James McBride - The Good Lord Bird

Weren’t a man among them spoke. Finally a feller in the back said, “I ain’t setting here watching you fiddle with your noodle a minute more, Kelly. Old Man Brown’s hiding out near here somewhere, and I aim to find him.”

With that he galloped off, and the men followed. Kelly rushed to follow them, staggering to his mount. When he swung his horse around, Pardee said, “At least gimme my gun back, ya knobhead.”

“I sold it in Palmyra, ya mule-face abolitionist. I oughta kick your teeth out for screwing up that land title,” Kelly said. He rode off with the rest.

Pardee and Nigger Bob watched him leave.

When he was out of sight, Nigger Bob moved from the driver’s seat to the back and untied Pardee’s ankles without a word.

“Ride me home,” Pardee fumed. He said it over his shoulder as he rubbed his ankles, setting in back of the wagon.

Nigger Bob hopped into the driver’s seat, but didn’t move. He sat atop the wagon and looked straight ahead. “I ain’t riding you no place,” he said.

That floored me. I had never heard a Negro talk to a white man like that before in my entire life.

Pardee blinked, stunned. “What you say?”

“You heard it. This here wagon belongs to Mr. Settles and I’m taking it home to him.”

“But you got to pass Palmyra! That’s right where I live.”

“I ain’t going nowhere with you, Mr. Pardee. You can go where you want, however you please. But this here wagon belongs to Marse Jack Settles. And he ain’t give me no permission to ride nobody in it. I done what Mr. Kelly said ’cause I had to. But I ain’t got to now.”

“Git down off that seat and come down here.”

Bob ignored him. He sat in the driver’s seat, staring off into the distance.

Pardee reached for his heater, but found his holster empty. He stood up and glared at Nigger Bob like he was fit to whup him, but that Negro was bigger than him and I reckon he thought better of it. Instead, he jumped down off the wagon, stomped down the road a piece, picked up a large stone, walked back to the wagon, and chinked out the wood cotter pin on one of the wagon wheels. Just banged it right out. That pin held the wheel on. Bob sat there as he chinked. Didn’t move.

When Pardee was done, he throwed the pin in the thickets. “If I got to walk home, you walking too, ya black bastard,” he said, and stomped up the road.

Bob watched him till he was out of sight, then climbed down from the wagon and looked at the wheel. I waited several long minutes before I finally come out the woods. “I can help you fix that if you take me up the road a piece,” I said.

He stared at me, startled. “What you doing out, little girl?” he said.

Well, that throwed me, for I forgot how I was done up. I quick tried to untie the bonnet. But it was tied tight. So I went at the dress, which was tied from behind.

“Good Lord, child,” Bob said. “You ain’t got to do that to get no ride from Nigger Bob.”

“It ain’t what it looks like,” I said. “In fact, if you’d be so kind as to help me take this thing off—”

“I’ll be heading out,” he said, backing away.

But I had my chance and I weren’t going to lose it. “Wait a minute. Help me. If you don’t mind, just untie—”

Good God, he jumped atop the wagon, hustled onto the driver’s seat, called up that horse to trotting, and was off, pin or no pin. He got about ten yards before that back wheel got to wobbling so bad—it just about come clean off—before he stopped. He jumped down, pulled a stick from the thickets, stuck it into the pin hole, and commenced to banging it into place. I ran up on him.

“I got business, child,” he said, chinking away at the wheel. He wouldn’t look up at me.

“I ain’t a girl.”

“Whatever you think you is, honey, I don’t think it’s proper that you unstring that dress from ’round yourself in front of ol’ Nigger Bob—a married man.” He paused a minute, glanced around, then added, “Less’n you want to, of course.”

“You got a lot of salt talking that way,” I said.

“You the one asking for favors.”

“I’m trying to get to Dutch’s Crossing.”

“For what?”

“I live there. I’m Gus Shackleford’s boy.”

“That’s a lie. Old Gus is dead. And he ain’t have no girl. Had a boy. Wasn’t worth shit neither, that child.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say ’bout somebody you don’t know.”

“I don’t know you, child. You a sassy thing. How old are you?”

“It don’t matter. Take me back to Dutch’s. He’ll give you a little something for me.”

“I wouldn’t ride to Dutch’s for a smooth twenty dollars. They’ll kill a nigger in there.”

“He won’t bother you. It’s Old John Brown he’s after.”

At the mention of that name, Bob glanced around, taking stock up and down the trail, making sure nobody was rolling toward us. The trail was empty.

“ The John Brown?” he whispered. “He’s really ’round these parts?”

“Surely. He kidnapped me. Made me wear a dress and bonnet. But I escaped that murdering fool.”

“Why?”

“You see how he got me dressed.”

Bob looked at me closely, then sighed, then whistled. “There’s killers all up and down these plains,” he said slowly. “Ask the red man. Anybody’ll say anything to live. What would John Brown want with you anyhow? He need an extra girl to work his kitchen?”

“If I’m tellin’ a lie I hope I drop down dead after I tell it. I ain’t a girl!” I managed to pull the bonnet back off my head.

That shook him some. He peered at me close, then stuck his face into mine and it hit him then. His eyes got wide. “What the devil got into you?” he said.

“Want me to show you my privates?”

“Spare me, child. I takes your word for it. I wouldn’t want to see your privates any more than I’d want to stick my face in Dutch Henry’s Tavern. Why you paddling ’round like that? Was John Brown gonna run you north?”

“I don’t know. He just murdered three fellers up about five miles from here. I seen that with my own eyes.”

“White fellers?”

“If it look white and smell white, you can bet it ain’t buzzard.”

“You sure?”

“James Doyle and his boys,” I said. “Deadened ’em with swords.”

He whistled softly. “Glory,” he murmured.

“So you’ll take me back to Dutch’s?”

He didn’t seem to hear me. He seemed lost in thought. “I heard John Brown was about these parts. He’s something else. You ought to be grateful, child. You met him and all?”

“Met him? Why you think I’m dressed like a sissy. He—”

“Shit! If I could get Old John Brown to favor me and carry me to freedom, why, I’d dress up as a girl every day for ten years. I’d be thoroughly a girl till I got weak from it. I’d be a girl for the rest of my life. Anything’s better than bondage. Your best bet is to go back with him.”

“He’s a murderer!”

“And Dutch ain’t? He’s riding on Brown now. Got a whole posse looking for ’em. Every redshirt within a hundred miles is rolling these plains for him. You can’t go back to Dutch nohow.”

“Why not?”

“Dutch ain’t stupid. He’ll sell you south and git his money for you while he can. Any nigger that’s had a sip of freedom ain’t worth squat to the white man out here. High-yellow boy like you’ll fetch a good price in New Orleans.”

“Dutch wouldn’t see me sold.”

“You wanna bet?”

That gived me pause then. For Dutch weren’t too sentimental.

“You know where I can go?”

“Your best bet is to go back to Old Brown. If you ain’t lyin’ ’bout being with his gang and all. They say they’re fearsome. Is it true he carries two seven-shooters?”