West wakes in the early afternoon. I hand him a cup of coffee, suddenly struck with the urge to smooth back his rumpled hair.
“Andy needs help,” says West.
She is halfway off her bedroll and about to crawl over Cay. “I’ll help him,” I say, nearly scalding myself with coffee in my haste to get to her before West gets up.
She clutches me with more strength than I expect. Her fingernails dig into my arm. “Isaac misses us something awful,” she croaks. “But we’ll be with him soon, won’t we, Tommy?” Her forehead knits and I can smell the bitter sickness in her breath.
She must be in the middle of a dream. “Sure, Andy. Of course we’ll see him soon.”
I pull her, half stumbling, toward the necessary. Once she finishes using it, I resettle her on her bedroll. West brings over a cup of blackberry tea, and I put it to her lips.
“Being still ain’t good for the horses,” he says. “They ain’t fed enough either. I’ll explore with them today. Maybe I’ll run into some folks who can help.”
He takes out his journal. I have not seen him draw since that picture he sketched of my six-year-old self. The book opens to the page held by a leather cord. While he rips out a blank sheet, I catch a glimpse of the last picture he drew: a girl whose hair cascades over her shoulders, hiding her face in shadow.
It couldn’t be Sophie, as she had ringlets. I recall his fitful sleep after the stallion bite, when he cried out, “She didn’t do it!” Perhaps that “she” is the girl in the picture. Maybe a friend, or . . . There is so much I do not know about his life, and a part of me mourns that I never will.
He draws the route he will take so I know where to go if I need him. Paloma will stay behind with me. He tacks Franny, then leads the remuda out of Eden.
I rub each of my charges’ legs and backs. Then I take out my bow and notch the arrow. Fitting the point into the arrow rest on the grip, I try to shoot fish in the stream. My aim is steadily improving. Last week, I hit a dandelion from thirty feet away.
I wound a trout, which I throw in the pot along with some wild parsley I found upstream. Maybe Andy’s Snap Stew will comfort us. The fire releases plumes of gray smoke when I throw on a chunk of pine with too much sap, and I use a rag to clear the air.
Andy whimpers and I rush to her side. I find her with one arm linked through Peety’s, her fingers kneading her sleeve where her scar with the six dots lies. The vaquero still slumbers. Andy’s eyes are clear though her face is drenched with sweat.
She sighs when I place a cold rag on her forehead. “Go tell West the truth. You two go on before you catch what’s-it we have. I’ll take care of the boys. Ain’t got nothing better to do.”
“Shut it, Andy. I’m not going anywhere,” I growl, hoping my harsh tone hides my distress.
I swear she rolls her eyes at me, then lowers her voice to a whisper. “When the master’s son drowned Tommy’s baby pig, Tommy didn’t cry. He scooped that pink ball out of the rain barrel and gave it to Isaac. ‘Bury him for me,’ he tells Isaac. ‘Soapy needs you to help him get to heaven.’
“Isaac buried Soapy by the craggy tree. Carved a cross on the trunk so God would know where to find him. Tommy sat by Soapy’s grave all morning, looking through the stone with the hole.” She pulls her arm out of Peety’s and presses her palm to the rag on her forehead. “If I don’t make it, I need you to tell Isaac one day what happened. I’d sure hate him to think I died a slave.”
“Hush. We still have a lot of trail to cover before the end. You’re not going to die up here. I won’t let you.” I hold her hand to my cheek.
“But here’s where I always wanted to be. Free.” The shadow of a smile crosses her face. “Promise it.”
“I promise.” I pull her hand away so she cannot feel the tears streaking down my face.
? ? ?
Sometime in the late afternoon, my skin crawls, like ants are marching up and down my legs and arms. I check my surroundings, but see only a lone falcon, wobbling on an air current. So I finish scooping the fish bones from the pot. But I cannot shake the sense that someone is watching me. I let it build for another moment then whip around.
Not twenty feet away, two black men stare at me, one from the top of a mule. The first, a young man of about twenty, has a good few inches on West, with hawkish eyes that don’t blink, and lips that pinch tightly together, causing his forehead to bunch over his brow. He’s wearing a buckskin coat only a shade lighter than his own skin, and underneath that, a white-and-blue-checkered shirt. The one on the mule leans forward over his animal’s neck. He is more a boy than a man, with a long face and a nose like a baby butternut squash. I’ve seen their faces before. The index and pinkie finger of the Broken Hand Gang.