Buffalo Soldier

by Maurice Broaddus

  “It’s passing only if you’d never actually met an Albion citizen.”

  “But I have. Quite many, actually.”

  “You’re thinking the United States proper, not that what you’re doing would fly much out there. But you’re in Tejas now. You might as well be speaking a foreign language.”

  Desmond altered his pitch and cadence. “I’ll have to work on it.”

  The woman scrunched her face as if hearing someone tune a poorly kept instrument. “You can find me at the Redeemer. I’m there often. Any time you want a listening ear, come see me.”

  As the woman sauntered away from them, Lij relaxed.

  “Let’s find a room.” Desmond gently yanked at his hand. “Get off the streets and away from so many people. These Tejans, they love chat too much.”

  II. : Black Shadow

  LIKE THE REST of the town, the lobby of the Fountain was under renovation. Large white sheets draped the furniture and walls, as if the hotel hosted a gathering of ghosts lounging in odd positions.

  “We’d like a room,” Desmond said.

  “Passing through or staying for a while?” The concierge had a thick mustache and a patch of hair on his chin. He smoothed down errant tufts of hair with his palm. Despite a vest and jacket, his shirt was unbuttoned and filthy about the collar. A long watch chain dangled from his jacket pocket to his vest.

  “Tonight for now. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

  “Right.” Glancing between Desmond and the boy, the man’s eyes betrayed him mentally putting his thumb on the scales. “That’ll be one hundred credits. In advance.”

  “I see.” Desmond fished in his change purse. Their funds were running low. He would need to find work soon or risk them begging in the streets. He withdrew a Jamaican bank note. A five-hundred-dollar bill with a portrait of Grandy Nanny on it. One of the freedom fighters who drove away Albion forces from the Jamaican shores during the Maroon Wars. Like an important part of his history, he held on to it. A reminder of a memory. He whispered to himself, “Nanny for Queen.”

  “We don’t take any play money here. Only Albion credits or Tejas currency.”

  “What about this?” Desmond produced a gold coin. “Surely you could make do with this.”

  “We don’t make change.” The man held the coin between his index finger and thumb with an appraising gaze. “But this will guarantee . . . two nights.”

  “Three.”

  “Fine, but no refunds if you opt to leave early.”

  Movement caught Desmond’s eye in the mirror behind the man. He hadn’t put the habits of spycraft behind him. Shrouded among the winding stairs, a sheet-covered coat rack, and some decorative plants, a figure stood near the back corner of the lobby under the stairwell. His high black boots and dark pants didn’t draw attention to him. However, his cape reminded Desmond of someone. A Kabbalist agent. Desmond whirled around, brandishing his cane like a sword. The man wasn’t there.

  “Everything all right?” the concierge asked.

  “Yes it’s fine.” Desmond glanced from one end of the lobby to the other. Finding no trace of the man, he lowered his cane. “I thought I saw an old . . . friend.”

  The concierge eyed the cane. “We don’t look too kindly on those sorts of friendships rekindling their acquaintance. This is a much gentler joint than the Redeemer, I promise you.”

  “I’m dining there this evening. With Mr. Hearst.” Desmond let the name fall to see what kind of reaction it would receive.

  “My, you do have fancy friends.” The man handed him a set of keys without further commentary.

  * * *

  Desmond filled a water basin and washed his face. He’d drawn a bath for Lij and let the boy splash around while he finished donning his attire for the evening. If there was one thing he truly missed of his old life, it was his dandied wardrobe. Theirs was a life on the run, but he still allowed himself one clothing indulgence. A fuchsia-colored shirt against a dark emerald suit. A pocket kerchief matched his shirt.

  “How do you like the room?” Desmond asked as Lij emerged from the bathroom.

  “It is fine, I guess.”

  “What do you mean when you say ‘I guess’?”

  “I’m guessing. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?” Lij didn’t look at him.

  “Are you enjoying being around people a little more?”

  “One percent. I hear all the noise.” Lij wore white pinstriped pants and a collared blue shirt with large pockets. Lij loved pockets.

  “Well, let’s see what the good people of Abandon have to offer.”

  Desmond helped him finish dressing before putting the final trimmings on his own outfit. He eased an unlit pipe into his mouth and grabbed his tan-handled cane. His dark sunglasses hid a third of his face.

  Marveling at the mechanical horses as they trotted along, Desmond hadn’t seen such craftsmanship since leaving Jamaica. Hundreds of metal squares, like armor weave-molded on a frame, formed their gleaming, sleek bodies. The clockwork beasts threw chunks of mud with each step. Only a few horse-drawn carriages filled the streets. Unlike other cities, where cars clogged the paved city arteries with such thick congestion that every morning, the city suffered a traffic coronary.

  “Everyone here seems to have a gun,” Lij said.

  “They do love their guns here.”

  “I don’t like them. They hurt people.”

  “That’s what they were designed to do,” Desmond said.

  “You hurt people.”

  “Sometimes. That was what I was trained to do in order to protect the people I cared about.”

  “This one time, you hurt a man in a cape.”

  “I remember.”

  “He came after us. He kept following us from place to place, like a shadow. He said he was after me and that I was a weapon.”

  “You’re not a weapon.”

  “He lied and said I was. I didn’t like him. He made me . . .” Lij clapped his hands. Every now and then, Lij would get stuck on a point. Like a needle caught in the groove of a phonogram, he kept coming back to whatever made him anxious until he worked it out of his system.

  “How did he make you feel?” Desmond held his hand loosely but gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Scared. And angry. I wanted to go to my quiet place.”

  “The special room?”

  “No, my quiet place. They sometimes let me do that. It helped me get calm.”

  “We all sometimes need to go to our quiet place.”

  “Yours is under a tree.”

  Desmond smiled. “It helps me think.”

  “This one time you ran and jumped on a man with a cape. You started kicking and punching and rolling on the ground.”

  “I remember. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “All right.” Lij walked a little more.

  A man limped by on a set of crutches, his leg missing from the knee down. Two men punched each other while a crowd watched. Neither one particularly angry, their fight seemed more of an exercise in venting anger. A trashcan fire warmed a family between buildings. Rats scurried along the windowsill of the closed general store, anxious to get to the feed inventory. What Desmond hated most was the smell. The mud may have been mixed with waste from sewer overflows. A heavy odor fell from the factory. Everything had a hint of something burnt, as if someone overworked the bellows and stoked flames, scorching the walls of buildings.

  Lij snapped back to attention. “You kept kicking and punching him. I thought I was in trouble.”

  “You weren’t in trouble.”

  “I thought I made trouble.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. Bad men wanted to do bad things to you.”

  “And you kept kicking and punching him. You kept me safe.”

  “I told you, I protect the people I care about.”

  “I don’t like this place. There are too many shadows.”

  “I know.” Desmond knew they were being watched. Herded. Each step toward
the Redeemer carried a sense of inevitability. If their enemies had found them, best to gather them, have them reveal themselves. Deal with them one way or another.

  A thin haze of smoky air hung in the air as if not wanting to cross the threshold of the Redeemer’s lobby. In the flickering gaslit glow of the chandelier, a few men sat around card tables, smoking pipes and muttering to themselves. They held their cards either close to their vests or flat against the table. A series of open flames ringed the small stage. A piano player let his fingers dance along the keys, producing a jaunty melody. But no showgirls took to the stage. The music rose and fell, a choreographed metronome. A few men glanced with expectation to the stage, but without so much as a curtain rustle to hold their attention, they turned back to their games.

  Stepping inside, he felt all eyes in the room quickly fall on him. The piano ceased its tinkling, holding its breath in an extended pause before picking back up a few measures later. Desmond scanned the saloon, but he didn’t see their erstwhile dinner companion.

  “This here’s no place for a child, boy.”

  Desmond fully expected to turn and see the rude man from earlier that day. Though this new man could have been his relation, it was not him. Desmond began to wonder if there were but two sorts of people in Tejas: the rude ones itching for a confrontation and the overly chatty ones looking to learn a stranger’s life story. He didn’t like the way the man looked at either of them. “There are no children here.”

  The man took a moment to size Desmond up one last time. Through the thick lenses of his beer goggles, he saw something he didn’t like. Or he’d sobered up enough for common sense to take over. “Just giving you fair warning’s all.”

  The man stumbled back toward the saloon, the darkness and smoky haze swallowing him in a few steps. Desmond turned in time to see the woman from the street stride through the doorway.

  “Well, ain’t this a pig living in muck,” she said.

  “I’m getting accustomed to the constant posturing, I suppose,” Desmond said.

  “You certainly clean up nice.”

  “It’s not every day one is invited to dine with the closest thing to a Chancellor of a city one had never been in before.”

  “When you put it that way, I’m downright envious.”

  “Well, I’m curious as to what he has to say. At the very least, it’s a free meal and I expect it to be interesting.”

  “Interesting . . . is a word.” She stared at him with a gaze that struck him as one part flirtation and two parts appraisal.

  “Well, well, well, look at all the pretty people gathered in one place. I doubt the Redeemer can take it.” Mr. Hearst paraded down the steps, taking his time to ensure all eyes remained on him. He capped his green outfit with a cowboy hat, but he wore it like he was new to it and it didn’t fit natural. When he reached the bottom of the stairwell, he studied the woman and Desmond. The intensity of scrutiny reminded Desmond of how Lij often stared at people who drew his full attention. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Not at all. We didn’t see you and we thought it best to wait by the main door,” Desmond said.

  “Yeah, the Redeemer’s not exactly casual family dining, but it’ll do in a pinch. I’m here now; shall we go in?” Mr. Hearst held the door, then ran his eyes up and down the woman. “Where are my manners? Garrison Hearst at your service.”

  “Cayt Siringo.”

  “Enchanted.” Mr. Hearst bent low to kiss her hand. “You, my dear, are welcome to join us.”

  “Now, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Cayt said.

  “Nonsense. I’d be kicking myself for the rest of the night if I refused the opportunity for the company of so exquisite a creature.”

  “In that case, I’d love to join you.” Cayt curtsied and stepped through the doorway.

  Eyes from each of the tables watched them to their seats, some more surreptitiously than others. The rude man and the one who could be his relation kept their eyes on the drinks in front of them. A waitress met them immediately and ushered them to the rear of the saloon. Another set of stairs wrapped around the back wall and side of the room, creating a small alcove around a back table. It afforded them a view of the entire saloon floor as well as a measure of privacy.

  The waitress cast an uncertain eye toward Lij, but Mr. Hearst waved off her unneeded attention. Desmond moved to the seat closest to the back wall and immediately noted the exits. Though he left the seat beside him vacant, Lij refused it and stood behind him.

  “Cigarette?” Mr. Hearst held out a gold cigarette container. “Carolina-grown.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Cayt took a cigarette and held it to her lips for Mr. Hearst to light.

  “And you?”

  “I have my own.” Desmond reached into his vest pocket to withdraw the pouch. He deftly rolled a spliff only half of what he normally rolled, so that he’d have enough to roll one last one later. With quite the production, he took a long hit, held the smoke for several heartbeats before letting loose a thick cloud of smoke.

  “An unusual odor, I must say,” Mr. Hearst said.

  “It’s not from Carolina.”

  “Speaking of unusual, so is your accent. Where are you from?”

  “You’re the second person to remark on my accent.” Desmond smirked at Cayt.

  “I may have mentioned that if he were affecting an Albion accent, or worse, a Tejan one, he still had room to perfect it,” Cayt said.

  “I must say I do agree with the lady. Still, I can’t quite place it,” Mr. Hearst pressed.

  “Jamaica.” Desmond smiled to keep up pretenses, but he knew an interrogation when he heard one. He’d dealt with men like Mr. Hearst before. Men who enjoyed their power but enjoyed watching people dance to their tune even more.

  “You’re a long way from home.”

  “We’re on an extended vacation. When I was young, I always wished to see more of the world. To better know its people, walk among them. Learn from them.”

  “How much of the world do you plan to see?”

  The man fished for information. Desmond wasn’t going to give him much. “We haven’t decided. There’s so much to see here.”

  “We’re so close to the Five Civilized Tribes border; had you given that any consideration?”

  “It was difficult enough crossing the Tejas border from Albion. The borders of the Five Civilized Tribes seem particularly . . . contested.”

  “You know how border disputes go.” Mr. Hearst waved his cigarette about in search of an ashtray. A waitress brought one over and then busied herself at another table. “Folks squabbling over who owns what land.”

  “Land ownership is where true wealth lies,” Desmond said.

  “And the resources they represent. Some of the California lands have gold veins so thick that you can scoop up with your hands . . . all going to waste ’cause these godless, bloodthirsty heathens ain’t got the sense God gave them.”

  “I’m quite familiar with being seen as a potential well of resources. It’s Albion’s chief lesson of interaction with its neighbors.”

  Mr. Hearst read Desmond’s expression of unease. “I don’t mean to offend. Look here, I’ve got nothing against those people. I just have a habit of saying what a lot of people think, especially around these parts, and—not being politically shrewd—I forget my words may shock some folks. If it makes you feel any better, you should know that I’m part Indian. On my father’s side.”

  “You’re part full of shit,” Cayt said. “Everyone claims they’re part Indian, like it’s some sort of fashion statement.”

  Mr. Hearst took the casual insult in stride, but he slowly turned to her like a missile turret acquiring a new target. “So, how is it that you and Mr. Coke became acquainted?”

  “An accident of circumstances, I’d say,” Cayt said.

  “We bumped into each other on the promenade. Not too long after you and I were first introduced,” Desmond said.

  “It was a busy day for yo
u. Lots of interesting characters to meet,” Mr. Hearst said.

  “The people of Tejas do love to . . . introduce themselves. It’s not how I imagined this place would be.”

  “You think us all gun-crazed militia types, barricading ourselves in our homes with stores of food and ammo, waiting for the government invasion?”

  “So the news would have people believe.”

  “The Vox Dei and Vox Populi are owned by Lord Leighton Melbourne. The Vox Populi electro-transmissions are an opiate for the masses, and I’d sooner wipe my ass with the Vox Dei than read it.”

  Desmond shifted. “There’s a lady and child present.”

  “Well, how a man tends to the needs of his ass says a lot about him,” Cayt said.

  “I like this one. She’s a hoot. Can I buy you all a round of drinks before we get down to it? I have it on good authority that the bartender keeps a bottle of thirty-three-year-old whiskey from the Scottish highlands in his special stock. I’ve been hankering to try it.”

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” Desmond said.

  “Not a drinking man?”

  “Not as much these days.”

  “The duty of parenthood, I suppose.” Mr. Hearst snapped his fingers and the waitress stepped to attention. “I never hope to find out.”

  “Whiskey. Neat,” Cayt said.

  “Two sarsaparillas for the gentleman and his son. Two whiskeys. The good stuff. Neat.” Mr. Hearst waved her off like he brushed lint from his shoulders. “Now, you were saying about how you two met.”

  “Up until a couple hours ago, we’d never met,” Cayt said again.

  “Cayt—may I call you Cayt?”

  “Of course. We’re all friends here.”

  “Cayt, how does it that a young woman such as yourself finds her way to the fair city of Abandon?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”