Under a Painted Sky

We do it. Cay stands between Andy and me with his own rope.

 

“Since we don’t have any good stumps, West will be yours,” Cay tells me. Then he turns to Andy. “And you do Peety.”

 

“What?” Andy exclaims.

 

West and Peety look up from their card game.

 

“I can’t do that,” I gasp, taking a step back. “I might strangle my stump.”

 

West dares me with his eyes. “Catching me ain’t as easy as it looks.”

 

“Yeah, it is,” says Cay. “Pretend he’s a mute post, which ain’t far from the truth.”

 

He winds up and casts his lariat over West. West shrugs out of it and tosses it back.

 

Cay hands it back to me. “Your turn. Let’s see if Chinamen can do more than bow.”

 

I narrow my eyes. “You offend me.”

 

“Oh-fend? You mean like rile you up? I thought Chinamen never get mad.”

 

Steam trickles out of my ears. That fox wants me to prove him wrong, but I won’t play his game. I unclench my jaw and toss my nose in the air.

 

“Could my stump turn around? He’s making me nervous,” I say, as coolly as I can.

 

West throws down his cards and turns around. Stretching out his legs, he leans back on his hands and mutters, “Good luck.”

 

That’s it. I will show those hot shots just what Chinamen can do. I crank up my arm, sure someone tied lead weights to my rope given how much it drags.

 

“You call that an arm? I call that spaghetti,” Cay yells. “Put some game into it—you’re throwing like a girl.”

 

“I ain’t a girl,” I growl, stomping the ground a few times to prove it.

 

“Why you got spaghetti arms, then?”

 

“At least I don’t have spaghetti brains.” My eyes catch on one of the blond locks that springs out from behind his ear. Even his curls are mocking me. I stop winding to glower. “We Chinese like our spaghetti arms, which allow us to balance better when we, er, cross bridges.”

 

I apologize to Chinese men everywhere, most of whom don’t even know what spaghetti is. Andy pulls the brim of her hat over her ears. With a grimace, I throw as hard as I can, watching in horror as my loop heads toward our blaze, many miles from West. It lands in the nest of flames. Cay jerks back my burning lariat as I pray for a twister to suck me up.

 

Cay stamps out the rope. “Uh, Sammy, you noodled the fire.”

 

The stumps are shaking with laughter. Even Andy.

 

I suck in my gut, then cuss and spit a few times. “Why must I learn this?”

 

Cay flinches like I slapped him. “Don’t say that. How you gonna catch anything if you don’t know how to rope?”

 

“Charm. My spiderweb.” I chafe, stewing in my own juices. But as the laughter continues, I deflate.

 

Cay pushes my hat down over my eyes. “No one does it on the first try. Andy’s turn.”

 

Gladly, I step aside.

 

“Hit me with your best shot,” Peety says. When Andy winds up, he starts heckling her. “Hey, Andito bandito, I know you wish you can touch this Mayan pyramid, this buffalo body of músculo—”

 

She casts. Her rope does not spin but whips Peety on the side of the head.

 

“Ow, chico.”

 

One glance at Andy’s shocked face sets me off. I fall to my knees and let my laughter tumble out.

 

? ? ?

 

Each night after cowboy lessons, I drill the boys and Andy on language. I use pages from West’s journal to write out Chinese characters for them to memorize, and give them throat and tongue exercises so they can push out the French r. Cay likes to turn phrases like “Nice to meet you” into “Nice to meet your lips,” but I don’t mind as long as he remembers the vocabulary.

 

The boys take turns requesting songs from the Lady Tin-Yin, and she is always happy to comply, the show-off. Then we lie in our line, surrounded by rope. Most nights, I fall asleep last. The stars are too irresistible, and I don’t want to close my eyes. Every time I do, fears start racing through my mind, led by a couple of Scots driving a rabid posse against me.

 

Eventually, though, I convince myself the MacMartins do not suspect us. Then there’s only Father to consume my thoughts. I try not to dwell too much on what he suffered in the fire. That will set off girly tears for certain, and I have not cried since our first day on the Trail.

 

A hand touches my shoulder one night, and I wake with a confused gasp.

 

“Sammy.”

 

I am curled in a tight ball, and my face is wet. I gulp and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. West hangs over me.

 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, unfurling myself.

 

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice compassionate.

 

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