft.
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask Jasper.
“I don’t know,” Jasper says. He kisses Athena’s muzzle, but she flinches away. “I hope she didn’t eat something disagreeable.”
The ferryman at the tiller says, “She been ettin’ a foul-smelling weed, about eh high?” He holds his hand midthigh. “Leaves are toothy, dark green on top, light on bottom?”
“Maybe,” Jasper says. “I haven’t been paying attention. Fellows?”
Henry gazes back toward the dwindling shore. “There was something like that where we stopped for lunch.”
Tom nods. “She was eating it, all right. There wasn’t much else. The whole trail has been grazed over by the argonauts who preceded us.”
The ferryman chortles. “That’s jimsonweed she et. Devil’s snare. Make sure she gets fresh grass, and she’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Poor girl,” I say, starting toward her. I have some grass in the pocket of my trousers that I pulled for Peony—a habit I picked up while riding the flatboat—but Athena is welcome to it. Tom and Henry had the same impulse, and her eyes go buggy as the three of us close in on her. She shakes her head, lowing mournfully. Quicker than I can blink, she stumbles off the ferry and plops gracelessly into the river.
We stagger over to the side as the ensuing wave sets us to rocking. Athena’s head breaks the surface, and she flounders, blowing water from her nostrils.
Mr. Joyner laughs. “She’s going to drown if she doesn’t get herself aimed toward shore,” he says.
“The children will miss the butter,” Mrs. Joyner says.
I gape at them both. “We’ve got to do something to help her!” But I have no idea what.
The ferry glides past, and Athena falls behind. The college men run to the back of the raft. “This way, Athena!” Jasper calls. “You can do it, sweetheart. Just keep swimming.”
“Pardon, pardon me, if you please, let me help,” Mr. Robichaud says, brushing past me and pushing Jasper aside. He has a rope in one hand, a looped noose in the other.
Mr. Robichaud swings the noose into the air above his head and tosses it out. It arcs unnaturally, but somehow lands right over her head and settles around her neck. He tugs the rope gently to tighten the noose, giving it one firm yank, which gets her swimming toward the boat.
“That was something else!” Jasper says to him. “Never seen that done on water before. Thank you, sir.”
“When did you learn that?” I ask.
“I wrangled cattle back in Ottawa Valley.”
“On a plantation? Or did you drive them?”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Mr. Robichaud says. “I’ll tell you about it if you practice English with Lucie.”
Jefferson warned me that Mrs. Robichaud is a chatterbox, but it would be nice to talk to another woman, which is something I can’t do without an invitation, not dressed as a boy. “I’ll do it,” I say.
When the ferry bumps onto shore, Jasper and Henry splash through the water to aid Athena. Her legs are wobbly, and she shakes with exhaustion and misery, but she manages to scramble up the riverbank with help and coaxing.
She’s just a cow, but I’m so glad she made it, and I look for Jefferson, wanting to share the feeling with someone. He’s already over by the Hoffmans’ wagon, helping them reattach the wheels.
I run to assist; it’s easier if we all pitch in. I’m loading a trunk when I freeze, nearly dropping it on my toes.
My throat buzzes and my knees tremble. Gold is somewhere nearby. A lot of it. In one of the Hoffmans’ trunks, maybe.
“Lee? You all right?” Jefferson peers into my face. A sack of flour is balanced over one shoulder.
I jump, startled. “Sorry. Yes. I . . .” Therese and her tiny sister, Doreen, are giving me a strange look, which sets my heart to pounding. “I thought I heard a coyote,” I finish lamely. “But I was mistaken.”
I turn away and get back to work, as if nothing is amiss. The presence of gold fades, first with familiarity, then with distance, as one by one, we lift the wagons, slide the wheels back on, and yoke up the oxen. With all of us working together, the ferry empties quickly, and we roll off, glad to be on solid ground. Jefferson leaves me behind to ride off with the Hoffmans. I stare after him, my sense of gold fading even more.
I’ve no desire to ride alone with the Joyners, where I’m barely welcome, so I steer Peony toward the college men instead. Athena rests on the ground, her sides heaving. Tom paces with his hands in his pockets. Henry picks his teeth with a bit of straw. Jasper crouches over the cow, rubbing her with a blanket.
“Is she going to be all right?”
“I think so.”
“I could stay—”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he says.
“You’d better catch up with your family,” Henry says.
I open my mouth to snap that the Joyners are not my family, but I stop myself in the nick of time. He’s just trying to be helpful.
“Go on,” he says, gesturing me away. So I turn Peony and start her after the wagons again. As I ride away, the college men and the ferry landing grow distant, but I don’t feel like I’m getting any closer to the folks ahead.