Green? That’s new. Most people don’t waste paint on a wagon.
“Driver had a red beard? Train of twelve to follow, suh?”
“That’s the one.”
“Saw ’em two nights ago. Hard not to see ’em. You trying to catch ’em, suh?”
“Family’s with them. We had twin calves born the same night, so I sent my wife and girls ahead.”
“I see. If you travel day and night, you should catch ’em just after the Little Blue.”
The Little Blue is the first river we’ll hit, two or three days from here. I remember that much from our pioneer customers.
“That’s fine. Thank you,” says Mr. Calloway. He tips Jackson, I gather, from Jackson’s grateful murmur.
The wait to get to the other side seems to go on for days, years. I count watermelons in my head—Father taught me this trick to stave off the imps of tedium that drive one mad. One watermelon. Two watermelons. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. Three watermelons . . .
When I reach seven hundred and one watermelons, the ferry finally bumps against the shore, and after more leverings and jolts, our chariot heaves forward. We slide back a few inches as the oxen lug us up a bumpy incline. After several head-banging minutes, the road levels out, only jolting us now and then when we hit a pothole.
I begin to pull myself up, when a thought occurs to me. Mr. Calloway intends to travel through the night. We might save our feet some trouble. If he does stop, it’s dark enough that we could slip away, unnoticed. “Let’s stay awhile,” I whisper in Annamae’s ear.
We cover ourselves with canvas sheets, and I find comfort in the rocking of the wagon.
Father, can you hear me? I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have argued with you. I should have shown you the respect you deserved, and listened to your plans.
The burlap sack of alfalfa catches my tears.
5
ANNAMAE SHAKES MY SHOULDER. MY EYES SNAP open to the gray light of morning. The lines on one side of Annamae’s face tell me she also fell into the sleep trap.
I poke my head up. The rumbling of the wagon as we roll along the gravelly path is giving me a headache. Mr. Calloway is no longer in his seat. I peer through the gap between the wagon’s bonnet and the sideboards, and stifle a gasp. His red-checkered shirt walks alongside us, to the left of the wagon, not three feet away.
We better leave before he stops his team for breakfast and finds us.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
But the sudden clatter of horse hoofbeats freezes us in place. I dive back under the canvas sheet and peek through the crack again. A man on a spotted horse slows to walk beside us.
“Mr. Calloway?” he barks, causing his droopy mustache to flap.
Mr. Calloway doesn’t break his pace. “Morning. Do I know you?”
“Deputy Granger.” He tips his hat. Its domed shape is the only round part of him. Sharp elbows, hooked nose, and an Adam’s apple that could rip holes in his bandanna. “I understand you took the quarter-past-ten passage aboard the Whitsand last night?”
“Yes, sir, I did. There a problem?”
“Seen any girls pass this way?”
I bite my tongue so hard I draw blood. The image of a noose dangles before my eyes.
“Girls? No. Why?” Mr. Calloway removes his straw hat and wipes his bald spot with his arm. An angry sunburn stains his cheeks and nose.
“A Chinese girl bashed in a man’s head last night and ran off.You seen her?”
I cringe. Annamae blinks her hooked eyelashes once at me and grabs my hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it’s enough to keep me from fleeing in a hot panic.
“No, sir. The only Chinese person I’ve seen since Virginia was that fellow who owns the Whistle. Bought my canvas from him yesterday.”
“She’s his offspring. The whole place burned down last night, the Chinaman with it. People like that are careless.” The deputy’s voice drips with scorn.
Mr. Calloway pauses before answering. “Didn’t seem careless to me, Deputy. Mr. Young was his name? He spotted a crack in one of my wheels and helped me fix it. Seems more a tragedy than anything.” He replaces his hat and shifts his gaze to the front wagon wheel.
“Well, we ain’t talking about the father, we’re talking about his girl taking out one of St. Joe’s finest. And what I say is, a body don’t run unless the body is guilty.” His black eyes seem to zero in on me, and I stop breathing. Then they roam the rest of the wagon.
“A slave girl ran away last night, too,” the deputy continues. “Don’t know if they’re in league.”
Mr. Calloway shakes his head. “Well, I haven’t seen anyone, Deputy. Anyway, I can’t see girls running in this direction. This is rough country. Without a mule, supplies, they wouldn’t last three days. You’re better off searching St. Louis.”
“They sent out a group this morning. Believe me, I have better things to do than comb the weeds for a snake.”
“Good day, then,” says Mr. Calloway, reverting his attention to his grunting oxen.
I pray the man will leave now, and when he falls back, I unhook my fingernails from my palms. Then, the wagon hits a rock, and the clock belches out a chime.
Annamae hisses in her breath, then clamps a hand over her mouth.