by T. K. Lukas
A noise coming from the trail leading down to the river drew Seamus’s attention. He pressed his hand hard against Leighselle’s mouth, and it covered her nose. She struggled to breathe.
“We forgot one basket of your mama’s linens,” said Addy-Frank as she stepped from the dense overgrowth of the trail onto the sun-drenched bank. “The big ol’ heavy one. Massah Beauclaire say he going to send Ole Isaiah down with the wagon to lift it ’cause it be— Oh!” She stopped midstride, frozen, her eyes taking in the horrible scene.
Seamus shoved away from Leighselle, fastening his belt, then slipped like a shadow into the darkness of the thicket. Moments later, the clattering of hooves echoed down into the ravine as he galloped across the wooden span. The loud commotion flushed a murder of nesting crows into the sky.
Addy-Frank splashed across the river, grabbing Leighselle, pulling her up off the sand. “What he done to you? He hurt you?”
Leighselle opened her mouth but no words formed. No one could ever know about this. No one. She pulled away from Addy-Frank’s grasp and tugged at the torn slip that was ripped down the front, trying to cover herself.
“Who done this? You know him?” Addy-Frank grabbed Leighselle’s shoulders. “Who?”
“He comes from Texas to buy cattle.” Leighselle began to shake, a sound like that of an injured dove rising softly from within. “I couldn’t stop him. I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t.”
“Your daddy’s shotgun sure stop him. I go get Massah.”
“No! You never saw anything. Father—his business. We can’t speak of this to anyone. It’ll shame him. He—”
“Miss Leighselle, you need to tell your—”
“Tell no one. Go back to the house like you never left.”
Addy-Frank opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and then walked back up the trail toward the house, leaving the river behind.
Leighselle knelt by Jacques, who was whimpering, his paws twitching. She stroked the dog’s side, feeling for broken ribs. “You’ll be all right. Lay still, little dog, and catch your breath.”
Stepping into the warm current, she located the large flat-topped boulder that sat submerged a few inches under the water’s surface, the rock she played on and dove from—the rock that snapping turtles sunned themselves on and where frogs would sit and catch dragonflies.
She lay down on the rock, letting the warm, slow-flowing waters of the Vermillion wash the ocher sand from her hair, from her skin, from her slip. She imagined the water washing away the horrid nightmare, flowing it out to sea.
Leighselle closed her eyes against the glaring sun, against the indigo sky, against the red river, against the ocher sand and sunflowers bending over the banks, and against all that was fine and vibrant. Nothing would ever be fine or vibrant again. Something died. It was the death of yellow.
*****
“My God, Leighselle. I want to kill him.” Hughes pushed back from the table, knocking his chair over as he moved to her side, crouching down next to her. “Tell me where this monster is. I’ll put a bullet into his black heart. That son of a bitch is a dead man.”
Leighselle coughed into her handkerchief, patted each corner of her mouth clean, and then took a sip of lemonade. “If I recall, defending a woman who had been brutalized by a man was what led you to flee New Orleans in the first place.”
“That wasn’t a man who brutalized Monique. That was an animal. So was the creature who attacked you.” Hughes dropped his fist hard down on the table, the silverware clattering. “Nothing tightens my jaw faster than seeing a man hurt a woman. I had a gut full of that as a kid, seeing my mother cower from her own husband.”
“What happened to me seems a lifetime ago. I do have an idea as to where Seamus Flanders lives, if indeed he’s still living, but it’s not him I want you to find. It’s my daughter.”
“Your daughter would be close to my age, then, or a few years older,” Hughes said.
“Oh, no. That despicable incident didn’t result in a pregnancy. Seamus is not the child’s father. He’s the child’s grandfather. I fell in love with Seamus’s son, Henry, but I wasn’t aware of the connection. Henry had just arrived in America at the Port of Orleans from Ireland. I told you it was complicated.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” Hughes righted his toppled chair, taking a seat close to Leighselle.
“Indeed. And, all that I just told you is the easy part of the story.”
“The easy part? Good God.” Hughes shook his head and gave Leighselle a long, hard look, his eyes moving slowly over her thin face.
Her emerald green eyes were jaundiced, sunken, and accentuated by dark circles underneath. The angular sharpness of her cheekbones protruded from parchment paper skin. Lips, once supple and pink, were drawn into a thin, pained slit in an attempt at barring the coughs from escaping.
“Did you ever marry or have a family of your own?” she asked, uncomfortable with how he studied her with such intense concern. She knew she was dying—she had hoped it wasn’t that obvious.
“In my line of work, it’s better not to.” Hughes waved at Jameson, indicating more lemonade. “Having a wife would leave her vulnerable. If someone, an enemy, wanted to get to me, all they’d have to do would be to threaten the woman I loved.”
“Do you have many enemies?” she asked, her eyebrows raised in surprise.
“A hired gun always has enemies. It’s my aim to never leave one standing.”
Leighselle shuddered, pulling her shawl tighter. “Concentrating on a job would be near impossible, I would guess, if you had someone at home to also worry about.”
“I don’t have a permanent home, anyway. Another reason to stay single.” He gave a casual shrug of his shoulders.
“There are many reasons men choose to remain single. Yours sounds like one of the better ones.” A small cough tickled the back of her throat, lingering, never erupting into a full spasm. She waited, expecting it to explode, but the moment passed, leaving only the metallic aftertaste of blood.
CHAPTER FOUR
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1860
Journal Entry of Bar Flanders:
“A boy straddles a saddle differently than a girl” were the parting words Aunt Winnie called to my back when I rode out of Hog Mountain this morning. She’s right.
In my mind’s eye, I see my papa sitting tall in his saddle, reins in his left hand held loose between his fingers, a lariat gripped in his right, his preferred hand for shooting, too. He sat a saddle with a confident, casual attitude given to men born to ride. Given to girls born to ride, too.
I must remember to ride, sit, dress, eat, laugh, spit, talk, walk, and think like a boy—all while acting naturally. However, through trial and error, I have determined it is impossible to stand and pee like a boy.
Today’s travels brought me a few miles east of Fort Worth. Not a bad start at all for a wagon horse. We put a respectable dent in the three hundred and fifty miles left to go. If we average fifty miles a day, then we can make Little Rock, Arkansas by this time next week. From there to Saint Joseph, Missouri is another four hundred seventy five miles, but the Overland Stage can cover one hundred miles or more in twenty-four hours since it makes quick stops to change drivers and horses and to allow passengers comfort breaks.
By my calculations, I’ll be applying at the Central Overland California and Pikes Peak Express Company by the end of October. As Aunt Winnie cautioned, I’ll refrain from referring to it as the COC & PP Express Company, which sent her into another fit of laughter.
If I pocket twenty-five dollars a week all of November, December, and January, I’ll have at least three hundred dollars to finish paying the taxes due on the ranch, plus some. Won’t ol’ Mr. Goldthwaite swallow his teeth when he sees that?
We (me and King) made camp just at sunset. Bone-deep weariness saps my appetite. My desire for food hides itself behind my ribcage. Papa used to say that. “What’s wrong girl? Your hunger hiding behind your ribs?” I’d laugh, he’d laugh
, I’d feign starvation. His eyes would twinkle—his grin would spread across his face. Papa’s smile, his ear connecting smile. . . .
I look west and my thoughts tangle. I wonder what’s wrong with me—wrong with my heart. Did I leave it in Palo Pinto? I wasn’t sad this morning leaving Starling. I should have been sad, but I wasn’t. All I could think about was getting on that horse and riding. Not riding away from her, but riding toward this opportunity.
The township of Dallas is tomorrow’s target, so I should close my journal and sleep. I wonder if I’ll have that dream again, that recurring dream I’ve had these past few nights. A wolf, silent and powerful, watches over me and I’m not afraid. He keeps the nightmares at bay.
Tomorrow, I’ll forgive myself for not feeling sad about leaving my baby sister. I’ll put emotions aside. I’ll concentrate on one thing: being Bar Flanders.
*****
October 17, 1860
The township of Dallas was abuzz with activity as Barleigh rode through the middle of the square, stopping at the livery stable to refill her canteens. Everyone was pitching in to rebuild the business district, which had been torched the previous July. Only a few buildings were completely functional. Others were half-gutted shells, although still operational. Most, however, were nothing but charred heaps of blackened rubbish.
Seeing the destruction, smelling the scorched remains of wood and plaster, caused her blood to cool. The memory of that night came rushing back with the sooty breeze that swept through the burned-out streets.
Barleigh rode King past the blackened buildings, looking for the livery stables. A helpful stranger pointed her down Main Street, indicating the building adjacent to Bennett’s Mercantile. Barleigh tipped her hat, said “Much obliged,” and kept riding.
A pinch-faced elderly woman along with her homely daughter who was approaching old maid status were at the stables waiting for the stagecoach. “My widowed sister lives here, but we’re going back home to Austin,” the mother informed Barleigh. Her busy hands fussed at the closures on her dress, with her daughter’s dress, and with the ribbons that held her hat to her head. “You know who did that, don’t you?”
“Ma’am?” Barleigh peered from under the brim of her hat, following the woman’s pointed finger toward the rebuilding project. “Uh, no, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Wasn’t lightning did that,” she said, flipping the handle of her carpet bag back and forth. “Nope. Local slaves rebelled and set fire to those buildings. Abolitionists were run out of town, three Negroes hanged, and a judge ordered all the rest of the slaves in the township whipped for good measure. No telling who really done it. But they all got whipped.” She tugged at the fingers of her gloves, then settled her brown, pin eyes on Barleigh. “You aren’t an Abolitionist, are you?”
“I, uh, I just stopped here for water and to check my horse’s shoes, ma’am.” A cold sweat broke out on her brow. Her hands shook as she fumbled with untying the leather straps that attached the canteens to the saddle.
The mother continued her nosy inquiry, asking where Barleigh came from, where she was going, and might the mother and her daughter be fortunate enough that her destination might also be Austin. “A male escort would be most welcome, given the unrestful atmosphere. Two helpless women traveling alone. . . .” She fretted again with the ribbons on her hat, the frayed ends betraying her long-standing habit.
“I’m Bar Flanders, ma’am. Headed to Saint Joseph, Missouri, to hire on with the Pony Express.” She kept her words and eye contact to a minimum, though the mother tried hard to engage her in a staring contest. The daughter, however, never raised her eyes off the ground or her voice above a whisper.
“Mirabella, wouldn’t he make a fine young suitor for you?” The mother elbowed her daughter, eyes wide, and her gloved hands fluttered in the air like two seizured birds. “I think he should come to Austin instead. He can work on the ranch, if he wants to ride horses for a living.”
Barleigh tipped her hat, politely declined, made her excuse to be on her way, tipped her hat again, and aw-shucked her way out of there.
While she spurred King away at a fast trot, her mind played with the notion of who she’d have become, if she’d grown up with a fussy mother like that. Would she be an old maid, quiet, shy, and afraid of her own shadow like Mirabella? Maybe fate had it right that she should have grown up without a mother, with Papa raising her as he did, in a saddle, on a horse, under the wide-open sky, just as at ease with a pistol as she was with a pencil.
The first close encounter a success, and she was nearer to becoming Bar Flanders, perfecting her persona, growing ever more natural with her boy-self as each hour passed. Sinking into this new somebody she was becoming, she found the clouded image easy to hide behind.
A small stand of towering cottonwoods lined the banks of a creek where she made camp for the night, their leaves pale yellow with the approaching autumn chill. The place reminded her of where her horse, Willow, was stolen by an Indian boy on the wagon trail north when they had left the Gulf Coast behind. Making a small fire, she sipped coffee from a tin cup, remembering.
It had been along the Brazos River between Waco and Fort Worth when she had broken her papa’s number one rule of the wagon trail, to always stay together. She’d ridden off alone like a hotheaded fool.
*****
“What am I hearing coming from inside that wagon?” Seamus, Barleigh’s grandfather shouted as he brought up the team of horses to be harnessed for the day’s drive. “Barleigh, what are you doing in the wagon? Birdie is supposed to be repacking breakfast supplies.”
“She’s through with packing. I’m reading to her. And, I’m teaching her to read, too, just like Papa taught me.” Barleigh poked her head through the flap in the canvas that covered the wagon and smiled at her grandfather.
“Slaves can’t read. They don’t know how. Come out of there at once, Barleigh.” His face reddened with anger.
“Birdie can read. I taught her. Go on, Birdie, show Grandfather how well you pronounce the words.” Barleigh crawled out of the wagon and perched on the seat, motioning for Birdie to follow. She held the book out for Birdie to take, but Birdie refused.
“That not be a good idea,” said Birdie, a slight catch in her voice. “Your grandfather a busy man this morning, getting the horses and wagon ready, and all.”
“See,” Seamus said with a smirk. “Even Birdie knows it’s a farce. She’s memorizing what you’ve read to her. She’s not reading. Slaves are incapable. Their brains don’t function the way ours do.”
“Birdie can,” Barleigh insisted. “Here, read this next paragraph that I haven’t read to you. Show Grandfather you’re not memorizing. Go on.” She handed the book to Birdie, pointing out the next paragraph.
Birdie shook her head ‘no,’ clamping her hands behind her back, refusing to take the book.
Seamus laughed, his words caustic. “See. I told you. Darkies are ignorant. You can show them a task, but you can’t teach them complicated skills.”
Barleigh pressed the issue, insisting that Birdie demonstrate her command of reading, proud of how she’d taught her. “Birdie, show him he’s wrong. Go on, now.”
Birdie hesitated, and then took the book in her hands. She read, her voice slow and steady, enunciating each word:
“This is God’s curse on slavery! A bitter, bitter, most accursed thing! A curse to the master and a curse to the slave! I was a fool to think I could make anything good out of such a deadly evil.”
Seamus spun on his heels, pulling Birdie from the wagon, slapping her hard across her face with the back of his hand, knocking her onto the ground. She landed in a heap at his feet. The book slipped from her hands and lay open in the dirt, its pages flapping like a tiny flock of white birds trying to take flight.
He kicked the book into the dying embers of the campfire. “You are never to pick up another book again. Do you understand me?” he shouted, pointing his finger at Birdie who lay on the ground, an angry welt beg
inning to swell across her cheek.
Birdie held a fist to her bleeding lip, tears welling in her eyes. “Yessuh. I won’t never.”
“Grandfather, don’t!” Barleigh shrieked. “Stop!” She leapt from the wagon and attached herself to her grandfather’s arm as he lifted Birdie off the ground with one hand, his other slapping her across the mouth.
“What the hell?” Henry came at a run to see his father with one hand a twisted fist gripping the front of Birdie’s dress, the other upraised, ready to inflict another blow to her already swollen face. Barleigh clung to his upraised arm, swinging like a monkey from a branch.
Henry’s voice growled low with a trembling fury not to be ignored. He spoke each word as a single imperative. “Let her go, Father. Never again lift a hand to her. If I ever see you or hear of you striking this woman, it’ll be me you face.”
“Know your place, boy. Birdie is my slave. It’s my prerogative to punish her as I see fit. Any slave caught reading deserves punishment.”
“That’s a damn coward’s way, a man striking a woman. If you wish to hit someone, hit me, Father.” Henry spoke the word ‘father’ without a trace of respect. He balled his fists, ready to receive or to land a blow.
“Birdie is not a woman, she’s a slave. And she’s my slave, lest you forget.” Seamus spat out the words as if they tasted bitter in his mouth.
“She’s a human being.” The veins that formed a V on Henry’s forehead and that crept their way to the surface when he showed anger pulsed hot and red. “Let the punishment fit the crime. If her crime is reading,” he said, enunciating each word with a crisp indignation, “then take away the book.”
“I took that away, too. She is never to read again. Never. Do you all three hear my voice and understand my words? I demand you respect my rules,” shouted Seamus. “My slave. My rules.”
