Later, after the boys fall asleep, I scoot closer to Andy. “I’m coming with you to Harp Falls.”
“I already told you—”
“You were wrong when you said Isaac was the only family you had. You have me, too.”
The fringe of her eyelashes flicks up and down as she studies me. “I feel the same way. But you can’t give up on you’s daddy’s dream after all this way. What kind of life would that be for you, living with a couple of runaway slaves? Listen, Sammy. You’s a smart gir—er—person, someone of the first water, as Cay would say. Ain’t nothing you couldn’t do. But me, I’ll always be marked by my face.”
“I’m marked by my face, too.”
“Not as a slave.”
I swallow my words, because I can’t argue with her there.
“Once you find Mr. Trask, you’ll be with decent folk. People who can help set you up with the life you deserve.”
I prop myself up on an elbow. “I am with decent folk. Would you let me go by myself to some mythical waterfall in the middle of nowhere?”
She snorts. “Of course not. But the difference is, I know how to survive. You never had to run ten miles a day on chores.” She flops onto her back and purses her lips.
“Last I checked, you can’t outrun bullets, or bears for that matter.” Dragons are known for being overconfident and unrealistic, but I decide against mentioning that since Dragons do not take criticism well. I lie back down. “I can make my own choices. And I choose to stay with you.”
Maybe what matters is not so much the path as who walks beside you.
25
DURING OUR AFTERNOON BREAK, ANDY AND I stretch out under a dogwood. While she calculates sums in our journal, I mentally work out how many miles Mr. Trask has traveled and estimate him to be a couple hundred miles ahead of us yet. A warm breeze blows some of the cross-shaped blossoms into our faces. One tree over, the boys study their map, with the remuda grazing nearby.
Princesa screams.
“I saw that, Skinny,” scolds Peety, shaking his finger at Cay’s horse. “Keep teeth to yourself.”
The chastised pinto turns her snapping jaws on West’s horse.
“Get your hellcat off,” West barks at Cay.
Cay jerks Skinny’s harness to one side. “Bad girls have more fun, don’t they, Skinny?”
But now the whole remuda’s thrashing and lunging like they’re crawling with fleas.
Peety throws his hands in the air. “No one’s proper ladies right now. They need to go stand in cold river.”
Andy peers at Princesa’s rump and pinches her nose. “I say a run will do them better.” To me, she whispers, “That, and a hot-water bottle for the cramps.”
When Peety nods at her suggestion, I look twice to make sure I saw right. He never takes horse advice from West or Cay without objecting first.
“Choke your hat strings,” orders Cay as we remount.
He leads the charge, like the speed-loving Tiger that he is. We run at top speed through a wide open plain fuzzy with sagebrush, a flat line of purplish bluffs far off in the distance. A year ago, I was barely comfortable ambling down the cobblestones with Tsing Tsing. Father didn’t want to buy a speedier horse because he thought I’d break my neck if it went too fast. But now I fly like I’m riding Pegasus. Maybe we can hit thirty miles today.
After the horses expend their cranky energy, we park in the shadow of a low-lying bluff with a baby stream at its base. The water runs clear and glassy, but too shallow for fish.
I uncinch Paloma’s saddle, and drop beside her at the stream’s edge to wash my face. West waters Franny farther down the stream. Our long run took us a few miles from the main trail, but at least we’re away from prying eyes.
The air shivers a fraction, like the barest rumble of a bear you cannot see but only suspect might be there. All my thoughts halt as I snap my head up. Only a few white clouds smear the sky. The stampede springs to mind, and I frantically search the landscape. When I locate the sound, I freeze.
Three horses tear across the prairie straight for us, manes and tails flying wildly. They wear neither riders nor saddles.
Wild mustangs.
Peety and Cay are carrying their saddles toward the shade of a cottonwood when they notice my alarm.
“H-h-hors—” I babble, pointing.
Everyone starts talking at once. Peety unleashes a stream of Spanish, too fast for me to understand, so I tune in to Cay instead.
“Skinny, come back, you stubborn hussy!” he yells as Skinny hot-trots toward the oncoming horses. “You let that son of a bitch bang you, and I’m leaving your ass in this weedy wasteland.”
Skinny snubs Cay by continuing her spree toward the stallions. Lupe runs a step behind her. Cay and Peety drop their saddles and race after their mounts.
“Where you going?” yells Andy.
“Can’t have pregnant horses!” Peety yells back. “Tie Princesa!”
As Andy attempts to tie a frisky Princesa to the cottonwood, Franny darts away from West and starts kicking up her heels, too. The only member of the remuda who wants nothing to do with the stallions is Paloma, who plunks her bottom down in the middle of the stream.
While Andy secures Princesa’s lead, I distract the horse with some raisins.
Two stallions reach Skinny and Lupe, hungry for the pretty mares. The mares stop prancing and let the stallions nudge and sniff at them.
Cay reaches the horses and raises his riding whip. “Shoo, you horny rascals, before I quirt you!”
Not thirty feet away, a black stallion, drooling with desire, attempts to mount Franny. West pulls her harness in a circle so the stallion can’t get good purchase.
I wring my shirt hem at the sight of that poor stallion, begging for relief. Franny, too. It’s not their fault. It is spring, after all.
The stallion snaps its teeth and lets out a scream that chills my blood. Rearing up, it plants its forelegs on Franny’s back. West lays his quirt hard upon the stallion’s flank.
Now the stallion recognizes West as the source of its frustration and it screams again. I scream, too, as the monster bangs its front legs right in front of West, almost stepping on him. Then the stallion’s great head crashes down, and it bites West on the shoulder. West clutches his arm and curses, stumbling backward into Franny.
That horse could kill him. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I may be a nuisance to him, but to me, he is one of the few people who matter in this world. My own survival depends on his.
I grab Andy.
“The tree!” I cry, pointing at a bur oak. “Your rope!” I circle with my finger.
Andy understands perfectly. She unhitches her rope from Princesa’s saddle as well as the one from Paloma’s saddle. One twenty-foot rope won’t be long enough. I pray she remembers the sweetheart knot.
I charge toward West, pulling my gun from the holster, knowing I cannot yet shoot the stallion for it stands too close to Franny and West. I aim it in the air and fire.
The stallion whips its head around, slinging saliva from its mouth. It rolls its eyes at me.
“Leave them alone, or I’ll geld you in one shot,” I yell, willing the stallion to hold still so I can get a better aim. Instead, it charges me.
Though I race across the plains faster than I ever expected these legs could go, you cannot outrun a stallion on foot. This is common knowledge, though I imagine many a man has lost his life trying to disprove this theory.
Running is not my forte, though neither is being a boy. I tear over to the oak, which suddenly seems very far. But the sight of Andy and her lariat spurs me on.
Just as my lungs feel like they will burst, Andy casts. Her rope catches the stallion around the neck. Yes! Andy hastens to fasten the loose end around the oak. I don’t watch this part as I’m running like crazy around the tree. If her knot isn’t secure, it won’t hurt to tie things a little snugger.
Finally after several wide circles, I think the stallion has cinched the noose tight enough. I dash away and fall to the ground with Andy, heaving lungfuls of air. I doubt I will ever move again, but the sound of a gunshot brings me up onto my knees.
In the distance, two stallions crash to the ground. Skinny and Lupe skitter, agitated, but their virtue remains intact.
Andy and I scramble to our feet and over to West, who leans upon Franny.