Walk on Earth a Stranger

I’m halfway to the Joyners’ wagon when I hear the cry: “Indians!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Indians follow the herd of buffalo, and we are in their path. Our men are still arguing over who should lead the company as the first few stride calmly into our camp.

Frank Dilley’s hand moves to his gun holster. “They incited that stampede on purpose, mark my words,” he says.

“We should tell them of the blood of Christ,” Reverend Lowrey says, eyes bright with the same fever that always took my daddy when he talked of gold. “If we hold services now, they’ll stop out of curiosity. I’ll fetch my Bible—”

“Hold on now,” Mr. Joyner says, grabbing his arm. “We’re not doing anything until we know our belongings are safe.”

I study the Indians as they drift among us, looking for people interested in trade. The men wear buckskin suits decorated with quills and colored beads. Some have cloth blankets thrown over their shoulders; others have buffalo hides. Most have feathers sticking out of their glossy black hair. There are a dozen or so, and by the way they whisper to one another while eyeing Frank and Mr. Joyner, I figure they understand English just fine. Many of their faces are pocked with scars. One has blue eyes; another, freckles.

The thought hits me like a raindrop out of the clear sky: Put Jefferson in different clothes, and he would blend right in with this group. The same thick black hair and sharp cheekbones, the same broad mouth and dark skin. I glimpse him watching the Indians from behind a wagon. He catches me looking at him, and I swear he knows what I’m thinking. He frowns and ducks away.

A handful of women follow after the men. Some carry babies in baskets that hang down their backs, held in place by nothing but bands around the mothers’ foreheads. My neck hurts just looking at them. One of the babies starts crying. The mother lifts it from her head, basket and all, and affixes the babe to her breast, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

A girl, probably a few years younger than me, spies the gold locket around Andy’s neck and gestures that she wants it.

I dash forward to interpose myself between the curious little boy and the Indian girl. “No, absolutely not.”

She cries as if I’ve wounded her, reaching around me to get at Andy. Several of her companions come to her aid. I scoop up Andy and bundle him to my chest, but he tries to squirm free, as interested in the girl as she is in my locket.

“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Joyner says.

“Just friendly introductions,” I tell Mrs. Joyner. The girl’s wailing grows louder. Andy squirms harder. I look toward the men for help, but they’re still busy arguing. “You can’t give them my locket.”

“I would never . . .” She pauses. “Is that what they want?”

“They just want to trade. I think.”

“I . . . have some things.”

She runs to her wagon and returns with a silver hairbrush. I cling to a wriggling little boy while she engages in some quick negotiations, coming away with a buffalo hide. The Indian girl’s wailing evaporates. She and her friends take turns touching the shiny silver handle. Then she unravels her left braid and starts brushing her hair.

Others, perhaps sensing the angry mood of the camp, gesture southward toward the herd of buffalo. Moments later, all the Indians melt away much as they arrived. The girl follows slowly, brushing, brushing, brushing as she goes.

Mrs. Joyner stares after her, beaming. “Maybe next time I can trade some salt pork for fresh buffalo meat,” she says.

She’d be better off trading away some of that big furniture before we get to the mountains.

“Ma’am?”

“You don’t like buffalo meat?”

“I don’t know— Never had any. Jefferson said you wanted to see me? Before the Indians arrived.”

The joy vanishes from her face. “Ah, yes. I’d like a favor.”

“Anything.”

“I’m worried about Mrs. Lowrey.”

“How come?”

Her brow knits. “She should be . . . Forgive me for speaking indelicately, I hope I don’t offend you.”

“Not at all.”

Everything comes out in a rush. “She ought to have delivered that baby by now. She’s long past due, but she won’t ask for help. Mrs. Robichaud can’t go to her because of the twins’ measles. Mrs. Hoffman is already overburdened with her six children. Six births, can you imagine! And Reverend Lowrey . . . Well, the reverend puts all his faith in God, as he should. He’s a good man and a loving husband, and I’m sure he just wants to protect his wife, and I’d go myself, but you see . . .” She leans forward and whispers, “They’re Presbyterians. It doesn’t foster casual relations, you understand? I asked them to dinner, but the reverend . . . Anyway, I’d like to do what I can to help her.”

This is the kind of conversation you have with another woman. I can’t help glancing down at my chest to make sure Mama’s shawl is in place beneath my shirt. It’s been harder and harder to tuck in every day; the material is ragged and stained now, the edges unraveling. But everything seems to be secure. “I . . . What do you want me to do?”

Mrs. Joyner’s hand goes to her own belly, a gesture I’m not sure she’s aware of. “Just make an excuse to stop by her wagon, like you did before. I have to stay and help Mr. Joyner—he wears himself out so quickly. Find out how she’s doing, perhaps? Maybe if the Lowreys ask for help . . .” Her quivering voice trails off.

I haven’t seen her so frightened and white-faced since we shot through the Suck on the flatboat, and I’m not sure why Mrs. Lowrey’s situation has her in such a state. “I’m glad to do it,” I say, even though it’s something a boy would probably never agree to.

“Hey, Lee!” Jefferson rides over on the sorrel mare. “Do you still have Mr. Joyner’s rifle? A few of the men are heading out to hunt some buffalo. The ones we downed here are all trampled and useless.”

“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.