Under a Painted Sky (6 page)

Ride on,
I implore them with my mind. But the clopping slows, and the horses squeal as their riders rein them in right before our camp. Dust blows into our faces and threatens to put out our fire.

The men loop around us, their horses stepping in perfect synchronicity with their heads held high. The movement makes me dizzy so I focus on my lap. My stomach drops as I remember that Indians circle buffalo to confuse them before the slaughter.

AFTER THREE CIRCLES, THEY STOP. ONE OF THE
riders, a man less than twenty years old, swings his leg over the saddle and slides off his pinto in a single swift movement. He adjusts the waistband of his trousers and cocks his head at me, smiling with half his mouth.

Despite my terror, I cannot look away. If eyes left footprints, this man's face would be worn as a welcome mat. He's both attractive and inviting with grass-green eyes and a light tan that makes his skin appear golden. Beneath his wide-brimmed hat, sandy-blond locks curl boyishly around his nape. He's younger than I initially thought, perhaps seventeen or eighteen.

The three of them study us, and Annamae returns their gaze, chin lifted and bottom lip jutting defiantly. I do my best to mimic her.

“We havin' a stare-out or something?” Annamae says at last.

The green-eyed man stops squinting and his half smile doubles, showing white teeth and a collection of well-placed dimples. “Something sure smells good. You kids expecting company? Old Zach Taylor maybe?”

He turns toward his friends for appreciation and gets a snicker. “Looks like you have more than your pea pods can hold. We can lend a hand. What say you?”

If a posse were chasing two dangerous fugitives, would they ask for supper before the apprehending? Annamae relaxes her grip on her knife.

The Mexican hops off his gray giant of a horse and murmurs something to her in Spanish.

The last rider sizes me up from atop his horse, a sorrel with a flaxen mane and white socks. I put him at the same age as Green-Eyes. Something about him and his horse ring familiar. I drop my gaze from the man's dark eyes to the series of dime-sized scars on his arm that trail up to his rolled sleeve.

Annamae hitches one shoulder a fraction. These men, boys really, except for the Mexican who looks a few years older than his companions, both outnumber and outweigh us. If we refuse, they may take our supper anyway, maybe even our gear, light as it is. In the second it takes me to process this, I hear myself say, “On one condition.”

My voice sounds too high so I tune it to my lowest pitch and add bluster. “If we let you share our supper, and a good one it is, will you let us double ride your bay to the Little Blue?”

Green-Eyes drapes an arm over his saddle. “Must be one helluva supper. But you'll have to ask the vaquero,” he replies, nodding to the Mexican.

The Mexican does not speak as he tugs off his sleek riding gloves. The gray horse and the bay push their noses at him. He rubs each of their faces in turn, not acknowledging me.

The one with the scars on his arm watches me being ignored. “That means no,” he says, his voice clear and smooth like freshly steeped oolong tea. His voice. It's the man whose horse nearly collided with me when I tripped yesterday.

“He doesn't let just anyone ride his
caballo,
” he continues. “Gotta prove yourself.”

I go still as a pinecone as his sorrel drifts around me. Does he recognize me? He only saw me from the back after I fell. Then again, I could have erred. I don't budge a muscle as he inspects me.

“Oh, come on, get a wiggle on, compadre,” Green-Eyes says to the Mexican. “I'm about to die of hunger.”

The Mexican takes out a brush and starts to groom the saddleless bay. The Mexican has not looked at me once, though the bay casts me a gimlet eye. With her long legs and proud bearing, she moves as gracefully as a gazelle, clearly outmatching me.

Still conscious of the scarred man appraising me, I lift my chin and ask, “
¿Cómo puedo probar?
” How do I prove my worth?

Green-Eyes chokes out a laugh. Annamae's pupils slide from one side to the other, like she's not sure she heard right. Finally paying attention, the Mexican swaggers toward me like a Spanish bullfighter addressing a cow that has wandered into the arena: posture erect, nostrils flared, eyes bemused.

“
Hablas Español,
” he murmurs. “
Si Princesa te quiere, entonces tenemos un trato.
” I translate in my head: If Princess likes you, we have a deal.

I sigh. So I must let this royal beast bite me before I can trade a ride to the river for our supper, which must be cold by now, not to mention dusty. I don't have much of a choice, seeing that I stepped into this pie to begin with. Plus, I'll happily take a horse bite over a hemp collar.

I shade my brow to sneak another glance at Annamae. She curls her pinkie at me and mouths the word
rattlesnake.

Princesa pokes her nose into the grass. I have not moved more than three paces toward her when she lets out a scream so shrill that I fall hard into the dirt. Dear God, it must be the Snake in me. Horses dislike people born in the Year of the Snake. I scramble backward, and Green-Eyes slaps his knee and hoots, lighting my face on fire.

Annamae covers her mouth with her hand, then quickly drops it.

The Mexican rests an elbow on the gray horse's withers, the silver rosettes trimming his black trousers and jacket winking at me in unison. The scarred man peers down at me in the dirt.

I catch my breath and steel myself for another attempt.
Laugh at me, will you?
Then I have an idea. Earlier, I tucked my violin case in an indentation of the stone wall, and now I fetch it. Opening the case, I remove the tin I keep handy for the children's lessons. Palming the contents, I march back up to the snotty-nosed bay.

The mare stands an arm's length away. Annamae rises to her feet.

“Pretty horsey,” I croon.

“
Princesa sólo entiende Español,
” says the Mexican in a low voice.

I sniff, doubting horses understand human language at all, Spanish or English. To be safe, though, I give a rough Spanish version of, “If you let me pet you, I will give you this sweet,” and hold out my hand.

In my palm, five peppermint candies melt into one pink blob. Princesa whips her head up and squeals again, blowing hot grassy breath all over me. I shrink back and shut my eyes. Her mouth crashes down onto my open hand.

Princesa smacks her lips noisily. I snatch back my hand, which thankfully is still attached to my arm, and whimper in relief.

Princesa noses around for more sweets. I scratch her forehead and see her ears flick.

The men whoop, and the Mexican adds a cry of “Ay ay ay!” from somewhere in the back of his throat.

Green-Eyes drops next to our fire. “Well, I guess you boys got yourself a mount. I'm Cay, short for Cayenne Pepper. That's my cousin West.” He nods at the scarred man. Then he waves a gloved hand toward the Mexican. “That's our wrangler, Pedro Hernando Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria Gonzalez.”

“He prefers Peety,” says West.

The Mexican salutes us with two fingers.

“I'm Sam, and that's Andy.”

Annamae nods solemnly. I must only think of her as Andy from now on, so I don't err.

“Pleased to meet you, kids. Let's chew.”

The men grab skewers and are about to partake when Andy exclaims, “Ain't you gonna say grace?”

West cocks an eyebrow at Cay, who clears his throat. “Well a'course, we were.” Cay closes his eyes. “Dear God, bless this snake to our bodies and please let it not be the one from your garden.”

Peety suppresses a laugh, and West says, “Amen.”

Andy glares at the brim of her hat but doesn't comment further.

The snake is chewy, dry, and full of bones, but I eat my whole portion. Andy and I copy the boys by blowing the snake bones into the fire. I drink from our canteen, but Andy pulls it away before I get a chance to slake my thirst.

“We got lots of water,
chicos.
” Peety hands me his canteen. “Drink up.”

As I get my fill, it occurs to me these boys might make decent traveling companions. Not everyone would share his water with a Chinese person, or a black person, for that matter. Maybe we can get them to take us farther than the Little Blue.

Cay casts a doubtful eye toward Andy. “You a gold rusher? I ain't seen a black one before.” A healthy dusting of gold whiskers bristles on his face as he chews, and there's a solid curve to his cheek.

“Well, today's your lucky day,” says Andy, crossing her arms in front of her. “Haven't you heard of the Compromise? Lots of us goin' west.”

She's referring to the Missouri Compromise, which forbids slavery in the north, save the exceptional state of Missouri.

“That so?” Cay's eyes hop to me. “What about you?”

“I'm an Argonaut, too. You?” I make my voice deep and hope I sound as confident as Andy.

“No,” answers West in a voice laced with contempt. “We're cowboys.”

I decide this West must not have recognized me after all. After his initial scrutiny, he barely casts me another glance, which gives me the chance to study him.

Though his perfect eyebrows and straight nose could have inspired Michelangelo, his flaws interest me more: the frowning mouth, the slouch of his lean and muscled frame. His triangular earlobes run straight into his face, indicating a troubled life, unlike his cousin Cay, whose earlobes are fleshy and unattached, meaning things come easy to him. His head tilts down often, his dark hair casting shadows across his fair skin, shadows that draw me in like a secret. When he catches me studying the constellation of scars on his arm, he rolls his sleeve back down.

Cay lifts his chin. “Just moved one thousand head to St. Louis. Pioneers can't buy 'em quick enough.”

“So why you on the trail?” asks Andy.

Before answering, Cay glances at West, who frowns at him. Then Cay says, “We got a job in California.”

“You two look a little young to be out this late,” West cuts in. A lock of hair the color of black walnut falls into his eyes, which he takes care of with a flick of his head.

Andy crosses her arms. “We're old 'nuff. Sam's seventeen, I'm eighteen.”

She overshoots a tad.

Cay and Peety react like someone poked them in the ribs.

“Guess they grow us bigger in Texas,” Cay says, not bothering to erase his grin.

Peety looks back and forth from Andy to me. “Not much fur on your cheeks,
chicos.
”

I start to touch my cheek but snatch it away when Andy gives me a hard look.

West sticks a blade of grass between his teeth. “Travel light, too.”

“How come yer English is so good?” Cay cuts in. “Never heard a Chinaman speak regular-like. Matter a fact, never seen a Chinaman outside a circus.”

“Same reason as you. I was born here.”

“Born here? How's that possible?” He scratches his chin.

“My father was an orphan. French missionaries found him when he was thirteen and brought him to the States.”

“And your Español?” asks Peety.

“Father owned a translation business back in New York.”

“What's that?” asks Cay.

West leans back on an elbow and blows a fly that wanders by. “Don't be a dunderhead. It's like, the Spaniard tells the Frenchie, ‘I'll trade you a barrel of olives for that bottle of per-foom, you snail-eating bastard,' and Sammy's daddy tells the Frenchie what the Spaniard said. Right?”

I'm distracted by the way West drawls out his long
e
's to long
a
's, changing my name to “Sammay.” Cay does it, too.

I blink. “Right,” I say gruffly.

“So what other tongues you speak?” asks Cay.

“Latin, French, Cantonese, and enough Portuguese to start a conversation.”

“But not finish it?”

“Not with words.” I pat my gun.

This gets a laugh. Cay squints his green eyes at me. “Say something in Cantonese.”

“
Nei goh ha-pa yau di se.
”

He repeats it. “Well, poke me, I speak Chinese. What does it mean?”

“‘You have snake on your chin.'”

Another laugh from all except West, who is chewing on the grass again.

Cay takes it in good measure. “All right, you goneys.”