The woman wore a thin scarf tight about her head. Her collared shirt was worn through and tucked into a skirt that went to her ankles. The skirt had a large triangle of mismatched textile sewn into it. Whatever dyes her garments had held were long washed out of them. The young woman was bare-footed.
Ott gaped. The contrast of the woman’s lustrous ebony skin against her opal teeth was shocking. One of the front teeth was chipped and it was clear she did not possess a complete set. Her lips were full—fuller than the lips of any person Ott had seen before. Though the woman was crouching, she appeared shorter than him. Strands of hair which eked from the head scarf were kinky and her nostrils flared with fear.
She ignored the wagoner’s observation.
“M-meant no disrespect, suh. Be on my way directly.”
Her voice was a whisper. Grasping her water pouch, she started away. Ott shook himself from his paralysis.
“Uh, wait. Hold on there.”
He tugged Sir Lucien’s reins.
“Holt now, will ye? I ain’t seen no company since I’s almost killed. Lessen you count that there skeleton I was studyin’ on. And the thing is my mule here and the sorry mutt, well, we’s desperate fer a drop o’ drinkin’ water ‘n I sees, I sees there…”
The timorous woman was nimble. She refused to look back. The palm of her hand, Ott saw, was paler than the rest of her skin. So too the soles of her feet.
“Please. I ain’t no threat to ye. Don’t have no powder fer my rifle here. Please. We’re in a sufferin’ way. Ma’am? You ‘n me’s goin’ the same direction, I believe.”
Her chin lifted. She halted.
Ott held out a hand as a benign gesture. He saw the woman scanning near and far. Searching. For what or whom, he couldn’t guess. She peeked back furtively. Ott could see that she doubted his intentions. She might have thought him a rascal who would draw a pistol. Or beat her. Ott smiled, forgetting that his face was a mangled mess.
“Much obliged. I mean, I reckon you ain’t got a whole lot o’ water to spare. If’n I might give a lick to my mule, we’d be indebted to ye.”
She allowed the unusual crew to approach but positioned herself for flight. Now, Ott could see that the skin of her feet was damaged by her travels. One heel, marked with blotches and punctures, she kept off the ground.
“You look in a hurtin’ way there. Believe I have a scrap o’ cloth in my bag. Let me search it out…”
He gave her the strip of fabric. She received it with a measure of bewilderment.
“G’on. Wrap that ‘round yer foot. You’ll be needin’ some moccasins or a leaf bandage, I ‘spect. How long you been goin’ shoeless, if’n you don’t mind me askin’?”
Instead of offering reply, the Black woman deliberated over the cloth, fondling it. Then, coming to some silent decision, she opened the stopper of her water bladder and indicated she would pour. Ott cupped his hands.
“Thank ye.”
Sir Lucien lapped up the drink in an instant. Ott bent to the mastiff so that it could lick the wetness from his fingers. Ott’s shoulder limited his mobility. He had scores of questions to put to the woman but held his tongue. Delicately, she tied the cloth around her bloody foot. Showing some distress, she stood.
Ott set the mastiff onto the saddle, and all began to walk.
Where yer shoes got to, anyways? Ain’t you got no husband? No father with ye? Was you separated from yer wagon trail? Why ain’t you on horseback? These and ample more queries skipped through Ott’s mind. He had never seen a coloured person before. To his knowledge, coloureds did not inhabit the frontier. Leastwise, not roundabouts Wood Mountain. He openly stared at the petite woman. Where you come from anyhow? Texas, I reckon. Where is it yer headed?
She made no further offer to share the water and Ott resisted asking. When the woman spotted a gopher sinking into its hole, she began to gather rocks into her skirt. She hobbled along on the toes of her injured foot.
It took Ott two tedious miles to hit upon the idea of allowing her to ride Sir Lucien, but when he started to speak, she beat him to the punch.
“N-no white man ever called me that befoh.”
Her words were quiet. He needed them repeated.
“What’s that?”
“Ma’am.” She avoided facing him. “You called me ma’am. Made me think I must be close on. Made me think maybe you’s a one I might be able to trust.”
“Trust? Well, surely. You can trust me ‘n Lucien both.”
Ott thumbed in the mule’s direction. He was prepared to gush conversation now that she had opened the door.
“You got a secret you need to git off yer chest, I won’t tell a soul. No, ma’am. Don’t hardly know a soul, to be perfectly honest. Lessen you count my brother, Pender. Can’t say when it is I’ll see him next, mind ye. We might mosey straight up to his porch tomorrow or miss his shack by a hundred miles. This here’s mighty big country. Never can tell. But I guarantee: I won’t betray a secret. No, sir. Uh, ma’am.”
The woman shot him a look of incredulity. Since Louisiana, she hadn’t had three hours’ uninterrupted sleep. Every minute of darkness had been devoted to moving. If she wasn’t moving, she was dying. Being invisible was key. Stuffing herself inside the hollow of an old oak or crouching motionless as mosquitoes gnawed on her—Polly’s vital purpose was avoiding the white man. Now, here was a runt of a master in desperate need of a river scrubbing acting genial towards her.
Genial and heedless of her situation.
Polly vacillated. “Befoh I says it—my secret, that is—I’s wantin’ you to know they-they ain’t nobody gawn pay no return on my head. Not a cracked penny. That’s just me speakin’ plain.”
She adjusted her weight. Ott thought he saw the bulge of a package in a fold of her skirt.
The woman looked for an indication of understanding from the pockmarked man. He stared at her, open-mouthed. “But the thing of it is, well, I’m from down Louisiane way, and, well, it’s important that I keep m’self good ‘n hid.” The man nodded but Polly was not convinced that he grasped the seriousness. “I can’t afford nobody to see me in the daylight. Nor nighttime, neither. You see?”
The mule bent to rip out a few tall blades. Ott eased up on the reins.
“You wanna keep hid. And that’s yer secret.”
“Yes, suh.”
Polly balled her small hands into fists, despite the fact that the pockmarked man had shown no aggression. There was no telling what a white man would do or say. She felt a sharp choking inside her throat. Ott responded.
“Well, I can help ye hide yerself if that’s all ye need. No problem there. Perhaps, in return, you could give ol’ Lucien another nip o’ yer water there as we go along. He gets awful sluggardly when he’s dry.”
His words were convivial. Not a hint of pretense or deceit.
“Agreed,” Polly whispered.
They strode on.
The runaway observed her surroundings like a mouse out of its hole. She was ever tense, ever watchful. The absence of plantations and villages the last number of days had convinced her she had gone off course. In compliance with Comba’s directions, she had abandoned the river. There’d been no choice but to do so. The incident beyond the swamplands had forced her hand.
This heah ol’ woodpile will do, he had said. The light’ll be on us soon.
The stack of rotted lumber was surrounded by gamagrass. Polly, whom Comba always referred to by her rightful name, Bishara, was content with the spot. It sat a hundred yards behind a neglected shed, at a safe distance from the shoreline. The runaways had learned not to bed too close to the water, where riverboats were plentiful, and any old stranger might have a hankering to tie a skiff. In and about the larger towns, bustling commerce meant swarms of people. Plus, there was the constant threat of squatters and cabin dwellers.
I’ll take de first watch, Comba had said, and Polly crawled into the pile and fell fast asleep among scurrying mice.
Often, he did not wake her for her turn on watch duty. If Comba was confident the day would play out without risk of discovery, he would curl beside her and the two would be still until the day birds quieted and the lamp of the sun faded.
Comba couldn’t have foreseen their arrival. No village in sight, yet a handful of people choosing to salvage pieces from a teetering shed in the early hours of evening? Polly and Comba were awoken by their voices.
…most full o’ rot. Hardly worthwhile ‘cept fer firewood.
…reckon them beams will serve a purpose.
…send Aaron on yonder to sift through that heap while we’re at it.
Panic struck the runaways like an electric shock. The sun was still partially up. An elderly yokel with an excess of skin hanging beneath his chin and breeches suspended to his chest detached from the party of salvagers and went straight for the woodpile. Comba turned to his sister, eyes afire.
“Crawl quick as you can away from de river.”
“Without you?”
“I won’t be far behind. Just do as I says. Stay low. Now go.”
He shoved her into the standing grass. Polly crept away from him and away from the water. Her back aching, hands scratched and encrusted, she did not stop until she heard the booming gunfire.
The pockmarked mule man groaned over his maimed shoulder. Polly caught whiffs of his smell whenever the breeze altered.
“You don’t mind my axin’, suh, what country is dis, standin’ where we is standin’?”
Ott needed a count of ten to close his mouth and shrug. “Don’t rightly know. I ain’t had me no map this whole time. That lowdown, murderin’ mule thief, he wouldn’t a informed me if’n I’d bothered to ask.”
The man’s manner of speaking was befuddling. Polly began to wonder if it was common among Yankee men: did they assume that outsiders were aware of their respective pasts, their personal acquaintances? After weeks of hiding and hiking, what sort of individual was this who had unwittingly discovered her?
“You don’t rightly know.” She tried a different angle. “Then uh, what town would you name that’s near this place? What river?”
Ott began to enjoy the neighbourly banter. The negra woman, he surmised, viewed him as a fount of information, and the thought of this warmed him. A gopher popped its head out a nearby hole and, forthwith, the woman flung a rock. Just barely, the rodent slipped out of harm’s way.
“Oh, we was just in a town. Not a week ago. I ain’t never asked what they called it but they had them a fine boardin’ house. I could describe it to you up and down. Maisie—she was a beauty of a lady who was employed there—she danced with me a-plenty. And Lucien here, he got his hoofs shoed right dandy. See them there? Afore all that, there was a river we found. It wound this way ‘n that in every direction ‘n the water was cold as witch’s skin. They calls that’un the Dark River, though it ain’t dark at all.”
Polly stood pensive. Again, she scanned the area.
“What state is we in?”
Ott considered this long and hard. When he realized that all the considering in the world wasn’t bringing him closer to an answer, he stated confidently: “Don’t believe the queen’s got round to parcelin’ up the states hereabouts. Woman’s got to be outrageous busy running the empires ‘n dominions ‘n such.”
Polly’s features went taut. By a twist of fate, she had partnered up with a person more lost than herself.
“Suh. If you don’t mind me askin’, where is it you and your animals is headed?”
“Oh, we’re bound fer home. Yonder north a spell. Little settlement not far from the Mountie post. Somes calls it Wood Mountain.”
“Near a what? A Mountie post?”
Ott grinned and nodded. He offered no explanations. Polly, still limiting the weight she put on her bandaged foot, pressed her escort further.
“Suh, I don’t know if you heard of a river called de Mississipp’. I was followin’ the mighty Mississipp’ north but I got removed from it. I tried to get back to it, but dey was dangerous folk who wouldn’t permit it, if you understand me. Unkind folk. I’s even chased by hounds one woeful night. I thought I’d be torn to shreds, I swear befoh de Lord. Anyhows, my brother—went by de name o’ Comba,” she swallowed hard and they continued walking, “he instructed me to follow the Mississipp’ to a safe state. A state where I might be allowed to stop hidin’.”
Ott said nothing, so she continued. “Thing is, on account o’ my being removed from de Mississipp’, I was left with the onliest map I had. Dat bein’ de night stars. I knows I been gettin’ on north cause o’ the frosty nights I been sufferin’ through. Also, the folks around heah don’t say dey words like dem around the cane fields. But, suh, ‘tween the dangerous folk I been crossin’ wit’ ‘n the nights when there weren’t a twinkle to be seen, I done lost my way.”
The mastiff whined a high note, dreaming a sad dream. Ott and the runaway looked to it simultaneously. Then, the woman pulled a solid form from her skirt.
“Suh, I know you ‘n me don’t know the other from no one. I know you don’t owe me no charity. No nothin’. But I axe you please: would you direct me to the State Of The Canadas if I’s to share this heah meal ‘n what’s left o’ dis water wit’ you?”
The sight of fresh kill made Ott salivate. The ebony-skinned woman couldn’t have impressed him more had she produced a cooked rack of pork.
“Did you kill that there mallard yerself? Without no rifle? Why, golly me. The Canadas? God ‘n Moses, ma’am, I can point ye to them. They’s about one million miles on past the Red River. Everybody knows them. Look how fat that son of a bitch is! How’d you get a juicy mallard like that’n with yer bare hands? Don’t tell me you done throwed a stone at it…”
Together, they prepared a fire.
Gripping the legs, Polly ripped handfuls of feathers in a sharp motion. The down fell to the ground, the individual feathers taken by the breeze to tumble away out of sight. Halfway through, she rotated the duck and plucked in the other direction. The mastiff watched her, eager for a taste. Ott marvelled at how efficient the woman was in removing the tail feathers, in preserving the skin.
When Ott leant his knife, Polly was satisfied that she had nothing to fear from the injured fellow. The knife was not a cleaver, but she managed to severe the head and wings. Placing the blade on the nether section of the stripped bird, Polly made a deep incision. Blood and intestines seeped from the gap. She thrust her fist into the carcass and pulled loose the organs and bowels. She repeated the action and shook out droplets. Using a small portion of the water, she rinsed the pound of meat.
On the flames, the odour of the meat was divine. Ott sat downwind so that the smoke wafted into his face. The mule had found shade and stood in it, flicking off flies. Bees hovered over nearby dandelions, collecting pollens.
The meat was darker than chicken. Darker than hawk. When it was ready, the improbable couple ate. Polly rubbed the ears of the mastiff playfully. Juice dripped from the sizzling bird into the flames and Ott was pressed to recall a meal he had enjoyed more.
“Ain’t they done ‘n finished warrin’ down about…where’d you say you was from?”
“Louisiane.”
“Louisiane. I thought my pappy told it they done settled that business.”
Polly was now convinced that the Black Hills, where men panned and picked for riches, were behind them. In their place came extensive pastures and farmland as rich as that of the cane plantations.
“They did. Old Lincoln, he passed the proc’mation good. But they ain’t nobody told my massa that. No suh.”
Their progress was constant on the level terrain. Ott observed how the coloured woman cowered at unexpected noises. Polly soon registered her guide’s garrulous nature.
“I got a brother o’ my own. Name o’ Pender. He had him a second name, I believe, but I ain’t thought it up in such a long while that I disremember now. Pender, he was always older ‘n me. Wiser. He was plenty fond o’ spreadin’ his wiseness on me. That’s Pender. He disapproved o’ me settin’ out on this errand. Said I was bound fer the grave. Well, heh, I guess he was correct there because I was bound fer a grave but that were Gran’s ‘n Pappy’s graves, ye see…”
The ugly man had a bug-in-your-ear quality about him. His tongue did not cease. Polly did not need to ask about the injuries to his face, seeing as he described the attempted mule theft and ensuing bareknuckle fight in detail. She listened, remaining alert for sounds of humankind and for unsuspecting squirrels or land birds, a rock ready in her grip.
They agreed to push for a wagon trail. Ott was no expert of geography, but even he understood that the frontier’s pioneers did not spring magically from the dirt. The trail ran east to west, hitting specified hamlets along the way. Settlers could be directed to land offices, where records of townships, ranges and meridians were stored. The covered wagons dropped off homesteaders and replenished supplies in general stores. Babies were born on the long, wearisome trails. Friendships made. Deals struck. Ott was uncertain where or when it would happen but when they found a trail, he would point Polly in the right direction—toward the fledgling nation of Canada.
“…but there ain’t nothin’ as fine as a mallard. No, ma’am. You ‘bout saved our behinds, I tell ye…”
The man droned on. Surprisingly, the runaway preferred his chatter to the weeks she had spent alone. The stars and unwavering fear had been her only company, and they’d nearly driven her mad. Her paranoia kept her from sleeping. The stars were far too distant to hear her pleas.
When the hatless fellow paused for breath, Polly asked him: “You positive you ain’t got no powder to load that rifle?”
“’Fraid so.”
“That’s a shame. They’s a big ol’ stag standin’ yonder, amidst them cedars.”
Ott turned to see. In the instant that he did, the runaway pounced from behind and placed the palm of one hand on the little man’s shoulder blade. Simultaneously, she grabbed him tightly at the wrist and yanked down and outward from his body.
The wagoner, jumping more than a smidge, opened his mouth to cry out in pain but then he didn’t. The pain was no longer there.
“Wha…hey now…”
Polly was already retreating. He began to massage the socket, which now contained the ball of his humerus bone. Ott’s eyes darted from the repaired joint to the Black woman and back again.
“What did you…well, that feels a sight better. Dang.”
“Glad to hear it. My mammy, she snapped together a mess o’ separated fingers ‘n elbows in de fields. She instructed me in it. But you got to make sho’ it ain’t no break—breaks is best left alone. We had us a disagreeable overseer out in the cane. Was fond o’ draggin’ folks by a rope.”
The dog had jerked to attention during Polly’s quick action. Now, it became preoccupied by the circling flies and gnats. Ott examined his wrist, where she had gripped him. A part of him believed the woman’s ebony tincture might rub off on his skin, like a stain, but there was no smudge.
“How ‘bout it? Should we get on?”
Ott tested the shoulder with a full rotation of the arm. The relief from pain was remarkable. They pressed forward, into the rich deposits of soil.
When one of them needed to urinate, the other afforded privacy. When the dog wanted scratching, it sidled up to one or the other. Polly began to yawn, for she was not accustomed to being awake in the daytime. Ott expounded about fishing with his Granpappy, warding off raccoons with his Granpappy, sitting by a fire listening to his Granpappy’s reading. Balanced safely upon the mule, Polly drifted into a brief sleep, knowing for the moment that she was not alone.
The sky was reddening when they came on the mounds of dead flesh. Often, Polly had noted, the moon and sun were partnered in the sky, here in the north. She was the first to spy the carcasses, and her initial fear was that where there are hunters, there are white men. She crouched low, unable to find shelter on the bald prairie.
There were no hunters to be found.
“What in tarnation?”
They counted seven bison in all. Seven enormous, decomposing heaps covered in flies, magpies and carrion crows.
Polly pinched her nostrils. Hers was an expression of confusion and aversion. “What animals was these? Mooses? Ugh.”
Ott informed her. He went about the slain creatures, wondering at why the meat had not been harvested. Why the pelts of two bison were left untouched. The foul smell forced the dog to wander apart and bury its nose in its paws. Ott had speculated how and when he might encounter the imposing beasts. This was not what he had imagined.
Wolfers was the term assigned to this cruel brand of hunters. After shooting a buffalo, or set of buffaloes, the cunning riflemen would skin the carcasses then taint the exposed meat with toxic strychnine. Patience was the only step remaining. The men would retire to tents or cabins and return in a day or two. Believing the area to be populated with wolves, they banked on the allure of the bison meat. Wolves would sniff out the meat, feast on the fresh kills, and the strychnine would quickly poison their systems. The wolfers, who had wasted the lives of seven bison, would search for the fallen wolves and profit by the thick, luxuriant pelts.
Ott strode among the hefty corpses. He could make no meaning of what he saw. The rot of the flesh was too far advanced for either he or Polly to suggest butchering a portion. The Louisiana runaway found the act harsh and confounding. When they’d had enough of the sad scene, they walked on. All four sipped from Polly’s water bladder.
The next day was hazy and bronze. Ott resumed his storytelling ways, and Polly began to think she knew something of the grandfather who had been ushered across the hard miles in a wagon. Ott repeated himself, thanking her for resetting his shoulder. He was sure he’d be able to climb the ladder to his chimbley, upon returning home. His chimbley was in a horrible state.
Polly commented on the eternal dryness, as if the skies had forgotten how to absorb moisture. Back where she was from, rain was thrown down on the fields of sugar cane and cotton with force. Four, five shower bursts per day, dividing up the torrid heat. A field hand’s eyes could stray skyward to see complete blue, deep like the ocean, and within fifteen minutes, crack! Thunder and flooding produced out of nothing.
Where Polly and her parents were born, the weather changed drastically. But the swamps never drained and the ground never froze.
“Yer brother, then. He’s to meet up with ye in The Canadas, is he? My pappy said they’s cathedrals o’ stone down there that God Hisself would be lucky to attend. They’s tall enough to poke into the clouds. Pappy said in the New York State, buildings stand eight stories high with a dozen rooms on each floor. Behind one door, you could find a physician seein’ to some poor, diseased bastard, ‘n behind the next, there’d be a feller sellin’ pink taffey. Can you imagine that? My granpappy, he said—”
“No, he ain’t.”
Ott cast her a befuddled look.
“My brothuh. He won’t be there.”
“Oh. You got other relations there waitin’ on ye?”
Polly’s gaze fell to the saddle horn. She had been riding the better part of the day due to the open sores on her feet. Ott had insisted. It wasn’t as though Sir Lucien would be burdened by the weight of such a waif. Ott observed the woman’s glistening skin. Her clothes were ragged. He hankered to ask where her shoes had gotten to but held off. He saw that the woman had had her own griefs. Life had bruised her. Weakened her. Ott began to suspect that this was the reality—that all, all on this immense earth had their loads to carry.
It was late when they stood before the trail. The wagon path was a stone’s throw from water, and both Ott and Polly filled their containers to the brims. They drank heartily from the cool stream. When Ott observed the Black woman washing her neck and face, he followed her lead. The mule was tied to shrubbery, where he could get at the drink. It and the mastiff stood on the soggy stream bed, basking in the moment.
The wagon trail lay like a fallen ladder. Neither party could tell, precisely, when it had last been trodden by humans, but the path was clear. Two unending grooves in the land, between which the grass lay flat and broken. The one-time wagoner felt refreshed by the cold water. He tried to affect a note of authority.
“There y’are. That oughtta guide ye straight on to the Canadas. ‘Course, you’re bound to crash through a whole string o’ towns. Don’t rightly know ‘em by name. Could take a month to get where yer wantin’ to be. Who knows?”
Polly stared eastward, down the pioneer path. Her usual demure manner became glum. Uncertain.
“With them wretched feet o’ yourn, yer gonna wanna hitch yerself to a covered wagon soon as ye can. Feller might lean on ye fer a nickel. Do ye have yerself a nickel?”
She had but a single pocket and, with the mallard gone, Ott realized the woman carried nothing but throwing stones. He heard her sniff quietly. She continued to stare towards her future.
“Shit patties!” Ott startled her. “Where’s m’ head? Got somethin’ I shoulda thought of afore.” Rushing back to the mule and saddle, he mumbled his own stupidity. Polly thought she caught the words numskull and head up my arse. Humping back to the stream, Ott’s speech was impassioned. “Look here. Take a pocketful o’ these queer pieces. I can’t decide if’n they’re silver or gold or what. Maybe you could tell me.”
He dumped the solid medallions into Polly’s slender hands. A few of them toppled to the ground. Polly, astonished at the generosity, was mute. The medallions were large and old. She had no more notion than he of their value. What payment she and the field hands had been given since emancipation was a pittance. Often, their overseer failed to come through with monies owed and, instead, lectured the workers on their good fortune for being employed, reminding them of the harsher lives they would have if they dared leave the plantation.
Polly, who couldn’t recall ever owning currency, felt as rich as a queen. Heaping thanks on the pockmarked little man, she stuffed the medallions into her skirt and held them to her hip.
Their goodbye was awkward. Each was glad that the other had water. The mosquitoes were a nuisance before their faces. Polly wanted to urge Ott to revisit the little stream to continue his cleaning: dirt was caked to his sweaty skin and the insides of his ears were filthy. She considered the final leg of her journey and was tempted to return to travelling under cover of night. She had a strong suspicion that this peculiar white man was an anomaly, a fluke. She would decide as she went, heeding the commands of her instincts.
The wagon trail would not lead her to the young dominion, as her benefactor foretold, but to the state of Minnesota, then Wisconsin. There, bordered by the immense lakes, Superior and Michigan, she would seek work in domestic service or in a textile factory. The demand for spinners and weavers was great. Recent improvements in British looms were making textiles production efficient in the North, and factory owners needed operators. Former slave and sister, Polly Boothe, would be paid less on account of the colour of her skin—less than the wage of a male employee. She would struggle through her first winter. Canadian winds blow icy off the sea-sized lakes. Harshly. Coal supplies and oil for lamps would not always be available. How people managed to survive on the land for centuries, Polly would struggle to comprehend.
She would squeeze out a lean, lonely existence until the day that she entered a bank to learn the value of the Spanish medallions an ugly settler had given her on the vast, uncivilized frontier. Nine medallions in all. After that day, she would struggle no more.
“A’right, Sir Lucien. We best git on, ye filthy goat licker.”
Silently, man and mule beat their way toward the edge of Montana Territory. Ott was in the saddle. The mastiff, with its incongruent marble eyes, preferred to walk.