“Who exactly you looking for?” Cay asks, fanning himself with his hat.
Early finally releases Andy from his stare. “Gang of five negroes who robbed a bank a few months back. We call ’em the Broken Hand Gang. Big as gorillas.”
“That’s a funny name for a gang,” says Cay.
Only Early’s lips move. “They smashed the clerk’s hand with a sledgehammer.”
Cay shakes out his hand. “Ouch.”
“Indeed. Word is, they’re somewhere on the trail, terrorizing the pioneers.”
“Wouldn’t they be halfway to California by now?” asks West.
The man shakes his head. “Could be. Or not. We split up at Fort Laramie and me and the boys here doubled back.”
“What do you mean ‘terrorizing’?” asks West.
“They can’t get what they need at the forts, so they steal from the lone travelers.”
“Well, as you can see, we ain’t a gang of five negroes. Our black fella’s scrawny as a dill weed, but we wish you luck anyway,” says Cay.
Early switches his gaze back and forth between Andy and me. “Lots of criminals out this way, you know. Think they can escape the law by running west. Never works.”
I swallow hard. “No, sir.”
Early reaches down and hooks hands with Cay, pumping once. Then the horsemen dig in their spurs and clear out like a passing storm cloud.
I spill most of the berries as Andy and I transfer them from our pockets to the sack that used to hold our cheese.
West watches me pick up berries. “Bank robbers. Bet they’re armed and dangerous. This is wild country, boys.” He hangs on that last word and flicks his hair. Then he adds under his breath, “Maybe you oughta go back to your mamas.”
? ? ?
Before I can talk to Andy, Cay calls for us to mount up and vámonos. I spend the next few hours both wishing we could go faster and worrying I might do permanent damage to my back if we don’t stop. Was Early just blowing smoke when he said running west never works? And just how many criminals head west anyway? I never thought I’d be on the same side of the fence as anyone known as the Broken Hand Gang. May Andy and I stay out of their reach. At least the odds are in our favor. They say the frontier’s bigger than all the states put together, with less than one percent of the population.
Unfortunately, that also means I may never find Mr. Trask.
What were those great plans you had for us in California, Father? You must have given him the bracelet for good reason. Lots of pioneers carry gold instead of money because it doesn’t fall apart if it gets wet, and it’s easy to hide. But you said we’d see it again, which means you weren’t planning for him to sell it outright. I wish I had listened to you instead of being so dead set against California. Now, only Mr. Trask knows your intention.
Andy no longer sits ramrod straight, though she still hasn’t learned to control Princesa. The horse barely heeds her orders, only stopping when the others stop, and going when Peety slaps her rump. When the bay pushes its way closer to the front, Peety pulls her back in line.
“No holding apple, Andito,” orders Peety for the dozenth time.
We pass a third caravan. Cay chats with everyone we pass, especially the girls. He sweeps his hat to a young woman carrying a cat.
“Afternoon, miss. Cay Pepper, cowboy, whip shot, ace roper, and—”
“Windbag,” says West.
Cay ignores him. “And gentleman.” He bows low. “Who might you be?”
She lowers her smallish eyes, then lifts them for a fraction of a second. “Gladys.” Her lips push out like a bing cherry.
“Why, I like the shape of your wagon,” says Cay.
She giggles, and tickles her cat under the chin.
After we pass the caravan, Cay can’t stop looking over his shoulder. Finally, he circles his pinto around. “I’ll catch up.”
“You’re headed for trouble,” West tells Cay. “I ain’t running again from your mistakes.”
“I just wanna ask if she wants a ride on my pony, ain’t that right, Skinny?” He pats the pinto’s neck.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” mutters West, though Cay is already gone.
A flush creeps up my neck as I guess at what Cay intends to do. I will need to train that unmanly reaction out of me. It figures that he is a womanizer. If he’s seventeen years of age, he was born in the Year of the Rabbit, meaning he has a tendency to overbreed.
His cousin softly whistles behind me. West is probably an overbreeder as well.
By the time Cay catches up to us, we’ve reached the Little Blue, a winding stream that runs in a north–south direction. The sun sits two hands from the horizon, still high enough to heat the moist air. Though the horses are thirsty, shallow trenches made by stuck wheels convince us not to cross the muddy earth to the river yet. Instead, we plod onward through the waving clumps of grass.
My body aches from holding myself up on the horse all day long and my eyes are burned out from the sun’s unforgiving glare. I am watching Andy trying to release the saddle horn again, when West’s gloved hand brushes my waist. My back cracks as I snap to.
“You’re slipping,” he says. To the others, he calls, “Shade up, before someone gets their head stuck in the dirt.”
My face grows hot, but I let that one go, remembering what Andy said about fussing too much. I still haven’t figured out how to get the boys to take us farther. I doubt money, cooking, or any of the skills we could offer will change West’s mind.
After another half mile, the earth dries up and we cut a path to the shoreline. Pawpaw trees with their dark leaves, big as my foot, shade the bank, linked by clumps of * willows and sprawling hazelnut.
We stop at a bald spot of earth shaded by a cherry tree with glossy leaves. I dismount and walk around bowlegged, trying to rub feeling back into my limbs.
Cay pulls a lumpy sack off his saddle.
“What’s that, amigo, you got some rocks for your collection?” says Peety.
Cay opens the sack and pulls out an onion. “For our last supper together. The sparrow liked her pony ride.” He flashes a smile.
West groans. “Always a beggar.”
“Hope there’s more in there than onions,” Andy says with a grimace.
Cay waves the onion in front of Andy’s nose. “What do you have against onions?”
She shrinks away so fast she stumbles on a rock. “Just don’t like ’em.”
“These put hair on your chest. An onion a day cured my daddy of gout,” says Cay.
“Also good for hangovers,” says Peety.
Andy recovers her balance. “I also don’t like talking about them.”
“Why?” asks Peety.
“If I told you that, I would be talking about ’em, wouldn’t I?” she says in a huff, stomping off to the river.
I trot after her. If she doesn’t want to talk about onions, then neither do I.
We find a break in the screen of * willows lining the shoreline. Andy places two pawpaw leaves on the damp earth and kneels on them.
I do the same. “We need to ask them if they can take us farther.”
“Especially now that we got bank robbers to worry over.” Andy rubs water onto her shorn head.
“Agreed. I’d like to keep my hand in one piece. I just don’t think a ring’s going to be enough.” Gathering water into my hands, I rub it around my hot neck and face. I sorely want to drink, too. But I will wait until we can boil the water to be safe. Of all the trail dangers, cholera worried our pioneer customers the worst, which is why Father always stocked his special mix of rehydrating salts.
“That’s good money,” says Andy. “What about both rings?”
“They don’t care much about money. They brought us here on a practical joke,” I mutter.
“It won’t hurt to ask.” Andy mops her forehead with her handkerchief. “Thought we were goners when those marshals showed up.”
“Me, too.”