two hundred miles away. Any pigeoner worth his salt will tell you the same.
Of course, when it all worked out, and Grandfather Bolte made all that money, he was hailed as a business genius. No one called him a gambler. Not one.
Lean-tos are the most paltry of shelters. I do not recommend them. Still, I have to admit that the first night of my journey—despite Billy, despite the memories of pigeons and Agatha—I slept.
I awoke, however, to a spider diving, arms wide, for my chin. The spider stopped short and hung—its knot of eyes staring. I blinked and it pivoted, pulling itself back up into the twigs of the lean-to. If that wasn’t unpleasant enough, I turned over and rolled face-first into the spider’s previous knitting. As I frantically wiped at my cheek, something popped several times in succession under my elbow, followed by a disagreeable wetness. I jerked upright into a seated position, and put my head into more spiderweb. When I wasfinally able to check my sleeve, I saw two caterpillars (or what
was
two caterpillars) soaking into the plaid.
There’s a reason I appreciate civilization.
Worse, it stunk. I had smelled the air the night before, but it wasn’t until the morning that the smell of rotting pigeon threatened asphyxiation.
Better get used to it
, I thought. Today the road I’d follow—Miller Road—would pass straight through what was left of the pigeon nesting. If these were the foresmellings, I expected nothing less than fully ripe putrescence by, say, ten o’clock.
Then I heard the sizzle of bacon in a pan.
I’d
brought bacon.
Billy!
I twisted around and saw Billy’s neatly folded bedroll. I reached for the nearest saddlebag, and found none of my food. Then I remembered my food was in
another
saddlebag. Billy had helped himself!
And why not? He apparently did whatever he pleased.
Billy was a situation in need of resolution.
I ran through my morning ablutions: wiped the sleep out of my eyes, rebraided my hair, and pressed my clothing flat with my hands. I found the cinch sack with my five Bechtler dollars. It would never do to suspend my gold dollars that way. So I sat down, pulled off the split skirt, and stitched those gold coins into the waistband. Finished, I patted it.
Fine
.
Now, Billy McCabe
. I dug through the saddlebag again, and pulled out
The Prairie Traveler
. I opened it to the table of contents, expecting something like “Getting Rid of Unwelcome Guests.” What did I find? Not a word! I had to make do withskimming any topic remotely associated with unwelcome situations: storms, stampedes, rattlesnake bites, grizzly bears, and the ways of the “western Indians.” (Captain Marcy’s description of those western tribes did nothing less than scare me half to death.) In general, this “handbook” contained not one hint about solving relational difficulties. Reading it, you’d think that once you’d chosen your company of men, everything would go on all buttercups and roses until the day
—alas
!—you parted. Captain Marcy was most unhelpful.
I’d have to put my foot down and tell Billy—in no uncertain terms—to pack up and go home.
Would that work? I doubted it. But if it didn’t, I’d leave him in the night. I was not traveling with Billy McCabe.
A thought jolted me: Ma and Grandfather Bolte would find my note
soon
. They’d send out the troops, especially after losing Agatha.
Move!
I thought.
I crawled out of the lean-to and stood up.
I was not expecting what I saw: the world was
feathered
.
Feathers were everywhere. Tiny barely there feathers floated in the air, while larger feathers carpeted the ground. The barely there feathers caught on bark, limbs, and leaves; others clumped together and rolled in dirty balls. Several were tangled in my braids. I examined one and saw that the feather was pale blue, the same color as the morning light. Under my feet, flight feathers—brown, gray, and black—covered the ground.
It came to me where we were: we had
Of course, when it all worked out, and Grandfather Bolte made all that money, he was hailed as a business genius. No one called him a gambler. Not one.
Lean-tos are the most paltry of shelters. I do not recommend them. Still, I have to admit that the first night of my journey—despite Billy, despite the memories of pigeons and Agatha—I slept.
I awoke, however, to a spider diving, arms wide, for my chin. The spider stopped short and hung—its knot of eyes staring. I blinked and it pivoted, pulling itself back up into the twigs of the lean-to. If that wasn’t unpleasant enough, I turned over and rolled face-first into the spider’s previous knitting. As I frantically wiped at my cheek, something popped several times in succession under my elbow, followed by a disagreeable wetness. I jerked upright into a seated position, and put my head into more spiderweb. When I wasfinally able to check my sleeve, I saw two caterpillars (or what
was
two caterpillars) soaking into the plaid.
There’s a reason I appreciate civilization.
Worse, it stunk. I had smelled the air the night before, but it wasn’t until the morning that the smell of rotting pigeon threatened asphyxiation.
Better get used to it
, I thought. Today the road I’d follow—Miller Road—would pass straight through what was left of the pigeon nesting. If these were the foresmellings, I expected nothing less than fully ripe putrescence by, say, ten o’clock.
Then I heard the sizzle of bacon in a pan.
I’d
brought bacon.
Billy!
I twisted around and saw Billy’s neatly folded bedroll. I reached for the nearest saddlebag, and found none of my food. Then I remembered my food was in
another
saddlebag. Billy had helped himself!
And why not? He apparently did whatever he pleased.
Billy was a situation in need of resolution.
I ran through my morning ablutions: wiped the sleep out of my eyes, rebraided my hair, and pressed my clothing flat with my hands. I found the cinch sack with my five Bechtler dollars. It would never do to suspend my gold dollars that way. So I sat down, pulled off the split skirt, and stitched those gold coins into the waistband. Finished, I patted it.
Fine
.
Now, Billy McCabe
. I dug through the saddlebag again, and pulled out
The Prairie Traveler
. I opened it to the table of contents, expecting something like “Getting Rid of Unwelcome Guests.” What did I find? Not a word! I had to make do withskimming any topic remotely associated with unwelcome situations: storms, stampedes, rattlesnake bites, grizzly bears, and the ways of the “western Indians.” (Captain Marcy’s description of those western tribes did nothing less than scare me half to death.) In general, this “handbook” contained not one hint about solving relational difficulties. Reading it, you’d think that once you’d chosen your company of men, everything would go on all buttercups and roses until the day
—alas
!—you parted. Captain Marcy was most unhelpful.
I’d have to put my foot down and tell Billy—in no uncertain terms—to pack up and go home.
Would that work? I doubted it. But if it didn’t, I’d leave him in the night. I was not traveling with Billy McCabe.
A thought jolted me: Ma and Grandfather Bolte would find my note
soon
. They’d send out the troops, especially after losing Agatha.
Move!
I thought.
I crawled out of the lean-to and stood up.
I was not expecting what I saw: the world was
feathered
.
Feathers were everywhere. Tiny barely there feathers floated in the air, while larger feathers carpeted the ground. The barely there feathers caught on bark, limbs, and leaves; others clumped together and rolled in dirty balls. Several were tangled in my braids. I examined one and saw that the feather was pale blue, the same color as the morning light. Under my feet, flight feathers—brown, gray, and black—covered the ground.
It came to me where we were: we had
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