The Children's Blizzard(49)

    To Gavin’s surprise, Ol’ Lieutenant held his gaze for a long moment, then deliberately closed the book and placed it on the counter between Forsythe and Gavin.

The two men exchanged looks.

“I have kids like everybody else. I had to go get them. And, boys, congratulate me. I’m selling the Lily but I’m not going to homestead.” Then Ol’ Lieutenant did the unthinkable: He poured himself a drink and leaned closer to the two newspapermen. Gavin wasn’t sure how to behave, sharing a drink like this with a colored man; it was all well and good to have him behind the counter, serving. But this was awkward; Forsythe leaned away from the bar a little. Gavin smiled weakly but clinked his glass with Ol’ Lieutenant’s before taking a swig.

“No, after this storm, when I had to stay with the kids over on the North Side at school—and it’s a damn good thing I did—leaving Alma…” Ol’ Lieutenant looked up at the ceiling, toward the upper floor where evidently he lived, and Gavin understood him to mean that Alma was his wife. He’d never heard her name before. Or maybe he had, and he’d never taken the time to note it?

“She was here alone in all that—I left her plenty of fuel before I went out to find the kids, but nobody knew that, nobody checked in on her, even though there are plenty of folks—white folks—livin’ around here. So I’m moving to the North Side. Isn’t any place for someone like me here on this side of town anymore. We have to stay with our own kind, take care of ourselves, our kids; this storm just kind of reinforced that in my mind.”

    Forsythe looked annoyed by this speech, and took another drink.

“Was she all right? Your wife?” Gavin heard himself asking, then blushing, afraid to say the woman’s name for some reason. It seemed wrong—too familiar—when he’d only just learned it. When he’d only just acknowledged the fact that Ol’ Lieutenant had a wife and she had a name and apparently they had children, too. Then he found himself wondering what Ol’ Lieutenant’s first name was, his real name—was it Marvin or Coleson or Harry or Sam?

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.