Walk on Earth a Stranger (9 page)

Peony's nicker wakes me.

Branches crunch under heavy boots.

I reach for my rifle, but it's gone.

Before I can jump up, the cold end of a gun barrel presses against my scalp. I don't have to look at it to know it's the Hawken, and it's loaded.

“You should have gone back to Dalton for the night,” Emmett says.

“Heck,” says Ronnie. He's a looming shadow on my left, hemming me in so I can't escape. “You should've stayed in Ellijay.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
'm in big trouble if these brothers were hired by my uncle to bring me home. But I'm in bigger trouble if they weren't.

Mama warned me about men like these. She knew a few when the Georgia gold rush was young, when times were rough and she was one of the only women in Dahlonega. So I know they'll rob me blind, at least. If they're not working for my uncle, they'll do worse.

“Zeke,” Emmett says. “The fire's gone out. Fetch us some wood, will you?”

“Make him do it,” Zeke says, indicating me.

Him.
They're not working for Hiram.

“Shut your trap and do what I tell you,” Emmett says. As his brother sulks off, he says, “You, sit up.”

I do as he asks, slowly, keeping an eye on the Hawken.

“And give me that blanket,” Ronnie says, yanking it from my shoulders. He wraps it around his own and steps back again, keeping me trapped between him and Emmett.

“How'd you find me?” I ask to stall more than anything.

“Smelled your campfire,” Emmett says. “Ronnie here spotted the place where you left the road. He's a dab at tracking my brother.”

I left tracks, and I made camp upwind of the road.

Zeke returns. “Why're we wasting time here?” he says, dumping a few branches beside the fire.

“Ain't no rush,” Emmett tells him. “Might as well pass the night.”

Emmett squats beside my fire pit, the Hawken across his knees. He keeps the barrel aimed my way, one hand resting on the stock within easy reach of the triggers. With his free hand, he stirs the coals and stokes the flames. “You got that bottle on you, Ronnie?”

Ronnie retrieves a jug from his horse. Corn liquor, if I don't miss my guess. He pulls the cork and takes a swig, then passes it to Emmett, who does the same before handing it off to Zeke.

My saddlebag lies on the ground beside me, where I was using it as a pillow. Ronnie grabs it and reaches inside.

“Stop that,” I holler before I think better of it.

Ronnie grins. Holding my gaze, he slowly and deliberately rummages around inside. He pulls out Free Jim's bundle of shirts. “Hey, there's a shirt in here for each one of—Holy . . .”

The gold eagles spill out, clanking as they fall, then roll silently into the dead leaves. Ronnie drops the shirts and scrambles for the coins. Zeke runs over to help. Emmett
remains where he is, watching me like I'm a snake.

I'm worse than a snake. I am patient. I am a ghost.

“There must be sixty or seventy dollars here,” Zeke says.

“More!” Ronnie says.

“How much?” Emmett asks me.

“Didn't stop to count.”

“You think this is Lucky Westfall's gold?” Ronnie asks.

Emmett raises an eyebrow at me.

“What if it is?” I say, clenching my hands into fists to keep them from trembling. If everyone knows about Daddy's murder, it's only a matter of time before they hear tell of his missing daughter.

Zeke is down on his hands and knees, scattering leaves and branches. Ronnie upends my saddlebag and shakes out my few belongings. Peony's grain spills everywhere. Thank the stars I got rid of my women's clothes.

“Reminds you of the old days, don't it?” Emmett says, still studying me.

“This kid don't look anything like a Cherokee,” Ronnie says.

“But us, out in the woods at night, looking for someone stupid.” His chuckle is ugly and mean. “Remember that first fellow?”

“Didn't have anything on him but a bearskin,” Zeke says.

“And that rifle, remember? You carried that rifle for three years.”

“Heck, I hated that gun. Never shot straight for me.”

“Because you hit too many Indians in the head with it,”
Ronnie says.

“Maybe we should head west like everyone else,” Zeke says. “We won't find a richer treasure trove of stupid than on the road to California.”

They're pretending to ignore me, but I know better. I saw it a dozen times with Jefferson's da, the way he'd coyly provoke Jeff into being heedless or clumsy, then use the excuse to yell at him. If no one was around, he'd do more than yell. So I'm watching them close and waiting for my chance to escape, but I'm not going to give them any excuse.

The fire is going strong now. The brothers gather close and pass the bottle around again. Ronnie has found most of the coins, and he lays them out before the fire, counting them over and over again. Anger makes it hard to see straight. I fled one thief only to find another, and soon I'll have just as much nothing as I did before.

“We got lucky tonight,” Emmett says.

“We did,” Zeke agrees.

“But think of those flatboats, drifting down the Ohio,” Ronnie says. “It's like money at a fair, waiting to be picked up off the ground, and it's a lot closer than California.”

“Eh,” Zeke grunts, and takes another drink.

“How about it?” Ronnie asks, looking at me. Whatever comes next, it's how he plans to set me up. “You've a talent for robbing, at the very least. Murder, if you're the one who killed Westfall. You want to go to Memphis with us, head down the Mississippi?”

Zeke sits up straight. “Hey, now, I don't want to split shares
four ways.”

Ronnie scowls and pokes at the fire, sending up a spiral of sparks. Its warmth is seeping back into me. My limbs twitch with readiness.

“I thought you didn't want to come with us this year, Zeke,” Emmett says.

“Aw, I was just letting off steam,” Zeke says.

Emmett turns back to me. “So how about it? All these farmers from Ohio, Indiana, Pennsylvania—they complain about slavery, how bad the South is, how we ought to change our ways. But come early winter, they slaughter their hogs, fill their barrels full of pork, and float down the Mississippi. They stop at every plantation along the way, selling off their goods until they get to New Orleans. Then they walk back home, their pockets full of southern money. They're a bunch of hypocrites.”

“God hates hypocrites,” Ronnie says.

“Amen,” Zeke says.

Emmett smiles. “So you see, we're instruments of God's justice. How would you like to be an instrument of God's justice?”

I say nothing.

“A lot of these northern hypocrites like to gamble their way back home,” Emmett continues, “where their families can't see them being hypocritical. And my brothers and I like a fair game of cards as well as the next man.”

“Not a fair game,” Ronnie amends.

Emmett says, “If they lose a little money to us, that's fine.
Keeps it here in the South where it belongs.”

“Some of 'em like to drink,” Ronnie says. He takes the jug from Zeke and tilts his head back for a swallow.

“That they do,” Emmett agrees. “And we happen to be drinking men too, and good company besides. But these northern fellows are weak, and if they can't hold their liquor, and they fall down and hit their heads—”

“Or fall into the river,” Ronnie says.

“Why, then, it's our civic duty to empty their pockets and take their wages, to return them to their families.”

“If we ever see their families,” Ronnie adds.

I make myself breathe slow and easy, or else I'd scream and run. These men aren't just robbers, they're killers. Freebooters, just like Colonel Plug's boat-wreckers down the Ohio River or Mason's gang at Cave-In-Rock.

Emmett grabs the jug from Ronnie and tilts it to his lips. Peony is tugging at her hitch, which shakes the branches of the small birch she's tied to. She doesn't like the smell of this either.

“I have to admit that northern folks are unjustly suspicious of me and my brothers, on account of their deep and hypocritical prejudices,” Emmett says. “But you? You look as innocent as a sacrificial lamb with those big, wide girlie eyes. We might be able to use that.”

They're starting to relax. I can see it in their shoulders. In the easy way they tip back their heads for a swig.
Just a few more drinks, boys.

“On the other hand, if you don't want to join us as our
long-lost cousin Tackett from Ellijay, no hard feelings. We'll just take what we need and leave you here in the woods.”

Leave me dead in the woods, he means. Zeke's hand is too near the big knife on his belt. Ronnie seems to be gazing off the other way, but Emmett still aims the Hawken at me. My belly squirms to think that after everything, I might get killed by Daddy's own gun.

Emmett holds out the jug, offering me a drink. “So what's it going to be?”

I'm supposed to beg them to take me along. If I do, they'll have a laugh at my expense, then murder me, anyway. If I don't, they'll use it at an excuse to be extra mean.

The jug hangs in the air, along with Emmett's question. I figure I'm dead no matter what I answer. So I pull a trick I learned watching Jefferson deal with his father: I change the subject.

“My horse. Sounds like she got snarled up.”

At my voice, Peony whinnies and struggles harder. I say a silent blessing to her.

I add, “She spooks easy. If she doesn't get unsnarled, she could hurt herself. And then she's no good—can't ride her, can't sell her.”

Ronnie frowns. Emmett shuffles closer to the fire, trying to get a better look at me. His hand inches toward the triggers. Staring me down eye-to-eye, he says, “Zeke, go untangle the horse.”

“Why me?”

“Because I told you to.”

Zeke stomps over to Peony, spewing a string of curse words. He draws his knife and cuts her hitch.

“There, you satisfied?” he says.

Peony thanks him by biting his cheek.

Zeke screams. Peony rears, and Emmett and Ronnie leap after her because she's worth even more than the coins. The rifle is no longer pointed at my head.

I launch to my feet and kick the fire. Glowing coals fly up and hit Emmett and Ronnie in the back. Emmett drops the jug. Liquid spills and whooshes into flame.

I turn and flee. The Hawken rifle cracks the air; the shot splinters a tree beside me. I can't see where I'm going, and I don't care. I trip, falling to my knees, but I scramble up and keep going.

My instinct is to run for the shadows where the moon can't touch, so I skid downhill. I'm probably leaving muddy marks in the hillside, but I can't worry about that now. I trip again—a big, fat log this time—which sends me flying. I hit the ground hard, and pain shoots from my shoulder and up into my neck. I roll down the hill, faster and faster, and come to a soft and sudden
thunk
in a collection of damp leaves.

I lay gasping, detritus filling my mouth. How long since the shot was fired? Thirty seconds? Forty? Any man worth his salt would have that rifle reloaded by now.

Their voices echo through the trees, but I dare to hope they're moving farther away. I glimpse the fire's orange glow on the slope above, flickering between swaying branches, but I kicked it good, and its light fades.

It's too dark to sneak away; I'm as likely to run right into the brothers. Best to stay in one place. Being hunted is like being a hunter, really. Either way, you have to be as silent and still as death.

Mold pricks my nose as I scrape leaves to cover myself, until their weight feels like a blanket over my body. Now I've nothing to do but wait silently, my mind spinning. I should hide here at least until morning. Poor Peony. I hope she got away. If not, they might hurt her just for spite.

“He came down this way.”

I startle at Ronnie's whisper, causing the leaves around me to rustle.

“I heard crashing and mucking about. See that spot there, where he slipped?”

Be patient. Be a ghost.

“I hope he hit his head on a rock and killed hisself,” Zeke says. “He should pay for what that horse did.”

“It's your own fault, you fool,” Emmett says. There's pain in his voice too; I hope the fire burned him good. “Why'd you go and cut it loose for?”

“You said untangle, and I untangled.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Ronnie says. “I heard something.”

Footsteps shuffle through underbrush on the hillside just above. Someone steps on a log, which creaks hollowly and sends dirt and leaves pattering down on top of me.

“It was right down here,” Ronnie insists.

More scuffling and dislodged mud. Someone slides down the embankment. “Too dark to see,” Zeke says, his voice so
close I could probably reach out and touch him.

“We've got his gold,” Emmett says. “Let's head back to Dalton, find a doc to look at my arm.”

“You mean my face!”

“That too.”

Boots stomp within inches of my nose. If he steps on me, I'm done for. Or maybe, if I'm quick, I can wrench him down by the leg and put my own boot in his face before he can say howdy.

I hold my breath, sure it's a trick, but the boots step away, and the underbrush thrashes as Zeke scrambles up the slope. I'm quiet as a rabbit in a burrow with a fox nearby, and I stay that way long after their footsteps fade, listening desperately to the silence.

I feel more than hear the soft swoop of wings as a screech owl shadows down from the trees and lands in front of my face. His head twists as he calls out, like a crying baby. His eyes are huge and wide and golden, just like mine.

After a moment, the owl's silhouette launches back into the sky, and I'm a little sad to see him go, like I've lost the night's one beautiful thing.

He never would have left his tree if the brothers were still around. Still, I don't move from my pile of leaves until morning quickens with the rising sun.