Walk on Earth a Stranger

The rope slips again. “Get everyone out of the way now!” Jefferson hollers.

The wheels hit a dip. Reverend Lowrey is jerked off his feet. He slams into Jasper, and both of them tumble to their knees. My shoulders wrench, like they’re about to pop out of their sockets, and the rope around my waist squeezes the breath from my body. Jefferson and Martin squat low for leverage, but the weight of the wagon drags them to their bottoms. All of us slide slowly, inescapably, dragged by the wagon’s weight.

“Get out of the way,” I yell at Mr. Joyner.

“Almost got it,” he yells back.

Another rut, another lurch. The rope burns through my palms. I roll on the ground, twisting away before it can strangle me. Gravel fills my mouth and scrapes my cheek.

I’m flat on my stomach as I watch, horrified, while the wagon bounces down to the bottom, rope trailing behind. It crashes into a rock, and topples over. The headboard flies out and splinters.

Shakily, I get to my feet, looking for Mr. Joyner. I see the dresser first, a shamble of busted wood and dirtied shirts. Beside it is a man’s boot, empty and alone.

“Daddy?” I whisper.

I slide down the hillside, Jasper right behind me. I’m heedless of the gravel imbedding itself into my palms or the tears blurring my vision. I know it’s not Daddy, of course it’s not, but I’m going to be too late again. I already know what I’ll find.

I round the dresser’s remains. Mr. Joyner is a broken and bloody mess, lying mashed into the gravel where the wheels rolled over him. He doesn’t even look like a person anymore, and I have to turn away.

“Damn fool,” Jasper says at my shoulder just as Therese rushes up.

“Mein Gott,” she says breathlessly. She must have started sprinting the moment she saw him go down.

My stomach is roiling, but I find my voice. “We have to take him down to Mrs. Joyner.”

Jasper wipes sweat from his brow. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I still work for him,” I say.

“I will help you,” Therese says in a voice nearer to a squeak.

Jasper gets a grip beneath Mr. Joyner’s shoulders. Therese and I each pick up a leg. Slowly, we half carry, half drag what’s left of him to the bottom of the hill, preserving as much dignity as we can muster. In my care to avoid looking at the area of his chest and abdomen, I notice the trail of blood that scars the slope behind us.

We reach the bottom, and I look to Mrs. Joyner, expecting to find her inconsolable.

Andy and Olive have disappeared, already ushered away by some kind soul. Mrs. Joyner just stands there, her hands neatly clasped above her enormous belly, her face as stony as the mountain her husband died on.

There’s no digging in this soil, but there are plenty of rocks, so we bury him in a hastily made cairn. Jefferson finds some crooked pine boughs, which he strips and lashes together into a rickety cross. Reverend Lowrey says a few words, but when he starts to sing a psalm, he chokes up and falls silent. We all stare at the pile of rocks, not sure what to do next.

A small voice rises, high and lovely. It’s Therese, singing “All Creatures of Our God and King.”

Everyone joins in, softly at first, and then with conviction. I hang back as I always do, letting the hymn wash over me. Then I remember that I’m a girl again, and there’s no shame in it, so I pick up a verse and let my voice soar above everyone’s:

“And thou most kind and gentle Death,

Waiting to hush our latest breath,

Oh praise Him! Alleluia!”

After the last note fades, I glance up to see Reverend Lowrey staring at me, looking a little stunned. Maybe I was too loud, like Annabelle Smith back home.

I turn away from him, my neck prickling, as everyone drifts toward their respective wagons. The college men help Jefferson and me tip the Joyners’ wagon upright. Miraculously, nothing’s broken that can’t be fixed. Even more miraculously, Mrs. Joyner’s dining table, the one she always covers with fine china and a checked tablecloth, does not have a single scratch on it, even though it tumbled out of the wagon and landed upside down.

I’m shaking with exhaustion, and I could use something to eat, but I would rather keep busy to avoid the images in my head. “Jefferson, can you help me with the furniture?” The sooner we get loaded, the sooner we can leave this place.

“Leave it behind.”

Mrs. Joyner stands there, holding the hands of her children, one on either side. Olive is carefully matching her mother’s grim expression. Andy’s face is red from crying, and his bottom lip trembles. His chubby hand is fisted at his chest. He’s clutching my locket like his life depends on it.

“Beg your pardon?” Jefferson says.

“It’s junk. Worthless. Take what we need to finish the journey and dump the rest.”

I’m careful to keep the surprise off my face. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pries her children’s hands from her own and strides over to the wagon, where everything lies scattered and spilled. She picks up Mr. Joyner’s rifle and shoves it into my hands.

“Your contract is with me now,” she says. Looking at Jefferson, she adds: “Both of your contracts. Same conditions as before.”

“With back wages to Independence?” I ask.

“To the start of the journey, with no interruption of service.”

“That’ll do.” I pause. “Do we need to . . . shake on it?”

“Please,” she says brusquely. “We ladies can manage an agreement without spitting into our palms.” She turns away and crouches to comfort Andy.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jefferson whispers.

“I wouldn’t mind rescuing that one table for her,” I say. “And the tablecloth.”

He nods. “I’ll help.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It’s nighttime, with a waning moon to light my view. It took us three days to catch up to the Missouri men, but catch up we did, and we are now camped in a beautiful grove between the Soda Springs, which bubbles gently with soda water, and Steamboat Spring, which shoots steam high into the air. Reverend Lowrey has been telling the little ones that demons’ work engines are hidden underground. But I think anything so wondrous must be the work of angels.

The springs whoosh and spout while I lie hidden beneath a cottonwood tree, my rifle aimed at our wagon. I’m covered with brush, which makes me itch, and I fight the temptation to scratch the back of my neck. At least the itching keeps me awake. I’ve been lying here for hours, watching, seeing nothing. But that’s all right. I am patient.