Walk on Earth a Stranger (22 page)

“See you then,” Frank says. He and the other Missouri men turn and walk away.

Reverend Lowrey steps forward to kneel by the Major's side. “If you take my hand, we'll pray together,” he says. “Or maybe there's something you'd like to say to your loved ones back east?”

“Pray somewhere else,” Jasper says, waving dismissively with his hand. “At least five to ten feet away.”

The preacher stares wide-eyed, as if wounded, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Jasper cuts him off.

“You're blocking my light,” Jasper says. “I need to see what I'm doing.”

The preacher doesn't move.

“Give him the light!” Jefferson snaps, and Lowrey jumps back. Jasper shoots Jeff a grateful look.

“This next part's gonna hurt the worst,” Jasper says.

The Major looks faint, with sweat beaded on his forehead and the pulse in his leg pounding as fast as a steam engine. “Pretty sure the part that hurt the worst . . . when . . . the buffalo stomped me . . .”

Jasper grins. “I'm going to align the bones now.”

A sudden jerk. The bones scrape. The Major's eyes roll back, and he goes limp.

I gasp. “Jasper—I think he's dead!”

“He just passed out, which is a mercy. See? His chest is still moving. Brace him now.”

I hold tight as he sticks his fingers right into the wound and adjusts the bones until he's satisfied with how they align. His fingers come out slippery with blood, and he looks for something to wipe them on.

“Grab my neckerchief,” I say, pointing with my chin. It's tucked into my shirt, which makes it as clean as we're going to get at the moment.

I lift my chin so Jasper can grab the kerchief. He wipes his hands and pulls a glass bottle labeled “Hawes' Healing Extract” from his medicine chest. He pours it liberally over the leg, which makes the Major jerk around in spite of being passed out. Jasper packs the wound with a clean bandage and wraps the whole thing up with what he calls a “Liston splint.” As he ties it down, the Major's eyes flutter open.

“Lord, I hurt,” he moans.

“That's to be expected,” Jasper tells him.

“Was hoping it was all a dream,” he says.

“Then close your eyes and keep on dreaming,” I tell him.

“Thanks for finding me,” he says. “You saved me.”

I didn't do anything. Just waved for Jasper. But I duck my head to give him a quiet, “You're welcome.”

Jasper gets to his feet and stretches his lower back. “Henry, go find Tom—We'll need his help to carry the Major back to our wagon.”

Jefferson steps forward. “I can carry him.”

As his eyes meet mine, I realize Jefferson was right; the trail is good for him, with all its wide-open space and no da to slap him down. He's the one we ought to be thanking—for picking me up when I fell, for getting everyone to safety. I open my mouth to tell him so, but Jasper steps between us and leans down over the Major.

“I'm not putting you out of your wagon,” Craven says.

“Nonsense,” Jasper says. He pauses long enough to give my shoulder a squeeze. “I want to keep an eye on that leg the next few days, and I can do it easier if you're close.”

While Jefferson and the college men get the Major settled, I wander back toward the Joyners' wagon. My limbs tremble, and my mind is a haze as the memory repeats itself over and over: Major Craven trying to wave off the buffalo and then disappearing so fast it was like the very earth sucked him away.

A large group of men huddles beside the smashed wagon. I approach their circle to see what the fuss is, and a couple Missouri men step aside to make room.

“With Wally dying, I've got the most experience,” Frank says. “I've been as far as Fort Laramie twice, taking supplies. I already lead the biggest group of wagons. Wouldn't be any trouble to lead everyone else.”

The last thing we need is a good-for-nothing pattyroller in charge. I step forward to protest, but Mr. Robichaud speaks up first: “Dilley's right. He has the most experience.” But he says it with a furrowed brow, as if it's grave news. Half a dozen others nod and murmur agreement.

I clamp my mouth shut.

Mr. Joyner says, “Major Craven was an officer in the militia. He led a
disciplined
outfit. It's no aspersion cast upon your character, Frank, to acknowledge him as your better.”

Frank spits tobacco juice at Mr. Joyner's feet. “How's that for casting a 'spersion?” The mob of men behind him chuckle
like it's the funniest thing. “Sounds like they know who their leader is.”

I can't keep quiet any longer. “Jasper's a doctor. He cleaned the Major's wound and splinted it. The Major's going to be fine.”

“And if that works out, we'll all hold hands and sing hosanna,” Frank says. “In the meantime, I'll take care of things.”

“We ought to pray together,” Reverend Lowrey says. “Ask for God's guidance in our hour of need.”

Everyone nods, but no one drops their head to pray.

“All I'm saying is we ought to choose a natural leader,” Mr. Joyner says. “Someone with the proper background, with command experience.”

“Just because you've bossed slaves doesn't mean you're qualified to boss me,” Frank says. Some of the men shift uncomfortably.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Reverend Lowrey says. “Let us come together in Christian accord and ask for God's guidance. All of this is part of his plan for us—”

I've heard enough. I return to the college men's wagon, wanting to assure myself that I told the truth, that the Major will be fine.

Jefferson is gone, and the Major is settled in. Jasper crouches over him, holding a cup of water to his lips. The stains on the Major's bandages are darkening to brown instead of continuing to bloom with bright red. I take that as a good sign.

Jasper notices me. “What are they doing?”

“I don't know,” I say. “But I feel confident they're going to be blockheaded about it.”

“We're lucky no one else was seriously hurt,” he says in an exhausted voice. “Just a few cattle.”

“I suppose so.” I glance at his medicine chest. It seemed so heavy when I carried it out to Major Craven, but it's already half-empty. If anyone else is badly injured, Jasper won't have anything left.

I watch him tend to the Major for a little while, but he doesn't have anything more to say, and I realize I don't either.

I drift through camp, looking for Jefferson so I can thank him for saving me, maybe even just sit down and talk for a spell. But I find him with the Hoffmans, helping Mr. Hoffman and the two oldest boys as they make repairs. Mrs. Hoffman and Therese are picking up a trunk that burst open, spilling clothes and linens. Therese steals a glance at Jefferson.

“You working two wagons now?” I say.

“Just helping out,” he answers. “Mrs. Joyner is looking for you.”

“Of course she is.” I don't want to talk to him after all. I turn away, knowing I'm irritable and not fit for company, and I have no idea why, except the memory of the Major getting trampled keeps flashing in my mind's eye. If not for Jefferson, the same would have happened to me.

I'm halfway to the Joyners' wagon when I hear the cry: “Indians.”

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T
he Indians follow the herd of buffalo, and we are in their path. Our men are still arguing over who should lead the company as the first few stride calmly into our camp.

Frank Dilley's hand moves to his gun holster. “They incited that stampede on purpose, mark my words,” he says.

“We should tell them of the blood of Christ,” Reverend Lowrey says, eyes bright with the same fever that always took my daddy when he talked of gold. “If we hold services now, they'll stop out of curiosity. I'll fetch my Bible—”

“Hold on now,” Mr. Joyner says, grabbing his arm. “We're not doing anything until we know our belongings are safe.”

I study the Indians as they drift among us, looking for people interested in trade. The men wear buckskin suits decorated with quills and colored beads. Some have cloth blankets thrown over their shoulders; others have buffalo hides. Most have feathers sticking out of their glossy black hair. There are a dozen or so, and by the way they whisper to
one another while eyeing Frank and Mr. Joyner, I figure they understand English just fine. Many of their faces are pocked with scars. One has blue eyes; another, freckles.

The thought hits me like a raindrop out of the clear sky: Put Jefferson in different clothes, and he would blend right in with this group. The same thick black hair and sharp cheekbones, the same broad mouth and dark skin. I glimpse him watching the Indians from behind a wagon. He catches me looking at him, and I swear he knows what I'm thinking. He frowns and ducks away.

A handful of women follow after the men. Some carry babies in baskets that hang down their backs, held in place by nothing but bands around their foreheads. My neck hurts just looking at them. One of the babies starts crying. The mother lifts it from her head, basket and all, and affixes the babe to her breast, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

A girl, probably a few years younger than me, spies the gold locket around Andy's neck and gestures that she wants it.

I dash forward to interpose myself between the curious little boy and the Indian girl. “No, absolutely not.”

She cries as if I've wounded her, reaching around me to get at Andy. Several of her companions come to her aid. I scoop up Andy and bundle him to my chest, but he tries to squirm free, as interested in the girl as she is in my locket.

“What's going on here?” Mrs. Joyner says.

“Just friendly introductions,” I tell Mrs. Joyner. The girl's wailing grows louder. Andy squirms harder. I look toward
the men for help, but they're still busy arguing. “You can't give them my locket.”

“I would never . . .” She pauses. “Is that what they want?”

“They just want to trade. I think.”

“I . . . have some things.”

She runs to her wagon and returns with a silver hairbrush. I cling to a wriggling little boy while she engages in some quick negotiations, coming away with a buffalo hide. The Indian girl's wailing evaporates. She and her friends take turns touching the shiny, silver handle. Then she unravels her left braid and starts brushing her hair.

Others, perhaps sensing the angry mood of the camp, gesture southward toward the herd of buffalo. Moments later, all the Indians melt away much as they arrived. The girl follows slowly, brushing, brushing, brushing as she goes.

Mrs. Joyner stares after her, beaming. “Maybe next time I can trade some salt pork for fresh buffalo meat,” she says.

She'd be better off trading away some of that big furniture before we get to the mountains.

“Ma'am?”

“You don't like buffalo meat?”

“I don't know—Never had any. Jefferson said you wanted to see me? Before the Indians arrived.”

The joy vanishes from her face. “Ah, yes. I'd like a favor.”

“Anything.”

“I'm worried about Mrs. Lowrey.”

“How come?”

Her brow knits. “She should be . . . Forgive me for speaking
indelicately, I hope I don't offend you.”

“Not at all.”

Everything comes out in a rush. “She ought to have delivered that baby by now. She's long past due, but she won't ask for help. Mrs. Robichaud can't go to her because of the twins' measles. Mrs. Hoffman is already overburdened with her six children. Six births, can you imagine! And Reverend Lowrey . . . Well, the reverend puts all his faith in God, as he should. He's a good man and a loving husband, and I'm sure he just wants to protect his wife, and I'd go myself, but you see . . .” She leans forward and whispers, “They're
Presbyterians
. It doesn't foster casual relations, you understand? I asked them to dinner, but the reverend . . . Anyway, I'd like to do what I can to help her.”

This is the kind of conversation you have with another woman. I can't help glancing down at my chest to make sure Mama's shawl is in place beneath my shirt. It's been harder and harder to tuck in every day; the material is ragged and stained now, the edges unraveling. But everything seems to be secure. “I . . . What do you want me to do?”

Mrs. Joyner's hand goes to her own belly, a gesture I'm not sure she's aware of. “Just make an excuse to stop by her wagon, like you did before. I have to stay and help Mr. Joyner—He wears himself out so quickly. Find out how she's doing, perhaps? Maybe if the Lowreys ask for help . . .” Her quivering voice trails off.

I haven't seen her so frightened and white-faced since we shot through The Suck on the flatboat, and I'm not sure why
Mrs. Lowrey's situation has her in such a state. “I'm glad to do it,” I say, even though it's something a boy would probably never agree to.

“Hey, Lee!” Jefferson rides over on the sorrel mare. “Do you still have Mr. Joyner's rifle? A few of the men are heading out to hunt some buffalo. The ones we downed here are all trampled and useless.”

“What about the wagons?”

“A few of them need repairs. They'll take all day.”

I look to Mrs. Joyner. “I could bring you that meat you wanted.”

“Go on,” she says. “You can do that other favor when you get back.”

We ride out with a group of Missouri men, following a huge swath of mud and dirt that cuts through the prairie like a river. There's some discussion about which band of Indians visited us, with the men generally settling on Omaha. Who ought to be removed, they say, so white men can settle the Nebraska territory.

The small band is also following the herd, and we pass them about a quarter mile out. Frank aims his rifle at the leader and holds it to his shoulder until the Indians notice. “Bang,” he says. Then he laughs, lowers his weapon, and waves to the Indians all friendly-like.

They don't wave back.

“Suspicious beasts,” he says. “We could shoot all of them from here before an arrow ever reached us.”

“They're sneaky,” offers one of his companions. “Come up and slit your throat in the night.”

“That's why you shoot them first.”

Their talk puts my belly in a bad way. I glance over at Jefferson, whose lips are pressed tight.

“The Missouri men are snakes,” I whisper to Jeff. “The lot of them.”

“Men are men,” he says with a shrug. “It's men thinking other men are snakes that's the problem.”

Shame clenches my throat. He's right.

The buffalo ended their stampede a mile or so beyond our camp, where a few small hills rise from the flat prairie. There are thousands and thousands of bison, as far as the eye can see. I've never seen that many of anything in all my life. Even ants on an anthill can't compete.

Under Frank's direction, we spread out to either side. He explains that we'll shoot at stragglers to drive the herd back together and start them moving again, away from the Indians.

My first shot is good, even with the unfamiliar rifle, and the animal crumples. The nearest buffalo trot away, but the herd doesn't spook.

“Nice shooting, Georgia,” Frank says.

“Show-off,” Jefferson whispers.

“Let's go get it,” I say, grinning.

“Not yet,” Frank says. “We don't stop until we're done hunting.”

Maybe it's not safe to dismount with so many buffalo
nearby. I look to Jefferson for an explanation, but he shrugs, equally confused.

While I reload my rifle, the others start shooting. Gunfire cracks all around me, and burned powder fills the air. The buffalo take off running.

The men shoot indiscriminately and laugh at the cries of agony. They ignore wounded animals to shoot at others. All Jefferson and I do is follow behind and put down animals too injured to run.

It's a slaughter. We kill more animals than our entire company can possibly eat, and then we kill some more. Finally, after driving the herd for miles, the men get bored, and Frank gives the command to pull up.

We gather around a dead buffalo, and I dismount to get there first. My daddy field dressed a bear once, so I know it's possible to handle something so large. I put my knifepoint to the buffalo's hide. Frank grabs my shoulder.

“Like this,” he says. He pushes me out of the way, reaches into the buffalo's mouth, and yanks out the giant tongue. He hacks it off with a knife. “Tongues and humps, that's all we're taking,” he says. “The delicacies.”

“What about the rest?” I ask, astonished.

“Leave 'em out here to rot. We can kill 'em all, far as I'm concerned. If the Indians can't find anything to eat, maybe they'll go live somewhere else.”

Even taking only the simplest cuts, we've killed far too many buffalo to take them all. The sun climbs past noon, so we stop and cook up dinner. Someone unhooks a pot from
his saddle and sets a tongue to boil. It must steep a while, he explains, so the men stretch out on the grass and trade stories and joke about lingering until the mess is cleaned up back at camp.

Jefferson and I sit off to one side. His face is dark, his eyes troubled.

Softly, he says, “This is one of the worst things I've ever done.”

“At least we put some out of their misery,” I reply.

“I can't wait to get to California. Then we can be rid of Frank Dilley and his.”

“That would be nice,” I say.

“You sound doubtful.”

I pick at a blade of grass, pulling it apart. “It's just that I've learned a few things on the road. About bad people. And good ones.”

“Like what?”

A few yards away, someone slaps Frank on the back, laughing over something he said.

“That bad people are everywhere,” I say. I think about the brothers who waylaid me and stole my gold and gear. They'd be right at home with some of these folks heading west. “Every place there's people, there's badness.”

“There's goodness too.”

“Sure. When we get to California, there'll be plenty of good people. Like the Hoffmans and the Robichauds and the college men. But there'll be Frank Dilleys all over the place.”

“And your uncle.”

I try to toss the blade of grass away, but the breeze flips it right back into my lap. “Yeah. Him too.”

Jefferson brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Staring out at the Missouri men, he says, “Are you scared?”

I say nothing. Behind us, Peony's bridle rattles as she tosses her head.

“Because I'm scared for you,” he says. “If he really killed your folks—”

“California is a big place.”

“Seems like he wants you for a daughter. Believes you ought be his. So, maybe he won't hurt you?”

He says that like it's a good thing, but the thought turns my stomach. “Parents hurt their kids all the time.”

He stiffens.

“Sorry, Jeff. I didn't mean to—”

“Looks like lunch is ready,” he says, rising.

“Wait, Jeff,” I say, tugging on his pants' leg.

He stares down at me.

“I just . . . Thank you. For saving me. The buffalo would have gotten me if not for you.”

“You'd do it for me,” he says, and he yanks his pants' leg away.

Everyone gathers around the pot. We peel off the outer skin and eat the meat underneath. It tastes like beef, I guess, but it's as tender as butter. Not that I have much appetite for it.

After eating, we retrace our steps. Along the way we pass
dozens of buffalo corpses, a trail of brown and crimson breadcrumbs leading back to camp. Vultures circle in the sky like a cloud of blowflies. I used to feel proud when I'd shot something I could take home and feed to my family.

Near the end of the breadcrumb trail we find the group of Indian women and children clustered around the remains of a buffalo. The hide hangs on a makeshift frame. Most of the meat is cut into strips and smoking over a fire. I hope it's the one I shot.

Frank and a few others kick their horses into a gallop, as if to run down the women and children.

Jefferson looks at me, and I shake my head. “Not going to do it,” I say.

“Good.”

I want to yell at them to stop, but I'm a coward and I say nothing. The women and children scream and scatter. Frank and his men turn aside at the last second. When Jefferson and I catch up, they're still laughing about it.

Evening is falling by the time we return. Jefferson takes all his meat to the Hoffmans, saying they've been feeding him all along, and this is his chance to repay them a little.

I drop off some of mine with the Robichauds, who are grateful. Their little boys are nearly over the measles, and their appetites are coming back. I take more to the college men and Major Craven. Jasper says things are looking good so far, but his expression contradicts his words. The Major forces a grin and tells me he'll eat every bite to get his
strength back.

My next-to-the-last stop is the preacher's wagon. I stand outside near the back curtain, nerving myself up to inquire about Mrs. Lowrey on behalf of Mrs. Joyner. Maybe I should ask Therese to do it. She would be a more appropriate choice.