Sue nods. Her expression is pensive, and the corners of her mouth turn down. “You ever remember Nicodemus and think maybe there’s no point to all this fussing? Maybe we aren’t supposed to be in control of our own lives. Maybe we just get to messing things up.”
I frown. “Are you saying that you think that it’s colored folks’ fault that they’re being run out of San Francisco?”
Sue shrugs. “I don’t rightly know. I see everything that’s happened here, what Miss May’s seen, and I just feel like, when it comes to Negroes, it seems like our mistakes pile up faster and harder than anyone else’s.”
“I think that’s because there are a lot of folks who are just waiting for us to fail so they can seize the opportunity to put us back into a cage of their making. If it had not been for Gideon Carr, Nicodemus might still be standing. He destroyed that town from the inside, because he thought he knew better than anyone else. It had nothing to do with any kind of inferiority of the Negro.”
Sue nods and sighs. “It just feels like nothing is ever fair for us.”
“I believe that feeling is the truth, hidden under so many things that feel coincidental but are in fact purposeful. Remember Ida talking about the Lost States? How the laws ostensibly made to ensure people are equal are enforced to keep people in servitude? Back in Nawlins, it just was not proper for a Creole man to marry a Negro woman, but he could keep her on the side if he wanted, no different from a wife. What do you think would have happened if all those well-to-do men started marrying Negro women legally, making them legitimate ladies of means?”
“Things would start to change,” Sue says.
I finish my food and brush the crumbs off my skirt, the orange cat sitting back and grooming itself. “The world naturally trends toward injustice, and it is colored folks who bear the brunt of that. The moment it looks like a Negro will break out of those chains, both real and metaphorical, the faster folks are going to arrive with their torches. First, they will try to offer helpful advice; next, they will try to burn you out for your own good. I reckon if it had not been for the Years of Discord and the enterprising nature of the Chinese folks in San Francisco, the white people here would have found a way to force the Chinese out. But they are too powerful, so white folks are directing their ire at the Negro sector instead. It is no different from what the writings of Mr. Frederick Douglass predicted.”
Sue gives me a bit of side-eye. “I don’t know who that is.”
“I read some of his essays to you on the boat over here. Remember? ‘Power concedes nothing’? Either way, Miss May is right. If the Negro wants to flourish, then they will have to find a place to put down roots and push them down so deep that nothing, not even the dead, will be able to pry them loose.”
Sue grins and rocks back on her heels. “I never took you for a radical, Miss Priss.”
I ignore her teasing tone. “Well, I suppose hearing Miss May’s tales of woe last night have put me in a different sort of mind.”
The truth is, I had been thinking about all sorts of things since losing Jane. I cannot help but remember the way she had never hesitated to call out some random bit of unfairness or chicanery. (As long as it was not her own, of course.) There is something admirable about being willing to stand up against injustice and name the devil true. And now that I am in a position to reinvent myself, to be a fine Negro woman here in the great state of California, I want to have the courage to stand against unfairness, no matter how difficult and ugly it might be.
Of course, everyone knows that it is much easier for a leopard to talk about changing its spots than to actually start to wear stripes.
“Either way,” I say to Sue, bringing myself back to the moment at hand, “I am interested in finding the place past Sacramento that Miss May mentioned, Haven. Jane had a letter from her mother that told Jane to find her there.” I swallow past the sudden lump that forms in my throat, taking a deep breath and letting it out before continuing. “Jane was convinced that it was another Survivalist stronghold, in the manner of Summerland; I find it curious that Miss May says it is in fact some kind of Negro town.”
“Maybe things changed,” Sue says. “We should head out and meet the wagon master before we leave. Despite what Miss May says, I don’t know many men who are too comfortable with the idea of a woman working security. Might be a good idea to show him we ain’t a couple of withering roses.”
Sue is right. I wash my face, secure my weapons, and don a tasteful hat that contains only a handful of swallow feathers before following her down the stairs and out into the morning.
Sue had gotten directions to the staging area this morning, so she leads the way through the gray, misty landscape. The sun had finally deigned to grace us with its presence late yesterday afternoon, but it has hidden its face once more; the weather is cold and dreary, altogether damp, and while that may be typical for March in these parts, I am more acclimated to the heady temperatures of the southern climes after spending months making my way across Central America. I shiver and hug myself, wishing I had brought some sort of overcoat with me, and I make a note to see if there happens to be a dressmaker with some ready-made offerings in the vicinity. I can only imagine our trek into the mountains will be even cooler, and I have no intention of freezing my way across California.
The Negro sector of the city is mostly mud and sorrow. Miss May told us people had been leaving steadily since the most recent fire, especially since the fire brigade had not even bothered responding until long after the buildings that had been set ablaze were little more than smoldering ruins. “It doesn’t take a knock upside the head to let me know when I ain’t welcome,” she’d said. This exodus of which we are now a part has been weeks in the making, and I have no doubt that it was the Good Lord’s intention for us to escort them, defenseless as they are. It is true that there are fewer shamblers out west, but even one can wreak havoc on an underprepared group.
Not to mention the more human threat of bandits.
Upon arriving at the staging area, I am even more confident that Sue and I are doing the Lord’s work. Families pile belongings into a handful of rickety wagons. Children and the elderly stand by, and there are only a handful of capable-looking adults, all of them with the lean and hungry look of a people used to going without. There are a few fashionably dressed men, mostly closer to our age, but they have a soft look to them. Dandies.
No one I see moves like a fighter, like someone trained in the rhythms and patterns of survival. And the weaponry? There is no way this wagon train is going to make it two minutes fighting the undead with the hodgepodge I spy as we approach. A few rusty rifles, one or two knives, and a thin sword with a tassel at the end that I recognize from our weaponry courses at Miss Preston’s as being Japanese in origin. But it would not matter if they had freshly forged artillery; the people gathered here do not appear to have the slightest sense of how to wield these blades and firearms.
All of them, that is, with the exception of a Negro woman with a pair of overlong knives strapped to her waist. They are not Mollies, they are too short for that title, but there is something in the way that she moves that strikes me as familiar. I suspect that she is the lone person here that can handle themselves in a scuffle.
“That’s the wagon master with the red vest,” Sue says, pointing to a white woman with blond hair and a tight expression.
I cannot help but frown. “The wagon master is a woman?”
“I don’t see anyone else wearing a red vest, do you?”
This turn of events has me flummoxed to the point that I have to rearrange my talking points in my mind. I like to rehearse conversations in my head before they happen, because otherwise I get a feeling like being in an unmoored dinghy on a storm-tossed sea. And that usually results in me giving a polite smile and agreeing to all sorts of nonsense I have no intention of following through with.
I take a deep breath and stride over to the wagon master, who has her head down, inspecting some sort of list. As
I approach, she begins to speak without looking up. “Juliet, I simply cannot make heads or tails of this chicken scratch. Either way, we are simply going to have to reorganize. This just will not do.” That is when she raises her head and frowns at me. “You are not Juliet. Who, may I ask, are you?”
Sue chuckles behind me. “You about to deal with some finery,” she murmurs, which is what the girls at Miss Preston’s used to call the rich white women who came through to engage an Attendant. And she is right. The woman’s bearing makes it clear that she is used to being in charge.
“No, I apologize, I am not Juliet. My name is Katherine Deveraux, and this is my associate, Sue—no last name. We are mistresses of the defensive arts, and we are joining your wagon train at the invitation of one Miss Mellie May, proprietress of Miss Mellie May’s boardinghouse. She has engaged us as additional security—”
“Thank you, Jesus,” the woman says, interrupting my speech, and I start. “Pardon my rudeness,” she continues with a warm smile. “I am Louisa Aiken and that woman over there with the blades and the braids is my business partner, Juliet. Also no last name, though Lord knows I have tried to convince her to adopt something for etiquette’s sake.”
Sue and I exchange a glance but say nothing. The woman’s accent is from somewhere in the Lost States, but my ear is not good enough to place it accurately. She waves to the aforementioned Negro woman, who strides over. Once again I get that sense of familiarity in the woman’s movements, but I am rather certain that I do not know her.
“Juliet, this is Katherine and Sue. Oh, you do not mind me calling you Katherine, do you?” At my headshake, she smiles. “Excellent. We tend to do away with formalities on the wagon train. Life out here on the frontier has done terrible things for my manners, and it is only getting worse. So why pretend otherwise? Juliet, these girls will be additional security for our trip.”
Juliet squints at us. “You Attendants?”
I straighten and give her my best smile. “Yes! Well, I am afraid we have not encountered any situations where an Attendant would be of use in ages . . . but we completed our training at Miss Preston’s School of Combat in Baltimore, the finest academy in all the nation, whatever might remain of it.”
Juliet gives us a slow smile, like dawn breaking over the land. “You don’t say. I’m a Miss Preston’s girl, too. Was that miserable Miss Anderson still there when you left, or did she have the good sense to be eaten by a shambler?”
“Oh, she was there—as sour as a bushel of lemons,” Sue breaks in, and Juliet laughs. Sue shifts to stand next to her, and the two trade stories of Miss Preston’s while I turn back to Louisa.
“If I may be so bold,” I say, “I take it from your previous declaration you may be interested in securing our services for the protection of the entire wagon train? Miss May had originally hinted that we might find employment as her personal protection.”
The woman nods. “My original count was twenty people heading to Sacramento, and now we’re up to well over a hundred and fifty. That’s likely twelve or fifteen wagons—more than Juliet can ably watch out for if we run into a group of stray shamblers. If you girls are going our way, I’d be much obliged if you might be willing to work the whole train. I pay four dollars a day plus vittles.”
“Make that five-fifty a day, each, and rations for our apprentice as well, and you have yourself a deal.”
Louisa smiles. “Done. I think we’re going to be fast friends. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I like that.”
I nod in gratitude. The hope that had died a brutal death the day before begins to burble anew. I can do this. I can make a life for myself here. If this woman has managed to be savvy and successful, well, so can I. “We will secure our belongings and return forthwith. It was brilliant to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Louisa says, already going back to her list. “And welcome to California.”
It might be thought that in a world of cutthroats and hard men a woman would fear for her life and her safety, perhaps even seek to engage her own protection. But just as men have found their fortune in these merciless lands, so have a number of the fairer sex.
—Western Tales, Volume 23
—JANE—
Chapter 29
In Which I Am Once Again Fortune’s Fool
I wake slowly the next morning, feeling better than I have in a spell. My body still aches a bit from so many days on the road, but my hair is clean and freshly braided and my heart is light. For the first time in a very long while I have a goal in mind, a destination that will lead me to the end of my search for Gideon Carr. I’ll head north to Sacramento, track down this Thurman Leakes character, and find Gideon, and then after that—
After that I will seek out this town called Haven, and finally find my momma and Aunt Aggie.
But not until I put down Gideon. Because, as reluctant as I am to admit it, Callie is right: there’s a sickness in my soul, a bleak sort of hopelessness that I’ve tried to fight for a long time. It was fed and nurtured during my convalescence, but each morning since seeing that newspaper article in Fort Laramie it has gotten stronger. Every day that I wake up and consider Gideon Carr out there in the world—setting up shop in a town somewhere, continuing to experiment on folks—I grow angrier. The only way to close this chapter of my life, to move on from the barren landscape of murder and human destitution, is to kill the man who put me on this path in the first place. Once he’s dead, I can go back to fighting for something worthwhile.
Even if I’m not all that sure what that might be just yet.
Salty rolls over on the bed and whines at me, pushing his head under my hand the way he does when he wants attention. It’s my first clue that something’s amiss. Callie ain’t too partial to Salty. He belonged to some drifter who tried to come at us in Utah, and I’d kept the mutt as a reminder that I could never let my guard down. But he turned out to be a good little dog. He’d mostly been trained to sniff out the dead, but he was also good at fetching and flushing small game. Callie had just thought he was dirty, which, he was. Because he was a dog. But Salty is in the bed, which means Callie ain’t, and that sets off all my alarm bells.
I sit up, and it’s immediately clear that she’s gone. Her weapons aren’t where she left them last night. I scurry out of bed, my sudden movements dragging an excited bark from Salty, but I ignore him and take a quick inventory. My boots are still here, untouched, as well as my falchion, the sword I switched to when it became clear that dual-wielded sickles were no longer an option for me. My tool belt, which holds my pistol, a few throwing knives, and extra rounds of ammo, is still hanging off the foot of the bed. There’s also a single blue dress, ugly and threadbare, across the room from my clothes from yesterday.
But my saddle bags, which held my extra clothes, share of cash, and my letters from my momma, are gone.
I sink to the floor and bury my head in my hand. Callie’s left me high and dry.
After a moment, I scramble across the floor, the motion made even more awkward by my left arm being shorter than my right. If I wanted to get a strap-on arm, I could, everything from my elbow to my shoulder is intact and strong besides, thanks to months spent running drills back in Kansas, but I haven’t considered it so far because they’re made of wood and most of them are too blasted heavy. Plus, I always had Callie around to help when I needed it. Now, though, I’m thinking I might need to find a surgeon and see what he can do for me.
I grab my right boot and feel around inside for my emergency stash. But instead of a wad of cash, my hand finds a single piece of paper. I pull it out and read the sentence scrawled across in charcoal.
I love you, but I am going home.
That’s it.
I am abandoned and penniless, and a feeling somewhere between grief and rage chokes a sob out of me.
“You can’t say the girl didn’t warn you,” Jackson says. He wears homespun, the same way he did the day he died, and I wonder if his attire has had some h
idden meaning all this time. I’ve been too preoccupied with seeing a ghost to get to noticing intricate details and parsing out their meaning.
“She didn’t tell me she was going to rob me on her way out,” I say, dashing away a few tears that have managed to slip out and feeling sour about the whole thing.
“The heart works in mysterious ways, Janey-Jane. Besides, you can’t fault the girl, can you? Think of how you would’ve felt if you were in her place. You pretty much told her to go pound sand when she asked you to run away and spend the rest of your life with her. She’s angry and hurt. Ain’t nothing for her out here in California, and you’re too busy carving up men to even notice that she was offering you everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“So you say.” I stand and begin to dress, taking my time as I do. I don the dress rather than the shirt and trousers hanging by the fire; it’s easier to get on and fasten the buttons one-handed.
For a moment I consider going after her. The sunlight that filters in through the room’s window is still watery, which means she can’t have more than a two-hour head start. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past couple of months it’s how to track someone down. It won’t be all that hard to find a Negro girl.
But doing that means I have to wait to head out for Sacramento. At some point the papers are going to pick up news of Perry’s death, and I fully believe that Gideon knows I’m gunning for him. He may be mad, but he isn’t a fool.
And so, I have a choice: love or vengeance.
But it’s a decision I’ve already made, and one I keep making with each scoundrel I kill.
I sling my belt around my waist and wrap my rage and anger at Gideon Carr around me like a blanket. I bear Callie no ill will, my heart just ain’t in it. I hope wherever she is, she finds someone who can love her the way she needs. The way that I won’t.
Maybe I am the terror Jackson says I am.
And if that’s the case, well, I aim to be as monstrous as necessary to get to the man who made me this way.
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