The Book

That night the boy lay among his snoring companions, staring into the soaring, speckled brightness of the Milky Way. He recalled hearing once that wishes made upon the proper star would come to pass, but he had no idea how anyone seeing such a sky could select a single star. And wishes?
He understood the concept no better than he identified with the charitable sentiment that had fed and clothed him. What he did comprehend was Cutter’s mind; if armed and well-mounted the outlaw would have preferred to fall upon the travelers from ambush, murdering them as they ran screaming across the prairie. But under the present circumstances it served Henry’s purposes to slide in among the emigrants coyly, smiling, bowing with courtesy, until such a time as their own trust would betray them.

That was the order of things.

A coyote yipped in the distance and was immediately answered in shrill chorus by its packmates on the opposite side of the encampment.
The boy rose upon his elbows and looked at the wagons, starlight-frosted shapes in the distance. Inside one of those shapes she slept.

In the morning Cutter told them his name would be Henry Ellsworth for the duration of their journey with the train. He asked each of them to repeat the name so he could be sure they understood. Over the course of the next two of days they all fetched and toted and smiled and said Good Morning and Nice day, isn’t it and exchanged other such pleasantries as they felt were necessary. On the third day Eli Jumper returned with another antelope and Cutter butchered it and distributed the meat among several families like a missionary among his flock. The flock responded, and Henry was invited to take supper with the families, and was solicited to oversee the watering of their stock, which gave the outlaw an opportunity to cast a critical eye over the animals.

In the meantime Wilson and the boy took turns hauling water for the coffee pots, cooking pots and wash tubs. Cole’s leg was still sore, so between rides on the backs of different wagons he stayed in small camps Cutter set apart from the wagons.

The boy saw Sarah often as he worked; twice he saw her look at him as he moved among the wagons. When she wasn’t helping her mother she sat in the box of their wagon and read, and one time as he walked by he thought she even nodded in his direction.

He was scouting fuel at some distance from the train one morning when he climbed a low hill on the edge of the broad flood plain of the Platte. In a shallow bowl behind the hill lay a weathered chest of drawers that some previous traveler had abandoned. The piece of furniture was tipped on its side, two drawers missing, part of the back chopped out for kindling. The boy prepared to remove one of the remaining drawers when he noticed a small wooden crate. The letters “A.G., Saint Luis” were painted on the top, which he pried loose. Inside were several small books. They had suffered water damage, but one still had a red leather cover with gold-edged pages and gold debossed lettering on the spine. He opened it and turned the pages, several of which came loose and blew away as he examined the engraved illustrations - scenes of country life in a land he did not recognize, populated by people whose dress he had never seen.

The next morning as he carried buckets of water past the Miles wagon he saw Sarah shaking out a thick quilt. He set the buckets down and approached the corner of the wagon, stopping to look out across the prairie as though something had caught his attention. She folded the quilt and wiped her hands on her apron.
Good morning, she said.
He made no response, but continued to fix his gaze in the distance.
After a few moments she spoke again.
Is something happening there?
His face flushed. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the red book. Without turning his face to her he held out the book in her direction.
Found this, he said.
She stepped up to him and took the book. A clean, sweet smell came with her. He dropped his gaze to the ground.
She giggled and handed the book back to him.
It’s German, I think. I don’t read German.

He could barely breathe. His face felt hot as he picked up the buckets and scuttled away rapidly, water sloshing on his trousers.

He stayed away from the wagons for the next day or two, walking by himself during the day and loitering with Cole in camp, contemplating the theft of a horse and perhaps a firearm, leaving the train to strike off on his own. He might have done it too, if not for Emil Schulman.