“I gave you that quilt!”
“And I suppose it made you feel good about yourself. Here, take it back.” I start to untangle myself from it.
She hesitates. Then: “No. It’s yours. But, please . . .”
I let her plea hang in the cold night air for a spell, until she shifts on her feet and drops her gaze. Finally, I say, “I’ll be gone by morning.”
She slumps in relief.
I say, “I wish you and your family the very best of luck, ma’am. Maybe I’ll see you in California.” I don’t really mean it, but it gives me a nasty twist of pleasure to see her startle at my words.
“To you as well, Mr. McCauley.” She turns and walks away fast, lantern light bobbing with each step.
I lean into Peony’s shoulder. “How do you feel about leaving right now?” I whisper, and she nuzzles my hair in response. It’s not like I could sleep after that, anyway.
I pull on Daddy’s boots. My feet have gotten used to them, big size and all. I don’t even get blisters anymore.
My hands shake as I throw Peony’s saddle over her back, and I realize I’m crying. I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. I grab Mama’s locket and squeeze a moment, giving it a chance to refill my well of resolve.
I tighten the cinch, check my saddlebag, and mount up. Outside, a light mist is falling on a world that’s so cold and wet it feels like a tub filled with misery. The Joyners plan to head north, either to Port Girardeau or St. Louis, so I’ll take the first left I find and head north later.
Coney is curled up on the porch of the house. He lifts his head and stares quizzically. He stands, shakes himself, and follows us down the road a ways before whining and turning back. Of everyone in the Joyner family, I’ll miss him the most.
I nudge Peony forward. “It’s just you and me now, girl.”
Again. It’s just you and me again, is what I should say. But I know she understands.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Fifteen
The first person I meet on the road as the sun rises is a grinning huckster with a beard as stiff as a whisk broom. Patches cover his elbows, and a striped feather juts from his hat’s band. His mule cart is loaded with pots and pans, bolts of fabric and plaster dolls, pickaxes and even wishbone-shaped divining rods that he claims will lead a fellow to gold.
“No, thank you,” I tell him. If the divining rods worked at all, my uncle wouldn’t have killed my folks to claim my magic.
His smile is fierce and determined. “I have it on the best authority that these rods—”
“I don’t have any money.”
His smile disappears like fog in the sun. “Good day, then.”
He snaps the reins, the mules protest, and the cart rattles forward. I turn Peony around and walk beside him.
“Can you tell me if this is the road to Independence?” I ask.
He waves his hand dismissively. “Every road will take you to Independence if you choose the right direction and keep on going till you get there.”
“But which direction is the right direction?”
He points ahead. “If you go down to the river and turn north—”
“I don’t want to go that way.”
“If I had any maps, I’d sell you one. Huh.” He rubs his whisk broom beard. “Maybe I should load up on maps.”
“Can I go that way?” I point the direction he’s just come from.
He pulls up short and twists in his seat. “Head west and ask folks for the road to Charleston. You can make it there by lunchtime. Go to Mrs. Moore’s boardinghouse on Market Street if you need a place to stay and tell her that—”
“Where do I go from there?”
He sighs. “From there, you’ll head west to Sikeston, Poplar Bluff, and then Springfield. There are a lot of towns along the way, but if you remember those, it’ll get you in the right direction.”
“Sikeston, Poplar Bluff, Springfield.”
“When you get to Springfield, you make a quarter turn to the right and head north. That’ll get you to Independence.”
“Thank you, mister. I sure appreciate it.” Charleston, Sikeston, Poplar Bluff, Springfield, Independence. I tip my hat to him and turn Peony back around. I almost feel hopeful again.
“It’s more than four hundred miles!” he shouts at me.
“Then I better get started!” I shout back.
“Good luck.”
“Good luck to you too, mister!”
Four hundred miles is nothing. I’ve traveled farther than that already. I’ll reach Independence by early March, find Jefferson, and leave with one of the first wagon trains of the season. If everything goes well, we’ll be in the gold fields of California by the end of summer.
An hour later, clouds roll in, and a cold rain falls, soaking me to the bone. Peony slogs through fetlock-deep mud. By the time we reach Charleston, my head feels thick, and it hurts to swallow. I’m far away from Georgia now, and more than willing to spend the twenty cents I can’t afford to pass the night in Mrs. Moore’s public boardinghouse, but it’s already full up with folks heading west.
I keep going until nightfall, when I find a farmer willing to let me sleep on the floor in front of his hearth.
I make it as far as Sikeston before coming down with a fever, and I spend an anxious week burning up in a farmhouse near a place called Gray’s Ridge. Despite the family’s kind care, I rave something awful, fighting them constantly—first because I’m afraid they’ll find out my secret, and later because in my feverish state I mistake the father for Uncle Hiram. Even after my fever breaks, I find him hard to look at, with his long, fine nose and keen gaze. When I’m well enough to travel again, they’re glad to see me go, but not as glad as I am to leave. I give them two precious dollars for all the trouble.
It’s a cold, wet spring, with day after day of weather that can’t decide if it wants to be rain or snow. Many of the roads are quagmires, trapping wagons and blocking passage. It’s slow going, and I can’t make up lost time no matter how hard I try.
These hills are chock-full of pioneers who are making an enterprise of boarding westbound travelers. I almost always find a bed, a meal, or unasked-for-advice in exchange for mucking a few stalls or splitting some firewood or—if I’m desperate—parting with a few pennies. When I get back on the road, I sometimes find a napkin full of cookies, or a little grain for Peony. Once, I even discover a tiny ball of lavender-scented soap tucked into my saddlebag.
In spite of the goodness all around me, the low clouds feel like a yoke about my shoulders, and the sky drizzles sorrow down on Peony and me as I slump over her withers. It gets harder and harder to smile at strangers, and each morning, I’m clumsy and slow about packing up and getting back on the road. One night, when I’m camped in a small glen after having shot a squirrel with my pistol, I’m finally able to put words to my misery.
I miss Daddy.
With the thought comes a flood of memory. The winter I was nine years old, Daddy announced that he would teach me how to hunt. Mama bundled us both up and packed all the jerky and hard tack we could carry and sent us on our way without wringing her hands once. Daddy and I hiked horseless into the woods and were gone six days.
He showed me how to test the wind, to read tracks and scat, and to be as patient and ghostly as winter itself. He taught me to field dress an animal when it was too big to carry, to shoot a rifle without toppling over, and to find dry wood in the snow. At night, we scraped hides in front of our tent while the fire crackled and our clothes steeped in wood smoke, and he regaled me with tales of his own father, who headed west and spent years on the Ohio frontier in search of adventure and fortune.
Sure, I was little, but I was smart enough to understand
the wistfulness in my daddy’s voice. That’s why Mama let him do wild things without complaint—like take his nine-year-old daughter on a hunting trip. Because the kind of man who fled Boston to make a new life in Indian country was the kind of man who might just keep on going. If Mama didn’t let him sow some wild oats, maybe he’d do something wilder. Maybe he’d go west.
So it’s now, with my own fire crackling, my lips greasy with the squirrel I just ate, and the night echoing with the distant yip of a coyote that I miss Daddy most. He should be here with me. We should have been on this adventure together.
On April 1, 1849 I reach Independence. I crest a rise, and there she is, stretching wide and strange below me.
My first impression is of mud. It spatters off horse hooves and wagon wheels, stains the base of every building and the legs of every pair of trousers, mixes with half-melted snow to create a soup of gray and brown. The few buildings making up the town proper are painted muddy white or muddy red. Centered before the largest of these is the one bright spot: an American flag, whipping proudly from a high pole. It’s the new one, with a full thirty stars.
Surrounding the town are acres of tents and wagons, thousands of oxen and horses; even a few hasty shacks, spread over a vast, flat landscape of mud and snow. And beyond it all is a slow, muddy river, curving gently into the horizon and shimmering like gray silk in the early spring sun.
I’m not sure what I expected. A neat town square like Dahlonega’s. An empty corner with no one in sight but Jefferson McCauley, standing there with his hands in his pockets and a welcoming grin on his face.
I spend all day wandering, getting to know the lay of the land. I’ve never seen so many people all in one place. I’m bumped and jostled everywhere I go, and it’s a peculiar thing to be so crowded and so alone at the same time.
The general store is a small, cluttered building with a floor made from poorly joined wood planks, all covered with muddy boot prints. I open my mouth to ask the clerk if he’s met anyone named Jefferson McCauley, but words fail me.
A gleaming Hawken rifle is mounted on the wall behind him. It’s Daddy’s. Which means the brothers who robbed me are here in Independence. The scent of rotting forest trash suddenly fills my nose, as if I’m still hiding in that pile of musty leaves.
“Sir? Can I help you?”
My hands are clammy cold, and my legs twitch, as if to run.
Don’t panic, Lee. The brothers could have traded it to someone bound for Independence. They’re probably still plundering the back roads of Georgia or robbing flatboatmen along the river.
“Sir?”
“I . . . How much for that rifle?” I ask, pointing. Maybe it’s not Daddy’s gun. The wood grain is different, the polish a bit worn near the trigger guard.
“Sixty dollars.”
I gasp. “Why so much?”
He shrugs. “People need guns to go west, and they’re willing to pay for ’em. Tell you what. You come back in a week, and if this gun hasn’t sold by then, I’ll let it go for fifty.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I stare at it, thinking of the twenty-four dollars I have left. The gun isn’t Daddy’s; I’m sure of it now. My fright made me stupid.
Even so, I can’t bear to be in this store a moment longer. I ought to pick up some hardtack and a new whetstone for my knife, but I don my hat and turn to go.
“I knew a man who had a gun just like that,” says a voice at my shoulder. A familiar voice.
I whirl, my hand flying to my five-shooter.
A tall Negro grins down at me. Though a graying beard sprouts on his jaw, and his eyes are crinkled with new lines, I recognize him at once. “Free Jim!”
He looks me over. “Well, hello, uh, Mr. . . .?”
“McCauley,” I whisper.
“Mr. McCauley! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
It’s like God dropped a little piece of home right in front of me, and it’s all I can do to resist throwing my arms around him. Instead, I hold out my hand, which he clasps. “Nice to see you too, Mr. Boisclair.”
“Long way from Dahlonega,” he observes as his eyes continue to search my face.
“I’m not the only one who’s come a long way.” Though it’s only been a couple of months, Free Jim looks as though he’s aged years. A thousand questions dance around in my head. Why did you leave? Where is Jefferson? Is my uncle looking for me? Is he here? I manage, “Rough trip?”
His smile drops away, leaving only fatigue. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
“Maybe we’ll swap stories.”
“Hey, you there,” the store clerk interjects. “You going to buy anything? Because if not, I’d rather you didn’t clutter my doorway.”
We’re nowhere near the doorway. “Show some respect,” I snap. “Mr. Boisclair is a free Negro and a respected businessman, and his shop is about ten times bigger and cleaner than this godfor—”
“Let’s go, Lee,” Free Jim says, tugging my arm. I let him drag me out the door, even though I’m seething. The street is bustling. A buggy rolls by, spattering mud onto my legs.
“Guess I’ll have to do business elsewhere,” I tell him as we walk toward Peony. “There’s another store a few streets over by—”
“I didn’t need your help in there.”
“I wasn’t trying to help. It’s just . . . He had no right to talk to you that way.”
He sighs and changes the subject. “Glad to see Reuben’s palomino in good health. I thought that was her, but I wasn’t sure until I saw you inside.”
“Jim, I have to ask.” I drop my gaze and shuffle my feet, gathering my words and my pluck. “Did you travel with anyone? I mean . . . Is anybody from Dahlonega here with you?”
“I came alone.”
“Oh.” It feels like I can breathe again. “That’s good.”
“Your uncle Hiram left a few weeks after you did,” he adds gently, “when it was clear you’d run off.”
My gaze darts around the busy street, even as I grab for Peony’s reins. “Is he here? Did he—”
“Hiram sold the Westfall land to Mr. Gilmore and went to catch a boat in Charleston. He’s sailing to California by way of Panama.”
My knees go watery with relief, and I lean against Peony for support.
“He sent some men west after you, just in case. But no one caught even a hint of you.” His eyes twinkle. “They were looking for a young lady, after all.”
My plan worked. I can hardly believe it.
“Well, except that good-for-nothing Abel Topper,” he continues. “He rode back into town more than a week after you left, insisting he chanced upon your mare. By then it was too late; you were too far ahead.”
“Where’s Topper now?”
“He left for California with your uncle, once it was clear no one would hire him for the railroad.” In a dropped voice he adds, “They aim to reach the gold fields ahead of you.”
I nod. I’ve always known I’ll have to face Hiram again someday. “At least I won’t see him on the trail. Is anyone still looking for me? Did he post a reward or something?”
“Not as far as I know.”
But there’s an agitation about him. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it. He runs a hand through his tight beard, clears his throat, tries again. Finally, he asks: “Did Hiram kill Reuben and Elizabeth?”
I can hardly force the word past the lump in my throat. “Yes.”
He nods, as if he’d already worked out the answer. “I expected he’d do something foolish someday.”
“Why?” Tears sting my eyes, and my hands clench so hard that my nails dig into my palms. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand!”
Free Jim settles a giant hand on my shoulder and clasps it. “Do you have a place to stay?”
“Sure,” I lie. I can’t bring myself to tell hi
m I lost most of his money and all of his shirts.
“I have some things to do. Meet me tomorrow at the Hawthorn Inn. It’s two blocks north of the square. Noon. We’ll talk.”
“Okay.” I almost beg him not to go. I’m not ready to be alone again.
He tips his hat to me. “Until tomorrow, then.”
I watch his back as he walks away, and I’m unhitching Peony before I realize I forgot to ask him about Jefferson.
Noon tomorrow can’t come soon enough. I spend the next hours meandering through town, searching the face of every stranger, hoping to find Jefferson, worrying I’ll run into the brothers instead. Evening falls, and I head out of town as the clouds break open, a coral sunset lighting up the western horizon.
The first empty spot suitable for camping is nearly a mile from the town proper. Tree stumps are everywhere, jutting out of the muddy ground like grave markers. But there are no trees; everything has been chopped down for firewood and wagons. I lie down in the open beneath the stars, and I let the sound of chirruping crickets and the scent of a hundred campfires lull me to sleep.
The next morning I make a circuit of all the groups forming up to head west. There are at least a dozen companies, each larger and more sprawling than the last.
I pass a woman bent over an honest-to-goodness box stove, and something about her makes me pause. She turns to grab a wooden ladle, and I glimpse her face. It’s Mrs. Joyner!
Somehow, she convinced someone to unload that stove for her. Certainly not Mr. Joyner, who I’ve never seen carry anything heavier than a cigar. I raise my hand to wave, surprised at how glad I am to see her safely arrived, but I flash back to her prim mouth and hard eyes as she gave me the good riddance. I let my hand drop and slink away before she can spot me. That’s one wagon train where I won’t be welcome.
I resume my search for Jefferson. Time and again I see someone with his lanky form and dark hair, but then he turns around, or moves in a way that Jefferson would never move, or calls out in a voice I’ve never heard.