The snake is chewy, dry, and full of bones, but I eat my whole portion. Andy and I copy the boys by blowing the snake bones into the fire. I drink from our canteen, but Andy pulls it away before I get a chance to slake my thirst.
“We got lots of water, chicos.” Peety hands me his canteen. “Drink up.”
As I get my fill, it occurs to me these boys might make decent traveling companions. Not everyone would share his water with a Chinese person, or a black person, for that matter. Maybe we can get them to take us farther than the Little Blue.
Cay casts a doubtful eye toward Andy. “You a gold rusher? I ain’t seen a black one before.” A healthy dusting of gold whiskers bristles on his face as he chews, and there’s a solid curve to his cheek.
“Well, today’s your lucky day,” says Andy, crossing her arms in front of her. “Haven’t you heard of the Compromise? Lots of us goin’ west.”
She’s referring to the Missouri Compromise, which forbids slavery in the north, save the exceptional state of Missouri.
“That so?” Cay’s eyes hop to me. “What about you?”
“I’m an Argonaut, too. You?” I make my voice deep and hope I sound as confident as Andy.
“No,” answers West in a voice laced with contempt. “We’re cowboys.”
I decide this West must not have recognized me after all. After his initial scrutiny, he barely casts me another glance, which gives me the chance to study him.
Though his perfect eyebrows and straight nose could have inspired Michelangelo, his flaws interest me more: the frowning mouth, the slouch of his lean and muscled frame. His triangular earlobes run straight into his face, indicating a troubled life, unlike his cousin Cay, whose earlobes are fleshy and unattached, meaning things come easy to him. His head tilts down often, his dark hair casting shadows across his fair skin, shadows that draw me in like a secret. When he catches me studying the constellation of scars on his arm, he rolls his sleeve back down.
Cay lifts his chin. “Just moved one thousand head to St. Louis. Pioneers can’t buy ’em quick enough.”
“So why you on the trail?” asks Andy.
Before answering, Cay glances at West, who frowns at him. Then Cay says, “We got a job in California.”
“You two look a little young to be out this late,” West cuts in. A lock of hair the color of black walnut falls into his eyes, which he takes care of with a flick of his head.
Andy crosses her arms. “We’re old ’nuff. Sam’s seventeen, I’m eighteen.”
She overshoots a tad.
Cay and Peety react like someone poked them in the ribs.
“Guess they grow us bigger in Texas,” Cay says, not bothering to erase his grin.
Peety looks back and forth from Andy to me. “Not much fur on your cheeks, chicos.”
I start to touch my cheek but snatch it away when Andy gives me a hard look.
West sticks a blade of grass between his teeth. “Travel light, too.”
“How come yer English is so good?” Cay cuts in. “Never heard a Chinaman speak regular-like. Matter a fact, never seen a Chinaman outside a circus.”
“Same reason as you. I was born here.”
“Born here? How’s that possible?” He scratches his chin.
“My father was an orphan. French missionaries found him when he was thirteen and brought him to the States.”
“And your Espa?ol?” asks Peety.
“Father owned a translation business back in New York.”
“What’s that?” asks Cay.
West leans back on an elbow and blows a fly that wanders by. “Don’t be a dunderhead. It’s like, the Spaniard tells the Frenchie, ‘I’ll trade you a barrel of olives for that bottle of per-foom, you snail-eating bastard,’ and Sammy’s daddy tells the Frenchie what the Spaniard said. Right?”
I’m distracted by the way West drawls out his long e’s to long a’s, changing my name to “Sammay.” Cay does it, too.
I blink. “Right,” I say gruffly.
“So what other tongues you speak?” asks Cay.
“Latin, French, Cantonese, and enough Portuguese to start a conversation.”
“But not finish it?”
“Not with words.” I pat my gun.
This gets a laugh. Cay squints his green eyes at me. “Say something in Cantonese.”
“Nei goh ha-pa yau di se.”
He repeats it. “Well, poke me, I speak Chinese. What does it mean?”
“‘You have snake on your chin.’”
Another laugh from all except West, who is chewing on the grass again.
Cay takes it in good measure. “All right, you goneys.”
“Who wants the jaw?” asks Andy, holding up a stick with a razor-edged bone dangling off the end. “Snake jaw’s a lucky charm. You might need it if there’s no moon tonight.”
Both Peety and Cay raise their hands, but West makes a tsk sound with his tongue.
Cay gets down on his stomach and elbows. “Settle by wrestle.”
Andy covers her mouth with her hand.
Peety lays a horse blanket on the poky yellow grass in front of Cay. Hitching his trousers, he carefully lowers himself onto it.
“Oh, c’mon, prima donna, your pantaloons are already filthy,” says Cay.
“Pantalones,” Peety corrects. “Pantaloons is what you wear.”
The two clasp hands and start pressing. After a good half minute of evenly matched straining and grunting, Cay summons a burst of strength and pushes Peety’s arm to the ground.
“I let you win, hombre,” gasps Peety, rolling onto his back. “’Cause you need more luck than me.”
“I get more lucky than you, you mean. Who’s next?” Cay shakes out his arm and looks at West.
West snorts. “I make my own luck.”
“Chicken,” says his cousin.
West’s jaw twitches. Then he tosses aside the blade of grass and shakes his head.
As he positions himself in front of the grinning Cay, I wonder at the power of a single word to goad males into doing things they don’t want to do to acquire things they don’t want to have. I would never fall for that.
Biceps bulge and in under five seconds, West slams Cay’s arm into the dirt.
“If I didn’t have to wrestle that buffalo that came before you, I’d a won for sure,” says Cay.
Andy holds the stick with the jaw out to West. “Here you go, and good luck.”
“Hold on, now,” says Cay. “He needs to wrestle one more to make it fair.”
His eyes slide to me. I nearly choke on my greens, knowing I will be eating my thoughts for my next course.