James McBride - The Good Lord Bird

“All the more reason to run these Free Staters out of this country,” he said. “I’m Chase.” He motioned to his partner. “That’s Randy.”

I howdied ’em.

“Where’s your Ma?”

“Dead.”

“Where is your Pa?”

“Dead. Dead, dead, dead. They all dead.” I boo-hooed again.

He stood there watching. That throwed him some more. “Quit crying for God’s sake, and I’ll give you a peppermint,” he said.

I stood sniffling while he reached in one of them bags on his horse and throwed me a candy. I throwed it down my little red lane without hesitation. It was my first time tasting one of them things, and by God, the explosion in my mouth gived me more pleasure than you can imagine. Candy was rare in them days.

He seed the effect of it and said, “I has plenty more of them, little missus. What’s your business in Lawrence?”

He had me there. I hadn’t no business in Lawrence, and wouldn’t know Lawrence from Adam. So I commenced to choking and fluttering on that candy to give me a minute to think, which made Chase leap off his horse and pound my back—but that didn’t work, neither, for he slammed me so hard, the candy got throwed out my mouth and hit the dust, and that gived me a reason to pretend to be sorry about that, which I was in a real way, so I bawled a little more, but this time it didn’t move him, for we both stared at the candy on the ground. I reckon we was both trying to decide a good way to get it up, clean, and eat it as it should be eaten. After a minute or so, I still hadn’t come up with nothing.

“Well?” he said.

I glanced at the thicket, hoping Owen would come back. Never had I wanted to see his sour face so much. But I heard shots from the woods where he and the brothers had departed, so I figured they’d had their own troubles. I was on my own.

I said, “My Pa left me this sorry nigger Bob here, and I told him to take me to Lawrence. But he got to giving me so much trouble—”

By God, why did I do that? Chase drawed out his heater again and stuck it in Bob’s face. “I’ll beat this nigger cockeyed if he’s giving you trouble.”

Bob’s eyes widened big as silver dollars.

“No, sir, that’s not it,” I said hurriedly. “This nigger’s actually been a help to me. It would do me great harm if you hurt him, for he is all I have in this world.”

“All right then,” Chase said, holstering his six-shooter. “But lemme ask you, honey. How can a part-way nigger own a full-way nigger?”

“He’s paid for fair and square,” I said. “They do that in Illinois all the time.”

“I thought you said you was from Palmyra,” Chase said.

“By way of Illinois.”

“Ain’t that a Free State?” Chase said.

“Not for us rebels,” I said.

“What town in Illinois?”

Well, that stumped me. I didn’t know Illinois from a mule’s ass. I couldn’t think of a town there to save my life, so I thunk of something I heard the Old Man say often. “Purgatory,” I said.

“Purgatory,” Chase laughed. He turned to Randy. “That’s the right name for a Yankee town, ain’t it, Randy?”

Randy stared at him and didn’t say a natural word. That man was dangerous.

Chase looked ’round and seen Frederick’s grave where we’d buried him.

“Who’s that?”

“Don’t know. We been hiding in this thicket while the Free Staters was scouting ’round here. I heard ’em say it was one of theirs.”

Chase pondered the grave thoughtfully. “It’s a fresh grave. We ought to see if who’sever in there got on boots,” he said.

That throwed me, for last thing I wanted to do was for them to dig up Frederick and pick all over his parts. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, so I said, “I heard ’em say he got his face blowed off and it was all mush.”

“Jesus,” Chase mumbled. He backed away from the grave. “Damn Yanks. Well, you ain’t got to fear them now, little angel. Chase Armstrong done drove ’em off! Wanna ride with us?”

“We is going to the Lawrence Hotel to get a job, and Bob is a help to me. We was waylaid, see, when you all whipped up on them darn Free Staters. But thanks to you, the danger is gone. So I reckon we’ll be off.”

I motioned to Bob to har up the mule, but Chase said, “Hold on now. We’re going to Pikesville, Missouri. That’s in your general direction. Why not come with us?”

“We’ll be fine.”

“These trails is dangerous.”

“They ain’t that bad.”

“I think they is bad enough that you ought not ride alone,” he said. It weren’t no invitation the way he said it.

“Bob here is sick,” I said. “He got the ague. It’s catching.”

“All the more reason to roll with us. I know a couple of nigger traders in Pikesville. Big nigger like that would draw some good money, sick or not. A couple thousand dollars, maybe. Give you a good start.”

Bob shot a wild look at me.

“I can’t do that,” I said, “for I promised my Pa never to sell him.”

I motioned for him again to har up the mules, but Chase grabbed the traces this time and held them tight. “What’s waiting for you in Lawrence? Ain’t nothing but Free Staters there.”

“There is?”

“Surely.”

“We’ll go to the next town, then.”

Chase chuckled. “Ride our way.”

“I weren’t going that way. Plus Old John Brown’s riding these woods. They’re still dangerous.”

I motioned Bob to har up the mule one more time, but Chase held ’em tight, looking at me out the corner of his eye. He was serious now.

“Brown is done. The redshirts is shooting up what’s left of his boys in the woods yonder. And he’s dead. I seen him with my own eyes.”

“That can’t be!”

“Yep. Deader than yesterday’s beer.”

That floored me. “That’s a low-down, rotten, dirty piece of luck!” I said.

“How’s that?”

“I mean it’s rotten luck that ... I ain’t never seen him dead, him being a famous outlaw and all. You seen him surely?”

“He’s stinking to high heaven right now, the nigger-stealing thief. I seen him hit at the bank and fall into the Marais des Cygnes myself. I would’a run down there and chopped his head off myself but”—he cleared his throat—“me and Randy had to run ’round to protect the flank. Plus there was a hardware store on the back end of town that needed cleaning out, if you get my drift, being that them Free Staters won’t be needin’ this stuff ...”

I knowed he was wrong about the Old Man’s whereabouts then, and I was relieved. But I had to take care of myself too, so I said, “I am so glad he is gone, for this territory is now safe for good white folks to live free and clear.”

“But you ain’t white.”

“Half-white. Plus we got to take care of the coloreds here, for they needs us. Right, Bob?”

Bob looked away. I knowed he was mad.

I reckoned Chase decided I was close enough to white for him, for Bob’s manner sullied him. “You’s a sour-faced coon,” he muttered, “and I ought to bust you ’cross the jibs for attitude.” He turned to me. “What kind of work you seeking in Lawrence that you carry ’round such a sour nigger?”

“Trim’s my business,” I said proudly, for I could cut hair.

He perked up. “Trim?”

Now, having growed up with whores and squaws at Dutch’s, I should’a knowed what that word “trim” meant. But the truth is, I didn’t.

“I sell the best trim a man can get. Can do two or three men in an hour.”

“That many?”

“Surely.”

“Ain’t you a little young to be selling trim?”

“Why, I’m twelve near as I can tell it, and can sell trims just as good as the next person,” I said.