Walk on Earth a Stranger (21 page)

I stare down at Peony's mane. “I think you could win over anyone in the world, if you wanted.”

We plod on, keeping an eye out for game. Bees flit around the wildflowers, and sleepy crickets leap through the grass to avoid our horses.

“You're not lying to me about anything, are you, Lee?” he says, and his voice has a strange quality to it.

Words congeal in my throat. What do I say? Yes, Jefferson, I haven't told you that I can find gold the way a hound finds foxes. I haven't said that seeing you with Therese makes me sad. That on the way to Independence I started getting used to the idea of marrying my best friend, and that sometimes when you turn your back on me at night, it feels like the world is cracking open.

I find my voice. “No. I'm not lying. It's just . . .”

He reins in the sorrel mare. “Lee?”

“It's just that maybe I'm not telling you everything.”

“Oh.” He looks down at his hands clutching the reins. “I might not be telling you everything either.”

I startle a little, and Peony dances in response. But if I'm keeping secrets, it's only fair that he does too. “I reckon that's all right,” I tell him.

“Yeah.”

We ride on. With Jefferson, silence is sometimes as comforting as talking.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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J
efferson and I ride out every afternoon, but we never see buffalo. Our company keeps rolling, fifteen miles a day, give or take, with half a day on Sunday to make up for lost time.

Weather announces itself from far away now, low dark clouds that are more green than gray. The Platte River Valley is the hugest I've ever seen, and it looks flat as a flapjack, though my sore legs tell me otherwise. I walk often, Peony by my side, to give her a break.

When a steady rumble of thunder wakes me one dark morning, I rise from my blanket, resigned to a day of soaking rain.

Jefferson is already up. He stands with his suspenders hanging at his hips, his face lifted toward the eastern horizon, which is just now brightening from black to the dark blue of a bruise.

“It's clear,” he says. “See all the stars?”

“I do.”

The air tastes dusty and dry, not like rain at all. The winds have been relentless lately, which is why we've camped in this shallow bowl of land. For once, it's possible that a storm is on the way, and we just can't see it.

Our wagon circle has shrunk since Bledsoe's men left, and now it feels like the animals and the people are all on top of one another. Maybe that's why the oxen are so fidgety this morning, milling about and snorting. Nugget and Coney trot over to greet us, and Coney stretches up to lick my fingers.

The thunder grows louder. The ground twitches beneath my feet.

“An earthquake?” Jefferson says.

The rest of the camp is beginning to stir. Major Craven hurries toward us, rifle in hand. “I'm heading to the top of that ridge to get the lay of the land,” he says to us. “Want to come?”

“Sure,” we say in unison, and duck between the wagons and follow him up the gentle slope.

The prairie stretches endlessly before us, an expanse of black that is gradually brightening to green before the rising sun. About half a mile away is the strangest storm cloud I've ever seen. It hugs the earth, a rolling mass sweeping across the horizon.

“That's no storm,” Jefferson says.

“Buffalo!” Craven shouts. “Run back and warn everyone. They
must
stay in the wagons!”

Jefferson reacts instantly, sprinting away with his long legs, hollering as he goes.

But I'm frozen by the sight. It's not possible. How can there be so many of one animal in the world? They are a frothing sea of heads bowed low and whipping tails and flying mud.

Craven grabs my arm. “C'mon, you fool—unless you want to get trampled.”

His words unstick my legs. We turn and run.

Jefferson's warning cries have drawn everyone out. They linger about the wagons, sleepily curious. Jeff grabs Henry and forces him toward his wagon then does the same to Jasper. No one is moving fast enough.

“Hide!” I scream as we run down the slope. “Hide!”

I know the exact moment the buffalo crest the rise behind me, because curiosity turns to terror. Men blunder over their rifles and ramrods while mothers grab their children and run for cover. Jefferson hefts Andy under one arm and drags Olive by the hand and toward Mrs. Joyner. Thunder vibrates all around me. I expect hooves to impale me at any moment.

Yards short of safety, my toe catches on a hole in the cattle-churned sod. I fly out, hit the ground hard. My lungs won't draw air. My head spins. I'm scrambling to my feet when I feel the first hard impact on my back.

I scream, but it's only Jefferson's hands. He grabs me by my suspenders and the waist of my pants and heaves me up onto the wagon bench. I turn to pull him to safety beside me, but he has already rolled between the wheels to the other side. He glances back, just quick enough to make sure I'm secure, then he starts herding families toward the shelter of their wagons.

A rifle booms a few feet away, and I duck. Buffalo pour down the slope like a muddy brown flood. More gunshots crack the air, though I barely hear them through the roar of hooves. A few buffalo drop and tumble, but there are so many it makes no difference. Major Craven rips off his shirt and stands before the lead wagon. He whips it through the air and hollers, as if the buffalo are nothing but giant cows, easily herded by a little yelling and waving.

They are not cows. A great horned creature with a giant black head is nearly upon him. Finally, he turns to run.

“Major!” I scream.

He makes it three steps before he drops and disappears beneath a cloud of dust and hooves.

“Major!”

A buffalo slams into my wagon. It teeters violently, and I slide across the bench, grabbing the footboard to keep from falling off. Their wet noses and glossy eyes are close enough to touch as they twist aside.

The herd breaks on the wagon circle like a river flowing around an island. I clutch the footboard with all my might for a minute or ten or maybe twenty. Dust clogs the air, filling it with a heavy, musty-fur scent, choking me. Buffalo snort and pound. Wagons rattle and shake. Oxen scream.

My arms tremble from clinging to the footboard. I raise my head, praying that I will see Jefferson, sheltered somewhere safe. He's nowhere to be found, but I watch, heart in my throat, as two wagons topple over. Buffalo get tangled in the hoops of one. They stomp and knock it about with their
heads until it's in splinters, dusted over with white flour and sprinkled with feathers from someone's pillow.

I can't tell if there are bodies in the wreckage.

Suddenly, the buffalo are a trickle. And then they're gone, disappeared as quickly as they came. The thunder of their hooves fades, the dust settles. I cling to the footboard a few seconds more, unable to make my limbs move.

Finally, I slide from the bench seat. Oxen and horses mill about in panic. People call out to one another. Mrs. Joyner climbs shakily from their wagon bed, Andy in her arms. The college men are whooping and slapping one another on the backs, like they've just seen the greatest wonder of their lives. Mrs. Hoffman's brood is gathered around, like a clutch of chicks. I suck in a breath when I spot Jefferson safe among them.

“Peony!” I call out frantically. “Peo—” There she is, right by the Joyner wagon. Her sides heave, but she seems unharmed. The other animals seem unharmed too. Except for the two toppled wagons and one trampled cook fire, our camp is mostly untouched.

I stagger toward the area where I saw Major Craven go down, afraid of what I'll find. A weak voice drifts toward me.

“Help . . .”

I'm trembling, like wheat in the wind, and my knees are so wobbly I can barely run.

“Oh, Lord, help me. . . .”

An ox lies on its side in the dirt, its ribs caved in, blood pooling around it. Rope from a clothesline is twisted around
its neck. I leap over it. “Major! Where are you?”

“Here . . .” He's crumpled in the dust, at least twenty yards from the spot where he went down. Everything about him is the gray-brown color of dirt, except for the leg of his trousers, which shows a splash of red and a snow-white splinter of bone.

“Hold tight, Major.” I turn toward the wagons and wave my arms, hollering, “Help! Somebody help over here.”

Everyone is busy looking to others or cleaning up. I yell again, and this time Jasper sees me. I beckon urgently. He grabs hold of Tom and Henry, and all three college men come running.

“Don't worry, Major,” I tell him. “Help is coming.”

“Son,” he starts, but his breath his choked off with pain. He tries again. “Not much help for this.”

The college men fall to their knees around him. Henry blanches. Tom averts his eyes.

Jasper grabs the Major's hand and leans close. He says, “Is anything else hurt, Major Craven?”

“A couple ribs . . . Hard to breathe.”

“Can you move your toes?”

“Do I have to try?”

Jasper looks at me. “Get a blanket roll or something we can use to prop his leg.”

I sprint over to the smashed wagon, noting with relief the absence of bodies, and I grab a roll of canvas from the ground. A voice hollers behind me. “Hey, where are you going with that?”

But I'm already gone, dashing back to the Major's side.

Jasper nods approval. “When I lift his leg, you slide that underneath.” To the Major, he says, “This is going to hurt.”

“I already hurt—” He gasps as Jasper lifts his leg with both hands. I jam the canvas batten underneath and follow Jasper's directions until it's situated exactly where he wants it. Only then does he lower the broken limb.

“I need clean water,” Jasper says. He looks up at his companions, but they've stepped away, faces averted. I jump up again, and soon find a kettle sitting on a campfire, still hot. The water inside is pristine, just like the fire pit itself, which is a wonder. There's no one at hand to give me permission, so I take the whole pot.

Water sloshes over the side as I run. I slow down just enough to keep from wasting it.

Jasper accepts the kettle with a nod. “All right, Major, I need to wash out the wound. I'll go easy on you, but no lie, this is going to be awful.”

“Do it,” he gasps.

“Hold his leg steady here,” Jasper says. “No sudden movements.”

I drop to my knees and brace the leg. Jasper pours the water over the wound. Major Craven screams and jerks hard, but I've got a tight grip on him. I push down with all my might, and after that first horrible twitch, he doesn't move.

“That's good,” Jasper says, and I'm not sure whether he's talking to the Major or to me. “Now loosen up so I can turn it.”

He rolls the leg to the side. Water flows over the wound, washing away the dust and blood and even bits of skin. The major kicks out with his good leg; his boot heel catches me in the thigh, and pain explodes through my leg. But I refuse to let go.

“Tom, Henry,” Jasper says. “Can you grab . . . ?” Both men have fled.

“I'm sorry,” the Major gasps at me. Tears pool in his eyes.

“It's nothing,” I say, though my leg throbs something fierce.

“How are you doing so far, Major?” Jasper asks.

“Ready to start walking,” the Major says, and we laugh, because it's unexpected, but then he laughs, and the effort sends pain like a cloud across his face.

“And you?” Jasper says to me in a low voice.

I'm going to be bruised, no question. “What next?”

“Run to my wagon,” Jasper says. “There are splints and clean bandages in the medical chest. It's the small one, up front, right behind the seat.”

We've loaded and unloaded the wagons enough times by now that I know just the one, so I take off running. Neither Tom nor Henry is at the wagon to help. Still, Jasper will be wanting medicines next, so I lift the whole heavy chest. It bangs hard against my bruised thigh as I climb out of the wagon and run all the way back to Major Craven.

A crowd has gathered. Mr. Joyner stands with the Missouri men. Henry hangs back by Reverend Lowrey's side. Jefferson and Mr. Hoffman are crouched at the Major's feet. I catch Jefferson's eyes. He gives me a quick relieved smile; he's as
glad to see me as I am to see him.

“The sorrel mare?” I ask Jeff, plopping the chest down beside Jasper.

“Fine. Nugget and Coney too. The Missouri men lost a few cattle; they got trampled when they broke out of the circle. One horse ran off.”

Jasper has wrestled off the Major's boot. The leg is already swollen and misshapen. Another minute more, and we would have had to cut away the boot.

“Thanks, Lee,” Jasper says, flipping open the lid. It's jam-packed with bandages and tinctures and things I don't care to think of as medical equipment, like saws and knives.

“So much!” And I thought the Joyner chest was well stocked.

“I was studying to be a doctor,” Jasper says. He grabs some shears and snips along the leg of Major Craven's trousers. “Sorry about your pants there, Major.”

“Judas pants . . . tripped me . . . when I was running.” His words come in short bursts, between pained breaths.

“What about Tom and Henry?” I ask, mostly to distract myself from the sight of a mangled leg.

“Huh?” Jasper says. “No, Tom wants to be a lawyer. Henry's a poet.”

“I mean, they should be the ones helping you.”

“You're doing fine. Just do what I tell you.”

The fabric makes a sticky sound as Jasper peels it away. I hold the Major's leg down while Jasper uses the last of the water to rinse the wound again. The skin has a jagged tear,
pushed apart by the snapped ends of bone. Beside it is a deep gash. Someone whistles, high and sharp. Frank Dilley. He holds a shotgun.

“Wally,” Frank says in a low voice.

“I know how bad it looks,” the Major says between gasps for breath.

“We're out here in the middle of nowhere,” Frank says. “You can't stay here; the savages'll get you. And you can't keep going.”

“I'll be right as rain,” he says.

“We'll make it work,” Jasper says.

“Maybe,” Frank says. “But you'd be better off if you'd left with the rest of Bledsoe's men.”

“Little late for that now,” the Major says. I'm glad to hear the fight in his voice.

“Guess so,” Frank says. “But if you decide you want me to put you down, keep you from being a burden, and end your misery . . .” He holds up his shotgun.

“Get out of here,” Jasper snaps.

“Ain't no crime to say the truth,” Frank says. “When that leg goes gangrene, you come find me.”

“I'll walk over, get you myself,” the Major says. I haven't cared for him much, not since he stood by and let Mr. Joyner put poxed blankets in Mr. Bledsoe's grave. But maybe I haven't given him enough of a chance. I like him a fair sight better than Frank Dilley, that's for sure.