Under a Painted Sky

  Andy’s so still and ashen, she looks almost dead. I kneel beside her and take her limp hand in mine. It’s cool, but not cold, and I put it to my cheek.

  I want to talk to her, but I can’t with Peety and Cay here. They lie motionless, and it’s hard to tell if they’re sleeping or just resting. So instead, I say a prayer for all of them and hope God is listening.

  By my estimates, we are at least twenty days from Fort Bridger. Even if we reached the fort, what could the people there do? Most folks stay as far away from cholera as possible. There is no cure. We must wait for the disease to run its course and keep everyone hydrated.

  Cay wakes up shivering, his lips blue. I scoot in behind him and put his head on my lap. Then I hold his cold face between my hands.

  Cay blinks up at me hanging over him. “My stomach . . . ”

  Another of Father’s methods comes back to me.

  “Want to try tui-na?” I ask, using the Cantonese word for a technique that uses pressure on certain points on the body. “I will need to touch your ears.”

  “My ears?”

  I nod. Chinese people believe the entire human body is mapped on the ears. I don’t remember where everything is, only the key points.

  “Does it hurt?”

  I smile. “No. You might even like it.”

  “Well, okay, but don’t tell Peety.”

  Sliding my hands up to Cay’s ears, I tug at his lobes, then circle my fingers around the edges toward the center. There, I find the spot that corresponds to the stomach and press in toward his head.

  He closes his eyes. His face twitches at first but eventually relaxes. When I hear him sigh, I begin to knead his earlobes with my thumbs, the loose and easy headtabs that indicate a charmed life, unlike West’s. Some charmed life, nose against death’s door and only eighteen. Maybe earlobes are not the weatherglasses of one’s life that I’ve always believed them to be. Wasn’t it Cay who got the boss’s daughter pregnant? And didn’t West survive that stallion bite? Maybe ears are just ears.

  Cay moans, “That . . . feels . . . so . . . ”

  West drops down beside us, startling both Cay and me. I let Cay’s ears go.

  Cay’s eyes slit open and take in his cousin. “You always spoil the fun.”

  “Please, continue,” says West dryly, sweeping his hands at us.

  I pat Cay’s whiskery cheek. “I think you’re better now. I’ll go fix the tea.”

  As I gently lift Cay’s head, West slides in to take my place. Before I can leave, Cay says, “Why do you always smell so good?”

  I choke. Maybe Cay’s delirious. His eyes drift close. West watches me so I give him a helpless shrug and don’t answer.

  Cay’s eyes pop open. “I don’t have all day.”

  I smile, because he can make me do that, even in my misery. “I smell like horse shit like the rest of you.” My face heats up at my vulgarity.

  “Nope,” says Cay. “You smell like jacaranda. Oddest thing . . . ”

  Jacaranda? Those fragrant purple blossoms were Father’s favorite. He couldn’t know that. I lower my head while I collect my composure. When I look up again, I’m pinned by a pair of brown eyes and a pair of green ones.

  “Cowboys ain’t meddlers, but you got me balled up. Why’re you such a secret?” Cay rasps. “You ain’t no Argonaut, obviously.”

  I open my mouth to deflect the question or give a cheeky answer, but close it again, suddenly weary. The boys have been nothing but honest with us, while I have lurked in shadows. Even now, with death knocking, the lies still flock to my tongue like ravens to a kill. What is the worst that can happen if I tell them a little of myself? This is not the time for a confessional, but the least I can do is be straight with him for once, maybe even take his mind off his suffering.

  “I come from St. Joe,” I begin.

  “Missouri?” asks Cay.

  “Yes. Father’s Portuguese partner in New York lost the whole business with one roll of the dice.”

  “What’d he roll?” asks Cay.

  “Four. That’s an unlucky number for Chinese because the word for four, sei, sounds like the word for death. So Father decided not to rebuild the business and instead bought the Whistle in St. Joe, hoping we would join the pioneers one day.”

  I describe the cold welcome we received in St. Joe, then end with the blaze that took Father’s life. “He did not have a proper burial.”

  My throat constricts, and I grab a fistful of dirt to distract my mind from the pain, letting it seep out like sand in an hourglass.

  “We fought that morning,” I hear myself say. “I didn’t want to move to California. After violin lessons, I sat on the riverbank instead of coming straight home.”

  My shameful tears water the dirt as I bow my obstinate head.

  I failed you. I should’ve been in there with you. I should’ve pulled you out.

  Cay breaks the silence. “So he’s an angel, then. We’ll adopt you. Go on, West.”

  West pauses a moment before reciting, in a gentle voice, “Welcome to the family. Keep your neck and hands clean, and scrape the shit off your boots before you come into the kitchen. And don’t pick the crust off the pie.”

  I laugh a little at that.

  We let Cay sleep. I spread out my bedroll by the fire, and West arranges his next to mine. The two lone blankets side by side bring a blush to my cheeks. I am thankful it’s dark.

  “I’ll take bobtail,” says West.

  “What’s bobtail?”

  “First watch.”

  He does not wake me for my shift. Instead, I rouse myself at sunrise and find him kneeling between Peety and Andy. Peety lays comatose, but Andy twitches like she lies on a hill of ants. Did West help Andy use the necessary last night? Surely he would have said something if he learned the truth. Or maybe it was too dark to see.

  “Next time, don’t let me sleep,” I plead, carefully watching his reaction.

  He drops down onto his bedroll without replying.

  • • •

  West wakes in the early afternoon. I hand him a cup of coffee, suddenly struck with the urge to smooth back his rumpled hair.

  “Andy needs help,” says West.

  She is halfway off her bedroll and about to crawl over Cay. “I’ll help him,” I say, nearly scalding myself with coffee in my haste to get to her before West gets up.

  She clutches me with more strength than I expect. Her fingernails dig into my arm. “Isaac misses us something awful,” she croaks. “But we’ll be with him soon, won’t we, Tommy?” Her forehead knits and I can smell the bitter sickness in her breath.

  She must be in the middle of a dream. “Sure, Andy. Of course we’ll see him soon.”

  I pull her, half stumbling, toward the necessary. Once she finishes using it, I resettle her on her bedroll. West brings over a cup of blackberry tea, and I put it to her lips.

  “Being still ain’t good for the horses,” he says. “They ain’t fed enough either. I’ll explore with them today. Maybe I’ll run into some folks who can help.”

  He takes out his journal. I have not seen him draw since that picture he sketched of my six-year-old self. The book opens to the page held by a leather cord. While he rips out a blank sheet, I catch a glimpse of the last picture he drew: a girl whose hair cascades over her shoulders, hiding her face in shadow.

  It couldn’t be Sophie, as she had ringlets. I recall his fitful sleep after the stallion bite, when he cried out, “She didn’t do it!” Perhaps that “she” is the girl in the picture. Maybe a friend, or . . . There is so much I do not know about his life, and a part of me mourns that I never will.

  He draws the route he will take so I know where to go if I need him. Paloma will stay behind with me. He tacks Franny, then leads the remuda out of Eden.

  I rub each of my charges’ legs and backs
. Then I take out my bow and notch the arrow. Fitting the point into the arrow rest on the grip, I try to shoot fish in the stream. My aim is steadily improving. Last week, I hit a dandelion from thirty feet away.

  I wound a trout, which I throw in the pot along with some wild parsley I found upstream. Maybe Andy’s Snap Stew will comfort us. The fire releases plumes of gray smoke when I throw on a chunk of pine with too much sap, and I use a rag to clear the air.

  Andy whimpers and I rush to her side. I find her with one arm linked through Peety’s, her fingers kneading her sleeve where her scar with the six dots lies. The vaquero still slumbers. Andy’s eyes are clear though her face is drenched with sweat.

  She sighs when I place a cold rag on her forehead. “Go tell West the truth. You two go on before you catch what’s-it we have. I’ll take care of the boys. Ain’t got nothing better to do.”

  “Shut it, Andy. I’m not going anywhere,” I growl, hoping my harsh tone hides my distress.

  I swear she rolls her eyes at me, then lowers her voice to a whisper. “When the master’s son drowned Tommy’s baby pig, Tommy didn’t cry. He scooped that pink ball out of the rain barrel and gave it to Isaac. ‘Bury him for me,’ he tells Isaac. ‘Soapy needs you to help him get to heaven.’

  “Isaac buried Soapy by the craggy tree. Carved a cross on the trunk so God would know where to find him. Tommy sat by Soapy’s grave all morning, looking through the stone with the hole.” She pulls her arm out of Peety’s and presses her palm to the rag on her forehead. “If I don’t make it, I need you to tell Isaac one day what happened. I’d sure hate him to think I died a slave.”

  “Hush. We still have a lot of trail to cover before the end. You’re not going to die up here. I won’t let you.” I hold her hand to my cheek.

  “But here’s where I always wanted to be. Free.” The shadow of a smile crosses her face. “Promise it.”

  “I promise.” I pull her hand away so she cannot feel the tears streaking down my face.

  • • •

  Sometime in the late afternoon, my skin crawls, like ants are marching up and down my legs and arms. I check my surroundings, but see only a lone falcon, wobbling on an air current. So I finish scooping the fish bones from the pot. But I cannot shake the sense that someone is watching me. I let it build for another moment then whip around.

  Not twenty feet away, two black men stare at me, one from the top of a mule. The first, a young man of about twenty, has a good few inches on West, with hawkish eyes that don’t blink, and lips that pinch tightly together, causing his forehead to bunch over his brow. He’s wearing a buckskin coat only a shade lighter than his own skin, and underneath that, a white-and-blue-checkered shirt. The one on the mule leans forward over his animal’s neck. He is more a boy than a man, with a long face and a nose like a baby butternut squash. I’ve seen their faces before. The index and pinkie finger of the Broken Hand Gang.

  35

  MURDERERS. AND WE ARE ALONE UP HERE.

  How did they find us?

  My heart sinks when I remember the gray smoke from our fire.

  My legs lose all feeling, and my tongue petrifies. The only part of me capable of movement is my mind, which jumps like a cricket in the cage of my head.

  They don’t yet see the others lying by the stream. I have to lead them away. But I can barely work my lungs, let alone walk. I have solidified, as if I have looked upon the Gorgon Medusa and turned to stone.

  Pull it together—the others depend on you. You are a rattlesnake and you have a bite. I unholster the Dragoon. The pearly handle slips in my sweaty grip, but I hang on. “Don’t come any closer!” My voice comes out weak and raspy.

  The man removes something from beneath the flap of his coat. A gun, long as his forearm, with a black nose. He points it at me with more conviction than I point mine. He steps closer. “And if I do?” he rumbles.

  Good Lord, could I really shoot this man?

  Step by step, death comes for me, steady as a plow. The twin sinkholes of his eyes trap me, rendering me motionless once again and I forget all about being a rattlesnake. All I can think about is how I am the easiest catch on the prairie, not even a moving target.

  When the man stands only spitting distance away, the queerest thing happens. I see myself in him: hunted and outraged. Set upon a dishonest scale. They are runaway slaves, just like Andy. As bad as my luck has been, I know there is no worse life than one that is not your own to live. No, I could never kill a slave in cold blood.

  But how can I protect us?

  Father called himself a translator, but he was much more. He was a negotiator, a diplomat. When the German farmer and the Spaniard restaurateur were at loggerheads for the price of bratwurst, Father always moved the conversation to areas of common interest. What were the preferred methods for cooking? Did beer or wine best accompany the meat’s richness?

  Stop struggling, and you will find common ground.

  I drop my gun, shaking, back to my side.

  The man flexes an eyebrow. The nose of his weapon dips, then rises, like he’s trying to decide where to put the hole.

  Then, miracle of miracles, he uncocks his gun.

  I nearly fall over in relief.

  “Never seen a yella before,” he says.

  “You going to kill me?” My voice goes high. Curse my idiot’s tongue. Might as well ask a bear if I should season myself up before becoming dinner.

  “You got something worth killing for?”

  “No,” I say quickly, then curse myself again. Now he thinks I’m hiding something. “But my fish stew’s half decent.”

  A puff of air blows through his nose and his chest twitches. Is he amused? Provoked?

  The boy sniffs and runs his sleeve across his face. Only now do I notice his pant leg is torn and bloodied, and his teeth clenched. He looks younger in person than in his Wanted picture, with no facial hair that I can see, and no bump on his throat.

  The man eyes my pot. “You by you’self here?”

  If I say no, he might hurt the others. But I can’t say yes, when it’s obvious I’ve made enough fish stew for a pod of whales. While I root around for the best answer, it dawns on me: Just tell the truth. “My companions have the cholera.”

  “Where are they?”

  “By the stream.”

  In five steps, the man overtakes me and peers down the length of the stream at the blanketed forms of Andy, Peety, and Cay, twenty yards away. Their heads are half covered with the wet rags I’ve placed on their foreheads.

  “Well then, we won’t be staying long,” he says, returning to me. “How ’bout we have ourselves an understanding? We won’t kill you, if you let us borrow your fire and some clean water. Do we have a deal?” He extends his hand for a handshake.

  Even though I suspect he’s just humoring me, I solemnly shake his hand, pumping extra hard to make up for my scrawniness.

  The man helps the boy off his mule and to our fire. Blood glistens on the fabric of the boy’s trousers near the thigh, soaking through at an alarming pace. Beads of sweat trace a path around his high cheekbones and trembling upper lip. He sucks in air through his nose, then hisses it out through the spaces of his gritted teeth.

  The man carefully cuts away the trousers, exposing a large wound below the boy’s hip bone. Quickly, I fetch clean rags and boiled water, plus the bandages and salve that Cay bought in Fort Laramie.

  “Disease gonna set in if I don’t get out that bullet,” the man tells the boy.

  The boy shakes his head, his eyes large with terror. “It hurts. Don’t do it, Badge.”

  The man glances at me when the boy says his name. “Shh, it’s gonna be all right.”

  Now the boy starts whimpering. “I says, don’t do it. Just leave it. Ain’t gonna help.”

  Badge starts sopping up blood with the rags. “What did Paul write to th
e Romans about suffering?”

  The boy’s eyes flick to me. “Don’t remember.”

  Badge helps him out. “‘Suffering leads to patience, and patience, to experience, and experience, to—’?”

  “Hope?” The boy gasps.

  “That’s right, and without hope, we ain’t got no business in this world.” Badge sighs and looks at his right hand. It’s nearly as big as my foot, the fingers wide and muscular. Then his eyes cut to my own hands, tiny by comparison. The boy begins to cry.

  Badge fetches a bottle from his saddlebag and uncorks it. The sour scent of fermented hops stings my nose. Badge holds it to the boy’s lips, but the boy pushes it away and covers his face. His tears leak through the cracks between his fingers.

  The sight of his suffering, and his shame at crying makes my head throb, filling my own eyes with hot tears. It is indecent, grotesque even, that someone could shoot a child.

  “I can do it,” I hear myself say.

  Badge narrows his eyes at me. Slowly, I show him my bow hand, wiggling what I always considered to be bony digits. “My fingers are nimble, and it will hurt less.”

  The boy uncovers his face. His eyes are so swollen they appear shut.

  “I have a lot of experience with these fingers,” I tell him. “The mayor of New York once gave me a whole silver dollar for playing ‘The Peddler’s Waltz’ on my fiddle. Said my fingers were as nimble as spider legs.” I smile and hope the story improves his confidence in me.

  He bites down on his trembling lip, and looks at Badge. Badge nods at him.

  The boy buries his head in his arm and bobs his head up and down.

  I pour the spirits on my hands and rub them together. Then I pour some on a rag. “This will sting, but that’s a good sign. It means things are getting clean.”

  When I touch my rag to the wound, the boy gasps.

  Badge takes his hand. “Squeeze my hand, Jeremiah.”

  The boy squeezes, but when he sees me wiping my pinkie, he shrinks back into Badge.