Chapter Twenty-Five
Jesse came out of the saloon with a doctor at his side and three women behind them, each carrying a bundle.
Clay stood beside the hitching rail, staring down the street without seeing much of it. The morning was bright and dry. Wagons rattled through Genoa. A mule brayed somewhere. None of it seemed to belong to the trail camp he had left before dawn.
Dr. Vale looked him over once. “What’d they eat?”
“Venison. Came in from our scouts two days ago. It smelled wrong to me.”
“Did you eat it?”
“No.”
“Good.” The doctor turned toward the women. “Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Ortiz, Miss Larkin. This is Clay McCall.”
The oldest of the three, Mrs. Scott, had strong arms and a plain brown dress. She nodded at Clay as if she had known him all her life.
“We brought sheets,” she said. “Soap, bandages, vinegar, dried mint, barley, and every clean cup Mrs. Ortiz had in her kitchen.”
Mrs. Ortiz held up a sack. “And two chickens. They’re not much, but broth will help those that can keep it down.”
Clay looked at Jesse.
Jesse shrugged one shoulder. “I asked around.”
“You did more than ask.”
“I told them that children were sick.”
Clay nodded once. He could not trust his voice for a moment.
Jesse handed him the reins to a bay gelding. “Vale rides this one. You take mine till we get there.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll ride double with the supplies wagon. I’ve done worse.”
Clay looked past him. A light freight wagon stood in the street, loaded with water barrels, canvas, sacks, and the women’s bundles. A young man from the livery sat on its bench, holding the lines. Two other men waited with spare horses.
Jesse saw Clay counting them.
“Those men’ll help set camp and haul water. They’ve got farms outside town. I promised them payment.”
“I haven’t got money enough for this.”
“You’ll work it off if you must.”
Clay’s jaw tightened.
Jesse stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t waste time being proud, little brother.”
Clay looked at him then. Jesse had more lines around his eyes than he ought to at twenty-seven. His uniform coat was gone, replaced by a work shirt and dark vest, but he still carried himself like a man accustomed to others watching him.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” Clay said.
“I wasn’t aiming to.”
They left Genoa before the sun climbed high.
The road back seemed longer with the wagon behind them and the doctor urging them onward. Dust rose under the wheels. Clay rode near the front, Jesse nearby. They did not speak much. There was too much ahead of them.
At noon they crossed a shallow stream. Dr. Vale stopped only long enough to fill his canteen.
By late afternoon Clay saw the first sign of smoke through the trees.
Then he saw the wagons.
They had been drawn into a loose half-circle beneath the cottonwoods, away from the road. Canvas hung low between them for shade. The animals stood farther off, tied in a separate line. Even from a distance, Clay could hear crying.
His horse broke into a faster walk without his asking.
Sarah came from behind his wagon at a run.
Her hair had come loose from its braid. Her skirt was stained at the hem and there was dried sweat along her collar. She stopped when she saw the doctor, one hand pressed flat against her chest.
“You found one.”
Clay swung down from the saddle. “And I found Jesse.”
She looked past him.
Jesse tipped his head to her. “Ma’am.”
Sarah gave a quick nod, then faced the doctor. “We’ve got fourteen who can’t stand. Harlan’s on the brink. At least six more are sick but awake. Samuel’s been in and out of sleep since morning. Charlotte won’t leave the worst of them.”
“Any blood in the vomit?”
“Some.”
“Fever?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Vale set down his case. “Show me.”
Sarah turned at once, but Clay caught her wrist lightly before she could go.
Her eyes came to his.
“You eaten?” he asked.
She gave him a look that said the question was foolish.
“Sarah.”
“I’ll eat when I can.”
Clay let go of her wrist. “I brought food.”
“Then give it to Tucker first.”
She was already walking away.
Jesse watched her go. “That the woman you rode off to fetch a doctor for?”
Clay picked up one of the water barrels from the wagon. “You came all this way to ask questions?”
“No. I came all this way because you asked.”
Dr. Vale worked without pause. He moved from wagon to wagon, asking short questions, checking pulses, pressing hands against bellies, looking at tongues and eyes. Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Ortiz followed him. Miss Larkin boiled water over a fresh fire and tore old linen into strips.
Clay carried water until his shoulders burned. Then he helped Jesse and the farmhands pitch a second canvas shelter beside the trees. They laid blankets beneath it and moved the less sick people out of the wagons, where the air was close and foul.
The work gave him something to do. He kept at it.
When he passed his wagon, Tucker sat on the step with a tin cup in both hands. He had grown thinner over the past two days. Violet sat beside him, holding little Brady close against her skirt.
“Drink,” Clay told him.
Tucker lifted the cup. “I did.”
“Again.”
“It tastes like weeds.”
“It is weeds.”
Tucker drank anyway, making a face afterward.
Clay crouched in front of him. “That’s better than most men manage.”
By sundown there were clean blankets beneath the trees. Pots simmered over the fires. The sick groaned. Those who were well moved quietly, as if loud voices might make the illness spread.
Clay found Sarah behind one of the wagons, scrubbing her hands in a basin of boiled water gone warm.
She had soap under her nails. Her knuckles were red.
“You need to sit,” he said.
“I need another pair of hands.”
“You’ve got mine.”
“You’ve been hauling half the creek uphill since we got here.”
“I can manage.”
She dried her hands on her apron. “Then take that pot to Mrs. Scott. And don’t spill it.”
Clay picked up the pot.
Sarah watched him. “You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You gave me an order. I’m enjoying the novelty.”
“Go on.”
He did.
Later, when the first broth was ready, Sarah and Mrs. Ortiz spooned it into the mouths of those who could swallow. Jesse sat beside Samuel, holding a cup while Samuel drank a little at a time.
Samuel opened his eyes when Clay came near.
“You look bad,” Clay said.
Samuel’s mouth moved faintly. “You always did have a weak eye for good-looking men.”
Clay let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
“Save your strength.”
“You bring the doctor?”
“Jesse brought him.”
Samuel looked toward Jesse. “Knew I liked the sound of that fellow.”
Jesse glanced over. “Don’t die before I decide whether I like you back.”
Samuel closed his eyes again, though the corner of his mouth lifted.
The light went out slowly. The trees turned black above the camp. Fires threw weak color over the wagon wheels and canvas. Dr. Vale did not stop.
Near midnight, Clay heard Sarah call his name.
He was asleep sitting against a wheel, his rifle across his knees. He woke hard, his hand closing around the stock.
Sarah stood a few feet away.
“It’s Harlan,” she said.
Clay was on his feet before she finished.
Under the shelter, Harlan breathed in short, uneven pulls. Dr. Vale sat beside him, one hand on the man’s wrist.
Tucker stood behind her.
Clay saw him and frowned. “Tucker, you should be in bed.”
“I want to be here.”
Harlan took one more breath. Then another. The third did not come.
For a while nobody moved.
Dr. Vale lowered his hand from his wrist. He took off his hat.
***
They buried the dead beyond the cottonwoods where the ground was dry enough to dig. Jesse and two of the farmhands worked with shovels. Clay took his turn. The dirt was pale and full of stones.
Tucker stood between Violet and Sarah. He held Sarah’s hand with one fist and Violet’s skirt with the other.
Charlotte came from Noah’s old wagon, walking slowly with her shawl around her shoulders. She had not slept much. She stood near Clay while the graves were filled.
When it was done, Dr. Vale spoke a prayer. The wind moved through the grass.
That evening, two more people died. An old man named Pritchard who had traveled with Everett’s side before the split, and a young woman Clay barely knew, who had been sick from the first night.
Clay helped carry both bodies away from camp.
There was no room in him for surprise after that. Only work.
But others began to turn a corner.
Samuel sat up by noon and cursed the broth, which Dr. Vale said was a good sign. Violet’s color returned.
Clay came back from the stream carrying two full buckets. Sarah was sitting on the wagon step, peeling potatoes into a pan; the women’s supplies had saved their skin. Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows. There was dirt on one cheek.
He set the buckets down.
“You ought to let somebody else do that,” she said.
“Somebody else is busy peeling potatoes.”
“I’m better at it.”
“You’re making half of them round, and half of them pointed.”
“That is how potatoes are.”
Clay sat beside her. Their shoulders touched through their shirts.
For a time they worked without speaking. Sarah peeled. Clay cut the potatoes into pieces with his pocketknife.
At last she said, “The doctor thinks most of them will live.”
“Most.”
Her knife stopped.
Clay looked at the thin curl of peel hanging from it.
“I should’ve stopped them from eating it,” he said.
Sarah turned toward him. “You warned them.”
“I should’ve done more.”
“You cannot force grown men to listen.”
“I ought to have tried.”
She set the potato down in the pan. Her hand found his, not by accident this time. Her fingers were cool and rough from water and soap.
“You brought help,” she said. “You came back.”
Clay looked at their hands.
“I found Jesse.” He gave a small breath through his nose. “Seems God had him waiting in a saloon.”
“God works in strange places.”
“That He does.”
Sarah’s fingers tightened once around his. Then she let go and picked up another potato.
From the shelter, Tucker called, “Clay?”
The boy stood beside Violet, holding a bowl against his chest.
“What is it?”
“Can I sleep next to you tonight?”
Clay rose.
“You can sleep next to me as long as you need.”
Tucker nodded. He looked relieved, though he tried to hide it.