Free Fortune's Journey by Bruce Coville Page B

loved this.”
    No sooner had the words passed his lips than it was clear he regretted them.
    Fortune said nothing, simply turned and looked back toward the east.
    A few hours after they had found a place to rest, a lean, leather-skinned man with a long mustache and a stubble of white beard came striding over to their wagon.
    â€œTake it you’re the Plunkett group,” he said. It was an easy assumption, given the fact that their name was boldly painted on their wagon cover. Fortune was a little embarrassed by the way it stood out among the sea of white wagon tops.
    â€œWe are indeed Plunkett’s Players,” said Mr. Patchett cheerfully.
    The lean newcomer nodded seriously. “I’m Abner Simpson, your wagon master.” He gazed around at the group, then shook his head in amazement. “I’ll tell you honestly—I have seen unlikelier crews than this make it across in one piece. But not many.” With a mournful note in his voice he asked, “You sure you want to do this?”
    â€œOh, Minerva!” moaned Mrs. Watson from the back of the wagon.
    â€œNow, look here, my good man,” said Mr. Patchett, his usual pleasant nature evaporating. “You are being paid to guide this wagon train across the continent. We are part of the train, and as such we expect your help and encouragement.”
    â€œI’ll give you as much help as I give anyone else. But don’t count on encouragement. My daddy taught me it was nothing but cruelty to encourage fools.”
    â€œJust a minute!” said Fortune. “I don’t—”
    â€œQuiet, woman,” snapped Simpson. Turning to Aaron, he said, “Keep your wife out of my way. I don’t like mouthy females.”
    â€œYes, sir!” said Aaron, trying to hide a smirk.
    Fortune turned bright red. She would have spoken up, save for a look from Mr. Patchett that virtually begged her to hold her tongue.
    The wagon master turned his horse and rode away from them. “Try to stay out of trouble till we go!” he called over his shoulder. Then he jerked his horse to a stop. “Better yet,” he said, looking back toward them, “turn back while you still can!”
    â€œWell, I like that!” said Mrs. Watson angrily. “Who does that pompous rooster think he is, anyway?”
    â€œYou have to ignore him,” said Jamie, struggling not to laugh. “Believe me, Simpson has seen worse than us cross the continent and survive. He’s not nearly as bad as he sounds, or as tough as he likes to make out. But he does like to weed out the weak-willed before he starts. He figures anyone who would turn back because of what he says wouldn’t have what it takes to make it across anyway.” He paused, then added, “And he hopes those who don’t turn back will maybe take the trip a little more seriously.”
    Jamie said nothing else, but Fortune had the clear impression he was wondering himself whether it had been such a good idea to link up with a group of citified actors to cross nearly two thousand miles of mostly unsettled territory.

Chapter Eight
    That night Mr. Patchett managed to find three chickens someplace in town. To everyone’s surprise Jamie took over from there, plucking and dressing the birds, then doing something mysterious with some flour and spices he found in their supplies. Fortune watched him intently, wondering if her joking comments about his cooking that first day in Busted Heights were unexpectedly accurate.
    They were. The chicken was tender and delectable.
    This was an amazement to Fortune, who found cooking an unfathomable mystery.
    Happily, once dinner was over it was her turn to shine. She took out her guitar and began to play and sing. After a few minutes Walter climbed into the wagon to fetch his fiddle. (Or “violin,” as he preferred to call it.) Soon the two of them were playing a lively duet that attracted their fellow wagoneers like