Walk on Earth a Stranger by Rae Carson Page A

same gang that killed those Indians out by Dalton.”
    â€œWestfall was an Indian?” the farmer asks.
    â€œNo, but they was after gold both times.”
    I wait for him to add, “The Westfalls had a daughter. She’s missing now.” Instead, the conversation shifts to unsolved murders from a decade ago, and then to a debate about whether it’s really murder to kill an Indian, and then to the price of winter wheat. I keep pace with them, as they’d expect this close to town, but I’m silent the whole while, and my hands grip Peony’s reins so hard I feel them through my gloves.
    It’s early evening when we get to Ellijay, which has several crooked house–lined streets to go along with its white clapboard church and two-story tavern, all tossed around a messy intersection. I count five roads coming together at the center of town, but not a single sign indicating which is which. I work up my nerve and ask the woodcutter to point out the Dalton road.
    â€œThere’s not another town until Spring Place,” he says. “And that’s a day’s ride. Come on up to the tavern with us and stay the night.”
    â€œNo! I mean, I’ve got a place to stay.”
    With a shrug, he points the way, and I hurry off.
    Peony and I put a few more miles beneath our feet. Thecountry is so thick with winter-stripped branches and deadfall that it’s nearly dark before I find a good place to steer her off the road and into cover. After a cold, damp night and a breakfast of deer jerky, I hustle Peony through the town of Spring Place. The road beyond is even busier, and saying howdy to so many people is terrible on my nerves. I remind myself that lots of traffic makes it easier to blend in.
    I’m not far from Dalton when I’m walloped by the presence of gold. My throat constricts as I blink through fuzzy vision. I pull Peony up short, waiting for the sense to turn sweet on me. It takes longer than usual. Maybe it’s because the gold is on the move. Or maybe, in the days since Hiram stole every speck of my family’s fortune, I’ve gotten out of practice.
    Peony dances beneath me, snapping me out of my daze. I hope I didn’t lose time again. I look around to see if I’ve embarrassed myself, but no one seems to care that we’ve stopped dead in the middle of the road. Perhaps it was only a few seconds.
    I urge her forward, even as I cast out for the source. A scraggly man approaches, leading a wagon with fresh-cut lumber for the sawmill. Both knees of his overalls are patched, but I’m sure he’s the one who triggered my twitch.
    He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shiny, golden watch, flips it open, and checks the time. More gold is somewhere close—maybe a handful of eagles. If he’s wealthy enough to afford that watch and carry a stash of coins, he could afford decent overalls. I guess folks aren’t always what they look like on the outside, which is something I think Iought to know by now.
    He grins at me with tobacco-stained teeth. “Almost time!” he says.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    Not a minute later, a whistle shrieks and a column of dark smoke rises above the trees. It moves closer, picking up speed until the column stretches long, like reins trailing a runaway horse.
    â€œIs that the train?” I ask.
    â€œWell, it sure ain’t a steamboat,” he says with a wink. “It’ll be there when you get into town. You should take a gander.”
    â€œI’ll do that, sir.”
    â€œIt’s going to change everything!” he says. “Once that tunnel’s done.”
    â€œThat’s what my daddy always says.” Said. That’s what my daddy
said
.
    Sure enough, an hour later I steer Peony into Dalton and discover that the town’s main feature is the train.
    I stare agape. It’s a metal behemoth, bigger than any machine I’ve seen or