Princesa belts out a high-pitched squeal, almost like a human scream, as Andy approaches her.
“Princesa,” says Peety in a stern voice, pointing his finger at the horse’s nose.
The screaming dies down, and Peety helps Andy into the seat. Immediately, she grabs the saddle horn.
“No holding apple!” says Peety, gesturing at the saddle horn. “Trust your legs.”
“I trust my legs, just not what’s under them.”
Princesa jerks her head back. Andy wobbles but instead of grabbing the apple, she grabs Princesa’s mane, causing her ride to rock in irritation. She’ll fall off for sure, maybe break her leg. Then what?
As Peety pries Andy’s fingers out of Princesa’s mane, I clear my throat. “Maybe I should ride Princesa today, and Andy can go with—”
“Come on,” grumbles West from behind me. “Don’t keep Franny waiting.” He forms his hands into a sling and boosts me up onto his sorrel. Her back is cushioned only with a blanket since Peety moved her saddle to Princesa. Then West climbs on in back of me, while I scoot as far forward as possible. Franny accepts the arrangement with a snort and a sigh, and I swear West does, too. His tongue clicks and away we go.
When Peety and Andy catch up with us, she’s still holding on to the apple, sitting straight as a bottle on a rocking barrel. Her face is frozen in concentration. I curl my pinkie at her in our secret sign. Even if she disapproves of dragons, she will hopefully still consent to being a rattlesnake. She barely lifts her eyes to me.
West lets Franny drift behind the others. The horses kick up clouds of dust, which hang in the air for us to pass through. I pull my handkerchief up to my eyes.
The land changes underneath our feet as we travel, first pebble and sand, now grass tall enough for me to graze my hand over. Every now and then, some animal, probably a prairie dog, disturbs the rhythm of the waving blades with a rattling sound.
If the authorities dispatched men to come for us, they will catch up soon. How big was the bounty? The sweeter the prize, the faster the flies will find it. My stomach bunches like overworked bao, the little white buns we fill with sweet beans. If you knead the dough too long, the bao shrivel around the filling and become paperweights.
My back cramps, so I unbend it, placing my heels on the fat pads of Franny’s shoulders. West tries to keep his distance from me, aiding my efforts to keep my waist away from him. We might as well be trying to run up opposite hills of polished jade in our socks. When we bump in the middle for the third time, he mutters, “Dang it.”
Ears burning, I scoot forward again. Why do I offend him so much? Is it because he doesn’t want to sit so close to a boy—or because he doesn’t want to be too near a Chinese boy? He does not act jumpy and irritable around Andy, or glare at her. That must be it. A yellow man bested him at cards or took his best hat in a gamble, and so he hates us all. Fine, I think, steamed now.
Franny yelps as West, scooting back again, heels her in the kidneys.
Peety notices. “Don’t hurt mi tesoro Francesca. West, you are a bruto. Apologize.”
“Sorry, Franny,” West mutters.
West is forced to slide closer to me. I pin my elbows to my sides and scoot forward again. Andy’s still holding her posture erect, but at least one of her hands has let go of the apple.
A dust mote flies into my eye, and I dig it out with a knuckle. “Might we move up alongside the others? I can barely see.”
“Franny and I always ride the drag.” He offers no further explanation.
“The drag?”
“The back.”
“Why? It’s filthy back here.”
He snorts. “It’s got the best view.”
“If you like looking at horse derrières.”
“Dairy what?”
“Derrière, from the Latin root, de retro, meaning ‘of the back.’”
“In Texas, we just call them butt-tocks.”
My ears begin to cook once again.
“When we’re moving a herd, riding drag lets me scope for problems, like coyotes,” he says, real low and hissy-like. “You’d be surprised how many freeloaders are out there, trying to catch a meal.”
That last part strikes the final match under my collar. Last I checked, they were the ones sharing our snake. I slide forward as much as I can and do my best to shun him.
An hour later, we pass two caravans. Each wagon train is a lively mix of people and livestock—mostly mules and oxen with the occasional pig or flock of chickens. The pioneers generally wear the same getup: bonnets and full-sleeved dresses for the women and plain shirts and trousers with suspenders for the men.
Mr. Trask is too far ahead to be part of either of these caravans, but I still find myself combing the crowds for him from the shadows of my hat. Brown thinning hair and mustache could describe half of the men I see. At least his red suspenders might stand out. I also keep an eye out for Andy’s brother Isaac, even though finding him means I will lose Andy, a dismal thought.
“How many miles do you go a day?” I ask the grump at my back.
“At this turtle pace, we’ll be lucky if we break fifteen,” he says in a surly voice. “Usually it’s twenty or thirty.”
I ignore his unpleasantness. “How do you know?”
“Experience.”
I clamp my lips together. How very helpful.
After a moment, he adds, “People leave mileage markers, but you have to look for them.”
“Where?”
“On tree trunks, rocks, whatever they can scratch on.”
“Does your experience tell you how many miles to California?”
“Nope. But Cay’s map does.”
I grind my teeth.
“Which road you taking to California?” he asks.
Doesn’t everyone use the same one? I could kick myself for not listening more when the Argonauts shared their travel plans with Father at the Whistle.
“The usual one,” I answer coolly. “What about you?”
“Ain’t decided yet. Which one’s the usual one?”
I glare at Princesa’s backside. Despite his mild tone, he is obviously mocking me. I attempt to lie. “The one . . . ” Oh, what’s the use? “Fine. How many roads are there?”
“Half a dozen at least.”
What? Once I clear my lungs, he adds, “California’s big as Texas. Not everyone’s going to the same place.”
My shoulders slump. “How long before the trail divides?”
“The Parting of the Ways? About nine hundred fifty miles from here.”
I sit up and all my blood seems to collect in my feet. The trail suddenly got shorter by a thousand miles. I should’ve known the path would fork at some point, but did it have to be so soon? I’ll have to find Mr. Trask before it forks, or I won’t know which way he’s gone. He’ll be lost to me forever.
I check to see if Andy heard. She’s clutching Princesa’s mane and trying to hold the reins at the same time. I want to ask if she’s okay, but she doesn’t look like she wants to be bothered.
Instead, I calculate how fast we’ll need to travel to catch Mr. Trask. We’ll have to go faster than fifteen miles a day, a wagon’s maximum speed, not to mention, we want to put as much distance between us and whoever might be chasing us. Since Mr. Trask left twenty days ago, he could be at the Parting of the Ways in as few as forty-five days. If we upped our speed to at least twenty-two miles a day, we could arrive before him.
I chew on my lip as the situation becomes more desperate. Since riding double means we can’t go faster than a walk, we’ll need to get a horse for each of us. We’d need two horses anyway once Andy moves on.
I slump, but just as my back touches West’s front, I snap back to attention.
Cay pulls his pinto back to walk alongside Andy and Peety. “Hey, Andy. What’d you mean last night when you said the view was wide and handsome? Never heard of a view being handsome before.” Then a grin appears and he angles his chin so we can all see his profile. “Well, besides this view.”
West groans.
“Wide and handsome is more a feeling, like the world is his to take,” says Andy, finally relaxing her shoulders.
“I feel like that every day,” says Peety, stretching his arms over his head. “You tell a good story.”