Under a Painted Sky Read Online Free PDF Page A

back opening is a clock as tall as the canvas ceiling. I exhale in sweet relief.
    Our ruse seems to work. Annamae and I stretch out on top of feed sacks as the driver calms his team. His stout form shows through the front arch of the canvas that opens to the wagon seat.
    â€œSettle down, boys and girls, settle down,” our driver calls to his oxen. “Our turn’s next.”
    My heart pounds like a tom-tom. Surely the beat will give us away. I slip my clammy hand into Annamae’s warm one and feel her squeeze.
    â€œMr. Calloway, is it? You’re up,” the ferry master bellows. “Bring ’em down easy. Jackson will lead your team. Once you’re on the other side, wait ’til the line’s secure before you lead ’em off. Good luck.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” responds Mr. Calloway, before barking, “Giddap!”
    Oxen bellow and the wagon rolls forward. A sharp farming tool falls painfully against my thigh, but I don’t dare push it off. A lever squeaks, followed by the rush of water.
    As the ferry lifts us up and over each wave toward freedom, the contents of the wagon shift and settle. My stomach turns at the motion. The water chills the air around us and I hug my feed-sack cushion to keep from shivering. I smell alfalfa.
    â€œJackson, did a green wagon pass by recently?” asks Mr. Calloway.
    Green? That’s new. Most people don’t waste paint on a wagon.
    â€œDriver had a red beard? Train of twelve to follow, suh?”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    â€œSaw ’em two nights ago. Hard not to see ’em. You trying to catch ’em, suh?”
    â€œFamily’s with them. We had twin calves born the same night, so I sent my wife and girls ahead.”
    â€œI see. If you travel day and night, you should catch ’em just after the Little Blue.”
    The Little Blue is the first river we’ll hit, two or three days from here. I remember that much from our pioneer customers.
    â€œThat’s fine. Thank you,” says Mr. Calloway. He tips Jackson, I gather, from Jackson’s grateful murmur.
    The wait to get to the other side seems to go on for days, years. I count watermelons in my head—Father taught me this trick to stave off the imps of tedium that drive one mad. One watermelon. Two watermelons. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. Three watermelons . . .
    When I reach seven hundred and one watermelons, the ferry finally bumps against the shore, and after more leverings and jolts, our chariot heaves forward. We slide back a few inches as the oxen lug us up a bumpy incline. After several head-banging minutes, the road levels out, only jolting us now and then when we hit a pothole.
    I begin to pull myself up, when a thought occurs to me. Mr. Calloway intends to travel through the night. We might save our feet some trouble. If he does stop, it’s dark enough that we could slip away, unnoticed. “Let’s stay awhile,” I whisper in Annamae’s ear.
    We cover ourselves with canvas sheets, and I find comfort in the rocking of the wagon.
    Father, can you hear me? I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have argued with you. I should have shown you the respect you deserved, and listened to your plans.
    The burlap sack of alfalfa catches my tears.

5

    ANNAMAE SHAKES MY SHOULDER. MY EYES SNAP open to the gray light of morning. The lines on one side of Annamae’s face tell me she also fell into the sleep trap.
    I poke my head up. The rumbling of the wagon as we roll along the gravelly path is giving me a headache. Mr. Calloway is no longer in his seat. I peer through the gap between the wagon’s bonnet and the sideboards, and stifle a gasp. His red-checkered shirt walks alongside us, to the left of the wagon, not three feet away.
    We better leave before he stops his team for breakfast and finds us.
    â€œLet’s go,” I whisper.
    But the sudden clatter of horse hoofbeats freezes us in place.