I shake my head. “Don’t know, ma’am.”
She frowns.
As we ride on, she cranes her neck, keeping the hill in view for as long as possible.
I can’t stop thinking about my glimpse of dead flesh. Maybe it was a girl like me. I’ve got no family, no friends besides Jefferson. If I die, I’ll end up in a shallow grave like that one, unnamed and unremembered.
About an hour later, the wagons stop for a short break, and Mr. Joyner catches up with us.
“It was Indians,” he announces.
“Oh, how terrible,” Mrs. Joyner says, covering her mouth.
“Indians killed him?” Jefferson asks. He’s tight and coiled on the sorrel mare, like a thunderstorm about to let loose.
“It was a her, not a him. And no, looks like natural causes did it,” Mr. Joyner says. “But Indians dug up the grave. They stole the girl’s clothes. Even the blanket she was wrapped in.”
Mrs. Joyner shakes her head in vigorous denial.
I’m about to point out that we can’t know what they stole if we didn’t see what the poor girl was buried with in the first place, but I decide it won’t do any good.
Mr. Joyner says, “Truly, these savages have no fear of God nor love of the white man.”
Jefferson rides off on the sorrel mare.
I almost ride after him, but I’m not sure he wants company. I’m not sure I want company either.
I don’t know what to think about the Indians. Seems to me we don’t really know anything about them. We don’t even know what we don’t know.
I avoid the Joyners when we stop for lunch. My appetite is gone, anyway. I keep thinking of that poor girl, with no family, out here all alone and even her grave dug up.
By the time we’re moving again, I’m regretting my decision to skip lunch, and hunger makes me even grumpier. When I see Jefferson riding toward me, I almost steer Peony away. A strange look on his face makes me pull her up instead.
“What is it?” I ask
“They’re saying it’s cholera,” he whispers.
A chill rolls down my spine. Mama told me about cholera. “Where?” I ask. “Here?”
“It’s what killed that girl we found. Cholera morbus. There was a sign on the grave.”
I didn’t see any sign. They must have moved it before I got there. “Morbus? What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “I think it means they’re dead.”
Cholera usually springs up in big cities. A wagon train isn’t a big city, but it’s definitely dirty and crowded. We’re all jammed together, treading over the same ground and cooking and sleeping, hour after hour, day after day, in the same tracks as the wagons before us. It’s not like a barn that I can muck out and clean up. It’s just muck.
“Are you sure?”
“They were trying to keep it quiet, but some of the Arkansas men already have it. They’ve moved away from the rest of the wagons, but they’re afraid to go too far because of Indians.”
“Too weak to go too far either, I reckon.”
“I reckon.”
I don’t know who is buried in that grave we left behind this morning, but now I know why they put the body up high, where everyone could see it. Not as a memorial, but as a warning.
Mr. Bledsoe, the Arkansas sheep farmer, catches the cholera and sickens fast. So fast that Jasper says he was probably sick already—maybe even in the early stages of consumption. Whatever the reason, within a day he’s flat on his back and must be tended by his men.
I suspect Mr. Joyner is also sick. When the wagon train starts up the next morning, he seems more irritable than usual and frequently excuses himself, disappears for a while, then rushes to catch up.
My stomach is in knots, partly from worry, because anyone could catch the cholera. Anyone. And partly because it’s my monthly time. I have to slip away constantly to rinse my rags and change them for fresh ones. By evening, Jefferson has noticed. “You aren’t sick, are you?” He looks me all over, up and down, as if checking for ticks.
“Not like that,” I say.
“You’d tell me if you were, right?”
“Of course.”
“You shouldn’t go off alone.”
“I have to.”
“Take me with you, at least.”
“No.”
“I’m not worried about Indians, but it’s easy to get lost out—”
“Jeff!” I whisper frantically. “It’s my monthly time!”
He gives me a blank look. Then understanding dawns. “Oh.” I swear, if not for his swarthy skin, he’d be blushing down to the roots of his black hair.
As soon as the wagon train stops for the night, I ride off on Peony to take care of things. It’s too late; I’ve got a bloodstain on my pants. I find a muddy stream and scrub it out as best I can, glad it wasn’t worse.
The sound of moaning reaches me long before I’ve made it back to camp. It’s Mr. Joyner. As I near the wagon, I realize he’s not alone in his vocal misery. The Arkansas men are a regular choir of retching and grunting and begging for clean water. The air is starting to smell peculiar.
Mrs. Joyner hands a cup of water through the bonnet opening, then leans wearily against the back of the box. Her skin is pale, and strands of blond hair stick to her sweaty forehead. I hope she isn’t sick too. If she is, then taking care of the children will surely fall to me. I know what my mama would tell me to do right now.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, intending to offer help.
“Where have you been?” she snaps.
“Had my own business to take care of.”
“From now on your only business is Mr. Joyner. Do you understand me?”
I glare at her.
“I asked you a question, you—”
“Ma’am!” I interrupt, because if she calls me names, it’ll go too far to make better. “I’ve done all my assigned work. If you’re unhappy with it, then you can pay me seven dollars per our agreement, and we can part ways.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Then: “You can’t do that.”
“If you want to call me names, then it’s time for me to go. I’ll head back to Independence if I need to.”
Once the words leave my mouth, I realize they’re not true at all. I’m for California or bust, regardless of loathsome uncles and uppity employers. I suppose I could ride on, catch up with the next wagon train, see if they wanted to hire me. Maybe Jefferson would come too. We might have to leave, anyway, if Mr. Joyner doesn’t get well.