37
I STAND OVER CAY AND PEETY, REFUSING TO ACCEPT it. She couldn’t have left. Maybe she simply laid her bedroll somewhere else because Peety was snoring too loud. But I don’t see her anywhere.
Maybe she went for a walk. She stashed her bedroll, took her coat, and wandered off.
I kneel in the flattened grass of the empty space.
The ground is cold. My eyes catch on a fragment of metal on Peety’s hand, glinting in the moonlight. He has a gold ring on his pinkie.
I scramble to where the horses are clumped together. Both Paloma and Lupe are lying on the ground, while Franny and Skinny stand facing each other, as if silently communing.
Princesa is gone.
As I stare at the horses, my mind jogs back to our conversation in the stream only hours before. Follow. She is still playing the game.
She has gone to Harp Falls without me.
I grab my head in frustration. Andy! I was supposed to come with you. Curse your Dragon’s overconfidence and rocky head. The tears come, even as I know she had my interests at heart. She thought I’d be safer with the boys and Mr. Trask.
I hastily fill my canteen and stuff jerky and nuts into a feed sack. Then I tack up Paloma. If Andy runs into Badge, he won’t know she was part of my group. And even if he did know, he might not care after what happened with West. And what of the other gang members? It would be easy to catch her, still weak from cholera and obviously deluded by visions of her brother.
After I attach the saddlebags, I fetch my bedroll.
At least the dark will slow her down. Maybe she’s still close. I can catch her and bring her home. But what if she doesn’t want to come back?
West fell back into a peaceful slumber. I try not to look at him as I fold my blanket. I can’t bear to say good-bye.
My resolve weakens and I hide my snuffling in my sleeve. I take a deep, shaky breath to calm myself. I am tempted to wake West, to pour out my troubles and let the boys charge to the rescue.
But I can’t. I owe it to the remuda to keep them from harm’s way. And deep inside, I know West could have a better life, a luckier one, without me.
I finish packing quickly, taking the minimum I need to survive and leaving the rest for the boys.
I tear off paper from West’s journal and spend precious minutes trying to figure out what to write. But even if I had a lifetime to compose the right words, nothing I say would be adequate. So I simply scribble: Thank you—Sammy.
I fold the now-wet paper, and carefully slip it into West’s pocket. Finally, I allow myself a last look, trying to memorize every detail of him, every scar and dimple.
I wipe my eyes and force myself to my feet. I kiss him good-bye in my head, bidding farewell to the one I have loved in silence.
? ? ?
The sky has lightened several shades by the time I steer Paloma upstream. Our river must have a source, and perhaps that source is Harp Falls. At least, I hope that will be Andy’s reasoning. I don’t have any better route to follow.
I urge Paloma to a trot, thankful once again for the steady feet of my mule. She expertly steps over pinecones and fallen branches. The rhythm of her movement comforts me.
I pat her neck. “I’m sorry to make you leave your friends. But we will see Princesa soon. Help me keep a sharp eye out for her, okay? They have to rest sometime.”
In the somber light of predawn, the pine trees take on the eerie silhouette of hulking phantoms with gnarled limbs and shriveled goblins, waiting to jump out at us. My legs grip Paloma harder and she increases her tempo.
I pat my gun for assurance. If these are the Haystack Mountains, criminals hide here, according to that trapper. I’ve already run into the remaining members of the Broken Hand Gang, haven’t I? If these mountains are a lawbreaker’s lair, it follows that mercenaries will flock here, too.
My mind winds back to my last conversation with Andy. Something she said about Ty Yorkshire troubles me. I begin braiding Paloma’s mane. He loved his dice. Six was his lucky number, though it always set him back seven. He had a gambling problem.
Sometimes you roll snake eyes, Ty Yorkshire had said. Snake eyes means you lose.
I stop braiding. Though I hate to think of that dark night, I strain to remember what he said before he assaulted me. Not easy to insure a wood building like that, but I can be very convincing.
“Ty Yorkshire started the fire,” I say aloud. The only one to hear is Paloma, who ignores my sudden outburst. He blamed it on Father so he could get the insurance proceeds.
My skin turns clammy as a seal’s and my head pounds so hard I can hear it. Any remorse I felt for Ty Yorkshire’s death vanishes like a puff of smoke.
But as furious as I am, fury won’t bring Father back. The one responsible is already dead. And as the Chinese saying goes, every second spent angry is one less to spend on tranquillity. I can almost see him now, fishing out an eggshell from a bowl of cracked eggs with a patient, steady hand, practicing tranquillity during the small things so he’d be ready when the bigger things came along.
After an hour or two, my anger has abated a notch, but whether that is from mental discipline or sleepiness, I cannot be certain. The moon has faded and drizzly clouds outlined in white sprout at the eastern horizon. The landscape is easier to see now. The sight of a recent horse dropping bolsters my spirits in a way I never thought horse droppings could. We soldier on with renewed energy.
I can’t help ogling this corner of God’s museum. Red and yellow flowers peek out of the spaces between the rocks. Softwoods stipple the landscape as far as the eye can see: bristled lodgepole pine, stately hemlocks with tops bent like sleeping caps and the white pines with their straight trunks that run unbranched on their bottom halves.
By midday, we shade up. Paloma dips her nose into the stream, which has widened and lost its bank. I eat a pull of jerky and a leftover biscuit, nothing fancy, but enough to take the edge off my hunger. Water fills the remaining spaces in my stomach.
As Paloma gets her fill of grass, I rub stream water over my hot face. The sight of my own reflection startles me. My face has thinned, uncovering cheekbones and making my eyes look bigger, almost startled. There’s a tightness to my jaw that must have come from months of scowling. I make an effort to relax my face, and it disappears. Would you recognize me now, Father? I cover my reflection with a withered leaf and watch it float away.
I don’t tarry long. Andy doesn’t have a gun or arrows. How does she expect to catch game, let alone protect herself? She is resourceful, yes, but she didn’t even take a pot. How will she boil water? I thank God that Paloma surpasses Princesa in both stamina and steadiness. We might even catch up by midday.
The river has grown so tumultuous that I cannot fathom crossing without a bridge, and the faint odor of rotting eggs stings my nose. I haven’t spotted any more horse droppings and I hope that Andy didn’t cross the river earlier. Soon a new sound catches my ear, lower in cadence and more pounding, like the beat of a kettledrum.
We crest a hill and a waterfall rises before us, a torrent of white as great as God’s beard. It must rise at least two hundred feet. The yellow-streaked rock flanking the falls rises steeply on the left side, but not so steeply on the right, like the top of a harp.
My chest collapses at the sight.
Harp Falls. Just like Andy described.