Under a Painted Sky (9 page)

Doesn't everyone use the same one? I could kick myself for not listening more when the Argonauts shared their travel plans with Father at the Whistle.

“The usual one,” I answer coolly. “What about you?”

“Ain't decided yet. Which one's the usual one?”

I glare at Princesa's backside. Despite his mild tone, he is obviously mocking me. I attempt to lie. “The one . . . ” Oh, what's the use? “Fine. How many roads are there?”

“Half a dozen at least.”

What?
Once I clear my lungs, he adds, “California's big as Texas. Not everyone's going to the same place.”

My shoulders slump. “How long before the trail divides?”

“The Parting of the Ways? About nine hundred fifty miles from here.”

I sit up and all my blood seems to collect in my feet. The trail suddenly got shorter by a thousand miles. I should've known the path would fork at some point, but did it have to be so soon? I'll have to find Mr. Trask before it forks, or I won't know which way he's gone. He'll be lost to me forever.

I check to see if Andy heard. She's clutching Princesa's mane and trying to hold the reins at the same time. I want to ask if she's okay, but she doesn't look like she wants to be bothered.

Instead, I calculate how fast we'll need to travel to catch Mr. Trask. We'll have to go faster than fifteen miles a day, a wagon's maximum speed, not to mention, we want to put as much distance between us and whoever might be chasing us. Since Mr. Trask left twenty days ago, he could be at the Parting of the Ways in as few as forty-five days. If we upped our speed to at least twenty-two miles a day, we could arrive before him.

I chew on my lip as the situation becomes more desperate. Since riding double means we can't go faster than a walk, we'll need to get a horse for each of us. We'd need two horses anyway once Andy moves on.

I slump, but just as my back touches West's front, I snap back to attention.

Cay pulls his pinto back to walk alongside Andy and Peety. “Hey, Andy. What'd you mean last night when you said the view was wide and handsome? Never heard of a view being handsome before.” Then a grin appears and he angles his chin so we can all see his profile. “Well, besides this view.”

West groans.

“Wide and handsome is more a feeling, like the world is his to take,” says Andy, finally relaxing her shoulders.

“I feel like that every day,” says Peety, stretching his arms over his head. “You tell a good story.”

She hazards half a twist in her saddle and casts me a sly glance. “That's not all I can do. I used to be a cook, too.”

“Cook, huh?” says Cay. “I miss our coosie on the drive. He was a magician.”

“Cobbler's my specialty.”

“That so? You hear that, West?” says Cay.

“I don't have a sweet tooth,” West mutters.

Cay flicks a gloved hand at West. “You don't got a sweet anything.”

“What else can you do, Andito?” says Peety, scratching a red welt on his neck.

“I know how to take the itch out of a mosquito bite.” She points to Peety's red spot. “Rub some dry soap on it. You have soap, don't you?”

Peety passes the question to West, who shakes his head, then barks, “Cay! Franny wants to shade up.”

We park under a dogwood, a stately tree with a wide canopy of white cross-shaped blossoms that resemble a flock of butterflies. Dogwoods mean that water is close.

Cay opens his trousers and anoints a bush. Peety and West do the same.

“Don't you gotta make water?” asks Cay, looking over his shoulder at Andy and me.

Andy elbows me.

“I saw a patch of something we can eat over there,” I fumble.

We head off to a high-grass area with dense shrubs where we can do our business in private. My thighs ache and Andy's, too, judging by how she walks. Once we're hidden, Andy quickly opens up her coat and flaps the side panels like wings. “I've got to do something about this coat,” she mutters. “I'm baking myself into a dinner roll.”

“Good effort back there offering up your skills,” I say, “but West clearly does not care for our company.”

“He's a tough nut to crack. A good-looking nut, though.” She tweaks an eyebrow at me. “Maybe we could pay them with one of the pinkie rings to take us farther.”

“I think West would rather pay
us
to go away,” I grumble. “Still, those are quality horses.” If I had a horse like one of theirs, I could catch up to Mr. Trask in no time at all.

After we finish, we're left with the problem of what to bring back.

Andy points to a shrub with tiny red fruit. “Chokecherries. Good eats but sour as horse piss.'”

I don't ask how she knows this as we fill our pockets. Then we start to leave the cover of the bushes.

“Sammy!” hisses Andy from behind me at the same moment I see four men on horseback. They peer down at the boys, their somber dusters slung over with rifles. Cay leans back on Skinny, his hands gesturing.

My breath catches in my throat. Before we can dive back into the brush, West beckons us over.

I gulp as the four newcomers turn their heads in our direction.

“OH, LORD,” SAYS ANDY. “I HOPE THEY AIN'T
looking for us.”

We drag our feet back to the boys.

“How fast can you run in case we need to split?” she whispers.

“About as fast as I can walk.” I wipe my sweating palms on my trousers. “And anyway, we can't outrun horses. We'll just need to play it by ear.”

“You mean, we need to pray,” says Andy.

I iron out the wrinkles in my brow as we approach.

One of the men touches a black-gloved hand to his forehead by way of greeting, his mouth puckered as a belly button. His bullet eyes hone in on Andy, then me, wilting beside her. They linger on my dirt-streaked face.

Cay sweeps his finger at the men. “These are federal marshals.”

I square my shoulders and try to stop hiding in my clothes. Too suspicious.

“Nate Early,” says the one with the bullet eyes. “Names?”

“Andy.”

“S-s-sam,” I stutter, even with just one syllable.

“You kids runaways?”

Andy flinches.

“No,” I answer. “We're Argonauts.” I puff out my chest, then quickly deflate it when I realize that even the suggestion of a chest could do me in.

“Argonauts.” Early draws out the word. “Where you coming from?”

Not St. Joe. No. “New Yorkshire,” I say, nearly choking when Ty Yorkshire's surname falls out. Dear God! Who ever heard of New Yorkshire? My shoulders slump with the weight of the invisible rope I just threw around my neck.

Early squints at me.

I'm swimming in a pool of my own sweat. Shoot me now. Make it quick.

“Sam from New
Yorkshire
, that your slave?” He jerks his head toward Andy. She's gone still as a music stand. A fly lands on her shoulder, then crawls around her back.

The thought of even pretending to own a slave makes me sick. “No. He's a free man.”

“You got papers?” Early asks Andy.

Papers? I want to kick myself. I should've said I owned her. That was the original plan, the reason I was her Moses wagon. But would he have asked for ownership papers? Before either Andy or I can speak, Peety says, “No need for papers out here. This is no Missouri.”

“Who exactly you looking for?” Cay asks, fanning himself with his hat.

Early finally releases Andy from his stare. “Gang of five negroes who robbed a bank a few months back. We call 'em the Broken Hand Gang. Big as gorillas.”

“That's a funny name for a gang,” says Cay.

Only Early's lips move. “They smashed the clerk's hand with a sledgehammer.”

Cay shakes out his hand. “Ouch.”

“Indeed. Word is, they're somewhere on the trail, terrorizing the pioneers.”

“Wouldn't they be halfway to California by now?” asks West.

The man shakes his head. “Could be. Or not. We split up at Fort Laramie and me and the boys here doubled back.”

“What do you mean ‘terrorizing'?” asks West.

“They can't get what they need at the forts, so they steal from the lone travelers.”

“Well, as you can see, we ain't a gang of five negroes. Our black fella's scrawny as a dill weed, but we wish you luck anyway,” says Cay.

Early switches his gaze back and forth between Andy and me. “Lots of criminals out this way, you know. Think they can escape the law by running west. Never works.”

I swallow hard. “No, sir.”

Early reaches down and hooks hands with Cay, pumping once. Then the horsemen dig in their spurs and clear out like a passing storm cloud.

I spill most of the berries as Andy and I transfer them from our pockets to the sack that used to hold our cheese.

West watches me pick up berries. “Bank robbers. Bet they're armed and dangerous. This is wild country, boys.” He hangs on that last word and flicks his hair. Then he adds under his breath, “Maybe you oughta go back to your mamas.”

• • •

Before I can talk to Andy, Cay calls for us to mount up and
vámonos.
I spend the next few hours both wishing we could go faster and worrying I might do permanent damage to my back if we don't stop. Was Early just blowing smoke when he said running west never works? And just how many criminals head west anyway? I never thought I'd be on the same side of the fence as anyone known as the Broken Hand Gang. May Andy and I stay out of their reach. At least the odds are in our favor. They say the frontier's bigger than all the states put together, with less than one percent of the population.

Unfortunately, that also means I may never find Mr. Trask.

What were those great plans you had for us in California, Father? You must have given him the bracelet for good reason. Lots of pioneers carry gold instead of money because it doesn't fall apart if it gets wet, and it's easy to hide. But you said we'd see it again, which means you weren't planning for him to sell it outright. I wish I had listened to you instead of being so dead set against California. Now, only Mr. Trask knows your intention.

Andy no longer sits ramrod straight, though she still hasn't learned to control Princesa. The horse barely heeds her orders, only stopping when the others stop, and going when Peety slaps her rump. When the bay pushes its way closer to the front, Peety pulls her back in line.

“No holding apple, Andito,” orders Peety for the dozenth time.

We pass a third caravan. Cay chats with everyone we pass, especially the girls. He sweeps his hat to a young woman carrying a cat.

“Afternoon, miss. Cay Pepper, cowboy, whip shot, ace roper, and—”

“Windbag,” says West.

Cay ignores him. “And gentleman.” He bows low. “Who might you be?”

She lowers her smallish eyes, then lifts them for a fraction of a second. “Gladys.” Her lips push out like a bing cherry.

“Why, I like the shape of your wagon,” says Cay.

She giggles, and tickles her cat under the chin.

After we pass the caravan, Cay can't stop looking over his shoulder. Finally, he circles his pinto around. “I'll catch up.”

“You're headed for trouble,” West tells Cay. “I ain't running again from your mistakes.”

“I just wanna ask if she wants a ride on my pony, ain't that right, Skinny?” He pats the pinto's neck.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” mutters West, though Cay is already gone.

A flush creeps up my neck as I guess at what Cay intends to do. I will need to train that unmanly reaction out of me. It figures that he is a womanizer. If he's seventeen years of age, he was born in the Year of the Rabbit, meaning he has a tendency to overbreed.

His cousin softly whistles behind me. West is probably an overbreeder as well.

By the time Cay catches up to us, we've reached the Little Blue, a winding stream that runs in a north–south direction. The sun sits two hands from the horizon, still high enough to heat the moist air. Though the horses are thirsty, shallow trenches made by stuck wheels convince us not to cross the muddy earth to the river yet. Instead, we plod onward through the waving clumps of grass.

My body aches from holding myself up on the horse all day long and my eyes are burned out from the sun's unforgiving glare. I am watching Andy trying to release the saddle horn again, when West's gloved hand brushes my waist. My back cracks as I snap to.

“You're slipping,” he says. To the others, he calls, “Shade up, before someone gets their head stuck in the dirt.”

My face grows hot, but I let that one go, remembering what Andy said about fussing too much. I still haven't figured out how to get the boys to take us farther. I doubt money, cooking, or any of the skills we could offer will change West's mind.

After another half mile, the earth dries up and we cut a path to the shoreline. Pawpaw trees with their dark leaves, big as my foot, shade the bank, linked by clumps of pussy willows and sprawling hazelnut.

We stop at a bald spot of earth shaded by a cherry tree with glossy leaves. I dismount and walk around bowlegged, trying to rub feeling back into my limbs.

Cay pulls a lumpy sack off his saddle.

“What's that, amigo, you got some rocks for your collection?” says Peety.

Cay opens the sack and pulls out an onion. “For our last supper together. The sparrow liked her pony ride.” He flashes a smile.

West groans. “Always a beggar.”

“Hope there's more in there than onions,” Andy says with a grimace.

Cay waves the onion in front of Andy's nose. “What do you have against onions?”

She shrinks away so fast she stumbles on a rock. “Just don't like 'em.”

“These put hair on your chest. An onion a day cured my daddy of gout,” says Cay.

“Also good for hangovers,” says Peety.

Andy recovers her balance. “I also don't like talking about them.”

“Why?” asks Peety.

“If I told you that, I would be talking about 'em, wouldn't I?” she says in a huff, stomping off to the river.

I trot after her. If she doesn't want to talk about onions, then neither do I.

We find a break in the screen of pussy willows lining the shoreline. Andy places two pawpaw leaves on the damp earth and kneels on them.

I do the same. “We need to ask them if they can take us farther.”

“Especially now that we got bank robbers to worry over.” Andy rubs water onto her shorn head.

“Agreed. I'd like to keep my hand in one piece. I just don't think a ring's going to be enough.” Gathering water into my hands, I rub it around my hot neck and face. I sorely want to drink, too. But I will wait until we can boil the water to be safe. Of all the trail dangers, cholera worried our pioneer customers the worst, which is why Father always stocked his special mix of rehydrating salts.

“That's good money,” says Andy. “What about both rings?”

“They don't care much about money. They brought us here on a practical joke,” I mutter.

“It won't hurt to ask.” Andy mops her forehead with her handkerchief. “Thought we were goners when those marshals showed up.”

“Me, too.”

“I just hope Isaac don't come upon that gang. He'll be traveling by himself, I reckon, which means he's easy pickins.” She scrubs her arms with ferocity and glares at the water. “Plus, he's so good, he'd probably say a prayer for them after they break his hand.”

“Is he as good as you?” I ask.

A smile tickles her lips. “He makes me look like a sinner.” She stops scrubbing and pats her arms with a rag. “If he sees you hungry, he'll give you his portion and make sure you don't know it. Not even the birds fly away when he comes 'round. Don't even think he like to eat meat, but a'course he never complained.”

“He sounds like a real gentleman.”

“That he is.” Her grin fades. “Some days I worry I'll never see him again. It's a big country.” A mosquito lands on her hand and she slaps it.

“There's a Chinese principle called
yuanfen,
which means your fate with someone else,” I say. “Two people with strong
yuanfen
have a greater chance of meeting in their lifetimes, and can become as close as family.” I hold up my socks. “See, they're like socks. They may travel different places, but at some point, all the socks end up in the same drawer.”

“Socks, huh?” She twists her mouth to one side. “Well, I hope that it is true, though I told you it ain't Christian to believe in fate.”

“My father believed in it, and he was Catholic. He liked to say, just because you don't believe it doesn't mean it's not true.”

“Like ghosts,” she says. “I don't believe in 'em. But you'll never see me stepping on no one's gravestone.”

“Me neither.”

I finish washing my face and hands. Before I powder my nose with dirt, I peek at my reflection, which turns horrified when I see the boy squinting back at me. My complexion, once fair, is freckling, and my ears look enormous without hair to cover them. A grimace thins my lips, which were never pillowy to begin with. I relax and the curve at the bottom reappears, sweetening things farther up my face. My eyes lose their squint and become watermelons seeds again, shiny, black, and evenly spaced on my oval face. I must be careful to avoid smiling, though I wasn't planning to do that for a long time anyway.