“What about the wagons?”
“A few of them need repairs. They’ll take all day.”
I look to Mrs. Joyner. “I could bring you that meat you wanted.”
“Go on,” she says. “You can do that other favor when you get back.”
We ride out with a group of Missouri men, following a huge swath of mud and dirt that cuts through the prairie like a river. There’s some discussion about which band of Indians visited us, with the men generally settling on Omaha. Who ought to be removed, they say, so white men can settle the Nebraska territory.
The small band is also following the herd, and we pass them about a quarter mile out. Frank aims his rifle at the leader and holds it to his shoulder until the Indians notice. “Bang,” he says. Then he laughs, lowers his weapon, and waves to the Indians all friendly-like.
They don’t wave back.
“Suspicious beasts,” he says. “We could shoot all of them from here before an arrow ever reached us.”
“They’re sneaky,” offers one of his companions. “Come up and slit your throat in the night.”
“That’s why you shoot them first.”
Their talk puts my belly in a bad way. I glance over at Jefferson, whose lips are pressed tight.
“The Missouri men are snakes,” I whisper to Jeff. “The lot of them.”
“Men are men,” he says with a shrug. “It’s men thinking other men are snakes that’s the problem.”
Shame clenches my throat. He’s right.
The buffalo ended their stampede a mile or so beyond our camp, where a few small hills rise from the flat prairie. There are thousands and thousands of bison, as far as the eye can see. I’ve never seen that many of anything in all my life. Even ants on an anthill can’t compete.
Under Frank’s direction, we spread out to either side. He explains that we’ll shoot at stragglers to drive the herd back together and start them moving again, away from the Indians.
My first shot is good, even with the unfamiliar rifle, and the animal crumples. The nearest buffalo trot away, but the herd doesn’t spook.
“Nice shooting, Georgia,” Frank says.
“Show-off,” Jefferson whispers.
“Let’s go get it,” I say, grinning.
“Not yet,” Frank says. “We don’t stop until we’re done hunting.”
Maybe it’s not safe to dismount with so many buffalo nearby. I look to Jefferson for an explanation, but he shrugs, equally confused.
While I reload my rifle, the others start shooting. Gunfire cracks all around me, and burned powder fills the air. The buffalo take off running.
The men shoot indiscriminately and laugh at the cries of agony. They ignore wounded animals to shoot at others. All Jefferson and I do is follow behind and put down animals too injured to run.
It’s a slaughter. We kill more animals than our entire company can possibly eat, and then we kill some more. Finally, after driving the herd for miles, the men get bored, and Frank gives the command to pull up.
We gather around a dead buffalo, and I dismount to get there first. My daddy field dressed a bear once, so I know it’s possible to handle something so large. I put my knifepoint to the buffalo’s hide. Frank grabs my shoulder.
“Like this,” he says. He pushes me out of the way, reaches into the buffalo’s mouth, and yanks out the giant tongue. He hacks it off with a knife. “Tongues and humps, that’s all we’re taking,” he says. “The delicacies.”
“What about the rest?” I ask, astonished.
“Leave ’em out here to rot. We can kill ’em all, far as I’m concerned. If the Indians can’t find anything to eat, maybe they’ll go live somewhere else.”
Even taking only the simplest cuts, we’ve killed far too many buffalo to take them all. The sun climbs past noon, so we stop and cook up dinner. Someone unhooks a pot from his saddle and sets a tongue to boil. It must steep a while, he explains, so the men stretch out on the grass and trade stories and joke about lingering until the mess is cleaned up back at camp.
Jefferson and I sit off to one side. His face is dark, his eyes troubled.
Softly, he says, “This is one of the worst things I’ve ever done.”
“At least we put some out of their misery,” I reply.
“I can’t wait to get to California. Then we can be rid of Frank Dilley and his.”
“That would be nice,” I say.
“You sound doubtful.”
I pick at a blade of grass, pulling it apart. “It’s just that I’ve learned a few things on the road. About bad people. And good ones.”
“Like what?”
A few yards away, someone slaps Frank on the back, laughing over something he said.
“That bad people are everywhere,” I say. I think about the brothers who waylaid me and stole my gold and gear. They’d be right at home with some of these folks heading west. “Every place there’s people, there’s badness.”
“There’s goodness too.”
“Sure. When we get to California, there’ll be plenty of good people. Like the Hoffmans and the Robichauds and the college men. But there’ll be Frank Dilleys all over the place.”
“And your uncle.”
I try to toss the blade of grass away, but the breeze flips it right back into my lap. “Yeah. Him too.”
Jefferson brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Staring out at the Missouri men, he says, “Are you scared?”
I say nothing. Behind us, Peony’s bridle rattles as she tosses her head.
“Because I’m scared for you,” he says. “If he really killed your folks—”
“California is a big place.”
“Seems like he wants you for a daughter. Believes you ought be his. So, maybe he won’t hurt you?”
He says that like it’s a good thing, but the thought turns my stomach. “Parents hurt their kids all the time.”
He stiffens.
“Sorry, Jeff. I didn’t mean to—”
“Looks like lunch is ready,” he says, rising.
“Wait, Jeff,” I say, tugging on his pants’ leg.
He stares down at me.
“I just . . . Thank you. For saving me. The buffalo would have gotten me if not for you.”
“You’d do it for me,” he says, and he yanks his pants’ leg away.
Everyone gathers around the pot. We peel off the outer skin and eat the meat underneath. It tastes like beef, I guess, but it’s as tender as butter. Not that I have much appetite for it.
After eating, we retrace our steps. Along the way we pass dozens of buffalo corpses, a trail of brown and crimson breadcrumbs leading back to camp. Vultures circle in the sky like a cloud of blowflies. I used to feel proud when I’d shot something I could take home and feed to my family.
Near the end of the breadcrumb trail we find the group of Indian women and children clustered around the remains of a buffalo. The hide hangs on a makeshift frame. Most of the meat is cut into strips and smoking over a fire. I hope it’s the one I shot.
Frank and a few others kick their horses into a gallop, as if to run down the women and children.
Jefferson looks at me, and I shake my head. “Not going to do it,” I say.
“Good.”
I want to yell at them to stop, but I’m a coward and I say nothing. The women and children scream and scatter. Frank and his men turn aside at the last second. When Jefferson and I catch up, they’re still laughing about it.
Evening is falling by the time we return. Jefferson takes all his meat to the Hoffmans, saying they’ve been feeding him all along, and this is his chance to repay them a little.
I drop off some of mine with the Robichauds, who are grateful. Their little boys are nearly over the measles, and their appetites are coming back. I take more to the college men and Major Craven. Jaspe
r says things are looking good so far, but his expression contradicts his words. The Major forces a grin and tells me he’ll eat every bite to get his strength back.
My next-to-the-last stop is the preacher’s wagon. I stand outside near the back curtain, nerving myself up to inquire about Mrs. Lowrey on behalf of Mrs. Joyner. Maybe I should ask Therese to do it. She would be a more appropriate choice.
A movement to my left catches my eye. It’s Reverend Lowrey, huddled in the shadowed lee of the wagon. He’s on his knees in prayer.
The wagon’s curtain is whisked aside. “Ma’am?” I say, expecting to see Mrs. Lowrey.
It’s Mrs. Joyner. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and her hands are bloody. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without a cap on her head, and her wet blonde hair is plastered to her face. Her own belly swells as she stands on the back of the wagon bed, wearing the grimmest expression.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stutter, not knowing what I’m sorry for just yet.
She rubs sweat from her forehead with her upper sleeve. My gaze jumps between her bloodied hands and the wagon bed, which is silent and still.
“Not your fault,” she says softly. “Reverend came to get me right after you left. Mrs. Lowrey . . .”
I want to tell her it’s all right, that I understand, that she can speak plain to me, woman to woman. Her water broke. Her laboring came.
“. . . she fell sick last night, I gather. She strained all alone for hours. Reverend didn’t get help at first because he said the outcome would be God’s will.”
“What?”
The reverend jumps up at my voice. The Bible dangles from his arm like a piece of overripe fruit. Fingers jammed between the pages mark the passage he was reading. His face is a swirl of worry and hope. I don’t know how he can hope. Surely he hears the silence.
Mrs. Joyner shakes her head.
The reverend opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
“I came too late,” she says. “I’ll tell the others. See if there’s someone who can come stay with you.”
“The babe?” he squeaks out.
“I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t respond, just stands frozen. For the briefest moment, his features twist with gut-wrenching pain.
Then he hefts his Bible and stalks off. “Blessed be to God!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “Even the father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the father of mercies and the God of all comforts, who comforteth us in all our tribulation . . .”
“Can you help me down?” Mrs. Joyner says in a quiet voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I offer her my hand, and she practically falls into my arms. I’m lucky I don’t topple under her weight.
She steps away from me as soon as she’s steady on her feet and wipes her hands on her skirt, as if wiping away my touch. “I need to get back to Mr. Joyner,” she says, her voice trembling. “He still hasn’t recovered. This morning’s exertions nearly undid him.”
She staggers, and I move to steady her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Let me help you.”
She stiffens, as if to fight me, but common sense prevails. “Thank you.”
I spare one more glance at the preacher’s wagon. There’s a dead woman inside. Not much older than I am. And she’s all alone. Her husband is off stomping around the camp. Mrs. Joyner has to take care of her own family. There’s no one to keep Mrs. Lowrey company until she can be prepared for burial. Not that she needs company. She’s dead; I know that. But someone should do something.
This has been a terrible day right from the moment I woke, from Major Craven’s injury to Mrs. Lowrey’s death, and I didn’t do a thing to make it better. I froze in panic instead of running from the buffalo. I didn’t check on Mrs. Lowrey right away, even though Mrs. Joyner was terrified for her. I didn’t say anything to Frank Dilley and his gang of ruffians during the buffalo hunt.
Leah Westfall was never like that. Only Lee McCauley is so scared and useless.
We reach the wagon. Mr. Joyner is propped up on his mattress, looking wan and tired. Olive sits at his feet, playing with a doll.
I’m about to leave when Mrs. Joyner says, “Where’s Andy?”
“I thought he was with you,” Mr. Joyner says. “He was bored and whining. I couldn’t sleep. So I told him to go find you.”
Mrs. Joyner looks gut-punched. “I was . . . I couldn’t . . . When did you see him last?”
“Hours ago,” he says. “Around lunchtime.”
It’s like her chest cracks open and all the air rushes out as she cries anguish.
“He’s got to be around here somewhere, ma’am,” I say. I know it’s rude to interrupt their conversation, but I can’t abide one more bad thing happening today. “I’ll go find him.”
She turns around. “Help me down. I’m coming with you.”
There’s no point arguing, so I help her down again. This time she practically jumps into my arms and hits the ground running.
She scurries around the circle of the camp so fast I can barely keep up, checking every wagon, asking people if they’ve seen her little boy. I follow after her, reaching out with the gold sense for my mother’s locket. But after one complete circuit of the wagons, I have to admit the worst: The locket is not nearby.
A crowd has gathered around the Reverend Lowrey, who is sermonizing about the many virtues of his late wife, but they shift their attention when Mrs. Joyner comes running up. “Has anyone seen Andy?”
Reverend Lowrey immediately offers to pray for the boy.
“We will turn the whole camp outside in,” Mrs. Robichaud promises. “Where he is hiding, we go to find him.”
I close my eyes and stretch my gold sense out to its limits. The hidden treasure in the Hoffmans’ wagon shines like daylight, and Major Craven’s cuff links tickle the back of my throat. But the familiar tug of Mama’s locket is definitely nowhere near. “We need search parties,” I say, opening my eyes. “In case he wandered away. I’m going out with whoever wants to go with me.”
Frank shares a meaningful glance with another fellow. “We know where he is,” he says.
“Where?” cries Mrs. Joyner.
“The Indians were eyeing him and his pretty blond hair. They wanted that boy of yours. We find the Indians, we’ll find your son.”
“We don’t know that,” I say. I am done being silent.
“Well, you look wherever you want,” Franks says. “We’ll be the ones to find him.” He and several others grab their powder horns and start loading.
The Indians didn’t take Andy. We passed them on our way back from hunting buffalo, and I didn’t sense the locket once. But there’s no way I’m saying so to Frank Dilley, a man who raised a shotgun to his own leader just for getting hurt. How much worse would it be for me if he found out I had witchy powers?
I grit my teeth as I watch the Missouri men ride out in a pointless pursuit. Jasper must stay behind and tend to Major Craven. That leaves me, Jefferson, Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Robichaud, Tom, and Henry to search. I ask Jefferson, “Think Nugget or Coney could track him?”
“With all the people and animals that have muddled through here, they’d be lucky to track him if they could see him.”
He’s right. “So we spread out and think like a little boy and try to figure out which way he went.”
“We need a signal,” Mr. Robichaud says. “If anyone finds him, fire two shots into the air.”
We all agree, and we split up and spread out from camp.
The land grows shadowed with dusk. Tiny bugs rise from the grass, fogging my path, while frogs chirrup endlessly. My throat is hoarse from shouting Andy’s name, but there has been no sign of the boy, not even the faintest tickle of gold sense.
A gunshot rings out from the direction of camp. In its echoing aftermath, I can’t tell if another shot follows
. I turn Peony around and breeze her all the way back.
The campfires are burning bright when I arrive. I dismount and walk Peony between wagons into the circle. Everyone else is there—Frank and his men, Tom and Henry, Mr. Robichaud, Mr. Hoffman and his two oldest sons, Jefferson.
“Who found him?” I ask. “Where was he?”
Jefferson shakes his head. “No one found him.”
“I heard a gunshot.”
“Rattlesnake.”
“Is anyone bit?” My heart will burst if one more person gets hurt today.
Jefferson’s face is grave.
“Who? Who was it?”
“Athena. Jasper’s milk cow. Tom shot once to kill the snake and then once to put her down.”
Tears spill out of the corners of my eyes, and I scrub at them with the back of my hand. It’s too much. Everything that could go wrong since I woke up this morning has gone wrong. And now sweet Athena, with her soft brown eyes and fine lady lashes.
“Grab some dinner, Lee,” Jefferson says. “You’ll feel better after you get something to eat.”
“I’m going back out. I won’t let today end this way.”
“Lee—”
“I won’t.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Twenty-Four
Everyone is staring at me. “I’ll welcome anyone who wants to help,” I call out.
No one volunteers.
Frank says, “You go back out there in the dark, you’re asking to get yourself killed. The Indians’ll put an arrow through you. You won’t even hear it coming.”
I look him dead in the eye. “A brave man would offer to come with me.”
“I forbid it. You ain’t going out there.”
“Try to stop me.” I whirl and head toward Peony.
“If you’re not back in the morning, don’t bother!” he shouts after me. “We’ll leave without you.”
My hands are shaking and my eyes are blurry with tears that won’t fall. Footsteps pound after me. I brace myself, but it’s only Jefferson.