I glare at him, but he’s already caught himself.
“Er, I’m supposed to show him the wagons and the camp, describe the work, and . . .”
Jefferson has always been a terrible liar.
“Better get back to it,” I say. “Be seeing you around, miss.”
“Be seeing you around,” she says, mimicking the cadence of my phrase perfectly. To Jefferson, she says, “Come by after dinner; I’ll save some.”
“Sure,” he says, grinning. His eyes follow Therese as she rounds up her siblings and herds them toward the back of the wagon.
“So that’s the family you followed west,” I say, wondering if Therese’s dinner invitation included me. Probably not.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this, Lee.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re someone you’re not.”
“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Jefferson Kingfisher?”
“That’s different.”
“It’s no different at all. Those of us going west aren’t just seeking fortunes, you know. It’s a chance to start over. Be whoever we want to be.”
He grins.
“What?”
“I’ve missed y— your opining.”
“You’ve got to keep my secret, Jeff. All the way to California. If you don’t, they’ll leave me behind, or make me go back. And I can’t go back. I’ve got nobody to go back to, unless you count the uncle who killed my folks and took over my whole life.”
The grin disappears.
“Hiram said he had a plan for me. I have no idea what he meant, but I’m sure it was nothing good. Jefferson, you’re the only person left who I trust. You have to keep my secret. You have to.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
I exhale relief. “Thank you. You can start by helping me cut my hair. It’s getting too long.”
“Keeping your hair short isn’t going to make you look like a boy. At least not to me.”
“Please?”
He scowls. “If you say so.”
The scent of beans boiling in molasses tickles my nose, makes me realize how hungry I am.
“Here, I’ll show you the rest,” he says. “That’s the Joyners’ wagon—”
“I know them well enough.” For better or worse. “We came west on the same flatboat.”
“None of the other companies wanted them. They’re hauling too much. Major Craven keeps telling them to leave something behind, like that dining table.”
“But Mrs. Joyner won’t hear of it.”
“Indeed she won’t. Believe it or not, she hauls out that table and sets it with a checked cloth every single night. It’s like she thinks she’s still in Chattanooga.”
“You don’t say.”
“I can’t imagine all their stuff will make it over the mountains. Not unless we carry it.”
“That’s probably what they hired us for.”
He points to a single, neat wagon. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Robichaud from Canada.” A cheerful red-and-blue quilt hangs over the sideboard, as if on display. “They arrived last week. His wife speaks mostly French, but she’s practicing her English every day. She’ll weary you with questions if you get too close. They’ve got twin boys, five or six years old. It’s a sturdy wagon, well organized, and Mr. Robichaud knows a bit of blacksmithing. So they’re welcome.”
His gaze shifts to three young men crouching around a cook fire. Easy laughter rolls from their mouths.
“Those are the college men—Jasper Clapp, Thomas Bigler, and Henry Meek. From Illinois. Jasper says they left college before they graduated.”
We steer our horses into a flock of sheep, who bleat as they scatter. Nugget and Coney run to meet the herding dogs, and everyone gets in a good sniff. A short Negro with arms as thick as tree trunks waves to Jefferson as we pass.
“Those sheep belong to Mr. Bledsoe, and that’s Hampton, his shepherd.”
“Mr. Bledsoe is the one from Arkansas, with ten wagons?”
“That’s right. He’s got about a thousand head. He says sheep are smaller and more sure-footed than cattle, so they’re more likely to survive the trek across the mountains. Plans to get rich establishing a herd in the gold fields. It’s causing problems with the Missouri men because the sheep foul the grass, and the cattle won’t eat it. Right now the plan is to let the cattle go first and have the sheep bring up the rear.” He points. “That wagon over there is Reverend Lowrey and his wife.”
“Just the two of them?”
“And one more on the way.”
My face must register surprise that he would mention such a thing, because he quickly adds, “You’ll know it as soon as you see her. The reverend says God called him west to minister to the miners in the gold fields. To be honest, Lee, it’s a pretty misfit bunch. We’re the leftovers. People the other companies wouldn’t take, mixed with a few who arrived too late to set off with the rest.”
He’s about to say more, but we come to the end of the line.
“That’s Major Craven over there,” he says. The tent he points to is military style—plain and exacting.
“I heard he was a major in some kind of Indian war.”
Jefferson’s face darkens. “The Black Hawk War. An ugly bit of business. More than a thousand Indians killed. Craven was a sergeant. Only reason everyone here calls him Major is because of Mr. Joyner.”
“How’s that?”
“The other companies were appointing captains, and Mr. Joyner said that since ours was so distinguished, it needed a guide with a more distinguished title.”
“That’s . . .”
“I know!”
I shake my head. “We’d be lucky to make it to California if Mr. Joyner was in charge. He doesn’t know a rabbit from a raccoon.”
“He doesn’t need to know anything. Haven’t you read the papers, Lee?”
“Read what in the papers?”
His eyes twinkle. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to get to California—you just aim yourself west and start walking.”
Chapter Eighteen
The sun sets over the western horizon, and it’s like an omen, the way it lights up the plain in fiery gold. Major Craven makes a circuit of the camp. He’s a middle-aged man with a huge scar across his top lip that almost disappears in the brightness of his easy smile. He announces to all that our company is now complete and that we’ll be leaving on the morrow.