Walk on Earth a Stranger (7 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
he bell on the door chimes. Free Jim quickly folds the map, stuffs it inside the almanac, and slides it under his counter. A fellow I don't recognize crosses the threshold and goes straight for the gold mining tools.

“I'll throw in the wagon too,” I say, as though we've been haggling this whole time. “Hiram wants them all gone to make room for his own team.”

“So you're saying I can get a bargain.”

“I'm saying you can get a fair price.”

“I'd be happy to take them off your hands,” he says. “But I'll have to stable them at the hotel until I find a buyer, so the best I can offer is seventy-five each. Ninety if you throw in the wagon.”

“They're a matched driving team and saddle-broke to boot!” The man perusing mining equipment glances our way. I force calm into my voice. “Worth at least two hundred and forty for the pair.”

Free Jim leans forward, resting his arms on the counter. His voice is so low I must strain to hear: “I don't keep much money on hand. Man like me has no place to put it.”

It's a split second before I realize he's talking about the bank. They won't open an account for a Negro.

“So I mostly trade in goods and store credit, understand? If you want to hear the jangle of gold eagles, and I suspect you do, you'll have to let it all go for one hundred and eighty dollars, and I'll be doing that as a favor to your late father.”

“Oh.”

His gaze softens. “Tell you what. I'll throw in a few men's shirts.”

“Men's shirts?”

“I'm sure your uncle could use some new ones.” Whispering, he adds: “Light. Easy to carry. They'll be worth ten dollars or more to the right person at the right time.”

“I see.”

The stranger picks up a pan, turns it over in the light, as if pondering how such a thing could possibly help in the search for gold.

Free Jim asks, “Ever heard a mockingbird?”

I'm not sure what he's getting at. “We had one last summer, sounded just like an oriole. Mama would get so excited, then she'd look and look and never see it.”

“You understand what I'm saying, then. If someone's looking for an oriole, that mockingbird is going to slip right by them.” He pauses. “Anyway, I'll throw in some men's shirts. I'm sure your uncle will find a good use for them.”

I swallow hard. “I appreciate that, sir.”

“So. People might come around asking after . . . Jefferson. Which way should I say he went? By land or sea?”

“By sea. He went by sea. I'm sure of it.”

“All right, then.” I'm not sure why Free Jim is so keen to help me out. Maybe it's because he was such good friends with my daddy. Maybe he has his own suspicions about Uncle Hiram. Regardless, I need to get out of town fast, before Free Jim isn't the only one who figures what I'm about.

He writes down the total on a piece of a paper. “I'll need your signature on this bill of sale,” he says. “For when Hiram Westfall comes asking after his horses.”

The bill of sale does not mention the shirts. I sign my name.

Jim counts out a huge handful of eagles and half eagles. One hundred and seventy dollars total, which he bundles up inside four long-sleeved, linsey-woolsey shirts in such a way that they don't jangle even a little bit. The final ten dollars he breaks into smaller coins and hands to me.

I'm pocketing the coins when he says, “Best of luck, Leah Westfall. Lord willing, I'll be seeing you very soon.”

My gaze snaps to his. He winks at me.

Free Jim is planning to go west too. I smile, and it feels like my first genuine smile at a fellow human being in days. “I surely hope so, Mr. Boisclair.” I have at least one friend besides Jefferson, and that's no small thing.

Chestnut and Hemlock were never my favorite horses. Still,
I can't bear to say good-bye. On a promise from Free Jim that he'll have them tended right away, I leave them behind the store and circle around the crowd on foot. As soon as I'm out of sight of the town proper, I hitch my bundle of boughten shirts and hidden coins under one arm, pick up my skirts with my free hand, and run as fast as I can. It's three miles till home, and I run the whole way.

Once inside the barn, I pull the doors shut and lean against them to catch my breath. My uncle said he had errands, but I don't know exactly what that means or how long he'll be gone.

I race up the ladder to the hayloft and shove a bale aside to reveal my stash of clothing and supplies. My fingers are clumsy on the buttons of my dress, and I force myself to slow down. Good thing I'm wearing my old day dress, which buttons down the front.

I shrug the dress to the ground and unlace my corset. I fold them up and stuff them inside one of the saddlebags. Shivering, I wrap Mama's old cotton shawl around my chest as tight as I can and tuck in the edges. It doesn't feel very secure, but it does flatten what little there is. Hopefully, I'll get better with practice. Hopefully, my chest won't grow any larger.

I pull on the trousers and shirt I altered, then shrug the suspenders over my shoulders. Daddy's boots feel way too large on my feet. I've tended the garden and mucked stalls in them, even hunted a little, but walking and riding all day long will be a different matter. I'll just have to make do.

Only thing left is my hair. I grab Mama's shears.

I've always liked my hair. It's long and thick, gold-brown like my eyes. I was so proud the day Mama let me put it up, knowing it would shimmer in the sunshine. I didn't bother putting it up today. Before I can think about it a second longer, I grab my braid and start hacking away.

Hair is stern stuff. It takes some effort before the braid comes away in my hand. My head immediately feels lighter. Remembering how Mama always trimmed Daddy's hair, I snip along the top and sides too, so it's short all over. I'm probably making a mess of it without a mirror to guide me, but my hat will cover the worst of it.

I shrug the saddlebags over my shoulder. Braid in hand, I start to descend the ladder, but wisps of gold-brown hair catch my eye. They almost blend into the hay, but not quite. I can't leave my hair for Hiram to find.

I gather it all up, quick as I can. I'll hide it in one of the stalls. No—too risky. I should dump it somewhere in the woods, along with my woman's clothes.

My saddlebags are already fit to burst, but I shove the shiny mess down inside one, anyway, then I spread loose hay around to blur the sight of any stragglers. I drop the saddlebags to the ground and follow them down the ladder.

I toss the bags beside Peony, and I grab her bridle from its peg outside her stall.

The unmistakable
clop-clop
of hooves nears the barn entrance.

I dart inside Peony's stall and swing the door shut. I crouch
in the front corner as the barn doors creak open and light fills the space, along with a rush of fresh, icy air.

The creak of a saddle as someone dismounts. The jangle of a bridle. “There, there,” Hiram says. “That's a good boy.”

Will my uncle wonder why the wagon is gone, even though he didn't ask me to sell it? Will he see that Peony's bridle is missing from its peg?

I hardly dare to breathe as I strain my ears. He's unsaddling Blackwind, far as I can tell. Now he's removing the bridle. Blackwind stomps, and Hiram chuckles. “You'd like that, wouldn't you, boy?” he says. “Fine. A rub down it is.”

No, no, no.

Peony snorts and tosses her head. My uncle's footsteps approach. “Hullo, girl,” he says.

Don't look down, don't look down.

Above me, a thick arm in a black woolen sleeve snakes out. Peony allows her muzzle to be rubbed, though her nostrils remain flared. “You'll get used to us, girl,” Hiram says. “So will your mistress. I promise.”

The arm disappears. Footsteps retreat. I wait, quiet as a mouse, my heart in my throat, as he rubs down his gelding. Is it twenty minutes? An hour?

Finally,
finally
, he sets the curry brush back on the shelf and closes Blackwind's stall. The barn doors shut behind him, leaving me in safe, blessed gloom, and I loose a single sob of relief.

I stay frozen, waiting for him to get out of earshot. When I can stand it no more, I spring to my feet and toss Peony's
blanket over her back, followed by the saddlebags and saddle. As I buckle on the rifle holster, I whisper, “We have to move fast and quiet, girl. Won't be more than an hour before he starts to wonder why I'm not home yet.” And sooner or later, he'll figure out what the missing wagon means.

She bears the saddle without complaint, and I heap praise on her and kiss her nose. After one last tug on her girth strap, I take her reins and pull her from the stall. Gradually, quietly, I crack open the barn door and peer outside. Hiram's footprints, crisp in the fresh snow, lead toward the house. A light snow is beginning to fall.

The barn door isn't visible from anywhere in the house except the back porch, so I probably have a few minutes to get out, close the door, and get into the cover of the woods. I'm about to yank her forward when I get an idea.

Blackwind's saddle hangs over the side of one of the empty stalls. I grab my knife from the belt at my waist and saw through the girth strap. It takes longer than I care for, but unless Hiram's a dab at bareback riding, it'll be worth it.

I grab Peony's nose strap and lead her from the barn. The door squeals when I close it behind us. I swing up onto her back. She dances a little, but I dare to hope it's with anticipation rather than nervousness over the unfamiliar saddle. I check that Daddy's Hawken rifle is steady in its holster, and give her flanks a light kick. She lurches forward, eager to go, but I keep her at a quiet, patient walk.

The world is smothered in soft white. Fresh flakes continue to drift down, and I twist in the saddle to make sure
they're filling Peony's tracks. No birds call, no rodents rustle in the barren underbrush, no wind whistles through the bare branches. The winter-still world holds its breath, waiting for me to give myself away with a sound.

I nose Peony behind the barn and into the woods. I bend over her neck to avoid low branches as we twist through the maze of chestnut and red oak and digger pine. The trees break wide too soon, revealing the white ribbon of open road. I pull Peony up short.

If I take the road, I risk being seen by someone who knows me. If I keep to the thick woods, I can't go fast enough to outrun Hiram.

With a kick and a “Hi-yah!” I urge my horse into a gallop. I refuse to look back.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

P
eony and I fly down the road. The wind sweeps my hat from my head so that it flaps like a sail at my back, the chin strap strangling my neck. The icy air on my face makes the corners of my eyes tear. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm leaving home forever, as fast as I possibly can.

We reach the fork, and Peony slows, sides heaving. She noses toward the familiar route into Dahlonega. I steer her left, on to Ellijay Road, but she tosses her head and veers right again. “Please don't fight me, girl. Not today.” When she feels the reins against her neck a second time, she gives in.

I resist the urge to spur her back into a gallop. Though she pulls our wagon almost every day, I haven't been running her regularly. I need to take care of her if she's to stay sound all the way to California.

But this is precious, precious time; the only part of my journey when I can put distance between myself and Hiram
before he realizes I've run away. Which means I'll have to run Peony again once she cools off. I'll have to.

The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home
.

“We might make Prince Edward by dark if we hurry,” I explain, my voice sounding hollow and lonely in the empty winter woods. “Daddy's been there.”

My plan is simple: stay on the big road until I get to an even bigger road, and head off into the woods if I see someone familiar. If I'm lucky—very lucky—the gathering at the courthouse will last a while, leaving the road empty.

An hour passes. I urge Peony into a gallop again. This time, she pulls up even sooner, and I dismount to walk beside her for a spell, giving her a chance to rest.

I feel smaller when I'm not on Peony's back. Smaller, lonelier, colder. The woods loom to either side, dotted with adjoining paths that all look the same—gloomy tunnels through leafless forest, barely wider than deer trails. What if I've missed an important turn? I hope I'm going in the right direction.

Any direction is better than back, I tell myself firmly. Soon enough, with the sun low and me still not home, Hiram will realize I'm gone. He might be searching already. I did my best to misdirect him toward the sea route, but what if it wasn't enough? There could be men on the road right now, pattyrollers or borrowed miners, coming to ride me down. Maybe they'll ambush me, bursting out of one of these silent, gloomy trails.

I can't help myself; I swing back into Peony's saddle and
urge her forward. She tosses her head in protest. “It's just a few days of hard travel. Once we're out of Georgia, we can slow down a little.” I reach down and pat her neck. Even in the fading light, she's a beautiful animal, with a shimmery golden coat and a flaxen mane and tail.

“Peony,” I say, pulling her up and sliding off again. “We've got a problem.”

Everyone for miles knows “Lucky's palomino.” She's even more recognizable than I am, with a coat bright enough to shine in the twilit gloom. I whip off my gloves and stash them in my pocket. With my bare hands, I shove aside some slushy snow and scoop up the mud beneath it. When I lift it toward Peony's neck, she twists her head away.

“Sorry, girl, but everyone knows that pretty coat of yours.”

Working fast, I smear mud down the side of her neck. She nips the space near my ear in warning. That's the thing about Peony—She's sweet most of the time, but if you do something she doesn't like, she'll let you know. Daddy used to say she and I got along so well because we had a few things in common.

“Hold still!” I rub a little mud on her flanks, wary of an impending kick. When I smooth it down her rear legs, she whips her tail around to swat my face.

I give her reins some slack and step back to see how she looks.

“Blast.”

It's only my first day on the road, and I've already made a huge mistake. She's exactly the same horse as before, with
her proud bearing and corn silk mane and a glorious tail that almost brushes the ground. Now, she's muddied up in a way that will draw even more attention, and the precious time I spent disguising her is a total waste.

I start to climb back on, but I pause, foot in the stirrup. There's another bit of business I should take care of while we're stopped. The delay might add up to another huge mistake, but ignoring the task could be worse.

Every decision I make right now feels like the wrong one. I'll just have to be quick.

I hobble Peony and grab my woman's clothes and shorn braid from the saddlebag. It's an armful, even rolled up tight as it is, with the corset, the full skirt, and the petticoats. The whole mess is probably worth a decent sum, and for the hundredth time I consider selling it somewhere. For the hundredth time I come to the same conclusion: It would seem mighty odd for a young boy to walk into a store with a bundle of female fixings to sell. They'd take him for a thief for sure—which might make them look close enough to realize he wasn't a boy at all.

Using a small branch and the heels of my boots, I dig at the ground, squelching up mud and rotting leaves. I don't have time to make a proper hole, so I settle for a small depression. I drop in my parcel of hair and clothing.

I stare down at it too long, feeling strange. The edge of the skirt's ruffle has started to escape the bundle, and the shiny braid winks up at me. It's like I'm burying half a girl here.

Peony's snort moves me to action. I cover it all up best I can
with more mud, add a few deadfall sticks and rocks, which ought to hold if a big rain comes this way. My saddlebags are a lot lighter now. I mount up and kick Peony forward, but my back twitches, like that buried bundle is staring after me and my ill-fitting trousers.

The mud dries on Peony's coat, making her skin twitch like it's covered in flies. She shows her annoyance in a hundred tiny ways, from fighting her bridle to flicking her tail.

“That was a bad idea, and I'm sorry. I promise I'll clean you up as soon as I can.”

She tosses her head as if to yank the reins from my hands. “Stop it!” I snap. “I'm doing the best I can, you ungrateful, mule-headed . . .” My tirade fades as quickly as it came. Yelling at my only companion won't do me any good.

Night falls. I don't dare gallop her in the dark, but neither do I dare stop. At least Peony's shiny coat is becoming a colorless gray in the gloom. No one would recognize her now.

My tiny spark of relief is doused by the
clop-clop
of hooves. Someone approaches.

Everything inside me yearns to dash for the woods and hide, but I have to face people eventually. I nudge my hat brim low, sit straight in the saddle, and trust the moonlight to hide what it must.

A silhouette appears around the bend and rides toward me at a leisurely pace. Not anyone I know, thank the stars. He's gray and heavily whiskered, and he stoops low over a sway-backed mare. A hole in his hat has been hastily stitched with white thread.

“Howdy,” he says, with a tip of his hat.

“Howdy,” I reply, tipping my own hat. One little word, but it sets my heart pounding fit to tumble out of my chest.

We pass each other. I stare straight ahead as if I haven't a care in the world, as if I've every right to this road. I imagine him calling out at my back.
What's a young lady like you doing out here all alone? Why is your horse so muddy?

He doesn't. The sound of his mount's hooves fades, but it's a while before I breathe easy. “We did it,” I whisper after a spell. “I don't think he suspected a thing.”

We press on. The air chills. Peony's steady steps echo around us. Except for that man with the mended hat, I haven't seen a single soul, which is odd, even for winter. I'm fretting all over again that I've gone the wrong way, when I catch the sharp scent of burning pine. Sure enough, we round the next hill and find Prince Edward.

Houses cluster along a western slope, smoke rising from their chimneys and lanterns glowing in their windows. Below them are a white clapboard church, a small store, and a two-story tavern. Lanterns swing from the tavern's front post, illuminating the double doors and wooden stoop. Everything I need is there—oats for Peony and supper for me. But I don't dare go inside.

A group of men stagger from the tavern door, then they pause to don their hats and pull out their pipes. Coals glow in their pipe bowls, and prickly sweet tobacco smoke fills the air.

Quickly, I aim Peony away. We'll circle the town, keeping
to the shadows. Then we'll find a place to camp for the night.

Too late. “Hey, boy,” one calls out.

I pretend not to hear, but my neck prickles, and my grip on the reins tightens. Peony sidesteps in response.

“Boy, I'm talking to you. What's your name?”

I recognize his voice now—It's Abel Topper, from the funeral. The one I saw talking to Uncle Hiram.

I hold Peony to a smooth, casual pace, but my mind races. Topper was a foreman at one of the mines before it dried up. His men—all desperate for work—could be here with him. My uncle might have hired them to look for me.
Why
did I waste time with that awful mud?

“Leave the boy alone,” someone says.

Topper's voice drifts toward me. “That looks like Lucky Westfall's mare, is all I'm saying. Hiram said he'd sell her to me.”

“Topper, you're too drunk to know a mare from a mosquito.”

“Not that drunk. What's she doing out here? I'm telling you. . .”

Abel Topper's voice fades with distance, but I feel his eyes boring holes into my back, and I don't know what to do about it except to keep us walking. We pass the stable, the church, the store, and a few more small houses. Once we're out of sight, I kick Peony into a run, urging her to go faster and then faster still.

After a minute or two, Peony pulls up in protest and I let her. I dismount and wrap my trembling arms around her sweaty neck. “That man won't take you,” I choke out. “You're
not going back to Uncle Hiram. No matter what.”

The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home.

The woods hemming the road are dense and black, and I lead Peony into the cold thick of it. She needs time to walk off her sprint, so I don't stop until we find a stream with a trickle of water; nighttime makes it look like an inky scar slashing through the ground. I work mostly by feel, feeding Peony what little oats I've got in my pack, rubbing her down, checking her over. Galloping her was a stupid and dangerous thing to do in the dark; we're lucky she didn't injure herself.

I take my time, making sure to brush away every speck of that stupid mud. When she bumps her head against me, I know she's finally forgiven me for this terrible day and is ready to rest. I shiver with cold as I hobble her beneath the trees.

Good thing Daddy made me learn how to start a fire in the dark. I scrape a small hole in the ground, rooting around for dry wood as I go, then I pull out my tinderbox and coax up a fire. I hunker over the flames until I stop shivering.

There's nothing to eat except the trail food in my saddlebag, but I don't want to touch it. What if it has to last? There could be Abel Toppers in all the taverns, general stores, and boardinghouses from here to Independence.

What's she doing out here?
Abel Topper said. He wasn't expecting to see Peony. Which means my uncle didn't send him. In fact, Topper probably arrived hours ago. Maybe even yesterday. Long before I left.

The thought frees me to grab some hardtack and force
myself to eat. As I chew, my thoughts drift to Jefferson, who set off with even less than I did. I hope his supplies are lasting and the sorrel mare is doing well by him. I hope he's safe, with a cheery fire of his own. And to be honest, I hope Jefferson's soul is giving him a sting that he ran off on me, leaving me all alone.

No, he couldn't help it. He was in a bad way as much as me, with a daddy who is worse than no daddy at all. It wasn't Jefferson's fault. It wasn't.

The hardtack turns to grit in my teeth, and my stomach rolls over in protest. Turns out, I don't have room for much inside me except worry and anger and tears that haven't been given leave to see daylight.

Speak of the devil and you summon it, because just thinking about tears invites them to spring to my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to tamp them down because they feel like angry tears, not sad ones.

There, I've said it. I'm mad.

I'm mad at my parents for not being here, I'm mad at Jefferson for leaving without me, and I'm mad at myself for not going when he asked. I'm mad at everyone back home for brushing off my parents' murders, and I'm mad they turned the funeral into a church social. Most of all, I'm mad at Uncle Hiram for being a slimy, villainous beast and taking every single thing I ever loved. I'm scared and I'm mad, and both keep me awake in the dark for a long time.

The cold wakes me before dawn. The fire has burned down to nothing. I'm shivering, teeth chattering, and my blanket
is soaked with dew.

My stomach is truly empty, and my tears have dried; I won't be shedding more. I chew on another bit of hardtack as I saddle Peony.

The only way to go is forward. “C'mon,” I say. “We have to keep moving.”