“Take my gun,” Jefferson says. When Mr. Joyner glares at him, Jeff says, “She’s a good shot. And I’m hungry.”
“We can do this ourselves,” Mr. Joyner says. He lifts his rifle and aims it. “Let’s all pick an animal and fire on the count of three. One . . . two . . .”
“No!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by the ragged volley. Not a single animal falls, but they all spring away.
I lift Jefferson’s rifle, and though it isn’t nearly as sound as Mr. Joyner’s, its heft is familiar. I’ve shot it plenty of times, and I know just how it handles. I sight the last animal in the herd. It struggles to keep up; probably the one Tom winged. I aim just ahead, in the direction of its flight, note the westward breeze. It’s getting too far, too fast.
I am patient. I am a ghost.
Rear trigger, soft breath, hair trigger, crack! Smoke puffs up as the butt kicks into my shoulder. Almost two hundred yards away, the poor animal’s rear legs fly out sideways, and it goes down in a cloud of dust.
Jefferson whistles as I hand the gun back to him.
“Not bad for a girl,” says Jonas Waters.
“It’s not bad for anyone,” Jefferson snaps.
“I slowed it down for you,” Tom says, but he’s grinning.
“Don’t worry, we’ll share it.” I realize, belatedly, that this isn’t my promise to make. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Joyner?”
But he’s already heading back to camp alone. The hollow pit in my stomach has nothing to do with hunger.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A week later, the pitiful lowing of thirsty oxen echoes through the camp. Mr. Joyner is scouting ahead for water with the other men while Mrs. Joyner prepares breakfast. Everyone else in camp makes do with items that are dusty, broken, and makeshift. But come hell or high water, she has that dining table set up with the tablecloth over it. The wind ruffles it, and she rushes to smooth it flat and square all the china.
I lick my cracked lips and say, “Mrs. Joyner, ma’am, good morning.”
The furtive glance she casts my way is toward my clothes, not my face. My chest is wrapped beneath my shirt again, though for comfort rather than disguise, and not nearly as tightly as before. I wear trousers today, which I got from Tom in exchange for two sage hens I bagged with my five-shooter. I love the skirt Lucie gave me, but it needs laundering already, and I’ve a strange notion to preserve it as much as possible.
“Good morning, Leah.”
“I’m ready to go back to work,” I tell her. “My leg is much better. Jasper says it’s fine for me to do some lifting.”
“That’s Mr. Joyner’s decision. You’ll need to speak to him.” She turns her back and crouches beside the cook fire. Batter sizzles and pops as she pours it on the griddle.
“I’ve tried, ma’am. He won’t hardly talk to me. He won’t pay me parting wages, because he says I can’t enter into contracts, so as far as I’m concerned that means I’m still working for him. But he won’t let me work, neither. He says it’s not right. But I’ve been doing the work for months, same as Jefferson. You’ve seen me.”
Her shoulders sag. “That’s not the point.”
“Well, what is?”
She pauses to flip the flapjacks. They’re burned, as usual. “You’ll have to talk to Mr. Joyner. He’s the head of this family, and his decision is final.”
“Ma’am, can’t you talk to him? He’s still not hale after the cholera and the measles. Him doing all the work I used to— It’s tiring him out something awful.”
“He knows best.”
Wind sweeps through camp and blows over one of the high-back chairs. Mrs. Joyner jumps as it hits the ground. I dash over and prop it again, making sure it’s square at the table like the others.
Her eyes meet mine. Her face is drawn and strained. “Don’t worry. I’ll still feed you, like we agreed. It wouldn’t be Christian to let you starve. Though, truth be told, we’re a little short.” At my perplexed look, she adds, “Someone’s been skimming our food stores.”
“I would never—”
She holds up a hand. “I know it’s not you. Mr. Joyner says Indians. Anyway, you’re welcome to whatever we have; just keep in mind that we’re short.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, more concerned than I let on. She needs all the food she can get right now. “But honestly, I just want to be useful.”
She considers. Brightens. “I’m almost out of buffalo chips,” she says. The dried patties of half-digested grass are all we’ve been able to find for fuel lately. “That Hoffman girl is out gathering some.”
“I’ll see what I can round up.”
I find Therese swinging a big tin bucket while Carl, Otto, and Doreen run around looking for chips to toss inside. Doreen barely pretends to look. She has both arms out like windmill blades as she runs through the dry grass, her bonnet dangling behind her as usual.
“Guten Morgen,” I say to Therese.
“Good morning,” she says. “We are in America, we should speak American now.”
“You sound just like Lucie. Though, I think we left the United States a long time ago.” I peer inside her near-empty bucket. “No luck?”
She shakes her head.
Not as many buffalo pass through this arid place, and the wagon trains ahead have gathered up the easy pickings. “We might find more over there,” I say, pointing down a slope.
“How do you know?”
It’s the first thing you learn about hunting, how to spot a watering place. “That dry creek leads toward water, at least some of the year. They’re likely to gather there and do their business.”
She calls to the children and indicates that they should head toward the creek.
“Here, let me carry that,” I say.
“No!” she snaps. “I can do it.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You have a horse, you ride wherever you want, you shoot things with your gun, you go out in the night and find lost children and jump under wagons to save little girls.” Her face is fierce, her blue eyes bright.
“Well, I did. I don’t know that Mr. Joyner will let—”
It’s like talking to the wind, because her words just keep coming. “I’m always watching little ones or helping Mutti cook or washing clothes. Lee, I have washed so many clothes I have lost track. I might be the only person who is glad to be going into the desert. No water means no washing. Maybe my hands will heal a little.”