Walk on Earth a Stranger

“No, you don’t, Jefferson Kingfisher.” He aims the sorrel mare toward a huge flock of sheep, and I turn Peony to follow him. “You give that horse a name yet?”

“What’s wrong with ‘the sorrel mare’?”

“‘Sore old mare’ is more like it.”

“Don’t listen to her, girl,” he says, reaching down to pat her neck.

But he keeps staring at me, the same way I’m staring at him, like I can’t believe he’s really here. After a long silence, we suddenly crack grins at the exact same time.

“Sure is good to see you, Lee,” he says in an abashed voice.

To distract from the warmth in my face, I gesture toward the wagons. “Which of these did you come with? Mr. Joyner said you were with a German family from Ohio.”

“The Hoffmans. They’re good people.”

“How’d you end up with them?”

“Not a lot to tell,” he says. “After I crossed the Ohio River, I joined some folks headed north along the Mississippi. Families, mostly. The Hoffmans were with them. When it was time to cross, everyone hired passage on a steamboat, but I hardly had any money left.”

I can sympathize.

“So I kept going upstream a few days until I found an old raft, lodged on shore after high water, and I wrangled it into the river. I drifted across—mostly downriver with the current—pulling the sorrel mare behind. Didn’t know if she’d make it, but she’s a dab at swimming, that girl. Landed near St. Louis, where I met the Hoffmans again. We decided it must be providence.”

We’re still meandering aimlessly, and I’m not taking everything in the way Mr. Joyner wanted. “So you and the Hoffmans decided to travel together?” I ask.

“I helped out a little in exchange for meals. It’s a big family; father, mother, six kids, and the oldest only fifteen. The little ones are hard to keep track of sometimes. We’ve been trying to join a company since we got here, but no one would have us.”

He pauses, frowning. Then he adds, “The Hoffmans’ English is a little funny, and apparently I look too much like my mother’s people. Finally, Major Craven let the Hoffmans join his outfit. Then Mr. Joyner offered me a job, and the Major didn’t object, so I stayed on. How about you? How’d you get here?”

For months I imagined telling Jefferson everything that happened to me, imagined the sympathy on his face, maybe the quick hug that would ensue. Now, though, I just want it all behind me, so it comes out in a rush: “I left a few days after you did. Sold Chestnut and Hemlock to pay my way here, but I got robbed along the way. In Chattanooga, I found work on a flatboat, which brought me all the way to Missouri, but I got sick for a bit, and that slowed me down. I arrived weeks ago.”

“Wait. You got robbed?”

If I tell him I lost Daddy’s gun, the hurt might be too much, so I say, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I figured if I stayed in one spot, it would be easier for you to find me.”

“I have the worst luck,” I say, shaking my head. The only place I avoided was the place Jefferson had been the whole time.

“Hey, we’re going to change our luck, right? As soon as we get to California.” His grin is so easy now, like the weight of the world has fallen away. Maybe it’s being away from his da that’s done the trick.

“Sure, Jeff.”

“Mr. Joyner ordered me to tell you about our company,” he says. He points out a group of twenty or so wagons and twice that many men, all set apart from everyone else. “That lot from southern Missouri decided to head out at the last minute. We’ve been waiting for them to pull their gear together.”

“A rough-looking bunch.”

“Maybe so. But there aren’t enough for them to feel safe from Indians, so they needed to merge with another group. It’s all men, no families. And, Lee, they don’t know a lick about gold mining. You and I have more experience than the whole group put together.”

Jefferson doesn’t know the half of what I can do. “They good folk?”

“The opposite of good folk. Their leader is a fellow named Frank Dilley. You don’t want to cross him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Is that the group Major Craven came with?”

“No, Craven is a guide, hired by Mr. Bledsoe, who’s a sheep farmer from Arkansas.” Jefferson waves toward a smaller group of wagons, all filled to bursting and sunken deep in the mud. “He owns all ten of those wagons. He’s a late arrival too, just like the Missouri group. All the other wagons belong to families. The families don’t trust the bachelors, and the bachelors don’t like the families, but everyone seems to get on with the Major.”

“The families?”

“You’ll see. That wagon over there? That’s the Hoffmans.”

Three small children chase one another around the wagon wheels. An older girl with blond hair spilling out from under her bonnet keeps an eye on them. She sits on a stool, knitting a stocking and whipping through her stitches without looking down once. When she sees Jefferson, a huge smile lights her face.

“Who’s that?” I ask. She’s a lovely girl, with a tiny nose and rose-flushed cheeks and eyes the color of an indigo bunting. Even Annabelle Smith back home couldn’t hold a candle to her.

“That’s Therese,” Jefferson says, tipping his hat to the girl. “She’s nice. You’ll like her.”

“I see.” My gut is suddenly in knots. Therese is the real reason he followed the German family from Ohio. It’s written all over his moony face. Maybe Jefferson wasn’t waiting in one spot in Independence so I could find him. Maybe he wasn’t even looking for me.

“Hallo,” she says as we approach.

“Therese, this is my old friend Lee. Lee, this is my friend Therese.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, her consonants soft and clipped.

“Nice to meet you too,” I reply, and I mean it. If Jefferson says she’s good people, then that will have to be enough for me. At the last second, I remember to tip my hat like a proper young man.

“Lee is going to help the Joyners wrangle their gear.” Jefferson straightens in his saddle. A sweep of his arm encompasses all the wagons. “I’m supposed to show her—”