When smallpox strikes someone, you must drive the demon of it into a sow and burn the sow to ashes.

Shag opened his runny, red eyes, yanked the whip from its holder, and shouted, “Girl, what you think you’re doin?”

“Jus makin a spot for the victuals,” I said quiet-like, though my heart beat so hard I were sure he could hear every thump.

“You’re not givin them no food,” he growled. “We leavin here. Get back on the seat.”

He set up, slid the whip into its holder, and fumbled for the reins.

“They needs to eat if you’re wantin to get any reward.”

“They can eat, but not till after I gets mine. You feeds the animals last. Now shut yerself up and git me some food.”

I walked to the back of the wagon, tugged off the heel of the bread, opened the blue bandanna, and pulled out some cheese and a tomater. Right beside the bread I found some thick slices of ham. Emma’s heart were big—bigger than mine. I left the ham for the others.

Zenobia and them were watchin me, watchin that pile of food I fixed for Shag.

I whispered, “We’ll eat later,” and looked up to see if he were lookin. Then I spat onto his tomater and cheese and watched my venom spill onto the bread.

I were hungerin too. My stomach felt like it were eatin itself, bite by bite, till there weren’t nothin left but empty achin.

I laughed and quick covered my mouth. Just leave it to me to laugh at the wrong time.

“Don’t talk!” Shag shouted. “You talk at her again and I’ll whip you and them.” I couldn’t hardly tell him that I weren’t talkin, but laughin at what I done.

I shuddered thinkin of that nasty whip in the wagon.

“Git up here. We puttin some road under us afore you eat,” he said.

I looked back at Zenobia, but her eyes was closed again.

The horses moved along steady, the wagon swayin and creakin. Shag held the reins in one hand and stuffed food into his mouth with the other. He reminded me of our mean old sow, Daisy.

We traveled for a few hours till the sun rested atop the western mountains. I’d be right happy to see it set after such a long, hot ride. I couldn’t wait another mile and begged him to stop so’s I could tend to some necessaries and get food together for us.

He grunted, reached along the side of his seat, and pulled out another flask. “I wanted to catch up with the others afore nightfall, but it looks like they’s too far ahead. We’ll make camp here tonight,” he growled.

Shag headed the bays off the dusty road and over to a small clearin bordered by a stream. He unhitched the horses, picketed and hobbled them, then yelled to me to fix him somethin to eat. The horses set to drinkin and browsin; Shag just set to drinkin.

I were pickin through foodstuff, tryin to decide how to make supper for everyone, when Shag picked up his whip and rifle and walked to the back of the wagon. He untied one end of the rope holdin the line of slaves together and yanked it hard. One by one, Enoch, Armour, Zenobia, and Better slid from the wagon and onto the ground, but Auntie laid there, eyes closed, and still curled up like a fern frond.

“Git over to that tree,” Shag ordered, follerin behind with more rope.

The line of them walked slow, Enoch and Armour clankin in their fetters, nearly fallin. The girl Better was draggin her feet behind Zenobia, who walked sure with her head high.

Whoosh, crack, the whip sounded its warnin.

One by one they sank to the ground and watched as Shag tied their ankles and hands tight together. How could they stand the bindin and the pain?

Shag set under an oak, his back against the broad tree. He gnawed at some bread and drank from his flask—his eyes never left us.

“Y’all stop watchin me,” he shouted.

I walked over to him, lifted the jug settin beside him, and poured water into a tin cup. “I’m right glad we aren’t with everyone else. I heard from that girl back there that some of them German folks from a town up north got the pox.”

Shag’s eyes widened and one of them twitched fierce. He started to say somethin and opened his mouth afore swallowin what he’d just drunk. The whiskey poured over his lips like a millrace. His shirt were soaked through.

“The pox? We got the pox here? This ain’t worth all the trouble I go through. No reward’s worth the pox.” He took another swig from the flask.

“My grandpa called whiskey the water of life,” I said in a treacly voice. “He used it to clean wounds and to cure most everythin.”

Shag gulped another mouthful. This time all the corn whiskey went down his throat. I were glad for that and hopin that it would send him to sleep.

I moved over to the wagon and gently nudged Auntie. “Auntie,” I said, “Auntie, wake up now. You needs to drink and eat. You needs your strength.”

Truth be told, I needed Auntie to get back her strength. I missed her.

I propped up Auntie’s head and let her drink her fill, then I fed her tiny bites of bread and ham.

When I finished feedin Auntie, I picked up the bucket of water and lugged it over to the others, who were whisperin amongst themselfs. When I knelt down to dip a cupful of water for Zenobia, she asked, “What about Brightwell?”

I just looked at her and said, “He’s gone.” She shook her head slow and tears filled her eyes.

The words had just come out of my mouth, and Shag were up and walkin over toward me sidewise, like the old yeller dog that got bit by a sick skunk last summer.

I set the bucket down and moved away from Zenobia afore Shag come closer.

He made it another few steps, stumbled, and grabbed the wagon’s side.

“You, girl, you. I told you no talkin.”

The sun dropped below a notch in the mountains, and Shag looked around, like he were surprised by the dusk.

“I’m goin to sleep,” he said. “We’re leavin early tomorrow. Git over here, girl. I’m tyin you to the wagon.”

“But what about all of us eatin? We starved and thirstin.”

I started to say more, but he raised his fist the way Pa does to let me know what’s comin.

“Where am I spost to sleep?” I asked, knowin that none of us would see a spoonful of food.

“I’m tyin you up on there,” he said, pointin up to the wagon seat. “And don’t you be talkin to them.”

I climbed onto the seat and he bound my feet together, then tied my hands behind my back.

He stumbled to the other side of the wagon and pulled his bedroll, rifle, another flask, and a small cookin pot from under the seat. Shag made his camp over by the side of the crick near a lopsided circle of stones filled with the charred wood of an old fire.

He mounded kindlin and branches inside the stones and fanned at a small flame. We watched as he took a big swig from the flask, then another, and another—corn squeezins spillin down his front with each gulp.

“Keep your eyes to your own business,” he yelled, “or I’ll pick them eyes right out of your ugly black heads!”

Shag kept drinkin, and the little cookin pot never were put into use. After a while he lifted his shirt over his head and draped it onto the branches of a sweet pepperbush all spiked with flowers.

I watched as he undid the cinch around his blankets and rolled them out onto a grassy patch of ground. When he climbed inside the bedroll, he took a big swig from the bottle and laid back, cradlin his rifle in the crook of his arm. Within a few minutes, he were snorin loud, the bottle capped and lyin acrost his hairy chest.

I looked up at the darkenin sky filled with birds headin to their roosts. They swooped down together, hunnerts of them, like they was one bird, and flew into the trees around us. Then they all joined together talkin and tellin of the day’s happenins, then everythin were quiet like they had disappeared.

Zenobia, Armour, Better, and Enoch, all of them tied together under the tree, hummed quiet amongst themselves like evenin bees. Then everythin were quiet. Quiet like they had disappeared.

Behind me in the wagon, Auntie slept, but I didn’t think I could never sleep bein all tied up. But I must’ve, cause I were dreamin about me and Zenobia trapped in the cave when I woke to a screamin that could rouse a rock.

“The pox!” Shag yelled. “Lord a’mighty, I got the pox! Someone needs to burn me a sow to ashes.”