Like a River Glorious
Page 21
I can’t help but think about what’s left inside—my bedroll, Peony’s saddle and bridle, the boughten dress the college men gave me that I will never wear.
The shanty Jefferson and Martin share is untouched, but beyond it, the college men’s shanty is just starting to smoke. Fire is like that; it can leapfrog a target for no apparent reason.
I lift the door flap and peer inside, deciding whether or not to chance going in. Only the far corner is in flames. Jasper’s kit is along the opposite wall, beyond their three mussed bedrolls.
Carefully I place Baby Girl Joyner on the ground. I take a moment to make sure she’s not going to roll away, then I dash inside the shanty, heading straight for Jasper’s medicine kit. I grab it with both handles as smoke swirls around my head. I lug it outside and place it beside the baby. Then I go back in.
Working fast, I grab the bedrolls and drag them outside. I find a saddlebag, which I throw over my shoulder, and a pair of boots—Henry’s, if I don’t miss my guess. A chest rests on the ground along the back wall. The flames are only inches away.
I have no idea what’s inside that chest, but I have to do something, save something. I try to lift it as heat singes my eyebrows. It won’t budge. I wipe a dollop of sweat from my forehead before it can pour into my eyes, then I crouch down and shove.
It slides a few inches. Working one corner and then the other, I gradually slide it across the floor and out the door.
I take a moment to gulp clean air and clear my lungs. After checking on the baby, I move to Jefferson’s shanty. It’s not on fire yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
On the floor are two bedrolls, Martin’s knapsack, and Jefferson’s saddlebag. Beside the saddlebag is a small wooden box I’ve never seen before. A flowery design is burn-etched into the top, the latch closed with a metal clasp. I know I shouldn’t pry, that I don’t have time, but it’s so odd that we spent months together on the trail and I never saw this box. I flick the clasp open and peer inside.
There are only a few tiny items: a small leather pouch filled with something soft, a long feather, a letter that’s been unfolded and read so often that the pages are frayed and the writing is blurred, and a single gold nugget the size of my thumbnail.
I stare at the nugget. My memory is vague with the distance of both miles and months, but I’m sure of it. This is the nugget I gave him, back in Georgia, the day my uncle killed my parents. I found it on his land, so it belonged to him fair and square. He should have used it to buy supplies for the journey west, but he saved it. For some reason, even though he needed money worse than anything, he saved it.
The baby starts screaming again. I slam the box closed and dash outside. I gather all of Jefferson’s and Martin’s belongings into a pile where I hope they’ll be safe from stray embers; then I bend to retrieve the Joyner baby.
We head toward the cabin, which is now a pillar of fire, so hot and angry I feel like the very hair on my head is in flames. I pat my scalp to make sure it isn’t, even as I glance about, hoping with sick desperation that Becky made it out of the cabin. Then I see her, running toward the creek with a bucket, and I nearly fall to my knees with relief.
Olive and Andy are still stomping out embers. “Olive!” I call, and she comes running. “Hold your sister.” The girl takes the baby with well-practiced hands. “You and Andy take the baby. Head down to the pond where it’s safe and stay there, understand?”
“I want to help!” she protests.
I almost give in; I wouldn’t want to stand by, neither. “Jasper will want your help later with some doctoring, so I need you safe.”
“Okay, Lee.”
She rounds up her brother and herds him toward the pond. Once the three Joyner children are safely away, I grab the Major’s shovel and start heaping dirt onto the cabin fire. Jefferson yells something at me, but I can’t understand because the fire is roaring, drowning out everything else.
We all work hard and fast, harder and faster than we’ve ever worked in our lives, but I can already tell it’ll hardly matter. We’re going to lose the cabin for sure, and a lot more besides. I’m grateful for the rain we’ve been having; otherwise all our claim land would be up in smoke by now. As it is, we have a slight chance of keeping the fire from spreading to the surrounding woods and autumn-dry meadows. Becky and the college men pour water on the edges of the fire, while the Major and Jefferson bat it down with canvas.
Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades as I shovel and shovel, until I’ve dug a decent trench between the cabin and the trees. The skin of my face is tight and hot as if it’s been sunburned, and my hands, my clothes, everything is covered in fine gray-black dust. Every single breath is a wheeze of dry, sharp pain.
There’s still no sign of Martin.
One of the nearest pine trees starts to flicker and pop. Within seconds, it’s a giant torch, lighting the whole sky.
Light flares on the hill above us. A split second later the ground rumbles as a sound like a thousand trees splintering to dust pierces my head. It’s our ammo exploding, in the cache Jefferson and Martin dug.
We all pause in our work, faces falling. The shovel drops from my blistered hands. I don’t know what else to do.
Suddenly, figures enter the wide circle of firelight. Ten of them. No, more. At least thirty. Men, women, and children, all surrounding us. Indians.
Becky Joyner lets out a squeal, high-pitched enough to be heard over the roaring fire.
Alarm fills me, too, but for a different reason. Jefferson was right. The Indians do live here. And if the fire spreads to the trees and takes off through this dry tinder, it’ll burn down their homes, maybe their food.
Most are barefoot. Some, especially the women, wear nothing but grass skirts. Thick black hair frames round faces, and long bead necklaces drape between bare breasts. Many carry huge animal-hide blankets.
The women shake off their skirts and leave them on the ground. Naked, brandishing their blankets, they step forward.
Becky flees to the pond to gather her children.
As one, the Indians rush to attack the fire—the cabin, the shanties, the tree. They beat at it like it’s the devil, hides and spark flying.
My companions and I remain dumbfounded for the space of two heartbeats. Then we leap forward to join them, fighting with renewed vigor. Now that we have help, Jasper and the Major rush down to the corral to take care of the shed and check on Hampton.
The shanty Jefferson and Martin share is untouched, but beyond it, the college men’s shanty is just starting to smoke. Fire is like that; it can leapfrog a target for no apparent reason.
I lift the door flap and peer inside, deciding whether or not to chance going in. Only the far corner is in flames. Jasper’s kit is along the opposite wall, beyond their three mussed bedrolls.
Carefully I place Baby Girl Joyner on the ground. I take a moment to make sure she’s not going to roll away, then I dash inside the shanty, heading straight for Jasper’s medicine kit. I grab it with both handles as smoke swirls around my head. I lug it outside and place it beside the baby. Then I go back in.
Working fast, I grab the bedrolls and drag them outside. I find a saddlebag, which I throw over my shoulder, and a pair of boots—Henry’s, if I don’t miss my guess. A chest rests on the ground along the back wall. The flames are only inches away.
I have no idea what’s inside that chest, but I have to do something, save something. I try to lift it as heat singes my eyebrows. It won’t budge. I wipe a dollop of sweat from my forehead before it can pour into my eyes, then I crouch down and shove.
It slides a few inches. Working one corner and then the other, I gradually slide it across the floor and out the door.
I take a moment to gulp clean air and clear my lungs. After checking on the baby, I move to Jefferson’s shanty. It’s not on fire yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
On the floor are two bedrolls, Martin’s knapsack, and Jefferson’s saddlebag. Beside the saddlebag is a small wooden box I’ve never seen before. A flowery design is burn-etched into the top, the latch closed with a metal clasp. I know I shouldn’t pry, that I don’t have time, but it’s so odd that we spent months together on the trail and I never saw this box. I flick the clasp open and peer inside.
There are only a few tiny items: a small leather pouch filled with something soft, a long feather, a letter that’s been unfolded and read so often that the pages are frayed and the writing is blurred, and a single gold nugget the size of my thumbnail.
I stare at the nugget. My memory is vague with the distance of both miles and months, but I’m sure of it. This is the nugget I gave him, back in Georgia, the day my uncle killed my parents. I found it on his land, so it belonged to him fair and square. He should have used it to buy supplies for the journey west, but he saved it. For some reason, even though he needed money worse than anything, he saved it.
The baby starts screaming again. I slam the box closed and dash outside. I gather all of Jefferson’s and Martin’s belongings into a pile where I hope they’ll be safe from stray embers; then I bend to retrieve the Joyner baby.
We head toward the cabin, which is now a pillar of fire, so hot and angry I feel like the very hair on my head is in flames. I pat my scalp to make sure it isn’t, even as I glance about, hoping with sick desperation that Becky made it out of the cabin. Then I see her, running toward the creek with a bucket, and I nearly fall to my knees with relief.
Olive and Andy are still stomping out embers. “Olive!” I call, and she comes running. “Hold your sister.” The girl takes the baby with well-practiced hands. “You and Andy take the baby. Head down to the pond where it’s safe and stay there, understand?”
“I want to help!” she protests.
I almost give in; I wouldn’t want to stand by, neither. “Jasper will want your help later with some doctoring, so I need you safe.”
“Okay, Lee.”
She rounds up her brother and herds him toward the pond. Once the three Joyner children are safely away, I grab the Major’s shovel and start heaping dirt onto the cabin fire. Jefferson yells something at me, but I can’t understand because the fire is roaring, drowning out everything else.
We all work hard and fast, harder and faster than we’ve ever worked in our lives, but I can already tell it’ll hardly matter. We’re going to lose the cabin for sure, and a lot more besides. I’m grateful for the rain we’ve been having; otherwise all our claim land would be up in smoke by now. As it is, we have a slight chance of keeping the fire from spreading to the surrounding woods and autumn-dry meadows. Becky and the college men pour water on the edges of the fire, while the Major and Jefferson bat it down with canvas.
Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades as I shovel and shovel, until I’ve dug a decent trench between the cabin and the trees. The skin of my face is tight and hot as if it’s been sunburned, and my hands, my clothes, everything is covered in fine gray-black dust. Every single breath is a wheeze of dry, sharp pain.
There’s still no sign of Martin.
One of the nearest pine trees starts to flicker and pop. Within seconds, it’s a giant torch, lighting the whole sky.
Light flares on the hill above us. A split second later the ground rumbles as a sound like a thousand trees splintering to dust pierces my head. It’s our ammo exploding, in the cache Jefferson and Martin dug.
We all pause in our work, faces falling. The shovel drops from my blistered hands. I don’t know what else to do.
Suddenly, figures enter the wide circle of firelight. Ten of them. No, more. At least thirty. Men, women, and children, all surrounding us. Indians.
Becky Joyner lets out a squeal, high-pitched enough to be heard over the roaring fire.
Alarm fills me, too, but for a different reason. Jefferson was right. The Indians do live here. And if the fire spreads to the trees and takes off through this dry tinder, it’ll burn down their homes, maybe their food.
Most are barefoot. Some, especially the women, wear nothing but grass skirts. Thick black hair frames round faces, and long bead necklaces drape between bare breasts. Many carry huge animal-hide blankets.
The women shake off their skirts and leave them on the ground. Naked, brandishing their blankets, they step forward.
Becky flees to the pond to gather her children.
As one, the Indians rush to attack the fire—the cabin, the shanties, the tree. They beat at it like it’s the devil, hides and spark flying.
My companions and I remain dumbfounded for the space of two heartbeats. Then we leap forward to join them, fighting with renewed vigor. Now that we have help, Jasper and the Major rush down to the corral to take care of the shed and check on Hampton.
