Free Under a Painted Sky by Stacey Lee Page A

at her. That must be it. A yellow man bested him at cards or took his best hat in a gamble, and so he hates us all. Fine, I think, steamed now.
    Franny yelps as West, scooting back again, heels her in the kidneys.
    Peety notices. “Don’t hurt
mi tesoro
Francesca. West, you are a
bruto.
Apologize.”
    â€œSorry, Franny,” West mutters.
    West is forced to slide closer to me. I pin my elbows to my sides and scoot forward again. Andy’s still holding her posture erect, but at least one of her hands has let go of the apple.
    A dust mote flies into my eye, and I dig it out with a knuckle. “Might we move up alongside the others? I can barely see.”
    â€œFranny and I always ride the drag.” He offers no further explanation.
    â€œThe drag?”
    â€œThe back.”
    â€œWhy? It’s filthy back here.”
    He snorts. “It’s got the best view.”
    â€œIf you like looking at horse derrières.”
    â€œDairy what?”
    â€œDerrière, from the Latin root,
de retro,
meaning ‘of the back.’”
    â€œIn Texas, we just call them butt-tocks.”
    My ears begin to cook once again.
    â€œWhen we’re moving a herd, riding drag lets me scope for problems, like coyotes,” he says, real low and hissy-like. “You’d be surprised how many freeloaders are out there, trying to catch a meal.”
    That last part strikes the final match under my collar. Last I checked, they were the ones sharing our snake. I slide forward as much as I can and do my best to shun him.
    An hour later, we pass two caravans. Each wagon train is a lively mix of people and livestock—mostly mules and oxen with the occasional pig or flock of chickens. The pioneers generally wear the same getup: bonnets and full-sleeved dresses for the women and plain shirts and trousers with suspenders for the men.
    Mr. Trask is too far ahead to be part of either of these caravans, but I still find myself combing the crowds for him from the shadows of my hat. Brown thinning hair and mustache could describe half of the men I see. At least his red suspenders might stand out. I also keep an eye out for Andy’s brother Isaac, even though finding him means I will lose Andy, a dismal thought.
    â€œHow many miles do you go a day?” I ask the grump at my back.
    â€œAt this turtle pace, we’ll be lucky if we break fifteen,” he says in a surly voice. “Usually it’s twenty or thirty.”
    I ignore his unpleasantness. “How do you know?”
    â€œExperience.”
    I clamp my lips together. How very helpful.
    After a moment, he adds, “People leave mileage markers, but you have to look for them.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œOn tree trunks, rocks, whatever they can scratch on.”
    â€œDoes your
experience
tell you how many miles to California?”
    â€œNope. But Cay’s map does.”
    I grind my teeth.
    â€œWhich road you taking to California?” he asks.
    Doesn’t everyone use the same one? I could kick myself for not listening more when the Argonauts shared their travel plans with Father at the Whistle.
    â€œThe usual one,” I answer coolly. “What about you?”
    â€œAin’t decided yet. Which one’s the usual one?”
    I glare at Princesa’s backside. Despite his mild tone, he is obviously mocking me. I attempt to lie. “The one . . . ” Oh, what’s the use? “Fine. How many roads are there?”
    â€œHalf a dozen at least.”
    What?
Once I clear my lungs, he adds, “California’s big as Texas. Not everyone’s going to the same place.”
    My shoulders slump. “How long before the trail divides?”
    â€œThe Parting of the Ways? About nine hundred fifty miles from here.”
    I sit up and all my blood seems to collect in my feet. The trail suddenly got shorter by a thousand miles. I should’ve known the path would fork at some point, but did