I stumble out the back of the wagon, blinking in the thin light of morning. The campsite has been tidied, the crates and pots put away, and trees cleared of laundry. Twenty yards away, a mule is chewing on dandelions. Mr. MacMartin is holding her reins. He looks so remarkably like Angus that I hesitate to go any closer.
But Andy jerks her head toward him. “Come on. And just in case you forgot, you’s still a boy.”
As I draw near, I realize that instead of the icy eyes of his sons, Mr. MacMartin has sad eyes, with puffs of flesh underneath that Chinese people believe are caused by too much worry.
“Boys, I beg both of yer forgiveness on account of mah sons’ behavior,” he says. “We’re leaving the train. A’m taking them back to Iowa.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” I say, a sentiment that Andy does not echo.
“Nothing tae be sorry for. Methinks ’tis fair th’ best. I wid lik’ ye ta have this mule. A present from me.”
I lift my hand to stifle a surprised gasp. The mule lifts her head and blinks her long eyelashes at us. Twelve hands tall, light gray in color like Tsing Tsing, but with a downy mane and snow-white tail.
“You’s giving us a mule?” Andy exclaims.
He nods. I offer the mule my hand to sniff. She kisses it, and I fall in love.
Ten paces behind, Cay, West, and Peety watch us as they pack up the remuda.
“I think she likes ye already,” says Mr. MacMartin, handing me her reins. “Good luck to ye and yer friends.”
“Thank you, sir. And good luck to you, too.” Andy and I take turns shaking his hand.
After he returns to his wagon, Peety, West and Cay approach us.
Peety rubs the mule’s face. “A Esme le gustaban las mulas. No la has visto, ?no? Bueno, está bien. Bienvenida a la familia.”
I translate: Esme loved mules. You haven’t seen her, have you? No? Welcome to the family.
Who is Esme?
Andy draws her eyes from the vaquero to me. “You better think of a good name before someone else fixes her with one I can’t pronounce.”
“Best names are always Mexican,” says Peety.
“Then how about Paloma,” I say, the Spanish word for “dove.” “She’s a gift from heaven.” Now Andy won’t have to ride Princesa.
“Not bad,” says Peety.
“I think you should ride her,” says Andy. “I’m gonna give the she-devil another try.”
I fix my astonished eyes on her, but she doesn’t look at me. Her lips press into a resolute bundle.
“Sure about that, Andito?” Peety asks.
She squares her hat. “I’m sure.”
His broad face breaks into a smile. “Bueno. Mules got stronger hooves than horses, and more stamina. Paloma might be small, but she’s perfect for a lightweight like Sammy.”
Lightweight?
“Plus, they’re smarter,” he adds in a whisper, as if the other horses might overhear.
“I wouldn’t get too close, vaquero—a little apple juice makes him deadly,” says Cay. He holds out a gloved hand for me to shake, though I’m not sure why. I press hands and pump once, man-style.
Now West claps me on the back and extends his hand. Another pump. “You showed those tumpshies.”
Before we leave, the sheriff’s crew loads us up with food staples, including Cay’s favorite, coffee. We also get bedrolls for Andy and me, and new saddles. The pioneers are generous, but we can only carry so much.
As I feed Paloma a turnip, Andy steps close to me and says in a low voice, “Mrs. Calloway wants to talk to us.”
We climb into Mrs. Calloway’s wagon again and seat ourselves on chests doubling as benches. The wool rug where I lay this morning pillows our feet.
Mrs. Calloway hands us each a bundle. “You might find these useful without revealing your secret. I made these for the girls to make riding the mules more comfortable. Mary and Rachel have some roundness on you, but they should fit.”
Unfolding our bundles, we each find a matching set of camisole and white drawers, trimmed with a bit of eyelet lace. I draw in my breath.
Andy rubs the camisole against her cheek. “No more chafing.”
There are also several six-by-three-inch rectangles of tightly quilted flannel. I turn one over in my hand, marveling at the tiny stitches.
“Pads for your monthly cycles. They’ll fit right into the drawers,” says Mrs. Calloway, beaming at us.
I am overcome. “Thank you, ma’am, for your kindness.”
“You’re welcome.”
Andy and I hurriedly undress and put on the new undergarments.
“Ma’am, you ever heard of a place called Harp Falls?” Andy asks. “S’posed to be on the trail somewhere.”
“Harp Falls?” The woman taps a fingertip against one of her rosy cheeks. “Can’t say that I have. But if it’s a waterfall, it’d have to be in a mountain range. And it’s pretty flat until Fort Kearny. Maybe your boys can ask when they get to the fort,” says Mrs. Calloway, straightening Andy’s collar. “They have trail experts, there.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” says Andy. “Tell you’s husband I think there was an angel sitting on his wagon that night he saved us.”
“I think you are right. Good luck, girls. No road is ever safe but the one you walk with the Lord. I will pray for your safe deliverance.” She kisses us both on the forehead. That feels even softer to me than our new underthings.
? ? ?
We ride out at the front of the caravan, and soon leave it far behind. Our new steed means we can pick up the pace, since we no longer need to ride double. Paloma is more than able to keep up with the horses, sometimes frisking way ahead. I worry that Andy won’t be able to handle Princesa at our accelerated speed, but she proves me wrong. Though the bay is just as deaf to Andy’s commands as yesterday, I sense a fierce new determination in the way Andy holds herself in the saddle, less stiff in the bottom half, more upright in the top.
After we round the head of the Little Blue, we start climbing northward across the high plains that lead to the Platte River.
I cannot stop thinking about those Scots. Did they hear me slip up last night? No. They would have told someone. Anyway, Mr. MacMartin said they’re headed to Iowa, which is a different trail from the one that goes to St. Joe. What are the chances they’ll run into Deputy Granger or hear word of my crime?
A chill snakes up my spine as I brood over what they might have done if I hadn’t pulled the trigger. How did they plan to use that rope? Tie us up like the boys tied them, or worse?
My skin is clammy and I rub my arms hard to bring life back into them. I still don’t know how to reload my gun, let alone shoot straight. Andy doesn’t even have a gun. Who knows what other criminals we might encounter? We might not be so lucky next time.
I distract myself by searching out markers to tally our mileage. I find them in tree trunks and rocks and sometimes on paper staked to the ground. Two weeks until Fort Kearny, one-third of the way to the Parting. So far, I have spotted five men with firecracker-red suspenders. By the time I reach the Parting, I will be an expert.
The air thins, so we camp early to give the horses and ourselves a chance to acclimate. We settle near a narrow finger of blue on a sandy area scattered with bundles of switchgrass.
That night around our campfire, I unholster the Dragoon and hold it before me. My face flushes even before I speak. I stand tall and clear my throat.
“Um, does anyone know how to—er—load this?” I stammer. This will cost me their newfound respect, but I have to know.
West’s mouth tucks back on one side. Cay whispers to Peety. Peety whispers to West. Andy, scrubbing a pan out with sand, starts to scrub harder, scratching the silence.
I hide my embarrassment under a scowl and reholster the Dragoon. Maybe I’ll go jump in the river now. I turn on my heel.
“Sammy.” Cay calls me back.
“What?” I ask in a gruff voice. Now all three boys are grinning at me.
“How’d you like to learn to be a cowboy?”
I stare, openmouthed. Andy stops scrubbing her pan.
“You, too, Andito,” says Peety, licking the last of Andy’s cobbler from his spoon.