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    Jo's Journey
    Jo's Journey
    Jo's Journey
    Ebook89 pages1 hour

    Jo's Journey

    By Nikki Tate

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    About this ebook

    It's 1861 and orphan Jo has made it from Carson City, Nevada, to San Francisco without anyone figuring out that she's a girl in boy's clothing. When she hears talk of gold strikes in the Cariboo, Jo and her friend Bart sign on for what turns out to be a journey far more arduous and dangerous than anything Jo experienced as a Pony Express rider. Through it all, Jo keeps her true identity a secret. Strong men turn back but Jo forges ahead, unsure of what lies ahead but sure that her father and mother would be proud of her determination.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOrca Book Publishers
    Release dateMar 1, 2006
    ISBN9781554696512
    Jo's Journey
    Author

    Nikki Tate

    Nikki Tate is the author of more than 30 books, most of which are for children and teens. Her Footprints title, Deep Roots: How Trees Sustain Our Planet, received several award nominations and was named by the New York Public Library as one of 2016’s Best 100 Books for Kids. She lives in Canmore, Alberta.

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    • 5/5
      It was a great book! The pages had humor (Although bad words were in some Dialogue) But they were great!

    Book preview

    Jo's Journey - Nikki Tate

    Chapter 1

    Bart? Do you ever miss Utah Territory?

    I tossed a forkful of straw and horse manure into the barrow. Bart grunted as he dropped hay into the manger at the other end of the horse.

    What does that mean? I asked.

    I suppose I miss the money, Bart said. He unhooked the water bucket and dunked it in the rain barrel.

    The money? That’s all?

    Bart and I had become friendly during the time we worked with the Pony Express. Course, he didn’t know I was a girl—and I was glad of that. No doubt that would have changed things some.

    After the telegraph line came through and the Pony Express stopped running, we traveled to San Francisco and found work at Finnigan’s Livery. It wasn’t exciting work, but our bellies were full and we stayed dry at night. But now, after a quiet winter in the city, restlessness stirred in my bones. I couldn’t believe Bart didn’t feel it too.

    So you don’t miss anything else?

    Bart hooked the full bucket in front of the horse and shrugged. What’s to miss about Utah Territory? Snow? Sun hot enough to bake a man’s brains? Robberies?

    The last point was for my benefit. I’d prevented a mail robbery, and memories of that adventure still kept me awake some nights.

    I moved on to the next horse. I know all that, I said, surprised at the sudden pang of sadness I felt. There was no way to go back, not really. I waved my hand at the two long rows of horse backsides stretching away from me inside the stable. Even you have to admit that this is boring. The horses farther along the row nickered, anxious to eat.

    I’m coming, Bart called back.

    Are you planning to grow old in here so they mark your grave with a picture of a pitchfork? I wanted to rile him up.

    With his arms full of hay, he chuckled.

    You’re a funny one, Joe, he said. Always looking for something different—like different is always going to be better. That ain’t always the case.

    Just for that, I’ll leave you behind when I go!

    Go where?

    I opened my mouth, but had no good answer. Somewhere, was the best I could offer. I had no plan, no place to go, and for the rest of the morning, I kept my thoughts to myself.

    A week or so later while I was waiting for Bart outside the Red Bar Saloon, I recalled our conversation. The thought that it was time to move on would not leave me alone. How much? I asked Bart when he emerged from the saloon.

    Four dollars—a little more, he said with a wink. Bart had the magic touch when it came to any kind of gambling—cards or dice or the faro table.

    When Bart had a pocketful of winnings he liked to buy a good meal for both of us. He tucked away the rest of his money for safekeeping in his poke, the leather pouch he always kept close by.

    Bart was always excited after winning in the gambling houses and he moved fast, his boots clumping along the wooden boards of the sidewalk. I was grateful for my long legs and the fact I wore trousers. Even unencumbered by skirts, I reminded myself to swagger a little and throw my shoulders back. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window as we barreled past. Lanky. Skinny as a beanpole. Pockmarked face. No chest to speak of—thank goodness!

    Took a little longer than I thought, he said. You keep busy?

    He turned down a side street and strode toward the docks.

    I had been busy. I read the front page of the paper four times.

    Bart laughed. And? Any interesting news?

    Gold! You know—that yellow stuff that makes men crazy?

    I know what gold is. What about it?

    Gold.

    The word was splashed across the front page of the papers every day and on the lips of near enough everyone in San Francisco. Men from all parts crowded the docks, looking for passage north. Gold. Joe? You ain’t thinking about going north —

    I shrugged. North, in the Cariboo, that’s where everyone said the gold was.

    I might find my brothers —

    Bart made an odd noise—a sharp laugh that sounded like a bark. Your brothers may be dead, for all you know.

    And they may be picking up nuggets of gold as we speak, I shot back.

    Joe, Bart said, grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop. You’re wasting your time looking for those two. And I only say that ‘cause you’re my friend.

    I wanted to defend my brothers, but as always, sorrow and fury twisted my tongue into silence. When my brothers left me in Carson City at the Home for Unfortunate Girls, I know they thought it was for the best. They might have gone back to collect me, for all I knew. They had no way to know where I had gone or that I’d cut off my hair and run away, changed my name from Joselyn to Jo. But I could hardly explain all that without giving away my secret.

    Bart Ridley—my voice wavered and I looked down at my boots. You’ve got no right to tell me what to do.

    Joe—all I’m saying is, it’s best if you get on with your life.

    Like you? I spat the words out, unable to stop myself, furious with Bart for touching a grief I worked so hard to keep buried. "Get on

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