Chapter Twelve
The first drop struck Clay on the back of the hand while he was tightening the cinch beneath Nell’s belly.
He looked up.
The sky had gone the color of old iron. It pressed low over the pine ridges ahead. The road, white and dry a short while before, lay dull beneath the shadow. Wind moved through the grass in long runs, bending it flat, then letting it rise again.
“Storm,” Samuel said.
Clay gave the strap one more pull and nodded. “A hard one.”
Around them, people had begun to notice. Charlotte stood in the back of Noah’s wagon with one hand at her bonnet, looking west. Violet gathered Brady from the ground where he had been lining stones along a wheel rut. Tucker came running from their wagon with a heel of bread in his fist.
“Is it coming here?” he asked.
“It surely ain’t going to Arkansas,” Clay said.
Tucker looked at the sky again. “How long have we got?”
Clay watched a fork of lightning show pale and thin beyond the trees. There was no thunder at first. Then it rolled over the hills, slow enough for them to feel in their chests.
“Not long. Get under the canvas. Tell Violet I said to tie Brady down if she has to.”
Tucker did not smile at that. He ran.
Clay raised his voice. Harlan was nowhere in sight; he had to act. “I vote we circle the wagons close. Keep them off the low ground. Samuel, maybe take the east side. Noah, you could bring yours nearer the pines, but not beneath them. We need the shelter, not a tree in our laps.”
Noah lifted a hand in answer. His face had grown gray during the last week, though he still held his reins straight. Charlotte climbed down to help him turn the team.
The camp broke into motion.
Wheels groaned over ruts. Mules laid their ears back and fought the wind before the rain had even begun.
Men shouted to one another. Women pulled bedding inside and gathered loose pots, pails, sacks of flour.
A hat went tumbling across the open ground, then a shirt, then a child’s little rag doll that Brady had dropped near the firepit.
Violet caught the doll by one leg and shoved it into her apron pocket.
Everett stood on the step of his supply wagon, barking orders at the men who traveled close to him. He had a dark oilcloth coat over one arm and a cigar clamped between his teeth, though the wind had killed its ember.
“Get those crates in,” he shouted. “Not that one, you fool. The coffee. Leave the empty barrels.”
One of his men stared at him. “The empty barrels’ll blow off.”
“Then let them blow.”
Everett’s gaze passed over Clay and stayed there a moment. His mouth bent around the cigar. Then he turned away.
Clay did not have time for him.
He and Samuel dragged the loose wood from the morning’s fire beneath an overturned wash tub.
Clay checked the hitch ropes on Nell, then pulled the wagon canvas taut where the wind had loosened it.
Sarah stood on the opposite side. She had one foot braced on the wheel hub and was working a knot with both hands.
“That rope’s wet through,” Clay said.
“It was wet before you noticed.”
“I noticed it yesterday.”
“And said nothing.”
She glanced down at him. Even now, with the wind pulling color from her cheeks, her eyes had that sharp look.
“You’re a vexing man, Clay McCall.”
“You’re welcome.”
She gave the rope a hard tug. It slipped through her fingers, and the canvas snapped above her like a sail. Clay caught the line before it could whip her face. Their hands closed together around it.
For a second neither moved.
Her fingers were cold. He could feel the small rough places at the base of them, earned from reins and wood and work she had probably never been meant to do.
Sarah pulled her hand back first.
“Hold it,” she said.
“I was holding it.”
“Then hold it better.”
Clay set his shoulder to the wagon and drew the line down while she made the knot. This time it stayed.
The first true burst of rain came down all at once. It struck the canvas, the ground, and the back of Clay’s neck. Within seconds, the dust had become dark mud around their boots.
“Inside,” he told Sarah.
“I have to see to my things.”
“Your things are inside.”
“My horse.”
“I’ll see to her.”
Sarah looked as if she meant to argue. Another crack of thunder broke close enough that Nell jerked against her line and tossed her head. Sarah flinched despite herself.
Clay softened his voice. “Go on.”
She went inside the wagon without thanking him. He did not expect her to.
He ran through the rain to the makeshift pen where the horses and ox had been tied. The rescued ox stood with its broad head lowered, rain running along the pale ridge of its spine. Clay checked its rope, then moved to Nell. He stroked her neck until she quit dancing sideways.
“Easy, girl. Ain’t no use trampling yourself.”
The wind came harder. It drove rain beneath his collar and plastered his shirt to his skin. Across the camp, the wagons were nearly drawn into a rough circle. People hurried between them with blankets over their heads.
Clay saw Rufus near the far edge of the line.
The man had refused a wagon of his own when he joined them.
He carried his few belongings in a weathered leather bag and slept where space could be found, often under Clay’s canvas near the rear wall.
Now he stood by a small lean-to he had tried to rig between two wagons.
One end of the oilcloth was tied fast. The other slapped and snapped in the wind.
Rufus had both hands out before him, searching.
His fingers found a rope where it lay against the mud. He gathered it, followed it a short way, then lost it again. He turned his head toward the sound of the canvas.
Clay stopped.
Rain ran off the brim of Rufus’s hat. His face was set in a patient kind of strain. He reached down once more, feeling through the wet grass. His hand passed within an inch of the stake he needed.
Clay crossed the space without speaking. He picked up the loose end of the rope and put it in Rufus’s hand.
Rufus’s fingers closed around it. He went still.
“The stake’s by your left boot,” Clay said. “Wind’s thrown the line around.”
For a moment, only the rain answered.
Then Rufus said, “I’d be obliged if you’d point it out.”
Clay crouched beside him. “It’s right here. I’ll hold the canvas. You take the rope around twice, then pull it through.”
Rufus nodded once.
They worked without another word. Clay kept the oilcloth from tearing free while Rufus tied the knot. The man’s hands moved sure once Clay had given him the place of things. His fingers knew rope well. The knot came tight and clean.
Clay drove the stake deeper with the heel of his palm.
“There,” he said. “It’ll hold.”
Rufus’s face turned toward him. His eyes were open. Gray, Clay saw now. Not clouded. Not damaged in any plain way. They simply did not settle on his face.
“You’ve got sharp ears,” Clay said quietly.
A faint smile touched Rufus’s mouth. “They’ve had to make up for other failings.”
Clay looked out across the camp. Nobody was near enough to hear. Samuel had his back turned, hauling a mule by the bridle. Everett’s men were busy wrestling a tarpaulin over their crates.
“You want folks to know?” Clay asked.
“No.”
“That why you come in on foot? Kept your eyes down?”
“That and other reasons.”
Clay waited. Rufus did not offer them.
“Well,” Clay said, “your rope’s tied.”
Rufus’s hand came out, finding Clay’s sleeve just above the wrist.
“Thank you, son.”
Clay did not know why the word tightened something in him. He gave a short nod before recalling Rufus could not see it.
“Sure.”
He turned away.
The camp had settled into the storm as best it could.
There was no dry place left outdoors. Water coursed along the wagon ruts and pooled beneath the wheels.
The canvas roofs bowed and shivered. A fire started by Samuel and two others smoked furiously under a sheet of oilcloth, giving more smoke than heat.
Clay made his rounds.
He found Tucker lying in a green patch of grass, clutching something. He held up the heel of bread. “I saved this.”
“For later?”
“For you.”
Clay looked at the small, rain-damp piece. “You eat it.”
Tucker considered this for a second, then scarfed it down quickly.
Clay ducked back into the rain.
Noah’s wagon stood close to the pines as Clay had directed, though not so close that branches hung over it. The old man sat beneath the front cover, both hands cupped around a tin mug. Charlotte was tucking blankets around his legs.
“You ought to be inside,” Clay told him.
“I am inside.”
“You’re sitting in the rain.”
“A little rain never buried anybody.”
Charlotte gave her husband a look. “It can make a fool out of one.”
Noah coughed into his fist. When he lowered it, Clay saw the tremor there.
“I’ll move the fire pan closer,” Clay said.
“No need,” Charlotte said quickly. “We’re well enough.”
Clay looked at Noah, then at the damp blanket across his knees.
“I wasn’t asking.”
Charlotte’s mouth pressed into a line, but not an angry one. “You sound like my Noah.”
“That’s unfortunate for both of us.”
Noah gave a worn little laugh that became another cough. Clay took the fire pan from beneath their axle, carried it nearer the wagon, and used two flat stones to keep the heat from catching the wood. It wasn’t much, but it took the worst of the cold air off.
Before he left, Charlotte caught his sleeve.
“Thank you, Clay.”
He looked away toward the wet trees. “Keep him warm.”
“I intend to.”
Violet’s wagon stood on the south side of the circle. Clay could hear Brady before he reached it.
“I’m not scared,” the boy said loudly.
“You are shouting through your teeth,” Violet answered.
“I ain’t.”
“You are.”
Clay lifted the flap. Brady sat wrapped in a quilt with his doll beside him. The little boy tried to look hard, but his eyes followed every flash of lightning beyond the opening.
Clay crouched in the doorway.
“You know what thunder is?” he asked.
Brady shook his head.
“Clouds arguing.”
Brady frowned. “About what?”
“Who gets to rain first.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Clouds aren’t known for their good sense.”