Under a Painted Sky

by Stacey Lee

  “They don’t got a doctor, but they gave me a boatload of stuff,” Cay tells us. “How is he?”

  “Better,” I say. “His fever broke.”

  We unload Cay’s supplies: bandages, soap, and food.

  “Come here, Skinnita bonita, your papi will give you a nice brushing now. Clean your pretty hooves, too.” Peety kisses Skinny on the nose and leads her to the river.

  Cay collapses by the fire, his face drawn in a way that ages him. Looking at him now, I catch a glimpse of the man he will be, still sweet, but more subdued, even reflective. A tinge of sadness dampens my mood as I realize I will not be there to see his older self. Andy pulls off his boots and socks while I beat out his bedroll. Soon, he joins his cousin in the land of nod.

  “Cay must have moths in his boots. Look,” says Andy, poking her fingers through his socks.

  “Or mice.”

  Andy pulls out a ball of yarn from her saddlebag. “Real men wouldn’t darn socks for each other, but I can’t help myself.”

  “The boys might if they knew how.” I wring out a warm cloth to use on Cay’s dusty face and hands. Andy wants to scrape out the dirt from under his fingernails with her knitting needle, but I stop her.

  Cay is still sleeping when West awakes mid-afternoon. I wrap West’s arm in a sling while Andy prepares biscuits down by the stream. He flinches at my touch, though I’m uncertain whether the pain comes from his shoulder or from being near me. At least his color has returned.

  After I finish, he mutters, “Don’t you have anything better to do than wait on me?”

  I stiffen as the sting brightens my cheeks. Andy slaps her dough loudly, then starts kneading it. West is giving off his hard look again, the one with the eyebrows of doom and the frowning mouth. He won’t look at me.

  I go to shower my attentions on one who has no reservations about accepting them: Paloma.

  We race down the riverbank, but I can’t erase West’s glare from my mind.

  It wasn’t that horrible, was it? No one was there, and I don’t have cholera or worms. So what if another boy’s mouth touched yours. It kept you alive, didn’t it?

  Or maybe he did figure out my secret. My thighs grip Paloma too hard and she slows. Maybe he knew all along and never said anything because kissing a Chinese girl would be as indecent as kissing a boy. I can’t help remembering the story West told about painting the fence. He said there were certain things about him he could never change. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get the blood out of the paint. Was he talking about his father’s bigotry? West couldn’t be a bigot himself, not with a Mexican as such a close friend. Not with the way he defended us against the MacMartins.

  But who knows what lies beneath the glass? Father said people are like bottles of rice and water, which need heat to transform into a fine rice wine. Too little heat, and the wine is sour and weak. Too much, and the fermentation stops all together. But with patience, the mix will ripen into an exquisite drink, and only the winemaker knows when that time will come.

  I pat my mule’s neck and find comfort in the silky tufts of her mane. Father told me not to brood when people judged me for my wrapper, not my filling, or I would spend my whole life in the steamer.

  • • •

  When we arrive back at camp, West is standing with one hand on Franny’s saddle. The others watch him from under the shade of the cottonwoods.

  He’s back on his feet again. Can I catch Mr. Trask after all? With each day that we rest, the man gains fifteen miles on us, which means we’re forty-five miles farther behind. West won’t be well enough to travel for another few days, which means roughly . . . a hundred miles behind.

  With a heavy heart, I dismount and join the others.

  Franny whinnies in reply to something West says. He removes his hand from her saddle and takes a small step forward holding her lead rope. Franny also steps forward. Then West steps backward, to the right, and to the left. Franny follows in perfect synchronicity. My mouth opens at this small miracle, despite my irritation.

  “Horse is man’s best friend,” says Peety, noticing my surprise. “And I got lots of best friends. That one, her mama kick her in the head when she was born. Nobody want her anymore.” He sweeps the air with his hands. “But she is the smartest one in whole remuda. You know caballo is for you when she reflects your soul. That is why Franny and West move like magic.”

  Cay nods, his face serious.

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, Andy and I walk a quarter mile down the river with a pile of grayish rags for what we now call our minute-baths.

  “Never doubted West was gonna make it,” she says as we undress. “He got all the angels pulling for him. Some people’s like that.” She smells one of her shirts and wrinkles her nose. “Eh. Don’t like grimy things.”

  I smell my own shirt as she continues. “You’s mind’s busy lately, but you know you’s still on schedule, right?”

  We hop into the water and make short work of scouring ourselves. “Cay told Peety wagons got to wait their turn into the fort ’cause of all the folks twiddling their thumbs, trying to decide if they want to climb the Rockies. You gotta wait at least a week if you got wagons.” Her teeth begin to chatter.

  I go still as hope seeps through my veins. Maybe I can catch Mr. Trask after all. “Thanks,” I say carefully. If Andy knew how pleased I was, she’d be even more reluctant to let me go with her.

  “You’s in good hands with the boys,” she says, reading me perfectly anyway.

  “I already told you I wasn’t going to let you go off on your own,” I grumble. “Even if it is a waterfall, what if it’s not the right one?”

  “Then I’ll keep looking.” She steps out of the water and dries herself while I move more slowly beside her. After she presses the water out of her head with a rag, she binds herself with a clean apron tie. The tie is still bright pink despite all of Andy’s vigorous beatings. I guess certain qualities are more stubborn than others.

  My frozen fingers fumble with my buttons. “There could be hundreds of waterfalls around these mountains. You’d be wandering forever.”

  She chews her lip as she tucks in the ends of her tie. “Well, that Calamity Cutoff ain’t for another two weeks. Don’t let it trouble us right now.”

  She dismisses me, and I’m afraid to argue with her. Now that West’s health is improving, Andy might feel free to fly away.

  We beat out the rags with stones and clean them with a bit of soap.

  “Take these wet things and dry ’em in the pot while I hunt down miner’s lettuce,” Andy says.

  As she proceeds down the river, I stare after her as if she might decide to bolt right now. She stoops and sifts her hand through long bundles of reeds, yanking out lettuce. With a sigh, I scoop up our wet rags plus Andy’s second apron tie, then trudge the quarter mile back to our camp.

  When I return, the boys are standing in the river. I throw the rags into a dry pot Andy left heating on the fire. She says the heat gets them cleaner, not to mention, dries them faster. I stir them around with a fork and let them get toasty. The lacy apron tie stands out amongst the grayish rags.

  One by one, I hang the rags on a length of rope strung between two branches of the cottonwood. I will have to take Andy’s apron tie somewhere else to finish drying.

  Peety walks up, carrying his holey boots. He’s rolled the hems of his trousers past the knee. The river has matted the black hair of his legs. “Hey, Chinito. Still hard at work, eh?”

  “You work harder than me,” I say truthfully.

  “It’s not work to me.” He grins. His sunny disposition immediately lifts my spirits. “You and Andito take good care of us. I want you to know we appreciate it. We’re like a big familia, eh?”

  “Yeah, we are.”

  He carefully sets down his boots, then settles on a blanket. I
toss him one of the warm rags.

  “Muchas gracias,” he says, using the rag to wipe his feet.

  Familia. Family. Peety would never let Andy go by herself to Harp Falls if he knew she was a girl. He cares for her, maybe even as much as I do. If he knew she was a girl, he would feel a lot differently about the chico to whom he gave a horse.

  Without thinking, I reach into the pot for the apron tie, that scrap Andy uses to suppress her female form. If Peety saw this, he would wonder at its bright pink sheen and lace edges, so incongruous amongst our weedy surroundings. Questions would give way to suspicions and then realizations.

  “What you doing there, Chinito?” asks Peety, studying me with my hand in the pot.

  What am I thinking? Quickly, I let go of the tie. I can’t betray Andy, no matter what. “Oh, nothing. Do you know where the map is? I want to look it over.” When he twists around to fetch Cay’s saddlebag, I quickly stuff the tie into my pocket.

  28

  TWO MORE DAYS PASS, AND WEST RALLIES HIS sand, as Cay puts it. On the sixth morning, when I open my eyes, West is sketching something in his journal. I try not to make any noise as I lift my head off the crook of my arm to glimpse what he draws.

  It is me as my six-year-old self. He did the braid perfectly. There are my eyes, my nose, and now my lips. But then his charcoal stops, and he crumples the paper and throws it in the fire.

  When he hears me stirring, he declares loudly, “I’m going crazy sitting here doing nothing. I want to get back on my taps.”

  So we pack up. West drapes his arm over Franny’s saddle and walks. We take up our usual positions and head back to the trail, all of us on foot. Nearly a week has passed since the stallion bit West, which means we’re back on track with Mr. Trask, given the week-long delay for wagons at Fort Laramie. With luck, we might catch up soon.

  Andy starts singing “Amazing Grace” with her warm gospel voice, in the low key she uses to avoid suspicion. No one joins her. Andy’s gospel solos always make us weep for our mothers.

  I rub my neck, sore from hours of sitting and taking care of West, and think about his drawings. Maybe he doesn’t hate me for assaulting him with my mouth. In fact, maybe he liked it, and that’s why he pushed me away. The thought goes to my head like champagne bubbles. I sit up straighter.

  Not for the first time, I think about telling West that I am a girl. At least that might clear up one possible source of confusion for him. He might never trust me again, but at least he could put his head right about himself. And if his distaste for me stems from the fact that I’m Chinese, then I will know for myself what kind of man he is, and that will clear up some confusion for me. I glance back and catch him looking at me. He scowls and stares gloomily into the endless sea of amber grass.

  If I told West the truth, then Andy and I would have to reveal the whole truth to everyone, since I could not burden him with that secret. Then they would knowingly be harboring criminals. Would the boys feel enough of a kinship to us that they would be able to lie to protect us?

  We may never find out.

  • • •

  We only travel a few miles the first day, stopping frequently to let West catch his breath. After another sunrise, he is back on Franny for the full day.

  Soon, we rejoin the queue of emigrants bound for Fort Laramie, and Andy and I are back to keeping our chins tucked in and our hats low. We travel as one long snake toward the white adobe walls of the fort, rising like a giant white bread box set atop an outcropping of bedrock. All around us, tents, tepees, and wagons spread out as far as the eye can see.

  Just as Cay reported, the wagons grind to a halt in the middle of the trail at least a mile before the fort. The remuda weaves through the wagons, stepping high with short strides. Heads turn as we pass. Paloma does her best to follow along with me crouching against her neck.

  When the fort is about the size of a wagon in the distance, Andy calls for a halt, and we dig in at a spot by the swift-moving Laramie River. Thanks to the river, the grass grows a deep shade of green.

  “More folks here than we seen in the last month put together,” says Andy.

  I take in the debris littering the fields: barrels, wheels, a loom. I even spot a piano. “And they left their junk everywhere.”

  “I think those are from them who brought too much and need to lighten the load.”

  Andy and I untack the remuda, and the boys walk the last quarter mile to the fort. They’ll use one of Ty Yorkshire’s rings this time to pay for our supplies.

  Pulling off saddles and brushing coats is hot work, and soon we’re both glistening with sweat. Andy rolls up her sleeves. The boys have seen her square brand with the six dots by now, but they’ve never questioned her about it.

  I work a brush between Paloma’s ears. “You think it’s time to tell the boys the truth? Maybe they’d even come with us to the falls.”

  “Sammy.” She gives me a look of supreme patience. Unbuckling Princesa’s saddle, she hauls it to the ground. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

  “Regretfully, no. And so you know, even if you did leave, you’d just be giving Paloma and me more work to do looking for you.”

  Scowling, she shakes her head. “I just hate to think about you giving up on you’s daddy’s dream, ’specially after losin’ you’s violin.”

  I don’t let on how much I hate it, too. “I’m not giving up. I’m just taking a detour. My father would understand. He always said people come before things.”

  She lifts her eyes to the heavens and consults with a cloud. Not dropping her gaze, she says, “I’m gonna feel guilty about this the rest of my life, but . . . okay. You can come with me.”

  I throw my arms around her. She lets me stay for a moment, then pushes me off. “About the boys . . . ” She bends down and rubs Princesa’s leg. “They’ve done nothing but good by us.” Still squatting, she looks up at me. “So if you want to tell them, it’s okay by me.”

  I smile. “I wonder what Peety will say when he finds out we’re chicas, not chicos.” I stomp down the dried grass, then kneel beside her.

  Her face breaks into a grin. “Maybe he won’t say anything for a change. Cay will probably want us to unshuck to prove it. But what about West?”

  I blink in the bright sunlight. “Sometimes I think he knows. But then, why wouldn’t he say anything?”

  “Well, the other day I swung Peety’s fifty-pound saddle onto Lupe. He didn’t even blink. I’d say we’ve gotten pretty good at being boys. I bet I could even fool Isaac.”

  “You think he’s changed much?”

  She shrugs. “It’s been five years since I seen him.” A shadow passes over her face. She begins to knead her scar, her eyes unfocused and troubled.

  Gently, I say, “You know you can always tell me about your trash.”

  “It ain’t right to track my dirt in your house.”

  “Father told me that sweeping the Whistle three times a day would improve my bow strokes.”

  “Did it?”

  “I don’t know. But I got really good at sweeping.”

  She groans, but I see the glimmer of a smile before it quickly disappears. “When Isaac was sold off separate from us, Tommy began to cry real hard. He was seven at the time. Isaac wiggled his ears at him—that was our sign that everything was going to be okay—but that just made Tommy cry harder.”

  “Poor thing,” I murmur.

  “So the auctioneer plugged Tommy’s mouth with an onion. I started screaming when he did that, and then I got an onion, too.”

  “Oh, Andy.”

  “Isaac went crazy. Normally, he’s gentle as sunshine in April, but when he’s pushed, he’s more like a hurricane. He threw off the two men holding him, and started toward us, like maybe he’s going to get us free, but of course, he’s no match for a rifle. They forced him to his knees, made him put his face in
horse droppings”—her voice breaks—“made him eat it, to show him his place.” Her face squeezes tight, but two tears still escape and I pass her my handkerchief.

  “I am sorry for that,” I say, my own eyes watering as well, and she nods. It occurs to me that maybe God is in charge of the stars, after all. Maybe He has been saving Andy from the horrors of her life, little by little each day, and perhaps the trouble ahead isn’t so bad as the trouble she left behind. I sure hope that is the case.

  Together, we watch the horses several yards away. Andy’s breath gradually begins to lengthen. She nudges me and jerks her chin toward the deserted piano. “You know how to play?”

  “Yes,” I say cautiously, glancing around. This is the worst time to draw attention to ourselves, with the fort a holler away. The place is probably crawling with soldiers, same as Fort Kearny. Yet, I can think of no better way to cheer up Andy than with that cure-all that knows no cultural bounds: music. A few people are setting up tents in the distance, but they’re probably too far to hear.

  “Ain’t every day you come across a piano on the prairie.”

  I hesitate. “All right, sister.”

  We drag discarded barrels over to the piano and hunker down. My skills with the ivory keys are not great, but I pick out a tune, one of Father’s favorites about a cat and a banjo. Soon, Andy starts humming along. I play the final note, and someone clears his throat right behind us.

  We jump to our feet and turn around to find a man, his face grizzled and sweaty under an unusual cap with a flat top and visor. I have seen such a cap before, in our safe at the Whistle. It belonged to Pépère, a relic from his days in the French Army.

  I gulp. I’ve heard of foreigners hiring themselves to police the frontier, since no one else wants to do it.

  “Jean Michel,” he says a heavy accent.

  Definitely French. I lick my lips, casting sideways glances around for an escape route. Surely if he were a soldier, he would have immediately stated his rank. Plus, he is not wearing a uniform, but tweed trousers and a linen shirt.