She slumps in relief.
I say, “I wish you and your family the very best of luck, ma’am. Maybe I’ll see you in California.” I don’t really mean it, but it gives me a nasty twist of pleasure to see her startle at my words.
“To you as well, Mr. McCauley.” She turns and walks away fast, lantern light bobbing with each step.
I lean into Peony’s shoulder. “How do you feel about leaving right now?” I whisper, and she nuzzles my hair in response. It’s not like I could sleep after that, anyway.
I pull on Daddy’s boots. My feet have gotten used to them, big size and all. I don’t even get blisters anymore.
My hands shake as I throw Peony’s saddle over her back, and I realize I’m crying. I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. I grab Mama’s locket and squeeze a moment, giving it a chance to refill my well of resolve.
I tighten the cinch, check my saddlebag, and mount up. Outside, a light mist is falling on a world that’s so cold and wet it feels like a tub filled with misery. The Joyners plan to head north, either to Port Girardeau or St. Louis, so I’ll take the first left I find and head north later.
Coney is curled up on the porch of the house. He lifts his head and stares quizzically. He stands, shakes himself, and follows us down the road a ways before whining and turning back. Of everyone in the Joyner family, I’ll miss him the most.
I nudge Peony forward. “It’s just you and me now, girl.”
Again. It’s just you and me again, is what I should say. But I know she understands.
Chapter Fifteen
The first person I meet on the road as the sun rises is a grinning huckster with a beard as stiff as a whisk broom. Patches cover his elbows, and a striped feather juts from his hat’s band. His mule cart is loaded with pots and pans, bolts of fabric and plaster dolls, pickaxes and even wishbone-shaped divining rods that he claims will lead a fellow to gold.
“No, thank you,” I tell him. If the divining rods worked at all, my uncle wouldn’t have killed my folks to claim my magic.
His smile is fierce and determined. “I have it on the best authority that these rods—”
“I don’t have any money.”
His smile disappears like fog in the sun. “Good day, then.”
He snaps the reins, the mules protest, and the cart rattles forward. I turn Peony around and walk beside him.
“Can you tell me if this is the road to Independence?” I ask.
He waves his hand dismissively. “Every road will take you to Independence if you choose the right direction and keep on going till you get there.”
“But which direction is the right direction?”
He points ahead. “If you go down to the river and turn north—”
“I don’t want to go that way.”
“If I had any maps, I’d sell you one. Huh.” He rubs his whisk-broom beard. “Maybe I should load up on maps.”
“Can I go that way?” I point in the direction he’s just come from.
He pulls up short and twists in his seat. “Head west and ask folks for the road to Charleston. You can make it there by lunchtime. Go to Mrs. Moore’s boardinghouse on Market Street if you need a place to stay, and tell her that—”
“Where do I go from there?”
He sighs. “From there, you’ll head west to Sikeston, Poplar Bluff, and then Springfield. There are a lot of towns along the way, but if you remember those, it’ll get you in the right direction.”
“Sikeston, Poplar Bluff, Springfield.”
“When you get to Springfield, you make a quarter turn to the right and head north. That’ll get you to Independence.”
“Thank you, mister. I sure appreciate it.” Charleston, Sikeston, Poplar Bluff, Springfield, Independence. I tip my hat to him and turn Peony back around. I almost feel hopeful again.
“It’s more than four hundred miles!” he shouts at me.
“Then I better get started!” I shout back.
“Good luck.”
“Good luck to you too, mister!”
Four hundred miles is nothing. I’ve traveled farther than that already. I’ll reach Independence by early March, find Jefferson, and leave with one of the first wagon trains of the season. If everything goes well, we’ll be in the gold fields of California by the end of summer.
An hour later, clouds roll in, and a cold rain falls, soaking me to the bone. Peony slogs through fetlock-deep mud. By the time we reach Charleston, my head feels thick, and it hurts to swallow. I’m far away from Georgia now, and more than willing to spend the twenty cents I can’t afford to pass the night in Mrs. Moore’s public boardinghouse, but it’s already full up with folks heading west.
I keep going until nightfall, when I find a farmer willing to let me sleep on the floor in front of his hearth.
I make it as far as Sikeston before coming down with a fever, and I spend an anxious week burning up in a farmhouse near a place called Gray’s Ridge. Despite the family’s kind care, I rave something awful, fighting them constantly—first because I’m afraid they’ll find out my secret, and later because, in my feverish state, I mistake the father for Uncle Hiram. Even after my fever breaks, I find him hard to look at, with his long, fine nose and keen gaze. When I’m well enough to travel again, they’re glad to see me go, but not as glad as I am to leave. I give them two precious dollars for all the trouble.
It’s a cold, wet spring, with day after day of weather that can’t decide if it wants to be rain or snow. Many of the roads are quagmires, trapping wagons and blocking passage. It’s slow going, and I can’t make up lost time no matter how hard I try.
These hills are chock-full of pioneers who are making an enterprise of boarding westbound travelers. I almost always find a bed, a meal, or unasked-for advice in exchange for mucking a few stalls or splitting some firewood or—if I’m desperate—parting with a few pennies. When I get back on the road, I sometimes find a napkin full of cookies, or a little grain for Peony. Once, I even discover a tiny ball of lavender-scented soap tucked into my saddlebag.
In spite of the goodness all around me, the low clouds feel like a yoke about my shoulders, and the sky drizzles sorrow down on Peony and me as I slump over her withers. It gets harder and harder to smile at strangers, and each morning, I’m clumsy and slow about packing up and getting back on the road. One night, when I’m camped in a small glen after having shot a squirrel with my pistol, I’m finally able to put words to my misery.