16
WE ROUND A HEAP OF FOLDED CANVAS AND SPOT the MacMartin brothers squatting in the dirt constructing tents. Their father’s tongue lashes them in his thick speech.
“You want to gang back to a life of tracking?” asks Mr. MacMartin, shaking a stick back toward the trail. “Slupping through the muck for pennies a hyde? That what ye want?”
As we hurry by, I can feel Angus’s and Ian’s cold gaze following us, lifting the hairs on my neck.
“I bet those boys bit their way out of the womb,” Andy whispers.
Once we reach the cover of the cedars, we place the saddlebag and my violin case by a rock and quickly strip our clothes. The water runs clearer here than where we won our fishing bet, but it’s just as cold. I count that as a good thing for my stinging hands, which quickly go numb.
“Maybe I should leave my face dirty,” I say.
“Too suspicious. They sent us out here to get clean.”
I scrub myself of dirt with one of Mrs. Calloway’s rags, powered by nervous energy. With Mr. Calloway’s pending arrival, surely the end is near. “Maybe we should make a run for it. The more distance we put between us and people who know our past, the better.”
Andy rubs water from her eyes. “I know what you’s saying, Sammy, but they already saw us. What’s going to happen will happen, and when it does, I’d rather have those boys by our side.”
She disappears under the water, leaving me frowning. She has a point. The boys wrapped up the MacMartin brothers as easily as if they were bakery boxes. But even the thought of West’s quick reflexes doesn’t chase away the calamity imps flying around me.
Father said all imps must be controlled through the mind. One watermelon, two watermelons . . .
Andy breaks through the water and clears her eyes. “What you’s gut telling you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, mine is telling me I’m hungry, so let’s go with that.”
The bleating calls of the returning herd remind us to shake a tail feather. The boys will be taking their own bath soon.
I’m about to lift myself out of the water when the sound of giggles stops me in my tracks. I sink back down and motion for Andy to do the same.
Rachel and Mary emerge from the cedars toting buckets.
“We ain’t finished yet,” growls Andy in a voice much deeper than mine.
“You forgot the buckets for the water,” says Rachel brightly.
“Just set ’em down.”
They put the buckets on the bank, but instead of leaving, they stand there, twirling their skirts back and forth like feather dusters.
“You want something?” asks Andy. To me, she whispers without moving her lips, “We ain’t got nothing you don’t already got.”
Mary pulls at her braids. “Mother says to fetch your dirty clothes.”
“Oh,” Andy says, letting her breath go. “Right there.”
The girls gather up the laundry at a snail’s pace, holding up the shirts one at a time. I groan. What could be more uninteresting than seeing another shirt after an afternoon of doing laundry?
The boys will be here any minute. Sweat collects on my brow while the rest of me turns blue from the frigid waters.
“Why do you wear so many shirts?” asks Mary.
“’Cause we’s cold, and we’s getting colder the longer you take,” snaps Andy. Mary pulls down her Cupid’s-bow mouth and snatches up the last shirt.
“What’s this?” asks Rachel, stooping down to pick up something.
“Looks like an apron tie,” says Mary, as Rachel waves the pink scrap of fabric in front of her. Andy’s lips come apart.
“I use it to bind my leg boils,” says Andy. “So let it be.”
With a look of disgust, Rachel drops the tie and hurries away, followed by Mary.
“Finally,” I mutter.
We hear the boys’ voices. Andy’s face crumples.
I wade toward the shore. “Quickly!”
The boys saunter forth from the trees, coming head to head with the girls. The boys’ faces are lit with laughter. Cay’s shirt hangs open. Mud covers his chest and one side of his face.
Mary drops the bundle she’s holding. Her hands flutter around her face. “Oh!” Another sparrow just flew into the cat’s mouth.
Cay and Peety bend to help her collect the clothes while Rachel faces off with West.
I look at Andy and jerk my head toward the shore. Now. We dive for Mr. Calloway’s bright plaid shirts, yanking them on faster than minutemen. Thank God the shirts are long enough to cover our bottoms. Facing the river, we hitch up our trousers, then twist around to assess the damage.
The girls, now in the presence of real cowboys, can hardly contain their delight. No one’s paying attention to us. I blow out a shaky breath as I finish buttoning my shirt. Andy secures her apron tie. We fill our buckets and head back to the circle.
? ? ?
Not a hand lies idle when we return to our hosts. One group of pioneers chops turnips while others stir bubbling cauldrons of stew. Yet another group pulls hot buns off the skillets with iron tongs. After we bring Mrs. Calloway the water, Andy and I huddle together around her fire.