15
“I WORE THE STAR FOR EIGHT YEARS,” SAYS THE sheriff as Andy and I reluctantly follow him back to his wagon train. “Boone County, Missouri. I know trouble when I see it, and those MacMartin boys are it. Thinking about casting their wagon out. Sure, they’re good trackers. Skills like that come in handy on the trail when you’re looking out for bears and such, eh?” He hits me on the back, hard enough to set off a fit of coughing.
“If it weren’t for the Broken Hand Gang—well, I just couldn’t do that to their father.” He casts Andy a suspicious eyeball. “Say, those gang members aren’t friends of yours, are they?”
“No, sir,” she says adamantly, glaring at the ground.
“Well, that’s good.”
“Lotsa black people in this country,” she mutters to me, then picks up her pace. The sheriff and I step it up, too. Maybe she’s trying to wind him so he can’t ask us further questions. It doesn’t work.
“So, you boys got family?” he asks.
“Nope,” we say simultaneously.
“Neither of you?”
We shake our heads at each other, realizing this is suspicious.
“What a shame. Where from you traveling?”
“Texas,” I say, as Andy says, “St. Louis.”
We struggle to keep our poker faces while he scratches his beard. Andy stoops extra low, looking for potato bugs, deciding I should be the one to talk.
“I started in Texas and sh—” I catch myself with a cough. “He started in St. Louis.”
“Either of you boys know how to tie a Texan overhand knot?”
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m the one supposed to be from there.
Just as I’m ready to throw off my hat and plead for my life, at last we clear the forest. The open plains sweep before us cut by a swathe of the Little Blue.
“Aha, here we are,” he says.
The pioneers have daisy-chained their wagons into a circle, a dozen in all, except that two of the wagons are overturned, probably from when the animals broke free. Some folks collect spilled contents, while others repair damaged wheels, their tools rapping out a noisy symphony. Inside the circle, the rest of the emigrants buzz around the canvas hive fixing dinner.
The sheriff wraps a heavy arm around each of our shoulders and steers us toward a wagon painted bright green. Who was it who mentioned a green wagon? I stop in my tracks when I remember the rosy-cheeked gent who stole us across the Dirty Missouri.
Mr. Calloway was trying to catch up with his wagon train, a train that included a green wagon. Of course, it’s just my Snake luck that I ran into it. Thanks to Deputy Granger, Mr. Calloway knows that there’s a slave and a Chinese girl on the run. If he sees us, he’ll raise the alarm.
Andy is already tipping her hat farther down her face. My eyes careen around the campsite in search of the man, with his red-flannel shirt and stout form.
The sheriff shades his eyes. “There’s my missus.” He booms, “Melissa! We got some guests.”
A woman in a calico dress twists her head away from a group of people and squints at us. The pioneers drop what they’re doing and gather around, some smiling, others frowning. Fifty pairs of eyes scrutinize my boy act as the late sun glares its disapproval. My shirts stick to my body like layers of a winter-melon pastry.
At least Andy and I are covered in soot and mud, which may help to disguise us.
The sheriff introduces us, then recounts the stampede. When he finishes, everyone starts clapping and praising God. I stick my hands in my pockets and grunt to discourage people from coming too close. One grateful fellow reaches out his hand to shake mine and I give him a curt nod. No one tries to shake Andy’s hand.
The sheriff’s wife, Mrs. Bartholomew, bows her head. “Thank thee Lord for sending Your angels to help us.”
“Mrs. Bart will get you cleaned up for dinner,” says the sheriff. “Joseph, give this horse some oats.”
Mrs. Bart pulls us by the arms away from her husband and toward the green wagon. Her bonnet disappears into its canvas cover.
So far, no sign of Mr. Calloway. Dare I hope more than one green wagon roams the prairie?
Mrs. Bart hands us two sacks. “Clean rags, soap.”
My throat closes when I spot Whistle marked on the sides of the bags. Father had the blacksmith make that stamp for us. Every Monday afternoon, I pressed in the marks while he held the fabric taut. I stiffen my lips to hold back the sob that wants to escape.
“Thank you, ma’am,” says Andy, taking the sacks.
I stumble after them, trying to empty my head. I can’t think about Father right now. Curious eyes follow as Mrs. Bart marches us through the circle to the farthest wagon.
Mrs. Bart stops in front of a woman hanging clothes on a line. This new woman wears her faded brown hair in a long braid. Smile lines mark the corners of her mouth and eyes. “Why, who’s this, Mrs. Bart?”
“Andy and Sammy. They and their friends saved our livestock.”
“Praise be,” says the woman, clasping her hands to her bosom.
“I wondered if you might lend them some of Thomas’s clothes until theirs can be washed. Three are to follow shortly.”
“Of course.”
To Andy and me, Mrs. Bart says, “Mrs. Calloway’s husband has not yet arrived.”
Andy’s eyes widen as she finally puts the pieces together. “When you’s husband gonna get here?”
Mrs. Calloway puts a finger to her sun-dappled cheek. “Tomorrow, I hope.” She glances at two younger versions of herself scrubbing clothes on their washboards. “Though he hates to be separated from us. If he’s been traveling day and night, he might arrive tonight.”
My gut tightens and I clench my toes to keep my feet from making tracks away from here.
“Then again,” the woman muses, oblivious to the hot poker she’s waving around Andy and I, “the poor man is just not as young as he thinks he is. No, he’ll be here tomorrow.”
We’ll be gone by tomorrow, but it won’t matter either way. Mrs. Calloway will tell her husband about the Chinese boy and his negro friend and he’ll figure it out. He’ll tell the sheriff, who will put out the word, and the news will spread like a traveling hobo.
I’m about to drop dead of anxiety when the two girls leave their tubs to join us, drying their hands on their aprons. Apple cheeks flecked with freckles and frizzy hair reined in by braids, they angle themselves for a better look under our hats. Teenage girls. The worst kind of trouble. They will sniff us out for sure.
I square my stance and put on my fiercest grimace, lips curled back and nostrils flaring. My arms lock tightly in front of my chest.
“Go wash yourselves by the river,” Mrs. Bart tells us. “Would you mind taking a few buckets to haul back water for Mrs. Calloway? She only has Mary and Rachel to help her.” The girls dip a half curtsy as she calls their names.
“’Course not, ma’am,” says Andy.
Mary cups her hands to her cheeks and says in a wispy voice, “Oh, a Celestial!”
I wince at the irritating term for Chinese people.
“You’re a cowboy?” asks Rachel in a voice laced with doubt.
I nod curtly, then swivel my face left and right to avoid the trap of her gaze.
Mrs. Calloway puts a gentle hand on my back, as if we are kin. “There was an Oriental man at one of the stores in St. Joe. Do you know him?”
I swallow hard and my face falls. “I—” My voice catches in my throat. “Yes, I knew him. He was a fine man. The finest.” I’m revealing too much, but I can’t help it.
“Was?”
I glare at the ground. “He died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her voice is soft as a baby’s breath. “Well, that part of the river is most private, hidden by lovely cedars.” She nods toward a patch of green a hundred yards away.
The girls fetch us two sets of their father’s clothes, one for each of us, and we head to the river.
Father always said, If you cannot be brave, then imagine you are someone else who is. So I imagine myself as him, my optimistic father, whose step never wavered, whose face never hid in shadows. Lifting my chin, I march after Andy as if my cares were few and my outlook, golden.