Into the Bright Unknown

  “Too much?” suggests Jefferson.

  “A surprise?” asks Jim, suppressing his grin.

  It’s the best thing to happen to me since Jefferson agreed to marry me. “You have to let me pay you for—”

  “There he is!” shouts Becky. She’s pointing at the Custom House. “There he goes!”

  Sure enough, yesterday’s clerk is strolling along the veranda with one of his fellows. I grab the blanket, rewrap the rifle, and stuff it under the bench. “Let’s go,” I say.

  While Jefferson catches Jim up on what’s going on, Becky, Henry, and I set off across the plaza at a brisk pace. “So, you’ll stand watch?” Becky asks me.

  She must be nervous, because we’ve been over it a thousand times. “If I see the clerk coming back, I’ll come inside and signal so you can slip out,” I assure her.

  Henry jumps in with, “Then I’ll take the letter and continue to wait in line by myself. If you still have concerns, I can go in alone.”

  “No, no,” Becky says. “I’ll feel better if I see it through myself. And though we’ve done our best to anticipate questions, the situation might still require a woman’s touch.”

  Because that worked so well for us yesterday. But I refrain from saying as much.

  Becky and her false husband step into line. Across the plaza, Hampton has returned to the wagon, and my stomach rumbles when he offers something to Jefferson and Jim.

  Everyone is in place now, so I lean against the wall between the Custom House and the law offices, like I’m waiting impatiently for someone inside, which will be my excuse should anyone bother me. I pull the brim of my hat down over my face so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. I pull my sweater down over my hands because I’m cold. I cross my arms with what I hope is a strong signal to leave me alone.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a woman approaching, and for a split second, I think it’s Helena Russell, the woman who was keeping company with Hardwick. I’m like a deer about to bolt, until a closer look reveals the truth: it’s the pickpocket from the previous morning.

  “Hello, Sonia,” I say without warmth. She must frequent Portsmouth Square often. A lot of miners here with gold to spend. After they’ve had a few drinks, it’s probably easy to part them from their fortunes.

  “Oh. Miss Lee,” she says, eyes widening, feet faltering. She turns and dashes away.

  I’m almost sad to see her go, because two generously whiskered fellows come along and lean against the wall beside me. They pretend like they’re talking to each other—about the empty lot one just purchased, and the lucky card streak the other is on—but I’d bet my boots they’re bragging to get my attention. I pretend they don’t exist. It’s a damp, chilly day, and my attitude is even chillier. Eventually they move on.

  Becky and Henry make it inside. The line isn’t long compared to yesterday. After about twenty minutes, I notice that everything has gone peculiarly silent, and people are leaving the Custom House—folks who made it inside after Becky and Henry. They all seem anxious and hurried.

  I start to worry a little.

  Then our helpful clerk from yesterday saunters back with one of his fellows, and I start to worry a lot.

  I peel off from the wall and stick my head in the door, about to wave the signal for Becky to cover her face and slip away.

  I freeze.

  Frank Dilley stands just inside, Colt revolver trained on Becky and Henry. They are seated in chairs, guarded by two impeccably groomed men in suits. One of the guards is very large, and the other is larger. Frank grins when he sees me. He motions with the gun for me to stand beside the chairs.

  Henry is hunched over on himself, looking defeated. Becky is like a stray cat cornered in the barn—I can’t tell if she’s about to bolt or attack with her claws.

  “This won’t take but a minute,” Frank says. The burn on his face is smeared with glycerin, giving it a red shine. The scar pulls the corner of his mouth back into a joyless smile. It looks painful. I hope it’s painful.

  “Just play by the rules and nobody will get hurt,” Frank says. “I know that goes against your nature, but do it this once, for the sake of your friends. Then we’ll all be on our way.”

  I walk slowly to Becky’s side, hands up, eyes on that gun. The clerk comes through the door and skids to a stop. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, my.”

  The other clerks peer at us from across the counter, like this is a show they’ve been waiting to see.

  “Mr. Brumble,” Frank says.

  Yesterday’s clerk bobs his head. “Yes, sir. Present, sir.”

  “Are these two . . . well, I don’t know what to call the two of them together, but for the sake of argument, we’ll say ladies. Are these two ladies the ones who came in yesterday and tried to collect property belonging to one Mr. Andrew Joyner?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir, they are.”

  “And this gentleman here presented himself today as Mr. Andrew Joyner. You can confirm this, correct?” Frank waves his hand in the direction of another man in a starched white shirt, who immediately provides assent.

  “This time last year,” Frank says, drawing the words out with obvious pleasure, “I was wagon master on the train that brought this sorry group of deceivers and reprobates west to California. Mr. Andrew Joyner was a member of our party, but he got himself killed crossing the Rocky Mountains. That boy there with the fancy suit is Henry Meeks, fresh out of college and completely ignorant of honest work. He is not Andrew Joyner. Do all of you recognize their faces now?”

  The line of clerks nods, solemn as a jury.

  “If any of these troublemakers makes another attempt to claim property belonging to the late Mr. Joyner—or anyone else, for that matter—you are authorized to seize them for fraud, and hold them until they can be arrested by the sheriff or his deputies.”

  “Does that come from the sheriff?” asks a small, balding clerk. It’s not much defiance, but it’s some defiance, and I appreciate him for it.

  But Frank says, “That comes from Mr. Hardwick,” and the clerks nod, even the balding one. We have no champions here.

  Frank twirls his gun and slips it into his holster—a fancy trick I’ll have to teach myself if I get the chance. He pulls out a pocket watch and checks the time, then nods to the large gentleman guards. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Hardwick. Hold these folks for a couple minutes and then send them packing. Catch up to us later.”

  He slips out the door, and the clerks try their best to look busy. The two guards continue to hold guns on us. Maybe we should just walk out. Would they really shoot us if we did? The fact that Dilley wants us to stay put for a spell is interesting. It means he’s a little afraid of us, of what we might do, and he wants to get away clean.

  Becky is furious, but she makes no motion as if to leave. Henry is pale under his maquillage.

  “You didn’t see Dilley come in this morning?” Becky asks me.

  “No,” I admit. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wouldn’t have made a difference,” says Large.

  “We were all here before sunup, since we weren’t sure when you’d show,” adds Larger.

  “Was about ready to give up, myself,” says Large.

  “Frank was too, but the boss told him to wait.”

  “So we waited.”

  A hard knot settles in my gut. “You knew we were coming,” I say as Becky and Henry exchange an alarmed glance. “How?”

  The only people who knew of our plan were in that room last night. I’ll go out on a limb and assume that neither the Major, nor any of Becky’s three children gave us away. And either Becky and Henry are the finest actors in the whole wide west, or they’re just as shocked as I am. Jefferson would never do it. That leaves only Hampton and Tom, and I can’t imagine either of them would be betray us either. Maybe the drunk in the other room eavesdropped through the walls, but we kept our voices low after his outburst.

  “I never know how the boss knows what he knows,” sa
ys Large.

  “He’s Mr. Hardwick,” says Larger with a shrug. “You just assume he knows everybody and everything.”

  Large holsters his gun and waves toward the door. “Shoo. Get out of here. Don’t misbehave.”

  Larger follows suit. “Go, and sin no more.”

  Becky rises slowly and primly. Henry bolts out the door before I can say boo. We catch up to him outside beneath the veranda, where he paces in a tight circle with his hands deep in his pockets.

  “Frank wasn’t going to hurt us,” Becky assures him. “He just wanted to scare us.”

  “Well, he sure did that like an expert,” Henry says.

  “He’s an expert bully,” I tell him. “He has loads of practice. He knows that house belongs to Becky morally, if not legally. Sometimes people are inclined to do the moral thing regardless, and a different clerk might have let us sign those papers.” I’m pretty sure the small balding fellow would have helped us if we’d been lucky enough to get him yesterday instead. “This was meant to scare all the clerks too.”

  That changes Henry’s perspective a bit, and he stops circling like an anxious dog on a short leash. “So what do we do next?”

  “We can still go buy the house,” I say.

  Becky shakes her head. “Now that they know how much I want it, they’ll charge five times the price.”

  “Or ten,” I say. “But it might be worth it just to be done with all this.”

  “No,” she says firmly. “We’ll wait until the auction and take our chances then. New houses go up so fast here, there’s no reason for someone to overpay for one tiny, disassembled cottage shipped from Tennessee.”

  Which is an excellent point. “But I can afford it. Even at ten times the price.”

  My words ring hollow, even to myself. Spending that much money at a public auction will attract attention we don’t want. Besides, it feels like giving in. Hardwick has already hinted at shaking us down for more money. The last thing we need is to let him get started at it.

  Becky looks offended that I would even suggest such a thing. Her mouth is shaping a reply, but a commotion reaches us from across the plaza—shouts, the sound of a hammer smacking wood, the whinny of a frightened horse. San Francisco is a boisterous place, and I’ve already grown accustomed to ignoring its daily clamor, but Henry says, “That’s Jefferson and Hampton. Looks like they’re in trouble.”

  Chapter Seven

  I spot Jim first. He sits in the mud in front of the wagon. Blood flows down his scalp and fills one eye. I sprint across the plaza, dodging delivery wagons and shoving my way through clusters of people as Jim tries to stand, slips, falls again.

  Beside him, Jefferson is trying to manage the horses, who dance nervously from side to side. A fierce-looking man in a bearskin coat swings a bully club at Jefferson. He dodges in the nick of time, but the man winds up for another swing.

  “Hey!” I yell, and the man hesitates.

  Three other thugs have Hampton pinned facedown on the ground. Hampton thrashes as one tries to pull a burlap sack over his head. A second straddles his waist as he binds Hampton’s hands with rope, and the third struggles to pin his legs. Mud flies everywhere.

  I lower my shoulder and ram the man pinning Hampton’s legs. We both sprawl in the muck.

  Hampton kicks out, knocking loose the second man, but not soon enough to keep his hands from being tied. He rolls over onto his knees and tries to rise just as the first man cinches the bag around his neck.

  I lunge forward, intending to yank the sack away, but one of the men swings a fist. I dodge left. My feet slip out from under me, and my backside splats into the muck again.

  “Lee! Duck!”

  Jefferson’s voice. I cover my head and roll. A club glances off my shoulder, scraping a chunk of skin with it.

  I come up with a handful of mud and fling it blindly in the direction of my attacker. A splat sound tells me I’ve hit something, so I grab and fling again while struggling to my feet.

  A hand grabs my elbow and pulls at me, so I lash out. My fist connects with something solid and I hear an oof from Jefferson.

  “Sorry!” I wipe the mud from my face with the back of my forearm. Jefferson grabs my waist and yanks me back just in time to avoid a swing from Bearcoat’s club.

  “Let’s go!” someone yells to Bearcoat before he can try again.

  Hampton is now in the back of an empty dung cart, ropes binding his wrists and ankles. The man in the cart seat gestures at Bearcoat to follow.

  But Bearcoat and his friends won’t be budged. They’re frontiersmen. Bullies for hire. I recognize the type from the hills back home.

  “That one’s a girl,” says one, like it’s the worst thing a person can be.

  “She rung my bell,” says another, picking up a coonskin cap from the mud. He’s the one I knocked off Hampton. “She should pay, girl or not.”

  Bearcoat still holds the club out in front of him, daring Jefferson or me to take a step. “That’s up to them.”

  Becky and Henry arrive at that moment. “I demand to know what’s going on here,” Becky says. “Why have you attacked my companions?”

  “This ain’t no business of yours,” Bearcoat says, jabbing the club in her direction.

  “The hell it isn’t,” I say, taking a step forward. Jefferson grabs at me, but I shrug him off. “You’re kidnapping our friend.”

  “Ain’t no kidnapping,” says Bearcoat. “Got a notice from an Arkansas paper saying he’s a runaway slave. Perfectly legal for us to catch him, return him to his proper owner.”

  “He’s a free man,” Jim says, and I cast a glace over my shoulder to see him rising to his feet and wicking mud from his trousers. His gaze is unfocused, and he teeters when he moves.

  “The Bledsoe family says otherwise. Says he ran away last summer.”

  Hampton’s cart is rolling out of sight, beyond the Parker House.

  “You are mistaken,” Becky tells the three roughnecks. “He has his freedom papers. In any case, California is going to be a free state. There’s no slavery here.”

  Buckskin snarls at her. “Where you from?”

  “Tennessee, but—”

  “I thought I could hear God’s country in your voice, ma’am, but you are on the wrong side here.”

  “I’m on the side of my friends. I’m on the side of doing the right thing. Where are you taking Hampton?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Bearcoat says. He checks over his shoulder and confirms that the cart is long gone. “Let’s collect our bounty and be done. It’s already been more trouble than it’s worth.”

  The three men back away slowly, then turn and hurry.

  I spin around. “Jim! Are you all right?”

  He’s standing, leaning against the wagon, hand pressed against his temple, while Henry calms the horses.

  “I’ll be fine as soon as my head clears,” he says.

  I reach under the seat and peel the blanket off my daddy’s Hawken rifle.

  “What are you doing?” asks Jefferson.

  “I’m going to find out where they’re taking Hampton. He might be hurt.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a smart—”

  I don’t hear the rest, because I’m already off and running.

  A mood’s taken hold of me, the same way fire takes hold of grease. First came all the reminders of my uncle and the horrible things done in his mine. Then Frank Dilley and his bullies held guns to our heads to scare Becky and keep her from what’s rightfully hers. Now this. It’s gone too far. I’m not sure what I aim to do about it yet, but it’s not fair. And I can’t lose another friend like I lost Martin and Therese.

  Girl, you’ll learn. Life’s not fair, Hardwick said.

  Well, maybe I aim to make it fairer.

  I turn the corner onto Clay Street and head downslope toward the bay. The coonskin cap bobs up and down a block or so ahead. Beside him is Bearcoat. They’re walking fast, but by the time they turn right on Battery Street, I’m less
than half a block behind.

  Slave catchers look the same whether they’re in the woods of Georgia or the hills of San Francisco—covered in fur, well armed, mean as snakes. To them, a person is just another animal to hunt. Well, I can hunt too.

  Battery Street is one of those waterfronts being filled in. To my left, a ship has been grounded and transformed into a saloon. An awning flaps at the entrance, and above it, the ship’s masts have been replaced by a second story, built right on top of the deck. Across from the saloon to my right is an old brig still moored in water, but who knows for how long.

  A sign hangs on the side of the brig: SAN FRANCISCO JAIL.

  The empty cart is parked at the water’s edge. Hampton kneels on the ground beside it, the driver looming over him. A small cluster of familiar figures surrounds them, and my steps falter.

  Hardwick and Frank Dilley are conferring with the slave catchers. Miss Russell, Hardwick’s “associate” from the law offices, presides over them all, wearing a dress of deep violet and fine lace.

  Dilley searches Hampton’s pockets and removes his precious letter, while Hardwick counts out gold coins to the roughnecks.

  The driver shoves Hampton into a waiting boat and starts rowing him out to the brig.

  I’m all alone with no plan. But somehow I have to get that letter. It’s the only proof we have that Hampton is a free man.

  I take a deep breath and stride forward, hefting my rifle, trying to appear more certain of myself than I feel. My gun isn’t loaded, but no one needs to know that.

  Helena Russell is the first to notice me. She leans over and whispers to Hardwick, who pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. He nods, raising an eyebrow as if impressed. Somewhere in the city, church bells ring out the hour. Frank Dilley gives me a side-eye, then sticks a cheap cigar in his mouth and strikes a match to light it.

  I stop about twenty feet away. Jefferson runs up behind me, out of breath. Part of me wishes he hadn’t followed, because I have no idea what I’m about to get myself into, but I’m glad to have him at my side just the same.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Hardwick?” I shout.