“We’ll keep an eye out,” I say. But I make no guarantees about how hard I’ll look or what I’ll do if I see him. With any luck, Hampton is already half a day’s journey to Iowa. I wish him luck.
The next day the temperature drops, and the rains return. The wagons get stuck in the mud over and over. By evening, Mr. Joyner’s road-o-meter measures only six miles. We make camp, and everyone gathers water and relieves themselves nearby, because it’s too miserable and dark to wander any distance.
With everyone remaining close, I don’t have to stray far for my own privacy. Even in the rain, I linger to enjoy the time alone, taking time to clean my clothes and gear and fill my canteen and take care of my other needs.
Night has fallen when I return, and Jefferson has already spread his blanket under the wagon and stretched out to sleep.
“Aren’t you afraid of Indians?” he says, and his voice has a mocking edge.
“No,” I say, not wanting to get drawn into an argument.
“Why do you spend so much time out there?” he says.
“I don’t know.” I settle my head down onto the saddlebag. I whisper, “Maybe because it’s the only time I don’t have to lie to anyone.”
“You don’t have to lie to anyone.”
“Yes, I really do.”
“Well, you don’t have to lie to me,” he whispers back.
I open my mouth to tell him I know that, and maybe thank him, but two hard thumps sound on the bed of the wagon just above our head.
Jefferson sighs.
Please don’t roll over again, I think.
He rolls over.
I stare at his back a long time.
When we reach the Platte River, my heart sinks, because it’s as wide as the Missouri. But it turns out to be as shallow as a puddle. It’s less of a river, and more of a muddy, rolling ribbon of slurry water and quicksand.
“It’s a mile wide and an inch deep,” Major Craven tells us when the wagons stop.
“Too bad it’s not the other way around,” I say to Jefferson. “Then we could step across it without getting our feet wet.”
He smiles, his first in a long time, and it does my heart good.
We come to Fort Kearny two days later, which isn’t how I imagined a fort to look like at all. It’s no more than a small scattering of low buildings made of sod blocks. But the rooftops are bright green with grass, and they sit beside the lazy Platte as pretty as a painting. The soldiers stationed here are indistinguishable in clothes or character from the Missouri men in our own wagon train. Mrs. Joyner and several others drop off letters for family back home. We refresh our supplies, and the blacksmith shoes our animals and mends our wagon wheels. Peony’s shoes are worn thin, and it costs four dollars to get new ones. I make the mistake of counting what’s left: eleven dollars and forty-two cents. Staying a long time in Independence cost me dear.
“How’s the sorrel mare holding up?” I ask Jefferson the evening before we depart.
He shrugs.
Something in his face makes me peer closer. “Jeff? Does she need shoes?”
“She’s fine.”
“Our trail gets steep and rocky, and—”
“I said she’s fine!”
I reach into my pocket and fish out four dollars. “Get her shod. I know she’s not a barefoot horse, so don’t you dare say no. We need her sound.”
He stares at the coins in my hand. Sighs. Grabs them before he can change his mind. “Thanks, Lee.”
“You’d do it for me.”
I stare after him as he leads the sorrel mare toward the blacksmith’s stable, my pockets feeling light as air.
In the morning, we leave Fort Kearny behind, and it feels as though we’re stepping off the edge of civilization. The trail starts to incline, and the weather warms. I’m thirsty all the time. Still, we push on as hard as we can because the general word at Fort Kearny is that the cholera clears up past Fort Laramie.
Our train rolls by more shallow graves, most of them dug up. We make graves of our own when two of the Missouri men pass on in the night. I didn’t know them well, but I stand a long moment at their graveside, hat off, just like everyone else. Unlike everyone else, I stare at Jefferson the whole time, assuring myself that he seems as hale as always.
Mr. Joyner continues to improve, much to his family’s great relief, and is soon up and about, though he moves more slowly than before. The mood is better around our wagon, and at night, when we set up camp, I play hide-and-seek with Andy Jr. He still wears my locket, like a good luck charm, and each time he hides, I pretend for a few minutes that I don’t know exactly where he is.
“You don’t have a rifle?” Mr. Joyner says, blinking against the afternoon sun. Major Craven has called an early halt today on account of us already making sixteen miles and coming to a spot rich with grass.
“No, sir,” I say, thinking longingly of Daddy’s Hawken.
“Lee’s the best shot in Lumpkin County back home,” Jefferson says as he lifts a chair from the wagon.
Mr. Joyner snorts, as if hearing a tall tale. “Well, the Missouri boys say this is buffalo country. I’ll lend you my rifle until I’m back in fighting form. You and Jefferson head out, try to find one of the beasts. If you do, shoot it and bring it back.”
His rifle is a beautiful Springfield with a single trigger, made of shining chestnut wood, or at least stained to look just like it. The barrel is nearly three feet long. I’ve never shot one before, but I like its easy weight and elegant balance.
Jefferson is as thrilled as I am to get away from camp chores for a bit. We ride out, rifles in hand, into rolling wild pasture.
“What you said a few nights ago,” Jefferson says once we’re out of earshot.
“What did I say? ‘Shut up and sleep’?”
“No, about not having to lie to anyone. You don’t have to lie to me. You know that, right?”
“It’s not lying with words,” I explain. “Everything I do is a lie. My clothes, my name, who people think I am.”
“Yeah, but it’s great, isn’t it?”
“Great?” I peer closer, trying to figure him.
“This is the best we’ve ever had it.” At my expression, he quickly adds, “It’s the best I’ve ever had it in my life. Plenty of food. The work is easier than mining and farming.”
“Oh. Yeah, great.” Jefferson doesn’t feel the same sense of loss that I do. My mama and daddy are a constant ache in me, even months later. But Jefferson is glad to be rid of his da, and I don’t blame him. Therese looks at him in a way none of the girls back home did. He’s stronger than he’s ever been.
“I mean, no one likes me,” he amends. “Or trusts me much. But that’s no different from back home.”
“Therese likes you.”
His face turns thoughtful. “She does. And maybe I’m winning some of the others over too. Don’t you think?”
I stare down at Peony’s mane. “I think you could win over anyone in the world, if you wanted.”
We plod on, keeping an eye out for game. Bees flit around the wildflowers, and sleepy crickets leap through the grass to avoid our horses.
“You’re not lying to me about anything, are you, Lee?” he says, and his voice has a strange quality to it.
Words congeal in my throat. What do I say? Yes, Jefferson, I haven’t told you that I can find gold the way a hound finds foxes. I haven’t said that seeing you with Therese makes me sad. That on the way to Independence I started getting used to the idea of marrying my best friend, and that sometimes when you turn your back on me at night, it feels like the world is cracking open.
I find my voice. “No. I’m not lying. It’s just . . .”
He reins in the sorrel mare. “Lee?”
“It’s just that maybe I’m not telling you everything.”
“Oh.” He look
s down at his hands clutching the reins. “I might not be telling you everything either.”
I startle a little, and Peony dances in response. But if I’m keeping secrets, it’s only fair that he does too. “I reckon that’s all right,” I tell him.
“Yeah.”
We ride on. With Jefferson, silence is sometimes as comforting as talking.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Twenty-Two
Jefferson and I ride out every afternoon, but we never see buffalo. Our company keeps rolling, fifteen miles a day, give or take, with half a day on Sunday to make up for lost time.
Weather announces itself from far away now, low dark clouds that are more green than gray. The Platte River Valley is the hugest I’ve ever seen, and it looks flat as a flapjack, though my sore legs tell me otherwise. I walk often, Peony by my side, to give her a break.
When a steady rumble of thunder wakes me one dark morning, I rise from my blanket, resigned to a day of soaking rain.
Jefferson is already up. He stands with his suspenders hanging at his hips, his face lifted toward the eastern horizon, which is just now brightening from black to the dark blue of a bruise.
“It’s clear,” he says. “See all the stars?”
“I do.”
The air tastes dusty and dry, not like rain at all. The winds have been relentless lately, which is why we’ve camped in this shallow bowl of land. For once, it’s possible that a storm is on the way, and we just can’t see it.
Our wagon circle has shrunk since Bledsoe’s men left, and now it feels like the animals and the people are all on top of one another. Maybe that’s why the oxen are so fidgety this morning, milling about and snorting. Nugget and Coney trot over to greet us, and Coney stretches up to lick my fingers.
The thunder grows louder. The ground twitches beneath my feet.
“An earthquake?” Jefferson says.
The rest of the camp is beginning to stir. Major Craven hurries toward us, rifle in hand. “I’m heading to the top of that ridge to get the lay of the land,” he says to us. “Want to come?”
“Sure,” we say in unison, and duck between the wagons and follow him up the gentle slope.
The prairie stretches endlessly before us, an expanse of black that is gradually brightening to green before the rising sun. About half a mile away is the strangest storm cloud I’ve ever seen. It hugs the earth, a rolling mass sweeping across the horizon.
“That’s no storm,” Jefferson says.
“Buffalo!” Craven shouts. “Run back and warn everyone. They must stay in the wagons!”
Jefferson reacts instantly, sprinting away with his long legs, hollering as he goes.
But I’m frozen by the sight. It’s not possible. How can there be so many of one animal in the world? They are a frothing sea of heads bowed low and whipping tails and flying mud.
Craven grabs my arm. “C’mon, you fool—unless you want to get trampled.”
His words unstick my legs. We turn and run.
Jefferson’s warning cries have drawn everyone out. They linger about the wagons, sleepily curious. Jeff grabs Henry and forces him toward his wagon then does the same to Jasper. No one is moving fast enough.
“Hide!” I scream as we run down the slope. “Hide!”
I know the exact moment the buffalo crest the rise behind me, because curiosity turns to terror. Men blunder over their rifles and ramrods while mothers grab their children and run for cover. Jefferson hefts Andy under one arm and drags Olive by the hand and toward Mrs. Joyner. Thunder vibrates all around me. I expect hooves to impale me at any moment.
Yards short of safety, my toe catches on a hole in the cattle-churned sod. I fly out, hit the ground hard. My lungs won’t draw air. My head spins. I’m scrambling to my feet when I feel the first hard impact on my back.
I scream, but it’s only Jefferson’s hands. He grabs me by my suspenders and the waist of my pants and heaves me up onto the wagon bench. I turn to pull him to safety beside me, but he has already rolled between the wheels to the other side. He glances back, just quick enough to make sure I’m secure, then he starts herding families toward the shelter of their wagons.
A rifle booms a few feet away, and I duck. Buffalo pour down the slope like a muddy brown flood. More gunshots crack the air, though I barely hear them through the roar of hooves. A few buffalo drop and tumble, but there are so many it makes no difference. Major Craven rips off his shirt and stands before the lead wagon. He whips it through the air and hollers, as if the buffalo are nothing but giant cows, easily herded by a little yelling and waving.
They are not cows. A great horned creature with a giant black head is nearly upon him. Finally, he turns to run.
“Major!” I scream.
He makes it three steps before he drops and disappears beneath a cloud of dust and hooves.
“Major!”
A buffalo slams into my wagon. It teeters violently, and I slide across the bench, grabbing the footboard to keep from falling off. Their wet noses and glossy eyes are close enough to touch as they twist aside.
The herd breaks on the wagon circle like a river flowing around an island. I clutch the footboard with all my might for a minute or ten or maybe twenty. Dust clogs the air, filling it with a heavy, musty-fur scent, choking me. Buffalo snort and pound. Wagons rattle and shake. Oxen scream.
My arms tremble from clinging to the footboard. I raise my head, praying that I will see Jefferson, sheltered somewhere safe. He’s nowhere to be found, but I watch, heart in my throat, as two wagons topple over. Buffalo get tangled in the hoops of one. They stomp and knock it about with their heads until it’s in splinters, dusted over with white flour and sprinkled with feathers from someone’s pillow.
I can’t tell if there are bodies in the wreckage.
Suddenly, the buffalo are a trickle. And then they’re gone, disappeared as quickly as they came. The thunder of their hooves fades, the dust settles. I cling to the footboard a few seconds more, unable to make my limbs move.
Finally, I slide from the bench seat. Oxen and horses mill about in panic. People call out to one another. Mrs. Joyner climbs shakily from their wagon bed, Andy in her arms. The college men are whooping and slapping one another on the backs, like they’ve just seen the greatest wonder of their lives. Mrs. Hoffman’s brood is gathered around, like a clutch of chicks. I suck in a breath when I spot Jefferson safe among them.
“Peony!” I call out frantically. “Peo—” There she is, right by the Joyner wagon. Her sides heave, but she seems unharmed. The other animals seem unharmed too. Except for the two toppled wagons and one trampled cook fire, our camp is mostly untouched.
I stagger toward the area where I saw Major Craven go down, afraid of what I’ll find. A weak voice drifts toward me.
“Help . . .”
I’m trembling, like wheat in the wind, and my knees are so wobbly I can barely run.
“Oh, Lord, help me. . . .”
An ox lies on its side in the dirt, its ribs caved in, blood pooling around it. Rope from a clothesline is twisted around its neck. I leap over it. “Major! Where are you?”
“Here . . .” He’s crumpled in the dust, at least twenty yards from the spot where he went down. Everything about him is the gray-brown color of dirt, except for the leg of his trousers, which shows a splash of red and a snow-white splinter of bone.
“Hold tight, Major.” I turn toward the wagons and wave my arms, hollering, “Help! Somebody help over here.”
Everyone is busy looking to others or cleaning up. I yell again, and this time Jasper sees me. I beckon urgently. He grabs hold of Tom and Henry, and all three college men come running.
“Don’t worry, Major,” I tell him. “Help
is coming.”
“Son,” he starts, but his breath his choked off with pain. He tries again. “Not much help for this.”
The college men fall to their knees around him. Henry blanches. Tom averts his eyes.
Jasper grabs the Major’s hand and leans close. He says, “Is anything else hurt, Major Craven?”
“A couple ribs . . . Hard to breathe.”
“Can you move your toes?”
“Do I have to try?”
Jasper looks at me. “Get a blanket roll or something we can use to prop his leg.”
I sprint over to the smashed wagon, noting with relief the absence of bodies, and I grab a roll of canvas from the ground. A voice hollers behind me. “Hey, where are you going with that?”
But I’m already gone, dashing back to the Major’s side.
Jasper nods approval. “When I lift his leg, you slide that underneath.” To the Major, he says, “This is going to hurt.”
“I already hurt—” He gasps as Jasper lifts his leg with both hands. I jam the canvas batten underneath and follow Jasper’s directions until it’s situated exactly where he wants it. Only then does he lower the broken limb.
“I need clean water,” Jasper says. He looks up at his companions, but they’ve stepped away, faces averted. I jump up again, and soon find a kettle sitting on a campfire, still hot. The water inside is pristine, just like the fire pit itself, which is a wonder. There’s no one at hand to give me permission, so I take the whole pot.
Water sloshes over the side as I run. I slow down just enough to keep from wasting it.
Jasper accepts the kettle with a nod. “All right, Major, I need to wash out the wound. I’ll go easy on you, but no lie, this is going to be awful.”
“Do it,” he gasps.
“Hold his leg steady here,” Jasper says. “No sudden movements.”
I drop to my knees and brace the leg. Jasper pours the water over the wound. Major Craven screams and jerks hard, but I’ve got a tight grip on him. I push down with all my might, and after that first horrible twitch, he doesn’t move.