Under a Painted Sky (22 page)

TWO MORE DAYS PASS, AND WEST RALLIES HIS
sand, as Cay puts it. On the sixth morning, when I open my eyes, West is sketching something in his journal. I try not to make any noise as I lift my head off the crook of my arm to glimpse what he draws.

It is me as my six-year-old self. He did the braid perfectly. There are my eyes, my nose, and now my lips. But then his charcoal stops, and he crumples the paper and throws it in the fire.

When he hears me stirring, he declares loudly, “I'm going crazy sitting here doing nothing. I want to get back on my taps.”

So we pack up. West drapes his arm over Franny's saddle and walks. We take up our usual positions and head back to the trail, all of us on foot. Nearly a week has passed since the stallion bit West, which means we're back on track with Mr. Trask, given the week-long delay for wagons at Fort Laramie. With luck, we might catch up soon.

Andy starts singing “Amazing Grace” with her warm gospel voice, in the low key she uses to avoid suspicion. No one joins her. Andy's gospel solos always make us weep for our mothers.

I rub my neck, sore from hours of sitting and taking care of West, and think about his drawings. Maybe he doesn't hate me for assaulting him with my mouth. In fact, maybe he liked it, and that's why he pushed me away. The thought goes to my head like champagne bubbles. I sit up straighter.

Not for the first time, I think about telling West that I am a girl. At least that might clear up one possible source of confusion for him. He might never trust me again, but at least he could put his head right about himself. And if his distaste for me stems from the fact that I'm Chinese, then I will know for myself what kind of man he is, and that will clear up some confusion for
me.
I glance back and catch him looking at me. He scowls and stares gloomily into the endless sea of amber grass.

If I told West the truth, then Andy and I would have to reveal the whole truth to everyone, since I could not burden him with that secret. Then they would knowingly be harboring criminals. Would the boys feel enough of a kinship to us that they would be able to lie to protect us?

We may never find out.

• • •

We only travel a few miles the first day, stopping frequently to let West catch his breath. After another sunrise, he is back on Franny for the full day.

Soon, we rejoin the queue of emigrants bound for Fort Laramie, and Andy and I are back to keeping our chins tucked in and our hats low. We travel as one long snake toward the white adobe walls of the fort, rising like a giant white bread box set atop an outcropping of bedrock. All around us, tents, tepees, and wagons spread out as far as the eye can see.

Just as Cay reported, the wagons grind to a halt in the middle of the trail at least a mile before the fort. The remuda weaves through the wagons, stepping high with short strides. Heads turn as we pass. Paloma does her best to follow along with me crouching against her neck.

When the fort is about the size of a wagon in the distance, Andy calls for a halt, and we dig in at a spot by the swift-moving Laramie River. Thanks to the river, the grass grows a deep shade of green.

“More folks here than we seen in the last month put together,” says Andy.

I take in the debris littering the fields: barrels, wheels, a loom. I even spot a piano. “And they left their junk everywhere.”

“I think those are from them who brought too much and need to lighten the load.”

Andy and I untack the remuda, and the boys walk the last quarter mile to the fort. They'll use one of Ty Yorkshire's rings this time to pay for our supplies.

Pulling off saddles and brushing coats is hot work, and soon we're both glistening with sweat. Andy rolls up her sleeves. The boys have seen her square brand with the six dots by now, but they've never questioned her about it.

I work a brush between Paloma's ears. “You think it's time to tell the boys the truth? Maybe they'd even come with us to the falls.”

“Sammy.” She gives me a look of supreme patience. Unbuckling Princesa's saddle, she hauls it to the ground. “You don't give up easily, do you?”

“Regretfully, no. And so you know, even if you did leave, you'd just be giving Paloma and me more work to do looking for you.”

Scowling, she shakes her head. “I just hate to think about you giving up on you's daddy's dream, 'specially after losin' you's violin.”

I don't let on how much I hate it, too. “I'm not giving up. I'm just taking a detour. My father would understand. He always said people come before things.”

She lifts her eyes to the heavens and consults with a cloud. Not dropping her gaze, she says, “I'm gonna feel guilty about this the rest of my life, but . . . okay. You can come with me.”

I throw my arms around her. She lets me stay for a moment, then pushes me off. “About the boys . . . ” She bends down and rubs Princesa's leg. “They've done nothing but good by us.” Still squatting, she looks up at me. “So if you want to tell them, it's okay by me.”

I smile. “I wonder what Peety will say when he finds out we're
chicas,
not
chicos.
” I stomp down the dried grass, then kneel beside her.

Her face breaks into a grin. “Maybe he won't say anything for a change. Cay will probably want us to unshuck to prove it. But what about West?”

I blink in the bright sunlight. “Sometimes I think he knows. But then, why wouldn't he say anything?”

“Well, the other day I swung Peety's fifty-pound saddle onto Lupe. He didn't even blink. I'd say we've gotten pretty good at being boys. I bet I could even fool Isaac.”

“You think he's changed much?”

She shrugs. “It's been five years since I seen him.” A shadow passes over her face. She begins to knead her scar, her eyes unfocused and troubled.

Gently, I say, “You know you can always tell me about your trash.”

“It ain't right to track my dirt in your house.”

“Father told me that sweeping the Whistle three times a day would improve my bow strokes.”

“Did it?”

“I don't know. But I got really good at sweeping.”

She groans, but I see the glimmer of a smile before it quickly disappears. “When Isaac was sold off separate from us, Tommy began to cry real hard. He was seven at the time. Isaac wiggled his ears at him—that was our sign that everything was going to be okay—but that just made Tommy cry harder.”

“Poor thing,” I murmur.

“So the auctioneer plugged Tommy's mouth with an onion. I started screaming when he did that, and then I got an onion, too.”

“Oh, Andy.”

“Isaac went crazy. Normally, he's gentle as sunshine in April, but when he's pushed, he's more like a hurricane. He threw off the two men holding him, and started toward us, like maybe he's going to get us free, but of course, he's no match for a rifle. They forced him to his knees, made him put his face in horse droppings”—her voice breaks—“made him eat it, to show him his place.” Her face squeezes tight, but two tears still escape and I pass her my handkerchief.

“I am sorry for that,” I say, my own eyes watering as well, and she nods. It occurs to me that maybe God is in charge of the stars, after all. Maybe He has been saving Andy from the horrors of her life, little by little each day, and perhaps the trouble ahead isn't so bad as the trouble she left behind. I sure hope that is the case.

Together, we watch the horses several yards away. Andy's breath gradually begins to lengthen. She nudges me and jerks her chin toward the deserted piano. “You know how to play?”

“Yes,” I say cautiously, glancing around. This is the worst time to draw attention to ourselves, with the fort a holler away. The place is probably crawling with soldiers, same as Fort Kearny. Yet, I can think of no better way to cheer up Andy than with that cure-all that knows no cultural bounds: music. A few people are setting up tents in the distance, but they're probably too far to hear.

“Ain't every day you come across a piano on the prairie.”

I hesitate. “All right, sister.”

We drag discarded barrels over to the piano and hunker down. My skills with the ivory keys are not great, but I pick out a tune, one of Father's favorites about a cat and a banjo. Soon, Andy starts humming along. I play the final note, and someone clears his throat right behind us.

We jump to our feet and turn around to find a man, his face grizzled and sweaty under an unusual cap with a flat top and visor. I have seen such a cap before, in our safe at the Whistle. It belonged to Pépère, a relic from his days in the French Army.

I gulp. I've heard of foreigners hiring themselves to police the frontier, since no one else wants to do it.

“Jean Michel,” he says a heavy accent.

Definitely French. I lick my lips, casting sideways glances around for an escape route. Surely if he were a soldier, he would have immediately stated his rank. Plus, he is not wearing a uniform, but tweed trousers and a linen shirt.

The man's cap dips toward the piano. “Zat was my mother's.”

My ears redden, but the rest of me sinks back into my boots. He is only an emigrant, not a soldier. “
Pardonez-moi.
”

He smiles, showing us the space between his top teeth. “
Pas de problème.
Ees good to hear her sing one last time.”

He throws out a few more questions in French, which I answer using manly grunts and some of his native tongue. Andy goes mute.

“We are here for one week already,” he says, waving toward the nearest wagon circle. “Half want to go, half want to stay. Dinner ees for our last night as one group. Big fun. Would you join us? Bring your friends.” Jean Michel heads back to his caravan.

French party. Dare we attend? It would be a dream come true for Cay. Those French lessons would finally pay off. It would just be a few hours, and I owe him. Andy's kneading her scar again, her gaze far away. Maybe a celebration would be good for us all.

THE BOYS RETURN FROM THE FORT WITH NEW SUPPLIES.
They visited the barber and now look more like
chicos
than hombres, especially with Peety whirling around in his new boots.

Cay paws at his cheeks. My eyes cut to West's fair complexion, which, now stripped of its shadow, seems to glow. I can't help smiling at how healthy he looks. His eyes immediately shift elsewhere, like two billiard balls moved by my cue.

Andy pulls out her journal. “So how much we spend?”

“Twenty-seven,” says Cay, handing her the change.

We tell the boys about our dinner date, but for Cay, we might as well have told him the circus was in town. “Real Frenchies?” He puffs out his chest and checks to see that his muscles still work. “Sammy, Andito, I owe you big.”

I help him review some phrases he thinks might be useful like
Entre deux coeurs qui s'aiment, nul besoin de paroles
(“Two hearts in love need no words”), and
Voulez-vous m'épouser?
(“Will you marry me?”).

Within the French wagon circle, our hosts have arranged chairs and tables with wildflowers and candles, even toile tablecloths.

“They do things up fancy here,” Andy murmurs to me.

While Jean Michel introduces us to the other French families, I try to stand in the back with Andy, but the boys need me to translate. So I tuck in my round parts and cross my arms over my chest like a seasoned boy. Half the families do speak some English, and we gravitate toward these folks.

My presence does not cause the stir it usually does, a fact that puzzles as much as relieves me. People are friendly to Andy, too, shaking her hand, and clapping her on the back. The boys drift toward a flock of girls.

A round woman with a chunky braid wrapping her head hands us wet cloths scented with lemon. “Madame Moreau,” she introduces herself as we wipe our hands on the cloths. The ruffles on her blouse flap as she switches her attention between Andy and me.

She settles on me. “In France, we had lots of Chinois.”

“Why did you come to America?” I ask.

“After Napoleon, our farmland ees destroyed. We heard about ze good chances here.” She raises her hand toward two girls sitting with Cay. “My Mathilde, her cousin Sophie, zey like everything
américain.
”

Both play with their hair. Mathilde strokes her own thick braid and her cousin Sophie slings around the dark ringlets framing her face. Crocheted caps droop over the girls' eyes and frilly lace adorns their pinafores. Like Cay and West, the only physical similarity lies in their smile.

While Madame Moreau engages Andy, I watch a man in a buckskin coat converse with West nearby. West's eyes drift to me and then snap back to his company. But the man waves me over.

“Burl Johnson,” he says, as his meaty hand swallows mine. The lapels of his buckskin are trimmed with thick beaver fur. “You people put me out of work.”

“Oh?”

“You and your Silk Road,” he says, tapping tobacco onto a square of paper and rolling it into a cigarette. “Beaver used to be fashionable.”

Finally, I catch on. “You're a trapper.”

“Was. Now I work here. Lots of us became wagon leaders 'cause we know the terrain.”

West rubs at his face, probably desperate to escape this conversation and, more important, me. I twist at my shirt hem. I will tell him tonight, when I can catch him alone.

Johnson lights the quirley, then hands it to West. “Real men smoke Virginia leaf, none of that Mexican weed.”

West studies the cigarette for a moment. I've never seen him smoke, but he takes it and inhales a long drag, blowing the smoke to one side.

Johnson rolls another, but I don't notice until he strikes the match. “Here you go, China boy.”

“Oh—no—I couldn't,” I stammer as he pokes the cigarette between my lips. I try not to breathe.

He frowns at me and my frozen mouth. “Inhale. You gotta taste it.”

“Those Virginians sure know how to spank a man,” says West, watching me from behind the film of smoke stinging my eyes. He sucks hard on his quirley, then throws it to the dirt half-smoked and crushes it with the toe of his boot. I hiccup in a bit of the smoke. The fumes fill my lungs like hot vinegar, and I cough them back out in a panic. I might as well stick my head in an oven full of old boots.

Johnson laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome to America. Truth is, I don't blame you too much for your silkworms. Beaver population just ain't what it used to be. Now all you find in the Haystacks are criminals.”

“Haystacks?” I ask.

“The mountain range of the Yellow River.”

My hacking masks my alarm. I look around for Andy. She's still talking with Madame Moreau.

“Hey, translator, get your tail over here!” Cay yells at me from the opposite direction.

Still coughing, I hurry away from Johnson and West.

Cay pulls me closer by the sleeve of my shirt. “Don't smoke in front of the girls.” He plucks the quirley out of my fingers and takes a drag of it himself. Then he stomps it out. “I wanna tell
les filles
about our little adventure with the stallions.
Comment tu dis
‘sausage'?”

“
Saucisson.
” Too late I realize his intent.

“
Saucisson
?” repeats the curly brunette, Sophie. “
L'étalon a un grand saucisson?
”

The girls scream with laughter, and I frost Cay with my eyes. I turn to leave.

“No, wait,” says Cay. “Tell 'em the rest of the story. Come on.”

“Why doesn't your mother translate?” I ask Mathilde. She gives me a blank stare.

Sophie digs her nails into my arm, which I yank away.

“
S'il vous plaît,
please.” She bats her heavy-lidded eyes imploringly.

I snort, caught in the trap of my own making. I wish I could summon up a burp, but the best I can do is make a loud slurping sound with my nose.

Then I summarize the story in French, including the part about West's injury. When the girls cast their eyes in his direction, I kick myself. At least I dimmed the light of Cay's candle. He deserves that, the cad.

Before I lose my appetite altogether, I march over to Peety and Andy, who are holding up their plates to be filled. I want to tell Andy about the Haystacks, but not here.

We feast on the same things we have eaten before, but with those classically French touches: a sprinkle of rosemary here, a whole lot of butter there, and lots of wine. I steer clear of the latter, remembering my experience with hard cider.

“You can't just eat butter plain like that!” says Andy, pulling Peety's arm down as he tries to put a whole gob in his mouth.

“Is not butter, is potato.” He licks it off and holds it in his mouth. “Mm, it
is
butter. Try it.” He pushes a spoonful at her face. With a scowl, she bats it away.

I glance over at West, now drinking wine with Cay and the French girls. Maybe wine does not feed his demons. Children drink it, after all. He laughs, and the sound brings me a strange kind of agony. It makes my heart glad to hear him so carefree, but I wish it was me he was laughing with.

Sophie leans her head against his shoulder. Maybe all those curls under her cap get heavy, especially with an empty head. She speaks to him, and he barely looks up as someone refills his wine glass.

“Zey go nice together,” says Madame Moreau, appearing beside me with a basket of rolls. She angles her face toward West and Sophie. “He is handsome, she is beautiful. Sophie's father is an important judge back in France. Is good marriage, maybe?”

“Surely her father would want her to marry an aristocrat,
un noble.
”

“Her sisters marry well already. He just wants Sophie to settle down.”

Trying not to think, I rotate my peas from one o'clock to nine, one at a time. The noise of the crowd pummels my head. There must be more people here at Fort Laramie than in all of St. Joe.

The words
le main cassé
catch my attention. The man beside me is talking about the Broken Hand Gang. I elbow Andy.

“Pardon me, but I heard you mention the Broken Hand Gang. Have you seen them?” I ask the man in English.

He wipes his mouth on his yellow scarf. “A woman came to ze fort a week ago, carrying dead baby. She say ze Broken Hand Gang attack her wagon and kilt her husband.”

Andy sits up straight. “Oh, my Lord.”

“Is she certain it was them?”

“Black men, she remembers. Who else can it be?”

Peety notices Andy and I giving each other big eyes. He pushes his hat brim up with his butter knife. “No good to worry, chicos,” he says grimly. “God has special place for men who hurts children.”

After dinner, I stretch my restless legs, while Peety takes Andy to bring in the horses. Tiny cakes with whipped cream form neat rows on a table for people to help themselves. Seeing them cheers my spirits. Father loved to bake. I take one and save it.

Later that night, we spread our bedrolls in the wagon circle. Cay and West are off somewhere, so we lay theirs down for them. I plan to wait up for West, but the fire is so warm and the rhythm of Andy's breathing finally lulls me to sleep.

• • •

Sometime later, I awake, confused by a dream, and realize West is not beside me. Andy and Peety snore in concert, and Cay sprawls out with his hat on his face. I lift it off to give him some air.

The last time I saw West, he was drinking wine. I push away the thoughts of him in a ditch somewhere. Surely he is fine, I tell myself. Probably sleeping with his horse.

I sit back down to pull on my boots.
I always hated when you woke me up at midnight to celebrate my birthday, Father. You knew I'd be grumpy when I awoke, but you did it anyway every year. Why do I miss it so much now?

I hold a candle to the fire, then lift the flame to heaven.
See? I made it to sixteen without falling off a horse.

I poke the candle into my cake and wipe my nose on my sleeve. No wishes this year.

Debris from the revel litters the grounds. I skirt bodies and wine bottles and head toward the nearest opening between wagons. I find our horses, but not West. Paloma nudges me in greeting, and I scratch her neck.

A girl moans, and I freeze like a jackrabbit. It chills my blood to hear her gasp and gasp again, like someone's hurting her. Forcing myself to breathe, I unholster my gun.

I stumble toward the noise. A rock trips me, and I nearly drop the cake, but the candle remains lit. The moaning grows louder as I round the wagon circle.

I see her on the ground wrestling a man.

I aim my gun, but cannot see well enough with only the glow from my cake.

“Let her go, you filthy cur,” I shriek, steadying my grip, “or I will put a knot in your trunk!”

Her head pops up from over the man's shoulder.

“Oh!
Ton ami Chinois, il me protège. Qu'il est mignon!
” she trills, her voice sickeningly familiar. A very flushed-looking Sophie just called me sweet.

My cheeks blaze, bright enough to power a universe.

The man rolls off her, his chest heaving under the folds of his open shirt. The bandage I put there has torn, soiling the white gauze with spots of blood. When West's burning eyes meet mine, the shock of our connection knocks both the cake and the gun from my hands. The flame from the candle draws a golden arc on its descent, and when the gun hits the ground, it roars.

I cry out and drop to my knees.

“Sammy!” yells West.

I clutch at my chest but only to still its jolting.
No, West, my wound is not from a gunshot.

Sophie clutches at West but he pushes her away. Before he comes any closer, I scramble to my feet and run.

I find Paloma, climb onto her back, and ride out of the camp, not caring if my candle burns up the whole fort. Let West handle it, I think, clenching my jaw. He is good at starting fires; maybe he knows how to extinguish them, too.