They might not know it, but that is a gamble they would regret making.
There is too much yelling to understand what is happening, until we hear a voice over the din. “Back up, back up,” he says, and a familiar face pushes through the fray. I relax my hold on the rifle just a bit but do not stow the weapon.
Daniel Redfern, a Lenape Indian man who once worked for the terrible Mayor Carr back in Baltimore but later helped Jackson escape certain death, stops a few feet in front of us, his back to the crowd. I am not sure whether to shoot the man for helping us be shanghaied to Summerland or to ask him for his help.
“Mr. Redfern.” I nod. “I must say, you are looking hale and hearty.”
“Miss Deveraux, it is a pleasure to see you looking similarly well, despite the obvious hardship you’ve been through.” It is nice of him to say such, even if it is a lie. I feel like a dress four seasons out of fashion, raggedy and pathetic. I know my appearance must look a fright as well.
Mr. Redfern turns to Jane. “Miss McKeene,” he says, his voice taking on something of a tone as he says Jane’s name. “I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Jane finally recovers enough to grin. “The last time I saw you, you were abandoning us to our fate at the hands of the men of Summerland. You look taller, Mr. Redfern.”
“Sheriff Redfern,” he corrects.
“What?” Jane’s smile melts away and then reappears once she notices the silver star upon his chest. “Well, how about that. You used to break the law, and now you enforce it. This town really is something else. You got a Negro deputy, too?” It is meant as a lighthearted inquiry, but there is an edge to Jane’s voice.
He sighs, already exasperated by her presence. It is a feeling I know well.
“Jane McKeene, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I wasn’t planning on staying out here. In case you ain’t noticed, this here prairie is infested with shamblers.”
“You don’t understand my meaning.” He grabs her arm, and only then does the crowd of people between us at the gate to Nicodemus part. “You are under arrest for murder.”
My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
—Shakespeare, Hamlet
—JANE—
Chapter 9
In Which I Learn the Fate of Baltimore
My entrance into the town of Nicodemus is a grand one. I am allowed to walk without chains, but I suspect that is because Mr. Redfern doesn’t have any rather than faith in my honor. The white drovers from Summerland howl for my neck as I pass by them, my head held high. I fight the urge to give them a little smile and a jaunty wave, figuring I should try to contain my baser instincts for once. After all, it’s only a single line of armed girls keeping them from stretching out my neck then and there.
I recognize the girls from Miss Preston’s School of Combat and those from the Summerland patrols holding back the men, but there are other colored girls I don’t recognize, their features stranger than any Negro I’ve ever seen before. There are also a few Indian girls, though I do not know from what tribe.
“Those girls are from Landishire Academy,” Miss Duncan offers helpfully, appearing to my right. Her color is high, and there’s a strange tone in her voice. Contrition? “Many mixed-race Negro girls found their way here from there. It’s a school for the offspring of Indians and Negroes. Miss Preston wasn’t fond of them, said the mixing of the Negro with any race but whites made the girls intractable.”
“Well, seeing as how Miss Preston did like to sell her girls into bondage, I can see where that might get to be an issue,” I mutter, more to myself than to Miss Duncan.
My former instructor’s lips thin. “Yes, I’m afraid I didn’t know the extent of Miss Preston’s treachery until the night you and Katherine disappeared. It’s not something I’m proud of. I should have been more astute.”
I shrug inelegantly, ignoring what I suppose she considers to be an apology. After the time I spent in Summerland, I’m not exactly feeling charitable. After all, my back still ain’t completely healed from the whipping Sheriff Snyder gave me.
Sheriff Redfern walks behind us, gun drawn in case I get any ideas about running, but it’s Miss Duncan who seems to be doing the escorting. She wears a tin star on the lapel of her riding jacket—apparently, she is a deputy. What kind of town is this Nicodemus if an Indian man and a white woman can be the law?
We clear the innermost fence, which is easily ten feet tall and made of sharpened logs driven into the ground. As I glance at it, Miss Duncan, ever the teacher, says, “The town was once a fort, before the Army abandoned it during the War Against the Dead. There are several tribes that claim this land—the Kansa and the Kiowa; the Pawnee to the north. The town was originally fortified to protect against them, but now these same walls protect the people of Nicodemus from the dead.”
A couple of girls stand on the wall, one with a rifle, the other with a spyglass. They wave at me as I pass, and I wave back.
“You are something of a legend amongst the girls here,” Miss Duncan murmurs, too low for Redfern to hear.
“How’s that?” I ask.
“The Angel of the Crossroads,” Miss Duncan says, her lips pulled down in disapproval. “There is not a one of them that has not heard the tale, thanks to Sue.”
I don’t smile, but hearing that makes me a wee bit glad. It’s good to know I got some allies.
Back in Baltimore County—before I found out that Mayor Carr was sending folks west to Summerland, and before I had the misfortune of getting shipped out there myself against my will—I would patrol the roads at night and lend assistance to travelers. I thought my exploits were mostly my own concern, but Sheriff Redfern had enlightened me to the tales surrounding my heroics. “The Angel of the Crossroads.” It was a ridiculous name for a homesick girl who cut down the dead in order to work off her loneliness and anger.
Thinking about it makes me think about Jackson. The memory of our last argument is like a letter opener through the ribs, small and deadly. I take a shuddering breath and blink hard and fast.
I will not let a single one of these bastards see me cry.
Once we clear the gate I get a better view of the town proper. It’s a smaller parcel than Summerland, with houses and buildings tucked tightly together in military precision. The structures are made of clapboard, the wood silver with weathering. The roads are also smooth and dusty, and there’s no horse manure dotting the lane like there had been in Summerland. The boardwalk extends the full length of the town, and the house of worship is set off from the main drag. It’s smaller than Summerland’s, without the impressive spire. There’s no saloon, but I’m surprised to see there is a library—it’s a small whitewashed building tucked next to the church, and is just as well maintained.
Well, this is a whole different animal from Summerland.
We make our way up to one of the first buildings we encounter, which must be the sheriff’s office. There’s no markings on the window and no signage outside the door, but half the room is taken up with a cell made of iron bars, so that’s really the only thing it could be. A large Negro man waits on the walkway, and my heart jumps as I recognize the pale man standing beside him.