“I need money,” I say.
The sheriff’s eyes are everywhere but on mine; he’s all alone and the room is dark, the lone cell empty. He’s nervous. No doubt he’s remembering the scene when he walked into the cantina yesterday. They don’t call me the Devil’s Bitch because I have a dog, after all.
“I showed you the telegram from Carson City yesterday,” he says, voice shaking now. “Five hundred was the bounty if Perry was taken alive; since the gentleman was already dining with the devil, two hundred was the—”
I wave his words away impatiently with my left arm, which does nothing to calm his nervousness. To be honest, it is a bit fun to show off my amputated arm. Callie once pointed out to me two roughnecks speculating how I lost it; when I told them I’d traded it to a demon at a crossroads to make me a crack shot with the pistol I was twirling, their eyes had gone wide.
“Relax. I ain’t here to dicker over Perry’s payment. My partner ran off and I find myself in need of funds. I was just going to inquire as to whether you have any outstanding bounties.”
The man takes his hand off his merrymaker and stands. He’s no taller than I am, but he makes a point to hitch up his pants all the same. “So that gal got the better of you.”
“We did not see eye to eye on some things, as friends do every now and again. You got work for me or not?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. A bounty came up by courier from Los Angeles just this morning. Bank robber by the name of David Johnson. They think he might be headed for San Jose or Sacramento.” He hands me the flyer, and a white man with a bushy mustache stares back at me. He’s an utterly forgettable sight, the kind of man who could blend in anywhere. And the bounty is only a hundred dollars, barely even worth the work. He’s probably shaved by now, and I’m going to have a hell of a time trying to track him down. It’s not a job any working bounty hunter would take.
But I ain’t got much choice in the matter.
I take the flyer and tip my hat to the sheriff. “Dead is okay, right?”
His tan skin goes pale and he nods. I shoot him a smile. “Ain’t personal, you know how it is. The devil’s always going to get his.”
I tip my hat again and leave the tiny office, my vengeance once more on track.
The quickest, and safest way to begin your westward journey: wagon train! Call on Harper and Sons Outfitters for more information.
—Advertisement in the New York Times, January 1876
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 30
Notes on an Overland Journey
Falling into step with the wagon train as we head out of San Francisco and east toward Sacramento feels right. For nearly two years I have found myself on a journey—first from Baltimore to Summerland; then from that vile city to poor, doomed Nicodemus; and then east to Fort Riley; and then to the Mississippi. From there we boarded a ship, the Miserly Widow, followed by a trek across the wild jungle lands of South America, and finally to the Capitán until we arrived in San Francisco. During all that time, I felt a duty to protect those around me, as most of my companions have rarely been as adept at the defensive arts as I am.
It was not quite the work of an Attendant—no one expected me to dress them or consult on the best pairing of ribbons and such—but it at least felt familiar.
Still, there’s a strangeness in walking along with these families that is new and fresh and a little terrifying. I had not expected there to be so many children—passels of kids running around and screaming and laughing and teasing one another as if we were on our way to the circus rather than fleeing the peril of the city. There are so many men and women, all Negroes, ranging from light like me to darker than Sue. And not a one of them has anything more refined than a kitchen knife to defend themselves. Sure, there are a few rifles here and there, but far too many of the people bear no arms, and the farther we get from the safety of the Great Golden Wall, the more I begin to fret.
The wall is quite a sight. Sue, Lily, and I had arrived on the seaward side, so we had not been able to see it at the time. But as we leave, the wagon train numbers near to 150 people and it would be far too expensive to load everyone onto a ferry so that an overland route is our only option, I begin to understand the way people speak about San Francisco, as though it were a wondrous place. It takes most of the morning for our entire train to leave the city as we wait for our turn. To enter one of the three guarded exits. The gate to enter and leave the city is massive, guarded on either end by a portcullis. Passing through the gate, which is a hole in the wall more than a true gate, is like walking through a railway tunnel. Electric lights chase away the gloom, and our wagon train murmurs in awe as the lights flicker. I have seen electric lights before, most recently in Summerland, but many of our party have not. And the tunnel is quite the experience.
Once we are through the tunnel the entire wagon train pauses on a slight rise outside the city to take in the wall. We are not the only ones, and there are a number of people just standing and looking back toward the city. The Great Golden Wall shimmers in the weak morning sunlight, the glimmer veining its way around the outside showing how the construct got its name.
“That gold is Thomas Edison’s wiring,” Juliet tells Sue and I as we gawk. “Theory is, should a horde try to enter the city they can fire up those circuits and give them what for.”
Sue frowns. “You mean it ain’t never been tested?”
“Not against any real kind of shambler attack,” Juliet says, taking a deep drink of a canteen. “The Chinese built most of the wall during the Chaos Years based upon a design from their home country, but it was the white folks that made it gold. It took twenty years to finish, and every year they make it a little bit higher. By then, the plague had largely been wiped out around these parts. Who even knows if it’ll do the job it was intended for? At least it’s pretty.”
We continue on our way, opting to be prudent and not waste the entire day marveling at the largest wall I have ever seen. Our security team consists of me, Sue, Carolina, who decided to join us on our travels rather than return to the Capitán, Juliet, and the white woman Louisa, who I am praying knows how to use that Japanese sword strapped to her back.
I admit I do not know how things will shake out should the dead attack. But I am praying the people of the wagon train are more capable than they appear.
Toward the end of the day I decide to bring up my concerns to Juliet. She is a Miss Preston’s girl, and as such she will understand my concerns about ratios of defense and response time. Miss Preston’s was no hack-and-slash like some of the other schools, our instruction was as much about service as strategy. I also decide to mention something because my worry has returned, a low-level buzz in my brain that refuses to abate no matter how much I focus on breathing and taking in the scenery. I have not had one of my fits in months, but here I am, perspiring and fairly shaking with my uneasiness over the lack of security on the wagon train.
I find Juliet walking toward the middle of the train, whistling a fine ditty like she is out for an evening stroll, not leading a group of people out of a city bent on their eventual destruction. I fall into step beside her, and she glances over with a grin. “You’re about to tell me that we don’t have enough security, ain’t ya?”