Paul chased the dollar figures around on the paper lying on the kitchen table. He owed Avery Singer thirty-two hundred plus three percent interest for ninety days. The herders had earned twenty dollars a month each for three months and he was going to give Nathan a hundred-dollar bonus on top of his monthly thirty-five dollars. Mace had two hundred and ninety dollars coming for the prairie camper, and the boys were going to get fifteen dollars each for their help in the spring and on the drive to the fort. And last, John needed a broker’s fee for arranging the cattle in the first place. He resolved to talk to him later that day.
All told, Paul had over four thousand dollars clear and still owned one hundred and forty-four head of prime beef. Several people had approached him with offers, and Ledbetter, the sutler, had said if he couldn’t get sixteen dollars a head in Carlisle, he’d be happy to take them. He had contemplated these figures before, but as he sat and stared at two money pouches, he realized that for the first time in his life he could provide for his family the way he wanted to. His throat grew tight and it ached to swallow as he looked across the table at Ana. She smiled at him, and her face seemed to glow.
Paul, Mace and John sat at their regular table in Luger’s, the place alive with activity. Twice the usual number of people milled around, talking, laughing and generally having a good time. Word of the sale of the herd had spread like the news of a fallen preacher, and everybody gathered to congratulate Paul, and drink the free beer he was buying. Most were genuinely pleased that Paul’s long years of hard work and honest dealings had finally paid off.
“How’s it feel to be famous, Mr. Cattle Baron?” Mace teased. “Reckon he’ll still have time for us now, John?” He took a big bite of his sandwich.
Even John had ordered a beer and sipped it slowly. Paul didn’t think his stomach would handle food, much less alcohol, so he drank a root beer.
Avery Singer came through the door, and immediately made his way to their table. “Congratulations, Paul. The whole town is buzzing about your deal. I’m glad to be a part of it.” He stuck his hand out and Paul shook it. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. Can I buy you a beer?” Paul felt slightly ill at ease, but curious, because Avery had never attempted to socialize and here he was doing it publicly.
“No, never touch the stuff, and it’s way too early for a whiskey. Thanks anyway.”
“I guess I should come by and settle up,” Paul said. “Gonna be in your office after noon?”
“Sure. No hurry though, I’m making interest, so the longer you keep it, the less you get to keep.” He let out four or five short, high, nasal, coughing barks that ended with a stuttering intake of breath. That was Avery’s laugh. He looked around to see who else had appreciated it, and his wide smile faded a little at the neutral faces looking back. He cleared his throat, and scooted his chair closer to the table. “Gonna do this again?”
“I really don’t know,” Paul replied. “Obviously, it turned out this time, but there are a lot of things that can go foul. With the South whipped, the army will no doubt move from the state militias to the regular army for manning the forts out here. The politics that could come with the change make dealing next year an iffy situation. I got along real good with the captain I dealt with at Fort Hartwell, but there’s no sayin’ he’ll still be there.”
Avery nodded, his eyes full of interest.
“And then there’s the blockade. With that gone, will there still be cattle available in Kansas and along the Mississippi? And can I get as good a man as Nathan Greene to trail a herd up here for me, and take the care that he did? Lot of things to consider. And if I can—” Out of the corner of his eye, Paul finally noticed an exasperated John, who quickly put his forefinger to his lips and then down again.
“I can see a lot of thinking before I do anything,” Paul finished lamely.
“Rightly so, Paul, rightly so.” Avery glanced at John. “Well, if you decide to do something, let me know. Your credit is sterling. Better be getting back. Just wanted to offer congratulations.”
Avery got up and left the saloon.
“What in hell did he want?” Mace asked. “He wouldn’t give you the time of day this spring unless you rented the clock.”
“Money,” John said, “always the money. And Avery is an expert at wheedling information. It’s his stock in trade. The sooner he knows which way a deal might be going, the sooner he can influence the players. A word of advice to both of you. Avery is smart as a whip, and completely devoid of character or integrity.”
“Can’t be anybody completely without character, can there?” Paul said. “I have a hard time believing that. Surely some things affect him.”
“Only if it interferes with what he has planned. Mark my word, he’s ruthless. I know this for a fact. Terrible indictment, but true just the same.”
Paul saw the seriousness on John’s face and it took some of the pace off the celebration.
“I better get going too,” Mace said. “Got two horses that need shoes all around. Gonna be a busy afternoon for me. I’ll see you two later.” He stood and covered a thunderous burp with his hand.
“Don’t work too hard.” Paul nodded as Mace left, then turned back to John. “And speaking of work, have you thought about your broker’s fee? I’d like to get that settled. Wouldn’t any of this have happened without your thinking. I expect you can name your price,” Paul said seriously.
An odd look came over John’s face. Indecision, and something that could be seen as slight panic, changed his whole demeanor. He leaned across the table and looked at Paul intently. “I have something I want you to do for me. Do it, and we’ll call us square.”
“Anything, John, anything at all,” Paul said, slightly shaken by the lost and confused look that suddenly clouded his friend’s face.
“I simply want you to listen to a story. My story,” John said, his face almost glum.
“Sure. What is it?”
“Don’t be too quick. I’m going to share a burden that nearly killed me and you may think it more than you want to carry. I wouldn’t think less of you if you decided not to.”
“You’re my friend, and I want to help.”
“All right, but not here. Can you come by after supper . . . come by the Brays’?”
“Sure, John. That would be fine. Any particular time?”
“Make it eight. Thanks, Paul. I’m going to leave now. I have some thinking to do. I’ll see you tonight.”
John rose slowly and headed out of the saloon. When he got to the door, he turned and gave Paul a half smile and a slight nod.
“Good job, Paul.” Alex Prosser, the telegrapher, stood by the table.
Paul started. “Why, thank you. Took a lot of good people.” His eyes glanced upward. “And more than a little help from Him.”
Prosser took a half step away, and then hesitated ever so slightly, as though he wanted to say something else. “Yeah, good job,” he said, almost absently. Then he clapped Paul on the shoulder, and crossed to the bar where Fred stood pumping beer as fast as he could.
Paul stayed another hour or so and then went across the street to settle with Avery. John’s warning rang in his head as he entered the office.
Shortly after the hour, Mrs. Bray answered Paul’s knock. “Good evening Mr. Steele. My, aren’t you the talk of the town?”
Mrs. Bray was always cheerful and had a kind word for everybody. Paul liked her, as did most people. He took off his hat. “It’s nice to see you. Ana and I are blessed, no doubt. Is John in?”
“Yes. He said to expect you, and asked you to come up to his room. You know where it is.” She stepped back and nodded an invitation to enter.
“Thank you.” He climbed the stairs and knocked on John’s door, which opened almost instantly.
“Hello, Paul. Thank you for coming.”
The room, tidy and comfortable-looking, held, besides the large bed, a wardrobe cabinet, a writing desk near the window, and set across from the bed, two stuffed chairs with a small table between. John indicated one of the chairs. “Please, sit down.”
Paul put his hat down beside the chair and sat.
John took the other chair, and without making eye contact, inhaled deeply and started to speak. “I’m a lawyer. Leastwise I was. I practiced in New York and New Jersey with a very successful office. We were three partners and five associates. We did work primarily for the federal government. At times, we took on private cases as well, when we felt it appropriate. There was, at the time I’m speaking of, a rather celebrated case, at least locally. It involved a question of slave ownership.” John closed his eyes for a moment and took another deep breath. When he opened his eyes he looked right at Paul and continued. “The plaintiff, a farmer from Delaware, was having a hard time enforcing his right to a family of seven slaves who had found their way to New Jersey. This was about fifteen years ago, right after the Fugitive Act was signed into law. Apparently, the owner was well-connected, because a state judge in New Jersey had me appointed to present his case. I am not an advocate of slavery. I think it’s wrong in every respect, but I was also devoted to the law, and this farmer had been denied due process. I traveled to the small town of Busey to present his case.”
Again John stopped. His hands trembled slightly and he took them off the table and folded them in his lap. “It’s hard to tell this story, Paul. I’m not sure I can.”
“Then, don’t. If you’ve changed your mind and want to keep it private, I’d understand.”
“It’s not what I want to do. It’s what I have to do. I need to purge this demon, and this is the only way left. I’ve tried alcohol, hiding, prayer, and denial. So far nothing has done it. I’ve looked a long time for someone I can trust, and it’s time I had it out. You can still opt out. It’s not a pretty story.”
Paul shook his head and folded his arms across his chest.
“The trial was very straightforward. The judge knew the law, and I simply presented the facts. The defendant was a Methodist minister who had allowed the runaway slave family to stay in the rectory. His appeal was to common decency and charity. He wasn’t even represented by counsel. He produced the seven people, a man and his wife, four children and a grandmother, the woman’s mother. They were not allowed to bear testimony. They just stood huddled in front of the judge, terrified. The judge asked one question of the reverend. Were the slaves his? He asked the farmer the same question. When the farmer produced a bill of sale from Charleston, the judgment was immediate, and for the farmer. He ordered the marshal to escort the farmer and the family back to Delaware.”
“You did what you saw as your duty. Nothing wrong with that. I don’t hold with slavery, either.”
“If that was all I felt responsible for, it would be a lot easier. There’s more.”
John’s eyes glazed over with tears. He shut them and bowed his head. Paul felt the urge to reach across the small table and touch him, but sat still. John looked up, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and then breathed slowly and deliberately for a few seconds.
“The farmer asked that I make the short trip with him across the river to Delaware. He said he wanted me to see that the lives of the slaves were not as portrayed by the good reverend. I was also interested in seeing the conditions, because even with that brief encounter in the courtroom, I felt a bond with that unfortunate family. So I agreed. We left immediately, ferried across the river, and arrived at the plantation about five that evening. He had fifty or more slaves, living in rows of . . . well, you couldn’t call them houses. They were more like sheds, no door or windows, one against the next, all the same, except one toward the end. It had been smashed flat. He told me that was where the runaways had lived, and he had destroyed it and everything they called home with it. The slaves were taken to what looked to be the smokehouse where he said they would stay until he could make other arrangements. He admitted it had been foolish to destroy the property, but it had been the overseer who had actually done it. I was invited to stay the night with the suggestion that we could maybe get to know each other a little better. I saw no harm. He seemed a reasonable man, and I thought I might learn something about the pro-slavery point of view.”
He paused again and Paul could see that he was reliving a painful event. His creased brow twitched, and the muscles in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth.
“We did, in fact, have a rather pleasant meal. His wife joined us. Neither of us had the least influence on the other’s attitude regarding slavery. He saw it as a property issue, the same as owning a herd of dairy cows. Several times, he stressed his point about the need for lessons to be learned from ‘unfortunate incidents like runaways,’ as he put it. I thought he was talking about the legal issue. I went to bed about eleven.”
John got up and walked to the window. He stood there and stared out into the darkness, his hand clasped behind his back. Paul watched the even rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed slowly and deliberately. When John turned around, his eyes held no focus.
“I went to bed about eleven,” he repeated, his voice flat and monotone. “I woke to shouting, lots of shouting, and then an incredibly high-pitched scream. I couldn’t imagine it was human. I bolted out of bed, and ran to the open window. Across the yard burned a huge fire and lots of people were running around, some carrying buckets.”
He stopped. Slowly his legs gave way, and his back slid down the wall, to leave him sitting on the floor.
“I put on my trousers and boots and ran downstairs, out into the night. The owner stood on the verandah, watching. I hollered at him to help, but he just looked at me with a smile. ‘Lessons, my Yankee friend, lessons. And more to come.’ Then he went back into the house. I ran over to help and could get only close enough to see the door was chained shut. The screaming from within was beyond imagination. I will never forget it. Mercifully, it lasted only a short time. I found my horse and left in my nightshirt.”
His head sank to his chest and he started to cry. Sagging sideways, he buried his face in the crook of his arm and sobbed, his chest heaving as he drew deep gasps of air. Paul knelt beside him and laid his hand on his shoulder. Slowly the quaking subsided.
“Leave me now, Paul. I’ll be all right. I just need to be alone.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. The devil is beaten. I’ll be okay.”
Paul stood, paused for a moment, and then said, “I’m sorry, John. I can’t find anything to say. I’ll go.” He picked up his hat, opened the door and when he turned to look once more, John sat up and leaned his head against the wall. His face, now calm and relaxed, offered Paul a half smile, and he nodded. Paul stepped through the door and closed it softly.