Walk on Earth a Stranger (32 page)

“I really wanted to see California.”

“Therese, where are—”

She seizes. Her leg shakes out of my grasp and plops to the ground.

“Hurry!” Jasper yells. He directs us to lay her down and turn her on to her side, then he dribbles water over her skin.

“Therese,” Jefferson whispers. His hand snakes out and grabs mine.

We watch, helpless, as she convulses for several minutes. It's like seeing a contraction all over again. Except when she finally stills, her eyes are wide and sightless, and no breath passes her lips.

“What happened?” Jefferson asks. “Therese!”

Jasper shakes his head.

Henry says, “She cooked to death in her own body.”

It's not true. It didn't happen. Not to Therese. But she doesn't move. She doesn't even blink. I can't amputate the badness from her. I can't run to her rescue. I can't give her a golden locket to keep her safe.

Jefferson opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“What's going on?” Becky Joyner leans over the edge of the
wagon, her new baby cradled to her chest. Olive and Andy peek out at her waist.

If I let out an answer, I won't be able to hold anything in.

“It's Therese,” Hampton says gravely.

Jasper rises to his feet, his face stricken. “Her family is in trouble. She ran through the desert to get help. She sacrificed . . .” His jaw trembles.

I squeeze Jefferson's hand. Therese is a hero. Just like she wanted.

“Then we must go to them,” Becky says fiercely. “Right away.”

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T
here's no time to bury Therese properly, not if we want to help her family, but we wrap her tightly in the Major's tent and weigh her down with rocks.

Her death can't be for nothing. It can't. So the only eulogy she gets is action. We have the oxen yoked and the wagon underway in record time. It heaves and jerks over the rocky trail, but Becky Joyner makes no complaint. She is so relieved to be alive that she cleans up and takes care of herself.

All through the night we press on, with only short breaks every hour to give the animals a few sips of water and some bites of bread. Peony's head droops. The oxen cry piteously. Near dawn, the first one falters. Jefferson and I run to unyoke him and leave him behind.

We find the broken wagon around nine in the morning. The axle is shattered, but there were no spare parts—everything was discarded to lighten the load.

Jasper is quick to take charge. “We'll organize our search
from here,” he says. “We'll take the horses and ride out in circles until we see their tracks or find—”

“No,” I say with certainty. The Hoffmans are not nearby. I don't sense their secret gold stash at all.

“We shouldn't separate,” Hampton says. “No one can survive out here alone.”

Everyone nods, except Jefferson, who stands with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. I've never seen him look so defeated, not even when he was getting the worst of it from his da.

“Therese was clear,” I say. “Her father was trying to get through the desert on foot before he collapsed. We'll keep to the trail until we catch up with them.”

“Are you sure?” Jasper says.

“I would gamble my life on it.”

Jefferson's head snaps up. “Don't say that.”

Jasper says, “Let's grab the water barrel and any supplies from their wagon and go.”

In minutes, we've stripped it of everything useful and are pushing onward. An hour or so later, another ox drops to its front knees, then keels over to the side. We're down to eight, with almost half of the desert yet to cross.

We pass one of the Hoffmans' oxen, collapsed and dead. Then another. Above, huge buzzards glide in lazy circles. They're the only creatures eating well in this godforsaken place.

The sun bakes us mercilessly as we plod forward—not just with heat but with light that sears my eye sockets. I'm so lost
in the blaze of bright-hot determination, so focused on putting one foot in front of the other, that I almost miss it when my gold sense twinges. It's the barest tickle in my throat, the softest siren call.

The Hoffmans' hidden gold is at the absolute edge of my range. I close my eyes and concentrate. It's off to the left, over a rise and out of view.

“I see tracks!” I shout. “Leave the wagon here, feed and water the animals. Some of you come with me.”

There are no tracks; anyone can see that, and I give a split-second thought to how careless I'm being, but it doesn't matter. We have to find the Hoffmans. I have to do one last thing for the girl who was becoming my friend.

I don't bother to see if anyone follows my instructions; I break into a jog and crest the rise. The rocky, ochre earth stretches for a mile. Beyond it is a shimmering expanse, like a lake of light. At the edge of the mirage are seven tiny, dark figures.

The silhouettes are as still as death. We're too late. Like Therese, they've—

One of the figures shifts, moves into the shadow of another. Jefferson, Hampton, and Jasper are suddenly beside me, and then Tom and Henry. Together, we pour down the slope toward them.

They're even farther away than they seem. We are heaving from effort by the time the figures become distinguishable—Mr. Hoffman laid out under a makeshift awning, Doreen curled up near his feet. Luther and Martin sit together with
Otto while Carl leans against his mother's side.

Martin waves as we approach, relief flooding his face, but Mrs. Hoffman is the only one who struggles to her feet. Her face is splotchy, like she's been crying, but her body has no wet tears to spare.

“Therese found you!” Her eyes search behind us for her daughter.

I try to respond, but the words clog my throat.

Mrs. Hoffman stares at me, and then she stares at Jasper, who shakes his head. She stands stock-still for the space of three heartbeats. Then she wraps her arms around her belly, eyes squeezed tight, and says,
“Gott hab sie selig.”

Mr. Hoffman remains unresponsive. Beside him is a giant, bulky knapsack. Its contents make my whole body thrum.

Jasper crouches beside him, pries open his mouth, and forces water from his own canteen between Mr. Hoffman's lips. He chokes, and his eyes flutter.

“We need to get back to the trail,” I say.

“Ja.”
Mrs. Hoffman rouses her children. The oldest boys can walk on their own, but the three youngest must be carried. Doreen staggers over and climbs into my arms.

“Oof,” I say. She is too heavy, but all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other until we get back to the wagon. I can do it, for Therese's baby sister.

Tom carries Carl, and Henry picks up Otto. Jasper and Hampton drape Mr. Hoffman's arms across their shoulders. He tries to shrug them off, head lolling, but he doesn't have the strength to resist.

“They have supplies,” Jefferson says.

“Grab any food and water and leave the rest behind,” Jasper tells him.

Jefferson slips Mr. Hoffman's knapsack over his shoulder, staggering under its weight. “No wonder Mr. Hoffman collapsed,” he says, reaching inside. He pulls two tarnished candlesticks from the bag. “Do we need these?”

“They're just heirlooms,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “Rubbish. Leave them.”

Jefferson drops them onto the hard-packed ground, where they roll a ways before lurching to a stop against a jutting boulder. He hefts the pack over his shoulder again. “Better. Let's go.”

I hang back while the others head toward the barren slope and the wagon. Beneath that layer of dull brass, the candlesticks are solid gold. A small fortune, disguised for travel. And Mrs. Hoffman doesn't know.

I put down Doreen and pick up the candlesticks. They sing to me, vibrating through my fingertips.

“You heard her,” Jefferson says, and I jump. “We can leave those behind.”

“Mr. Hoffman has come so far,” I say. “And he just . . .” I swallow hard. “He lost his daughter. I don't want him to lose these too.”

His stares at me. Then at the candlesticks. His eyes narrow.

Ignoring him, I drop one into each pocket, and their weight makes my suspenders feel like knives at my shoulders. I gather up Doreen again. This time my “oof” is even more
heartfelt.

Jefferson walks beside me. “I'm a better tracker than you are,” he says. It's true. He always tracked; I always shot. We bagged dozens of critters that way. “I didn't see any tracks leading this way.”

“I must have stomped over them,” I say.

“That's your story?”

“We found the Hoffmans—that's proof right there.”

He mutters something angry under his breath.

My heart races, with heat and exhaustion and guilt. Not telling Jefferson is one thing. But lying feels worse, somehow. Once an omission becomes a straight-out lie, you can never take it back.

We stumble onward. My lungs heave, and my legs are brittle and aching, like they're about to snap. Maybe this time, the Major will be the one holding
my
shoulders down as Jasper does his work.

Jefferson struggles beside me, carrying a supply bag even heavier than Doreen. His breaths are gasping and dry, and his steps skid and slide, like he doesn't have quite enough strength to lift his feet.

I think of Therese, and I keep going, one foot after the other.

When we arrive, the dogs lie panting in the shade of the wagon, not bothering to stir. Becky relinquishes her spot to the Hoffmans, and I'm more than a little relieved to hand Doreen over and drop the candlesticks inside the wagon bed. The oxen groan when we whip them forward.

Still so far to go. Everyone is weak, moving slowly, feet dragging through the dust. Our lips are cracked, our eyes swollen, our skin bright with sunburn. Waiting for the Joyner baby cost us dearly, but maybe not so much as our dash to rescue the Hoffmans in the full heat of midday. I don't know how we'll make it.

After a mile of slow plodding, the Major pulls the wagon to a stop. “If we don't lighten the load, the oxen will die. How about we put the children on Peony and Sorry and let them ride?”

I stare at him, puzzled. “‘Sorry'?”

“Ain't that the name of Jefferson's horse? Sorry mare.”

“Sorrel mare,” Jefferson says.

“Well, she's awful sorry looking, if you ask me.”

I laugh, though it sounds more like a wheeze.

“We
have
been saving the horses in case we need them,” Jefferson says.

No, I saved my horse because I couldn't bear to lose one more thing from my life before. “And now we need them,” I say, staring at Peony's ribs and drooping neck. “Oh, Peony, my sweet girl.”

Peony snorts and tosses her head when we put Carl and Doreen in her saddle, but with the children riding, the wagon moves a little faster.

Becky Joyner walks beside me for a spell, her tiny daughter swaddled in her arms. I can't believe how quickly she's on her feet after such a hard labor. Or maybe riding in the shade for
so long put her in better shape than any of us.

“Have you given her a name?” I ask, even though it hurts to talk around my swollen tongue.

She shakes her head. “Not until she's lived long enough to earn one.”

“All right.” Some families are like that, especially during hard times. My baby brother never got a name.

“Listen, Lee, I said some things to you. In the wagon, when I was in my way. About being married and having babies and . . .” Her voice trails off.

“You did.”

“They weren't proper,” she says. “And I didn't mean them.” Her finger traces a soft circle on the baby's forehead.

“She's so beautiful,” I say, peering over at her bundle. She's been a good baby on this first day of her life, with wide-clear eyes and little fuss, which is a wonder given this godforsaken heat. Unlike her brother and sister, she's dark-haired.

“I shouldn't have complained. I ought to face my lot with faith and courage.”

I'm plumb out of faith and courage. I don't think I have anything left but stubbornness. Maybe that's all I ever had. “Everyone's afraid of something,” I tell her.

“Oh? What are you afraid of, Lee?”

I don't have to think even one second. “I'm afraid of my uncle Hiram, the man who killed my parents. And I'm afraid of being alone again.”

Her smile is humorless. “And I'm afraid that my children will be alone.”

“Well, I'm glad you're still with us.”

“So am I.” She sounds surprised by the fact. Then she looks up at the sky, where buzzards continue to circle. “For now.”

We take a short rest when the sun goes down. The moment we stop walking, everyone collapses to the earth. Jefferson plunks down beside me, back against the wagon. He folds his arms on his knees and lays down his head.

Major Craven half jumps, half falls from the wagon bench. He hobbles a few feet and lowers himself to the ground to massage the back of his short leg. “Only one barrelful of water left,” he says.

One barrelful is not nearly enough for us and our animals.

“We should turn around and go back,” Henry Meek says. He lies on his back, staring at the darkening sky. “Before it's too late.”

“Are you daft?” Tom says. “We're more than halfway there. If we go back, we're dead.”

“We're dead if we go forward,” Mrs. Hoffman says bitterly. “If we go back, at least we
know
there's water at the end of our journey.”

The Major shakes his head. “We'd never make it. We covered too much ground today, too fast, chasing after you and your family.”

“If your husband hadn't run off after that Frank Dilley—” Henry starts, but Becky Joyner jumps in.

“They were just doing what they thought was best for their family!”

Her baby starts to wail. Jefferson raises his head for a
moment, but then drops it back to his forearms, shutting the rest of us out.

“Henry has a point,” Tom says. “Therese would still be alive if—”

“Don't you dare talk about Therese!” Mrs. Hoffman yells. Her son Martin jumps to his feet and strides toward Tom, fists clenched and murder in his eyes.

“Martin! Stop!”

It's Mr. Hoffman, clambering, with Jasper's help, from the back of the wagon. He is wan and haggard, with red blisters swelling his chapped lips. Becky's baby wails and wails.

Mr. Hoffman sways on his feet. “What was that about Therese?” he asks. “Where is she?”

Mrs. Hoffman stares at her husband, unable to speak.

“She didn't make it,” Jasper says gently.

“What? She . . . My girl . . .” Mr. Hoffman looks around desperately, as if Therese might suddenly appear. I see our group through his eyes: filthy lumps of weakness and despair, huddled low as if hoping the earth will swallow us and take us away.

Mr. Hoffman wilts, like a drying summer flower. He collapses to the ground and buries his face in his hands. His shoulders shake, and he rocks back and forth, keening in chorus with the Joyner baby.

“I'm telling you, we should go back,” Henry says, shouting to make his voice heard. “We're falling apart here.”

“No!” Becky yells.

Everyone starts arguing again, except Hampton and me,
who watch helplessly, and Jefferson, who ignores everyone.