UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Everyone is staring at me. “I’ll welcome anyone who wants to help,” I call out.
No one volunteers.
Frank says, “You go back out there in the dark, you’re asking to get yourself killed. The Indians’ll put an arrow through you. You won’t even hear it coming.”
I look him dead in the eye. “A brave man would offer to come with me.”
“I forbid it. You ain’t going out there.”
“Try to stop me.” I whirl and head toward Peony.
“If you’re not back in the morning, don’t bother!” he shouts after me. “We’ll leave without you.”
My hands are shaking and my eyes are blurry with tears that won’t fall. Footsteps pound after me. I brace myself, but it’s only Jefferson.
“Lee?”
“Don’t you start,” I snap. “And don’t you dare try to change my mind.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Oh.”
I unhitch Peony. She nips at my arm, but her teeth don’t touch me so I know she’s not serious. I stroke her neck by way of apology, but her skin twitches under my palm. She needs a good rub down. I’ve worked her hard all day.
“Thanks,” I say softly. To her and to Jefferson.
“You’re a McCauley, right? Lee McCauley. That makes us family.”
I choke out a laugh, and then the tears dribble down my cheeks and I’m rubbing my sleeve across my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jefferson Kingfisher.”
“I knew you’d throw that back at me,” he says.
“Too bad you can’t pick your family.” It’s what Daddy always said about his mother-in-law, my Boston grandma who refused to return my mama’s letters after she ran away to Georgia.
“Maybe you can.”
I stare at him, not sure what to say. I’d pick him for family, for sure and certain, if I could.
“I’ll get the sorrel mare and the dogs,” he says.
The contents of the Joyners’ wagon are stacked outside. I’m quiet as a mouse as I get some feed for Peony and refill my canteen. But the canvas flap whips open, revealing a red-eyed Mrs. Joyner.
“Just restocking,” I say. “Then Jeff and I are going back out.”
“Promise me you’ll bring him back,” she says.
My shoulders tense. Daddy taught me never to make promises I couldn’t keep. “We’ll look all night.”
She reaches out her arms and begs me to come close. When I do, she bends down and wraps her arms around my neck. “We’re lucky to have you with us, Lee McCauley. You’re a good man.”
I extricate myself awkwardly, duck my head, and tug my brim at her. My heart is in a tangle, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve lost everything—my parents, my home, my gold, my daddy’s Hawken rifle, his saddle. I even lost my name. Leah Westfall, the girl who took care of Lucky Westfall’s farm for him and panned for gold—she doesn’t exist anymore. But maybe Lee McCauley isn’t so bad after all. I stood up to Frank Dilley a few minutes ago, and now I’m going to go search for a little boy, because it’s what I want to do.
“I should get going,” I say.
As Jefferson and I climb into our saddles, Therese comes running up, her skirts in one hand, a bundled kerchief in the other. “Here!” she says breathlessly, handing the bundle up to Jefferson. “For you and Lee. Might be a long night.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Cornbread! We used the last of our cornmeal today. Thought everyone could use a treat after that stampede and Major Craven and . . .” She looks down at her feet.
“Thank you, Therese,” I say.
“I . . . I wish I could go with you.” She straightens, forces a grin. “Anyway, good luck!” She dashes off, and Jefferson stares after her.
I lean over and rap my knuckles on his leg. “Let’s go.”
He snaps out of his thoughts. “Let’s go,” he agrees.
I cluck to Peony, and we ride into the wide, black night, lit only by a giant, prickly sky and a low, menacing moon. The grass muffles the horses’ steps. Insects buzz against a whipping breeze, and a coyote yips in the distance, coaxing a growl from Nugget.
“So what’s the plan?” Jefferson asks. “How are we going to find him?”
I can’t tell Jefferson my real plan, which is to crisscross the land until I feel the tug of gold. So I say, “Andy knows us. He’ll answer to our voices. So we head down every trail, every path that a four-year-old might take, and we call his name until we find him.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Think like a four-year-old boy.”
He says nothing.
“You’ve had more practice thinking like a four-year-old boy than I have,” I point out.
He frowns. “You already searched downriver?”
“Yep.” I sensed a tiny bit of gold dust, the same trifling amount found in almost any river or stream, but nothing as big as a locket. “I’m confident he did not go in that direction.”
“So we head upriver,” he says. “He’s a smart boy. At four, I would have known to avoid the river and quicksand. After we go far enough, we’ll turn inland until we find another trail or wash and then make our way back to camp. Like cutting slices out of a pie.”
That makes sense to me. “How big a pie?”
“As far as a four-year-old can walk. Did I ever tell you about the time, after my mama left, when I decided to walk into town to find her?”
“Never heard that one.”
“I was only five, but I made it more than halfway to town, all the way past the old sawmill. I was sitting there, by the side of the road, when your daddy found me and took me home.”
“Daddy came looking for you?” Hearing something about him that I didn’t know before is like a drop of water in the desert.
“I don’t remember if he was looking for me on purpose or if he found me by accident. All I’m saying is that a little boy with single-mindedness of purpose will make it farther than you might think.”
I nod. “Upriver it is, then.”
The dogs dart ahead, tails wagging, even though I know they’re as exhausted as I am. That’s what I like about dogs. They’re always happy to help out and be with their people.
“Andy!” Jefferson’s shout makes me jump.
I add, “It’s Lee and Jeff! Come home!”
“What if he’s hurt and can’t answer us?”
“We need to make our path twisty, make sure we look in every crack and crevice.”
“We can go faster if we split up,” he says, and guides the sorrel mare away from me.
“No!”
He startles at the strength of my answer. Jefferson could pass within ten feet of Andy, and if he’s tucked into a holler or huddled under a bush, he’d never notice him. But not me. I’ll sense him in the dark, clear as a meadowlark’s song, as long as I get close enough.
“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” I tell him, knowing it’s a weak argument. I think of a better one, which I almost don’t say, but the words come tumbling out, anyway. “Also, Jeff, I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. I’m not letting you out of my sight this far from camp.”
“I . . . All right.”
For the next hour or so, we zigzag back and forth along the bank of the Platte. The air cools. Coyote silhouettes skim the land in the distance. Twice, the dogs take off after something rattling in the grass, but they return when we call. Once, we startle a small herd of antelope drinking at the river’s edge. But Andy never answers our cries, and when we come to a tributary stream that’s too deep for him to have crossed, we turn inland and start cutting the pie.
We make it all the way back in sight of the wagons with no luck. The only gold nearby is the Hoffmans’ hidden treasure, and I’m used to the weight of it in my head now. The dogs dash past us to return to camp, and we have to call them when we turn and head out again.
“Tom searched this direction already,” Jefferson says, stifling a yawn.
“We checked every direction once,” I say. “Now we’re checking again.”
His shoulders slump, and his face is wan. If he says he wants to grab some shut-eye and start again in the morning, I’ll let him go.
Instead he takes a bite of Therese’s cornbread and a swig from his canteen, rolls his shoulders, and leads us back into the night.
We follow a dry creek that cuts into the hills. It’s just low enough that we can’t see our campfires from the creek bed. I have a good feeling about it, like it’s a place that might feel cozy and interesting to a child. We follow it for miles, long after I think we must have gone too far. I sniff the air, detecting a zing of moisture. If a storm comes up, a wash like this could flood in minutes.
“What’s your problem with the Hoffmans?” Jefferson says all of a sudden.
“What? I don’t have any problem with them.”
“They’re the only family you never visit. You’ve made friends with everyone else.”
“Well, there are so many of them, it seems like they don’t need friends.” That sounds ridiculous the moment I say it. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Therese thinks you hate her.”
“I don’t even know her.”
“That’s why she thinks you hate her. You avoid their wagon. She’s convinced it’s because she talks funny or because you don’t like Germans. I told her that’s nonsense. It is nonsense, right?”
“I . . .” It’s not her I’ve been avoiding. It’s the two of them, together—something I’m not sure I can bear. “I’ll keep company with whomever I choose. I don’t have to explain it to anyone.”
He’s silent a long moment. Then: “That’s not like you, Lee. You’re a better person than that.”
“There isn’t any good or bad about it. I just—”
“The Missouri men don’t keep company with me because I’m half-Cherokee. Reverend Lowrey never let his wife keep company with Mrs. Joyner because she’s a Methodist. And Mrs. Joyner didn’t want to keep company with you for a long time because she thought you were a runaway scamp and a bad influence. So what’s your rotten excuse for not keeping company with Therese?”
“I don’t . . . I didn’t . . .” I sigh. Sometimes, having a best friend with uncanny clarity is the most irritating thing in the world.
“Therese is nice. You’d like her.”
I’m a worse person than Frank Dilley. “I’m sorry, Jeff. I thought I was giving you . . . freedom, I guess. To be with her. I know you’re sweet on her.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You’re right,” I add. “I know you are. She is nice. Bringing us that cornbread was a kindness.”
“Thanks, Lee. But—”
“Sh,” I say, holding up my hand. “I heard something.”
He whispers, “What is it? What do you hear?”
It’s not what I hear; it’s what I sense. A tickle in the back of my throat. “I’m not sure. Let’s keep going.”
Other wagon trains have traveled down this gulch. We pass a broken wheel, half-buried in the dirt. A little farther on, an empty barrel. Cold campfires.
“I don’t hear a thing,” he says.
“It’s close.” I dismount and lead Peony by the reins.
“What’s close?” Frustration tinges his voice.
“I’m looking for tracks,” I say, bent over. “Footprints, anything he may have dropped.” Gold buzzes between my ears now, just like a cat’s purr.
Ahead, an abandoned wagon lies toppled over. The wood is white in the night, like the bones of a skeleton. A ribcage of hoops curls up from the spine of a wagon bed. My sense pulls me toward it, toward Andy . . .
I stop a hundred feet shy.
The locket is so, so close. But I see no place big enough for a boy to hide. I slow down, moving cautiously. Ten feet away. Five.
I fall to my knees.
The locket is smashed into the dirt, the chain broken. There’s no sign of Andy anywhere.
“Is that—?” Jefferson half asks.
“Yeah.”
“You and your big owl eyes! I wouldn’t have seen that in the dark if it was dangling from my nose.”
“Got lucky, I guess.” I don’t feel lucky at all. Andy’s not here. I didn’t have a second plan. Despair washes over me.
“He has to be close,” Jefferson says.
A rustling in the grass alerts me. Three rangy silhouettes materialize around the broken wagon. Coyotes. They must have a den here. The dogs lay back their ears and growl.
“Nugget, Coney, stay.”
“There’s something under that wagon,” Jefferson says.
“A coyote den.”
“Maybe. Something moved.” He hurries forward.
Probably just spring pups, but I grab my rifle from Peony’s saddle holster and jog toward the wagon on Jefferson’s heels. The coyotes mark our approach with ears pricked forward, but they don’t move. “Andy!”
There’s a small cry in response.
“I’m going to fire my gun, sweet pea. Don’t panic.” I lift the butt to my shoulder and put a round in the dirt beside the nearest skulking coyote. They scatter. The dogs take off after them, and I let them. I rip off the ramrod and start reloading, just in case.
“I can’t believe you missed that shot,” Jefferson says.
“Who says I missed?” I tell him. “I’m tired of killing things today.”
A bare foot protrudes from under the wagon bed. Jefferson nods to me, creeping forward.
Please be okay. “Andy, it’s us, Lee and Jeff,” I say. “We’re here to help you.”
That’s all the warning we give before Jefferson grabs Andy’s ankle and drags him out. He screams, pounding Jefferson’s arms with his tiny fists. Jeff gathers him tight to his chest and whispers reassurances as the boy wails, raking lines into his shoulders with his fingernails.
“Grab my canteen,” Jefferson says.
Andy is covered in mud, and he stinks of urine. I hold the canteen to his mouth, and he stops wailing in favor of gulping water like a wild dog.
Too much too soon could make him sick, so I pull the canteen away. “Lee,” he whispers. All the fight goes out of him, and he wilts against Jefferson’s chest. “Why’d you leave without me?”
“We didn’t leave,” Jefferson says. “We’re right here.” Jefferson strokes the boy’s head, which makes my chest feel funny.
“Where’s Ma?” Andy says.
Poor boy must have gotten so lost that he thought this wagon was part of our company. He crawled out of sight and stayed because he didn’t know where else to go.
“I’ve got something for you.” I pull the locket from my pocket and show him.
Tears fill his eyes “I broke it.”
“It’s just a chain. We can fix that.”
He blinks up at me, as though the possibility that things can be fixed is the greatest wonder of the world.
“You did a good job taking care of it for me. We’ll fix it together in the morning, how’s that? In the meantime, keep it buttoned in your pocket.” I shove it into his chubby fist.
“Okay, Lee.”
Jefferson is staring at me, eyes narrowed. He looks to the locket clutched in Andy’s hand. Back at me.
“Let’s go find your ma,” I say quickly.
I call the dogs until they come loping back, tongues lolling through wide grins, like they’re on holiday. I climb into my saddle, and Jefferson starts to hand the boy up to me, but Andy clings to him. “I wanna ride with Jefferson,” he says.
Jefferson says, “No problem, little man.” He hitches the boy high and manages to mount the sorrel mare with Andy in hand.
Even though it’s the middle of the night, fresh fires are burning, and half the men are up drinking coffee. The sentry raises his gun when we approach, then lowers it.
“Well, I’ll be cussed,” he says. “They found him! They found the boy!”
The whole camp comes running, and we’re surrounded before we have a chance to dismount. Mrs. Joyner shoves her way through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. Andy lurches for her, toppling out of Jefferson’s lap and into her arms. They cling to each other like a pair of burrs. Even Mr. Joyner hobbles over, Olive at his side. A dozen questions fly at us at once, mixed with hearty congratulations.
“Don’t thank me,” Jefferson says when most of the questions are directed at him. “Lee’s the one who found him.”
He doesn’t know how close I was to giving up when I found the locket lying broken in the dirt. “We did it together.”
“She . . . oot,” he says, glancing at me. “Shoot! Lee kept on going long after I wanted to quit. Said we wouldn’t stop until we found him.”
We answer more questions, describing the gulch, the wagon, the coyotes. Before we’re done, every man in camp has come by to shake our hands, slap us on the shoulders, and say something kind. Everyone except the college men, but I don’t have time to wonder about them because Frank Dilley approaches, frowning.
“You got lucky,” he says.
“Bible says you got to seek in order to find,” I answer, only because I’m not about to let him have the last word. “Seems to me we made our own luck.”
He looks fit to say something pointed, but Mr. Joyner pushes past him. He puts one hand on my shoulder and the other on Jeff’s. “I can’t thank you men enough. What you’ve done for my family, not just today, but through this whole journey . . .”
Mrs. Joyner appears at his side, Andy in her arms and Olive at her hem. “It’s impossible not to see the hand of divine providence, from the moment we met you on the flatboat in Chattanooga.” She stares straight at me. Her lips tremble. “I am sorry for . . .”
I can’t bring myself to tell her it’s all right, that everything is fixed between us. “I’m glad we could help out today. Andy’s a good boy.”
Mr. Joyner wraps a companionable arm across his wife’s shoulders. It might be the first time I’ve seen him show her kindness. “If there’s ever anything we can do for either of you, all you have to do is ask.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Thank you, sir,” Jefferson adds.
As they head back to their wagon, Reverend Lowrey is the last to approach. He clasps my hand and grips it tight. His own hand is bumpy with blisters. “I heard what you said to Mr. Dilley. I had no idea your own faith was so strong, Lee.”
I try to pull my hand free, but he won’t let go. “It’s really not.”
“Seek and ye shall find,” he says with a wan smile. “‘What man, having a hundred sheep, if he lose one, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.’ Tonight we all rejoice with you.”
His eyes are dark circles. His shoes are covered with wet dirt, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows. He’s been up all night digging his wife’s grave. My joy at finding Andy dissolves like a drop of water on a hot frying pan. Instead of yanking away my hand, I give his a reassuring squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Reverend Lowrey.”
“Don’t be,” he says earnestly. “The Lord taketh away, but he also giveth. Finding that boy was a blessing.”
He turns away, and finally, Jefferson and I can take the saddles off our horses and rub them down. Dawn bruises the horizon. It’s been twenty-four hours since the stampede woke us up. I could use a hot meal, though I don’t know that I could stay awake long enough for someone to cook it.
“It’s like we’re heroes,” Jefferson says. “Did you see the way everyone looked at us?”
I certainly saw the way Therese looked at him. I suppose he earned it. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Of course. You’d have done the same, if I had asked.”
Yes, I would have.
He tosses his saddle under the wagon, and he pauses, thinking. “Mr. Joyner says if we ever need anything, all we have to do is ask. I bet he forgets by tomorrow.”
“I bet you’re right.”
We give our horses some oats and fresh water and lay out our bedrolls. For the first time since we set off from Independence, I’m asleep so fast I don’t even see Jefferson’s head hit the pillow.
“Hey, Lee.”
I jump awake from the deepest sleep, heart hammering.
It’s Henry Meek, leaning down toward me. His eyes are red-rimmed, his beard ungroomed, for once. “So sorry to wake you, Lee,” he says. “But can you come to our wagon? Jasper needs some help, and he says it’s got to be you.”