Jo's Journey Read Online Free PDF Page A

trail.
    â€œI suppose we’d best go,” I ventured. “Bart has the food.”
    Given the taut feeling in the pit of my stomach, I wasn’t going to let him get too far ahead.
    I hadn’t gone ten steps before I heard Mr. Emerson’s boots behind me. He stopped his grumbling, more or less, but he wasn’t the only one feeling the fatigue. If we made eight miles that day, I’d be surprised. At that rate, we wouldn’t have enough food to reach Lilloet! But none of the men ate any less that night. “The pace will pick up tomorrow,” Mr. Emerson proclaimed.
    I could not bear to listen to another word from Mr. Emerson. I slipped away from the circle of men and tents and followed the cheerful burble of a nearby stream. How blissful it was to be free of my heavy load, to splash my face and neck with icy water. It was only after I’d pulled off my boots and dangled my feet in the water that I finally felt clearheaded enough to return to camp.
    That night, with bellies full and weary from our long climb, we slept deeply, lulled into the world of dreams by the deep murmurs of the running water tumbling over rocks and pebbles on its long journey to the sea.

Chapter 7
    The serious bickering started the next day at breakfast. “Blasted creatures!” Mr. Emerson’s face, neck, arms and ankles were covered with itchy red welts.
    George smirked and scraped his spoon handle over a particularly large mosquito bite on his forearm. “The Good Lord made a mistake the day he created them nasties.”
    â€œBetween them bugs and your snoring—,” Mr. Emerson fumed.
    â€œMy snoring? I ain’t never heard so much noise as from your tent!”
    â€œHow could I be snoring when the danged mosquitoes kept me awake all night?”
    None of us was spared. Splashing the bites with cold water helped for only as long as I stayed wet, not a practical way to get relief unless I was going to swim to the goldfields.
    That night we camped near the inn at Hot Springs. After a hearty supper, most of the others in the group availed themselves of the hot-water baths offered at the inn.
    â€œAin’t you coming along?” Bart asked.
    How sorely I would have liked to scrub away the sweat and dirt of the trail. How lovely it would be to pull on fresh petticoats, a clean dress and a crisp apron. I fingered the blunt ends of my short hair. I could scarcely remember what it was like to stroke a soft brush through my long hair, wind the strands into braids, or twist a thick hank into a bun at the back of my neck.
    I shook my head. “I’m too tired,” I lied. Bart tipped his head to one side and his eyebrows pushed together.
    â€œEvery one of us is tired,” he said.
    The face of the girl from the boat floated into my mind, and I closed my eyes to forceher aside. She was there, I knew, because the feeling that ate at me as I glared at Bart was the same as what I had felt on the boat—pure envy. I hated that girl for having a mother who loved her. And right then I hated Bart for being able to saunter off to the hot springs.
    â€œDon’t tell me what to do,” I spat.
    Bart said nothing, but ducked back under the tent flap, leaving me alone with a bitter aftertaste on my tongue.
    I flung my hat after him, but he was gone. In a foul unhappy mood, I threw myself into my bed and fumed, imagining how lovely the warm waters of the hot spring would have felt to my aching muscles.
    Small steamers chugged up and down Little Lilloet, Pemberton and Anderson Lakes. Even though the going was hard between these stretches on the water, travel by boat was a chance to catch our breath and rest our feet. The last of these steamers carried us to the east end of Seaton Lake, and after a steady march toward the town of Lilloet we foundourselves at the edge of a roaring river and not a bridge in sight. We’d been making good time, and nobody complained about dropping our loads and