By the time I walk into the sheriff’s office, I’ve stitched myself back together like oil cloth with twine, rushed and messy. The sheriff is a Californio, those tan-skinned men and women who can trace their lineage to the mixing of colonizing Spaniards and the native tribes of California, with a wide mustache that has been groomed into a pencil-thin line. He leans forward and reaches for his hip when I enter.
“Miss McKeene. What can I do for you?” His tone is a bit more polite than it had been yesterday, but, despite his manners, there’s an edge to his words.
“I need money,” I say.
The sheriff’s eyes are everywhere but on mine; he’s all alone and the room is dark, the lone cell empty. He’s nervous. No doubt he’s remembering the scene when he walked into the cantina yesterday. They don’t call me the Devil’s Bitch because I have a dog, after all.
“I showed you the telegram from Carson City yesterday,” he says, voice shaking now. “Five hundred was the bounty if Perry was taken alive; since the gentleman was already dining with the devil, two hundred was the—”
I wave his words away impatiently with my left arm, which does nothing to calm his nervousness. To be honest, it is a bit fun to show off my amputated arm. Callie once pointed out to me two roughnecks speculating how I lost it; when I told them I’d traded it to a demon at a crossroads to make me a crack shot with the pistol I was twirling, their eyes had gone wide.
“Relax. I ain’t here to dicker over Perry’s payment. My partner ran off and I find myself in need of funds. I was just going to inquire as to whether you have any outstanding bounties.”
The man takes his hand off his merrymaker and stands. He’s no taller than I am, but he makes a point to hitch up his pants all the same. “So that gal got the better of you.”
“We did not see eye to eye on some things, as friends do every now and again. You got work for me or not?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. A bounty came up by courier from Los Angeles just this morning. Bank robber by the name of David Johnson. They think he might be headed for San Jose or Sacramento.” He hands me the flyer, and a white man with a bushy mustache stares back at me. He’s an utterly forgettable sight, the kind of man who could blend in anywhere. And the bounty is only a hundred dollars, barely even worth the work. He’s probably shaved by now, and I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to track him down. It’s not a job any working bounty hunter would take.
But I ain’t got much choice in the matter.
I take the flyer and tip my hat to the sheriff. “Dead is okay, right?”
His tan skin goes pale and he nods. I shoot him a smile. “Ain’t personal, you know how it is. The devil’s always going to get his.”
I tip my hat again and leave the tiny office, my vengeance once more on track.
The quickest, and safest way to begin your westward journey: wagon train! Call on Harper and Sons Outfitters for more information.
—Advertisement in the New York Times, January 1876
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 30
Notes on an Overland Journey
Falling into step with the wagon train as we head out of San Francisco and east toward Sacramento feels right. For nearly two years I have found myself on a journey—first from Baltimore to Summerland; then from that vile city to poor, doomed Nicodemus; and then east to Fort Riley; and then to the Mississippi. From there we boarded a ship, the Miserly Widow, followed by a trek across the wild jungle lands of South America, and finally to the Capitán until we arrived in San Francisco. During all that time, I felt a duty to protect those around me, as most of my companions have rarely been as adept at the defensive arts as I am.
It was not quite the work of an Attendant—no one expected me to dress them or consult on the best pairing of ribbons and such—but it at least felt familiar.
Still, there’s a strangeness in walking along with these families that is new and fresh and a little terrifying. I had not expected there to be so many children—passels of kids running around and screaming and laughing and teasing one another as if we were on our way to the circus rather than fleeing the peril of the city. There are so many men and women, all Negroes, ranging from light like me to darker than Sue. And not a one of them has anything more refined than a kitchen knife to defend themselves. Sure, there are a few rifles here and there, but far too many of the people bear no arms, and the farther we get from the safety of the Great Golden Wall, the more I begin to fret.
The wall is quite a sight. Sue, Lily, and I had arrived on the seaward side, so we had not been able to see it at the time. But as we leave, the wagon train numbers near to 150 people and it would be far too expensive to load everyone onto a ferry so that an overland route is our only option, I begin to understand the way people speak about San Francisco, as though it were a wondrous place. It takes most of the morning for our entire train to leave the city as we wait for our turn. To enter one of the three guarded exits. The gate to enter and leave the city is massive, guarded on either end by a portcullis. Passing through the gate, which is a hole in the wall more than a true gate, is like walking through a railway tunnel. Electric lights chase away the gloom, and our wagon train murmurs in awe as the lights flicker. I have seen electric lights before, most recently in Summerland, but many of our party have not. And the tunnel is quite the experience.
Once we are through the tunnel the entire wagon train pauses on a slight rise outside the city to take in the wall. We are not the only ones, and there are a number of people just standing and looking back toward the city. The Great Golden Wall shimmers in the weak morning sunlight, the glimmer veining its way around the outside showing how the construct got its name.
“That gold is Thomas Edison’s wiring,” Juliet tells Sue and I as we gawk. “Theory is, should a horde try to enter the city they can fire up those circuits and give them what for.”
Sue frowns. “You mean it ain’t never been tested?”
“Not against any real kind of shambler attack,” Juliet says, taking a deep drink of a canteen. “The Chinese built most of the wall during the Chaos Years based upon a design from their home country, but it was the white folks that made it gold. It took twenty years to finish, and every year they make it a little bit higher. By then, the plague had largely been wiped out around these parts. Who even knows if it’ll do the job it was intended for? At least it’s pretty.”
We continue on our way, opting to be prudent and not waste the entire day marveling at the largest wall I have ever seen. Our security team consists of me, Sue, Carolina, who decided to join us on our travels rather than return to the Capitán, Juliet, and the white woman Louisa, who I am praying knows how to use that Japanese sword strapped to her back.
I admit I do not know how things will shake out should the dead attack. But I am praying the people of the wagon train are more capable than they appear.
Toward the end of the day I decide to bring up my concerns to Juliet. She is a Miss Preston’s girl, and as such she will understand my concerns about ratios of defense and response time. Miss Preston’s was no hack-and-slash like some of the other schools, our instruction was as much about service as strategy. I also decide to mention something because my worry has returned, a low-level buzz in my brain that refuses to abate no matter how much I focus on breathing and taking in the scenery. I have not had one of my fits in months, but here I am, perspiring and fairly shaking with my uneasiness over the lack of security on the wagon train.
I find Juliet walking toward the middle of the train, whistling a fine ditty like she is out for an evening stroll, not leading a group of people out of a city bent on their eventual destruction. I fall into step beside her, and she glances over with a grin. “You’re about to tell me that we don’t have enough security, ain’t ya?”
I blink, and then return her smile. “What gave me away?”
“That pretty little frown line between your brows. Louisa makes the same face when she’s vexed about something. You’
re right, we don’t have enough security. The lack of shamblers in most parts of the state gets people to feeling unreasonably safe, and my dear Louisa is no different. Especially since funds are short. I’ve told her a number of times what kind of havoc the dead can wreak on an unprepared caravan, but this is the best we can do, so we’ll make do. Hopefully we can add some more able fighters to the train in Sacramento right before we start to head up into those hills.”
“Louisa said it should take a week to get to Sacramento?” I ask, scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. The road we walk is not far from the Sacramento River, and the barges and ships making their way inland are visible. Still, I dislike being out of the confines of a city. I suppose when one grows up behind a wall, it seems like safety, even when it is not.
“Well, we could make it even faster if we were to push ourselves, but the weather is still cool, and it’ll just get colder as we head up into them mountains. There’s no need to rush when we have neither the inclination nor the desire. Not a lot out here to harry us along.”
“I find that curious,” I say. “The apparent lack of the dead.”
Juliet shrugs. “They say it’s because the desert and the mountains wear the dead down long before they can reach the California Republic. A bunch of rich fellows even commissioned a study couple years back, and a few different churches have out and out proclaimed California the new Eden.” Juliet laughs. “Either way, the only dead are the ones who are made here, and as long as folks are savvy about putting someone to rights when they pass, we’re good.”
I want to ask why San Francisco has a wall—especially one people are so enamored of—if the dead are not a threat, but a shout goes up from the front of the wagon train, so Juliet and I hotfoot it to see what might be amiss.
The oxen pulling the front wagon low out their displeasure and a group of men have all crowded around, scratching their heads. Carolina is there with them, and I grin when I see his face.
“Got your land legs back yet? Looking a mite bit unsteady there,” I say.
My first few days at sea I had been abysmally ill, and Carolina had been kind enough to tease me over it at every possible opportunity.
He turns, and his frown melts into a bemused smile. “Very funny. Lucky I also carry a big sword to lean on.” He waggles his eyebrows, and a few of the men around us chuckle while I smack his arm.
“Fresh!”
Carolina truly does carry around a large sword. He wields a two-handed broadsword that is very good at clearing an area, a weapon that happens to be strapped across his back. Just seeing him eases some of the worry in my breast.
What security we have is very good, so things could be worse.
“What seems to be amiss here?” I ask.
“Broken axle.” Juliet lets out an exasperated sigh. “Barely half a day out of the city, and already a delay.” She moves off, and Carolina steps in close to me.
“Can I have a word with you?” he asks, voice low.
“Of course.”
We walk away from the wagon train, toward the edge of the road and up and around, walking a perimeter to make sure there are not any threats looming on the horizon. But all I see are wetlands and the tall, waving grass. Great white birds fish in the shallows, and every now and then the air is split by a particularly raucous cry that I trace to a black bird with a red upper wing. It is peaceful and beautiful, the sun hanging low in the sky as it makes its way home for the evening.
I wish Jane could have seen it.
“You talked to your young Miss Lily?” Carolina asks, pulling me from my reverie and sending me down another path of thought.
“Not since we left this morning. Why, did she get into a scrap with one of the other children?” Lily had been alternately sullen and aggressive since we left New Orleans. I am not worried about her, she has always been smart and self-reliant, but the way Carolina is looking at me right now has me nervous.
“Katherine . . . I think your girl Lily is haunted.”
I am not quite able to swallow the bubble of laughter that burbles up, and it explodes out of me before I can quite call it back. A few of the families turn to look over where we are, and I give them a jaunty wave while I regain my composure.
“I’m serious, Katherine,” Carolina says, his face impassive.
“My dear, while I appreciate that Lily might sometimes find herself in a right mood, and I truly do believe in spirits—I am from Nawlins; it is practically a crime there if you do not—I sincerely doubt that Lily is haunted by anything but the specters of what she has been through of late.” I sober and stop walking, so that Carolina is forced to stop as well. “In the past two years the girl has been taken from her home and spirited west; watched a town be overrun, twice; lost her brother; lived amongst soldiers; fought the dead; and lost any kind of mooring to anything concrete in this world. That lack of stability would make anyone feel haunted.”
The crease between Carolina’s eyebrows deepens, and he studies me a little too closely. “Is this why you were so set on starting a new life in San Francisco?”
“Partly, yes. Lily needs a place where she can thrive, where she can find herself. She is young, and she needs a place to play and learn to read and do all the things girls her age are supposed to be doing.” As I speak, I cannot help but think back to my own childhood. There were happy moments, but mostly I remember the fear of my body changing and growing, because I knew at some point I would have to take a husband, or a patron, like my mother and her friends did. That was just the way of things back in New Orleans. Some women took in laundry and some women worked as maids in the houses of the fine Creole ladies, but the smartest and prettiest ones lived off their charms. The thought of a man’s hands on my body left me cold, and it still does. Nor is the idea of a female companion, like Miss Mellie May’s lost love, something I desire. But until I ran away, there was never any kind of a hope for any other kind of a life.
And that is the last thing I want for Lily. No one should have to live like me, or Sue, or any of the girls at Miss Preston’s. She deserves a life without the constant specter of death and loss—something more than the bite and the turning.
I pat Carolina on the shoulder and give him a smile, though there is not a bit of joy in my heart. “Carolina, thank you for bringing this to my attention. I am certain that Lily will be fine once we get to somewhere we can settle down for a while. All this traveling . . .”
Carolina nods and moves off, and I continue to patrol around the perimeter of the wagon train as we make camp for the night. The restless feeling inside my chest—part panic, part worry—returns, and I sigh.
I have to find a solution that provides Lily with a measure of stability and does not make me feel trapped.
I am just not quite sure what that looks like, yet.
One such legendary hunter is a one-armed colored woman that goes by the name of the Devil’s Bride. Her true name is unknown. Few have seen her face and lived to tell about it. This humble recorder of history has heard it rumored that any who see her face are taken aback by her beauty, and the smile she wears as she gleefully chases down her quarry, whether they are guilty or innocent. But the truth is rarely so easily known.
—Western Tales, Volume 23
—JANE—
Chapter 31
In Which I Am Flummoxed
The dank saloon in which I found Perry has shuttered its doors for the time being, with good reason, so Salty and I make our way out of town, merrily kicking up dust as we go. If I want to find David Johnson, I’m going to have to rustle him out of hiding. Knowing I’m on his tail is liable to do that—and there’s no better place for gossip than a crossroads tavern.
Half a day’s walk from Monterey is the small town of Kearneyville. The place ain’t much of anything, but it boasts two boardinghouses and a large hacienda, a fine oasis for travelers making the trek north from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Callie and I had spent a week in Kearneyville while tracking Perry, and I’
d rather liked the small place. It was the kind of dusty little town where Californios, Indians, Negroes, and whites all seemed to get along because they all knew how to mind their own damn business. As long as you had funds to spend, you were welcome in Kearneyville.
The lone tavern, which takes up the front of the hacienda, is named Reckless Rosie’s, and the establishment’s namesake pours drinks behind the bar. Her boisterous laugh and generous bosoms are rather memorable. Callie and I had stopped in to ask about Perry on our way into Monterey and had quickly learned that there ain’t one shady enterprise going down in these parts that she doesn’t know about. She is a Californio married to a white man she calls “hon” who is both large enough to dissuade most folks with a lick of sense from fighting, and friendly enough to not scare away more respectable folks. The joint featured a lively bar area as well as a quieter dining room, and it was one of the few places I’d been since leaving Nicodemus that didn’t make me tense as a bowstring.
Without a nickel to my name, I know it’s pointless to step through her front door. Instead, I slip through a small orange grove and head for the back of the building, Salty panting and wagging his tail in excitement. Singing comes from the kitchen area, and despite the joyful colors of the red-clay bricks and brightly painted glazed tiles, I feel a pang of homesickness.
Rosie’s mother, a tiny Indian woman called Maria, does the cooking. As I approach the outdoor area I find the door propped open and Maria outside working the firepit, pointing and yelling at a few younger boys as they wrestle a pig onto a spit. A handful of other women cut peppers and onions and oranges around a low trestle table. Even though it’s more than half a continent away from Kentucky, it could be Rose Hill.
Like Rosie, Maria is happy to dish, but her price tended to be more in the line of a story than gold or silver. Just last week when I was here I’d seen her trying to draw water up through an ancient hand pump and had made the happy mistake of trying to help her. That had earned me an afternoon of helping out in the kitchen and a passel of tamales as payment. Rosie had laughingly explained to me that her mother had taken me for one of the girls the nearby landowners sometimes sent around to help as a sign of respect for the elderly woman.
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