Under a Painted Sky

  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.

  29

  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 demon
s. 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.

  I cannot see through my tears, and let Paloma do the driving. I find that soft spot right behind her ears and stick my face in it. She takes me just down to the river, though I long for her to take me far away, to another continent, to the moon.

  30

  A DEVILISH SUN STRETCHES OVER THE LARAMIE River, and pokes me in the eye. I curse it. I curse the clouds that spring out like ringlets around it, and while I’m at it, I curse the moon and the traitorous rabbit that lives there. To see that. And him. It stabs me a million times over.

  Mostly though, I curse myself. I share the blame for this by causing too much confusion for West. Still, I cannot reconcile that with my hurt.

  Tumpshie. Idiot. Why couldn’t I just focus on my mission? It could never work out between us. Like beef and tomatoes, one of Father’s favorite dishes, we have nothing in common except that we wound up in the same wok. Our paths have crossed, and soon we will head off in different directions.

  I sit with my head in my hands, my brain circling over the sickening image of Sophie and West like a vulture over a carcass. How could I be so stupid, Father?

  My chest rises and falls as I take a deep breath. I must act nonchalant. Another act of survival.

  When I return to our camp just after dawn, I head off Andy’s questions by telling her I went for a morning ride. I don’t meet West’s eyes. Instead, I see right through him, like he is a ghost. I do not notice his anxious glances, nor the way his shoulders slump even worse than before. When Andy asks if he needs her sewing kit, I turn my back.

  By late morning, I am snoozing over Paloma’s snowy mane as she carries me. A hand pulls my hips back onto the saddle, and I snap to attention. West has brought Franny up beside me.

  “You’re slipping,” he says.

  My face heats up, and I tighten my grip on Paloma. Nonchalant. I clear my throat.

  “I’m sorry about my intrusion last night. I did not”—my voice cracks—“realize . . . ”

  “Forget it.” The hint of a blush appears on his cheeks, but he quickly pulls Franny back to the drag.

  He tucked my gun back into my holster; I can feel the weight of it against my thigh.

  Useless thing. Perhaps it still carries the negative energy of its past owner, and that has made it unlucky. Or perhaps I was lucky it didn’t shoot anyone this time. All the variables in Chinese luck make it difficult to keep track.

  Cay casts a mischievous grin toward West. “So did you curry the kinks out of Sophie?”

  West doesn’t answer.

  “Mathilde said Sophie’s father sent her here to settle her down,” Cay prattles on. “Guess she’s a bit of a bangtail.” He looks over his shoulder at Andy and me. “That’s a wild horse, boys.” His eyes stretch wide for a fleeting moment.

  I snort and then I cannot stop laughing. They must think I’m one strange kid.

  I can feel my laughter quickly turning to tears so I s
hove my hat farther down on my head. I urge Paloma to a trot, out of the group and down the trail.

  Andy rides Princesa up to join us. “What happened?”

  “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “I changed my mind,” I say, maintaining a look of equanimity.

  She sneaks a look back at West, but I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead. No more looking back into the drag.

  I switch the subject by telling her what that trapper Burl Johnson said about criminals in the Haystacks. “So it’s a good thing I’m going with you.”

  She blows a short breath out of her nose. “Yeah, because sometimes, you’s real fierce.”

  • • •

  In the late afternoon, we camp in a grove of birch trees.

  At dinnertime, I don’t even notice Andy is frying up something special until she starts knocking her spatula against the pan.

  “And now y’all, it’s time for our special celebration in honor of Sammy. Come on!”

  I shake my head furiously at Andy, but she smiles and summons me with her hands. I didn’t think she remembered since we talked about it long before we even met the boys.

  She does not pick up on my mood. “Sixteen years young and a hundred years smarter than all of us put in the same bag.”

  How wrong you are, I think, shuttering my eyes for a moment.

  “I thought you said you was seventeen,” says Cay.

  “You the only one who believed it, hombre,” says Peety.

  We each get a flapjack in the shape of a violin. Cay and Peety clamor for a speech. I put down my pancake and pick myself up. My ears ring like a pair of hot horseshoes under a hammer, but I ignore them and summon up my violin calm.

  I hold my cup of water to Andy. “If you had not saved me from the bathtub, I would not have made it to this old age.”

  The boys puzzle over this.