Walk on Earth a Stranger

How should I know? I say, “I’m sure she’ll understand.”

He looks unconvinced. Major Craven has been considerate and respectful around Mrs. Joyner, but I’ve no doubt that dealing with a sharp-tongued widow is a lot harder than he expected.

“I’ll help carry the barrel,” Tom says.

They head off together.

Jefferson says, “I’ll go find . . . something to burn, I guess.”

“I’ll help you,” I say, but Jasper grabs my arm before I can turn away.

“How are your oxen?” His voice is urgent.

“Down to six. Two are weak. All in all, holding up better than I expected. Mr. Joyner had a good eye for animals, and he bought the hardiest stock he could find.”

“We’ve got four left, and they’re almost played out.”

I nod. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t seen.

“You’ve got the strongest oxen,” he says. “We’ve got the lighter wagon. Our chances are better for getting across the desert in one shot if we combine them. Ten animals, one light wagon.”

He’s right. Except . . . “But the Widow Joyner, she’s going to come down sick anytime now.”

“She can have the back of the wagon when she needs it. We’ll just have to make space. Major Craven says he can walk with his crutch. The rest of us are already walking.”

“Why are you asking me about this?” I say.

“Because you can talk to her, woman to woman, and explain things.”

I frown. Seems to me that men only say things like this when they want to get out of doing something unpleasant. “I’ll tell her the plan, but it’s up to her. I won’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“Fair enough,” Jasper says.

I circle around to the rear of Widow Joyner’s wagon and knock on the board like I’m calling at a fancy house.

“Yes” comes her voice.

I pull open the flap. She sits propped up on her mattress, hands wrapped around her belly as if to protect it. Her blond bun is skewed, and her hair is sweat-plastered to her head. Andy and Olive huddle at her feet, looking frightened but too listless from the heat to do anything about it.

“Jasper wants to combine our efforts to cross the desert. Our oxen, his wagon,” I say. “I told him I can’t make any promises, but—”

“Do it,” Widow Joyner says. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “The Major and Tom came by for our baking supplies. They hinted at the plan. It makes sense.”

“All right. We’re going to make the shift quickly.”

“Speed is of the essence,” she says with a wan smile.

“We’ll be back to move you shortly.” It’s odd; Mrs. Lowrey was walking alongside her wagon right up until the day she died in childbirth. Widow Joyner hasn’t walked in a week.

I hop down from the back of the wagon, turn around, and jump five feet in the air—Jefferson is standing right in front of me.

“I thought you were looking for something to burn.”

“And I found it. Right here. This wood’s so dry it ought to burn hot and clean.”

I can’t argue with that. “Let’s get the oxen into the water before we move them to the other wagon.”

All we do is unyoke them, and they rush into the water of their own accord. Once they taste it, they low pitifully enough to break your heart into a thousand pieces, but they drink up.

Therese and her little brothers return carrying three large bundles of cut grass. “Vati says these are for your animals.” She and Jefferson exchange a furtive look. The three of us walk together every single day, and she and Jefferson still talk to each other casually, though they’re careful not to get too close. So far, her father hasn’t made a fuss.

“Thank you,” I say. “We’ll put them in the wagon.”

“No, we can load it.” She leads her brothers off, casting another longing glance Jefferson’s way. I don’t blame her; he’s become quite a sight. His thick black hair curls slightly at the nape, framing a strong jaw—inherited from his Irish da—that balances his sharp cheekbones perfectly. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing muscled forearms burnished dark with sunshine.

Therese’s eyes catch mine.

“I’m ready,” someone says.

I turn around. Widow Joyner stands in the back of her wagon, ready to topple over the edge. The children’s heads pop up behind her like prairie dogs.

I hurry over to help. So does Henry Meek. Together, we carry her to their wagon and raise her gently inside. Olive clambers over the backboard to be with her mother. Andy reaches up with his arms, so I lift him and give him a quick snug before putting him beside his sister.

“What do you want from the wagon?” I ask Mrs. Joyner.

“Food and water,” she says. “And the small trunk—the one with my initials. Nothing else.”

I gather all the supplies, but I grab her red-checked tablecloth too. I waste a precious moment gazing at the dining table, silently saying good-bye.

Cracks splinter the air as Jefferson attacks the Joyners’ wagon with an ax. The Major feeds the pieces into his fire to bake his bread. I run over to take one last reading from Mr. Joyner’s road-o-meter.

“Sixteen hundred eighty-seven,” I say.

“What’s that?” asks Jefferson.

“The number of miles this wagon has traveled since Independence.”

“Is that all? I was worried it might be a lot.”

“We aren’t done yet,” I point out.

Across the camp, Frank Dilley and his men are combining their own wagons. Like us, they’re leaving half of them behind. Unlike us, they’ve packed the remaining wagons with pickaxes and shovels and mining supplies. I’ll have to witch up some gold to pay for our own equipment.

“Are our fifteen minutes up yet?” I yell at him.

“You’ve got a few more if you want to come with us,” he says.

I turn to Jasper. “What do you think? Do we hurry up so we can leave with them?”

“The oxen go faster, more consistently, when they see other wagons in front of them. And I know we’ve had our disagreements with those men, but all in all, I want to believe they’re decent specimens of humanity. If something were to happen to one of our wagons, they’d no sooner leave us behind to die than we would them.”