Under a Painted Sky

by Stacey Lee

  “Sorry,” I choke out to Mr. Pine Tree.

  My stomach feels better now, but my head still spins. The sky has charcoaled. I doubt I can make it back on my own two feet. I wander around for several minutes among the pine trees until I realize I’m going in the wrong direction. When I finally move back into open space, the wagon circle appears as one bright blur, even farther away now.

  A noise freezes my blood. There in front of me, two goblins with bad haircuts are cackling. Someone’s bent over on the ground between them. I recognize the way her coat drapes over her form. It’s Andy.

  17

  “ANDY!” I CRY, FORCING MY LEADEN FEET TO MOVE. I make it a step, then two.

  Both Scots straighten when they notice me. Ian tosses whatever he’s holding—a bottle?—from one hand to the other. “Chinkies, they’re the easiest to trek. They got a reek, like vomit, for they can never hold their drink.” He wiggles the bottle at me.

  “Or you can just watch where their blackies go. They follow them like dugs. Here, blackie,” says Angus, making sucking noises with his tongue and holding a coil of rope toward Andy. “Got a leash for ye.”

  God help me. I can’t unravel what these Scots are saying, but it isn’t good.

  Andy gets to her feet and hurries over to me. I fumble for my gun. Not again. I can’t. But that survival thing stirs me to lift it and point.

  “Shtay awray from her,” I order. Andy’s eyes go wide and nearly glow. She shakes her head at me. What? Heaven help me, did I just call Andy “her”?

  They laugh and close in. And I must do this thing that will cement my place in hell, but I have no choice, once again, for the others are too far away to hear or notice us. The flames lick at me already.

  Damn! Why am I moving like molasses down a sheet of ice? They separate, and I don’t know which one to shoot first. How do I work this? My unpracticed hands shake visibly.

  “Such a bonny wee thing, so dear when you cry,” says Angus.

  When I cock back the hammer, they stop moving and look at each other.

  “I’s syr-ius,” I slur out, then burp.

  Ian bursts out laughing and now so does Angus. So I growl menacingly, which only makes them laugh harder.

  “Give it to me.” Andy whispers to me. “You’s gonna kill you’self.”

  She wants the gun? “Need to shoots jem first.” They draw closer. I set my jaw. You dumb eggs. I am wanted for murder. Come on, then.

  Angus approaches us with his rope held out. “C’mere, you dugs.”

  I pull the trigger.

  Pow! Who knows where the bullet goes? The cockroaches scatter, so I must not have hit them.

  Now someone yells from behind. I twist around. The sheriff runs toward us, wielding a shotgun.

  • • •

  My head hurts. Someone glued my eyelids shut. I force them open and behold a silver hairbrush, swinging from the center hoop next to a bucket of tools. Hoop? I struggle to get up as a dark face appears above me.

  “Time for you’s medicine,” says Andy.

  “What happened?” I ask, as the details of last night return to me, most of them at least. I didn’t hit the Scots, though I did manage to blow a branch off the same pine tree I retched over. Guess trees can have bad luck, too. “Did they hurt you?”

  “Just cuffed me on the head. Thank the Lord it’s pretty hard. You just worry about you.”

  “Why?” My head feels twice as heavy as usual and my ears ring. Mrs. Calloway’s face eclipses Andy’s, her faded brown tresses loose around her shoulders. The woman combs her fingers into the back of my hair and presses a tin cup to my lips. I spew it back out just as she pulls her head out of the way.

  “Everyone does that,” says Mrs. Calloway. “It’s willow bark plus a few other things. It does tend to smell like ripe diapers.”

  She tips the cup into my mouth again, and I swallow the foul drink, which reminds me of Father’s bitter-melon tea.

  “Mrs. Jeffers always makes her cider too strong,” she says. “Of course, girls shouldn’t be drinking so much anyway.”

  “What?” gasp Andy and I at the same time.

  “I’m a midwife. I can tell these things even if the others can’t. You mind telling me why?” She tilts her kind face toward me, then Andy.

  Andy looks at me. I shake my head no.

  “I will answer that question,” I say. My tongue still lags behind my thoughts, but it’s improving. “It’s cuj, we’re slaves-es.”

  Now Andy’s inspecting the stuff swinging above us and shaking her head, though she should be paying attention.

  “Well, we are abolitionists,” says Mrs. Calloway. “And last time I checked, Chinese people aren’t slaves here in the U.S.”

  Andy goes still. “You know a man named Obadiah?” she asks slowly.

  Mrs. Calloway’s gray eyes sharpen. “Yes, he’s a cooper, though he’s missing a thumb.”

  I’m not sure I’ve heard correctly and try to sit up again, but Andy pushes me down.

  “I’ll be.” Andy chuckles. “Your husband was supposed to be my Moses wagon. Lord, You’s almighty. See, I was running away.” She turns to me: “Obadiah’s our code word. She’s part of the Railroad.”

  Dimly, I recall how Andy was planning to run away on her own before Miss Betsy made her scrub me down. Andy tells Mrs. Calloway everything, starting with when she found me with Yorkshire on the floor. The woman listens with her hands folded, not interrupting.

  After Andy finishes, Mrs. Calloway presses her cool hand to my cheek. “You’re not a murderer.”

  My breath falls out of me. “I’m not?”

  “If that man tried to abuse my daughters like that, I hope they would have smacked him, too.” Mrs. Calloway’s soft voice takes on an edge.

  I sag back against the wool blanket, head still dizzy.

  Two cackling goblins wait behind my lids, stampeding me through a maze of pine trees. I scramble up a tree, but they torch it. I climb until I can go no farther, and wait for the flames to take me.

  • • •

  When my eyelids finally snap open, I am alone, my head drenched in sweat. Dawn spills through the cracks of the wagon.

  Andy sticks her head into the wagon. “Oh, good, you’s up.” She passes me a dipper of water and I drink up. It’s so cold, it makes my head throb.

  “There’s someone here to see us.”

  “What? Who?” I ask as my stomach rumbles with nausea. At least my tongue is starting to work again.

  I stumble out the back of the wagon, blinking in the thin light of morning. The campsite has been tidied, the crates and pots put away, and trees cleared of laundry. Twenty yards away, a mule is chewing on dandelions. Mr. MacMartin is holding her reins. He looks so remarkably like Angus that I hesitate to go any closer.

  But Andy jerks her head toward him. “Come on. And just in case you forgot, you’s still a boy.”

  As I draw near, I realize that instead of the icy eyes of his sons, Mr. MacMartin has sad eyes, with puffs of flesh underneath that Chinese people believe are caused by too much worry.

  “Boys, I beg both of yer forgiveness on account of mah sons’ behavior,” he says. “We’re leaving the train. A’m taking them back to Iowa.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” I say, a sentiment that Andy does not echo.

  “Nothing tae be sorry for. Methinks ’tis fair th’ best. I wid lik’ ye ta have this mule. A present from me.”

  I lift my hand to stifle a surprised gasp. The mule lifts her head and blinks her long eyelashes at us. Twelve hands tall, light gray in color like Tsing Tsing, but with a downy mane and snow-white tail.

  “You’s giving us a mule?” Andy exclaims.

  He nods. I offer the mule my hand to sniff. She kisses it, and I fall in love.

  Ten paces behind, Cay, West, and Peety watch us as
they pack up the remuda.

  “I think she likes ye already,” says Mr. MacMartin, handing me her reins. “Good luck to ye and yer friends.”

  “Thank you, sir. And good luck to you, too.” Andy and I take turns shaking his hand.

  After he returns to his wagon, Peety, West and Cay approach us.

  Peety rubs the mule’s face. “A Esme le gustaban las mulas. No la has visto, ¿no? Bueno, está bien. Bienvenida a la familia.”

  I translate: Esme loved mules. You haven’t seen her, have you? No? Welcome to the family.

  Who is Esme?

  Andy draws her eyes from the vaquero to me. “You better think of a good name before someone else fixes her with one I can’t pronounce.”

  “Best names are always Mexican,” says Peety.

  “Then how about Paloma,” I say, the Spanish word for “dove.” “She’s a gift from heaven.” Now Andy won’t have to ride Princesa.

  “Not bad,” says Peety.

  “I think you should ride her,” says Andy. “I’m gonna give the she-devil another try.”

  I fix my astonished eyes on her, but she doesn’t look at me. Her lips press into a resolute bundle.

  “Sure about that, Andito?” Peety asks.

  She squares her hat. “I’m sure.”

  His broad face breaks into a smile. “Bueno. Mules got stronger hooves than horses, and more stamina. Paloma might be small, but she’s perfect for a lightweight like Sammy.”

  Lightweight?

  “Plus, they’re smarter,” he adds in a whisper, as if the other horses might overhear.

  “I wouldn’t get too close, vaquero—a little apple juice makes him deadly,” says Cay. He holds out a gloved hand for me to shake, though I’m not sure why. I press hands and pump once, man-style.

  Now West claps me on the back and extends his hand. Another pump. “You showed those tumpshies.”

  Before we leave, the sheriff’s crew loads us up with food staples, including Cay’s favorite, coffee. We also get bedrolls for Andy and me, and new saddles. The pioneers are generous, but we can only carry so much.

  As I feed Paloma a turnip, Andy steps close to me and says in a low voice, “Mrs. Calloway wants to talk to us.”

  We climb into Mrs. Calloway’s wagon again and seat ourselves on chests doubling as benches. The wool rug where I lay this morning pillows our feet.

  Mrs. Calloway hands us each a bundle. “You might find these useful without revealing your secret. I made these for the girls to make riding the mules more comfortable. Mary and Rachel have some roundness on you, but they should fit.”

  Unfolding our bundles, we each find a matching set of camisole and white drawers, trimmed with a bit of eyelet lace. I draw in my breath.

  Andy rubs the camisole against her cheek. “No more chafing.”

  There are also several six-by-three-inch rectangles of tightly quilted flannel. I turn one over in my hand, marveling at the tiny stitches.

  “Pads for your monthly cycles. They’ll fit right into the drawers,” says Mrs. Calloway, beaming at us.

  I am overcome. “Thank you, ma’am, for your kindness.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Andy and I hurriedly undress and put on the new undergarments.

  “Ma’am, you ever heard of a place called Harp Falls?” Andy asks. “S’posed to be on the trail somewhere.”

  “Harp Falls?” The woman taps a fingertip against one of her rosy cheeks. “Can’t say that I have. But if it’s a waterfall, it’d have to be in a mountain range. And it’s pretty flat until Fort Kearny. Maybe your boys can ask when they get to the fort,” says Mrs. Calloway, straightening Andy’s collar. “They have trail experts, there.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” says Andy. “Tell you’s husband I think there was an angel sitting on his wagon that night he saved us.”

  “I think you are right. Good luck, girls. No road is ever safe but the one you walk with the Lord. I will pray for your safe deliverance.” She kisses us both on the forehead. That feels even softer to me than our new underthings.

  • • •

  We ride out at the front of the caravan, and soon leave it far behind. Our new steed means we can pick up the pace, since we no longer need to ride double. Paloma is more than able to keep up with the horses, sometimes frisking way ahead. I worry that Andy won’t be able to handle Princesa at our accelerated speed, but she proves me wrong. Though the bay is just as deaf to Andy’s commands as yesterday, I sense a fierce new determination in the way Andy holds herself in the saddle, less stiff in the bottom half, more upright in the top.

  After we round the head of the Little Blue, we start climbing northward across the high plains that lead to the Platte River.

  I cannot stop thinking about those Scots. Did they hear me slip up last night? No. They would have told someone. Anyway, Mr. MacMartin said they’re headed to Iowa, which is a different trail from the one that goes to St. Joe. What are the chances they’ll run into Deputy Granger or hear word of my crime?

  A chill snakes up my spine as I brood over what they might have done if I hadn’t pulled the trigger. How did they plan to use that rope? Tie us up like the boys tied them, or worse?

  My skin is clammy and I rub my arms hard to bring life back into them. I still don’t know how to reload my gun, let alone shoot straight. Andy doesn’t even have a gun. Who knows what other criminals we might encounter? We might not be so lucky next time.

  I distract myself by searching out markers to tally our mileage. I find them in tree trunks and rocks and sometimes on paper staked to the ground. Two weeks until Fort Kearny, one-third of the way to the Parting. So far, I have spotted five men with firecracker-red suspenders. By the time I reach the Parting, I will be an expert.

  The air thins, so we camp early to give the horses and ourselves a chance to acclimate. We settle near a narrow finger of blue on a sandy area scattered with bundles of switchgrass.

  That night around our campfire, I unholster the Dragoon and hold it before me. My face flushes even before I speak. I stand tall and clear my throat.

  “Um, does anyone know how to—er—load this?” I stammer. This will cost me their newfound respect, but I have to know.

  West’s mouth tucks back on one side. Cay whispers to Peety. Peety whispers to West. Andy, scrubbing a pan out with sand, starts to scrub harder, scratching the silence.

  I hide my embarrassment under a scowl and reholster the Dragoon. Maybe I’ll go jump in the river now. I turn on my heel.

  “Sammy.” Cay calls me back.

  “What?” I ask in a gruff voice. Now all three boys are grinning at me.

  “How’d you like to learn to be a cowboy?”

  I stare, openmouthed. Andy stops scrubbing her pan.

  “You, too, Andito,” says Peety, licking the last of Andy’s cobbler from his spoon.

  18

  FIRST NIGHT OF COWBOY TRAINING: FIREARMS.

  After a day of dusty travel, we are camped in a clearing surrounded by wild plum trees. Clusters of pink and white flowers already show tight buds of fruit, which Andy used to spice up the pigeon stew. All around us is a flaming sky, reflecting a recently departed sun. Ten paces from the fire, Peety brushes Princesa’s teeth with a corncob.

  Cay stands in front of us, spinning his Colt around his finger so fast it blurs. Andy, picking burrs out of her new horse blanket, rolls her eyes at me.

  It should’ve been obvious a long time ago that Cay was not born in the Year of the Rabbit like West, but in the Year of the Tiger. The Chinese New Year starts later than the Western calendar year, which means Cay must have been born in early January, when it was still the Year of the Tiger. He’s fearless, but a show-off, which leads to recklessness. Yet he could charm the spots off a leopard, so people will follow him regardless. It doesn’t hurt that the beauty of Tigers makes them
difficult not to watch.

  West leans against one of the trees, stripping the leaves off a slender twig. “Stop playing to the gallery. You’re going to teach them bad habits. No one spins his gun if he values life and limb.”

  “Sourpuss.” Cay reholsters his piece. “Now kids, the two rules of cowboy brotherhood are: keep your sense of humor, and leave the meddling to women. We had a boss once who liked to stick his nose in everyone’s business. You try to cut out a steer and he takes up half your time showing you he can do it better. Or, he’ll try to stir up trouble by telling you that your girl was kissing Hank What’s-his-face. That kind of person just gets his teeth knocked out, and I’m not sorry I did it, either.”

  West slices his branch through the air with a snapping sound. “Even if it turns out your girl was kissing Hank What’s-his-face.”

  Grimacing, Cay dismisses his cousin with a wave. “Now, Andy, you choose first, because I guess life didn’t hand you a lot of first chances. Who do you want to have as your teacher? Sourpuss, or me?”

  Andy looks from West to me and her eyes become sly. “I guess I’ll go with the teeth knocker.” She gets up from her spot next to me. “Don’t have too much fun,” she drops in my ear. Then she and Cay are making tracks away from the campsite.

  I erase all signs of delight from my face. West gives me a hard look then tosses his stick away. Kneeling, he loads his rifle as easy as a reflex, then slings it over his back. He cocks his head to say, Follow me, and sets off in the opposite direction from Cay and Andy.

  Peety nods at me. “Good luck.”

  The soft chatter of foraging birds and squirrels replaces the thick Scottish brogue of curses in my head as I pad after West. He walks with the ease of someone with places to go but time to get there. I’m entranced by the fluidity of his movement, like the way he bites on his finger and then flicks it skyward to make a point, to test the wind, to show he’s thinking. How he plucks a stem of grass and places it between his teeth.

  Yellow doesn’t blend with white. “A single drop of yolk can ruin a meringue,” the headmistress of a music conservatory in New York told Father when she denied me admittance. Still, I can’t help wondering how it would feel to walk a little closer to West, so that our shadows touched. Chinese people believe Rabbits and Snakes make for a propitious union, since the word for happiness, fu, looks like the two animals intertwined.