28
TWO MORE DAYS PASS, AND WEST RALLIES HIS sand, as Cay puts it. On the sixth morning, when I open my eyes, West is sketching something in his journal. I try not to make any noise as I lift my head off the crook of my arm to glimpse what he draws.
It is me as my six-year-old self. He did the braid perfectly. There are my eyes, my nose, and now my lips. But then his charcoal stops, and he crumples the paper and throws it in the fire.
When he hears me stirring, he declares loudly, “I’m going crazy sitting here doing nothing. I want to get back on my taps.”
So we pack up. West drapes his arm over Franny’s saddle and walks. We take up our usual positions and head back to the trail, all of us on foot. Nearly a week has passed since the stallion bit West, which means we’re back on track with Mr. Trask, given the week-long delay for wagons at Fort Laramie. With luck, we might catch up soon.
Andy starts singing “Amazing Grace” with her warm gospel voice, in the low key she uses to avoid suspicion. No one joins her. Andy’s gospel solos always make us weep for our mothers.
I rub my neck, sore from hours of sitting and taking care of West, and think about his drawings. Maybe he doesn’t hate me for assaulting him with my mouth. In fact, maybe he liked it, and that’s why he pushed me away. The thought goes to my head like champagne bubbles. I sit up straighter.
Not for the first time, I think about telling West that I am a girl. At least that might clear up one possible source of confusion for him. He might never trust me again, but at least he could put his head right about himself. And if his distaste for me stems from the fact that I’m Chinese, then I will know for myself what kind of man he is, and that will clear up some confusion for me. I glance back and catch him looking at me. He scowls and stares gloomily into the endless sea of amber grass.
If I told West the truth, then Andy and I would have to reveal the whole truth to everyone, since I could not burden him with that secret. Then they would knowingly be harboring criminals. Would the boys feel enough of a kinship to us that they would be able to lie to protect us?
We may never find out.
? ? ?
We only travel a few miles the first day, stopping frequently to let West catch his breath. After another sunrise, he is back on Franny for the full day.
Soon, we rejoin the queue of emigrants bound for Fort Laramie, and Andy and I are back to keeping our chins tucked in and our hats low. We travel as one long snake toward the white adobe walls of the fort, rising like a giant white bread box set atop an outcropping of bedrock. All around us, tents, tepees, and wagons spread out as far as the eye can see.
Just as Cay reported, the wagons grind to a halt in the middle of the trail at least a mile before the fort. The remuda weaves through the wagons, stepping high with short strides. Heads turn as we pass. Paloma does her best to follow along with me crouching against her neck.
When the fort is about the size of a wagon in the distance, Andy calls for a halt, and we dig in at a spot by the swift-moving Laramie River. Thanks to the river, the grass grows a deep shade of green.
“More folks here than we seen in the last month put together,” says Andy.
I take in the debris littering the fields: barrels, wheels, a loom. I even spot a piano. “And they left their junk everywhere.”
“I think those are from them who brought too much and need to lighten the load.”
Andy and I untack the remuda, and the boys walk the last quarter mile to the fort. They’ll use one of Ty Yorkshire’s rings this time to pay for our supplies.
Pulling off saddles and brushing coats is hot work, and soon we’re both glistening with sweat. Andy rolls up her sleeves. The boys have seen her square brand with the six dots by now, but they’ve never questioned her about it.
I work a brush between Paloma’s ears. “You think it’s time to tell the boys the truth? Maybe they’d even come with us to the falls.”
“Sammy.” She gives me a look of supreme patience. Unbuckling Princesa’s saddle, she hauls it to the ground. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”
“Regretfully, no. And so you know, even if you did leave, you’d just be giving Paloma and me more work to do looking for you.”
Scowling, she shakes her head. “I just hate to think about you giving up on you’s daddy’s dream, ’specially after losin’ you’s violin.”
I don’t let on how much I hate it, too. “I’m not giving up. I’m just taking a detour. My father would understand. He always said people come before things.”
She lifts her eyes to the heavens and consults with a cloud. Not dropping her gaze, she says, “I’m gonna feel guilty about this the rest of my life, but . . . okay. You can come with me.”
I throw my arms around her. She lets me stay for a moment, then pushes me off. “About the boys . . . ” She bends down and rubs Princesa’s leg. “They’ve done nothing but good by us.” Still squatting, she looks up at me. “So if you want to tell them, it’s okay by me.”
I smile. “I wonder what Peety will say when he finds out we’re chicas, not chicos.” I stomp down the dried grass, then kneel beside her.
Her face breaks into a grin. “Maybe he won’t say anything for a change. Cay will probably want us to unshuck to prove it. But what about West?”
I blink in the bright sunlight. “Sometimes I think he knows. But then, why wouldn’t he say anything?”
“Well, the other day I swung Peety’s fifty-pound saddle onto Lupe. He didn’t even blink. I’d say we’ve gotten pretty good at being boys. I bet I could even fool Isaac.”
“You think he’s changed much?”
She shrugs. “It’s been five years since I seen him.” A shadow passes over her face. She begins to knead her scar, her eyes unfocused and troubled.
Gently, I say, “You know you can always tell me about your trash.”
“It ain’t right to track my dirt in your house.”
“Father told me that sweeping the Whistle three times a day would improve my bow strokes.”
“Did it?”
“I don’t know. But I got really good at sweeping.”
She groans, but I see the glimmer of a smile before it quickly disappears. “When Isaac was sold off separate from us, Tommy began to cry real hard. He was seven at the time. Isaac wiggled his ears at him—that was our sign that everything was going to be okay—but that just made Tommy cry harder.”
“Poor thing,” I murmur.
“So the auctioneer plugged Tommy’s mouth with an onion. I started screaming when he did that, and then I got an onion, too.”
“Oh, Andy.”
“Isaac went crazy. Normally, he’s gentle as sunshine in April, but when he’s pushed, he’s more like a hurricane. He threw off the two men holding him, and started toward us, like maybe he’s going to get us free, but of course, he’s no match for a rifle. They forced him to his knees, made him put his face in horse droppings”—her voice breaks—“made him eat it, to show him his place.” Her face squeezes tight, but two tears still escape and I pass her my handkerchief.
“I am sorry for that,” I say, my own eyes watering as well, and she nods. It occurs to me that maybe God is in charge of the stars, after all. Maybe He has been saving Andy from the horrors of her life, little by little each day, and perhaps the trouble ahead isn’t so bad as the trouble she left behind. I sure hope that is the case.
Together, we watch the horses several yards away. Andy’s breath gradually begins to lengthen. She nudges me and jerks her chin toward the deserted piano. “You know how to play?”