Flight of Fancy: Cora's Daughters (21 page)

Remembering the man Boaz waiting with his bounties, he turned away, scooped up his knife from the floor and quietly left her crying.

Almost an hour later, he stood on the boardwalk across from where the boy was still lying in the dirt.

He’d turned in his bounty.

He’d collected the price on their heads.

He took them to the undertaker.

Boaz had taken his horses on board the steamer to be brushed, watered and fed with the others.

Looking around at how the town was now, he figured they’d made it at just the right moment. When it had been at its busiest - basically, everyone had been rushing to finish up and head out. No one liked being in town when the sun was going down. Like now – the only ones left at dusk were the one’s drinking and up to no good.

In fact, had Broc waited a moment longer to see to his business – he would have been too late. As it was, he’d just made it to the sheriff’s office and then to the bank. As for the undertaker, well – one could always reach him, the dead happened unexpectedly. Thus, he was open for business around the clock.

Broc stood leaning at the post – his eyes surveying all before him. Shops and business were now all closed. Only places open were the saloon and a small restaurant. Loud laughter, music and squeals from women were the sounds at present. With that going on, outside the saloon, before him, the little black child lay unmoving.

Broc wondered if he were dead.

Immediately following that thought, he heard a whimper – a cry, and he moved. He sat up as if he were drunk. He was small, frail looking, dusty and hurting - looking around, he rubbed his eyes.

He sniffed a few times, as if he wanted to cry some more and then, as if he remembered, he turned his head looking behind at the saloon. His movement caught the attention of the horse beside him, the animal snorted, lowered his long neck and with his nose – sniffed around the child’s head, and began licking it. Broc smiled – because the little eyes were now looking across the way at him. After all, he was the only man standing about when everyone else was inside the saloon.

Stepping down from the board walk, Broc slowly made his way across the dusty lane to the little boy, smiling at him and watching the saloon doors simultaneously. All this time,
no one
– showed the slightest concern for this child. Maybe they all thought he was dead. To them, he was just a Negro whipping boy, no doubt accustomed to getting slapped around.

Most knew that he’d be used to lead the horse home with his drunken master sitting in the saddle – because he would be too inebriated to get back himself.

At four or five years old, he would be expected to know the way back to their farm or plantation. When Broc squatted low before him, he saw what the horse was licking - the boy had a cut on his head. Broc sighed – glancing around them once more, and then back to the little boy, “You thirsty? Bet you are.”

With his eyes wide, filled with fear, the child muttered not a word.

“Scared? Don’t blame you. I’d be scared too. But you ain’t gotta be scared’o’me, no sir, not one bit.” Broc’s large hand lifted to caress the side of the child’s small head, making him flinch and duck to the side as if he too would take a crack at him.

“Nooo lil’man, not from me, not I.” He murmured gently to soothe him, stroking his cheek gently with his thumb.

He still wouldn’t say a word.

Broc removed his water bottle, uncorked it and gave it to the child, “Drink… I’ll be back – you wait for me, you hear? You wait.”

Leaving the water with him, he rose to his feet and strolled towards the saloon. Because the town was supported mostly by travelers going north or further south, strangers or new people were constant – resting up for the night – but moving on the next day.

When Broc entered the saloon, no one batted an eye. The numbers within were mostly travelers as well. Walking towards the end of the bar, Broc checked over the men standing and drinking.

He recognized the little boy’s master, swaying back and forth, mumbling to himself or the barkeeper. No one paid attention – everyone looked bone weary from travel.

Not the drunk who’d beaten the boy, no – Broc figured he was local – this was a normal thing for him.

He also wondered if he had a woman at home - children maybe – slaves. Was it just the little boy that got knocked around or anyone who couldn’t defend themselves against him? Broc figured the latter. He was good at spotting cowards.

Chapter Fourteen

The barkeep walked up to him, “What’cha havin’?”

Broc sighed, looked around as if thinking about it, “I’m at the hotel – thought I’d have a drink or more, help me sleep. Second thoughts tell me – don’t think I had better. I overslept once…” Broc trailed off with a smile, shaking his head – letting the story hang for the barkeep to finish for himself. The man shrugged and walked away.

Broc stood a moment more, wagering with himself that by the looks of the drunk - it wouldn’t be a long wait before he left the bar. In truth, that had been all he’d wanted to see. Satisfied, he left the saloon. 

Broc returned to the little boy.

He knelt before him, looking around as he always did, ever vigilant, and then – down at the boy.

“You drink?” He asked. It was good and dark now up and down the empty thoroughfare. The moon was showing large, not quite full – with the twinkling of stars sprinkled above them. He noticed the little one
had
in fact taken a drink, some of the water left a trail where it had dribbled down his dusty chin and onto his shirt.

Thankful, the child handed the water bottle back to him – saying as soft as he could, “Ta.” Broc smiled at him, returning an equally low, “Ta.”

He sighed, took a drink from the bottle as well and re-corked it, putting the rawhide strap to it back around his neck to hang on his side.

As for the child, he sat staring, wondering what this big tall white man wanted - unsure and fearful of what that was. It really didn’t matter, because he was worrying about his master coming out, catching him talking to him. He turned his round head on a little thin neck that seemed unable to hold a head his size.

That head turned worriedly back and forth, looking towards the saloon door and then back at Broc. His eyes seemed to say it all – without a word, they said,
‘Go away before he comes.’

Broc too glanced at the door again, saying, “I don’t like him either – that man who hit you. That ain’t right, what he do, no – not right at all.” Broc paused for thought, and to give the child time to get what he was saying, “…my wife – she was mighty upset about it. She saw what happened to you, how he treat you. She been cryin’ some awful ’cause of it,” He murmured softly, “I can’nah have m’missus upset that way – breaks m’heart. Can’nah walk away and leave you either lil’man – no sir. Sooo, I’m thinkin’ – you should come along with us. I promise you, you never have to worry ‘bout such a thing from me – got no reason to go hittin’ on a lil’baby. That’s all you are. No, we’ah never - treat you so bad. I’m thinkin’, it sure would make my wife happy if you come with me. Can’nah stand her no other way but happy. What you think?” 

The little boy sat taller, giving Broc his full attention, his big eyes, once dull, seemed to brighten up at the idea. He didn’t know what to say, he was too scared to know what to do. Nevertheless, his lot in life was so bad - he was willing to trust the word of a kind stranger. Just then, while he was thinking, they heard the doors swinging behind.

“Bwoy? Where you at?!” the man’s words were slurred, gruff, abrupt.

Big brown eyes turning from the drunk to Broc, pleaded, afraid, “You should go now.” He whispered terrified, on the verge of tears and trembling again.

“You sit still, don’t move a muscle, you hear?”

Broc stood his full height, not waiting for an answer. He walked over to the hitching rail, in front of the man’s horse, waiting for him. The drunk took a couple of steps, his upper body was tilting right, “BWOY? You heah’me? Where you at?”

The child stood, frightened, looking at Broc.

Broc shook his head and with his hand, gestured for him to sit back down and wait. He was scared to death to do it – he wasn’t sure what made him mind this stranger, but his heart and soul were so weary – he sat back down.

Broc took the reins of the man’s horse from the hitch and started walking by him with his horse. “Hey mister… seen your lil’negro boy run off that way – come on, I’ah show you – gotcha horse for you.”

The man stood squinting, trying to see through his blurred vision.

He made stumbling steps towards Broc and his horse, “What? What say? Tha’s m’horse! What’a’ya doin’? Where? Where m’bwoy you say?”

“This way… seen him go this way, come on – wanna catch’em don’t you?”

The drunk stumbled towards Broc and his horse, “Th’lil’black bastard… I catch’em – he won’ do this again – tell you that. Break his scrawny neck I will – ev’bone in’is body…bastid!” He slurred – blindly following Broc and his horse. “Hurry up – goin’ that slow, we’ll never catch’em… come on – he went this way… seen’em… lil’black boy…right?”

The drunk nodded his head, staggering so bad, he was almost off his feet because of his head. He hadn’t a clue of what was going on – he did his best to follow Broc – who was leading him into the alley behind and between the buildings.

On the ground, sitting hidden by the darkness of night, the little boy’s eyes tried hard to see what was going on, where that nice man led his master. It was so dark, they were clean out of sight. While waiting, and wondering, he did hear strange noises from the direction they’d gone in. He couldn’t be sure, but mixed in with the sounds from the saloon, were other noises. Grunting sounds, smacking sounds, over and over again – and even some grunts, groans and squeals.

Next thing he knew, the horse made a whinnying noise and he waited to hear something more, but there wasn’t much else to hear.

He waited, and waited.

Then, he heard the horse whinnying once more, only to see down the way where it kicked up dust. He could make out the shadow of it running fast out of town. There was something odd about it, it looked as if it was dragging something, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

It must have been a few moments later that he heard the crunching of footsteps on the dirt, rock and gravel. They were coming his way, out of the dark and then he looked way up to see, the nice man standing before him, kneeling, he said, “Lil’man – it’s late – time t’go. My name is Broc, and
now
, your name is Asa – you belong to me. Can you remember that? Asa? That's you. Anyway, we bes’ get goin’ – m’missus’ll be worried.”

Asiza had cried herself to sleep. When she woke, it was dark, and she was alone, feeling unsure, regretful and just a bit afraid.

What had she done?

The things she’d said.

While all had been true, none of those things had been true of him. He, her husband… that’s what he said, that they were husband and wife, he… was nothing like the others.

She didn’t think her heart could take any more hurt, any more pain, and worse – pain that she had inflicted upon them.

She couldn’t just lay there, dwelling on it. She would have to rise, and face it – face what she’d done to him, face – what she’d done to
them
.

It was cool in the room. She looked behind her to see the portal window open. She scrambled to the end of the bed and over, reaching it, she closed it. Climbing off the end of the bunk, she stood in the dark, trying to make out her surroundings. Their things were scattered about the floor. She worked in the dark to separate them, moving the heavy saddle bags under the bunk.

She knew what was in them, and because she felt so bad about her treatment of her husband, she wouldn’t say another word about the gold. She found her bedroll – it contained the clothing Mrs. Hardy had given her. She brought each piece out and dressed. The boy clothing she set aside, hoping she would not have to wear them again. In another bag, she found the flint and oil cloth.

There was a lantern on the table, she lit it and turned it up to spread a warm glow to their cabin room.

Done with all she could do, she sat and waited, praying that he would return soon. She fully expected him to be mad at her after the way she had turned on him. Asiza sat with her actions and her words repeating in her mind.

She sat beating herself up, not only was he a man of his own making, so were the Hardy’s. They should not be measured by the same stick she had used on her ex-masters – both dead. She felt awful – but that small child - she would never get that out of her mind. He represented her little brothers – all dead – for no reason, other than the master didn’t need them. Like an unwanted litter of puppies, gotten rid of as if of no value.  

She could hear voices – men’s voices.

Swallowing deep and nervous, she backed up against the wall on their bunk. She wished she’d found her scarf to put on her head, but it was too late now.

She sat straight, her legs curled to the side on the bed, arranging her skirt around her. She hoped she looked all right - both hands went to her face, fingers running over her eyes – attempting to smooth her skin. She worried that her eyes would be swollen after all the crying she had done. Something had taken hold of her and wouldn’t let go until she cried and then slept.