Walk on Earth a Stranger

I miss Daddy.

With the thought comes a flood of memory. The winter I was nine years old, Daddy announced that he would teach me how to hunt. Mama bundled us both up and packed all the jerky and hardtack we could carry and sent us on our way without wringing her hands once. Daddy and I hiked horseless into the woods and were gone six days.

He showed me how to test the wind, to read tracks and scat, and to be as patient and ghostly as winter itself. He taught me to field dress an animal when it was too big to carry, to shoot a rifle without toppling over, and to find dry wood in the snow. At night, we scraped hides in front of our tent while the fire crackled and our clothes steeped in wood smoke, and he regaled me with tales of his own father, who headed west and spent years on the Ohio frontier in search of adventure and fortune.

Sure, I was little, but I was smart enough to understand the wistfulness in my daddy’s voice. That’s why Mama let him do wild things without complaint—like take his nine-year-old daughter on a hunting trip. Because the kind of man who fled Boston to make a new life in Indian country was the kind of man who might just keep on going. If Mama didn’t let him sow some wild oats, maybe he’d do something wilder. Maybe he’d go west.

So it’s now, with my own fire crackling, my lips greasy with the squirrel I just ate, and the night echoing with the distant yip of a coyote that I miss Daddy most. He should be here with me. We should have been on this adventure together.

On April 1, 1849, I reach Independence. I crest a rise, and there she is, stretching wide and strange below me.

My first impression is of mud. It spatters off horse hooves and wagon wheels, stains the base of every building and the legs of every pair of trousers, mixes with half-melted snow to create a soup of gray and brown. The few buildings making up the town proper are painted muddy white or muddy red. Centered before the largest of these is the one bright spot: an American flag, whipping proudly from a high pole. It’s the new one, with a full thirty stars.

Surrounding the town are acres of tents and wagons, thousands of oxen and horses; even a few hasty shacks, spread over a vast, flat landscape of mud and snow. And beyond it all is a slow, muddy river, curving gently into the horizon and shimmering like gray silk in the early spring sun.

I’m not sure what I expected. A neat town square like Dahlonega’s. An empty corner with no one in sight but Jefferson McCauley, standing there with his hands in his pockets and a welcoming grin on his face.

I spend all day wandering, getting to know the lay of the land. I’ve never seen so many people all in one place. I’m bumped and jostled everywhere I go, and it’s a peculiar thing to be so crowded and so alone at the same time.

The general store is a small, cluttered building with a floor made from poorly joined wood planks, all covered with muddy boot prints. I open my mouth to ask the clerk if he’s met anyone named Jefferson McCauley, but words fail me.

A gleaming Hawken rifle is mounted on the wall behind him. It’s Daddy’s. Which means the brothers who robbed me are here in Independence. The scent of rotting forest trash suddenly fills my nose, as if I’m still hiding in that pile of musty leaves.

“Sir? Can I help you?”

My hands are clammy cold, and my legs twitch, as if to run.

Don’t panic, Lee. The brothers could have traded it to someone bound for Independence. They’re probably still plundering the back roads of Georgia or robbing flatboatmen along the river.

“Sir?”

“I . . . How much for that rifle?” I ask, pointing. Maybe it’s not Daddy’s gun. The wood grain is different, the polish a bit worn near the trigger guard.

“Sixty dollars.”

I gasp. “Why so much?”

He shrugs. “People need guns to go west, and they’re willing to pay for ’em. Tell you what. You come back in a week, and if this gun hasn’t sold by then, I’ll let it go for fifty.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I stare at it, thinking of the twenty-four dollars I have left. The gun isn’t Daddy’s; I’m sure of it now. My fright made me stupid.

Even so, I can’t bear to be in this store a moment longer. I ought to pick up some hardtack and a new whetstone for my knife, but I don my hat and turn to go.

“I knew a man who had a gun just like that,” says a voice at my shoulder. A familiar voice.

I whirl, my hand flying to my five-shooter.

A tall Negro grins down at me. Though a graying beard sprouts on his jaw, and his eyes are crinkled with new lines, I recognize him at once. “Free Jim!”

He looks me over. “Well, hello, uh, Mr. . . ?”

“McCauley,” I whisper.

“Mr. McCauley! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

It’s like God dropped a little piece of home right in front of me, and it’s all I can do to resist throwing my arms around him. Instead, I hold out my hand, which he clasps. “Nice to see you too, Mr. Boisclair.”

“Long way from Dahlonega,” he observes as his eyes continue to search my face.

“I’m not the only one who’s come a long way.” Though it’s only been a couple of months, Free Jim looks as though he’s aged years. A thousand questions dance around in my head. Why did you leave? Where is Jefferson? Is my uncle looking for me? Is he here? I manage, “Rough trip?”

His smile drops away, leaving only fatigue. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“Maybe we’ll swap stories.”

“Hey, you there,” the store clerk interjects. “You going to buy anything? Because if not, I’d rather you didn’t clutter my doorway.”

We’re nowhere near the doorway. “Show some respect,” I snap. “Mr. Boisclair is a free Negro and a respected businessman, and his shop is about ten times bigger and cleaner than this godfor—”

“Let’s go, Lee,” Free Jim says, tugging my arm. I let him drag me out the door, even though I’m seething. The street is bustling. A buggy rolls by, spattering mud onto my legs.

“Guess I’ll have to do business elsewhere,” I tell him as we walk toward Peony. “There’s another store a few streets over by—”

“I didn’t need your help in there.”

“I wasn’t trying to help. It’s just . . . He had no right to talk to you that way.”

He sighs and changes the subject. “Glad to see Reuben’s palomino in good health. I thought that was her, but I wasn’t sure until I saw you inside.”