Oct 21, 2013 6 min read

? Chapter SEVEN

THE STORY SO FAR: As Jesse and Moses struggle to bury their father, who died of milk sickness, a Shawnee Indian appears in the dusk.

June 24-25, 1828. On the banks of the Big Wabash River, Indiana.

He picks up the shovel and helps us bury Papa. Maybe the red paint made him seem fierce. I’m ashamed of my fear.

Moses and the Shawnee work together. Moses uses Nettie’s bucket to scoop out the dirt as the Shawnee loosens the soil. I turn my back and mix up some johnnycake. I’m too sad to watch.

After the grave is filled in, Moses and I say a few prayers over Papa, and the Shawnee sings a long, sad song that makes us cry. Moses lays cut willows over the graves to keep the wolves away while I feed the Shawnee some johnnycake. He gives us two dead quail from his leather pouch before he strides away through the waving grass. The bluff feels even more lonesome when he’s gone.

When I wake up the next morning, my heart feels sore, as if it’s bruised. We’re orphans, I think. The words echo in my head.

We mark the graves with a scrap of pine board, and I write Mama and Papa’s names with a charred stick from the fire. Moses wears Papa’s old hat as he divides up Papa’s money. “Some in each boot,” he says, “and the rest in my shirt pocket.” He shoves his feet into Papa’s sturdy boots and hands me his old ones. “Maybe they’ll fit you,” he says. But the boots are too big, so I wrap my feet in flannel, climb into the wagon, and take up the reins. The leather straps feel heavy in my hands. Papa always said I was too small to hold Sadie back. Now I must prove him wrong.

Solomon kneels behind me, watching until the bluff is out of sight. I keep my eyes on the ruts ahead. How can we leave Mama and Papa alone under that oak tree?

Louisa sits next to me, whimpering to her ugly dried-apple doll. She looks up at me, her face streaked with crying. “How come you’re the only one with blue eyes, like Mama?”

I bite my lip. I’d never thought of that before. I lean against Louisa. “You have Grandma’s pretty gray eyes,” I tell her.

“I can’t remember what she looks like.”

I try to picture Grandma. “She’s heavy and short, like Mama.” Solomon wiggles in next to me on the wagon seat, his thumb deep in his mouth, listening. “She has a bubbly laugh and she keeps some noisy geese.” I imagine Grandma filling the doorway of her cabin, her silver hair coiled on top of her head.

“Where does Grandma live?” Solomon asks.

“On the banks of the Little Sandy River,” I say. “She’ll be so happy to see us.” I try to smile.

“Even without Mama?” Louisa’s voice quivers.

“Of course.” But I wonder.

Before I can dream up more worries, Moses stops Pearl suddenly, blocking the trail.

“Whoa!” I pull on Sadie’s reins. We’ve reached the crossroads near a ferry landing, but Moses has turned Pearl the wrong way, headed upstream. His shoulders are shaking. I jump into the muddy track, grab the mare’s bridle, and peer up into his face. His cheeks are streaked with tears. I don’t know what to say.

“Let’s go back, Jess,” Moses says. “We can use Papa’s money to buy better land, or go west with Mr. Flowers, the man I met at English Prairie.” Moses pulls his hat down to cover his red eyes. “It’s a long way to Kentucky. I don’t know if we can make it.”

I stand on tiptoe, keeping my voice low. “You promised Papa you’d take us home. You swore on the Bible!”

“I know.” Moses clenches his fists. “Maybe I’ll break my promise.”

“You can’t!” I stomp my foot. “We’re going home, to Grandma – “

Suddenly Solomon calls out in a shrill voice, “Here comes a boat!”

I whirl around. A small flatboat drifts down the river. Two men on deck pole the boat forward with long oars, while another man steers from the roof of a cabin on the stern. Solomon jumps to the ground and runs to the landing, bouncing up and down. “Boatman! Boatman!” he cries. “Over here!”

“Solomon, stop!” Moses calls.

I pull myself up straight. “I’m taking the little ones home, no matter what you say.” I grab Louisa and join Solomon on the landing, yelling until my throat aches. The boatmen see us at last. The man on the cabin roof leans on his tiller, and the boat’s prow turns across the current.

The tillerman is tall, with a ruddy face under his floppy hat. “Catch the line, boy,” he calls. When Moses holds back, I push past him. The man in the prow tosses me a heavy rope. “Your brother too weak to help?” he asks. Moses slides off Pearl and hurries over with a red face to loop the rope around a post. As the boat nudges up against the landing, a burlap sack on the deck wriggles and a silky brown head pokes out.

“A puppy!” Louisa squeals. She lifts her skirts and jumps onto the deck. Solomon follows her. They untie the sack and free the dog. It’s the color of hazelnuts, with white splashes on its chest. It trips on its ears as it wiggles into Louisa’s arms. She clutches it to her chest and the puppy licks her chin, its tail circling in a blur.

The pilot waves from his perch on the cabin roof. “That’s two on board,” he calls. “The rest of you coming along?”

I turn to Moses. He stands sideways to the river, as if he’s torn between the ferry and the western prairie. “Moses, we need you!” Solomon calls.

The river ripples past. Moses doesn’t move.

• NEXT WEEK: Danger on the Wabash