The regular theft of supplies has continued. Since Mr. Joyner died, we’ve twice awakened to discover that the loaf of bread Widow Joyner cooked overnight in the Dutch oven is gone. Last night, Widow Joyner prepared another loaf and left it sitting by the coals. I could never shoot an Indian, or any man, but I plan to catch someone in the act and be as frightful as possible.
Jefferson sleeps beneath the Joyner wagon. He promised to jump up at my warning cry and help me make a dreadful racket. If the thief doesn’t come tonight, we’ll swap places tomorrow; Jefferson will keep watch while I sleep with my rifle beside me.
Yawning, I break off another piece of chicory root and put it my mouth. Chewing it floods my tongue with invigorating bitterness.
I expect our thieves to approach from outside the camp, so I almost miss two dark shapes creeping among the animals inside our wagon corral. I shift my rifle in their direction.
They’re not Indians; I can tell even in the dark. Their silhouettes are rumpled and bulky, like argonauts. One wears a broad-brimmed straw hat, just like the one worn by Henry Meek.
Coney is curled up in his usual spot between Peony’s front legs. He lifts his head as the shapes approach. The man with the hat crouches to scratch his ears, and Coney thumps his tail before lowering his heads back to his paws. My low opinion of the dogs’ guarding abilities is somewhat mitigated. At least they know friend from foe.
The men glance around and tiptoe over to the cook fire. The one in the hat bends to remove the Dutch oven’s lid.
I rise from my hiding place. The loose brush and sage drop away like a dead skin. “Stop right there, Henry Meek, or I will shoot you and your companion.” My voice is clear but soft; I don’t want to wake Jefferson or alert anyone else before I hear Henry’s explanation.
They turn to face me, and I’m the one who jumps in surprise.
With Henry is Hampton, the slave who belonged to Mr. Bledsoe from Arkansas.
“I thought you ran away,” I whisper.
“I’m still running away,” he whispers back.
Henry puts a finger to his lips and gestures for Hampton and me to follow. He grabs Widow Joyner’s bread loaf and leads us away.
I follow warily, past the Soda Springs and down an incline. Once we’re out of sight, we huddle in a small grove of birch trees. The stolen blanket is wrapped around Hampton’s shoulders.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “And talk fast before I decide to rouse the camp.”
Henry offers a chunk of bread to Hampton, who grabs it and shoves it into his mouth. He gulps it down without chewing. After a long sigh, he says, “I’m going to California to find gold, same as you.”
“But . . .” I close my mouth. I’m not exactly sure what my protestation is.
Hampton continues, “I’ll send every speck of it back to Arkansas. Buy my freedom, clear and legal. Maybe I can buy freedom for my wife too.”
Can’t blame him for that. If I still had folks back home, I’d do everything in my power to have them with me again.
“No man should have to pay for his freedom,” Henry says. “It’s a natural right—‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’ So we’ve been helping him as much as we can.” He tears off another piece and offers the loaf to me. “Go on,” he says. “Take a bite. In the spirit of true Christian communion.”
I’m not sure what makes me take it. The bread is still warm when I put it in my mouth. “I wish you fellows still had Athena. Some butter would make even Widow Joyner’s bread taste good.” But I feel wrong. I’m eating stolen bread.
Henry smiles at me. I don’t return his smile as I pass the loaf back to Hampton. “I guess the rest is yours.”
“I’m sorry we took from you,” Henry says. “But our rations are running low. We’ve been helping Wally since his leg came off. Frank Dilley ‘lost’ most of Wally’s supplies right after his leg was broken. We’ve used every persuasion at our disposal, but he remains unmoved.”
“But Widow Joyner’s eating for two, and . . .” Even in the dark, I can see how much thinner Hampton has become since he left us.
“I wanted to tell you,” Henry says. “But you being from Georgia, I just didn’t know how—”
“I love Georgia, but I’ve never held with slavery.” I scuff my boots in the dirt. “My daddy raised me right.”
“Sounds like a good man,” Henry says.
“He was.”
“My congressman spoke several times at Illinois College,” Henry says. “Made an abolitionist of me, that’s for sure. He says we’ll have to end slavery if we want to keep the country together. Not a lot I can do about that, way out west, but I figure I can help one man.”
Hampton is hanging his head. I hope his thieving ways don’t set well with him. “I’d rather take from Frank Dilley and his people,” he says. “But they pack everything up tight and keep an extra guard.”
“We’re lucky they never caught you trying,” Henry says.
Hampton nods. “Some of them—like Waters, Dilley’s foreman—well, they’re slave catchers. They get hold of me, I’m done for.”
“And we don’t want that,” Henry adds.
Hampton stretches out his bare feet, and I wince. His thick calluses are cracked and dry.
“We’ve a long way to go,” I say. “The Major says the hardest part is still ahead. Hundreds and hundreds of miles, some of it through desert, with no water and no fuel.”
“I’ll follow behind like a ghost,” Hampton says. “You won’t even know I’m here.”
“But now I do,” I say.
“Now you do,” Hampton agrees. He and Henry stare at me, waiting to see what I’ll do.
“You’ve done wrong, Hampton.”
He doesn’t argue, but his face screws up tight.
“No man should be a slave, but no man should be a thief either.”
I think I’ve spoken fairly, but it makes him angry. “Can’t steal my labor from me my whole life and then accuse me of theft.”
I open my mouth to protest but think better of it. Was I stealing from Uncle Hiram when I took my own possessions and Daddy’s colts besides? No one could convince me so. And while I can dress up like a boy and earn my way on a wagon train, there’s no way for Hampton to dress up like a free man.