Under a Painted Sky

by Stacey Lee

  The sheriff’s wife, Mrs. Bartholomew, bows her head. “Thank thee Lord for sending Your angels to help us.”

  “Mrs. Bart will get you cleaned up for dinner,” says the sheriff. “Joseph, give this horse some oats.”

  Mrs. Bart pulls us by the arms away from her husband and toward the green wagon. Her bonnet disappears into its canvas cover.

  So far, no sign of Mr. Calloway. Dare I hope more than one green wagon roams the prairie?

  Mrs. Bart hands us two sacks. “Clean rags, soap.”

  My throat closes when I spot Whistle marked on the sides of the bags. Father had the blacksmith make that stamp for us. Every Monday afternoon, I pressed in the marks while he held the fabric taut. I stiffen my lips to hold back the sob that wants to escape.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” says Andy, taking the sacks.

  I stumble after them, trying to empty my head. I can’t think about Father right now. Curious eyes follow as Mrs. Bart marches us through the circle to the farthest wagon.

  Mrs. Bart stops in front of a woman hanging clothes on a line. This new woman wears her faded brown hair in a long braid. Smile lines mark the corners of her mouth and eyes. “Why, who’s this, Mrs. Bart?”

  “Andy and Sammy. They and their friends saved our livestock.”

  “Praise be,” says the woman, clasping her hands to her bosom.

  “I wondered if you might lend them some of Thomas’s clothes until theirs can be washed. Three are to follow shortly.”

  “Of course.”

  To Andy and me, Mrs. Bart says, “Mrs. Calloway’s husband has not yet arrived.”

  Andy’s eyes widen as she finally puts the pieces together. “When you’s husband gonna get here?”

  Mrs. Calloway puts a finger to her sun-dappled cheek. “Tomorrow, I hope.” She glances at two younger versions of herself scrubbing clothes on their washboards. “Though he hates to be separated from us. If he’s been traveling day and night, he might arrive tonight.”

  My gut tightens and I clench my toes to keep my feet from making tracks away from here.

  “Then again,” the woman muses, oblivious to the hot poker she’s waving around Andy and I, “the poor man is just not as young as he thinks he is. No, he’ll be here tomorrow.”

  We’ll be gone by tomorrow, but it won’t matter either way. Mrs. Calloway will tell her husband about the Chinese boy and his negro friend and he’ll figure it out. He’ll tell the sheriff, who will put out the word, and the news will spread like a traveling hobo.

  I’m about to drop dead of anxiety when the two girls leave their tubs to join us, drying their hands on their aprons. Apple cheeks flecked with freckles and frizzy hair reined in by braids, they angle themselves for a better look under our hats. Teenage girls. The worst kind of trouble. They will sniff us out for sure.

  I square my stance and put on my fiercest grimace, lips curled back and nostrils flaring. My arms lock tightly in front of my chest.

  “Go wash yourselves by the river,” Mrs. Bart tells us. “Would you mind taking a few buckets to haul back water for Mrs. Calloway? She only has Mary and Rachel to help her.” The girls dip a half curtsy as she calls their names.

  “’Course not, ma’am,” says Andy.

  Mary cups her hands to her cheeks and says in a wispy voice, “Oh, a Celestial!”

  I wince at the irritating term for Chinese people.

  “You’re a cowboy?” asks Rachel in a voice laced with doubt.

  I nod curtly, then swivel my face left and right to avoid the trap of her gaze.

  Mrs. Calloway puts a gentle hand on my back, as if we are kin. “There was an Oriental man at one of the stores in St. Joe. Do you know him?”

  I swallow hard and my face falls. “I—” My voice catches in my throat. “Yes, I knew him. He was a fine man. The finest.” I’m revealing too much, but I can’t help it.

  “Was?”

  I glare at the ground. “He died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Her voice is soft as a baby’s breath. “Well, that part of the river is most private, hidden by lovely cedars.” She nods toward a patch of green a hundred yards away.

  The girls fetch us two sets of their father’s clothes, one for each of us, and we head to the river.

  Father always said, If you cannot be brave, then imagine you are someone else who is. So I imagine myself as him, my optimistic father, whose step never wavered, whose face never hid in shadows. Lifting my chin, I march after Andy as if my cares were few and my outlook, golden.

  16

  WE ROUND A HEAP OF FOLDED CANVAS AND SPOT the MacMartin brothers squatting in the dirt constructing tents. Their father’s tongue lashes them in his thick speech.

  “You want to gang back to a life of tracking?” asks Mr. MacMartin, shaking a stick back toward the trail. “Slupping through the muck for pennies a hyde? That what ye want?”

  As we hurry by, I can feel Angus’s and Ian’s cold gaze following us, lifting the hairs on my neck.

  “I bet those boys bit their way out of the womb,” Andy whispers.

  Once we reach the cover of the cedars, we place the saddlebag and my violin case by a rock and quickly strip our clothes. The water runs clearer here than where we won our fishing bet, but it’s just as cold. I count that as a good thing for my stinging hands, which quickly go numb.

  “Maybe I should leave my face dirty,” I say.

  “Too suspicious. They sent us out here to get clean.”

  I scrub myself of dirt with one of Mrs. Calloway’s rags, powered by nervous energy. With Mr. Calloway’s pending arrival, surely the end is near. “Maybe we should make a run for it. The more distance we put between us and people who know our past, the better.”

  Andy rubs water from her eyes. “I know what you’s saying, Sammy, but they already saw us. What’s going to happen will happen, and when it does, I’d rather have those boys by our side.”

  She disappears under the water, leaving me frowning. She has a point. The boys wrapped up the MacMartin brothers as easily as if they were bakery boxes. But even the thought of West’s quick reflexes doesn’t chase away the calamity imps flying around me.

  Father said all imps must be controlled through the mind. One watermelon, two watermelons . . .

  Andy breaks through the water and clears her eyes. “What you’s gut telling you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, mine is telling me I’m hungry, so let’s go with that.”

  The bleating calls of the returning herd remind us to shake a tail feather. The boys will be taking their own bath soon.

  I’m about to lift myself out of the water when the sound of giggles stops me in my tracks. I sink back down and motion for Andy to do the same.

  Rachel and Mary emerge from the cedars toting buckets.

  “We ain’t finished yet,” growls Andy in a voice much deeper than mine.

  “You forgot the buckets for the water,” says Rachel brightly.

  “Just set ’em down.”

  They put the buckets on the bank, but instead of leaving, they stand there, twirling their skirts back and forth like feather dusters.

  “You want something?” asks Andy. To me, she whispers without moving her lips, “We ain’t got nothing you don’t already got.”

  Mary pulls at her braids. “Mother says to fetch your dirty clothes.”

  “Oh,” Andy says, letting her breath go. “Right there.”

  The girls gather up the laundry at a snail’s pace, holding up the shirts one at a time. I groan. What could be more uninteresting than seeing another shirt after an afternoon of doing laundry?

  The boys will be here any minute. Sweat collects on my brow while the rest of me turns blue from the frigid waters.

  “Why do you wear so many shirts?” asks Mary.

  “’C
ause we’s cold, and we’s getting colder the longer you take,” snaps Andy. Mary pulls down her Cupid’s-bow mouth and snatches up the last shirt.

  “What’s this?” asks Rachel, stooping down to pick up something.

  “Looks like an apron tie,” says Mary, as Rachel waves the pink scrap of fabric in front of her. Andy’s lips come apart.

  “I use it to bind my leg boils,” says Andy. “So let it be.”

  With a look of disgust, Rachel drops the tie and hurries away, followed by Mary.

  “Finally,” I mutter.

  We hear the boys’ voices. Andy’s face crumples.

  I wade toward the shore. “Quickly!”

  The boys saunter forth from the trees, coming head to head with the girls. The boys’ faces are lit with laughter. Cay’s shirt hangs open. Mud covers his chest and one side of his face.

  Mary drops the bundle she’s holding. Her hands flutter around her face. “Oh!” Another sparrow just flew into the cat’s mouth.

  Cay and Peety bend to help her collect the clothes while Rachel faces off with West.

  I look at Andy and jerk my head toward the shore. Now. We dive for Mr. Calloway’s bright plaid shirts, yanking them on faster than minutemen. Thank God the shirts are long enough to cover our bottoms. Facing the river, we hitch up our trousers, then twist around to assess the damage.

  The girls, now in the presence of real cowboys, can hardly contain their delight. No one’s paying attention to us. I blow out a shaky breath as I finish buttoning my shirt. Andy secures her apron tie. We fill our buckets and head back to the circle.

  • • •

  Not a hand lies idle when we return to our hosts. One group of pioneers chops turnips while others stir bubbling cauldrons of stew. Yet another group pulls hot buns off the skillets with iron tongs. After we bring Mrs. Calloway the water, Andy and I huddle together around her fire.

  As an honored guest, the only fingers I lift are the ones Andy plucks splinters from. Her own nimble digits prick and dislodge oak bits with efficiency, not hesitating to stab when necessary. To comfort myself, I think of West, and how secure I felt when his arms caught me.

  “Twenty-two,” says Andy finally. She squeezes my shoulder. “You dulled my needle.”

  I pat the blood off my hands with a wet towel. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Her mouth presses into a soft smile. “Soak you’s hands in a little tomato juice. The splinters come right out. It’s messy, though.”

  “I don’t just mean the splinters.”

  “I know.” She slowly cleans her needle. “We watch each other’s back, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  She stares through a stack of napkins weighed down with a stone. When she notices me watching her, she smiles. “Now don’t give me that long face. It’s gonna be all right. You’s gonna find your Mr. Trask, and then you won’t have to worry about things like splinters and burning trees.”

  “What about you?”

  “I won’t have to worry about your splinters, either.” She bumps me with her elbow. “That was some fancy roping back there. Might be useful on the trail. You think the boys would teach us if we ask?”

  I snort. “We have to be worthy, first. Some of them are still getting used to the idea of playing nursemaid.”

  “You’s sweet on West.”

  “What?”

  “Mmhm,” she says, not suffering fools.

  “Is it obvious?”

  “Yep, but only ’cause I know you don’t have a rattle. Don’t worry, men catch on slower. You might want to thump your tail a little harder, though.”

  • • •

  Soon, we are sopping stew with skillet bread. The darkening sky drapes a helpful veil across our faces. Someone pours me a mug of hard cider, which fizzes on my tongue. I down the sweet brew and ask for another, remembering to thump my tail. The Calloway girls delight in serving us, or rather, they delight in serving the boys who’ve grown into their manly physiques. Naturally, Cay basks in the attention.

  Talk turns to the Broken Hand Gang. “That poor man lost two of his mules and half his supplies,” says an older fellow who wheezes every time he breathes. “Surprised they didn’t just take the whole wagon.”

  “They break his hand?” asks Cay.

  “No, but they shook him up good. Man wouldn’t talk for a week.”

  “You think Father will be okay?” Rachel Calloway asks her mother.

  Mrs. Calloway musters a smile. “Yes, I think so. The Lord watches over His sheep.”

  “Yesterday we passed federal marshals combing the trails back to St. Joe. I wouldn’t worry too much,” West tells Rachel. She nearly levitates under his gaze.

  “We’d be happy to look for him, if you’d like,” adds Cay.

  My neck cracks as I raise my head. Look for him? Maybe we’ll have to run away after all.

  “Oh!” cries Mary Calloway, feasting her adoring eyes on Cay. She presses her fist, still clutching a biscuit, to her bosom.

  “That is so kind of you to offer,” says Mrs. Calloway.

  I don’t breathe. Calamity imps, anxiety imps, all of them descend upon me at once, flapping their wings and screeching.

  “However, that won’t be necessary,” she continues. “We cannot think with our emotions, or let hysteria guide our decisions.”

  Andy puts down her napkin, and her spooked eyes recede into their sockets. I drown my relief in cider.

  Mrs. Calloway pulls the lid off a pan of cake. “Mary, pass around the cake. Let’s speak of lighter matters.”

  “You got any stories about your adventures?” Rachel gushes, scooting closer to West.

  “Er, well,” he says, backing away a fraction.

  “Oh, please,” she begs.

  From under her hat, Andy sticks her tongue out at me and rolls her eyes.

  I flash her a smile and finish my second glass of cider. Then I pour myself another.

  “I ain’t much of a storyteller, miss,” West replies. “But Cay’s got a head full of them—some are even true.”

  As Cay regales them with a story of the cousins’ first cattle drive, the girls hang on his every word, gasping and sighing in all the right parts. Rachel keeps cutting her eyes to West, and I cannot blame her. He also takes my breath away. The shadows of the fire play over his face and catch the glitter in his dusky eyes. I envy his old shearling coat, wrapping his sturdy shoulders in a furry embrace.

  I stare at the bottom of my tin cup, which I can see again.

  “That steer eyed me right in the peepers, horns so close I could swing on them. I had no horse, no rope, hell, not even a hat. So you know what I did?” Cay asks in a hush, leaning in.

  “What?” ask the girls, also leaning in.

  Cay waits. Not even the fire dares to crackle. Then, “I told it to shoo with my mind.” He touches his cup to his temple.

  “No!” the girls gasp as one.

  “That steer turned tail and walked off.” He walks his fingers through the air. “Power of the mind. It’s a real thing.”

  West sucks the tip of his finger, then flicks it up. “That one ain’t true. You think he’d use his mind if his mouth still worked?”

  The girls giggle. Mrs. Calloway, her face crinkling, allows the yin and yang of male bravado and female adoration to ebb and flow.

  “Does it ever get lonely out there?” asks Mary in her spiderwebby voice.

  “Sure it does,” says Cay in a rare moment of gravity. “But those times make looking on the fair faces of our gentle sex more meaningful.”

  West chuckles.

  Cay turns to him. “What about you, wisecracker?”

  All eyes shift to West, who is drinking a cup of milk. He puts down his cup and studies his crossed boots. “Well, sure, it gets lonesome. But I
don’t mind. I find cattle”—he pauses as he searches for the word—“simple. Nothing tricky or mysterious about a single one of them. That’s more than can be said about certain folks, and if that means I’m lonesome some of the time, ’s all right by me.”

  Rachel releases a girlish sigh, almost in West’s lap by now.

  I think about the deceit I’ve already practiced upon him and hang my head. Even if I do outrun the law, I will always be a trickster and a liar in his eyes. And after he saved my life, too. I hug my knees to my chest to stem my insides from pouring out.

  “You ever shoot anyone?” breathes Rachel, fluttering her eyelashes at West.

  I snort loudly through my nose. The biscuit’s on the plate, sister, not sitting next to you. Maybe West likes a little buttering, however, because he shows her a dimple. Oh, brother.

  I pound my empty cup into the dirt and raise my finger. “I shot shum-one.” Why is my tongue so sluggish? All eyes turn to me.

  “Thaj right. My licked wanlord.” Wicked landlord, same thing. “Yup. I dijit ’cause he’s in my way. Like a big moosh.”

  Cay screws up his eyes at me.

  “Moosh,” I repeat more emphatically. Doesn’t he know what a moose is? “Mooshes can’t just knockem the squirrjels on their wayj to the berry-bushels. So I shot ’im.” I make my fingers into a gun and pretend to fire.

  Andy splays her fingers out in front of her, eyes held wide in suspense. I do tell a good story. But now I need some fresh air. The heat from the bonfire smothers me.

  “Ma’am, please scooz me,” I say to Mrs. Calloway.

  I rise, too fast, for my head spins. Someone must have filled my boots with water; I can hardly walk straight. I step over the tongue of a wagon and stumble toward the river, but then my feet take another turn and lead me into a copse of conifers. Above me, yellow and purple clouds puff out above the tree line, like someone punched the sky in the face. My knees wobble, and I grab on to the puzzly bark of a pine.

  Now my insides really are pouring out. I retch out my pioneer dinner.