Katie and the Mustang, Book 4 by Kathleen Duey Page B

across.
    The next morning I left the Mustang with Andrew Kyler’s herd, and Grover and I walked down to watch. The roaring of the wide river was enough to caution anyone about getting into a real, flat-bottomed, wide-decked ferryboat—never mind the swaying, makeshift canoe ferries.
    Three and four canoes had been lashed together with planks fixed on top to make a platform. People were removing their wagon wheels so the wagon beds would lay flat on the platforms.
    â€œLook,” Grover said, pointing. I turned. As we stood watching, one of the ferries—a trio of canoes lashed together with a wheeless wagon perched on top—started downriver. The Indian men seemed incredibly skilled at maneuvering it, but when it went over a swirling set of rapids, it broke apart. The wagon tipped and we heard people screaming as they were thrown into the rushing water. No one drowned, thanks to the strength and wit of the Indian men, but the wagon was lost; seeing the accident made all of us even more uneasy.
    On the way back, I told Mrs. Kyler I wanted to go into town to ask about my uncle. She nodded and asked if I wanted company. I told her no, that I was fine, even though it wasn’t all that true. Every time I asked after my uncle, my hopes rose—and it hurt something awful when they fell again.
    I was a long ways down the path toward town when I heard someone running behind me. Grover caught up, breathing hard. “Mrs. Kyler says I am supposed to keep an eye on you,” he said between breaths.
    â€œI don’t really need anyone to come along,” I told him.
    â€œBut do you mind if I do?” he interrupted. “Mrs. Kyler will be upset if I don’t.”
    I sighed and shook my head. “I don’t mind, Grover, I’m just scared.” He nodded and I knew he understood.
    â€œIf I see my father, I am going to hide from him,” he said quietly. “He’ll be drinking by now.”
    I nodded and felt terrible for forgetting that my troubles were no bigger than anyone else’s.
    Grover gathered up his shirttails as we walked, shoving them down into his trouser waist. For an instant, I saw him as a stranger might. His hair was long and scraggly, his shirt had been patched, and a long tear crossed the left knee of his trousers. I looked down at my stained dress and thought about the picture we must make. Then, as we got closer to town, I realized that most of the people on the streets looked just like we did—weary, dirty, and ragged.
    I glanced at Grover. “We’ll just try in the shops.”
    He nodded and followed me, barely saying a word as we went from one end of the main street to the other, then crossed the street and started back up the other side. It was discouraging. Nary a soul had ever heard of Jack Rose. I started walking faster, my head down. I was trying not to cry. Grover just lengthened his step and tried to keep up as I hurried into—then out of—a half-dozen shop doors. No one knew anything about my uncle.
    â€œIt doesn’t mean anything, Katie,” Grover said as we neared the end of the street. “People just come through here—thousands of them. The shop-keepers don’t get to know hardly any of them.”
    I took a deep breath. “I hope you’re right.”
    He took a skip-step to come up beside me. “You know I am. It’ll be someone in Oregon City who knows where he lives. Not here.”
    I nodded. “I just get scared.”
    â€œLet’s try there before you give up,” Grover said as we neared the end of the street where we had started. He was pointing at a dry goods store. I slowed. He was right. No matter how upset I was, it was silly not to keep asking.
    The shopkeeper was rearranging dusty bolts of cloth when we came in. He had never heard of Jack Rose. But he was talkative. He asked me a lot of questions about where we were from, how long it had taken to get across, how much