Then Grandfather Bolte and the sheriff returned with news. That Monday afternoon Grandfather Bolte had run across an itinerant field hand who said he’d seen Agatha go off with three pigeoners, a married couple and a single man, in a wobbly buckboard. As far as the field hand knew, they had headed southeast toward Prairie du Chien. Prairie du Chien was not in the direction of the University of Wisconsin at Madison. In fact, it was west of Madison by at least one hundred miles.
On the sixth day—Tuesday, May 30—Sheriff McCabe pursued these pigeoners. He ended up in Dog Hollow, Wisconsin. One week later, on Tuesday, June 6, Sheriff McCabe returned to Placid with a body.
* * *
I shot the last bottle and set the gun down. I picked up a pigeon feather, ran my thumb across the edge, and thought of the story of the wise old man and the white pigeon. “Feather by feather he picked out his path,” Agatha had said.
I knew she was alive.
I looked at my list. Underneath “For Journey” I read the word “horse.”
Where the devil was I going to get a horse?
As the sun set, I shinnied up the oak tree outside our bedroom, opened the window, and stepped inside. By the time Ma came to say good night, I was well into my act of pretending sleep on my side of the bed.
She stood in the doorway for a long while. I clamped my eyelids shut and tried to regulate my breathing. I’m fairly certain I did not fool Ma.
Yet I would not open my eyes. If Ma had only wanted an apology for causing a scene at the funeral, I might have yielded. But she wanted me to voice my sorrow. She wanted me to say my sister was dead, deceased, perished, passed on. I would say no such thing.
The door shut.
* * *
In the middle of the night, I got out of bed. I stumbled to the desk, turned the key on the kerosene lamp, and pulled the store receipt (my list) out of the drawer.
My pen hovered above the paper for a moment or two, and then I set it down. What did I know about travel? I’d never traveled more than a day’s journey, and that was sitting next to Grandfather Bolte, with him holding the reins. I’d only been to one town other than Placid. Of course, I’d sold to people who traveled, so I had a few ideas. But people who travel often take fanciful items. I’ve heard of grand hall mirrors spoken of as necessities, and who in their right mind would need that?
I wrote down “food.” But what kind of food? I needed to do better than this or I’d never leave Placid.
I recollected something that might help. I opened my bedroom door and crept down the hall. I found the book on the parlor shelf: The Prairie Traveler: A Hand-Book for Overland Expeditions, written by Randolph B. Marcy, a captain of the U.S. Army.
I hadn’t been that interested in the book before, but now? I figured if this book could get a person to Fort Wallah Wallah and back, it could get me to the spot that body was found—to Dog Hollow, Wisconsin. I would, as the book suggested, “avail myself of its wisdom,” and I expected the promised result (inserting myself into Captain Marcy’s prose): “Georgie Burkhardt will feel herself a master spirit in the wilderness she traverses.”
I snuck back into my room, closed the door, laid the book out on the desk, and began my list in earnest. For food, Captain Marcy suggested bacon packed in bran (to prevent the fat from melting), flour, boiled butter, sugar, desiccated vegetables, and tea. But that was for a much longer journey. If I got a horse, I’d only be gone about a week and therefore could pack perishables—chicken eggs, for instance.
Along with a change of clothing, Captain Marcy recommended packing large colored handkerchiefs; a bar of castile soap for washing the body, and another for washing clothes; a belt knife and a whetstone for sharpening the knife; and a buckskin pouch filled with “stout linen thread, large needles, a bit of beeswax, a few buttons, paper of pins, and a thimble.” That seemed good advice even for a journey of short duration.
My plan was to take what we sold in the store. Now, I knew that was stealing. Let’s not beat around the bush about what God thinks of taking without asking. But I’d mitigate the hurt by admitting to it. I’d write out an IOU and leave it in the account book. I was sure that after I returned with Agatha in tow, Ma and Grandfather Bolte would understand the situation’s urgency.
As for particular clothing, I decided to wear my split skirt. I planned on traveling by horseback, and sidesaddles seemed precarious. Doesn’t a person have more chance of staying on top of a horse with one leg over each side? I didn’t want to perch; I wanted to clamp. Not that I’d ridden a horse before, but some things make sense.
I’d bring the photograph of Agatha that was on the downstairs mantel. Seeing it might jar someone’s memory. And I would take the Springfield single-shot too. I felt some guilt since it had not been given to me outright. But that gun was more or less mine. Grandfather Bolte used the double-barrel. I was the one that hunted with the Springfield.
I put the pen back in its holder and read over my list. Pride welled up until I considered that word “horse” written under “For Journey.” I knew it was possible to walk to Dog Hollow, but it would take much longer, and it hardly bears mentioning that a thirteen-year-old girl traveling alone might attract attention. The faster I got to Dog Hollow and back, the better.
Where was I going to get a horse?
I couldn’t fathom taking one of the delivery-wagon horses. If I did, Grandfather Bolte would be mad enough to eat snakes, and I wanted to come home again. And do not even mention horse thieving as an option—there’s theft and then there’s horse thieving. Not only does a crime like that stain a family’s good name now and forever, there’s the Anti–Horse Thieving Society to consider. I swear those men rise out of the river mist when they hear of horse thieving. They trail that thief until caught and don’t usually wait for the law to execute justice, tending to leave that thief dangling between broad limb and bare ground.
That left only one place to go: I’d have to get a horse from Billy McCabe. Though I didn’t care much for Billy, the McCabes raised horses. In addition, the way our families spent time together made us practically related. What was more, I’d seen Billy cry at that funeral. Seemed to me, he still loved Agatha. (No matter his matrimonial promises to Polly.) There had to be a horse Billy could spare Agatha’s little sister.
Fortunately, the very next day Ma needed an errand run in the direction of the McCabes’. I wasted no time getting to the McCabe ranch.
I heard the scrape of a shovel, and then, on closer examination, spied Billy mucking out the stall next to his filly, Storm. I’d forgotten how appealing Storm was: dappled gray with a white mane and tail. A horse like that would get me to Dog Hollow and back in style.
I cleared my throat.
Billy turned. “Why, hello, Fry. Delivery?”
Have I mentioned my full name? It’s Georgina Louise Burkhardt. Now, Georgina doesn’t suit me—it’s the kind of name that has daisies growing out of it. But Georgie is fine by me and fine by everyone else too. Except Billy, that is. Billy McCabe has to have his own nickname for Agatha’s little sister, and preferably something that points up his superiority in all matters of everything. It’s not even enough to call me Small Fry. No, Billy McCabe has got to diminish the diminutive to Fry.
“No delivery. I need the loan of a horse,” I said.
Billy laughed. “In case you hadn’t heard, my family sells horses.”
“Which means you’ve got a horse to spare! What about Storm? I’d return her in two weeks’ time.”
Billy leaned against the stall and smiled wide. “I’ve never even seen you ride a horse. As far as I can tell, you don’t like the animal. A fine horse like Storm is more than you could handle.”
Then Billy got serious. “Out with it, Fry. Where you think you’re going?”
“I’d rather not say. What about another horse? We’re practically family.”
“Well, I’d rather not say whether or not I can help.”
“One way or another, I need a horse.”
“Tell me,” he said.
“Dog Hollow,” I said.
Those two words sucked the air right out of those stables.
Billy groaned. “She’s dead, Fry.”
“Fine. I’m taking a look,” I said.
“You took a look. You saw her body,” he said.
“I saw parts of a body. Are you saying you won’t help Agatha’s little sister? That’s cruelty, Billy,” I said.
His eyes burned. “Pa was convinced—”
“Your pa was not convinced!” The words jumped out of my mouth, surprising even me. “Your pa hauled that body all the way from Podunk, Wisconsin, so Ma could identify it. He needed Ma to see it. If he were sure, he would have buried that body in Dog Hollow and brought back the dress. His word and that blue-green dress would have satisfied Ma. But your pa wasn’t sure.”
Billy crossed his arms. “Why hasn’t she written? Thought of that?”
“Maybe there’s a reason she can’t write.”
“That’s a big maybe, Fry. Agatha would write.”
I stamped my foot. “I am not here to discuss a dead body or my sister. I am here for a horse. I’d like to rent one, but if you insist—ignoring a close, near-blood relationship—I will purchase an animal. Which do you prefer?” I said. I took out my cinch sack and jingled it.
Billy’s hand went up. “No. This is a fool’s notion. I refuse to be party to it.”
He put a finger in the collar of his shirt to get some air and glanced at the sky. “There’s a storm coming. You should get home.” He picked up the shovel and started to work.
I walked over and grasped his shovel. “Tell me what you and Agatha planned that day you kissed. You walked off whistling. I saw it.”
I noticed how my words affected Billy. He paled.
“You saw?” he said, finally.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
Apparently, he did not. Billy did not say a thing. From the shelter of the stables I saw a fortress of cloud. A storm was coming.
I exhaled loudly. “What does it matter? You keep your secret. But let me describe my particular state: I saw the two of you kiss. I told Mr. Olmstead. Mr. Olmstead threw over Agatha. Then Agatha ran off. There’s a direct correlation between my telling and Agatha’s leaving. If my sister is dead, I bear responsibility. If you think I’m going to accept a piecemeal body as evidence of my sister’s death, you do not know me at all. Now, I’ve got money for a horse.”
Billy’s mouth moved like some semblance of language might escape his lips, but nothing came of it.
I leaned in. “I am not not going. I’ll walk to Dog Hollow if I have to,” I said.
“You shouldn’t have seen that kiss,” he mumbled.
I jingled the cinch sack. “Two dollars for the rent of a horse.”
“Fry, there is no such thing as a horse rental.”
“I’ll give you five dollars. But I want a saddle, reins, saddlebags … all the horse-riding amenities,” I said.
“Five dollars for a horse?” he said.
“You sold a pony to Pete Tarley for that.”
Billy shook his head at me. “That’s not the same.…”
“Why not? I’m thirteen. Pete Tarley’s eleven and he acts like he’s nine. Now, you don’t have use for five dollars? I’m not asking for your horse. I’m asking to be treated like a customer with dollars in her pocket.”
Billy blew air out his teeth.
“Ten dollars, then,” I said.
“You don’t have that kind of money,” he said.
So I made a big show of opening up the cinch sack and snapped down five gold one-dollar coins on the top of the stall.
“Those are your Bechtler dollars,” he said.
“That’s right. Gold has more value than paper, and a Bechtler gold coin is the most valuable of them all. With the currency crisis, these coins are surely worth twenty dollars by now, but I’m willing to call them ten,” I said. Gold having more value than paper and the Bechtler being the best quality gold coin were both things I’d heard Grandfather Bolte say more than once. But as to the actual worth of my coins? I had no idea.
Let me speak plainly, though: those coins were priceless to me. Not only were they every bit of money I’d saved since I was three, but Grandfather Bolte had told me that Bechtler dollars were minted with gold found by true prospectors. I liked to pretend they had Colorado gold in them since that was where Pa had gone to prospect. When Grandfather Bolte came across Bechtlers, he saved them for me, and I traded pennies, nickels, and dimes for those gold dollar coins. Still, my sister alive meant more to me than any coin.
Billy lifted his hat and wiped a line of dirt across his forehead. “Born stubborn and stuck obstinate,” he said.
Hallelujah. His jab was a sure sign of his relenting. It was time to close the deal.
“Saddle, bit, reins too,” I said.
He picked at the ground with the toe of his boot.
I went on: “You’ll deliver my horse to Mount Zion Cemetery two days from now, on Saturday night, right before midnight. That’ll give me a day to gather provisions. And you’d better not tell. Part of what I pay you for is privacy.”
Billy raised his eyebrows. “It should cost extra for delivery at that time of night.”
I picked up the five gold dollar coins from the top of the stall, counting them as I dropped them back into the cinch sack. Then I took his hand in mine, turned the palm face up, and placed the sack in it.
He met my eyes. Then he shook his head and closed his fingers around the sack.
Money was in hand.
The storm broke the moment my foot touched our front porch. Lightning ripped open that cloud’s dark belly, and I watched the first drops hit the ground with puffs of dust.
It was the last rain until October.
While I squirreled away provisions for my departure two days hence, I behaved in an unbearable manner. If caught in the same vicinity as Ma and Grandfather Bolte, I avoided their glances, wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and did my chores like someone who’d been shorted pay.
Ma’s grief, in particular, wore on me like sandpaper. She dragged her sorrow room to room, and I found out that viciousness nested inside me. When I saw receipts left in the till, or noted that Ma had forgotten to mark down a sale, I mentioned it. I became a fault-finding expert: bins missing their lids, eggs gone bad, a customer left unattended, a boy in a fancy blue serge suit with a fist in the penny candy. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but the part of me that was unredeemed spoke.
Ma gave me jobs like retrieving the canned delicacies from the cellar: fancy tins of tangerines, olives, smoked herring, Japanese green tea, lobster, and the like. I was to remove the dented ones (setting them aside for Ma to inspect) and polish up the rest. I was to do this on the back stoop—a place she wasn’t likely to be.
Fine, I thought. I can do without you too.
I might be nasty as a snake, but I would observe decorum.
On Saturday night, I slipped between the sheets, curled into a ball, and, once again, feigned sleep.
As usual, I heard a fist rap quietly, and then the door haltingly creaked open. I heard the hush, hush, hush of dress fabric and the knock of shoes on floorboards. The bed sagged as Ma sat.
Callused fingertips pushed hair from my forehead.
“You’re tired,” Ma murmured. “So am I.” I felt a puff of breath on my face, and then she kissed me good night.
How she persisted in her kindness when I could not stand the sight of her I do not know. I felt a flash of shame, not only because of my behavior over the past few days, but because beginning tomorrow morning, she would not find me.
Ma pushed herself off the bed as if she lacked strength. Her dress hushed. The door clicked close. I heard her footsteps grow quieter as she walked down the hallway. It was that sound, the sound of her footsteps, that echoed in my thoughts long after she’d shut the door to her room.
* * *
By eleve
n o’clock, I’d finished dressing and had written my note. I reread it:
Dear Ma and Grandfather Bolte,
I need to see about Agatha. I will come home as soon as I can. I expect to be gone a week. I am sorry for leaving you, but had I told you my plans, you would have stopped me. Urgency impels me.
I love you,
Georgie
PS I have taken some items from the store costing $2.23. I am good for it. I will pay all that I owe upon my return. shortly after returning.
I put that note in the center of the desk.
Then I went to get the Springfield. I’d had some luck with the rifle—Grandfather Bolte had cleaned it. He’d spent hours working on the barrel so that it would shoot straight. He usually did this kind of maintenance once a year, sometime in the winter. But since the funeral, Grandfather Bolte had busied himself with all sorts of odd jobs: oiling hinges, tightening the screws on shelf brackets, soaping the big plate glass window out front, and, evidently, cleaning the guns. On Friday, Grandfather Bolte handed me the newly cleaned Springfield. “That’s a good rifle. You, Georgie, have got the touch for it. You’re as good a shot as I’ve ever seen.”
Even though I’d been angry at him, pleasure swelled inside me.
He gave my arm a little squeeze. “We’ll have to go hunting soon. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I said. I smiled for the first time in days.
“Good girl. Bring it up to the gun rack, won’t you?” he said.
I thought of this luck as I tied a rope around the Springfield and lowered it out the bedroom window. After it landed, I followed by climbing down the tree. I got the knapsack I’d stashed under some bushes and walked up the hill to Mount Zion Cemetery. At the cemetery, I sat with my back against the knapsack and waited for Billy and my paid-for horse with all the amenities.
An hour later, I heard horse hooves. I stood up. Billy was late, but all I could think was My horse! My heart pattered like it was Christmas.
I do not highly regard girls who get lathered up over horses: Oooooh, cinnamon! I love a cinnamon-colored horse! When an admired boy is riding atop an admired horse, it is a scene of such ridiculousness that it scarcely bears commenting upon. Yet here I was with sugarplum horses prancing in my head. I remembered a palomino mare (all gold and cream) in the McCabe pasture, and I somehow got the idea that Billy had tethered her behind Storm. This palomino was clip-clopping her way to her rightful owner—me.
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