“Yeah,” Nat replied with enthusiasm. “I’ve only eaten in one other restaurant in my whole life, Yester. How about you?”
“Plenty of times. When Big Joe . . . well, when he goes to town and I go with him. Molly’s Place. It’s pretty good chuck. But Ma’s is better.” Yester thought a moment. “So is Ketta’s—mostly.”
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case at Pete’s Eats. But at least it was cheap with plenty of it.
As Yester and Nat made their way back to the livery and their horses through the purple shadows, they caught sight of the quay where the White Queen had been tied during the afternoon. An empty slip marked where she had been.
Yester stopped in his tracks, struck by an unwelcome thought. “One of us should’ve stayed there and watched that boat,” he said.
Nat sent him a darkling look.
“In case that Celestial bought tickets at the last minute. He’s trying to get away after kidnapping Ketta, burning the ranch, and attacking my ma. That’s what I’d do.”
A worried expression creased Nat’s face. “You ain’t him. Hard telling what he’d do.”
“Yeah.” Yester took a long shuddering breath. “I know. And how would we even find out?”
Neither boy slept well that night, curled up in mounds of loose hay like a couple of abandoned puppies. Dawn was a long, restless time coming.
KETTA
Ketta had never been so tired in her life. Not even on the nights she fled to her little cave, hiding from Big Joe and his fists. Being kidnapped, then staying awake for three days and nights running, had brought her near to exhaustion.
Finished with her meal, which had tasted as good as it smelled, although it was like nothing she’d ever eaten before, she slumped on the stool, head bobbling. Kuo noticed finally, although he’d been deep in a conversation with the man sitting next to him. Ketta had no idea what they were saying, as they spoke in that odd sing-song way of the Chinese. She was half-asleep when his hands on her waist lifted her from the tall seat and stood her on the floor.
“Come, girl,” he said, nodding to the man and giving Ketta a push.
But not outside into the night, she found, stumbling along behind him as he kept hold of her hand. Instead, they passed through the tiny kitchen into the alley behind the eatery. A rickety lean-to, so badly built she thought even she could’ve constructed a better one, jutted from the side of the building.
The woman from the café was waiting for them, a dim lantern in her hand. “Here, girl,” she said, gesturing to a pallet of what looked like a pile of rags spread thinly over some splintered planks. “You sleep here.”
The area, to Ketta’s eye, was quite dirty. It stunk, for sure, with strong odors of stale cooking, sweat, grease, and unwashed humans.
She backed away, horrified, as in the darkest corner, a body moved. And, as the lump moaned, backed even farther, straight into Kuo’s knees. Unmoving, they kept her from fleeing altogether.
“No,” she said. “I’m not staying here. This place is dirty.”
The woman glared first at her, then at Kuo. “What she say?”
“I said it is dirty. And it stinks.” Ketta didn’t compromise, making her feelings plain. “And who is that?” She pointed at the barely seen human form, now sitting up and watching.
Kuo gripped her shoulders, giving her a shake. “Mind your mouth, girl. You’re staying here.”
“No,” she said again, but he wasn’t listening to her. He directed more of that Chinese chatter at the woman, causing her to nod. Bending down, she rooted among the detritus on the floor and pulled forth a cloth rag about two feet long.
“There,” she said on a note of satisfaction and, grabbing Ketta’s hands, swiftly tied the rag around her wrists. Tight, but maybe not too tight. She ignored the struggles as Ketta wriggled and twisted for all she was worth, even crying out more than once when the woman pinched between her tendons to reach a tender nerve.
Ketta wasn’t helped as Kuo quelled her endeavors with an arm like an iron band around her middle. She was soon trussed up like one of her mama’s chickens, whereupon the woman cast her down onto the mess of rags covering the floor.
Finished, the woman glared at Kuo, her black eyes glittering in the lantern light. “This one cost you,” she said.
“Just don’t let her get away.” Kuo’s expression was equally as hard. He turned to go but had one more word for Ketta. “Behave and you’ll be all right.” He walked off into the evening as though he hadn’t a care in the world, leaving Ketta behind.
The old woman fluttered her hands at Ketta, making smacking sounds. “You be quiet now, little girl. I beat you, you make too much noise.”
Ketta kicked out at her, a glancing blow that—to her utter satisfaction—almost knocked the woman off her feet. The satisfaction didn’t last long since she received a kick in return, only harder than the one she’d dealt. Satisfied, the woman clacked at her, clacked at the form stirring in the shadows, and had the last word. “You a bad girl. Better not be a bad girl more.” A telling glance at the shed’s other occupant indicated her meaning. She retreated, disappearing back into the restaurant and taking the lantern with her.
“Old biddy,” Ketta said. But maybe not loud enough for the woman to hear.
Without the lantern the lean-to was terribly dark, the only light coming through the cracks in the sun-dried boards. Ketta didn’t really like the dark. She didn’t like the scratching sound she heard, either. It made her think of rats or bears or maybe wildcats creeping up on her where she couldn’t see.
Or maybe the other person here, the one she’d hadn’t really seen, was after her. Who knows what the old woman said for him to do. Maybe kill her? Was it a monster?
Like it or not, and Ketta didn’t like it, not one bit, a few tears leaked between her eyelids. A single sob escaped.
“Shh, shh, shh.” The sibilant sound reached across the shed.
Ketta froze. “Who are you?” she whispered and brushed angrily at her eyes.
“No cry,” a whisper answered. “She come.”
At first Ketta thought the answer was a name, perhaps in that strange, strident tongue of the Chinese. No ki Shee kum. That’s what she’d heard. It took a few moments for her brain to sort the words into something she understood.
“Oh,” she said in surprise. “Oh, you’re speaking English.” Not only that, but the person speaking was female. Some of her fear drained away. But not all. “I’m not crying,” she added stoutly, a blatant lie.
“Shh, shh,” the girl said again.
“Why should I ‘shh’?” Fresh anger roiled in Ketta’s heart. “I guess I can make noise if I want to.” And to prove it, she let out a little scream. Then, because that felt so good, she screamed again, louder.
The other girl’s protest became more pronounced. “No, no,” she said. “Shh. She come.”
“Let her. She’s not my boss. Is she yours?”
“Boss,” the girl replied. “Owns me.”
“Owns you?” That annoying touch of fear clawed at Ketta again. “People can’t own people. There was a war.”
Mama had been Ketta’s schoolteacher, and she’d been a good one. Ketta read better than either Yester or Big Joe and knew more math, as well. She knew all kinds of things, having read about the war between the states, and slavery, and freedom. She knew slavery had been abolished years and years ago.
But, she wondered now, what about Mama, and what about herself, confined to the ranch like they were. All because Big Joe said so. What would’ve he done if they’d disobeyed? Would it have been any worse? Doubt filled her.
What had the black-skinned man, Tug, said? Something about Kuo selling her? Had he sold her to that awful woman who ran the restaurant?
She was a prisoner, wasn’t she? And what did prisoners do?
They escaped, that’s what. Exactly what Ketta had in mind.
She went mum after that, acting as if she were too terrified to scream or speak anymore. Acti
ng as though the other girl’s warning to “shh, shh, shh” had meant something to her. Well, it had. Warned her she’d have to work on loosening those rags around her wrists where the girl couldn’t see. And when she crept out of the lean-to, she’d need to wait until the girl slept and then be very, very quiet.
Ketta, working in the dark, stifled a crow of satisfaction as the bonds dropped away. That evil old Chinese woman wasn’t so smart after all, she thought, delighted. Using rags to tie her wrists had worked right into her plans. She’d had lots of practice in escaping as Yester and Nat used to take her prisoner all the time, back before they’d all gotten too old to play. They’d tie her up, and she’d regularly get loose. They never did figure out how she did it.
She felt a giggle rising and tamped it down. Escape had been a matter of tensing muscles and stretching just far enough to go unnoticed. Who’d ever expect a five-year-old to figure that out? Her brother never had. The old woman hadn’t, either.
Over in the corner, soft puffing breaths indicated the other girl had finally gone to sleep. Ketta rose to her feet, piling the rags into a person-shaped form before inching toward the door. Everything went fine until she got there and tugged the latch.
The door didn’t budge.
Locked in!
Ketta quivered. They’d locked her in like an animal. Her and the other girl. Now what was she to do?
Rage lent strength as she fumbled with the door latch and yanked again. Unfortunately, with the same result. The door remained closed.
But it wriggled. At the top and the bottom.
Ketta wished she’d been paying attention when Kuo and the woman brought her out here. A vision of the way they fastened shed doors at home came to her. All they did was get a block of wood and nail it into the door jamb. Not all the way. Secured, but leaving it loose enough to pivot on the nail until half of the block held the door closed.
If they used the same method here, maybe she could manage to get the door open. Not so easy, though, from the wrong side and without tools.
Squatting down, she patted the dirt floor of the shed. It had once been a wood shed, she thought. In fact, part of it still was. Just this area had been turned into a . . . what? A prison for girls? A bedroom of sorts for the other girl? A storage area to lock in slaves? Ketta hadn’t forgotten the girl told her the old woman “owned” her.
She finally found what she’d been searching for, a slender stick narrow enough to fit through the crack between door and jamb, that she hoped would prove strong enough to shift the block of wood.
Reaching upward almost to the limit of her height, she pried at the block. At her wits end, she pressed on the stick and jumped. The door creaked open, two inches, then six.
Perfect.
Ketta started through, then froze as the other girl’s cry pierced the air.
No soft “shh, shh, shh,” this time, but something loud and Chinese.
Ketta darted outside and ran.
CHAPTER TEN: YESTER
Hay rustled. An animal snorted, and droplets of something splattered on his face.
Rubbing the dampness away, Yester opened one eye and then the other, both still blurry with uneasy sleep. Nat was standing above him, pushing at the nose of his cayuse, who appeared to wonder why two boys were sleeping atop his breakfast.
“Uh,” Yester said, and sat up.
“Yes. That’s the same thing I said.” Nat laughed. “I’d rather camp out, Yester. Leastwise there ain’t drunk people coming and going all night long. And this hay itches.”
“It does. Tonight,” Yester promised, scratching at a red welt, “we’ll camp, even if it’s only a grassy spot down by the river.” He turned his boots upside down and shook them in case a mouse or a spider had taken up residence—which it hadn’t—before pulling them on and lurching to his feet. “You hungry?”
“Yes. Empty as if I’d been working all night.”
“Me, too.”
Pausing only briefly to finger-comb hayseeds from their hair and splash a little cold water from the outside pump over their faces, the boys sauntered from the livery.
“Wonder if there’s a better place to eat than that café from last night.” Yester lifted his nose and scented the wind like Barney when he scented something good.
Nat smelled it, too, and pointed with his nose. “This way.”
He led them down a narrow lane between buildings until they came out behind some little hole-in-the-wall businesses. A barber shop with a single straight-backed chair and a table holding scissors and a couple razors. An office with a lady offering to read or write or post letters for the illiterate. An eatery composed of two tiny tables with two rickety stools each, and an exceedingly stout woman baking biscuits in a dutch oven over a campfire. Ham and grits cooked in pans resting atop a funny little stove barely the size of a child’s toy.
One of the eatery’s little tables was occupied. The other not. Yester and Nat moved to remedy the situation.
“I got biscuits, ham, grits, and gravy.” The woman reeled off the menu in a gravelly voice. “And honey for the biscuits. Breakfast is ten cents, all you can eat. Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll take it, ma’am,” Yester said, smiling widely.
The boys each eased onto a stool, careful how they placed both feet and butt. One wrong move, Yester figured, and they’d land in the dirt. Within minutes, the men at the other table finished and paid up. Another two men took their place. One of them scowled at Nat, who looked away, his eyes wary.
“I ain’t eatin’ with that Injun,” the scowling man announced to the cook.
Nat breathed out hard through his nose. It was up to Yester to scowl back.
“Shut up, Orin Richards,” the woman said. She didn’t glance up from her cooking. “A paying customer is a paying customer.”
“Not to me, it ain’t,” the man said.
“This is not your business. It’s mine.”
The argument went back and forth. Yester grew more and more uncomfortable, even as Nat’s brown skin paled.
At last Nat stood up. “I’ll leave, ma’am, but,” he said, gaze fixed on the man, “I am not ‘that Injun.’ I am Nathaniel Fontaine. I am Métis.”
The woman slapped slabs of ham onto tin plates and added a heaping spoonful of grits. “Sit down, boy. Nathaniel Fontaine who is Métis. Whatever that is. Sounds like a Frenchy, to me. Your breakfast is ready. You, too,” she added to Yester, who’d gotten up when Nat did.
The woman was so firm about it, Nat sat back onto his stool, apparently not noticing the way it rocked beneath him. More slowly, Yester followed suit. In view of the plates of steaming food she set before them, it didn’t take much to persuade them to ignore Orin Richards. Not even when he emitted grumbles when the stout woman’s back was turned.
The boys didn’t linger over their breakfast, although the cook’s friendly way encouraged him to ask his hopeful question about Ketta.
“Nope. Ain’t seen her,” the woman said and cocked a thumb toward Richards. “Chinamen don’t come here. Reckon you can see why. Got a lot of customers like him, ’specially when it comes to Chinks.”
Downcast, the news didn’t stop Yester from gobbling his food. In truth, he’d expected her answer.
“Mighty good grub,” he told her shyly as he added a nickel to the total bill. It’s what he’d seen Big Joe do after a good meal in one of his few generous moments.
She patted his shoulder. “Thank you, son.” Bending closer to his ear, she added, “You boys clear out. If you see Richards in the distance, head off the other way. He’s a real sour feller, and you don’t want to mix with him. You or your Métis friend.”
Yester sighed but nodded. He’d figured as much for himself. The problem was, he still had to find Ketta, and that meant asking questions. He needed Nat’s help, but from what the woman said, maybe they’d better stick together.
Bellies full, they waddled off down the narrow back street until the two-table café faded from sight. Fr
om there, they fetched their horses and mounted up, ready to take up the search again.
They soon reached a sprawling section of town where the blocks were not so delineated as they followed the winding river bank. It was here they cut their first sign of the outlaws.
Nat saw him first. A big black horse looking trail-worn and thirsty. “Whoa,” he told his cayuse.
“Yester,” he said, surprising Yester and jerking him out of a low mood brought on by what was beginning to strike him as a hopeless task. “Look there.”
“What?” Yester stopped, too, and straightened in the saddle, his gaze following the direction of Nat’s pointing finger. He stared. “Hooie, Nat. That’s a Percheron if I ever saw one.”
“Yes. And how many black Percherons are we going to see in Lewiston? Not many, I bet.”
Yester nodded. “Most people, they own a horse like that, they either got him out working, or he’s slicked up and ready to show off. Not all dirty and full of dried sweat. Looks like he ain’t seen a brush for a week.”
“Rode hard,” Nat agreed.
“Gaunt,” Yester added. “Like he needs water.” Chirping to his horse, he headed over to the rundown pen where the horse was confined. As they neared, they saw an empty water bucket kicked over and laying on its side. Grunting, he dismounted and reached into the pen to pick up the bucket. There was a spigot out by the street. He filled the bucket there and lugged water back to the horse.
With a dry snort, the Percheron immediately ducked his nose in and slurped. In seconds, it was gone, and Yester went back for a refill. This time the horse paused long enough to shake back his mane and receive a pat, which is when Yester spotted the brand.
“Look here,” he said to Nat, who patiently held Queenie snubbed up close to his pony.
Nat peered. “Yeah, and see there,” he said, pointing at the ground. Tracks showed clearly where the bucket had tipped over and the horse had walked through the mud, dried now. The tracks were familiar, seeing as they’d followed them for miles yesterday. “This is Patton’s horse for sure. I don’t need to see the brand.”
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