Walk on Earth a Stranger

“Oh. Thought for sure you were heading west after gold. Anyway, pace yourself. You won’t make Dalton today, no matter how early you start or how hard you go.”

“No, ma’am.”

I eat so fast it gives me a bellyache. We say a few more general words to each other, mostly about the weather and the roads, all very polite, neither of us volunteering anything personal. I compliment her on her tidy house and her fat baby, which is always safe, and she observes that Peony looks sturdy and strong. After eating every single bite, I rise to clean my plate, just like I would at home, which seems to take her aback.

“Way my mama taught me,” I say.

She laughs. “Well, you tell your mama she raised you right, next time you see her.”

I hesitate a space too long. “Will do, ma’am,” I answer softly.

She opens her mouth to say something else, but changes her mind. She wraps up some extra food in a handkerchief and hands it to me, along with a couple of wrinkled winter apples.

“For your pretty mare,” she says.

“How much do I owe you for all this?” I ask, reaching for my change.

“Three pennies for the eggs.”

“But—”

“You earned it. That’s enough firewood to get me through the rest of the week.”

“Well, all right.”

I can’t get back on the road fast enough. At least my belly is full and my horse is rested.

As the morning passes, I encounter more travelers, and it’s a little easier each time. Most want to stop for a friendly chat, but I try to keep our interactions to a quick howdy. Twice, when the way is clear, I urge Peony into a run.

By midafternoon, I catch up to a woodcutter, whose slow mule cart is loaded with firewood. A farmer rides beside him, his saddlebags filled with bright red crab apples. As with everyone on the road, I search their faces for a spark of familiarity and am relieved when I don’t recognize either one.

“Afternoon, son,” the farmer says.

“Hey, you’re coming from Lumpkin County, right?” the woodcutter says to me. “You hear tell of Lucky Westfall’s murder?”

My words freeze in my mouth. “I . . . No, sir. Haven’t heard a thing.”

The woodcutter turns to the farmer. “Him and his wife was both murdered. Might be the same gang that killed those Indians out by Dalton.”

“Westfall was an Indian?” the farmer asks.

“No, but they was after gold both times.”

I wait for him to add, “The Westfalls had a daughter. She’s missing now.” Instead, the conversation shifts to unsolved murders from a decade ago, and then to a debate about whether it’s really murder to kill an Indian, and then to the price of winter wheat. I keep pace with them, as they’d expect this close to town, but I’m silent the whole while, and my hands grip Peony’s reins so hard I feel them through my gloves.

It’s early evening when we get to Ellijay, which has several crooked house–lined streets to go along with its white clapboard church and two-story tavern, all tossed around a messy intersection. I count five roads coming together at the center of town, but not a single sign indicating which is which. I work up my nerve and ask the woodcutter to point out the Dalton road.

“There’s not another town until Spring Place,” he says. “And that’s a day’s ride. Come on up to the tavern with us and stay the night.”

“No! I mean, I’ve got a place to stay.”

With a shrug, he points the way, and I hurry off.

Peony and I put a few more miles beneath our feet. The country is so thick with winter-stripped branches and deadfall that it’s nearly dark before I find a good place to steer her off the road and into cover. After a cold, damp night and a breakfast of deer jerky, I hustle Peony through the town of Spring Place. The road beyond is even busier, and saying howdy to so many people is terrible on my nerves. I remind myself that lots of traffic makes it easier to blend in.

I’m not far from Dalton when I’m walloped by the presence of gold. My throat constricts as I blink through fuzzy vision. I pull Peony up short, waiting for the sense to turn sweet on me. It takes longer than usual. Maybe it’s because the gold is on the move. Or maybe, in the days since Hiram stole every speck of my family’s fortune, I’ve gotten out of practice.

Peony dances beneath me, snapping me out of my daze. I hope I didn’t lose time again. I look around to see if I’ve embarrassed myself, but no one seems to care that we’ve stopped dead in the middle of the road. Perhaps it was only a few seconds.

I urge her forward, even as I cast out for the source. A scraggly man approaches, leading a wagon with fresh-cut lumber for the sawmill. Both knees of his overalls are patched, but I’m sure he’s the one who triggered my twitch.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shiny golden watch, flips it open, and checks the time. More gold is somewhere close—maybe a handful of eagles. If he’s wealthy enough to afford that watch and carry a stash of coins, he could afford decent overalls. I guess folks aren’t always what they look like on the outside, which is something I think I ought to know by now.

He grins at me with tobacco-stained teeth. “Almost time!” he says.

“For what?”

“You’ll see.”

Not a minute later, a whistle shrieks and a column of dark smoke rises above the trees. It moves closer, picking up speed until the column stretches long, like reins trailing a runaway horse.

“Is that the train?” I ask.

“Well, it sure ain’t a steamboat,” he says with a wink. “It’ll be there when you get into town. You should take a gander.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“It’s going to change everything!” he says. “Once that tunnel’s done.”

“That’s what my daddy always says.” Said. That’s what my daddy said.

Sure enough, an hour later I steer Peony into Dalton and discover that the town’s main feature is the train.

I stare agape. It’s a metal behemoth, bigger than any machine I’ve seen or imagined. It makes me glad I’m not an iron scryer, if such a thing exists, because if it set off my witchy powers, it would leave me dead senseless for a day.

When the train chugs away from the station, Peony and I set out on the Chattanooga road, which follows parallel to the now-empty tracks. I imagine how fast we could get to California if a train headed that way. It might only take weeks instead of months. Truth be told, I’m not sure it’s safe to ride in something so huge and fast.