Good God, this heart thing was going to be a real pain in the ass, wasn’t it?
“Yeah, she’s fine. Shaken up, worried about me and the kids all night, but fine. Still, she’s the one been harping to move and now I see her point. These are the last drinks the Lily’ll serve, gentlemen. Enjoy them.” Then Ol’ Lieutenant grinned, poured the men and himself another, and finally returned to his book, to Gavin and Forsythe’s relief.
“Well, I wouldn’t have expected a tenderfoot like you, Woodson, to head out there, not in winter. I don’t care what Rosewater does to me, I’m staying in town.”
“It was my idea,” Gavin said mildly.
“You say,” Forsythe replied with a smirk. “Well, I’ll give you some advice—”
“Since you’re such an adventurer yourself?” Gavin couldn’t help himself.
“I’m no Greely, but I have ridden out on a cattle drive. Once. Partway. All right, it was just for a day, to get background for a story. But still—stay close to the railroad tracks; that way you won’t get lost. You’ll hear most of the news in the towns; they all know what’s going on in their districts, even at the most remote homestead. I have no idea how but those Swedes and Norskis have their own telegraph system almost. Just don’t head out away from the tracks without someone to guide you. You’ll get lost and the wolves’ll have a field day with your lard ass.”
“Thanks.” Gavin would have been irate at the insult, but the man had a point. He drained the last of his whiskey—probably the last he’d have for a while now because he couldn’t imagine that the poor sons of bitches in soddies had the time or money for drink—and set the glass on the counter. He tipped his hat at Ol’ Lieutenant.
“Bye—uh, sir,” he said awkwardly; for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to call the bartender by his usual handle, the moniker that Gavin and the others had given him without much thought. “Good luck on the North Side. I’ll be sure to stop by once you open up your new place.”
“Sure you will,” Ol’ Lieutenant said with unconcealed amusement, and Gavin was ashamed of the emptiness of the promise. “But do me a favor, will you, Mr. Woodson?”
“What?”
“While you’re out there hunting for stories, make sure you tell about the colored folk, too. You know there’s a settlement west of Yankton—in Sully County—that’s mainly colored. Maybe you can get up that way? There are people here in town would like to hear about them, see if they made it through.”
“I’ll try,” Gavin said. He had no idea there were Negro homesteaders, but the law didn’t prevent it; the Homestead Act didn’t specify race, except, of course, it excluded the Indians. So he’d lured them out here, too, had he? Jesus Christ. He felt a strange twinge, and it occurred to him that it was his conscience—the annoying, hectoring better angel of his heart, he realized with a wince. He didn’t know how far he’d have to go before he found what he was looking for—who he was looking for—so he offered no promise. But he thought that Ol’ Lieutenant understood, by the way the man nodded.
Gavin impulsively reached across the counter to shake his hand, and he wasn’t sure how to parse the gaze that Ol’ Lieutenant bestowed upon him when he did. Then he shook hands with Forsythe, and headed out toward the livery stable, where his dainty sleigh and questionable horse awaited him.
And now here he was, as alone, as small, as he’d ever been despite the fact that he spilled over the seat of the sleigh. Experiencing, for the first time, the terrifying heartlessness of the Great Plains he’d sold thousands of suckers on.
Have you longed for the magic of a prairie winter, gentle yet abundant snow to nourish the earth, neither too cold nor too warm, only perfection in every way?
His stomach soured as he recalled his own words. He was all alone in a great dome of sky, trapped like an insect, unable to escape the evidence of the lie he’d perpetrated. No gentle snow was this; the train tracks to his right were completely obscured, only the adjacent telegraph poles sticking up, some at an angle, some broken completely, to keep him on the right path. He’d left the Union Pacific yard with the curses of railroad men in his ears; trains were stuck, they’d need to have work crews break up the snow to get those trains off the line before the great wedge plows, pushed by several locomotives, could come through and clear the tracks. Snow was the railroad’s winter curse; the massive spring floods were nearly as much of a headache. Then the grasshoppers in the summer, drawn to the heat-retaining steel, their bodies clogging up the wheels. Really, sometimes Gavin wondered why in the hell these men had invested so much money and time in the endeavor.