Walk on Earth a Stranger

“I never thought of it that way before,” I say finally.

Henry leans forward. “So are we all in accord here?”

I nod, even though I don’t like it one bit.

After a pause, Hampton meets my eye and nods too. For better or worse, I’m now part of their conspiracy.

“I have an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you send Major Craven over to help the Widow Joyner? He can drive the wagon, watch the little ones, repair the shoes they’ve outgrown—”

“Cook,” suggests Henry.

“And cook. We’ll feed him, and it won’t be a such a burden on your supplies.” I glance at Hampton. “This stealing has her afraid for her life. She thinks she’ll be murdered in her sleep and her children stolen from her. She’s got enough trouble and doesn’t need the extra strain.” I know it for falseness as soon as it leaves my mouth. Widow Joyner’s strain is nothing compared to Hampton’s, and it never will be. Quickly, I add, “If people catch you following along, there might be mercy. If they catch you stealing, you’ll be sold at best, strung up at worst. You know it as well as I do.”

“I’ll talk to Wally,” Henry says.

“Good.” I slip my canteen strap over my head, open the lid, and take a drink. Then I hand it to Hampton. A peace offering. “It’s not communion if there’s no wine.”

Hampton tips it to his lips and swallows long and hard. He wipes his mouth when he’s done. “Well, darn. The Savior got confused and turned this wine into water.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Henry says, taking the canteen from Hampton. He sips and offers it to me.

I put my hands up in refusal and look at Hampton. “Do you have something to carry water in?”

“No, sir,” he says.

“No, ma’am,” Henry corrects him.

“I know,” Hampton says. “I mean, sorry, ma’am. He told me about your situation. It’s just that you act like a sir.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’d rather be treated with respect than treated like a lady.”

Hampton presses his lips together into a firm line, like I’ve said something stupid and bothersome again, though I don’t know what.

“Keep the canteen,” I say. “Otherwise, you’ll never make it across the desert ahead.”

I get to my feet and shake dry grass from my trousers. “I would have given you something to eat if I’d known,” I say.

He nods acknowledgment.

Henry and I decide to walk back to camp separately. When I get there, Jefferson is awake and hunkered over the cook pot. He looks up as I approach. “They got it again!”

“I know,” I say. “I must have dozed off. Maybe next time, we’ll . . .” Jefferson’s gaze on me is open and honest and trusting and the very last thing I deserve. “Blast.”

“What?”

I tug on his sleeve, pulling him away from the wagon circle. Once we’re out of earshot, I whisper: “The truth is, it was Hampton. The runaway slave. He’s been following us.”

Jefferson’s eyes widen.

“The college men will take care of him from now on, in secret. In return, we have to coax Major Craven to join our wagon. He could be a big help to Mrs. Joyner.”

Jefferson mulls that over for a moment. He glances eastward, as if expecting Hampton to materialize on the horizon.

I brace myself for his protest. Instead, he says, “So much for that bread. I guess we’ll have burned flapjacks for breakfast. Again.”

I smile gratefully. “I reckon we’ll survive. Let’s go see if the Major wants to come help with the cooking.”

We stop to resupply at Fort Hall, which is less of a fort and more of a trading post consisting of two rickety blockhouses and a small stable. A constant stream of humanity flows through: trappers, Indians, argonauts, and settlers. It’s too many people. After being in the wilderness so long, I can hardly breathe.

California is bound to feel crowded too. Maybe that’s a good thing. With Hiram looking for me, the last thing I want to be is uncommon or noteworthy.

The meadows nearby are dotted with tents and wagons and even a few teepees, but otherwise, filled with lush, fast-growing grass. We let the cattle and mules graze freely to regain their strength. Meanwhile, we take our laundry down to the hot springs. I wear Lucie Robichaud’s skirt again while I scrub the rest of my clothes against Mrs. Joyner’s washboard.

Now that Mrs. Joyner knows I’m a girl, she has no problem assigning everyone’s laundry to me, and I spend the whole day scrubbing and scrubbing, until my hands are red and chapped and I can’t feel my fingertips. I almost never did laundry back home in Georgia. While I was out helping Daddy, Mama must have done a lot of work that I took for granted. Now I understand what Therese meant by wanting to give her hands a chance to heal.

Near the trading post is a military encampment made up of low tents. On our second day at Fort Hall, their leader, General Loring, rides out to speak with the wagon companies. He’s younger than I would expect for a general, despite his long beard. One of his sleeves swings empty at his side; someone whispers that he lost an arm in the Mexican War. He dismounts from his giant roan gelding and walks among us, making conversation. His uniform shows the same dirt and wear as the common soldiers’.

“You ought to go to Oregon,” he tells Frank Dilley. “California is filled with bad men—runaways and thieves. The gold will be gone in a year or two, but good rich soil lasts forever. You can pass that down to your children.”

Their conversation attracts attention. The rest of the Missouri men gather around. A few Mormons bound for Salt Lake trickle over from another company. Even Reverend Lowrey and Mr. Robichaud creep closer, ears pricked.

“Any saloon is happy to take my gold,” Frank says. “But I always get the boot when I try to pay with buckets of soil.”

His men laugh, and even I can’t help cracking a grin.

The general turns toward Lowrey and Robichaud. “What about it? Some of you look like farmers. There’s wonderful farming in the Willamette Valley. It’s good country for raising families.”

A few women have gathered too—me, Mrs. Hoffman, Lucie, some Mormons. His eyes skim over us like we’re not even here, which is fine by me. I’m bound for California or bust, no matter what he says.