Magic City (13 page)

“You understand I love my brother?”

“Yes,” Mary answered simply. “I do.”

Hildy stretched out her hand. “My name is Hildy.”

Hildy felt Mary's matching calluses, the matching strength in the white hand cupping her own. Slowly, she exhaled, thinking the Lord was putting her in the fire as well. If she made a mistake trusting this woman, she might fail Joe again.

Mary's eyes never wavered.

Hildy nodded.

“We can carry the supplies to Lena's River,” said Hildy. “Joe'll go there, if anywhere.”

C
lay couldn't quite remember the joke. It bothered him—something about a rabbit and a lion. It wasn't really a joke. More like a joke on the lion. Some trick, just like Joe's trick. He'd underestimated the boy.

Almost midnight and Clay still hadn't found Joe. He'd sent deputies fanning out across the roads between Tulsa and Greenwood. Sully was in charge of door-to-door searches. Coloreds would be riled, but Clay didn't have much choice. He didn't doubt he was racing against Klansmen hunting for Joe.

Clay searched alone. For reasons he couldn't explain, he wanted to find Joe himself.

He'd parked his car at the station and now he moved through the railroad yard, stepping quietly over steel ties and rods, breathing through his mouth. He wished he were hunting squirrel or, better yet, fishing bass outside of town. He'd wanted to escape the war, but he was right back in it. His first few years as sheriff hadn't been bad—drunks, belligerent gamblers, the occasional prostitute batterer. But progress
had come to Tulsa as streams of oil gurgled from the ground. Now murder was on the rise: shootings, lynchings, brutal beatings. He couldn't figure it. Everybody was better off. Coloreds had their own town. No white people were starving. Yet night riders, like Lucas and Bates, lynched coloreds and Jews.

Ambrose had a clear purpose—to make Tulsa the rival of Chicago. “Hell, better than Chicago.” The Klan was his tool to make Tulsa the most admired, the most civilized, the most patriotic city west of the Mississippi. No wonder Ambrose was announcing for governor. Tulsa was the cow town transformed: a city of Christian schools, a new Convention Center, and an expanding railroad to haul oil and cattle out, silks and good whiskey in.

Clay stooped, his fingers touching a clean print in the dirt. He'd been lured to Tulsa because he'd heard it was a hunter's paradise. In his mind, Tulsa had risen like a dream: rolling hills, musk and cedar scents, woods with free-roaming deer, rabbit, clear streams stocked with crappie and trout, and a horizon clouded only by startled ducks in flight. He thought he'd forget Pittsburgh's molten steel, its soot-clouded sky, brick-paved hills, tenements overrun with Poles, Italians, and the coloreds' shanties by its dirty rivers. Tulsa was “the West”—the land of cowboys, open spaces. In Tulsa, his innocence would be reclaimed; a sheriff always kept the peace. How simple he'd been.

Ambrose had hired him because he was a decorated veteran. Clay didn't tell him his medals were at the bottom of the Monagahela. Clay wasn't proud of surviving a gas attack, machine-gunning ragged soldiers who thought they were advancing on an unmanned trench.

Clay believed Mary Keane. He wanted justice done. He just wasn't sure how to do it.

Sweat was dripping into his shoes. He wanted a drink badly, but the flask in his back pocket was empty.

His revolver was loaded. He had cuffs, even cord to hog tie Joe. Clay stopped, his head turned into the wind. Smoke rose from a campfire; hobos were arguing. The train was a stinking, easy rambler of thirty cars hauling cattle and pigs, due to leave at 12:18. The engineer was building pressure in the valves and the crew was loading gear in the caboose. Clay was betting Joe would hop the train. It wouldn't be easy. But Joe had already done the unbelievable. Clay looked at the train.
Where would he hide?
There were no passenger cars, not even flat cars carrying wood.

The train gushed steam. Cows lowed like they were in pain. Pigs grunted and squealed. Hooves scraped boxcar floors.

Clay didn't want to be seen. He ducked behind the rear cars, running low past the couplers, pressing himself flat against the last cattle car. Horns poked through the slat rails; the steers were hungry, restless. No sense feeding animals on their way to slaughter. When he peered into the car, all he saw were thick shapes, the glint of horns, and moonlight catching the frightened glitter of a cow's brown eye. Splinters dug into his skin.

Clay heard something like a moan. He released the safety on his gun. He was scared, just like in the war. He didn't want to kill Joe. Steam hissed. Clay stared inside the car; a cow was down, slowly being trampled.

The whistle shrilled. Five minutes. The train would leave. Clay started trekking toward the engine. He stumbled over loose rock, dodged, darted between cars, feeling the rush of air in his lungs as he passed a seemingly endless line of cars, searching for Joe. Clay thought he should be the one leaving. He should hop the train and go.

He'd gone to David Reubens' funeral knowing he wasn't welcome. Thornton had gotten a colored mortuary to bury him. Some barber had played a harmonica while a woman wailed: “
This train's bound for freedom. Children, get on board. There's room for many a-more
.”

Clay moved rapidly from car to car. The woman's song had switched to a blues: “
How long, how long, tell me how long the train's been gone? Baby, how long?
” Emotion had rocked him and he'd nearly fallen to his knees, despairing opportunities missed, how corrupt he'd become.

He was twelve cars back from the engine. He'd made a mistake. Joe wasn't on board. He slowed. Animals caterwauled; the station master yelled, “Twelve-fifteen. Last call.” The engine pulsed with power, metal wheels strained to turn.

Clay squinted at a cattle car. “Gaines' Tobacco” was in red at the top. Shadows moved behind slats. It was quiet in the car, hushed like animals after feed.

He drew closer, peering at the steers pressed too tight, hides slicked with sweat. Their heads bunting toward the slats for air.

Out of the corner of his eye, to the far right, he saw an open space, not blunted by any form, any shape. With so little space, so little air, it didn't make sense for the steers to avoid a corner of the jammed car.

“Joe,” Clay called softly. “Joe?” He inched forward, focusing on the blank space. He lowered his gaze. “Joe?” He could see the boy sitting, cross-legged, on straw. Joe was barefoot and soaked. He must've hidden in the water trough until the train was ready to leave.

“Are you all right?” he asked. He thought he saw the boy nod.

Joe had astonished him: disappearing from jail, calming cattle as if by magic. Whoever heard of slaughterhouse cows standing still? Unlike him, Joe seemed unafraid.

Clay stooped. Joe scooted forward, leaning his brow against the wood. The boy was shivering, his arms curled about himself.

“Did you remember the joke, sheriff?”

“No.”

“Too bad. It was a good one.”

“You have to come with me, Joe.”

“Do I?”

Clay cursed.

“I want to see the ocean. Ride the train to Frisco. Have you ever been to Frisco, sheriff?”

“No, Joe.”

“You should go.”

Clay reached inside his jacket. “I found this in your personal effects.”

Joe reached for the square. “Did you look at it?”

“Yes.” Clay remembered the brutal, lovely picture of Houdini leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge, crashing, handcuffed and chained, into the water.

Reverently, Joe unfolded the picture. “I tore this from
Magical Arts
. Houdini surfaced in fifty-seven seconds and swam to shore. I've never seen the ocean. Have you?”

“The Atlantic,” said Clay. “I threw up the whole trip to France. I couldn't keep water down.”

The whistle shrilled again. The train was ready. Cows lowed; pigs whined.

“Sheriff, maybe you never saw me here? Maybe it was too dark?”

Shadow and light streaked across Joe's face, his expression hopeful. Joe was young enough, Clay thought, to believe in miracles. Clay considered following the boy's lead. Getting the hell out of town. Clay envied the boy. Now he understood—he'd been hoping to witness Joe's escape, not capture him.

Joe handed him the picture. It was damp, the paper curling where Joe's fingers had touched. Houdini risked everything to prove he was invincible. Clay hadn't risked anything and felt vulnerable every day of his life.

“All right,” he murmured. “Send me a postcard. Let me know when you're safe.”

Joe grinned. There was a steady clanging. A green light lit the track. Clay nearly laughed outright. The two of them had bested Tulsa.

Horn blaring, a truck swerved onto the lot, its sharp stop kicking up gravel and dust. “Shit.” Nearly a dozen men jumped from the truck's flatbed. Clay watched Ambrose get out of the cab, stop at Clay's car. “Damn.”

Ambrose shouted, “Hold that train.”

“What is it, sheriff?” asked Joe.

The men fanned out, flashlights focused and glaring. Waving Joe quiet, Clay drew his gun, flattened his back against the cattle car. “I've got to think.” Panic was rising. “Shit.” He should've known better. Ambrose was starting his election run.

The men began searching the train, starting from the back and moving systematically forward. Ambrose had moved out of sight, but Clay knew he would be in the thick of it. Joe swinging from a tree would make Ambrose a hero.

“Joe, trust me. You've got to let me take you in.” Clay cursed; Joe looked dull-eyed, defeated. “Ambrose and his men are here. You've got to let me take you. It's your only chance.”

Clay undid the latch, slid back the cattle door. Brown noses pushed forward. “Come on, Joe.”

Joe waded forward, pushing against the steers to keep from being crushed.

“Come on, Joe. Come on.”

“Hey, who's there? That you, sheriff?”

“Hurry, Joe,” Clay whispered, extending his hand. Joe clutched it.

“They'll burn me.”

“Not if I can help it.” Clay unlatched his cuffs. “Hands behind your back, Joe.”

Animals survived by admitting defeat, going belly up. War had taught Clay men weren't so reliable. But it was worth a try. He snapped the clasps shut and pulled Joe into the open, away from the train.

“I've got him,” Clay shouted, firing his gun in the air.

Other shots rang out; men hollered, “We got him. We've caught the nigger.” Men were running, bearing down upon them.

“Steady, Joe,” said Clay.

Joe, head bowed, wet and stinking from the trough, didn't move.

Men formed a circle around them, some darting forward to sneer, poke a stick at Joe. Clay, gun still drawn, felt like firing into the middle of them.

“Lynch him,” a voice started the chant. Then they were all yelling, foul mouthed and insistent, “Kill the nigger.”

“Get the rope!” someone shouted. “Here.” A heavy rope appeared.

Ambrose stepped into the circle, his bow tie askew, still wearing tails from the evening's fund-raiser. Though his hair was thinning, his flesh loose at the neck, he still exuded charm. Charming and ruthless, Clay thought.

“So. You found him, boys!” crowed Ambrose, flushed and excited.

“I found him,” said Clay, holding tight onto Joe's arm.

“Of course.” Ambrose stepped closer. He lifted Joe's chin.

Joe shuddered, tried to look away.

Ambrose gripped his jaw. “Look me in the eye, boy. Who do you think you are? You think being Douglass Samuels' son makes you special?”

Ambrose struck Joe square in the mouth.

Joe staggered back.

“You're nothing. Nobody.”

Someone tripped Joe, hit the back of his knees. Clay lost his grip. Several men swarmed, kicking Joe as he writhed on the ground. The rest kept the circle, cheering, encouraging the beating. Clay recognized Bates, his jowly face alight with glee.

The men's fury needed some outlet. Clay hoped Joe would stop struggling, fall unconscious. Moving next to Ambrose, he said smoothly, “I can haul him into custody. This boy won't be any problem.”

“Damn right,” said Ambrose. “He'll be dead tonight.” As if on cue, a blunt, bull-headed man slipped the rope about Joe's neck.

Clay leveled his gun at the nearest man and, facing Ambrose, shouted, “Leave him alone. I'm taking him to jail.”

Ambrose looked hard at Clay and said quietly, “You're interfering with justice.”

“No, just upholding the law.” Clay moved toward Joe, using his gun to wave the surly men back. “You'll hang him all right. After the judge says so. And he will. Nigger's guilty. No doubt about it.”

“We can hang him now, he's only a nigger.”

“A lynching might make a stir, Ambrose. With a quick trial, you can hang him. Same result. But you'll be a statesman. Tulsa is civilized after all, this isn't the Wild West.”

Ambrose didn't say anything, his face a blank slate. Clay couldn't read him. He stooped, patting Joe for broken bones.

“Heard you let this nigger get away the first time. Ought to let us finish the job,” one of the men called.

Clay pulled cord from his pocket. “He won't escape a hog tie.”

The men laughed as Clay tied Joe's feet and lifted him, blood draining from his mouth, bruises swelling on his face, like a sack. “Besides, tomorrow, he'll be too sore to move.” Clay hefted Joe on his shoulder. “Judge can arraign him in the morning.”

The men hadn't moved from their tight circle. Ambrose still hadn't said anything and Clay knew the men were waiting for his word. Clay struggled under Joe's weight and locked eyes with Ambrose. “Hang him tomorrow. Decoration Day. A nice touch, don't you think, governor?”

Ambrose smiled. “I'll see you lynched, too, if you lose him again.”

Bates stood in Clay's way. Clay's shirt was damp, absorbing water and blood from Joe's clothes. Still, Bates didn't move. Clay could feel the other men's hatred, disappointment. They'd tear him apart if they had the chance. They were hoping Bates would give it to them. Bates glanced questioningly at Ambrose.

“Ambrose,” said Clay. “Do not make the wrong decision here.”

Ambrose must've nodded, for Bates stepped aside and the men behind him did the same.