But now I wonder what kinds of things I might have missed by not reaching out to speak to them, to learn the things that they might know. And perhaps it is because the strangeness of San Francisco is a bit overwhelming and I am feeling a bit maudlin in being in such a gray city, but I miss Jane. She could talk to just about anyone, whether they understood her or not. She might have been a terrible listener, but I can imagine her waving at all the people in the streets here and, before we knew it, we would have made a friend or two (and likely a couple enemies as well). It is almost enough to make me smile through the usual pang of loss.
But more important, it makes me wonder: How can we make the world a better place if we are always at odds with one another for every single kind of reason under the sun?
Carolina takes us on a meandering path through the city, up and down hills, amid beautiful homes and shops, until finally we clear the last of the Chinese architecture, and the ornate buildings give way to squats. The faces that peek out between flaps are pale, and the hair dark, and it is so terribly wrong that even in a city with strong walls and its back against the ocean, where people from halfway around the world can live in luxury, there are still people struggling. The stories I had heard of California painted it as some vast promised land, and it is easy to see that there is coin aplenty here. But there is also poverty, and it strikes me once again that it is not simply the undead that make survival a constant battle.
The squats open up into grassy hills, and there is the slightest break before we come upon a collection of tents and haphazard structures. But these are different. The hollow-eyed faces we meet here have deep brown skin and crinkly, curly hair. The scent of offal is overwhelming, and there are fetid puddles everywhere I look. As we navigate between the threadbare squats my heart constricts. Now I understand the haunted look in Carolina’s eyes.
“I thought California was supposed to be the land of milk and honey?” Lily asks, her expression of dismay saying everything.
“Maybe you have to head out into the mountains to find all the honey,” Sue says. A bit of the old anxiousness flutters in my chest, and for the first time I wonder if we made the right decision coming to California. I had expected to find a Negro settlement that was robust and thriving, the kind of place where my keen eye for fashion and knowledge of color would be welcomed and have a civilizing impact on the place. But this part of the city is little more than an encampment, and it is only the sight of the wall in the distance that lets me know we have not left the city limits.
Carolina puffs on his cigar and sighs. “I’m afraid that the past few years have taken quite the toll on the colored population here. Most folks came here to flee slavery, but the work they found wasn’t much better. When the dead rose there was an opportunity to work the patrols, but that was before the Chinese took over most of those jobs. Now the Chinese do all the menial work, leaving no real way for the Negro to thrive. It ain’t like white folks are hiring us to do anything more than clean their houses.”
“But how many of the Chinese who come here are trained? I thought China was a poor farming country,” I say, as I realize that the only thing I know about China is opium and rice. “Didn’t the dead nearly overrun the country in only a few weeks?”
Carolina shrugged. “That’s most places. And rich white people don’t care about training, they just want to feel safe. White people have the money, Chinese people have the numbers and are well organized, and everyone else is left out in the cold. Plus, space is getting scarce inside the wall. Now that the East Coast is gone people have started thinking about being behind walls in a way they haven’t since the Chaos Years. This area is hotly contested, and someone has tried burning out the colored folks no fewer than three times. Most of these people lost everything in the last fire, including their loved ones. There ain’t a lot to keep the Negro in San Francisco. Folks are hard-pressed to stay when there are better places to go. Ahh, here we are, Miss Mellie May’s boardinghouse.”
The building we stop in front of is barely standing. It lists ever so slightly and there are burn marks along the facade. It is a small sign of the fires Carolina mentioned, but there is more evidence all around us; as I inspect the land, I see the remnants of so many more buildings, all burned to the ground. No wonder this entire sector of the city is tents and hastily erected clapboard structures. No sense in building something permanent in this place, and anyone with a clue and the ability to leave has most likely gotten out.
We make our way up the stairs of Miss Mellie May’s house, and my heart is heavy. All my hopes and dreams have turned to ashes, and for the briefest moment I consider grabbing Carolina’s arm and having him take us over to the white sector. Sue could pretend to be hired help, and Lily could be my younger sister. Things would be awful at first, but eventually I could perhaps learn to forget who I am, to ignore the snide comments about Negroes and don a mantle of gross indifference. And Lily is young and has spent the past few years passing.
But then I look at Sue, and I do not know how I could even consider dragging her to a place where her skin makes her a target every single waking moment. I think about the months I spent back in Summerland, laughing to hide my discomfort, pretending that I shared the same ideas about the world as those fine white families, and the way I felt as though a very important part of me was slowly dying, a brilliant rose robbed of light and sustenance.
This world may hate the Negro, but that is who I am. I do not care about the story my skin tells. I am a colored woman, and I will not let them make me hate myself.
Carolina raps on the door three times, and it is yanked open by an immaculately dressed Negro woman. She is nearly as dark as Sue and her complexion sets off the peacock-blue traveling suit she wears in a way that steals my breath. This woman, who I am taking to be the eponymous Miss Mellie May, is tiny, but exudes all of the ferocity of an alley cat.
A pencil-thin eyebrow cocks upward when she takes in our merry band. “Seamus, you bring me a bunch of riffraff to care for again?”
“Seamus?” Lily barks out. “Your given name is Seamus?” Sue and I exchange a glance, and she stifles a grin. The way Lily says the name, SHAAAAAYYYYYmus, makes it as clear as day why Carolina put that proper name behind him.
He clears his throat and, ignoring Lily, says, “I brought you boarders, Mellie. Paying customers. These girls here have come all the way from Nawlins on the Capitán, and they aim to make a name for themselves out here in the West. Did I mention they’re paying customers?”
Miss May huffs out a little breath and puts her hands on her hips. “Well, that’s nice, but seeing as how I’m heading to Sacramento for the foreseeable future, it’s a little bit too late. Plus, don’t think I’ve forgotten about the money you owe me.”
I look from Carolina to the boardinghouse proprietress, and frown. “Do you two know each other?”
Miss May gives Carolina a bit of side-eye. “This fool is my brother, unfortunately.”
“Her older and wiser brother,” Carolina says with a rakish grin.
“If you’re wiser, how’d you end up getting robbed by that saloon owner last time you were here? Too dumb not to remember to stay out of the gambling halls.”
Carolina clears his throat and puffs on his cigar, his embarrassment etched on his face. “Why are you going to Sacramento? You finally getting hitched?” he asks, deftly changing the subject.
Miss May rolls her eyes. “Juliet has an outfit up there escorting folks up into the mountains and back down again. It’s a bit of a treacherous trip to her outpost, but a bunch of us left here are going to make our way there. There’s nothing left for me in San Francisco.” She lowers her eyes and blinks. “And before you start lecturing me about how important this place was to Momma, let me tell you that Mei’s family came for her, again, and this time she went. She was the last good thing about this place and without her I am disinclined to stay.”
Carolina’s chagrined expression melts into one of sorrow. “Mellie, I’m so
rry.”
“Don’t be. I should’ve known the moment I saw her that she was going to break my heart.”
The pain written on the woman’s face is naked and raw, and my sympathy goes out to her. Carolina is looking six kinds of uncomfortable, so I push around him to talk to the proprietress myself.
“Miss May, I am so sorry for your heartbreak. I’m Katherine Deveraux; this is my colleague Sue—just Sue—and our protégé, Lily Keats. You say there is a group of people here going to Sacramento, and I must say that I am intrigued by this prospect! Being newly arrived in San Francisco, I will admit I am a bit dismayed at the opportunities for Negroes here. I had heard that California was a land of opportunity for all. . . . Pray tell, how do the fortunes of colored girls like us look in Sacramento?”
Miss May’s expression shifts into one of curiosity. “Well, I would say that the fortunes of enterprising young ladies are vastly superior in Sacramento to what they are here. The Chinese presence is smaller, and most of the white folks have fled north to Oregon. Not only that, but there is a strong contingent of Buffalo Soldiers up that way, many of them keeping the cavalry tradition strong and the area safe from the occasional dead. But, you say this little one is your protégé. What, exactly, are you girls about?”
I laugh, the sound high, tinkling, and amiable. “Oh, Miss May, we are experts in the defensive arts. As you can see from Sue’s broadsword, she specializes in horde clearing; I myself focus on personal defense. Lily here is learning both disciplines, and though she is nigh passable at this point, I daresay that in a few years she will be a marvel to rival Hattie McCrea.”
Miss May frowns. “I don’t know who that is, but you girls do look well-fed. And capable.”
Carolina knows an opening when he sees it. “Oh, the girls are more than capable, Mellie. I was trying to get them to stay on the Capitán, but I’m afraid I couldn’t convince them.”
“Well, of course not, that smelly old ship doesn’t have anything to offer a cadre of audacious young ladies. I daresay it’s hardly any better than San Francisco here. But Sacramento”—Miss May pauses and grins winningly—“there you could find your fortune.”
I give her a polite smile, because her willingness to oversell Sacramento gives me pause, but I am a woman with limited options. If there is a chance for more and an opportunity to get there, I believe it to be worth investigating.
I raise an eyebrow at Sue, asking an unspoken question, and she gives me a quick nod, indicating her agreement. Sue and I are close enough after traveling together for the past year that I did not think she would object to this change of plans, but it is good to know that she is wholly on board.
“Well, then, I do believe we shall investigate the matter of the state capital a little more closely. May we come in?” I ask Miss May, and she stands back, allowing us to enter.
I pray we are doing the right thing.
Some say that the marshal is the most important personage in the West, seeing to order and keeping good citizens safe. But it is truly the bounty hunters who work to bring the lawless to heel, even if their methods are as brutal as the criminals they hunt.
—Western Tales, Volume 23
—JANE—
Chapter 27
In Which I Consider Domestic Bliss
I follow Callie out of the sheriff’s office and down the street to the hotel where we’ve secured lodgings. She was down in the mouth all through delivering Perry’s body to the sheriff, which was less a delivery and more telling the sheriff a tall tale to justify why Perry was missing both his ears and his nose. The man had finally given up the location of Gideon Carr, a small house in Sacramento, but by then I was covered in blood.
Thankfully we had the Andrews gang as an easy scapegoat, and the sheriff too easily believed that the whole bloody scene had been a robbery gone wrong, with Perry double-crossing the Andrews and paying the price. Callie had deftly avoided my gaze during the entire conversation, her eyes always sliding away every time the sheriff looked at Perry and swore.
“Seem like you got a knack for finding people after they been through a trial,” the man said, his words a not so subtle reference to what happened in Denver.
I shrugged. “Bad things happen to bad people.”
Now, as we stride toward the hotel, Callie gives me the silent treatment, her anger a palpable thing between us. I know what’s on her mind, but it ain’t anything I’m of a mood to discuss. I’m still annoyed that she sided with Perry. I don’t know that I like where this attitude of Callie Washington’s is going.
I can stomach a lot of things, but pacifism ain’t one of them.
We make our way through the fine double doors of the hotel, and the owner meets us in the foyer.
“You can’t bring that dog in here,” he says, gazing askance at Salty. He’s been patiently dogging my heels, waiting for his supper. Even while Perry was screaming up a storm he sat nearby, adding his own chorus to Perry’s yells. I kept expecting someone to come by the cantina to see what was happening, but no one did.
Humanity continues to disappoint.
Callie slumps. “Is there a problem, sir?” Her tone is like an out of tune fiddle, strident and annoying. It pulls me from the memory of Perry and back to the now.
The hotel owner stands in our path. Color rides high in his pale cheeks—fear or rage, I can’t tell. He straightens a little. “That animal is mangy. This is a luxury establishment, a place for good folks.”
“The dog was in here this morning when we booked our lodgings. You walking our accommodations back?” I ask, voice low. I don’t have to yell; the dead man’s blood on my clothing is probably speaking loudly enough. I wear trousers, just as I have ever since we left Nicodemus, and the brown material bears stains from past run-ins with both the dead and the living.
Something in the clerk’s expression changes, and I figure he must have heard the stories about my adventures. People out west are entirely too bored without a real threat from the dead, and they’ve got nothing to do but wag their tongues. There are even weekly rags dedicated to such stories. It’s one of the things I’ve come to love about the frontier. Everyone is too damn busy surviving to gossip.
But here, in the city? It’s another matter entirely.
“You got something to say?” I prod, tapping the butt of my talking iron, once, twice, to help him make up his mind. His eyes are drawn to both the motion and the blood that still cakes my fingernails. We paid the rate he quoted us—most likely higher than what any white person would pay to stay in this nowhere town—and just because he’s looking to get rid of us now doesn’t mean our money ain’t green.
“You can stay,” he says finally, his face pale. “One night. But you and your sister leave first thing in the morning.” I smirk at the notion that Callie and I are related, and there is a small bit of joy in the man’s fear as well. I’d rather have the same respect that he gives any other guest in his hotel, but if I can’t have that, I’ll settle for fear.
“Much obliged,” Callie says, as though he’s doing us a favor.
“Send up someone to draw a bath as well,” I say. “And make sure the water is hot.” I ain’t playing this game any longer, kowtowing when folks are just giving me my due. I might not have been able to force the sheriff to give me my proper pay—he shorted us on the bounty because of the condition of Perry’s body—but I can take on a hotel clerk. I tip my hat at him and head up the stairs, Callie and Salty right behind me.
As soon as we enter the room, Salty sniffs each corner before settling near the fireplace. I drop my lone saddlebag next to the door and unstrap my sword holster and pistol belt, the job made awkward due to my amputated left arm. I’m better at dressing and undressing than I was, but there are days when I would kill to have my left hand and forearm back.
Callie drops her saddlebags next to her side of the bed and goes over to the fire grate and stokes the coals back to life, Salty licking her face as she works until she finally pushes him away and
he curls up on the hearth rug. I land myself in the room’s lone chair, not wanting to settle on the bed while I’m covered in road dust and blood.
“You want to talk about what’s vexing you?” I say to Callie’s back.
“Nothing is bothering me, Jane.”
“Not a single thing?”
“Well, I probably don’t need to tell you that what you did to Perry is downright horrifying and completely unnecessary, but there ain’t no way to unslaughter that lamb,” she says, continuing to poke at the fire. “In fact, if there’d been an actual lamb, you probably would’ve killed that as well and tried to convince me that I wanted lamb chops for dinner.”
“Lamb chops are delicious,” I say, hoping I can at least provoke a ghost of a smile.
Nothing.
I sigh, because she’s being petulant and all I want to do is take a bath and sleep for a month. But if I let her go to bed cross it’ll last a whole week instead of just until morning. Hell, it’s been two months since things fell apart back in Denver, and we still ain’t talked about it beyond a few sniping comments here and there.
“Callie, leave that fire alone before you burn off your eyebrows and come here,” I say. She glances at me over her shoulder before dropping the poker in its holder and slinking toward me. She still won’t meet my eyes, and I use my good arm to tug her forward and into my lap. She’s no cleaner than I am, and this ain’t the first time either of us have been covered in blood. She huffs and I plant a kiss on her nose. She’s still stiff, but she doesn’t pull away when I rest my good arm in her lap.
“You’re mad because you wanted to make a deal with Perry and I didn’t,” I say.
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