Under a Painted Sky Read Online Free Page B

“prairie schooners,” as they are called. We hurry by men hunched over their cigarettes or sleeping on their wagon benches as they wait for their turn on the ferry.
    We also pass men on horseback, most between the ages of fifteen and forty. Like the Greek heroes who quested after the golden fleece, these “Argonauts” seek gold, following the Oregon Trail until it diverges south to California. They aim not to homestead, but to strike it rich before the gold runs out. Plenty of them stopped by the Whistle, on the hunt for last-minute necessities like rolling paper for their tobacco. Argonauts are not women.
    Moving silently as fog, we reach the wagon closest to the water and duck behind a pile of sandbags, out of view. My breath comes in gulps, and I collapse into an ungainly heap on the ground. I know the distance between La Belle Hotel and the riverfront to be less than half a mile, but it feels as if I have run clear back to New York.
    Annamae hauls me up with one hand. “Look.” She points over the sandbags. To our right, the first wagon jostles about, its team skittish and alert. On our left, the wagon second in line seems to have shut down for the night, its driver slumped back in his seat, and his oxen still.
    The shoreline lies ahead of the first wagon by ten yards. There, several men warm their hands around a bonfire, including the ferry master, a man in a naval cap. The flames burn bright enough to light the adjacent ferry building, which is little more than a shack with a counter and a clock.
    The ferry’s last run is at ten thirty. I hiss in my breath when I note the time: a whisker past ten.
    â€œWe need to be on the next ferry,” I whisper, just as a bell clangs to signal the ferry’s return journey. River current drives the ferry, which is really just a wooden platform, held on course by a cable running from one shore to the other. I’ve only seen it carry one wagon at a time.
    â€œWe better pray no one’s inside,” says Annamae, nodding to the first wagon. “I’ll go see.”
    The bonfire crackles and spews out a few embers.
    â€œWait, hand me the powder horn,” I say. “If we’re going to stow away, we’ll need a distraction.”
    Annamae rummages through her saddlebag, while I pull a handkerchief from my violin case. She leaves me the horn, then sneaks off. With her dark coat and black hat, the night swallows her in moments. I sprinkle gunpowder into my handkerchief, then knot it into a bundle.
    Annamae hurries back to me. “Something blocking the back, so I couldn’t see much. But I didn’t hear no sounds.”
    I grimace. “It’s either that one or wait until morning.”
    She shakes her head.
    â€œMeet you at the back of the wagon in a few seconds,” I say. Then I inhale some courage and walk toward the bonfire. All present peer out at the oncoming ferry, whose oil lanterns illuminate its inky path. Every inch of me wants to flee. I force my feet to a stroll, like I have not a care in the world.
    When I get to the bonfire, a few of the ten or so men turn their heads but none of their gazes linger on me. I fake interest in the oncoming ferry, hoping the dark obscures my features. When no one’s looking, I drop the bundle at the fire’s edge.
    Then I head back toward Annamae, taking long strides. After a few seconds, the packet explodes.
    I sprint. Men grab their hats and hit the ground. Animals scream, rearing up and trying to break out of their yokes. Whips and curses fly as their owners scramble to bring their teams back under control.
    I reach our wagon, still heaving as its oxen try to flee. Annamae jams our gear through the back opening, then hauls herself in after it, squeezing by a large wooden object. I suck in my stomach and wedge in after her. Please, God, let us be the only ones aboard.
    I spy farm equipment and feed, but nothing with a pulse. The wooden object that blocks the