Jo's Journey by Nikki Tate Read Free Book Online

you suppose God notices when men treat their animals bad?” Bart asked me quietly.
    In the near dark, I shrugged, then stiffened, worried Joshua would hear us, afraid I would not be able to hold back the tears if both of them showed concern. But Joshua was regaling the Irish lads with the story of a mule train that had taken a wrong turn near Sacramento.
    â€œNot you,” Bart added. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Not one of us could have saved Sassafras. I mean Emerson.”
    Mr. Emerson sat at the next fire over, holding forth about this and that and whatnot, as loud and obnoxious as ever.
    â€œI hope the Good Lord has sense to notice those who care for beasts and those who don’t,” Bart said.
    A wave of horror washed over me again, as it had each time I thought about the moment when the rope flew from my hands and Sassafras tumbled to his death.
    â€œDid you hear what them other men said?” Bart asked so softly that I had to lean close to catch his words.
    â€œWhich ones?”
    â€œThem miners we passed going the other way at the river crossing.” A log snapped in the fire, spraying sparks heavenward.
    â€œYeah. I heard.”
    It would have been hard not to hear what that lot had to say. They had finally made it to the diggings only to find they couldn’t afford to stay. The cost of goods was so highand the gold, according to them, so hard to find, that after all that effort just to get there, they had turned back and were advising everyone they met to do the same.
    â€œYour lives and the lives of them animals ain’t worth it,” one of the men had said.
    To my surprise, six of the men in our group listened. Without bothering to take more than what they carried on their backs, they joined the others heading back to Lilloet.
    â€œI was sorely tempted to go with them,” Bart confessed. “How about you?”
    For a long time I stared at the flames. Yes, I longed to leave behind the death and ugliness in this harsh beautiful land. But I wasn’t sure that the way to leave was to turn tail and run. Who was more foolish? Those who had given up? Or those of us who carried on?
    â€œThere’s gold up there in the Cariboo,” I insisted, because I believed that much was true. But what I said next I now only half believed myself. “Somebody’s gonna get it out of the ground—that somebody might as well be me. And you.”
    Bart heaved a sigh and stretched his hands toward the flames. “I admire your optimism, Joe. You know, you’re about the only reason I haven’t turned back.”
    I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands when he said that. A piece of me felt just a little bit better because, as my pa always said, having a friend at your side helps ease the pain of whatever ails you. But another piece of me felt terribly guilty. If I hardly knew myself whether it was wise to carry on, how could I ask Bart to keep going? Or was I flattering myself to think I had any say in what Bart Ridley chose to do?
    â€œIt’s late, boys,” Joshua said, turning from the others and clapping his hands together. “I’m turning in. See you bright and early.”
    Bart followed him toward the tents, and the moment passed when I might have told Bart that he’d be better off back in California with Miss Emily Rose.
    Each long hard day began early. We broke camp, loaded the horses, gulped mugs of black coffee and, if we were lucky, found afew stale biscuits to dunk into the thick black brew. Men foolish enough to have bought new gumboots in Victoria had blistered feet so swollen and sore they hobbled like grandmothers. The rest of us, slightly better off in leather boots, nonetheless trudged along like their old husbands, bent under the weight of the packs we carried.
    Each day also found the men a bit more irritable, until there was precious little friendly talk. The days passed one after the other in a grim