One Came Home (4 page)

I
knew
she was alive.

I looked at my list. Underneath “For Journey” I read the word “horse.”

Where the devil was I going to get a horse?

As the sun set, I shinnied up the oak tree outside our bedroom, opened the window, and stepped inside. By the time Ma came to say good night, I was well into my act of pretending sleep on my side of the bed.

She stood in the doorway for a long while. I clamped my eyelids shut and tried to regulate my breathing. I’m fairly certain I did not fool Ma.

Yet I would not open my eyes. If Ma had only wanted an apology for causing a scene at the funeral, I might have yielded. But she wanted me to voice my sorrow. She wanted me to say my sister was dead, deceased, perished, passed on. I would say no such thing.

The door shut.

*  *  *

In the middle of the night, I got out of bed. I stumbled to the desk, turned the key on the kerosene lamp, and pulled the store receipt (my list) out of the drawer.

My pen hovered above the paper for a moment or two, and then I set it down. What did I know about travel? I’d never traveled more than a day’s journey, and that was sitting next to Grandfather Bolte, with him holding the reins. I’d only been to one town other than Placid. Of course, I’d sold to people who traveled, so I had a few ideas. But people who travel often take fanciful items. I’ve heard of grand hall mirrors spoken of as necessities, and who in their right mind would
need
that?

I wrote down “food.” But what kind of food? I needed to do better than this or I’d never leave Placid.

I recollected something that might help. I opened my bedroom door and crept down the hall. I found the book on the parlor shelf:
The Prairie Traveler: A Hand-Book for Overland Expeditions
, written by Randolph B. Marcy, a captain of the U.S. Army.

I hadn’t been that interested in the book before, but now? I figured if this book could get a person to Fort Wallah Wallah and back, it could get me to the spot that body was found—to Dog Hollow, Wisconsin. I would, as the book suggested, “avail myself of its wisdom,” and I expected the promised result (inserting myself into Captain Marcy’s prose): “Georgie Burkhardt will feel herself a master spirit in the wilderness she traverses.”

I snuck back into my room, closed the door, laid the book out on the desk, and began my list in earnest. For food, Captain Marcy suggested bacon packed in bran (to prevent the fat from melting), flour, boiled butter, sugar, desiccated vegetables, and tea. But that was for a much longer journey. If I got a horse, I’d only be gone about a week and therefore could pack perishables—chicken eggs, for instance.

Along with a change of clothing, Captain Marcy recommended packing large colored handkerchiefs; a bar of castile soap for washing the body, and another for washing clothes; a belt knife and a whetstone for sharpening the knife; and a buckskin pouch filled with “stout linen thread, large needles, a bit of beeswax, a few buttons, paper of pins, and a thimble.” That seemed good advice even for a journey of short duration.

My plan was to take what we sold in the store. Now, I knew that was stealing. Let’s not beat around the bush about what God thinks of taking without asking. But I’d mitigate the hurt by admitting to it. I’d write out an IOU and leave it in the account book. I was sure that after I returned with Agatha in tow, Ma and Grandfather Bolte would understand the situation’s urgency.

As for particular clothing, I decided to wear my split skirt. I planned on traveling by horseback, and sidesaddles seemed precarious. Doesn’t a person have more chance of staying on top of a horse with one leg over each side? I didn’t want to
perch;
I wanted to
clamp
. Not that I’d ridden a horse before, but some things make sense.

I’d bring the photograph of Agatha that was on the downstairs mantel. Seeing it might jar someone’s memory. And I would take the Springfield single-shot too. I felt some guilt since it had not been given to me outright. But that gun was more or less mine. Grandfather Bolte used the double-barrel. I was the one that hunted with the Springfield.

I put the pen back in its holder and read over my list. Pride welled up until I considered that word “horse” written under “For Journey.” I knew it was
possible
to walk to Dog Hollow, but it would take much longer, and it hardly bears mentioning that a thirteen-year-old girl traveling alone might attract attention. The faster I got to Dog Hollow and back, the better.

Where
was I going to get a horse?

I couldn’t fathom taking one of the delivery-wagon horses. If I did, Grandfather Bolte would be mad enough to eat snakes, and I wanted to come home again. And do not even mention horse thieving as an option—there’s theft and then there’s horse thieving. Not only does a crime like that stain a family’s good name now and forever, there’s the Anti–Horse Thieving Society to consider. I swear those men rise out of the river mist when they hear of horse thieving. They trail that thief until caught and don’t usually wait for the law to execute justice, tending to leave that thief dangling between broad limb and bare ground.

That left only one place to go: I’d have to get a horse from Billy McCabe. Though I didn’t care much for Billy,
the McCabes raised horses. In addition, the way our families spent time together made us practically related. What was more, I’d seen Billy cry at that funeral. Seemed to me, he still loved Agatha. (No matter his matrimonial promises to Polly.) There had to be a horse Billy could spare Agatha’s little sister.

Fortunately, the very next day Ma needed an errand run in the direction of the McCabes’. I wasted no time getting to the McCabe ranch.

I heard the scrape of a shovel, and then, on closer examination, spied Billy mucking out the stall next to his filly, Storm. I’d forgotten how appealing Storm was: dappled gray with a white mane and tail. A horse like that would get me to Dog Hollow and back in style.

I cleared my throat.

Billy turned. “Why, hello, Fry. Delivery?”

Have I mentioned my full name? It’s Georgina Louise Burkhardt. Now, Georgina doesn’t suit me—it’s the kind of name that has daisies growing out of it. But Georgie is fine by me and fine by everyone else too. Except Billy, that is. Billy McCabe has to have his own nickname for Agatha’s little sister, and preferably something that points up his superiority in all matters of everything. It’s not even enough to call me Small Fry. No, Billy McCabe has got to diminish the diminutive to Fry.

“No delivery. I need the loan of a horse,” I said.

Billy laughed. “In case you hadn’t heard, my family
sells
horses.”

“Which means you’ve got a horse to spare! What about Storm? I’d return her in two weeks’ time.”

Billy leaned against the stall and smiled wide. “I’ve never even seen you ride a horse. As far as I can tell, you don’t
like
the animal. A fine horse like Storm is more than you could handle.”

Then Billy got serious. “Out with it, Fry. Where you think you’re going?”

“I’d rather not say. What about another horse? We’re practically family.”

“Well, I’d rather not say whether or not I can help.”

“One way or another, I need a horse.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“Dog Hollow,” I said.

Those two words sucked the air right out of those stables.

Billy groaned. “She’s dead, Fry.”

“Fine. I’m taking a look,” I said.

“You took a look. You
saw
her body,” he said.

“I saw parts of
a
body. Are you saying you won’t help Agatha’s little sister? That’s cruelty, Billy,” I said.

His eyes burned. “Pa was convinced—”

“Your pa was not convinced!” The words jumped out of my mouth, surprising even me. “Your pa hauled that body all the way from Podunk, Wisconsin, so Ma could identify it. He needed Ma to see it. If he were sure, he would have
buried that body in Dog Hollow and brought back the dress. His word and that blue-green dress would have satisfied Ma. But your pa wasn’t sure.”

Billy crossed his arms. “Why hasn’t she written? Thought of that?”

“Maybe there’s a reason she can’t write.”

“That’s a big maybe, Fry. Agatha would write.”

I stamped my foot. “I am not here to discuss a dead body or my sister. I am here for a horse. I’d like to
rent
one, but if you insist—ignoring a close, near-blood relationship—I will
purchase
an animal. Which do you prefer?” I said. I took out my cinch sack and jingled it.

Billy’s hand went up. “No. This is a fool’s notion. I refuse to be party to it.”

He put a finger in the collar of his shirt to get some air and glanced at the sky. “There’s a storm coming. You should get home.” He picked up the shovel and started to work.

I walked over and grasped his shovel. “Tell me what you and Agatha planned that day you kissed. You walked off whistling. I saw it.”

I noticed how my words affected Billy. He paled.

“You saw?” he said, finally.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Apparently, he did not. Billy did not say a thing. From the shelter of the stables I saw a fortress of cloud. A storm
was
coming.

I exhaled loudly. “What does it matter? You keep your
secret. But let me describe my particular state: I saw the two of you kiss. I told Mr. Olmstead. Mr. Olmstead threw over Agatha.
Then
Agatha ran off. There’s a direct correlation between my telling and Agatha’s leaving. If my sister is dead, I bear responsibility. If you think I’m going to accept a piecemeal body as evidence of my sister’s death, you do not know me at all. Now, I’ve got money for a horse.”

Billy’s mouth moved like some semblance of language might escape his lips, but nothing came of it.

I leaned in. “I am not
not
going. I’ll walk to Dog Hollow if I have to,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have seen that kiss,” he mumbled.

I jingled the cinch sack. “Two dollars for the rent of a horse.”

“Fry, there is no such thing as a horse rental.”

“I’ll give you five dollars. But I want a saddle, reins, saddlebags … all the horse-riding amenities,” I said.

“Five dollars for a horse?” he said.

“You sold a pony to Pete Tarley for that.”

Billy shook his head at me. “That’s not the same.…”

“Why not? I’m thirteen. Pete Tarley’s eleven and he acts like he’s nine. Now, you don’t have use for five dollars? I’m not asking for
your
horse. I’m asking to be treated like a customer with dollars in her pocket.”

Billy blew air out his teeth.

“Ten dollars, then,” I said.

“You don’t have that kind of money,” he said.

So I made a big show of opening up the cinch sack and snapped down five gold one-dollar coins on the top of the stall.

“Those are your Bechtler dollars,” he said.

“That’s right. Gold has more value than paper, and a
Bechtler
gold coin is the most valuable of them all. With the currency crisis, these coins are surely worth
twenty
dollars by now, but I’m willing to call them
ten
,” I said. Gold having more value than paper and the Bechtler being the best quality gold coin were both things I’d heard Grandfather Bolte say more than once. But as to the actual worth of my coins? I had no idea.

Let me speak plainly, though: those coins were priceless to me. Not only were they every bit of money I’d saved since I was three, but Grandfather Bolte had told me that Bechtler dollars were minted with gold found by true prospectors. I liked to pretend they had Colorado gold in them since that was where Pa had gone to prospect. When Grandfather Bolte came across Bechtlers, he saved them for me, and I traded pennies, nickels, and dimes for those gold dollar coins. Still, my sister alive meant more to me than any coin.

Billy lifted his hat and wiped a line of dirt across his forehead. “Born stubborn and stuck obstinate,” he said.

Hallelujah. His jab was a sure sign of his relenting. It was time to close the deal.

“Saddle, bit, reins too,” I said.

He picked at the ground with the toe of his boot.

I went on: “You’ll deliver my horse to Mount Zion Cemetery two days from now, on Saturday night, right before midnight. That’ll give me a day to gather provisions. And you’d better not tell. Part of what I pay you for is privacy.”

Billy raised his eyebrows. “It should cost extra for delivery at that time of night.”

I picked up the five gold dollar coins from the top of the stall, counting them as I dropped them back into the cinch sack. Then I took his hand in mine, turned the palm face up, and placed the sack in it.

He met my eyes. Then he shook his head and closed his fingers around the sack.

Money was in hand.

The storm broke the moment my foot touched our front porch. Lightning ripped open that cloud’s dark belly, and I watched the first drops hit the ground with puffs of dust.

It was the last rain until October.