UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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At dawn two days later, the Arkansas crew finds Mr. Bledsoe, the sheep farmer, dead in his wagon.
Major Craven calls off travel for the morning. Mr. Bledsoe’s men dig a grave, and after we all view his earthly body, they wrap him in the bed comforter he died in, which is noticeably fouled, anyway, binding him up with strips of cloth.
I barely spoke two words to Mr. Bledsoe, but my heart is heavy. He did nothing at all to get himself killed. Just pointed his boots west. It could have happened to any of us.
Reverend Lowrey reads from his Bible about death and resurrection and follows up with a prayer. We all think he’s done, and Mr. Bledsoe’s men stoop to roll him into the hole. Mr. Joyner, whose health has improved enough to attend, excuses himself and dashes away to take care of his personal business.
But then the reverend launches into a lengthy and effusive eulogy, enumerating the many outstanding Christian virtues of Mr. Bledsoe, which ought to serve as an inspiration to us all. I can’t imagine he knew the man any better than the rest of us, but he sounds sincere enough, and more than a few people are moved to tears.
The only people not present are the Robichauds.
It turns out la rougeole means the measles. Major Craven broke the news last night that the Robichaud twins were exposed at a trading post a couple weeks ago. He assured everyone that even though the measles spreads rapidly, it’s less likely to prove deadly than cholera. The Robichauds have agreed to quarantine themselves until the sickness passes, and anyone who shows symptoms is to tell Major Craven at once.
The sun is high and heat is rolling off the plains by the time they lower Mr. Bledsoe into his final resting place. They’re about to shovel dirt on top of him when Mr. Joyner returns and says, “Stop. Hold your horses.”
Everyone looks at him expectantly.
“Can it wait?” Reverend Lowrey asks. “This is a Christian burial.”
Mr. Joyner looks to Major Craven. “The Indians are going to dig up this grave, aren’t they?”
This sets everyone to mumbling among themselves. “I don’t think we can stop ’em,” Major Craven admits.
“Maybe we can leave them a gift.” He turns to me. “Run to the Frenchman’s wagon and get the blankets from their children.”
“But they’ve got measles,” I say.
“That’s the general idea. Rub those blankets all over the boys first.”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll give them new blankets,” he says, misunderstanding my refusal. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. Wait until I get back before you fill in that grave.”
I turn to look for Jefferson, but he’s gone.
Though weak from the cholera, Mr. Joyner strides away with purpose. Someone calls out, “Don’t do this, Joyner!” Henry, maybe.
But he ignores the voice, disappearing behind the Robichauds’ wagon. A moment later comes the sound of Mrs. Robichaud yelling in French.
He returns with his arms full of blankets.
I glance around at everyone else. Surely someone will put a stop to this? A few of the men shift uncomfortably on their feet. Major Craven looks down at the ground.
“This is a terrible notion,” I say.
“It’s none of your business, boy,” he says. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his face is gaunt and pale under days of beard growth.
I step forward, but a hand grips my upper arm. “Let him be,” says Frank Dilley.
Mr. Joyner staggers to the grave and throws the blankets over Mr. Bledsoe’s body. “You can finish covering him up now,” he says. “If anybody disturbs this burial, I hope they get exactly what they deserve.”
I don’t hear a word of complaint. A few murmur agreement. Frank says, “I like the way you think.”
Mr. Joyner slumps over, exhausted now. He staggers back to the wagon, Mrs. Joyner and the children in tow.
“Let’s sing a hymn,” Reverend Lowrey says in a shaky voice. He demonstrates, and we repeat it, except I just move my mouth, pretending.
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace:
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of ceaseless praise:
Rescued thus from sin and danger,
Purchased by the Savior’s blood,
May I walk on earth a stranger,
As a son and heir of God.
The last shovelful of dirt patters down onto Mr. Bledsoe’s body. They tamp it down, mound it up, and step back. It’s less than any person deserves, but there’s nothing more we can do.
“Let’s roll out,” Major Craven says, and everyone flows away from the graveside and back to their own wagons.
The hymn echoes in my head while I ready our wagon to leave. I’ve never felt so far from God’s grace. I suppose I am a stranger walking on earth, but I’m no son of God. I’m no son at all.
The wagon train is markedly shorter than before. A glance eastward reveals a handful of wagons going back the way we came. Major Craven comes by to explain things to Mr. Joyner.
“Mr. Bledsoe’s group feel they have neither the authority nor motivation to carry on to California without him,” he says. “Seeing as how we’ve haven’t yet reached the divide, they’ve decided to go back.”
“They’re fools,” Mr. Joyner says.
“Maybe,” Craven says.
“You aren’t leaving with them?” I ask. Major Craven was hired by Bledsoe’s group.
“I reckon I’ll stick around until we get to California. I’ve got my gear, and Bledsoe’s men paid off my wages in food. Frank Dilley will carry it for me in one of his wagons.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it well in hand, then,” Mr. Joyner says.
“Probably.” He turns to go and then stops. “Oh, and you’ll want to keep an eye out for Bledsoe’s slave.”
“The shepherd?” Mr. Joyner asks.
“Hampton,” I say. “The one who found Andy.”
Craven frowns. “He ran off last night.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with Bledsoe’s death, do you?” Mr. Joyner asked.
“Not unless he could do witchcraft,” Craven says.
I jump a little at the word.
“No,” Craven continues. “Bledsoe died from the cholera. But his slave was gone when Bledsoe’s men got up this morning.”
“Maybe the Indians’ll find him,” Mr. Joyner says.
“Yeah, and then they can give him measles,” I say, and I don’t regret it, even with Mr. Joyner glaring at me.
There’s no reason to antagonize people, Mama always said.
But sometimes there’s no reason not to, is how I would reply.
“He’ll likely make for Iowa or one of the free states,” Craven says. “So I don’t expect him to be a problem.” His face becomes stern. “Some of the Missouri men, former pattyrollers, are talking about organizing a party to go after him, but you should know that this company won’t wait around. If you leave, it’s at your own peril.”
“We’ll keep an eye out,” I say. But I make no guarantees about how hard I’ll look or what I’ll do if I see him. With any luck, Hampton is already half a day’s journey to Iowa. I wish him luck.
The next day the temperature drops, and the rains return. The wagons get stuck in the mud over and over. By evening, Mr. Joyner’s road-o-meter measures only six miles. We make camp, and everyone gathers water and relieves themselves nearby, because it’s too miserable and dark to wander any distance.
With everyone remaining close, I don’t have to stray far for my own privacy. Even in the rain, I linger to enjoy the time alone, taking time to clean my clothes and gear and fill my canteen and take care of my other needs.
Night has fallen when I return, and Jefferson has already spread his blanket under the wagon and stretched out to sleep.
“Aren’t you afraid of Indians?” he says, and his voice has a mocking edge.
“No,” I say, not wanting to get drawn into an argument.
“Why do you spend so much time out there?” he says.
“I don’t know.” I settle my head down onto the saddlebag. I whisper, “Maybe because it’s the only time I don’t have to lie to anyone.”
“You don’t have to lie to anyone.”
“Yes, I really do.”
“Well, you don’t have to lie to me,” he whispers back.
I open my mouth to tell him I know that, and maybe thank him, but two hard thumps sound on the bed of the wagon just above our head.
Jefferson sighs.
Please don’t roll over again, I think.
He rolls over.
I stare at his back a long time.
When we reach the Platte River, my heart sinks, because it’s as wide as the Missouri. But it turns out to be as shallow as a puddle. It’s less of a river, and more of a muddy, rolling ribbon of slurry water and quicksand.
“It’s a mile wide and an inch deep,” Major Craven tells us when the wagons stop.
“Too bad it’s not the other way around,” I say to Jefferson. “Then we could step across it without getting our feet wet.”
He smiles, his first in a long time, and it does my heart good.
We come to Fort Kearny two days later, which isn’t how I imagined a fort to look like at all. It’s no more than a small scattering of low buildings made of sod blocks. But the rooftops are bright green with grass, and they sit beside the lazy Platte as pretty as a painting. The soldiers stationed here are indistinguishable in clothes or character from the Missouri men in our own wagon train. Mrs. Joyner and several others drop off letters for family back home. We refresh our supplies, and the blacksmith shoes our animals and mends our wagon wheels. Peony’s shoes are worn thin, and it costs four dollars to get new ones. I make the mistake of counting what’s left: eleven dollars and forty-two cents. Staying a long time in Independence cost me dear.
“How’s the sorrel mare holding up?” I ask Jefferson the evening before we depart.
He shrugs.
Something in his face makes me peer closer. “Jeff? Does she need shoes?”
“She’s fine.”
“Our trail gets steep and rocky, and—”
“I said she’s fine!”
I reach into my pocket and fish out four dollars. “Get her shod. I know she’s not a barefoot horse, so don’t you dare say no. We need her sound.”
He stares at the coins in my hand. Sighs. Grabs them before he can change his mind. “Thanks, Lee.”
“You’d do it for me.”
I stare after him as he leads the sorrel mare toward the blacksmith’s stable, my pockets feeling light as air.
In the morning, we leave Fort Kearny behind, and it feels as though we’re stepping off the edge of civilization. The trail starts to incline, and the weather warms. I’m thirsty all the time. Still, we push on as hard as we can because the general word at Fort Kearny is that the cholera clears up past Fort Laramie.
Our train rolls by more shallow graves, most of them dug up. We make graves of our own when two of the Missouri men pass on in the night. I didn’t know them well, but I stand a long moment at their graveside, hat off, just like everyone else. Unlike everyone else, I stare at Jefferson the whole time, assuring myself that he seems as hale as always.
Mr. Joyner continues to improve, much to his family’s great relief, and is soon up and about, though he moves more slowly than before. The mood is better around our wagon, and at night, when we set up camp, I play hide-and-seek with Andy Jr. He still wears my locket, like a good luck charm, and each time he hides, I pretend for a few minutes that I don’t know exactly where he is.
“You don’t have a rifle?” Mr. Joyner says, blinking against the afternoon sun. Major Craven has called an early halt today on account of us already making sixteen miles and coming to a spot rich with grass.
“No, sir,” I say, thinking longingly of Daddy’s Hawken.
“Lee’s the best shot in Lumpkin County back home,” Jefferson says as he lifts a chair from the wagon.
Mr. Joyner snorts, as if hearing a tall tale. “Well, the Missouri boys say this is buffalo country. I’ll lend you my rifle until I’m back in fighting form. You and Jefferson head out, try to find one of the beasts. If you do, shoot it and bring it back.”
His rifle is a beautiful Springfield with a single trigger, made of shining chestnut wood, or at least stained to look just like it. The barrel is nearly three feet long. I’ve never shot one before, but I like its easy weight and elegant balance.
Jefferson is as thrilled as I am to get away from camp chores for a bit. We ride out, rifles in hand, into rolling wild pasture.
“What you said a few nights ago,” Jefferson says once we’re out of earshot.
“What did I say? ‘Shut up and sleep’?”
“No, about not having to lie to anyone. You don’t have to lie to me. You know that, right?”
“It’s not lying with words,” I explain. “Everything I do is a lie. My clothes, my name, who people think I am.”
“Yeah, but it’s great, isn’t it?”
“Great?” I peer closer, trying to figure him.
“This is the best we’ve ever had it.” At my expression, he quickly adds, “It’s the best I’ve ever had it in my life. Plenty of food. The work is easier than mining and farming.”
“Oh. Yeah, great.” Jefferson doesn’t feel the same sense of loss that I do. My mama and daddy are a constant ache in me, even months later. But Jefferson is glad to be rid of his da, and I don’t blame him. Therese looks at him in a way none of the girls back home did. He’s stronger than he’s ever been.
“I mean, no one likes me,” he amends. “Or trusts me much. But that’s no different from back home.”
“Therese likes you.”
His face turns thoughtful. “She does. And maybe I’m winning some of the others over too. Don’t you think?”
I stare down at Peony’s mane. “I think you could win over anyone in the world, if you wanted.”
We plod on, keeping an eye out for game. Bees flit around the wildflowers, and sleepy crickets leap through the grass to avoid our horses.
“You’re not lying to me about anything, are you, Lee?” he says, and his voice has a strange quality to it.
Words congeal in my throat. What do I say? Yes, Jefferson, I haven’t told you that I can find gold the way a hound finds foxes. I haven’t said that seeing you with Therese makes me sad. That on the way to Independence I started getting used to the idea of marrying my best friend, and that sometimes when you turn your back on me at night, it feels like the world is cracking open.
I find my voice. “No. I’m not lying. It’s just . . .”
He reins in the sorrel mare. “Lee?”
“It’s just that maybe I’m not telling you everything.”
“Oh.” He looks down at his hands clutching the reins. “I might not be telling you everything either.”
I startle a little, and Peony dances in response. But if I’m keeping secrets, it’s only fair that he does too. “I reckon that’s all right,” I tell him.
“Yeah.”
We ride on. With Jefferson, silence is sometimes as comforting as talking.