Under a Painted Sky

by Stacey Lee

  Andy settles into her bedroll between Peety and Cay. We didn’t move their bedrolls back in case they start feeling sick again. I heat our stew pot and turn it upside down to half-dry Andy’s coat, then hang it on a branch to finish air-drying. By the time I fall on my own bedroll, I am utterly dragged out.

  When I open my eyes next, night still wraps the land tight as a bud, unwilling to allow sunlight in just yet. I start to unfurl, when I realize West’s arm is draped around my waist, and his face is buried somewhere in my neck. Is he awake? His arm feels too heavy, and his breathing too even. Each exhale kisses me.

  My heart starts frisking about in my chest. If he awoke, would he be horrified that he’s cuddling a boy? Or has he seen through my disguise at last?

  The thought sends alternating cold and warm tingles down my back. Is that why Cay called me a filly? I stiffen, causing West’s hold to loosen. He flops onto his back, releasing me, and I don’t dare breathe. I turn around and my eyes trace down the dark feathers of West’s eyebrows to the straight line of his nose, and then to his mouth, parted and inviting. His chest rises, then his breath huhs softly out. Still sleeping. Slowly, I exhale.

  Cowboys ain’t meddlers, Cay said. They must have been waiting for us to tell them. I bet they figured out we were wanted criminals as soon as they knew we were girls. Yet they stuck with us.

  I bite my lip as a wave of gratitude blurs my vision.

  West’s breathing becomes shallower as if he senses me watching him. Slowly, I roll onto my back. I wish I could talk to Andy right now, though of course she’ll be sleeping. Maybe I’ll just check on the patients anyway.

  Quietly, I get to my feet. When I pass by the tree where I hung Andy’s coat, I stop short. The coat is missing. I know I put it on that branch. Maybe a wild animal got it, or—

  I sprint to the river and my heart collapses in my chest. Between Peety’s bulky silhouette and Cay’s sprawling limbs, I find an empty space.

  37

  I STAND OVER CAY AND PEETY, REFUSING TO ACCEPT it. She couldn’t have left. Maybe she simply laid her bedroll somewhere else because Peety was snoring too loud. But I don’t see her anywhere.

  Maybe she went for a walk. She stashed her bedroll, took her coat, and wandered off.

  I kneel in the flattened grass of the empty space.

  The ground is cold. My eyes catch on a fragment of metal on Peety’s hand, glinting in the moonlight. He has a gold ring on his pinkie.

  I scramble to where the horses are clumped together. Both Paloma and Lupe are lying on the ground, while Franny and Skinny stand facing each other, as if silently communing.

  Princesa is gone.

  As I stare at the horses, my mind jogs back to our conversation in the stream only hours before. Follow. She is still playing the game.

  She has gone to Harp Falls without me.

  I grab my head in frustration. Andy! I was supposed to come with you. Curse your Dragon’s overconfidence and rocky head. The tears come, even as I know she had my interests at heart. She thought I’d be safer with the boys and Mr. Trask.

  I hastily fill my canteen and stuff jerky and nuts into a feed sack. Then I tack up Paloma. If Andy runs into Badge, he won’t know she was part of my group. And even if he did know, he might not care after what happened with West. And what of the other gang members? It would be easy to catch her, still weak from cholera and obviously deluded by visions of her brother.

  After I attach the saddlebags, I fetch my bedroll.

  At least the dark will slow her down. Maybe she’s still close. I can catch her and bring her home. But what if she doesn’t want to come back?

  West fell back into a peaceful slumber. I try not to look at him as I fold my blanket. I can’t bear to say good-bye.

  My resolve weakens and I hide my snuffling in my sleeve. I take a deep, shaky breath to calm myself. I am tempted to wake West, to pour out my troubles and let the boys charge to the rescue.

  But I can’t. I owe it to the remuda to keep them from harm’s way. And deep inside, I know West could have a better life, a luckier one, without me.

  I finish packing quickly, taking the minimum I need to survive and leaving the rest for the boys.

  I tear off paper from West’s journal and spend precious minutes trying to figure out what to write. But even if I had a lifetime to compose the right words, nothing I say would be adequate. So I simply scribble: Thank you—Sammy.

  I fold the now-wet paper, and carefully slip it into West’s pocket. Finally, I allow myself a last look, trying to memorize every detail of him, every scar and dimple.

  I wipe my eyes and force myself to my feet. I kiss him good-bye in my head, bidding farewell to the one I have loved in silence.

  • • •

  The sky has lightened several shades by the time I steer Paloma upstream. Our river must have a source, and perhaps that source is Harp Falls. At least, I hope that will be Andy’s reasoning. I don’t have any better route to follow.

  I urge Paloma to a trot, thankful once again for the steady feet of my mule. She expertly steps over pinecones and fallen branches. The rhythm of her movement comforts me.

  I pat her neck. “I’m sorry to make you leave your friends. But we will see Princesa soon. Help me keep a sharp eye out for her, okay? They have to rest sometime.”

  In the somber light of predawn, the pine trees take on the eerie silhouette of hulking phantoms with gnarled limbs and shriveled goblins, waiting to jump out at us. My legs grip Paloma harder and she increases her tempo.

  I pat my gun for assurance. If these are the Haystack Mountains, criminals hide here, according to that trapper. I’ve already run into the remaining members of the Broken Hand Gang, haven’t I? If these mountains are a lawbreaker’s lair, it follows that mercenaries will flock here, too.

  My mind winds back to my last conversation with Andy. Something she said about Ty Yorkshire troubles me. I begin braiding Paloma’s mane. He loved his dice. Six was his lucky number, though it always set him back seven. He had a gambling problem.

  Sometimes you roll snake eyes, Ty Yorkshire had said. Snake eyes means you lose.

  I stop braiding. Though I hate to think of that dark night, I strain to remember what he said before he assaulted me. Not easy to insure a wood building like that, but I can be very convincing.

  “Ty Yorkshire started the fire,” I say aloud. The only one to hear is Paloma, who ignores my sudden outburst. He blamed it on Father so he could get the insurance proceeds.

  My skin turns clammy as a seal’s and my head pounds so hard I can hear it. Any remorse I felt for Ty Yorkshire’s death vanishes like a puff of smoke.

  But as furious as I am, fury won’t bring Father back. The one responsible is already dead. And as the Chinese saying goes, every second spent angry is one less to spend on tranquillity. I can almost see him now, fishing out an eggshell from a bowl of cracked eggs with a patient, steady hand, practicing tranquillity during the small things so he’d be ready when the bigger things came along.

  After an hour or two, my anger has abated a notch, but whether that is from mental discipline or sleepiness, I cannot be certain. The moon has faded and drizzly clouds outlined in white sprout at the eastern horizon. The landscape is easier to see now. The sight of a recent horse dropping bolsters my spirits in a way I never thought horse droppings could. We soldier on with renewed energy.

  I can’t help ogling this corner of God’s museum. Red and yellow flowers peek out of the spaces between the rocks. Softwoods stipple the landscape as far as the eye can see: bristled lodgepole pine, stately hemlocks with tops bent like sleeping caps and the white pines with their straight trunks that run unbranched on their bottom halves.

  By midday, we shade up. Paloma dips her nose into the stream, which has widened and lost its bank. I eat a pull of jerky and a leftover biscuit, nothing fancy, but enough to take t
he edge off my hunger. Water fills the remaining spaces in my stomach.

  As Paloma gets her fill of grass, I rub stream water over my hot face. The sight of my own reflection startles me. My face has thinned, uncovering cheekbones and making my eyes look bigger, almost startled. There’s a tightness to my jaw that must have come from months of scowling. I make an effort to relax my face, and it disappears. Would you recognize me now, Father? I cover my reflection with a withered leaf and watch it float away.

  I don’t tarry long. Andy doesn’t have a gun or arrows. How does she expect to catch game, let alone protect herself? She is resourceful, yes, but she didn’t even take a pot. How will she boil water? I thank God that Paloma surpasses Princesa in both stamina and steadiness. We might even catch up by midday.

  The river has grown so tumultuous that I cannot fathom crossing without a bridge, and the faint odor of rotting eggs stings my nose. I haven’t spotted any more horse droppings and I hope that Andy didn’t cross the river earlier. Soon a new sound catches my ear, lower in cadence and more pounding, like the beat of a kettledrum.

  We crest a hill and a waterfall rises before us, a torrent of white as great as God’s beard. It must rise at least two hundred feet. The yellow-streaked rock flanking the falls rises steeply on the left side, but not so steeply on the right, like the top of a harp.

  My chest collapses at the sight.

  Harp Falls. Just like Andy described.

  38

  THE FACE OF THE FALLS IS TOO STEEP TO CLIMB so we veer right, passing the downpour completely until we come upon a smoother route up the mountain. The whoosh of running water intensifies as we track up a carpet of pine needles.

  It takes the better part of the afternoon to scale the falls. We have to rest several times to catch our breath. During the steeper stretches, I dismount and lead Paloma through a zigzagging trail of trees and rock.

  “Almost there, Paloma,” I pant once we reach a level area. I climb back aboard for the final stretch.

  From behind us, a herd of elk scales the mountain with more haste and power than we just did. They storm past us in a blur of gray fur and antlers, then dissipate like a cloud of smoke. A lone figure appears: a bay, with sleek lines and slender legs.

  “Princesa,” I cry, spurring Paloma to a canter.

  When we reach her, Princesa turns a baleful eye to me, but it doesn’t faze me. I hug her neck. “Where is she?”

  The horse is still saddled, and damp with exertion, which means they must have just arrived recently.

  I don’t see Andy anywhere, so I continue my upward trek, leaving Paloma saddled next to Princesa out of caution.

  “Andy? Where are you?”

  Never have I seen so many pine trees in my life. They obscure the ascent, and I stumble when I crest the top sooner than I expect. My breath sweeps out of me at the view.

  Below, a river stretches a hundred feet across, a rolling strip like a dragon’s tongue. It stagnates toward the middle, but ruffles at the south end before the drop-off. On the other shore, more pine trees poke out of the earth.

  I descend a hill of rock and find solid footing about fifteen feet down.

  My heart nearly jumps out my mouth when I hear voices. I fumble for my gun. Forcing myself to remain calm, I creep in the direction of the waterfall. A bulging wall of rock partially obscures the drop- off. Cautiously, I round the bulge. The thin margin of shoreline isn’t wide enough for a horse, and is slick with green slime. The voices grow louder. I close my eyes, straining for the words, and I hear her.

  My foot slips on the slick surface, and I grab on to the wall to keep from falling into the river. But in my haste, I drop the Dragoon. I watch in horror as it clatters down, but thankfully it doesn’t explode this time. The water reaches for it. Hastily, I bend down to retrieve the damn thing, willing the water to stay back. I stretch my arm way out, and my boots slide toward the river. I urge the gun backward with my finger and finally get it back in my grip.

  One of the voices begins to sob. I hurry around the bend with my gun outstretched.

  It’s Badge! He’s wrestling Andy in a sandy alcove, his face twisted with rage.

  Badge sees me and pushes Andy aside.

  “Don’t you hurt him!” I yell, holding my gun with both hands to keep it steady.

  When Andy sees me, she cries, “Sammy!” at the same time as Badge says, “You again.”

  “Put that thing down,” Andy snaps. There are tears in her eyes, but the trace of a smile lingers on her face.

  “He’s part of the Broken Hand Gang!” I exclaim.

  “Put it down before you shoot someone,” she says.

  I don’t listen, and am reminded of West’s standoff. Am I afraid of being a chicken, too?

  “Sammy, this is my brother.”

  Her brother?

  I stare at him, refusing to believe it. But as I compare the two, side by side, the similarity is hard to deny. The high cheekbones, the deep-set eyes and rounded hairlines.

  The truth lines up like poker chips in a dealer’s tray. The Wanted Bulletin. I thought Andy had gasped because she saw the picture of the Chinese woman, but in actuality, she had recognized her brother as a member of the Broken Hand Gang.

  Only now do I realize the two were not wrestling but embracing. Badge holds a wad of cloth stained red on one side to the wound on his temple. West got him harder than I thought.

  My hands drop back to my sides and my voice fails me.

  Andy puts her arm around my shoulders, dragging me to Badge. He looks even more haggard than when last I saw him, with heavy bags under his eyes and a gash across his cheek.

  “Sammy, this is Isaac,” she says.

  “I thought you were called Badge.”

  “Some call me that.”

  I glance at Andy and don’t bother to hide my irritation. “How could you leave!”

  “I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t have come.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s all sit down.”

  I now notice a canvas tent and a pile of supplies beneath the boughs of the massive fir that shades us. The tent sags in the middle and is ripped in several spots. Five paces away, a kettle hangs over a smoldering fire. At the far end of the alcove, a series of staggered rocks forms a natural staircase back up the mountain.

  We settle onto the dirt floor.

  “You musta known I was coming,” Andy chatters happily to Isaac as she pours coffee from the kettle into three mismatched cups. “You got the coffee brewing. Now where’s the honey?”

  “Haven’t had honey since the time I climbed that old magnolia.” Isaac cracks a grin, and Andy begins to chuckle.

  Isaac explains, “We found this hive, and Annamae gets it in her mind that she has to have honey.” He makes his voice go high and wags a finger, “‘Sure would be nice to have some honey. Don’t you want honey? If we had some of that, we could make honeycakes.’”

  “Oh hush, I only asked once.”

  “So I climbed the tree for her. Got stung so many times I thought I was gonna float away, I was so puffed up.”

  “It was just a few stings.” Andy bats him on the arm. “They didn’t stop you from having you’s share of honeycakes.”

  The two converse easily, one starting up right as the other leaves off. They exchange a few more memories, and while they don’t always explain the inside jokes, I enjoy listening just the same.

  “So where’d they take you?” asks Andy.

  “Georgia. We was all from Georgia.” His smile falters. “But let’s not talk about that right now.”

  I suddenly remember the boy with the bullet in his leg. “Where’s Jeremiah?”

  His smile fades completely. “Gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Was it because of my crude operation? Did I make things worse? My eyes blur as I think about the boy forced to bear it like a man.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, this time to Jeremiah, wherever his spirit lies. I hope he has become a star, with Peety’s sister Esme.

  “They all died . . . my friends . . . even the smallest, Jeremiah,” Issac explains, more to Andy. “He reminded me of Tommy, asking questions all the time. Softhearted, too.” His large hands wring his wadded-up cloth. “I told myself if I could save Jeremiah, God would make sure Tommy arrived safe, too. But I couldn’t save him. He caught a hunter’s bullet, and even after we got it out”—his eyes flick to me—“he was too weak to go on.”

  Andy takes the cloth from him and dabs his head. “It’s okay, Isaac. You tried you’s best, and God knows it.”

  “Well. At least the Lord gave me Tommy anyway, and for that, I praise Him. Don’t make me wait any longer, sister. When’s Tommy coming?”

  Andy casts me a weary glance. She didn’t tell him? She refolds the cloth so she has a clean side and tries to press it to his wound again, but he twists out of reach.

  “Tell me,” he urges.

  She makes an exasperated face and sits back in the dirt. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I didn’t tell you everything. When I said Tommy’s fine, I meant, Tommy’s in God’s hands now. I didn’t want to tell you the bad news so sudden-like, but there it is.”

  All the air goes out of Isaac and he puts his head in his hands. “Oh, sister. Oh, no. God, no.” He begins moaning and then he lets out an animalistic howl so filled with grief that the image of a burning building, ashes falling like black rain, springs to my mind.

  Andy puts her arm around his trembling shoulders but he shakes her off. “It’s all right, Isaac, we’s got each other now. It’s a miracle we’s here—

  He cuts her off. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me how it happened.” When she hesitates, he growls, “Tell me.”

  I jerk at his anger, sloshing hot coffee on my hand. His mouth cinches tight as button and his hands become fists, reminding me that the outlaw Badge still lives in Isaac.