With my body dangling, I’ve reduced the drop to fifteen feet. Still, I cannot let go. The burning branch spews out a swirling mass of black smoke that obscures the ground. I break into a cold sweat. God, not this way.
Something moves below me. A hat.
“I’ll catch you,” West calls up to me.
I try to release my branch, but fear paralyzes me. Stubborn, stubborn body.
“Trust me.”
My arms weaken, and my fingers begin to slip. Another branch falls, singeing my sleeve.
I plummet like an anchor. West snatches me out of the air, hooking me around the chest with his arm and hauling me onto Franny’s back.
Soon we are squeezed into the same saddle with me in front. I shudder against his solid warm body, biting my lip to keep from crying. Though I dearly want to collapse back into him, I remember myself. So I dig my arms into my stomach to calm the spasms racking my chest. He must have felt my shape when he grabbed me.
“You’re okay,” he says.
He wheels Franny around to face a longhorn that charges toward us. “Got to tie up a few strands.” Franny engages the steer in a kind of mincing dance, matching it step for step until it tires of the footwork and rejoins its brethren. “Thatta girl.”
West starts to whistle. In my fog of exhaustion, whistling strikes me as absurd. Still, the simple tune works at my mind like a carding comb through wool.
I look back at the burning tree, which is starting to burn itself out. Thank God the ground underneath is dirt and not grass, otherwise the whole prairie would be aflame by now. As I’m thinking this, the thunder and lightning end and here come their dawdling children, plump droplets falling from the sky. The blessed rain douses the final embers of the tree fire and dampens the livestock’s spirits.
West stops behind a cottony ox thrashing at a bush. “This one’s bushing up. They get confused, and you have to dig ’em out before they hurt themselves.”
West wings his lariat under the ox’s hind foot, then snaps his wrist up. Franny digs in her heels, and West reels in his catch, helping the ox remember it can go backward. In one smooth motion, West dismounts. Then he picks his rope off the ox’s leg and slaps it on the rear.
As the sun reappears, the rest of the livestock begin foraging like nothing ever happened. Whoever they belong to hasn’t come to claim them yet.
Peety, Andy, and Cay trot up to us. All the mirth has left Cay’s eyes. A shaking Andy lets out her breath and raises her hand to the sky, like she’s giving thanks.
Peety claps my shoulder and says in a gentle voice, “Hey, Chinito, you never be boring with us, sí?”
I nod, trying to switch my mask of terror for one of calm.
“God must think you’re a good one, he don’t let the lightning touch you. Is miracle.” He reaches over to rub my face with his gloved hands. The waxy leather smooths the last of my tears away. “I will give Him extra thank-yous tonight, for you and Andito.”
West winds his rope, pulling the loops taut with more force than necessary. He glances at Cay. “You’re a fool, and one day you’re going to get us all killed.”
“Don’t worry, I already got an earful from that one,” says Cay, flicking his gaze to Andy. He hits me on the other shoulder and pushes my hat down on my head. “You okay?”
“Shouldn’t have treed him,” West says, taking Franny’s reins. He says him so casually, I convince myself he did not figure me out after all.
“Oh come on, how was I supposed to know?” protests Cay.
“Half the stampedes we see are caused by thunder.” West holds Franny’s reins while I slide off, trying not to fall in the mud.
“It’s okay,” I say. My voice is scratched and raspy from all the screaming.
Cay glares at the underside of his hat brim, then glances down at me. “Sorry, kid, I owe you one. You can kick me in the nuts if you want, or I can give you all my money.”
“I’d go with the nuts,” says West. “He only has four dollars.”
I hook an arm around Franny’s neck and will my legs to stop trembling. “Thank—”
“Why don’t ya walk her off?” West interrupts me. He kisses his horse on the nose, then hands me the reins.
“Well, thank you anyway,” I tell Franny, patting her neck.
Andy dismounts. “I’ll come with you.”
Franny leads us toward the pine forest.
Andy nudges me with her arm. “Lord almighty, I almost bit off my tongue when I saw that tree catch fire. You’s tougher than I thought.”
“Just keeping up appearances. And anyway, I wasn’t the one on the bronco. You held on real good, like a professional.”
“Yeah, up until I fell off,” she says, looking at me out of the corner of her eyes. “I’m just glad Peety heard you screaming. Thanks for that. I got so turned around, I didn’t know which way was up or down.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Peety did all the work.”
“Yeah, well, I guess we both needed a bit of rescuing today. At least Peety said I don’t have to ride her anymore if I don’t want to.”
“He said that?”
“Uh-huh, right after I almost chucked up on the back of his shirt.”
When she looks at me, her severe expression softens, and soon we’re both laughing. I glance behind me. West is watching us.
The wind scrubs the slate clean once again, leaving behind not a single cloudy smudge in the turquoise sky. The walk unwinds me, and soon I’m taking deep lungfuls of pine-scented air. Like Father often said, Breathing is underrated. On our Sunday nature walks, he would stop, close his eyes, and inhale so deeply, his spine would flex backward like a violin bow.
Something pink shoots out from a hydrangea shrub and bumbles toward us. A piglet.
“Aw, where did you come from?” Even in my weariness, I can’t help myself in the presence of a baby.
I pick her up and kiss her on the head. “Isn’t she sweet?”
“Sure. She’d be even sweeter with a side of applesauce.”
“Andy!” The piglet shivers, so I put her inside one of my shirts. Nothing soothes the soul like a warm piglet against your stomach.
She frowns at me. “You’ll live longer if you don’t get attached to your food.”
My bundle wriggles, and an ear peeks out between my shirt flaps. Andy’s face relaxes. “My little brother, Tommy, had a piggy just like this one, pink with white spots that looked like soap bubbles. Isaac gave Soapy to Tommy as a reward for cleaning out the stables without crying. He was terrified by the horses.” She scratches the piglet’s velvety head. “You’s hands bad? Let’s see ’em.”
I open them. A cut runs across one of my palms and there’s debris stuck all over. Andy takes off her bandanna and lightly whacks my palms to get off the larger particles. “Good thing we got a needle. But this one, I’ll take care of right now.” She pulls out a larger splinter with her fingernails.
I look toward the sparkling forest to distract myself. Surviving a burning tree didn’t make me any braver. From out of the shadows, I am startled to see four men emerge, twenty yards away.
“Andy!” I whisper loudly.
The men stare at the scene before them. The biggest of the lot sports a crop of red hair and is scratching his matching beard. I put him at fifty. He beckons to us, waving both arms above his head, as if he was not visible enough.
Andy passes me a weary look. They already saw us. We can’t just ignore them.
“Just keep thumping your tail,” she says as we make our way toward them.
Someone whistles sharply: Peety, calling to West and Cay. The boys ride over to the men and arrive just before we do.
The redhead introduces his companions. “This is Mr. MacMartin and his boys, Ian and Angus—from Scotland.”
The MacMartins share the same stocky build.
The sons, in their twenties, wear twin scowls and matching hair styles, blond hair clipped close to the skin. Yellow stains bloom around the armpits of their once-white shirts.
The wrinkles in Mr. MacMartin’s forehead crimp. “If it weren’t for yer quick actions, we’d be in a right fine mess, nae, boys?” His thick brogue requires time to wade through.
Cay snaps his fingers in my direction. “Translator! You speak Scottish?” I can tell by the twinkle in his eye that he is teasing, but Angus’s and Ian’s blue eyes frost him from either direction.
“Fluently,” I say.
Angus clenches his fists. A scar running down his cheek blanches when he scowls. “Any eejit can catch a bunch of cows and pigs.” His voice grates my eardrums like a rusty fork raked across bone China.
“And any eejit can lock down the cows and pigs instead of nipping the bottle,” counters Mr. MacMartin. “Hell slap you and your bruv. What these boys did was pure brilliant.”
“All these bogging tumpshies did was snatch some glory they’ve nae earned. Stupid animals always come home to what feeds them, nae?” huffs Ian, taller of the two with a piglike snout and a rash of red pustules across his cheeks. A tattoo of a ram prepares to leap off his biceps as he flexes his arms. He rocks forward onto his toes, maybe to reach Cay and West’s height. I can smell his spirits from where I stand.
“Well, I never heard of no tumpshie,” says Cay, “but a child owes his daddy more respect than that.”
“Child?” Angus snaps. “Compare to me, lad, you’re a baby, and what you did was baby work. Try catching cougars or bighorn. Until you can trek real animals, shut your geggies.”
Cay’s good nature dissolves. “My what?”
West is giving off his hard look with the twin arches of disapproval and a tight mouth, the one he usually reserves for me. This time, though, his top lip curls for half a second. I notice the rope under his crossed arms.
“As wagon leader, I want you to take your sons back to their wagon for a splash a’ cold water,” says the redhead, drawing his bulk up to full height, which I guess to be well over six feet. “There will be penalties for their negligence and rudeness.”
Angus spits in the dirt. Cay and West glower like they wouldn’t mind enforcing some penalties of their own. Andy’s nose wrinkles in disgust.
Peety’s the only one with half a smile left on his face. “Hey, amigos, you need help tucking your sons in, you let us know.”
My piglet decides she’s had enough of the bickering and squirms free. She drops to the ground with a squeal.
“Son of a bitch,” says Ian. “That chink tried to steal your pig.”
The slur and the accusation hit me like a double slap on the cheeks. “Did not,” I lash back. “I was keeping her warm.”
Andy elbows me, a warning.
Mr. MacMartin’s face colors. “Angus, Ian, mind now! Go on back.”
The piglet goes to sniff at the ground, bringing her too close to Angus. His eyes glint. When he steps back, I know what he plans to do. I throw myself on top of the piglet.
“No!” I cry.
Angus’s boot bites me in the ribs. I gasp and curl up like a pill bug. The piglet squeals as she races off.
“Sammy!” yells Andy, running to me. She helps me up as I try to draw air back into my lungs.
“Peety,” says West. He puts a short length of cord between his teeth.
“Sí.”
Quick as a blink, West pitches a loop over Angus and jerks hard. Before Ian can help his brother, Peety lassoes him, too. In less than twenty seconds, the MacMartins are kneeling in the mud, arms roped to their sides. West spits the cord from his mouth and pulls it across Angus’s thick neck.
The redhead opens his hands at Mr. MacMartin, who in turn, holds up his. “All right, lads, I thank you for your help, but we’ll take it from here.”
“Say you’re sorry,” says West through clenched teeth.
Angus spits again. West pulls the cord even tighter. “I didn’t hear you.”
Angus glows bright red now, his blue eyes popping out at me. “Sorrea,” he says, which might be the worst word he had to use all day.
West turns Angus to face his father. “And to your daddy.”
“Sorrea,” Angus repeats, lacking sincerity.
“Anyone else need an apology here?” asks West, forcing Angus’s head to look around at us.
No one says anything. Ian scowls.
“Aye, then,” says Mr. MacMartin. “Boys, let’s go.”
West and Peety pull their catches to their feet and free them. The young men stumble after their father. As they leave, Ian slits his eyes at West and spits out something that sounds like a hex.
“You okay, son?” the redhead asks me.
My clothes are muddy and my face is probably covered with black smudges. I can’t think of a part of me that doesn’t hurt, but I say, “Yes, sir.”
“Those boys been in and outta prison all their lives back home,” says the redhead. “The father brung ’em out here to get a fresh start. But the iron hardened on them long ago.”
“Well, sir, they can’t be blamed for the lightning,” says Cay. “Bovines will stampede when you say boo.”
“’Tis true, but theirs was the job to secure the rest of the livestock. The oxen would not go far by themselves, likely, but when everyone starts running, ’tis a race to the death.”
He lifts his heels then rocks back onto them, his large hands folded in front of him. “Again, much obliged for your work. I shudder to think what could’ve happened. You shall be paid for your troubles. We have twelve wagons up about a mile. If you could do us the last favor of moving our animals back, we would appreciate it.”
Cay touches his hat. “Will do, sir.”
“This one’s dragged out,” says West, glancing at me. “You might want to take him with you.”
No doubt he is thinking on how much work I am and once again wishing they had left us—me—behind.
“Andito, you go, too, bring Franny and get her some oats, okay?” Peety says. “We’ll join you later.” Andy runs to fetch her saddlebag, while I retrieve my violin case off Princesa’s back.
“I didn’t catch your name,” says West to the redhead. “I’m West Pepper.”
“Olin Bartholomew, wagon leader,” says the man. “Most people call me Sheriff.”
15
“I WORE THE STAR FOR EIGHT YEARS,” SAYS THE sheriff as Andy and I reluctantly follow him back to his wagon train. “Boone County, Missouri. I know trouble when I see it, and those MacMartin boys are it. Thinking about casting their wagon out. Sure, they’re good trackers. Skills like that come in handy on the trail when you’re looking out for bears and such, eh?” He hits me on the back, hard enough to set off a fit of coughing.
“If it weren’t for the Broken Hand Gang—well, I just couldn’t do that to their father.” He casts Andy a suspicious eyeball. “Say, those gang members aren’t friends of yours, are they?”
“No, sir,” she says adamantly, glaring at the ground.
“Well, that’s good.”
“Lotsa black people in this country,” she mutters to me, then picks up her pace. The sheriff and I step it up, too. Maybe she’s trying to wind him so he can’t ask us further questions. It doesn’t work.
“So, you boys got family?” he asks.
“Nope,” we say simultaneously.
“Neither of you?”
We shake our heads at each other, realizing this is suspicious.
“What a shame. Where from you traveling?”
“Texas,” I say, as Andy says, “St. Louis.”
We struggle to keep our poker faces while he scratches his beard. Andy stoops extra low, looking for potato bugs, deciding I should be the one to talk.
“I started in Texas and sh—” I catch myself with a co
ugh. “He started in St. Louis.”
“Either of you boys know how to tie a Texan overhand knot?”
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m the one supposed to be from there.
Just as I’m ready to throw off my hat and plead for my life, at last we clear the forest. The open plains sweep before us cut by a swathe of the Little Blue.
“Aha, here we are,” he says.
The pioneers have daisy-chained their wagons into a circle, a dozen in all, except that two of the wagons are overturned, probably from when the animals broke free. Some folks collect spilled contents, while others repair damaged wheels, their tools rapping out a noisy symphony. Inside the circle, the rest of the emigrants buzz around the canvas hive fixing dinner.
The sheriff wraps a heavy arm around each of our shoulders and steers us toward a wagon painted bright green. Who was it who mentioned a green wagon? I stop in my tracks when I remember the rosy-cheeked gent who stole us across the Dirty Missouri.
Mr. Calloway was trying to catch up with his wagon train, a train that included a green wagon. Of course, it’s just my Snake luck that I ran into it. Thanks to Deputy Granger, Mr. Calloway knows that there’s a slave and a Chinese girl on the run. If he sees us, he’ll raise the alarm.
Andy is already tipping her hat farther down her face. My eyes careen around the campsite in search of the man, with his red-flannel shirt and stout form.
The sheriff shades his eyes. “There’s my missus.” He booms, “Melissa! We got some guests.”
A woman in a calico dress twists her head away from a group of people and squints at us. The pioneers drop what they’re doing and gather around, some smiling, others frowning. Fifty pairs of eyes scrutinize my boy act as the late sun glares its disapproval. My shirts stick to my body like layers of a winter-melon pastry.
At least Andy and I are covered in soot and mud, which may help to disguise us.
The sheriff introduces us, then recounts the stampede. When he finishes, everyone starts clapping and praising God. I stick my hands in my pockets and grunt to discourage people from coming too close. One grateful fellow reaches out his hand to shake mine and I give him a curt nod. No one tries to shake Andy’s hand.