Chapter 22

Olive Augusta Radley, 1909

The enterprising grafter was aware of the value of orphans. "Professional guardians" began to appear, thrifty geniuses who had secured appointment…that they might control the orphans' property.

—Angie Debo, 1940. And Still the Waters Run.

Dewey Mullins snatches at the burlap sack, but Mr. Brotherton shifts it away. The rest of us wait proper and polite for that blue-eyed newspaperman to keep the bargain he made with me before I led him to the Jack Crossing hideout.

"Listen here, fella." Dewey's face gets narrow and blister red. "Amos and Tula and Nessa told you about how they come to be here, so now you owe us the food. That was the deal. You get stories for your paper, and we get travlin' goods."

"In due time there, son." Mr. Brotherton stands up and lifts the sack onto his shoulder, where it makes a dirt patch on his clean pinstripe shirt and fancy red suspenders.

Watching him, I wonder, Was he lying when he said he'd trade food for stories and never, ever let on to Mrs. Grube that I knew where the kids were hiding? She's planning to write articles about the women's meetings for his paper, so she'll be in touch with Mr. Brotherton, regular. I don't know how she'll manage to keep going to the club meetings, since she was so nervous about getting home ahead of Mr. Grube she had the horse hooked up an hour before the rest of the wagons were ready to go this morning. She wanted me in the wagon, too, but I flashed the two train passes and said Mama had me carry them for an emergency, and soon as the medicine came in at the pharmacy, I'd use the passes to get me and Skedee home on the train, not by the road where those bad men might be.

Once she rolled out of sight, I went to find Mr. Brotherton to strike a bargain with him on a story for his paper. A story about elf children. Just what he and Mrs. Grube talked and talked about at the wagon camp last night. Elf children and laundry girls.

"That was our deal, Mr. Brotherton," I remind him while Dewey tries to stare him down. "You said a real newspaperman won't pay money for a story, but you could bring some food."

Mr. Brotherton winks at me, and then says to Dewey, "Firstly, my young friend, I must be certain you plan to share the food fairly with the others. And, secondly, I don't believe you've favored me with your story."

Dewey's lip curls, showing his jagged tooth. "I wouldn't steal what belongs to a pal, firstly, and nextly, you come askin' after Indian stories. I ain't Indian, but these here Choctaw kids been done wrong by liars and thieves. Tell that in your paper. Why, there's kids all over this countryside turned out to fetch for theirselves…and them are the lucky ones. If they ain't lucky, they wind up dead and buried. I heard many a tale and seen things, too. I once run up on a wagon where a man was diggin' holes for four dead bodies wrapped in Choctaw blanket quilts…and no place near a graveyard, either. The man went for his rifle when he saw me, and that ain't no lie."

Mr. Brotherton opens his pad and pulls the pencil from behind his ear. "And how is it that you came to be traveling on your own?"

"I got a wanderin' spirit." Dewey cocks back like he's looking for a fight.

The newspaperman taps his pencil. "No family?"

"None that wants a boy who can't be put to work at the mines and the money sent straight home to a daddy that don't work a lick. Since the new laws, them mines won't take a breaker boy if he don't look fourteen. So out you go like trash." Dewey spits on the ground and just misses the newspaperman's shoe.

Mr. Brotherton moves his foot. "The laws are meant to protect children, allow them the opportunity for a decent life."

"Well, this be it, I reckon." Swirling his arms out wide, Dewey takes a bow. "An Irish boy livin' free as a bird, and with all these poor souls here, right under my wing."

"Don't you point at me, Dewey Mullins," I pipe up. The last thing I need is Mr. Brotherton figuring me out. "I ain't under your wing or one of your pals, and you know that. I was only trying to help y'all get some food."

Dewey and me lock eyes.

He flips his fingers my way. "That one's just some gal we come across in town. But there's lots like me, too. Them men runnin' the mines don't send you home on the train when they can't work you no more. Oh, there's men that'll put you on a train, all right, but you'll wake up down South, workin' in a cotton mill, or laundry, or pulpwood plant, or pickin' crops on some farm, where there's no law agin' it. I don't aim to land myself in such a troublement."

"Quite a story." Mr. Brotherton's tongue slides over his pretty white teeth while he looks at his papers. I figure it's time to shift him out of Jack Crossing so Nessa, Tula, the little ones, and me can make our way into the Winding Stairs while there's still plenty of traveling hours in the day. Morning's almost gone already, and it's the kind of weather where storms might kick up later. I still have to go back to town with Mr. Brotherton and then return here with Skedee.

"Well, I reckon that's all there is, Mr. Brotherton." I look down the creek toward the railroad bridge where he hitched his horse.

"I suppose so." He thinks on it another minute before he hands over the gunny sack, says his goodbyes, and starts down the creek.

On my way past Nessa, I lean in and whisper, "Wait for me."

"Tushpa!" she says. Hurry up!

I nod without looking back.

"You speak their language?" Mr. Brotherton asks on the way to the horse.

"Only some."

While he mounts and helps me climb up behind the saddle, I start spinning a tale that my great-grandma's second husband was a Choctaw man and they came over the Trail of Tears, back in 1831, when the government had the Choctaws come all the way from Mississippi to Oklahoma in the cold of winter. "She used to tell her children what a terrible thing that was, how people just fell by the way and died and…"

That tale does what I want it to do. It keeps us busy almost the whole way back to town, so Mr. Brotherton doesn't ask more questions about Jack Crossing, or where I live exactly, and if I'm safe to make it home with a gang of bad men on the loose.

"A reporter is to remain objective," he says after I run out of stories. "But I find myself infuriated by the superfluity of Choctaw land parcels that have been sold off since the congressional enactment of May 27, 1908. Miss Kate is correct; it is a crime, and the grafters proliferate like vermin. Hazel, does your family live on allotment land?"

"No, sir, we do not. My daddy bought our land." Then I tell him what I heard Miss Kate say at the table, about the men in Washington and that new law. "Miss Kate said that terrible, awful new law was a tra-vesty. I do believe that's what she said." That big word feels strange on my tongue, but I want him to believe I am very grown-up. "Of course, I know I am not to listen while serving food, but it was very interesting, and I could not help it. Nobody should ever be thrown to the wolves by Congress, but not children for sure, I don't think."

"Ah, yes, the wolves. They are here among us even as we speak."

"Truly, they are. I hope Miss Kate goes to Washington to tell those men about it. I'd go tell them, too…if I could."

"You have helped to bring attention to it, though you are yet unaware." He twists in the saddle to look over his shoulder at me. "The newspaper stories of the elf children will shine light on this shadowy matter. Miss Kate means to rise against it, and I am told that Mrs. Threadgill has thoughts of appointing a committee of her clubwomen to study the Indian Concern. Whether they will do more than simply express indignation in their parlors remains to be seen, but if unified behind a cause, they will be a force not to be trifled with."

That man's words are so fast and fancy I don't understand the half of it, but I like that he talks to me like I'm grown. "I hope they will. I hope for it all the time."

"The pen is a mighty thing, Hazel, and today you've exposed the faces of the misery behind this political maneuvering of moneyed men living in high places while children survive in ditches. Chased and hunted, left to freeze and starve. And in the twentieth century! This modern age of telephones, electrified lighting, refrigeration, automobiles. It is an abomination, Hazel, that our society can muster the wit and will to create such magnificence, yet not the resolve to do right by a child, don't you think?"

"It surely is." He has himself in a fuss now. His hand flits around enough that it scares the horse into a sideways jig trot. We go the rest of the way into town like that, me bouncing up and down on the horse's rump.

I'm glad when we get to the hitch rail out back of the church, where I left Skedee. "Well, sir, that's my pack pony." I slide off without waiting for help. "I'd best be on with my business now and get home to my mama. It was nice, you giving food to those elf children. I wonder why some folks call them by that name, don't you? It's like the old nursery stories about gnomes and fairies, except these are real kids that just…come on hard times. They ain't pretend. It'd be good for folks to know that in your paper."

Mr. Brotherton snatches his pad and goes to writing.

Since he likes what I said, I pat the horse's muzzle and keep talking. "Maybe the reason people call them that is…if something ain't real, meanin' it ain't flesh and blood, then it won't need anybody to feed it, or put a roof over its head, or buy it some shoes in the winter. Then nobody feels bad that they didn't do those things. I think that's why folks tell such tales."

Lifting the pencil, he studies on me over his spectacles. "You are quite an exceptional mind for your age, young lady. Perhaps one day you'll follow Miss Kate into politics."

"Oh, I doubt that." Keyes Radley would turn over in his grave at that idea. The only thing lower than a snake is a politician, he used to say.

"Never say never." Mr. Brotherton smiles. "Miss Kate is only the first. We'll soon see a day when all avenues of government and commerce will be open to the fairer sex. You mark my words. These clubwomen are the beginning of a new era. They'll lobby for the vote until they have it, and that will change…"

The rest gets caught up in the noise of the train blowing its whistle on the way into town. I untie Skedee's lead rope and make my excuses, and Mr. Brotherton hands me a calling card with his name—V. R. Brotherton, Editor and Correspondent—on the front. "Should another story such as that of the poor unfortunates in Jack Crossing come upon your ears, I would be most desirous to hear it, either from you directly or through our mutual friend, Mrs. Grube."

"Yes, sir." I tuck the card away. It feels nice in my pocket. Still warm from his hand.

"You've done good work today, Hazel." He winks at me before he rides away, and my cheeks go prickly pink. I don't even know why. It takes a few hard swallows to get the tickles out of my throat, and right as I do, down the way between the town buildings, I see the tail end of that train, and a red coach car with black-velvet curtain fringes shimmying behind the glass windows. A band of shiny gold letters catches the sun as it slides toward the station.

Every bit of me turns cold as a icehouse door.

The writing on that private car reads E. N. Lockridge, but I'd know that even without the words. I've gone to meet that coach more than once with Tesco Peele.

Quick as the car disappears behind the building, I fetch the pack saddle from where I hid it under the church's back steps, then get Skedee cinched up and start tugging him away from town. It's hard not to pull him into a fast trot, but I make myself walk like it is any other day, so no one will take notice of me.

I don't catch a good breath till I've made it back down to Jack Crossing, and Nessa, Tula, and the little kids are waiting and ready to go. I make Nessa and Tula leave the wet things from the book wagon behind. "If we get stopped going through town, we don't want to be caught with clubwomen's books," I say. "We'll wind up in jail for thieving."

Dewey puts that wrecked purple parasol on his shoulder, and him and Amos follow along, even though I tell them to go mind their own business. I start the long way around Talihina, instead of straight up Railroad Street, hoping they'll peel off.

Dewey complains before we're halfway through town.

"Safer to go this way," I tell him. "And you better toss that parasol into the bushes. If the deputy's back, he'll be watching for whoever shook up the library wagon yesterday. The clubwomen were real put out about it, and they are a force not to be trifled with." That last part comes straight from Mr. Brotherton.

"Deputy ain't got time for a bunch of womenfolk," Dewey pops back at me. "He's out huntin' them road agents. You know the boss of that gang ain't but seventeen year old? That's July Joyner hisself. The others ain't but fifteen, fourteen, and two at sixteen. Been fillin' their pockets full of loot and livin' high. Make fools of the lawmen, every time." Dewey laughs at that, a bunch of bad boys that can't be caught.

"They're stealing and hurting people." Thinking about it sends a shiver over me. I hope that gang has run far away from here by now and that Mrs. Grube and Baby Beau are home safe. "They'll hang when they get caught."

Dewey shrugs and we walk a bit before he pipes up again. "I say we get us some peppermint sticks from the store before we head out."

"Go ahead," I answer. Dewey probably means to steal those, too. "But we ain't. Storm's coming."

"Says who?"

"Says the sky…and that thunder off south. It'll hit pretty quick." Any fool can smell the rain on the wind. Dewey Mullins must be a bigger fool than most.

He trots on up next to me and starts walking backward, the broken parasol bumping his knees. "I say we take a vote like the miners do in camp. All them that wants peppermint sticks, raise a hand." Up goes his paw, dirty fingernails and all, but nobody else joins in. Tula and the little kids can't understand because Dewey's talking too fast, and Nessa won't dare go against me, plus she's scared of storms. I am surprised about Amos, though.

"What are you doin'?" Dewey's eyes lock on Amos. "We are votin' on peppermint sticks and also who's boss of this gang."

"There ain't any gang," I snap.

Dewey bares his teeth. "Amos, you tell the gals what I said about a vote and peppermint sticks. Say it to them in Choctaw."

Amos's shoulders go up and down. "Can't be votin' today." His bottom lip pushes into his top one as he studies on the sky. "All them clouds come in. Lotta clouds."

"You afraid of some rain, now?" Dewey's voice gets so loud a lady feeding yard chickens outside a shack house turns to get a good look at us. Dewey cusses a blue streak, and the lady's mouth drops open.

"You all right, little girl?" she calls, looking at me. "Them beggar lice troublin' you?"

"No, ma'am. Thank you kindly." Pulling Skedee's lead line, I walk around Dewey and tell him hush up.

"I ain't afraid of that lady," he blabbers, loud. "I'll go tell her to her face."

"Shut your yap," I whisper.

"Not till we make a vote. You're big talk, havin' a horse and all. Well, how's about I just take that horse? What're you gonna do about it?" He grabs the lead line, and Skedee balks, yanking the rope out of my hand. Next thing I know, Dewey is flying like laundry on a line while Skedee whirls in a circle.

"You stop that! You come on over here, right now!" the yard lady shrieks above the ruckus. "You lil' beggar lice, you git away from that girl and her hoss. You best beat a path before I knock your noggins into next Sun-dey with this hoe."

"We're just funnin'!" I dive for the lead rope, but Skedee plows me down, and I cover my head while his hind hooves go right over me. Dewey's feet and that purple parasol fly by next. Dust and gravel sling everywhere.

I figure my horse is lost, but Dewey clings on till Skedee finally gives up the fight and stands there snorting. Scrambling to his feet, Dewey raises the parasol like he means to whip my horse with it, and little Koi goes to wailing, right there in the street.

Amos gets to Dewey before I can. He snatches the rope away quick enough that it zips through Dewey's fingers. "Ain't no use in this fightin'. Can't be votin' today. The sun ain't out."

Of a sudden, I understand. Lots of the old-time Choctaws won't do business, or hold councils, or sign papers unless the sky is clear. They've got a belief that the sun shining keeps men honest. More than once, I've heard Mr. Lockridge, and Tesco, and the men on the porch making fun about it.

Dewey's face goes red as a hog plum, and he shakes his hands from the rope burn. "Amos, you idjut! If you ain't with me, well then, you're agin' me and we ain't friends, neither. Have it your own way, then, and see if I care, too!" Throwing down that parasol, he takes off to town, his long bare feet stomping the dust like butter paddles.

Amos looks heartbroke, standing there with his palms turned up, while he calls out, "Sun ain't out, Dewey!"

"Boy! Don't you be puttin' hands on that hoss!" the yard lady howls. "Jubal! Jubal! Fetch me the gun. A colored boy's tryin' to steal a hoss, right there in the street. Come quick!"

Amos drops that lead line so fast I almost miss catching hold.

Tula, Pinti, and Koi take off. They've been chased enough times they know what to do, but Nessa just stands there froze up in the street. Grabbing her dress sleeve, I turn her around, yell, "Run!"

Finally, she gathers her skirt and does what I said, and I pull Skedee into a long trot.

The last thing I do is look over my shoulder and see Amos with his hands raised, like he means to stop the woman from coming after us.

Everything moves like a river under ice—quiet on the surface, things passing underneath. I see Amos look at me, then at the lady, then past me to Pinti and Nessa, their long hair flying, and Tula running heavy with Koi held across her chest. I see the lady come through her yard gate with a garden hoe, and a boy hurrying to her with a gun big as he is. I see the wind catch the woman's dress and the hoe come down, and Amos dodge away, then finally take to running.

A chug hole catches my foot. I turn forward to watch my way.

Then I hear the shot.