Walk on Earth a Stranger
Page 43
Mr. Joyner, on the other hand, makes quite a big deal about the gold cuff buttons and shirt studs he wears every day. They are shiny and pearl-studded, and while I can’t speak to the authenticity of the pearls, that “gold” is barely more than a moth brushing up against my skin in the dark. He doesn’t even have a decent stash of coins. I sure hope he has a plan for paying Jefferson and me when we finally part ways.
I suspect he’s not rich at all, not on his own merits, anyway. More and more, I gather that his father funded this expedition for him. Maybe Mr. Joyner is pretending to be something he’s not. Pretending he’s wealthy, when he has no money to his name. Pretending he knows what he’s doing, when he couldn’t find the end of his own nose out here on the open plain.
Pretending is exhausting. I know it better than anyone. But I hope I never go so far as to pretend to myself, like Mr. Joyner does.
One night, after a record-setting nineteen-mile day, Major Craven stops by Mrs. Joyner’s dining table, which is laid out with its usual tablecloth and china. Tonight she’s even put out a vase full of black-eyed Susans, plucked while she walked during the day. She and her family sit around the table. Jefferson and I eat on the wagon bench.
She offers the Major a plate of pork and beans, and the quickest look of panic flits across his face before he gently changes the subject. “Be alert,” he says. “If the alarm sounds, the men must grab their guns and set up a defense.”
Mr. Joyner pats his rifle. “Ready, willing, and able.”
“And the women and children should stay low in the wagons until danger has passed. Can you do that for me?”
Andrew and Olive nod solemnly, but Mrs. Joyner says, “Is that wise? The wagon circle is so exposed. The women and children should run to the middle, where we’ll be safe.”
Major Craven shakes his head. “If the horses and cattle get stirred up, you’ll be trampled. Best if you stay put.”
She bristles. “Better that than being captured! I’d rather risk trampling than allow myself or my children to abandon civilization and become savages.”
Andy and Olive stare wide-eyed at their mother.
“I don’t know about that,” Major Craven says. “They seem more interested in cattle and horses and anything else that’s not nailed down.”
“Oh. Well, I find that reassuring,” Mrs. Joyner says.
He smiles and tips his hat. “I’m glad, ma’am. Sir.”
“It’s utter rubbish,” Mr. Joyner says when Craven is out of earshot.
“What’s that, darling?”
“The part about not taking women or children. He only said it to make you feel better. Those savages would steal a comely lady like you in a heartbeat and make your life a misery of servitude. And they’ll grab the children fast as a Gypsy.” He makes a grabbing motion at the children. Olive squeals and shrinks away, then dashes back to her father and squirrels into the safety of his arms. “That’s what they are,” Mr. Joyner adds. “Gypsies. Gypsies on the plains. The best thing to do would be to exterminate the whole race.”
Jefferson freezes beside me, a spoonful of beans halfway to his mouth.
“Unless they turn from their savage ways,” Mrs. Joyner amends, and her voice has a note of discomfort in it.
“Of course,” Mr. Joyner agrees quickly.
I lean over to Jefferson and whisper, “Are you all right?”
“The Joyners know nothing,” he snaps, turning away.
Jefferson refuses to help clean up after dinner, and I don’t try to make him. As the campfires burn low, the animals are all herded inside the circle for the night. The weather’s nice enough that Jefferson and I take our blankets and find a spot in the grass just outside.
He’s silent the whole time. I search for something to say that will get him to talk to me. I settle for: “Mr. Joyner is a fool. God forgive me for saying so, but it’s true.”
“It’s not just him,” Jefferson mumbles. “I mean, he’s one of the worst. But everyone talks about the Indians that way. At least a little.”
It’s a warm, clear night. The stars burn overhead like sparks from a fire, and the grass around us smells fresh and alive. “Hey, look,” I say. “It’s the Seven Boys.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “You know, I think the stars are even brighter out here. No trees, no lanterns, sometimes not even clouds.”
“I’m not the eighth brother anymore,” he says softly.
“Huh?”
“I didn’t stay behind.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a good thing, right?”
“I guess,” he says, and he rolls over, pulling his blanket up to his shoulder.
I stare at his back, wondering if I said something wrong. Sleep comes harder for me, as it always does. I’m just starting to drift off when gold tickles the back of my throat.
It’s Major Craven. He always takes a turn at watch, which means walking the perimeter. But he’s awful quiet this time, creeping along like a hunter after a spooked deer.
He peeks inside all the family wagons, though I’m not sure what he’s looking for. After peering in on the sleeping Joyners, he steps back and lets out a whooping cry. “Indians! It’s Indians!” He waves his arms and starts running.
Maybe it’s a test; Major Craven watches the wagons, instead of focusing his attention outward. Still, I leap to my feet, grab my five-shooter, and start loading.
Jefferson startles from a deep sleep and stumbles to his feet. He hops on one foot, trying to pull on his boot. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“Grab your gun and gear. Let’s get inside the wagon circle.” I’ve got nothing but a blanket and the saddlebag I use for a pillow. I throw them over my shoulder and cut between the Joyners’ and the Robichauds’ wagons.
The camp is in an uproar, just as Major Craven intended. The animals churn in confusion. The Missouri men have formed a credible line of defense just inside the wagon circle, guns held at the ready. Mr. Bledsoe has done the same with his Arkansas men. Even his slave, Hampton, grips a long shepherd’s staff, ready to thrash somebody on the head.
Our side of the circle has performed poorly. The college men stand outside in their long underwear, scratching their heads and yawning. The reverend wanders around, Bible in hand, as though looking for someone to preach at. The Hoffman children huddle around Therese and her mother, with the littlest ones clutching their skirts.
The Joyners are the worst. Little Andy wails, tears running down his cheeks, while Olive cries softly in her mother’s arms. Mrs. Joyner snaps at Mr. Joyner to get his gun, and Mr. Joyner curses at the Major, demanding to know that all the women and children are accounted for.
The Major ignores him, instead climbing up onto a trunk and ringing a bell. Silence gradually descends on our company. Even Andy’s wailing turns to quiet sniffles.
“When I was in the militia, this is what we called a drill,” Major Craven says. The Missouri men nod knowingly.
Jefferson hobbles over with only one boot on. His blanket is in one hand, and his rifle is in the other. “Wait— None of this is for real?”
“It’s real enough,” I say, thinking of the sleep we’ve lost.
I suspect he’s not rich at all, not on his own merits, anyway. More and more, I gather that his father funded this expedition for him. Maybe Mr. Joyner is pretending to be something he’s not. Pretending he’s wealthy, when he has no money to his name. Pretending he knows what he’s doing, when he couldn’t find the end of his own nose out here on the open plain.
Pretending is exhausting. I know it better than anyone. But I hope I never go so far as to pretend to myself, like Mr. Joyner does.
One night, after a record-setting nineteen-mile day, Major Craven stops by Mrs. Joyner’s dining table, which is laid out with its usual tablecloth and china. Tonight she’s even put out a vase full of black-eyed Susans, plucked while she walked during the day. She and her family sit around the table. Jefferson and I eat on the wagon bench.
She offers the Major a plate of pork and beans, and the quickest look of panic flits across his face before he gently changes the subject. “Be alert,” he says. “If the alarm sounds, the men must grab their guns and set up a defense.”
Mr. Joyner pats his rifle. “Ready, willing, and able.”
“And the women and children should stay low in the wagons until danger has passed. Can you do that for me?”
Andrew and Olive nod solemnly, but Mrs. Joyner says, “Is that wise? The wagon circle is so exposed. The women and children should run to the middle, where we’ll be safe.”
Major Craven shakes his head. “If the horses and cattle get stirred up, you’ll be trampled. Best if you stay put.”
She bristles. “Better that than being captured! I’d rather risk trampling than allow myself or my children to abandon civilization and become savages.”
Andy and Olive stare wide-eyed at their mother.
“I don’t know about that,” Major Craven says. “They seem more interested in cattle and horses and anything else that’s not nailed down.”
“Oh. Well, I find that reassuring,” Mrs. Joyner says.
He smiles and tips his hat. “I’m glad, ma’am. Sir.”
“It’s utter rubbish,” Mr. Joyner says when Craven is out of earshot.
“What’s that, darling?”
“The part about not taking women or children. He only said it to make you feel better. Those savages would steal a comely lady like you in a heartbeat and make your life a misery of servitude. And they’ll grab the children fast as a Gypsy.” He makes a grabbing motion at the children. Olive squeals and shrinks away, then dashes back to her father and squirrels into the safety of his arms. “That’s what they are,” Mr. Joyner adds. “Gypsies. Gypsies on the plains. The best thing to do would be to exterminate the whole race.”
Jefferson freezes beside me, a spoonful of beans halfway to his mouth.
“Unless they turn from their savage ways,” Mrs. Joyner amends, and her voice has a note of discomfort in it.
“Of course,” Mr. Joyner agrees quickly.
I lean over to Jefferson and whisper, “Are you all right?”
“The Joyners know nothing,” he snaps, turning away.
Jefferson refuses to help clean up after dinner, and I don’t try to make him. As the campfires burn low, the animals are all herded inside the circle for the night. The weather’s nice enough that Jefferson and I take our blankets and find a spot in the grass just outside.
He’s silent the whole time. I search for something to say that will get him to talk to me. I settle for: “Mr. Joyner is a fool. God forgive me for saying so, but it’s true.”
“It’s not just him,” Jefferson mumbles. “I mean, he’s one of the worst. But everyone talks about the Indians that way. At least a little.”
It’s a warm, clear night. The stars burn overhead like sparks from a fire, and the grass around us smells fresh and alive. “Hey, look,” I say. “It’s the Seven Boys.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “You know, I think the stars are even brighter out here. No trees, no lanterns, sometimes not even clouds.”
“I’m not the eighth brother anymore,” he says softly.
“Huh?”
“I didn’t stay behind.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a good thing, right?”
“I guess,” he says, and he rolls over, pulling his blanket up to his shoulder.
I stare at his back, wondering if I said something wrong. Sleep comes harder for me, as it always does. I’m just starting to drift off when gold tickles the back of my throat.
It’s Major Craven. He always takes a turn at watch, which means walking the perimeter. But he’s awful quiet this time, creeping along like a hunter after a spooked deer.
He peeks inside all the family wagons, though I’m not sure what he’s looking for. After peering in on the sleeping Joyners, he steps back and lets out a whooping cry. “Indians! It’s Indians!” He waves his arms and starts running.
Maybe it’s a test; Major Craven watches the wagons, instead of focusing his attention outward. Still, I leap to my feet, grab my five-shooter, and start loading.
Jefferson startles from a deep sleep and stumbles to his feet. He hops on one foot, trying to pull on his boot. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“Grab your gun and gear. Let’s get inside the wagon circle.” I’ve got nothing but a blanket and the saddlebag I use for a pillow. I throw them over my shoulder and cut between the Joyners’ and the Robichauds’ wagons.
The camp is in an uproar, just as Major Craven intended. The animals churn in confusion. The Missouri men have formed a credible line of defense just inside the wagon circle, guns held at the ready. Mr. Bledsoe has done the same with his Arkansas men. Even his slave, Hampton, grips a long shepherd’s staff, ready to thrash somebody on the head.
Our side of the circle has performed poorly. The college men stand outside in their long underwear, scratching their heads and yawning. The reverend wanders around, Bible in hand, as though looking for someone to preach at. The Hoffman children huddle around Therese and her mother, with the littlest ones clutching their skirts.
The Joyners are the worst. Little Andy wails, tears running down his cheeks, while Olive cries softly in her mother’s arms. Mrs. Joyner snaps at Mr. Joyner to get his gun, and Mr. Joyner curses at the Major, demanding to know that all the women and children are accounted for.
The Major ignores him, instead climbing up onto a trunk and ringing a bell. Silence gradually descends on our company. Even Andy’s wailing turns to quiet sniffles.
“When I was in the militia, this is what we called a drill,” Major Craven says. The Missouri men nod knowingly.
Jefferson hobbles over with only one boot on. His blanket is in one hand, and his rifle is in the other. “Wait— None of this is for real?”
“It’s real enough,” I say, thinking of the sleep we’ve lost.
