I lean back on my elbows, wishing I didn’t understand so immediately what she meant. A wasp buzzes near my face, and I blow at it. There may not be laws against interracial marriages in California, but society still frowns upon the practice. It is no easy thing, living under the weight of public scrutiny day after day. Even worse to subject another to it.
I didn’t know if Mexicans felt the same way about blacks as whites did—surely Peety was different. “Rats live by their own rules. You heard what he said back there about Chinito marrying whoever he wants.”
He shrugs. “He might already have a sweetheart.”
He never spoke of a sweetheart, though I recall him mentioning one girl, Esme. When we first got Paloma, he told her that Esme loved mules.
“Anyway, I been thinking I might not want to get married. Most men want children, but I don’t want to bring a child into a world where he could be sold like a hog.”
That makes sense to me. “But don’t you want someone to look after you?”
She leans back against our tree. “I don’t need nobody to take care of me. And you don’t either. Though that first day on the trail, I didn’t hold much hope for either of us. That look on your face when I caught the snake . . . ” Her lips tuck in, as if trying to suppress a smile.
“Only because I do not like killing my own kind.” I sniff.
“Your kind was pretty tasty, though, admit it.” A grin breaks through and soon I’m wearing one, too. “What’s West’s animal?”
“A rabbit.”
“As in bunny?” Her mouth hangs open and she looks so dumbfounded, I start to laugh. Soon, we’re both slapping the ground in hilarity. Another wasp swoops by, and her teary gaze drifts toward the tree next to us. Something catches her attention. “So many wasps buzzing over there.” She stretches her neck to get a closer look. “Is that a boot?”
Something brown sticks out of the earth near a heap of brush. The boot’s only a shade lighter than the dirt.
She gets up and slaps her hands together. “Maybe this is Peety’s lucky day.”
I follow her to the boot. “Hope it’s a pair. Chinese people say good things come in pairs because the word for ‘two’ sounds like the word for ‘easy’—”
“Sammy,” she hisses, stopping short.
“What?” Something in her voice makes me afraid.
She’s staring at the brush. Tangled in the base of the plant is a negro man.
He’s crumpled into a fetal position, facing us. Blood mats his hair, and the wasps are busy laying their eggs in his scalp. His eyes are nearly hollowed-out sockets and his skin is peeling in patches, like paint. Chunks of his arms are missing, maybe eaten by animals.
My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. I try to pull Andy away, but she’s immobile, staring fixedly at a spot on the tree at eye level, where a cross is carved into the trunk.
“Come on, let’s go,” I urge, yanking her by the arm.
We fetch our saddles and run.
22
NEITHER OF US SPEAKS UNTIL WE CAN SEE PEOPLE again. This time, the sight of the pioneers comforts me.
Andy tugs at her collar, wet with sweat. “Someone sure don’t know how to bury a man, or maybe just a negro man.”
“Maybe they didn’t have time to dig deep. Or maybe they didn’t have shovels.”
“He looked killed to me,” Andy says. “Surprised they left his boots. Maybe whoever did it thought they were dirty.”
“Well, they were pretty muddy.”
“I don’t mean dirty that way. Some people think touching a colored or his things will get ’em dirty.” She removes her hat and fans herself with it even though people can see us. Then she relids her head and sighs. “I’m just glad it wasn’t Isaac.”
I nod. “Should we tell someone? Maybe he’s part of the Broken Hand Gang.”
“Just ’cause he’s colored don’t mean he’s part of that gang, you know.” Her tone is not accusing, but I still feel the sting.
She goes on. “Anyway, who would we tell? And why?”
I steer Paloma between a couple of tents and concede the point. No one’s going to care about a dead black man. Poor fellow. He came all this way to end up under a tree. At least someone took the time to carve a cross. That means someone cared about his soul.
We pick our way through the pioneers and are scouting for a good place to camp, when we see the boys flying down the trail. They draw up their panting horses beside us.
“Time to go, kids,” Cay cries, straining his eyes behind him. His shirt is buttoned wrong.
West curses as he pulls up behind him. Cay holds his hands out to his cousin. “I’m sorry, okay? How was I supposed to know she had six brothers?”
“You gotta chase every skirt you see?” says West, glowering.
“I don’t chase ’em. They just fall into my lap.”
“That’s the last time I’m doing that,” says West, pulling Franny to the water’s edge. We all follow him.
“How deep goes that water?” Andy squints at the inky lane.
“Don’t worry, Princesa likes agua.”
“I ain’t thinking about her.”
Cay stands up on his stirrups for a better look down the trail. “If it gets too deep, stand up.”
Andy crosses her arms. “I knows you’s joking with me.”
“Ain’t joking. C’mon, c’mon! Let’s wiggle.”
“Fine,” says Andy. “You go walk on water first.”
“All right, I will.” Cay digs in his heels. “This is what we call a Skinny dip.”
Andy goes next, followed by Peety and West.
Paloma paces the shoreline, not sure if she wants to do this after all. The remuda—both horses and riders—peers back at me. “Come on, girl, it’ll be an adventure, you can tell your children about it one day,” I plead to her.
“Mules no have children, Chinito,” says Peety. “Let’s go, Paloma.”
But she will not go.
West tugs his rein to signal Franny back, but Peety holds out an arm.
“Trust me, Paloma, you can do it,” says Peety. Then he spurs Lupe onward, and the remuda follows. The distance between us increases until the sound of the rushing river drowns out the horses’ splashing.
The faint sound of yelling reaches my ears. Six men on mules clamber down the trail, six matchsticks with their flame-red hair flying in all directions. The brothers.
One yells and points in our direction. Fear blows her icy breath down my neck. I’m not the one being pursued, but when six angry men run at me from behind, I don’t fuss with details.
“Giddap!” I cry, digging in my heels hard. Paloma charges forward. The remuda stops again to yell encouragements as Paloma and I slog toward them.
Finally, two hundred feet out, I glance back to see all of the men pacing the shoreline. One shakes his fist at us.
“I’m okay,” I gasp when we catch up. I try to affect an air of reckless indifference despite my heaving chest.
“Move,” West barks at Cay. We move.