Heaven Is a Long Way Off by Win Blevins

trappers,” said Padre Enrique. He sounded dubious.
    Grumble surveyed them all. “All the actors are dressed for their roles,” he said happily.
    Coy barked at Flat Dog again. Then he dashed at the wagon wheels—it was more wagon than carriage—and pranced back, barking, eager to go.
    Sam and Flat Dog got into their saddles. The rising sun was still behind the Santa Lucia Mountains. “Time to move,” said Hannibal.
    Abby gave Sam a good-bye peck on the cheek. When Sumner presented his face, she pinched his bottom.
    The Delaware dressed as a mission Indian drove the wagon, Sumner beside him, Grumble seated behind and above the two of them, the gear in the box behind. The Franciscan priest had outfitted them generously—wagon, two draft horses, casks for water, dried meat, fruit, even a cask of wine. At Hannibal’s request they also had a small keg of gunpowder, because their powder horns were half empty.
    On the plank seat between Hannibal and Sumner perched the most visible weapon, a scattergun. Grumble had a pistol in his belt, which he might brandish foolishly at anyone who confronted them. The mountain-style rifles belonging to Sam, Hannibal, and Flat Dog were behind the passengers, laid loose under canvas, in case of emergency. No one knew what weapon Sumner might be carrying, or dared ask.
    â€œEveryone clear on our story?” repeated Grumble. It was that the British blue blood, Grumble, was seeking contracts with the various missions for cow hides and tallow. The missions away from the coast were not yet involved in this commerce, very profitable for both sides.
    â€œGo,” he told Hannibal. The wagon lurched forward. “This cursed conveyance may bump us to death,” Grumble said to no one in particular. In his pouch, to show anyone who asked, he carried the letter of safe passage from Padre Enrique to the heads of the nine missions where they would stop. Sam and Flat Dog had protested that the niceties of reception and hospitality at each mission would slow them down. Grumble insisted they’d need all the niceties they could get. Hannibal added that the party needed the safety missions offered.
    As they rolled, Hannibal said, “You’re a mystery.”
    Sumner smiled. “I done worked at it.”
    Hannibal laughed at the lapse back into slave English.
    â€œAnd I assure you I can perform like a trouper.” This was fancy talk again.
    So they traded stories. Sumner said, “I was born near Santo Domingo, on a cane plantation. Since my mother worked in the big house, I grew up there, and played with the white kids. Our master was the second son of a viscount, or some such foolery. I grew up speaking the king’s English. By serving meals, I even learned elegant table manners. I could pass myself off as, perhaps, the third son of a viscount.”
    Hannibal laughed.
    Sumner shifted back to slave speech. “At night, though, down at our hut, we was with the other Niggers, including my father and his brothers and their wives, and they all spoke Spanish, nothing but Spanish. So I grew up talking both tongues.”
    â€œTwo roles,” said Hannibal.
    â€œWhen I was sold to New Orleans, I done caught on to bow-and-shuffle English.”
    After Hannibal told about being born to a professor of classics and a Delaware student, raised speaking two languages and reading three, they agreed that they didn’t know who had the stranger life.
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    S AM WAS NERVOUS about Grumble’s little game. He didn’t like not having The Celt in his hands. It made him feel naked. He’d concealed his other weapons. A butcher knife and his belt-buckle blade were covered by his robe. The hair ornament blade was hidden in one sleeve. He wished he still had the pistol he traded to the Serranos.
    He fussed with the robe between his legs and Paladin’s saddle. He hated the damn thing—it made riding embarrassing. He glanced sideways at Sumner,