by Stacey Lee
In the evenings, West hunts by himself.
The night after my near drowning, he set off with his rifle while Cay was still airing his shirts.
“Hold on, don’t you want me to come?” asked Cay.
“No,” said West, striding off.
When Cay noticed me, he shrugged. “Sourpuss. He’ll come around tomorrow.”
But he didn’t, setting off alone the night after as well, and soon Cay stopped asking.
Lately, West avoids being alone with me, too. He always arrives last for language lessons, and sleeps with his face turned away from me.
Three more days until Fort Laramie, and seventeen days until the Parting. We’ve upped our pace to twenty-five miles a day, aided by a flat terrain and a wider trail. At this rate, we’ll make it to the Parting before Mr. Trask, assuming he hasn’t upped his pace. Though I don’t know how he would do that without leaving behind his wagon and team and buying a horse. Once at the Parting, I will examine the faces of those who pass by, one by one, until I spot him.
I restart my campaign to convince Andy to come to the Parting, re-treading old arguments and presenting new ones. “If Isaac gets there first, he’ll wait for you, right? You said yourself neither of you know when the other’s going to show up,” I say on one of the rare occasions where she and I lead the remuda. “What’s another few weeks?”
Her answer is always the same. “You’s got your path, and I got mine.”
Maybe I have met my match in the war of stubborn.
• • •
We camp in a clearing surrounded by thick coyote brush. A bare film of clouds veils the ripening moon. After dinner, West and I both draw straws to scrub the plates.
“I’ll do ’em myself,” West tells me. “Work on your sharpshooting.”
“I can already hit nine out of ten.”
“Then work on your knots,” he grumbles, collecting the dirty dishes.
“Still a plucked rooster,” Andy whispers.
When we’ve spread out on our bedrolls, Andy announces, “Tonight we’s got a romantic story.”
“Oh good,” says Cay. “Come on, hold my hand, West. That’ll make it extra-special.”
West snorts and scribbles harder in his journal with his wrapped charcoal. From where I sit, I can make out swirly lines that look like water, and the jagged edges of a tree line.
He feels me watching and looks up. I pretend to study my knees.
Andy begins. “Once there lived a princess name Bonita.”
“Finally a story for the brown man,” says Peety.
“Bonita was the daughter of King and Queen Snake, who ruled the Land of Noble Sunsets in the west. They liked it there because snakes do their best slithering at night. In the east, lived their enemies, the rabbits, in the Land of Splendid Sunrises. Being early risers, living in the east suited them. The rabbits’ king and queen had a son, Zachariah, whose hare coat was black and shiny as flint.”
A rabbit and a snake. That sly girl. I cut my gaze to Andy, but she’s wrapped up in her storytelling.
“A lake separated the two countries, which worked out good, since rabbits thought snakes were nasty, foul-mouthed things, and snakes thought rabbits were dim-witted fluffheads. But the two countries agreed they wouldn’t truck in each other’s business as long as they kept their own boundaries.”
“What’s luckier, a snake jaw or a rabbit foot?” Cay asks.
With a look of supreme patience, Andy folds her hands together. “Depends on if you’re the snake or the rabbit. Now if you don’t mind. One day Bonita and Zachariah both go down to the lake at the same time. As they dip their heads, they see the other’s reflection.
“‘A rabbit!’ Bonita cries, a little trembly.
“‘Darn’t if that ain’t a snake,’ Zachariah says back.” Andy makes her voice growly and rough for Zachariah, and I try not to giggle.
West stops drawing. He rolls his piece of charcoal between his fingers.
“Their eyes meet across the water. Unlike the rabbits Bonita had seen, this one did not look dim-witted, but held himself with his back straight, ears poked straight up and alert. He looked rather princely, with a finely brushed coat and white fur in his ears.
“Unlike the snakes Zachariah had seen, Bonita wasn’t slimy or foul. She had wrapped herself around a branch and looked as elegant as a cord of yellow silk.
“For three nights, they met at the lake, not speaking, just watching each other. But on the fourth night, she asked him, ‘How did you get so big eating nothing but grass?’
“He answered, ‘I s’pect it’s the same way you stay so slender, eating all that meat.’ His ears flopped to one side. ‘Say, you’s not going to eat me, are you?’
“She laughed, and then he did, too. Every night after that, they met at the lake. Sometimes she wrapped herself around him, and they hopped through the forest. She would never dream of biting him. And he carried her gently, so her tail never dragged in the dirt.”
Peety works a hand over his chin. “I do not think snakes have tails.”
“Or necks, come to think of it,” says Cay.
Andy glares at them. “You want to hear the story, or not?”
“Sorry, please continue,” says Peety.
“Sometimes he would jump real high, and to Bonita, who’d never been off the ground, it seemed they were flying to the moon. But soon, folks got wind of the rabbit-snake lovers, and their parents forbade them from meeting. The punishment for not listening was death.” She lets that word sink in, and now we’re all staring at her in rapt silence. “So, Queen Snake begged her husband to give Bonita one last chance. Queen Rabbit begged her husband to give Zachariah one last chance. Their husbands say, fine.
“But again Bonita and Zachariah meet at the river. And they was as close as Saturday night and Sunday morning. He loved how pure was her heart, and she loved how steady were his shoulders.
“They got ready to hop away, this time for good. But the snake guards and rabbit soldiers waited for them behind the bushes. They threw their nets and caught the pair as they tried to escape.”
She clasps her hands in front of her heart, pausing for a dramatic beat. The only one moving is Cay, whose knee starts to shake.
Andy lowers her voice. “But neither side could kill their own kin. So the parents decided to separate the lovers forever.” She lifts her hands to the sky. “Zachariah asked to live on the moon so that Bonita could look up and see him, wherever she was. Bonita begged her parents for a good strong rattle, so Zachariah could hear her, wherever he was. Now, when the moon is full, their love shines brightest. One day, they hope they can be together again, maybe in a land both noble and splendid.”
Andy’s smile reaches from ear to ear, like she licked the cream off the milk.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” says Cay. “I never thought a rabbit or a snake could have such a powerful effect on me. So what is the moral of this story, Sammy?”
“Beats me,” I say gruffly, though I know it is that nothing cannot stop true love, not even putting it on the moon.
West is scowling at his closed journal, his charcoal now hidden in his fist.
Peety sits up and wraps his arms around his knees. “I think if everyone stayed on their side of the fence, this tragedy would never have happened.”
“That ain’t it,” Cay protests. “Bonita and Zachariah shoulda split when they had the chance. Go have a couple snake-rabbit babies.”
“That is impossible, fool,” says West. He gets to his feet and walks off.
Andy winks at me. Her simple gesture chases away some of the bad taste in my mouth. Somehow, she always understands how I feel, watching out for me not just in body, but in mind. I don’t know what I would do without her.
This thought crosses my mind so often that I finally think: What if I went with her? What if I aba
ndoned my quest to learn why Father wanted to go to California? I would have to give up Mother’s bracelet. It’s just a piece of jewelry, yet, I thought if I could touch its positive energy one more time, if only to say good-bye, some of the broken pieces inside me would mend. But Andy has already healed me in many ways, not just my fingers, but my emptiness, bolstering my fragile stance in the world with her own solid shoulders.
Father, fate has dropped another stone in the stream, forcing new choices, new paths to follow.
• • •
Later, after the boys fall asleep, I scoot closer to Andy. “I’m coming with you to Harp Falls.”
“I already told you—”
“You were wrong when you said Isaac was the only family you had. You have me, too.”
The fringe of her eyelashes flicks up and down as she studies me. “I feel the same way. But you can’t give up on you’s daddy’s dream after all this way. What kind of life would that be for you, living with a couple of runaway slaves? Listen, Sammy. You’s a smart gir—er—person, someone of the first water, as Cay would say. Ain’t nothing you couldn’t do. But me, I’ll always be marked by my face.”
“I’m marked by my face, too.”
“Not as a slave.”
I swallow my words, because I can’t argue with her there.
“Once you find Mr. Trask, you’ll be with decent folk. People who can help set you up with the life you deserve.”
I prop myself up on an elbow. “I am with decent folk. Would you let me go by myself to some mythical waterfall in the middle of nowhere?”
She snorts. “Of course not. But the difference is, I know how to survive. You never had to run ten miles a day on chores.” She flops onto her back and purses her lips.
“Last I checked, you can’t outrun bullets, or bears for that matter.” Dragons are known for being overconfident and unrealistic, but I decide against mentioning that since Dragons do not take criticism well. I lie back down. “I can make my own choices. And I choose to stay with you.”
Maybe what matters is not so much the path as who walks beside you.
25
DURING OUR AFTERNOON BREAK, ANDY AND I stretch out under a dogwood. While she calculates sums in our journal, I mentally work out how many miles Mr. Trask has traveled and estimate him to be a couple hundred miles ahead of us yet. A warm breeze blows some of the cross-shaped blossoms into our faces. One tree over, the boys study their map, with the remuda grazing nearby.
Princesa screams.
“I saw that, Skinny,” scolds Peety, shaking his finger at Cay’s horse. “Keep teeth to yourself.”
The chastised pinto turns her snapping jaws on West’s horse.
“Get your hellcat off,” West barks at Cay.
Cay jerks Skinny’s harness to one side. “Bad girls have more fun, don’t they, Skinny?”
But now the whole remuda’s thrashing and lunging like they’re crawling with fleas.
Peety throws his hands in the air. “No one’s proper ladies right now. They need to go stand in cold river.”
Andy peers at Princesa’s rump and pinches her nose. “I say a run will do them better.” To me, she whispers, “That, and a hot-water bottle for the cramps.”
When Peety nods at her suggestion, I look twice to make sure I saw right. He never takes horse advice from West or Cay without objecting first.
“Choke your hat strings,” orders Cay as we remount.
He leads the charge, like the speed-loving Tiger that he is. We run at top speed through a wide open plain fuzzy with sagebrush, a flat line of purplish bluffs far off in the distance. A year ago, I was barely comfortable ambling down the cobblestones with Tsing Tsing. Father didn’t want to buy a speedier horse because he thought I’d break my neck if it went too fast. But now I fly like I’m riding Pegasus. Maybe we can hit thirty miles today.
After the horses expend their cranky energy, we park in the shadow of a low-lying bluff with a baby stream at its base. The water runs clear and glassy, but too shallow for fish.
I uncinch Paloma’s saddle, and drop beside her at the stream’s edge to wash my face. West waters Franny farther down the stream. Our long run took us a few miles from the main trail, but at least we’re away from prying eyes.
The air shivers a fraction, like the barest rumble of a bear you cannot see but only suspect might be there. All my thoughts halt as I snap my head up. Only a few white clouds smear the sky. The stampede springs to mind, and I frantically search the landscape. When I locate the sound, I freeze.
Three horses tear across the prairie straight for us, manes and tails flying wildly. They wear neither riders nor saddles.
Wild mustangs.
Peety and Cay are carrying their saddles toward the shade of a cottonwood when they notice my alarm.
“H-h-hors—” I babble, pointing.
Everyone starts talking at once. Peety unleashes a stream of Spanish, too fast for me to understand, so I tune in to Cay instead.
“Skinny, come back, you stubborn hussy!” he yells as Skinny hot-trots toward the oncoming horses. “You let that son of a bitch bang you, and I’m leaving your ass in this weedy wasteland.”
Skinny snubs Cay by continuing her spree toward the stallions. Lupe runs a step behind her. Cay and Peety drop their saddles and race after their mounts.
“Where you going?” yells Andy.
“Can’t have pregnant horses!” Peety yells back. “Tie Princesa!”
As Andy attempts to tie a frisky Princesa to the cottonwood, Franny darts away from West and starts kicking up her heels, too. The only member of the remuda who wants nothing to do with the stallions is Paloma, who plunks her bottom down in the middle of the stream.
While Andy secures Princesa’s lead, I distract the horse with some raisins.
Two stallions reach Skinny and Lupe, hungry for the pretty mares. The mares stop prancing and let the stallions nudge and sniff at them.
Cay reaches the horses and raises his riding whip. “Shoo, you horny rascals, before I quirt you!”
Not thirty feet away, a black stallion, drooling with desire, attempts to mount Franny. West pulls her harness in a circle so the stallion can’t get good purchase.
I wring my shirt hem at the sight of that poor stallion, begging for relief. Franny, too. It’s not their fault. It is spring, after all.
The stallion snaps its teeth and lets out a scream that chills my blood. Rearing up, it plants its forelegs on Franny’s back. West lays his quirt hard upon the stallion’s flank.
Now the stallion recognizes West as the source of its frustration and it screams again. I scream, too, as the monster bangs its front legs right in front of West, almost stepping on him. Then the stallion’s great head crashes down, and it bites West on the shoulder. West clutches his arm and curses, stumbling backward into Franny.
That horse could kill him. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I may be a nuisance to him, but to me, he is one of the few people who matter in this world. My own survival depends on his.
I grab Andy.
“The tree!” I cry, pointing at a bur oak. “Your rope!” I circle with my finger.
Andy understands perfectly. She unhitches her rope from Princesa’s saddle as well as the one from Paloma’s saddle. One twenty-foot rope won’t be long enough. I pray she remembers the sweetheart knot.
I charge toward West, pulling my gun from the holster, knowing I cannot yet shoot the stallion for it stands too close to Franny and West. I aim it in the air and fire.
The stallion whips its head around, slinging saliva from its mouth. It rolls its eyes at me.
“Leave them alone, or I’ll geld you in one shot,” I yell, willing the stallion to hold still so I can get a better aim. Instead, it charges me.
Though I race across the plains faster than I ever expected these legs co
uld go, you cannot outrun a stallion on foot. This is common knowledge, though I imagine many a man has lost his life trying to disprove this theory.
Running is not my forte, though neither is being a boy. I tear over to the oak, which suddenly seems very far. But the sight of Andy and her lariat spurs me on.
Just as my lungs feel like they will burst, Andy casts. Her rope catches the stallion around the neck. Yes! Andy hastens to fasten the loose end around the oak. I don’t watch this part as I’m running like crazy around the tree. If her knot isn’t secure, it won’t hurt to tie things a little snugger.
Finally after several wide circles, I think the stallion has cinched the noose tight enough. I dash away and fall to the ground with Andy, heaving lungfuls of air. I doubt I will ever move again, but the sound of a gunshot brings me up onto my knees.
In the distance, two stallions crash to the ground. Skinny and Lupe skitter, agitated, but their virtue remains intact.
Andy and I scramble to our feet and over to West, who leans upon Franny.
I must be crying because West groans, “Sammy,” in his exasperated way. Andy ties up Franny, and I help West to the ground. We prop him up with blankets and unbutton his blood-soaked shirt.
I dry my eyes. The wound curves over his shoulder and down to his chest on the right side. My stomach cramps at the sight of so much blood, but this is not the time for girlish vapors. I mop up the blood with West’s bandanna so I can inspect the wound. I see bone.
“Your needle,” I say to Andy.
She rushes to get her saddlebag.
Another shot explodes from behind me, and I jump. The black stallion drops to the ground under the bur oak.
“No.” I groan. Peety kneels by the stallion and bows his head.
West moans, and I slide my arm around the back of his shoulders to listen to his breathing, coming in short gasps.
