Free Jo's Journey by Nikki Tate

off the rain and piled as much wood as I dared on the fire. As darkness fell I wriggled into the narrow space between Bart and the muddy bank, then pulled my blanket and coat over both of us.
    The fire crackled and popped and, utterly exhausted, I heaved a huge noisy sigh. Bart mumbled something and shifted in his sleep.I put my hand on his shoulder and murmured, “Hush, Bart. All you have to do now is sleep.”
    And sleep is what we did until the noisy scolding of a squirrel woke me and the welcome rays of the sun touched my face.

Chapter 15
    I sat up with a start. The fire was out. In my hurry to clamber out of my rough bed, I caught my boot on the log and crashed to my knees.
    â€œCareful. You’re likely to hurt yourself.”
    â€œBart!” I spun around, beaming. “You’re awake!”
    He struggled to raise himself on one elbow, but the effort evidently caused him considerable pain and he sank back.
    â€œWhere in tarnation are we?” he asked. “Where’s Emerson?”
    â€œYou were right about Emerson,” I said, piling fresh twigs on the ashes from the fire.
    â€œI told you —”
    â€œNever mind. I know full well what you said.”
    We were both quiet for a minute, Bart lying back and catching his breath, me busy with the fire.
    I wondered if he was thinking about something else he had said—about Emily Rose just being a dream, not a real person at all. I didn’t want him to feel bad for the stories he had told. I wanted things between us to be right and honest, the way things should be between friends.
    â€œBart—,” I ventured, my heart clamoring in my chest. “I won’t tell anybody about Emily Rose —”
    He closed his eyes and looked pained.
    â€œâ€”if you don’t tell anybody about me.”
    His eyes opened and fixed upon me. He hardly blinked as I poured out my tale—how Ma died birthing my sister, Grace, who also died. How Pa was the next to leave this earth during our trip to California, and how that left my brothers to care for me. How they’d left me at the orphanage and I’d cut off my hair and run away to work for thePony Express. I told him that my real name was Joselyn—but that it was all right for him to still call me Joe because it sounded the same as Jo.
    I was breathless and flushed by the time I was done. He regarded me seriously and then said, “You don’t do nothing by half measures, do you, Joe? I mean Joselyn. Jo. Your whoppers are a whole lot more interesting than mine.”
    Right then my stomach rumbled.
    â€œAll we have is beans and tea,” I said.
    â€œSounds mighty fine to me.” He gave me a broad wink and a big smile, just like always. Just like nothing had changed.
    After we’d eaten, I ventured a little farther downstream and was rewarded by finding Bart’s pack caught up in a tangle of roots hanging down into the water. Back at our crude campsite, I stoked the fire and spread out our meager possessions.
    Bart dozed on and off, waking only long enough to drink more tea or force down a little food.
    By the middle of the afternoon, I’d done all I could to make us comfortable and Bart had drifted off into a deep sleep. I knew that sleep was one way the body healed itself, and for a long time I just sat and watched the steady rise and fall of Bart’s chest, imagining each breath making him a little stronger.
    Eventually I tired of watching him and explored our tiny cove and the stretch of shore above and below our campsite. I gathered more firewood and tidied camp. I didn’t want to disturb Bart’s rest, so I crouched at the edge of the stream, scooped a little gravel and sand into my gold pan, and began to swish water and gravel around and around in the pan.
    â€œWell, I’ll be —”
    It wasn’t much, but at the very bottom of the pan lay a few flakes of gold, which I collected and added to my poke.
    I panned again