Amos Becker nodded and tiptoed inside. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he bent and kissed his wife’s forehead. Silently the children filed in. He put his fingers to his lips and whispered for them to be quiet and not wake their mother.
“She’s alive,” he said with wonder.
Queen Bess stood in the doorway watching. Her eyes shone triumphantly. Then she gestured for them all to come back outside. She looked at the horizon. “LuAnne’s ’bout here.”
The wagon pulled up, and the oldest son hopped off. Bethany stopped him from rushing inside.
“Good news, so far, Edmund,” she said softly, “but your mother needs rest. Lots of rest. You can see her for just a minute, but we want her to sleep long as she can.”
He swiped at his tears, then entered the soddy. He tiptoed up to his mother and solemnly watched the rise and fall of her chest. He stretched his hands toward her in wonder at the visible sign of life. He touched her frail face with the back of his hand and then turned to Queen Bess, as stunned as though she were a visiting black guardian angel, and he was struck dumb in her presence.
They unloaded the supplies. LuAnne Brown’s nostrils flared when she looked inside the house. She headed for the broom, but Queen Bess pulled her aside.
“I want all you people gone. We needed the food, and I’ll send for you directly, but Miz Becker can’t be bothered with no cleaning commotion right now.”
LuAnne nodded, slowly. “Mr. Becker,” Bess called loudly. “Time you get going. I gots stuff to tend to. And you all needs hot meals. LuAnne, scatter some of that oats out here in front, so those chickens won’t go nowhere.”
After they left, Queen Bess grabbed the nearest chicken, grasped its head, and whirled it around until its neck parted from the body. She watched the bird flop until it lay lifeless on the ground. She pulled a pan of hot water off the cooking trench and used it to scald the feathers so she could pull them off easily. Then she gutted the chicken, deftly cut it into parts, and set it to simmering on the cooking trench.
The second chicken began pecking at the oats. She wrung the third chicken’s neck but left it whole, and cut a slit in its belly leaving the entrails exposed. She walked a ways from the soddy so she wouldn’t be bothered by the flies and threw it on the ground.
Then she went inside and pulled one of Elam Bartholomew’s precious jars from her tote bag. It contained the dried latex she had extracted from the insides of prickly lettuce stems. It was as close as she could come to a natural narcotic on the prairie. She had spent hours and hours cutting open the tiny stems and scraping out the sticky compound. Mr. Bartholomew had warned her it took so much time and work she needed to save it for her worst cases.
She took out a small bowl and placed it beside her jug of medicinal vinegar. She sprinkled the dried latex into the cup, added a small quantity of vinegar, and let it steep. Anita Becker would need a painkiller when she woke up. During the operation, knowing she couldn’t take anymore, her mind had carried her body away. It would soon come back.
Finally, Queen Bess pulled the only rickety rocking chair in the soddy closer to Anita Becker’s side and, clutching a cup of the prickly lettuce mixture, began her long vigil. When the woman roused with a sharp cry, Queen Bess immediately held the cup to her lips.
“Sip,” she ordered. “As much as you can stand.”
When Anita roused the second time, the chicken broth was ready, and Queen Bess alternated the prickly lettuce compound with sips of soup.
The next morning Anita’s eyes flickered, then stayed fully open. Her voice thickened with pain. “Who are you? Amos? Where’s Amos?” Tears trickled down her cheeks.
She just know, Queen Bess thought. They always know. “I is known as Queen Bess, ma’am. I is a healing woman. Your man done took the children to our town where there is good food and where they is going to be warm and safe.”
Anita Becker took in the words “warm and safe.” Then she swallowed hard and grabbed Queen Bess’s hand. “My baby? The baby’s dead, isn’t he? It was a boy, wasn’t it? I just knew it was going to be a boy.”
“Yes, ma’am. It sure enough was.”
Anita began to sob.
“Poor little lamb,” Queen Bess crooned. “Just rest yourself. You is mighty lucky to have come through this. You have three fine children that is mighty glad their mother didn’t go to Heaven with the baby. You just rest yourself now.”
Queen Bess rocked and brooded as Anita fell back into a deep sleep.
She going to have plenty of other troubles soon. Milk for a baby that’s not there. Pain like it’s sent from hell itself.
The infection started the next morning. Tell-tale redness streaked from the abdominal incision. Mild now, by evening it would spread.
Queen Bess went outside and walked over to the dead chicken she had waiting just in case. She was a just-in-case kind of a woman. She knelt and examined the long cut. Maggots had already come. Her blessed maggots.
She went back inside and pulled out the piece of purple taffeta she had insisted Jed Talbot buy for her. She eyed the infection and cut a piece that would cover the wound where the flesh was puffing up.
She removed a hunk of beeswax from her bag and carried it outside to the fire. She reached for the nearest cast iron skillet and held it over the flames. She put the beeswax in it and watched it carefully so it wouldn’t scorch. When the wax had melted, she dipped the piece of taffeta into it. After it was thoroughly coated, she fished it out with a stick and laid it on an old board.
She reached for a spare pot lid to use as a smooth surface, picked up the butcher knife, and walked over to the chicken. She knelt and scraped an ample supply of the maggots onto the lid.
Carrying the lid and the board with the cooling taffeta inside the soddy, she went to Anita Becker’s bedside. The woman was stupid with fever, barely awake. Queen Bess mixed more of her dried prickly lettuce into the vinegar and added a dose of willow bark.
She lifted Anita Becker’s head and coaxed her into sipping the acidic mixture. When she dozed off again, Queen Bess lifted her gown and scraped the maggots onto the incision. She dipped her finger into the melted beeswax and encircled the reddening flesh with the mixture. Then she carefully pressed the wax-coated taffeta onto the circle of wax, sealing in the maggots.
That evening, Dolly Redgrave stared in horror through the Beckers’ doorway. She was coming back from Wade City where she had fit a wedding dress for the barber’s daughter. Normally she went out of her way to keep from passing by this homestead. She disliked the unruly, starved children, but the yard was quiet for once. That was sure enough peculiar. Perhaps this clan of ne’er-do-wells had decided to give it all up.
She just naturally felt like it was her duty to check on the family.
Queen Bess dozed in a rocker. On the bed lay Anita Becker, with her stomach bare, sporting a purple patch. Dolly pressed her hand over her throbbing heart. Taffeta. It was the purple taffeta. The priceless purple taffeta.
She tiptoed in just a foot or two, before she fled. But it was long enough to see a maggot, yes, a maggot; she would swear to that later. A maggot crawled out from under the edge of the taffeta.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Aaron Potroff re-read the article in the Millbrook Wildhorse.
The residents of Nicodemus have petitioned the commissioners in Rooks County to organize a township. Nationwide, those who fought for emancipation in the late war rejoice over this bold and stunning move by the brave citizens of this very first totally self-sustaining colored community.
Potroff slapped the newspaper against his knee. He went to the hotel window and stared across the street at the Sinclairs’ mercantile store. Not far down was the so-called lumber yard. There were only a few scraps of wood for sale, and hardly ever enough nails. Wade City had an aging barber who pulled teeth on the side. There was no saloon because the handful of temperance ladies, led by Estelle Sinclair, carried on like a little sip would lead straight to hell. The sorry hotel w
here he stayed was the most prosperous business in town.
His hands shook when he tried to relight his dead cigar. Calmed, he inhaled deeply, then blew a smoke ring into the hazy morning light. He had to think of a way to stop the black bastards.
He never dreamed those people were capable of organizing a township. Worse, if they got it into their heads to organize the county—if they beat him to that, too—he would have a hard time convincing newcomers that Wade City was the town with the most potential in Western Kansas.
Normally, Nicodemus wouldn’t have a chance in hell of being the county seat, but with feelings running as high as they did in the country, those traitors might attract a flock of holier than thou do-gooders to help them out. The next thing he knew, the damned darkies would be wanting their own railroad. If that happened, he would be broke. All his money might as well be on a slow boat to China.
Naturally, the Sinclairs would see the Millbrook rag, and the old lady would go into hysterics. Sometimes he thought it would be worth letting the whole town go under just for the sake of getting rid of Estelle. However, he could count on Josiah to stay halfway calm and think of a plan. He stubbed out his cigar and stroked his temples. He had to think. He couldn’t just lie back and let it happen.
Two days later, Aaron Potroff went to Oberlin and telegraphed a friend in Omaha to ask for the kind of money he needed. It was a bitter pill. Until now, he hadn’t looked for outside financing because he owned all the lots in Wade City, and he thought it would be the only town in the area. Instead, Norvin Meissner was praising Nicodemus like blacks were as good as white folks. He’d also heard there were a few no-count mavericks trickling into Millbrook from time to time.
His answer came late that afternoon. The telegraph was short and veiled, but he no longer had to worry about money. He went to a printing office and had some flyers made up.
The growing town of Wade City, Queen of the Prairie, is looking for ambitious young men who want to get ahead. Why limit your talents and your energy in places that are going nowhere when you can have a business and a building all your own that is a sure-fire pick for the next county seat? You already know the joys of living in Kansas: the opportunities, the clean water, the fresh air. Now come on a little farther west to a brand new county that likes high-steppers.
He studied Oberlin’s main street. He intended for Wade City to have every single improvement this town had. He lingered in Oberlin until the flyers were ready, then headed north for the struggling little town of Baynard. It was just two years old. People grew disillusioned after they lived in a town that long. He was counting on that. The grass was always greener in another town.
He went into every one of the few sparsely stocked stores and bought something. Folks remembered big spenders. After he had eaten a sorry noon meal at the boarding house that doubled as a café and post office, Potroff strolled toward the end of town. On the outskirts, he saw an old man, stained with sweat and dirt, struggling to saw a pile of mixed wood into planks of even lengths.
“Kind of a waste of your time, isn’t it,” Potroff said as he watched, “using any cottonwood at all? Seeing as how you haven’t got much when you finish. It warps when just a speck of dew lights on it.”
The man, who hadn’t heard him approach, whirled around and wiped his sleeve across his tobacco-stained mouth. “Case you haven’t noticed, mister, not much mahogany growing around here.”
Potroff grinned, holding up his hands. “That’s so. Didn’t come to needle you, just want to know if you can get your hands on decent wood?”
“Hell yes, if you can get your hands on some decent money.”
“My money’s good. I need three wagon loads of pine delivered to Wade City.”
The old man swallowed hard. His toothless mouth formed a large circle. “Name’s Bidwell. Three wagon loads, you say?”
“Three, and one load of walnut.”
“Walnut?”
“Walnut.”
“Gonna cost you.”
“I figured it would,” Potroff said. “All the buildings going up in Wade City are going to be first rate and built to last. And I’ve always been partial to walnut for furniture.”
“You don’t say.”
“Would you happen to know if there’s any men around here who might be looking for work? I’ll pay extra if they’re halfway decent carpenters.”
“You don’t say.” Bidwell tongued his wad of tobacco against his cheek and nodded toward three men piling scraps of kindling onto a wagon. “Reckon them will help you out.”
Most of the men in the town were looking for work. Any kind of work at all. Many had gone a hundred miles away to find work on the railroad, leaving a town full of women trying to eke out a living. There were even more outside the town barely staying alive on hardscrabble homesteads.
“Lewis Tidewater is the best carpenter there is,” Bidwell said. “Trouble is, he’s gone to Clements to find work. His wife is in the family way, and he wouldn’t have gone off and left her if he could have made a living around here.”
“Can you get ahold of him?”
“Don’t know.”
“Try. I’ll pay if you can.”
“I know other men who are plumb desperate to find something close by. Had to go off. You know how it goes.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why I’m so proud that Wade City is going to be named the county seat. Give folks steady jobs.”
Bidwell spit out his plug of tobacco and cautiously looked at Potroff. “The county seat? You know that for a fact?”
“I do indeed,” Potroff said. “ ’Course, I haven’t exactly got that in writing. It will have to be voted on. But I’m sure you know that railroads only go through county seats, and I have every reason to believe the Union Pacific Central will have a branch line coming through our town. That’s not for publication just yet, you understand.”
“Mum’s the word, mister.”
Potroff reached into his inside coat pocket and took out a small sack of gold coins. He handed Bidwell fifty dollars. “Reckon this will get you started. Hire whoever you need, and bring the lumber to Wade City.”
Potroff went back to the mercantile store and asked the clerk if he could leave a few of his new flyers behind. “Plenty of work and available lots in Wade City,” he said. “If you know of any good men that needs a job or wants to get ahead, send them my way.”
The next week, Bidwell’s scrawny team of mismatched Percherons pulled into Wade City. Bidwell, two other old men, and five young ones leaped down from the wagon bed. They set to work under Potroff’s direction. Five days later, Wade City had two new buildings with elaborate false fronts.
Potroff shook Bidwell’s hand, then paid the man generously. “Let folks know that if they’ve a mind to start a business, I’ll loan them the money.”
“You don’t say.”
“I have people coming in as fast as they can get here, but I’d rather give the folks in Baynard first choice of lots. I know what caliber of people they are. Never can tell with strangers.”
Clearly dazzled, Bidwell hitched up his team and headed back across the prairie.
Potroff waited. It would just be a matter of time.
The next day, a solemn group of men came and looked the town over. When they had finished, one of them walked briskly toward the hotel.
“Have you got any lots left?” he asked Potroff.
“Sure do, mister. Some of them prime. ’Course, some of the best spots have already been spoken for, but folks have been known to back out. I’ll check around. Don’t want to get your hopes up, though. County seat towns fill up fast.”
“When will you know?”
“Most likely next week.”
“I’m going to tell folks back in Baynard there’s lots available.”
Potroff grinned from ear to ear. “You do that, mister. It’s God’s truth, and I’ll be happy to help them.”
It was a prairie phenomenon. Arranging and rearranging towns made and unmade
fortunes in the twinkling of an eye. In two weeks’ time, the whole town of Baynard switched to Wade City, buildings and all. Each structure was simply jacked up, put on sleds of rolling logs, and pulled across the plains to its new location. Wade City doubled in size.
Josiah Sinclair looked up from his column of figures when Potroff walked in the door. He stuck his pencil behind his ear. His store was doing better, much better, since the Baynard folks moved in.
“Morning, Aaron.”
“It is at that.” Potroff looked around at the shipments of new merchandise stacked on the shelves. “I’ll get right to the point, Josiah. I’ve come with a business offer. Wade City needs a newspaper. An editor.”
“Shouldn’t be much trouble to find one, Aaron. They sort of breed like fruit flies here in this miserable excuse of a state. If there’s one in a town, before you know it there’s five buzzing around causing trouble.”
“Don’t want one of those fly-by-nights, Josiah. I want you.”
“You can’t be serious.” He looked up at Potroff. “Hell, I don’t know nothing about writing a paper. Used to know a few things. I knew how to plant cotton. I knew how to hunt and fish and play a few cards. Used to know how to look just right when I stepped out of an evening. Don’t know nothing about anything anymore.”
He looked around at his growing stock of merchandise. He was starting to care about his store when he had thought he would never care about anything again. “Used to know how to manage a few slaves,” he added lamely. “More than a few, actually.”
“And that’s the point exactly, Josiah. You used to know how to manage a few slaves. And that’s what I want you to go back to doing.”
“I’m not a man of letters,” Josiah said. He turned as Estelle came from the back room, looking like the Witch of Endor summoned from the dead. He could tell by the eager look on her face she had heard everything.
“You don’t have to be a man of letters,” Potroff said. “I’ll send you back to Topeka for a week. There’s folks there that will sell us everything we need and teach you to set type. Then, as to your lack of writing ability, that’s not an issue. I’ll dictate every word that goes into that paper.”
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