Walk on Earth a Stranger

I can tell Jasper wants to talk more—he’s all wound up from what he’s just done, and I don’t blame him—but I can hardly stay on my feet. I make my good-byes and stumble away.

Jefferson is still asleep under the Joyners’ wagon. I flop down beside him, exhausted, but I can’t sleep for thinking about the preacher’s wife and little Andy wandering around lost and my own baby brother and the Major and even Athena the cow. Above it all rises the possibility, both wondrous and frightful, that the college men have realized I’m a girl. And they didn’t seem even a little bit angry.

When I wake, the Major is still alive. He does not die that day. Or the next.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Summer brings blazing sun and hot winds. The horizon shimmers gold with long, waving grass all dried out and gone to seed. Above it is a sea of sky, crystal blue and stretching forever. The Missouri men insist we’re near the mountains, and indeed, our trail has a slope to it, so gentle you’d never know until you stop the wagons without braking them and watch them roll back a piece. For several weeks, we make excellent time, and on July 3, we make twenty whole miles in one day.

Frank Dilley is so pleased with our progress that he announces a half day’s rest to celebrate Independence Day. We roll out before the sun rises.

“I’m going to go ride with the Hoffmans,” Jefferson says after we’ve mounted up.

“Oh.” It’s such a pretty day, and I was looking forward to riding together. “All right.”

“Do you want to come?”

“I . . . Okay.”

My stomach is in a tangle as we approach the wagon. I know I’ve done the Hoffmans wrong, and I’m not sure how to make right. But when Therese sees me coming, she grins ear to ear and says, “Hallo, Lee!” And that’s that.

She chatters our ears off the whole time, about her brother Otto, who got his arm stuck in a hole while trying to catch a prairie dog; about one of the Missouri men, who whistles at her every time he walks by; and about the tiny mouse that got into Doreen’s bedroll last night and made her squeal like a baby pig.

Seeing the two of them together puts a sting in my chest—the way they laugh so easily, the way she walks beside the sorrel mare with a hand resting on the stirrup or possibly Jefferson’s boot. But Jeff was right; Therese is as warm-hearted as she is pretty, and she gives no indication that she ever thought me unfriendly. Despite the way she gazes at Jeff all the time, I’m sorry I avoided her so long. Friends are hard to come by, and I wasted too much time on the trail being blockheaded.

By noon we’ve traveled eight miles and reached a small creek. It’s barely more than a trickle. Another week of dry weather will turn it into an empty, graveled ditch. The mud on either bank is plowed into long ruts and dried solid—monuments to the wagon wheels that have gone before us.

We make camp with the sun still high. We’re to have a feast tonight, and everyone contributes. Jefferson tickles a couple of trout from the creek. The Missouri men share some coffee—they’re the only ones with any real coffee left—and Mrs. Hoffman makes a mountain of flapjacks and serves them with honest-to-God black-currant jam that she said she was saving for a special occasion. When the college men reveal a bottle of whiskey they’re willing to share, I expect Reverend Lowrey to launch into a sermon about drunkenness and debauchery. Instead, a rare smile splits his face, and he extols the many virtues of partaking in moderation, as exemplified by God’s own Son, who turned water into wine.

Only the Joyners hold back, and Mrs. Joyner goes through her usual ritual of setting out the checked tablecloth with impeccable linens and fine china. She is heavy with child now, her movements slow, her rests frequent. But she lines up those checks perfectly with the table’s corners, and she smoothens out the tablecloth like the world might come to an end on account of a single wrinkle.

She bakes a loaf of lumpy bread in the Dutch oven and sets some dried peas to soaking over the fire. Jefferson and I take one look at each other, and by silent mutual agreement decide to take supper with the Hoffmans. Maybe we can trade for Jefferson’s trout.

We’re heading away when she calls out to us. “Wait!”

She disappears inside the wagon, rustles around, bangs hard against something. She mumbles to Mr. Joyner, who has not come out of the wagon in two days, though no one will say why. I hope the cholera hasn’t returned.

When she climbs out, she’s holding two wax-sealed jars filled with a yellow-orange substance. “Peach preserves,” she explains. She puts one on the table and hands the other to me. “Please share them with the Hoffmans, with my compliments.”

My mouth waters and my eyes sting, because the thought of peach preserves gives me such a pang for Mama that it’s an actual hurt in my chest. I tip my hat at Mrs. Joyner and manage a thank-you.

No one in the company has pie or dumplings, milk or butter. We haven’t had a fresh fruit or vegetable in months. Still, we have a regular potluck, everyone wandering from wagon to wagon to see what’s been cooked up, and we eat until we’re fit to burst.

As the sun sets, we clear a space in the middle of our wagon corral. Two of the Missouri men bring out their fiddles. Then Mr. Robichaud surprises us by fetching his own instrument—a glossy walnut violin that soars over them all. He plays “Hail Columbia” and “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” even though he’s from Canada. Mrs. Robichaud beams with pride as everyone sings along, even me, though I sing softly, so my girl’s voice doesn’t carry.

Then we start dancing, and though I’ve never been one for dancing, there doesn’t seem much to it except twirling a lot and kicking up your heels. I dance with Andy in my arms, then with Olive, and when Jefferson asks me for a spin I almost say no, but the Missouri men are dancing together, and no one is paying them any mind, so away we go.

Jefferson knows as much about dancing as I do. We bump into each other and step on each other’s feet and laugh so hard our guts hurt. Then he asks Therese to dance. Then I ask Therese to dance. Then Jasper asks me, but halfway through our dance, the fiddles suddenly cease, and we go shock-still.

Major Craven has climbed out of the wagon all by himself and is limping toward us, using a thick branch wrapped in rags for a crutch. His shortened leg swings oddly as he hobbles along, and sweat beads on his forehead, but he’s grinning like it’s the best day of his life.