Walk on Earth a Stranger
Page 24
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“Yes, but—”
“I’d lay odds your thief fled north into Kentucky. That’s the quickest way to lawless lands, where folks like him would feel right at home. Now, please allow me to conclude my affairs.”
“North into Kentucky, eh?” Topper says.
“You a sheriff?” the clerk asks. “A marshal?”
“Naw. Just trying to get in good with the horse’s fancy owner, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” the gentleman says.
“Do you have a leaflet?” the clerk asks. “I’d be happy to post it at my door.”
My heart races like a thousand galloping hooves.
“Naw. Never got a good look at the fellow.”
If he doesn’t know I’m the one who took Peony, then he struck off on his own. My uncle didn’t send him. But my relief is short-lived; Abel Topper could describe my horse to anyone, easy as pie.
The gentleman loudly clears his throat.
“Fine!” Topper snaps. “I’m leaving.” Boots tromp away as he mutters something about uppity rich folks under his breath.
“Uncouth fellow,” the clerk says.
“Can’t trust a man with only half his teeth,” the gentleman agrees.
They continue to dicker over supplies, but I pay no attention. I have to get out of here. I have to retrieve Peony from the blacksmith and flee before Abel Topper sees her. And maybe I shouldn’t take the road north like I’d planned. Not if that’s the way Topper aims to go.
“So who’s your captain?” the clerk says.
“Rodney Chisholm.”
“I heard he’s crewing with Fiddle Joe and Red Jack,” the clerk says.
“I don’t know any gentlemen graced by those sobriquets. But perhaps they have Christian names with which I would be more familiar?”
“Perhaps they do,” the clerk says. “But those are the only names I know. Great musicians both, fiddle and guitar.”
“Thank the good Lord you said guitar— I thought I might have to suffer a banjo.”
“Whatever you say. Is this everything?”
“Yes. Put it on my father’s tab and have your boys carry it down to the landing.”
“When do you need it?”
“At once. The river’s high, good for passage over the shoals.”
Free Jim warned me against taking a flatboat, but it might be my best option. If this Andrew Joyner fellow and his family are heading west, maybe I can follow. Or better yet, join up. It’d be a whole heap safer; those brothers would never have robbed me if I’d been traveling in a group, and it’s the last thing my uncle would expect.
I need to wrangle an introduction; it’s not proper to just go over and announce myself.
No, it wouldn’t be proper if I was a girl. Maybe I should walk right up and offer my hand. I take a few steps in his direction, but remembering his reaction to Abel Topper’s interruption gives me pause. If he considered Topper uncouth, then he certainly doesn’t have time for me, with my bad haircut, mud-smeared shirt, and ill-fitting trousers. I pretend to examine the hats on a nearby stand while I try to figure out what to do.
“Say hello to Captain Chisholm for me,” the clerk says.
“I certainly will,” Mr. Joyner says.
Captain Chisholm. That’s who I need to talk to. I dash from the store, looking right and left to make sure Topper is not around. Captain Chisholm, Captain Chisholm, I repeat silently.
The blacksmith is only a few blocks away. I walk fast, but not too fast, hat brim low, hands shoved into my pockets. I glance around one last time before heading into the stable, and I nearly trip over my own feet because Abel Topper is just down the street, broken suspender swinging at his side. I hold my breath as he mounts the steps to a tavern door and disappears inside.
Now is my chance. If Peony isn’t shod yet, we’re leaving anyway.
“You’re in luck, lad,” says the blacksmith’s apprentice, coming toward me. “Just finished with your pretty mare.”
My relief is so great I nearly stumble. “So fast!”
He shrugs. “You’re paying for it.”
I fumble for my money and hand him two dollars. “Thank you.”
“Heading west like everyone else?” he says.
I almost deny it, but I get a better idea. “Sure thing. Heading to Kentucky on the Federal Road tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck.”
Peony nickers in greeting, and I drag her from the stables. I ask the first person I bump into: “Which way to the landing?”
“You’re close enough to smell it,” he snaps, and he walks off.
I sniff the air; he’s not wrong. Following the fishy, rotten vegetable scent of slow water, I head toward the riverbank and see it at once. I stare, mouth agape.
A line of flatboats hugs the river’s edge. They seem as rickety as rafts, but they’re eighty to a hundred feet long and covered with low roofs. One is full of cattle; others are stacked with barrels, which men are rolling down the riverbank. In the middle of the river, a small, rocky island serves as anchor for a swing ferry. A thick line of people stretches along the landing as they wait their turns to cross.
“Where can I find Captain Chisholm?” I ask one of the men rolling barrels.
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his glove and points me to a flatboat that sits high in the water on account of not having cargo.
I stare at the boat, hesitating. If Mama is watching, she’ll probably toss in her grave to see me walk over to a bunch of strange men and ask a favor. But I’m Lee McCauley now, I remind myself. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
I leave Peony tied to a dock post, then I hitch my suspenders the way I’ve seen Jefferson do a hundred times and swagger across to the boat like I’ve every right. “Captain!” I stand at the dock’s edge and holler down under the roof. “Hey, Captain.”
A short fellow with a sunburned nose and carroty hair pokes his face out. “Who’s asking?” he says.
“I am.”
“Who’re you?”
“Who’re you?”
He grins. “Red Jack.”
“Are you going to California, Red Jack?”
He steps into the cold sunshine. His feet are bare, and his belly hangs over the waist of his trousers. His suspenders strain to keep them up.
“Lord, no, we’re just heading over to the Mississippi.”
“But you’re taking folks west, right?”
“Are you a friend of Mr. Joyner’s?”
“Never met him. Just heard you were taking people west, and I’m looking for a ride in that direction.”
Red Jack studies me, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to stir loose some thoughts. “We’re taking Mr. Joyner’s family as far as Missouri. They’ll have to walk the rest of the way on their own.”
“How much for passage to Missouri?”
“Rates are up to the captain, who ain’t here right now.” He looks me up and down, taking in my filthy clothes, my second-or thirdhand hat. “But if you ain’t with the Joyners, you ought to know they’ve hired the whole boat for themselves.”
My shoulders slump. “All right,” I say, gazing down the length of the river at all the other flatboats. It’ll mean talking to an awful lot of people, but surely I can find someone willing to take us aboard.
“I’d lay odds your thief fled north into Kentucky. That’s the quickest way to lawless lands, where folks like him would feel right at home. Now, please allow me to conclude my affairs.”
“North into Kentucky, eh?” Topper says.
“You a sheriff?” the clerk asks. “A marshal?”
“Naw. Just trying to get in good with the horse’s fancy owner, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” the gentleman says.
“Do you have a leaflet?” the clerk asks. “I’d be happy to post it at my door.”
My heart races like a thousand galloping hooves.
“Naw. Never got a good look at the fellow.”
If he doesn’t know I’m the one who took Peony, then he struck off on his own. My uncle didn’t send him. But my relief is short-lived; Abel Topper could describe my horse to anyone, easy as pie.
The gentleman loudly clears his throat.
“Fine!” Topper snaps. “I’m leaving.” Boots tromp away as he mutters something about uppity rich folks under his breath.
“Uncouth fellow,” the clerk says.
“Can’t trust a man with only half his teeth,” the gentleman agrees.
They continue to dicker over supplies, but I pay no attention. I have to get out of here. I have to retrieve Peony from the blacksmith and flee before Abel Topper sees her. And maybe I shouldn’t take the road north like I’d planned. Not if that’s the way Topper aims to go.
“So who’s your captain?” the clerk says.
“Rodney Chisholm.”
“I heard he’s crewing with Fiddle Joe and Red Jack,” the clerk says.
“I don’t know any gentlemen graced by those sobriquets. But perhaps they have Christian names with which I would be more familiar?”
“Perhaps they do,” the clerk says. “But those are the only names I know. Great musicians both, fiddle and guitar.”
“Thank the good Lord you said guitar— I thought I might have to suffer a banjo.”
“Whatever you say. Is this everything?”
“Yes. Put it on my father’s tab and have your boys carry it down to the landing.”
“When do you need it?”
“At once. The river’s high, good for passage over the shoals.”
Free Jim warned me against taking a flatboat, but it might be my best option. If this Andrew Joyner fellow and his family are heading west, maybe I can follow. Or better yet, join up. It’d be a whole heap safer; those brothers would never have robbed me if I’d been traveling in a group, and it’s the last thing my uncle would expect.
I need to wrangle an introduction; it’s not proper to just go over and announce myself.
No, it wouldn’t be proper if I was a girl. Maybe I should walk right up and offer my hand. I take a few steps in his direction, but remembering his reaction to Abel Topper’s interruption gives me pause. If he considered Topper uncouth, then he certainly doesn’t have time for me, with my bad haircut, mud-smeared shirt, and ill-fitting trousers. I pretend to examine the hats on a nearby stand while I try to figure out what to do.
“Say hello to Captain Chisholm for me,” the clerk says.
“I certainly will,” Mr. Joyner says.
Captain Chisholm. That’s who I need to talk to. I dash from the store, looking right and left to make sure Topper is not around. Captain Chisholm, Captain Chisholm, I repeat silently.
The blacksmith is only a few blocks away. I walk fast, but not too fast, hat brim low, hands shoved into my pockets. I glance around one last time before heading into the stable, and I nearly trip over my own feet because Abel Topper is just down the street, broken suspender swinging at his side. I hold my breath as he mounts the steps to a tavern door and disappears inside.
Now is my chance. If Peony isn’t shod yet, we’re leaving anyway.
“You’re in luck, lad,” says the blacksmith’s apprentice, coming toward me. “Just finished with your pretty mare.”
My relief is so great I nearly stumble. “So fast!”
He shrugs. “You’re paying for it.”
I fumble for my money and hand him two dollars. “Thank you.”
“Heading west like everyone else?” he says.
I almost deny it, but I get a better idea. “Sure thing. Heading to Kentucky on the Federal Road tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck.”
Peony nickers in greeting, and I drag her from the stables. I ask the first person I bump into: “Which way to the landing?”
“You’re close enough to smell it,” he snaps, and he walks off.
I sniff the air; he’s not wrong. Following the fishy, rotten vegetable scent of slow water, I head toward the riverbank and see it at once. I stare, mouth agape.
A line of flatboats hugs the river’s edge. They seem as rickety as rafts, but they’re eighty to a hundred feet long and covered with low roofs. One is full of cattle; others are stacked with barrels, which men are rolling down the riverbank. In the middle of the river, a small, rocky island serves as anchor for a swing ferry. A thick line of people stretches along the landing as they wait their turns to cross.
“Where can I find Captain Chisholm?” I ask one of the men rolling barrels.
He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his glove and points me to a flatboat that sits high in the water on account of not having cargo.
I stare at the boat, hesitating. If Mama is watching, she’ll probably toss in her grave to see me walk over to a bunch of strange men and ask a favor. But I’m Lee McCauley now, I remind myself. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
I leave Peony tied to a dock post, then I hitch my suspenders the way I’ve seen Jefferson do a hundred times and swagger across to the boat like I’ve every right. “Captain!” I stand at the dock’s edge and holler down under the roof. “Hey, Captain.”
A short fellow with a sunburned nose and carroty hair pokes his face out. “Who’s asking?” he says.
“I am.”
“Who’re you?”
“Who’re you?”
He grins. “Red Jack.”
“Are you going to California, Red Jack?”
He steps into the cold sunshine. His feet are bare, and his belly hangs over the waist of his trousers. His suspenders strain to keep them up.
“Lord, no, we’re just heading over to the Mississippi.”
“But you’re taking folks west, right?”
“Are you a friend of Mr. Joyner’s?”
“Never met him. Just heard you were taking people west, and I’m looking for a ride in that direction.”
Red Jack studies me, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to stir loose some thoughts. “We’re taking Mr. Joyner’s family as far as Missouri. They’ll have to walk the rest of the way on their own.”
“How much for passage to Missouri?”
“Rates are up to the captain, who ain’t here right now.” He looks me up and down, taking in my filthy clothes, my second-or thirdhand hat. “But if you ain’t with the Joyners, you ought to know they’ve hired the whole boat for themselves.”
My shoulders slump. “All right,” I say, gazing down the length of the river at all the other flatboats. It’ll mean talking to an awful lot of people, but surely I can find someone willing to take us aboard.
