I spot Jim first. He sits in the mud in front of the wagon. Blood flows down his scalp and fills one eye. I sprint across the plaza, dodging delivery wagons and shoving my way through clusters of people as Jim tries to stand, slips, falls again.
Beside him, Jefferson is trying to manage the horses, who dance nervously from side to side. A fierce-looking man in a bearskin coat swings a bully club at Jefferson. He dodges in the nick of time, but the man winds up for another swing.
“Hey!” I yell, and the man hesitates.
Three other thugs have Hampton pinned facedown on the ground. Hampton thrashes as one tries to pull a burlap sack over his head. A second straddles his waist as he binds Hampton’s hands with rope, and the third struggles to pin his legs. Mud flies everywhere.
I lower my shoulder and ram the man pinning Hampton’s legs. We both sprawl in the muck.
Hampton kicks out, knocking loose the second man, but not soon enough to keep his hands from being tied. He rolls over onto his knees and tries to rise just as the first man cinches the bag around his neck.
I lunge forward, intending to yank the sack away, but one of the men swings a fist. I dodge left. My feet slip out from under me, and my backside splats into the muck again.
“Lee! Duck!”
Jefferson’s voice. I cover my head and roll. A club glances off my shoulder, scraping a chunk of skin with it.
I come up with a handful of mud and fling it blindly in the direction of my attacker. A splat sound tells me I’ve hit something, so I grab and fling again while struggling to my feet.
A hand grabs my elbow and pulls at me, so I lash out. My fist connects with something solid and I hear an oof from Jefferson.
“Sorry!” I wipe the mud from my face with the back of my forearm. Jefferson grabs my waist and yanks me back just in time to avoid a swing from Bearcoat’s club.
“Let’s go!” someone yells to Bearcoat before he can try again.
Hampton is now in the back of an empty dung cart, ropes binding his wrists and ankles. The man in the cart seat gestures at Bearcoat to follow.
But Bearcoat and his friends won’t be budged. They’re frontiersmen. Bullies for hire. I recognize the type from the hills back home.
“That one’s a girl,” says one, like it’s the worst thing a person can be.
“She rung my bell,” says another, picking up a coonskin cap from the mud. He’s the one I knocked off Hampton. “She should pay, girl or not.”
Bearcoat still holds the club out in front of him, daring Jefferson or me to take a step. “That’s up to them.”
Becky and Henry arrive at that moment. “I demand to know what’s going on here,” Becky says. “Why have you attacked my companions?”
“This ain’t no business of yours,” Bearcoat says, jabbing the club in her direction.
“The hell it isn’t,” I say, taking a step forward. Jefferson grabs at me, but I shrug him off. “You’re kidnapping our friend.”
“Ain’t no kidnapping,” says Bearcoat. “Got a notice from an Arkansas paper saying he’s a runaway slave. Perfectly legal for us to catch him, return him to his proper owner.”
“He’s a free man,” Jim says, and I cast a glace over my shoulder to see him rising to his feet and wicking mud from his trousers. His gaze is unfocused, and he teeters when he moves.
“The Bledsoe family says otherwise. Says he ran away last summer.”
Hampton’s cart is rolling out of sight, beyond the Parker House.
“You are mistaken,” Becky tells the three roughnecks. “He has his freedom papers. In any case, California is going to be a free state. There’s no slavery here.”
Buckskin snarls at her. “Where you from?”
“Tennessee, but—”
“I thought I could hear God’s country in your voice, ma’am, but you are on the wrong side here.”
“I’m on the side of my friends. I’m on the side of doing the right thing. Where are you taking Hampton?”
“Don’t answer that,” Bearcoat says. He checks over his shoulder and confirms that the cart is long gone. “Let’s collect our bounty and be done. It’s already been more trouble than it’s worth.”
The three men back away slowly, then turn and hurry.
I spin around. “Jim! Are you all right?”
He’s standing, leaning against the wagon, hand pressed against his temple, while Henry calms the horses.
“I’ll be fine as soon as my head clears,” he says.
I reach under the seat and peel the blanket off my daddy’s Hawken rifle.
“What are you doing?” asks Jefferson.
“I’m going to find out where they’re taking Hampton. He might be hurt.”
“I’m not sure that’s a smart—”
I don’t hear the rest, because I’m already off and running.
A mood’s taken hold of me, the same way fire takes hold of grease. First came all the reminders of my uncle and the horrible things done in his mine. Then Frank Dilley and his bullies held guns to our heads to scare Becky and keep her from what’s rightfully hers. Now this. It’s gone too far. I’m not sure what I aim to do about it yet, but it’s not fair. And I can’t lose another friend like I lost Martin and Therese.
Girl, you’ll learn. Life’s not fair, Hardwick said.
Well, maybe I aim to make it fairer.
I turn the corner onto Clay Street and head downslope toward the bay. The coonskin cap bobs up and down a block or so ahead. Beside him is Bearcoat. They’re walking fast, but by the time they turn right on Battery Street, I’m less than half a block behind.
Slave catchers look the same whether they’re in the woods of Georgia or the hills of San Francisco—covered in fur, well armed, mean as snakes. To them, a person is just another animal to hunt. Well, I can hunt too.
Battery Street is one of those waterfronts being filled in. To my left, a ship has been grounded and transformed into a saloon. An awning flaps at the entrance, and above it, the ship’s masts have been replaced by a second story, built right on top of the deck. Across from the saloon to my right is an old brig still moored in water, but who knows for how long.
A sign hangs on the side of the brig: SAN FRANCISCO JAIL.
The empty cart is parked at the water’s edge. Hampton kneels on the ground beside it, the driver looming over him. A small cluster of familiar figures surrounds them, and my steps falter.
Hardwick and Frank Dilley are conferring with the slave catchers. Miss Russell, Hardwick’s “associate” from the law offices, presides over them all, wearing a dress of deep violet and fine lace.
Dilley searches Hampton’s pockets and removes his precious letter, while Hardwick counts out gold coins to the roughnecks.
The driver shoves Hampton into a waiting boat and starts rowing him out to the brig.
I’m all alone with no plan. But somehow I have to get that letter. It’s the only proof we have that Hampton is a free man.
I take a deep breath and stride forward, hefting my rifle, trying to appear more certain of myself than I feel. My gun isn’t loaded, but no one needs to know that.
Helena Russell is the first to notice me. She leans over and whispers to Hardwick, who pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. He nods, raising an eyebrow as if impressed. Somewhere in the city, church bells ring out the hour. Frank Dilley gives me a side-eye, then sticks a cheap cigar in his mouth and strikes a match to light it.
I stop about twenty feet away. Jefferson runs up behind me, out of breath. Part of me wishes he hadn’t followed, because I have no idea what I’m about to get myself into, but I’m glad to have him at my side just the same.
“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Hardwick?” I shout.
“I might ask you the same thing, Miss Westfall.”
“I’m checking on the welfare of a friend.”
“That’s very gentlewomanly of you. I’m upholding the laws of the land by paying professionals with a specific set of skills to locate and apprehend a runaway slave. I’ll arrange for his transportation back to Arkansas and collect a hefty fee. The law and profit go hand in hand.”
“He’s no runaway, and you know it. You were there when he showed us his freedom papers.”
“These papers?” says Frank Dilley. He waves the envelope he just took from Hampton, lifts it toward the glowing end of his cigar.
I whip up my rifle and aim it at his head. Dilley’s free hand reaches for the gun at his holster.
“I don’t miss,” I tell him. “Especially not at this range, which you well know. You want to bet your life that you can draw faster than I can pull a trigger, you just go ahead.”
Dilley’s face goes white, but he doesn’t draw.
“Do you want us to take care of this?” Bearcoat offers, tapping Hardwick on the arm. The other two roughnecks look like they’re itching for a fight as well.
“There’s no need for violence,” Hardwick tells them. “You’ve been paid. The Apollo saloon is just across the street. I suggest you repair to that location, acquire something refreshing, and enjoy the show.”
Bearskin shrugs, and the three men peel off to the saloon. They join the crowd of drinkers who have come outside to watch the commotion.
“It’s wrong to make a show out of someone’s freedom,” I say. “You still there, Jefferson?”
“Yeah,” he says behind me. His voice is quiet and very controlled.
“Would you please walk over to Mr. Dilley and take that letter from him? And make sure it’s Hampton’s letter.”
“Glad to,” he says.
“Frank?”
Frank glares. His gun hand twitches at his side.
“You hold that letter way out to your side—the other side. Away from everybody else. I want to see your gun hand the whole time. Jeff?”
“Lee?”
“Best stay well out of my line of fire. I don’t want anything coming between this rifle and that varmint.”
Jefferson closes the distance like a man approaching a nest of angry hornets. Hardwick whispers something to Miss Russell, and she moves behind him. I get the impression he’s protecting her, using his own body as a shield. What makes a man like him do something so selfless?
Jefferson snatches the envelope from Dilley’s outstretched hand and pauses just long enough to glance inside. “This is it.”
“Good. Get back behind me.”
He returns a whole lot faster than he went, keeping his eye on Dilley the whole way.
“Mr. Hardwick,” I say, enunciating carefully. “Release Hampton.”
“Can’t do that. It would be breaking the law. But someone going through the proper channels could arrange to purchase his bounty from me before I sell it to the owner in Arkansas. Arkansas is an awful distance.”
“This letter proves he’s a free man.”
“And I have a bounty that proves he’s a runaway. Who is the law going to believe? A runaway Negro and a runaway girl? Or an upstanding man of industry?”
I think I might hate Hardwick. “Release him anyway.”
“Ah, no,” Hardwick says, smiling. “You’ll have to take that up with the sheriff, since the runaway has been remanded to the authority of the jail.”
“So, let’s talk to the sheriff.”
Hardwick just grins.
“Let me guess—the sheriff isn’t here right now.”
“He’s a man with many duties.”
Part of me wants to storm over and free Hampton by force. But there’s just me and Jefferson with two unloaded guns between us. “This isn’t over,” I say fiercely.
Hardwick’s smile widens. “I would be disappointed if it was.”
I back away slowly without lowering the gun. Before I’ve taken a dozen steps, Hardwick puts his arms around Dilley and Helena Russell, herding them toward the Apollo saloon. The last thing I hear him say is, “A round of drinks for everyone, on me.”
I lower the rifle. My arms are shaking.
“Let’s go,” Jefferson says. “Before they change their minds.”
We hurry around the corner and trudge up the hill, toward Portsmouth Square. The first block passes in silence. Partway up the second block, he says, “You know that rifle isn’t loaded, right?”
“Frank didn’t know that,” I say.
“What were you going to do if he called your bluff and drew on you?”
“My plan didn’t account for him making that choice.”
“Lee!”
“What?”
“Sometimes you need a better plan.”
“But Hampton’s letter was as stake! What if Dilley burned it or threw it into the bay before we could get it back?”
“I don’t know if the letter mattered one whit. Like Hardwick said, who’s the law going to side with? The white man, of course.”
I’m silent a long while. We’ve reached the square before I can admit it. “You have a point.”
“Thank you. I don’t mind going along with whatever you want to do, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put me in the line of fire without a better way of backing me up. And running off half-cocked isn’t the kind of thing that hurts you and me; it’s usually the people we’re trying to help who get themselves killed. We learned that at your uncle’s mine.”
“I’m sorry. It was the heat of the moment.” He’s right. It’s always the most vulnerable who suffer most. I’m lucky Hardwick didn’t take it out on Hampton. Yet.
“Well, give me a warning if there’s more heat coming.”
“I . . . I’ll be more careful.”
Jefferson leans over and plants a kiss on the top of my head.
When we get back to the wagon, Becky, Henry, and Jim are waiting for us. Jim sits on the bench, looking shaken but much better than he did before I ran off. Henry tends to Jim’s wound, wiping the blood from his face. Becky paces on the boardwalk. When she sees me and Jefferson, she demands, “Where’s Hampton? Is he safe?”
“For the moment, but maybe not for long,” I say. I offer a quick accounting of what happened, leaving out the bit about me threatening to shoot Frank Dilley with an empty gun. “At least we got his freedom papers back before Frank burned them.”
“Let me see those,” Jim says, hopping down from the wagon.
Jefferson hands them over, and Jim opens the envelope, checks the letter, then folds it right back up. He slips it into the pocket of his trousers.
“Maybe we should give the freedom papers to Tom?” Becky says. “He’s a lawyer, and he—”
“We have more than a hundred years’ experience with this sort of thing,” Jim says. “But Tom is welcome to take a gander at them anytime.”
“We have to get Hampton back,” Henry asks. “And we have to do it soon. There’s not a prison in the world that keeps a man hale.”
“We’ll find the sheriff and pay Hampton’s bounty,” Jefferson says.
“I’ve got some money—” I begin.
“Hold on to it,” Jim says.
“Why?”
“You’re acting like this is the first time a free Negro has been kidnapped and locked up until he pays a fine,” Jim says. “When the law can’t take our freedom, it takes all our money instead. Takes both when it gets the chance.”
“We can’t leave Hampton in jail,” Becky says.
“We won’t. But it’s important for us to solve this, because it affects all of us.”
“We are trying to solve it,” I say.
“Don’t get me wrong; we can definitely use your help. But freeing Hampton is taking the easy way out. We can do that part just fine ourselves. And when I say us, I mean free Negroes. This is our problem. It was our problem before Hampton got arrested. It’s gonna be our problem long after he gets free again.”
My heart aches. The fire that was burning inside me just a little while ago has about gone out, leaving me cold.
“What do you want us to do?” I say.
“We want to help,” Becky adds.
“Hampton is our friend,” Henry insists.
Jefferson stands beside Jim. He doesn’t say a thing, but he doesn’t need to.
“You can’t barge in and try to fix Hampton’s situation like it’s something unusual, like it’s a one-of-a-kind circumstance,” Jim says. “That’s what white people do. They fix one tiny thing and think they’re heroes.”
He stares right at me as he says it, and my gut churns in response. When I met Jim in Independence, I mouthed off to the store clerk for treating Jim poorly. I thought I was doing the right thing then, but maybe I was just making things worse.
“What happened to Hampton happens to free men all the time, all over this country,” he continues. “We will take care of him, but then you gotta take care of Hardwick. It ain’t enough to rescue a man in trouble, if you don’t stop the man who put him there. Hardwick’ll just do it again to someone else.”
Life isn’t fair.
Then it’s our job to make it fairer.
Oh, I realize. This is what that means.
“Jim’s right,” I say. “My uncle took everything from me. Then . . . remember how Dilley treated the Indians we met crossing the continent? Hardwick funded my uncle’s mine, and we know what happened to the Indians and the Chinese there.”
Henry adds, “Then Hardwick took all the money we raised in Glory and promised us a town charter, only now he’s holding the charter ransom for even more money.”
I nod. “He’s stealing Becky’s house, and he’s going to sell it to somebody else. Now he’s stealing Hampton’s freedom. Over the last year, we’ve been treating all these things like separate problems, but they’re not. They’re all one problem.”
“What’s the one problem?” Jefferson asks. “Hardwick’s an evil cur?”
“No, there are lots of bad men. I mean, yes, he is, but the real problem is the way he’s got the law all tied up with money. He uses the law to rob people. Then he uses his money to change the laws and to buy lawmakers so he can rob even more people. It’s a vicious circle, and it won’t stop until he’s not able to do whatever he wants to anyone.”
“So what are we going to do?” Becky asks.
“We’re going to stop him.”
Jefferson steps forward, puts his hands on my shoulders, and looks at me dead-on. “You know I’m with you, right, Lee? Always, no matter what. But this time, we need a plan. No more going off half-cocked.”
“A plan,” Becky agrees.
“Something foolproof,” Henry adds.
“Easy,” I say. “Right?”