38
THE FACE OF THE FALLS IS TOO STEEP TO CLIMB so we veer right, passing the downpour completely until we come upon a smoother route up the mountain. The whoosh of running water intensifies as we track up a carpet of pine needles.
It takes the better part of the afternoon to scale the falls. We have to rest several times to catch our breath. During the steeper stretches, I dismount and lead Paloma through a zigzagging trail of trees and rock.
“Almost there, Paloma,” I pant once we reach a level area. I climb back aboard for the final stretch.
From behind us, a herd of elk scales the mountain with more haste and power than we just did. They storm past us in a blur of gray fur and antlers, then dissipate like a cloud of smoke. A lone figure appears: a bay, with sleek lines and slender legs.
“Princesa,” I cry, spurring Paloma to a canter.
When we reach her, Princesa turns a baleful eye to me, but it doesn’t faze me. I hug her neck. “Where is she?”
The horse is still saddled, and damp with exertion, which means they must have just arrived recently.
I don’t see Andy anywhere, so I continue my upward trek, leaving Paloma saddled next to Princesa out of caution.
“Andy? Where are you?”
Never have I seen so many pine trees in my life. They obscure the ascent, and I stumble when I crest the top sooner than I expect. My breath sweeps out of me at the view.
Below, a river stretches a hundred feet across, a rolling strip like a dragon’s tongue. It stagnates toward the middle, but ruffles at the south end before the drop-off. On the other shore, more pine trees poke out of the earth.
I descend a hill of rock and find solid footing about fifteen feet down.
My heart nearly jumps out my mouth when I hear voices. I fumble for my gun. Forcing myself to remain calm, I creep in the direction of the waterfall. A bulging wall of rock partially obscures the drop-off. Cautiously, I round the bulge. The thin margin of shoreline isn’t wide enough for a horse, and is slick with green slime. The voices grow louder. I close my eyes, straining for the words, and I hear her.
My foot slips on the slick surface, and I grab on to the wall to keep from falling into the river. But in my haste, I drop the Dragoon. I watch in horror as it clatters down, but thankfully it doesn’t explode this time. The water reaches for it. Hastily, I bend down to retrieve the damn thing, willing the water to stay back. I stretch my arm way out, and my boots slide toward the river. I urge the gun backward with my finger and finally get it back in my grip.
One of the voices begins to sob. I hurry around the bend with my gun outstretched.
It’s Badge! He’s wrestling Andy in a sandy alcove, his face twisted with rage.
Badge sees me and pushes Andy aside.
“Don’t you hurt him!” I yell, holding my gun with both hands to keep it steady.
When Andy sees me, she cries, “Sammy!” at the same time as Badge says, “You again.”
“Put that thing down,” Andy snaps. There are tears in her eyes, but the trace of a smile lingers on her face.
“He’s part of the Broken Hand Gang!” I exclaim.
“Put it down before you shoot someone,” she says.
I don’t listen, and am reminded of West’s standoff. Am I afraid of being a chicken, too?
“Sammy, this is my brother.”
Her brother?
I stare at him, refusing to believe it. But as I compare the two, side by side, the similarity is hard to deny. The high cheekbones, the deep-set eyes and rounded hairlines.
The truth lines up like poker chips in a dealer’s tray. The Wanted Bulletin. I thought Andy had gasped because she saw the picture of the Chinese woman, but in actuality, she had recognized her brother as a member of the Broken Hand Gang.
Only now do I realize the two were not wrestling but embracing. Badge holds a wad of cloth stained red on one side to the wound on his temple. West got him harder than I thought.
My hands drop back to my sides and my voice fails me.
Andy puts her arm around my shoulders, dragging me to Badge. He looks even more haggard than when last I saw him, with heavy bags under his eyes and a gash across his cheek.
“Sammy, this is Isaac,” she says.
“I thought you were called Badge.”
“Some call me that.”
I glance at Andy and don’t bother to hide my irritation. “How could you leave!”
“I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t have come.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s all sit down.”
I now notice a canvas tent and a pile of supplies beneath the boughs of the massive fir that shades us. The tent sags in the middle and is ripped in several spots. Five paces away, a kettle hangs over a smoldering fire. At the far end of the alcove, a series of staggered rocks forms a natural staircase back up the mountain.
We settle onto the dirt floor.
“You musta known I was coming,” Andy chatters happily to Isaac as she pours coffee from the kettle into three mismatched cups. “You got the coffee brewing. Now where’s the honey?”
“Haven’t had honey since the time I climbed that old magnolia.” Isaac cracks a grin, and Andy begins to chuckle.
Isaac explains, “We found this hive, and Annamae gets it in her mind that she has to have honey.” He makes his voice go high and wags a finger, “‘Sure would be nice to have some honey. Don’t you want honey? If we had some of that, we could make honeycakes.’”
“Oh hush, I only asked once.”
“So I climbed the tree for her. Got stung so many times I thought I was gonna float away, I was so puffed up.”
“It was just a few stings.” Andy bats him on the arm. “They didn’t stop you from having you’s share of honeycakes.”
The two converse easily, one starting up right as the other leaves off. They exchange a few more memories, and while they don’t always explain the inside jokes, I enjoy listening just the same.
“So where’d they take you?” asks Andy.
“Georgia. We was all from Georgia.” His smile falters. “But let’s not talk about that right now.”
I suddenly remember the boy with the bullet in his leg. “Where’s Jeremiah?”
His smile fades completely. “Gone.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Was it because of my crude operation? Did I make things worse? My eyes blur as I think about the boy forced to bear it like a man. “I’m sorry,” I repeat, this time to Jeremiah, wherever his spirit lies. I hope he has become a star, with Peety’s sister Esme.
“They all died . . . my friends . . . even the smallest, Jeremiah,” Issac explains, more to Andy. “He reminded me of Tommy, asking questions all the time. Softhearted, too.” His large hands wring his wadded-up cloth. “I told myself if I could save Jeremiah, God would make sure Tommy arrived safe, too. But I couldn’t save him. He caught a hunter’s bullet, and even after we got it out”—his eyes flick to me—“he was too weak to go on.”
Andy takes the cloth from him and dabs his head. “It’s okay, Isaac. You tried you’s best, and God knows it.”
“Well. At least the Lord gave me Tommy anyway, and for that, I praise Him. Don’t make me wait any longer, sister. When’s Tommy coming?”
Andy casts me a weary glance. She didn’t tell him? She refolds the cloth so she has a clean side and tries to press it to his wound again, but he twists out of reach.
“Tell me,” he urges.
She makes an exasperated face and sits back in the dirt. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I didn’t tell you everything. When I said Tommy’s fine, I meant, Tommy’s in God’s hands now. I didn’t want to tell you the bad news so sudden-like, but there it is.”
All the air goes out of Isaac and he puts his head in his hands. “Oh, sister. Oh, no. God, no.” He begins moaning and then he lets out an animalistic howl so filled with grief that the image of a burning building, ashes falling like black rain, springs to my mind.
Andy puts her arm around his trembling shoulders but he shakes her off. “It’s all right, Isaac, we’s got each other now. It’s a miracle we’s here—
He cuts her off. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me how it happened.” When she hesitates, he growls, “Tell me.”