I soon set up in business concocting stews and soups for weary, half-starved colored men who had long since spent their trail rations. Vegetables and livestock, grown and raised in and around Dodge, appeared on the market. Beans, potatoes and onions at twenty-five cents a pound, beef at quarter the price, and large, plump turkeys at less than two dollars a piece. War came and war went and, almost unnoticed, the Union toppled. For a week or so, all lines were forgotten as Dodge toasted the victors in liquor until most folks could no longer hold a glass. I was free now, but it was difficult to tell what difference being free was making to my life. I was just doing the same things like before, only I was more contented, not on account of no emancipation proclamation, but on account of my Chester. I look down the street and see him coming yet closer, his shoulders square, his head held high. For ten long years, this man has made me happy. For ten long years, this man has made me forget — and that’s a gift from above. I never thought anybody could give me so much love, even without trying, without appearing to make any effort, without raising no dust about it. Just steering and roping, and whatever manner of business he felt like seeing to in the days, watching the sunset at dusk, and a little whiskey and cards at night. Always there when I needed him. I glance at Lucy, whose face is a picture of fear. I want to tell her, ‘Don’t worry, Lucy.’ And then the shots ring out and Chester slumps from the saddle, but his foot gets caught up in the stirrup. His horse stops and lets Chester fall respectfully to the ground. Three brave men with pistols smoking, and Lucy screaming.
Lucy brings the candle to my room and sits on a wicker chair. She has not yet stopped crying. I have not begun. ‘We can go up to Leavenworth,’ she says. ‘I hear that the colored troops in the Fort are always looking for somebody to wash and clean for them. And plenty of colored folks still figuring to come across the Missouri and into Kansas.’ I stare back at her, but say nothing. ‘We can’t stay here, Martha.’ I know this. I know that I will never again be happy in fast-loving, high-speeding, Dodge. Not without Chester. And the restaurant. ‘We can take our business to Leavenworth, establish a laundry.’ I nod in agreement. Then I ask her. ‘Lucy,’ I say, ‘did I ever tell you that I had a daughter?’ She looks back at me in astonishment.
Again she asked Martha if she was cold, and this time Martha could not hold back the sad confession that, despite this woman’s efforts, her body remained numb. Too late. The woman smiled, then stood and stoked at the stove, but her gesture was one of idle hope. Too late. On top of the stove sat a great iron kettle which reminded Martha of the one back east, twenty-five years ago, in Virginia, which rang like a bell when you struck it. And if you put the tips of your fingers against it, you could feel the black metal still humming long after, the kettle had ceased its song. Martha used to catch rainwater in it, the same rainwater with which she would wash Eliza Mae’s matted hair. Keep still, girl. Such misery in one life. She looked at the palms of her hands where the darker skin had now bled into the lighter, and she wondered if freedom was more important than love, and indeed if love was at all possible without somebody taking it from her. Her tired mind swelled and surged with these difficult thoughts, until it pained her to think. The woman finally stopped her stoking. Martha could feel the tears welling up behind her eyes. ‘Can I help?’ No, you must go. ‘Are you all right?’ No. Please go. ‘I’m sorry about the stove.’ No. No. No. Martha stifled a sob.
It seemed another age now, although in truth it was only two months ago that Lucy, her hair in a wrap, had come to her in the small, two-roomed cabin that they shared, and broken the news of her impending marriage. It had been a dark night, the solitary light from a candle teasing the two friends with the twin possibilities of both warmth and security. Not that Lucy’s news came as any surprise to Martha, for she had long been aware of her friend’s feelings for the colored man from the dry goods store. Tubs and boilers no longer had a hold on Lucy’s mind, and now she would be escaping them by marrying this man who had built himself a storey and a half house from the profits of selling that boom-town, sure-fire money-maker at a dollar a pound: nails. Martha took Lucy’s hands in her own, and told her that she was pleased, and that Lucy must not, under any circumstances, worry over her. With this said, she encouraged Lucy to begin packing if she was going to leave, as planned, in the morning. Lucy levered herself out of her chair and began to address herself to the tasks at hand, while an ailing Martha sat basking in the glow of the candle and watched her. These days, Martha’s old body was overburdened, and seldom did she pass an afternoon without a few cat-naps. By evening her feet and ankles were so swollen that she had to use both hands to pull off her shoes, and her undergarments now grew strangely tight during the days, her underskirt band often cutting into her waist. She desperately needed to rest, but she had determined that Lucy must never see the evidence of her malaise. And certainly not now. Lucy was to leave with a clear conscience, but not before Martha had herded her into the picture-making man’s studio and ordered her to sit still. She watched her friend as she continued to gather up her few belongings, and Martha began to laugh quietly to herself.
A week later, the man came into the cabin outhouse, his arms burdened down with a bundle of heavy flannel shirts and coarse pants that needed laundering. Such visits were becoming less common, for either men seemed to be getting accustomed to giving their own garments the soap and water treatment, or Martha had serious competition from some place that she had not, as yet, heard about. The conversation that he struck up with Martha was a generous one, in that he desired to know if she could possibly manage this load by herself. Well, excuse me, mister. Was there anybody else in town to whom he might turn? Feigning ignorance of what he might be implying, Martha took the clothes and assured him that they would be ready for him whenever he needed them. This was just as well, he said, for he would soon be leaving for California with a group of colored pioneers. He informed her of this fact as though it were something that one ought to be proud of, and with this announcement delivered, he tipped his hat and wished her good day. After he left, Martha thought long and hard about her own prospects. The many years of her life with Lucy in this two-roomed cabin were now at an end, and although this Leavenworth had suited her, despite its numerous saloons, billiard parlors, and houses of joy, Martha felt that she must leave. Not that Leavenworth was either violent or dangerous. In fact, the townsmen had established a liking for law and order, and introduced codes that were rigidly enforced by deputies and marshals, which meant that in this town the fast gun was not the law. But although Leavenworth was free of the turbulence of Dodge, and in spite of the fact that her years here had been peaceful, if somewhat lonely, Martha had a strange notion that she, too, must become a part of the colored exodus that was heading west. Lucy had left behind a letter, not so much inviting Martha to come out and join her and her future husband in San Francisco, but begging her to do so. Martha unfolded the square of paper and decided to look it over one more time. Then, when she had finished, she blew out the lamp and sat quietly in the dark. Eliza Mae was once again back in her mind, not that her lost child had ever truly vanished. Perhaps her girl-child had pioneered west?