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Sixteen-year-old Jenny faces many challenges on an overland journey to California in 1853 with the acting company that she inherited from her father.
considered.” Edmund gave her an evil grin and walked toward the stage. Wondering what he was up to, Fortune found herself wishing again that they had never let him join the group. Suddenly she realized her entrance was coming up. She lifted her skirts to head for the stage. Halfway there she stopped, surprised by an unfamiliar line. After a moment she realized that Edmund was delivering a fake cue. Aaron picked up on it, and sent the dialogue spinning off into nowhere. Jamie looked from one to
they had found a place to rest, a lean, leather-skinned man with a long mustache and a stubble of white beard came striding over to their wagon. “Take it you’re the Plunkett group,” he said. It was an easy assumption, given the fact that their name was boldly painted on their wagon cover. Fortune was a little embarrassed by the way it stood out among the sea of white wagon tops. “We are indeed Plunkett’s Players,” said Mr. Patchett cheerfully. The lean newcomer nodded seriously. “I’m Abner
now?” cried Mrs. Watson, wringing her hands. “We fix it,” said Jamie simply. “I suppose you know how,” snorted Aaron. Jamie looked at him darkly. “As a matter of fact, I do. But I’ll need help.” The others settled down to wait as Jamie and Aaron went to work. After a moment Jamie called Walter over and asked him to hold something. The giant gladly obliged, happy to be helping. Watching the way Jamie took charge, Fortune realized that he was a born leader. She almost wished he had been with
Fortune at last. “And I do get tired of all the traveling.” She stopped, looked around, and laughed. It was absurd to complain about traveling to a fellow member of the wagon train. They were all travelers now, and would be for months to come. Chapter Ten Jamie stood in front of the group holding a brown, crusty item about the size of a dinner plate. “See this? I need you to get some more of them for me.” “What is it?” asked Fortune. “A buffalo chip.” She looked at him in astonishment. “What
chairs, stools, and logs to sit on. A restless buzzing filled the air. It was interrupted when Walter pounded on the base of the wagon with a huge stick. (Normally he would have used a drum; unfortunately, it had been lost with the rest of their materials.) He was dressed as the ghost of Hamlet’s father; and in the gloom created by the evening shade, his flour-whitened face looked truly eerie. “Welcome, friends!” he intoned. “Welcome, lovers of the arts! Welcome to The Tragical History of