Walk on Earth a Stranger (31 page)

“We aren't done yet,” I point out.

Across the camp, Frank Dilley and his men are combining their own wagons. Like us, they're leaving half of them behind. Unlike us, the remaining wagons carry pickaxes and shovels and mining supplies. I'll have to witch up some gold to pay for our own equipment.

“Are our fifteen minutes up yet?” I yell at him.

“You've got a few more if you want to come with us,” he
says.

I turn to Jasper. “What do you think? Do we hurry up so we can leave with them?”

“The oxen go faster, more consistently, when they see other wagons in front of them. And I know we've had our disagreements with those men, but all in all, I want to believe they're decent specimens of humanity. If something were to happen to one of our wagons, they'd no sooner leave us behind to die than we would them.”

I hope he's right.

Tom approaches, his sweat-soaked shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He takes off his hat and waves it beside his red cheeks. “You trust them more than I do,” he says. “But the longer we wait, the weaker our animals will be.”

That makes sense to me.

Major Craven hobbles over. “Do you want me to tether the weakest to the back again? Rotate them in yoke when we take breaks?”

“They won't get stronger by trailing behind,” I say.

“So we yoke them all and let them pull until they drop,” the Major says. We all nod in agreement. “Seems cruel, but the least cruel thing to do.”

“Let's hook them up,” Jefferson says.

We have the wagon loaded and ready to go by the time the last of the Missouri wagons are pulling out. Frank Dilley was yanking our chain with his “fifteen minutes” line, but I'm proud of how fast we worked and how well we all worked together. The smell of fresh quick bread fills the air
as we square our shoulders and walk into the blinding, yellow-white desert.

“That's making me hungry,” Jefferson says, walking beside me.

Therese sidles over, careful to keep me between herself and Jefferson. “If my mouth wasn't so dry, I'm sure it would water,” she says.

We lead our horses. The dogs trot along beside us, tongues lolling in the heat. “How long do you think it will take us to cross?” Jefferson asks.

“According to the Major, about three and a half days,” I say, looking at the sky. “It's Monday afternoon. Maybe we'll be across by Thursday at sunrise.”

He whistles. “I was happier before I knew that.”

“Think of it this way: Once we cross, we're in California. Give or take a mountain range or two.”

Therese says, “Then we're practically almost there.” Suddenly, she tenses. Ahead, Mr. Hoffman has twisted on his wagon seat to stare at the three of us.

I almost glare back at him. Instead, I shift away from Jefferson, draping an arm across Therese's shoulders, like we're just two girlfriends out for a stroll.

“Thanks, Lee,” she whispers.

“If your daddy asks, I specifically requested your companionship, you being the only female of appropriate age with whom to keep company. You couldn't say no.”

She nods solemnly. “It would have been
rude
.”

September days are still way too long. The heat is like a blanket on my skin, weighing me down and drying me out until finally the sun sets and the desert air starts to cool. The wagon train takes a short break to feed and water the animals, so we can push on through the night. We all have a few bites of the Major's quick bread and sip some bitter slough water. I'm feeding grass to Peony when I hear my name.

“Lee,” Widow Joyner says calmly. Then frantically: “Lee!”

I run to the back of the wagon and peer inside. Her face is sheened in sweat that makes her look almost blue in the waning light. She pants like a dog in the desert, and a huge wet stain spreads out on the feather mattress beneath her.

“I can't hold off any longer,” she says. “This baby wants to come right now.”

A whip cracks in the distance, and someone yells, “Haw!” I peer through the gloom toward the front of the wagon train.

Frank Dilley and the Missouri men are leaving without us.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“
H
old on,” I tell her.

Her hand darts out, and she plucks weakly at my sleeve. “Don't go.”

The wagon already smells peculiar, and it feels too hot inside, too small. “I have to tell everyone,” I insist.

“Lee, please.”

My voice wavers as I say, “I'll be right back. I promise.”

Our three wagons are pulled together in a little triangle. “It's her time,” I say, confirming what everyone already guessed.

Ahead of us, the Missouri wagons slow. But they don't stop. Frank Dilley strides over to our group, thumbs stuck in his waistband. He squirts tobacco onto the ground at my feet.

“We can't wait,” he says. “You're better off leaving her behind with one of your horses. Take her little ones and go on without her.”

Major Craven shuffles forward and brandishes his crutch.
“You think we should put her down too? Like you wanted to do to me?”

“We aren't asking you to stay behind, Frank,” I say quickly. It's not my place to speak for the group, but I can't stand one more moment with him. “You do what you need to do, and we'll do what we need to do.”

“This is good-bye, then,” he says. He takes one good, last look at me, slowly from head to toe, which gives me an unpleasant shiver. “Though I suspect our paths will cross again.
If
you ever make it California.”

As he strides away, he circles his hand in the air and shouts, “Wagons, roll out!”

Reverend Lowrey has been short on words around me lately, but he's the first to speak now. “I came west to minister, so that the light of Christ might shine upon these miners, calling them unto salvation. God wills that I follow. But know that I will be praying for his blessing on the Widow Joyner as I go.”

He doesn't give us any chance to argue. He hurries over to his own wagon, snaps his whipping stick over the oxen, and heads off after the Missouri men.

That leaves Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman and all their children. Mr. Hoffman's hat is crumpled in his hand. “I'm so very sorry,” he says.

“
Vati
, bitte,”
Therese pleads, and I don't know how anyone can say no to those big blue eyes. She puts her hands on Doreen's shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of her sister's head. “We should help those who have helped us,” she
murmurs.

“Es tut mir sehr leid,”
her father answers.

Everyone looks to me for a reply. Somehow, I've become the official spokesman for the Joyners.

The Hoffmans' oxen are weak. Any delay puts them in danger of not making it across. “You must go, for the sake of your little ones.”

He nods, and I know that he was going to go anyway, regardless of anything we said. He herds all his children toward their wagon. At the last second, Therese runs back to us. She throws her arms around Jefferson, who hugs her fiercely. She grabs me next, squeezing like she can't bear to let go. I cling to her, unable to say “good-bye” or “good luck” or even “be safe” because of the tightness in my throat.

She steps back, blinking away tears. “I will be very angry if I don't see you in California.”

Therese darts away before we can respond, and I barely glimpse Mrs. Hoffman and Therese looking back over their shoulders before darkness swallows the whole family.

A moan drifts out of the wagon.

“Coming, Mrs. Joyner!” I holler.

Quickly, the six of us gather around—Major Craven, the college men, Jefferson, and me. “As much as I hate to admit it,” I say. “Frank had a good point.”

“On the top of his head,” Jefferson says.

“There too,” I say. “But about the other thing. Leave the Major's tent behind, along with Peony and all the supplies she can carry. You fellows take Andy and Olive and the
wagon and go on with the others. I'll stay with her until the baby comes, and then we'll catch up with you.”

I startle at their response, which is a single, unified chorus of no.

“She may need my help,” Jasper adds.

“I'm not leaving you,” Jefferson says. “Never again.”

“Leah!” She calls from the wagon.

I hesitate, unsure whether to argue sense into these fool men or run to Mrs. Joyner's aid.

“Go,” Jefferson says. “We'll take care of things here.”

I run to the wagon.

I climb inside to find the children clinging to their mother. Olive holds her mother's hand, as if in comfort, but her lower lip quivers when she sees me. Andy's face is swollen, and wetness streaks his cheeks. “Is Ma going to die too?” he asks, his right hand clutching my locket.

“Please,” Mrs. Joyner says. “I don't want them to see me like this.”

Olive is easily led to the back of the wagon, but Andy has to be peeled free. “Jefferson,” I call.

All five men come running.

“Keep the children busy,” I order. “Make sure they get something to eat and maybe put them to sleep in the tent.”

The Major hobbles forward. “Come here, soldier,” he says to Andy. He braces himself against the wagon and lifts the boy by the armpits. “Let's teach your big sister to make quick bread. Your ma is going to need it.”

The other men linger, as if eager for something to do.

“Go away,” I say, and they slink reluctantly into the darkness.

Mrs. Joyner sags into the soaked feather bed with relief.

“We'll get you cleaned up,” I say, grabbing her hand. The wagon smells of blood and urine and sweat. “Then Jasper can come deliver the baby.”

She shakes her head. “It has to be you.”

“Me?”

“It was supposed to be Aunt Tildy. She was going to help me. . . . You're the only other woman here.”

I open my mouth to argue, but a wave of pain takes her. Her eyes squeeze shut as her torso lifts from the bed. The last time I brought a baby into the world, she mooed, and I named her Gladiola, and she gave us milk a few years later. Surely this won't be too different?

Mrs. Joyner collapses when the pain leaves her. “Promise me, Lee,” she whispers.

“Promise what?”

“Promise you'll look after my children. Make sure they know how much their ma loved them.”

I lost my own mother less than eight months ago. Mrs. Joyner was already with child then. It seems so long ago. It seems like yesterday.

“Nothing is going to happen to you, Mrs. Joyner.”

“Becky,” she says. “Please call me Becky.”

“All right,” I say. “Becky.”

“I can't stop thinking about the preacher's wife.”

“Mrs. Lowrey?”

“Mary. Her name was Mary. A sweet girl. Not much older than you.”

“I didn't know her very well,” I admit.

“I only spoke to her a few times.” She squeezes my hand. “You were wise to refuse the preacher's offer. Put off marriage as long as you can.”

I almost ask why, but I'm not sure I want to hear more. Instead, I squeeze her hand in return.

“You don't know what it's like,” she says. “Every time I . . .” She puts a knuckle to her mouth and bites down. It's not a contraction that's taken her, but something even deeper and more painful. She tries again: “My own ma died giving birth. So did my grandma. And last year, my older sister . . . Every time I lay with my husband, I thought, ‘Becky, you will be dead in nine months.' I know it's God's will that women suffer, that we are saved through faith and childbearing, but sometimes . . .”

“Things will be fine.” I squeeze her hand, again because one of us is shaking and I'm not sure which.

“You don't know that,” she says. “That's the problem with pregnancy—you never know. My husband was a gambler. The fool man never considered that the thing he gambled with most was me.”

All through the night, the contractions come slowly. Too slowly. I count the time between them, and they gradually grow closer together. She makes me check her frequently,
which I do by candlelight. I can't see any way a baby will come out.

Between contractions, she dozes. Once, I try to doze too, but as soon as I nod off, a hand reaches under the canvas to tug at my sleeve, and I nearly jump through the roof.

“Is there a baby yet?” Jefferson whispers to me.

“No,” I whisper back.

“Hampton is back!”

“Oh?” I brace myself for what he'll say next.

“Just walked right into our camp carrying a barrelful of water, like a peace offering. Found the empty barrel back at the sink and filled it up.”

“Good,” I say. Then: “No one is going to . . . I dunno, do something awful to him? Are they?”

“You mean the Major? Not a chance—not with the Missouri men gone. That extra barrelful might really help.”

I loose a breath of relief. Hampton would have had a very different reception a few weeks ago, even from the families. But everything changes on the road to California.

Jefferson is silent, and I think he's gone away. I drift off again.

“You know, the Major isn't such a bad fellow,” he says, startling me.

“Oh?” I blink to wake my eyes. “Even after the way he talked about Indians?”

“He told me he had to do
something
, or the Missouri men would have done worse. That stupid drill was just to keep them happy.”

“Huh. You believe him?”

Another contraction snaps Becky Joyner awake, and she gasps in pain. Jefferson yanks the canvas flap shut and disappears.

The sun rises and burns its way across the sky, and still there is no baby. I continue to sit with Becky, telling her stories about growing up in Dahlonega, giving her sips of warm, brackish water, squeezing her hand through contractions.

“It was this way with both the other children,” she says after a bad one. Her skin is pallid and clammy. Salt streaks her face, and her hair is plastered to the side of her face. “With Olive, I was abed for thirty-six hours. Andrew was almost twenty-four.”

“That sounds awful,” I say.

She can't answer because another contraction takes her. I murmur meaningless but soothing words. This one lasts forever. I'm just starting to wonder if I ought to go get Jasper when her face relaxes.

“That was more than three minutes,” I tell her with forced cheer. “They're getting longer.”

She nods and gives me a brave, brief smile. Then she screams.

The waves come, over and over, relentless and fierce. She was right all along; she's going to die. I check between her legs one last time. If there's no progress, I'm fetching Jasper, no matter what she says.

I see the tiny crown of a baby's head.

“Oh!” I say.

Her eyes fill with panic. Fingernails claw into the back of my hand.

“Your baby has curly black hair!” I tell her.

Joy like I've never seen lights her sweaty face, makes her almost beautiful.

“The next time you feel a contraction, you should push, right?”

There is no answer, only agony. A vein on her forehead pops out. Her low, guttural groan crescendos into an agonizing scream. I glimpse the baby's shoulders for a split second before its tiny body slips out, almost leaping into my outstretched hands.

“A girl,” I whisper, staring. She's so little.

The slimy little bundle coughs, gasps, and then cries out, tiny but vigorous.

“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Joyner sobs, reaching out her arms. I place the baby where she belongs, and all the worry and pain drop away from the woman's face like they never happened. The umbilical cord drapes across Becky's torso and ends on the mattress in a mess of afterbirth. News first, clean up later.

I open the canvas flap and see eight weary bodies clustered in the shade of the tent, which has been stretched out flat like an awning. Their faces stare up at me in anticipation.

“A girl,” I say. “She's fine. Her ma's fine too.” I blink against the brightness. When did everything get so blurry? Maybe it's because I haven't slept in more than a day.

Jefferson claps his hands. “Great. Can we start moving
now?”

But I'm looking over his head at something I'm not sure is there. A silhouette in the distance. Skirts flapping in the wind. A woman staggering out of the shimmering mirage that is the horizon.

It's Therese. After five months on the road together, I would recognize her from any distance. She stumbles, gets up again.

I leap from the wagon and start running.

Everyone's else pounding feet are right behind me. I skid to my knees when I reach her. She vomits—a thin, yellow gruel followed immediately by dry heaving. One foot is bare and riddled with open sores. Her sun-scalded skin is hot and dry. I try to help her up, and I feel her heartbeat under my palms; it's as rapid and tiny as hummingbird wings.

“Therese?” Jefferson says. “Therese! What's wrong with her! Jasper—”

“Heat stroke,” Jasper says. “Quick, get her into the shade and give her some water.”

Jefferson lifts her by the armpits. I grab a leg; Hampton the other. She swings between us as we half walk, half run back to the shade of camp.

“‘Märchen von einem, der auszog das fürchten zu lernen,'” she babbles.

“I don't understand, Therese,” Jefferson says. “Tell me what happened.”

“It's a fairy tale, silly,” she says. Her eyes meet mine, and her face gets a sudden clarity. She reaches out, as if to grab
my arm but misses. “You have to help them.”

“Of course we will,” I say. We're almost to the tent.

“The axle broke,” she says. “Everyone left us behind. Vati tried to lead on foot, but Doreen was too heavy. He fell. Please . . . help . . .”

Her eyes roll back, and fear stabs through me. “Where are they?”