Colter's Path (9781101604830) (4 page)

Rollie rubbed one of the puffed gloves against his temple and blinked severely several times. “Can't see much anything, Ollie. I hit my head coming down and everything got blurred.”

Ollie told Jedd what Jedd had already surmised. “Rollie fights for money; folks bet on him. Mostly fights slaves of white folks who train them for such sport, but Rollie is like me, a freeborn black man.”

Rollie was squinting now, getting his eyes slowly back into focus after his disconcerting fall. “I've seen you before, Mr. Colter,” Rollie said. “Back before you went off to Californy and struck it rich.”

Jedd laughed at what seemed a joke. Rollie and Ollie appeared confused by the laughter, their heads cocking and brows quirking.

Jedd was puzzled. “Do you believe I really struck it rich in California? Where did that notion come from?”

Ollie gave a small shrug and shared an uncomfortable-looking glance with his brother. “It's general knowledge in Knoxville, sir. Well…general belief, anyway. Story is that you made a big strike, got a big pouch full of gold, then defended it 'gainst a whole gang of highwaymen and left three of them dead as iron and the other five running like rabbits with a pack of hounds on their tails.”

“Well, it's wrong belief,” Jedd said. “I've not so much as hefted a pan in California and sure ain't faced down a gang of highwaymen.”

Looks of astonishment. “But everybody talks about how rich Jedd Colter got in Californy…everybody!”

“Honest truth, Ollie. I've guided settlers to California. But I've not prospected a lick.”

“Well, the notion that you did prospect is a strong one. I've heard men in this town talking up that they aim to go to the gold fields and become ‘the next Jedd Colter.' I don't know who started the story, but it's spread all over.”

“I have no idea how such a tale got started. And if I had such a rich claim, why would I leave it and come all the way back here?”

Neither of them replied.

“Lawd!” exclaimed Rollie suddenly, sitting up and scooting himself around a bit on his rump, until he seemingly found an acceptably comfortable position. “Falling through a loft floor with a heavy fighter bag ain't something I would put forth as a good notion for nobody.”

“Hurting, huh?” Jedd asked.

“I've felt better.”

“You're lucky you didn't break your neck,” Jedd said. “And what's a fighter bag?”

Rollie thumped lightly at the big leather cylinder-shaped sack lying on the floor beside him. “Just my name for this thing Ollie made up for me to do my fight practice with. I always just call it a fighter bag. 'Cause it feels a lot like striking another fighter when you hit it. Just a lot harder than flesh is. That's why I wear them puffed gloves.”

“I made the gloves, too,” Ollie said with unabashed pride. “I figure that, with them, Rollie could hit the bag harder without putting a risk to his fingers. A fighter can't abide broke fingers. Can't fight bare-fisted with broke or stove-up fingers. Rollie fights bare-fisted, but he practices with them gloves on.”

Rollie held up his right hand and turned it, displaying the glove. “Works good, this glove does.” He paused and grinned. “Me, I got all the muscle and meanness in the Slott family. Ollie got the brains, and the skill at doing fine and delicate work with his hands. Me, I use my hands for busting flesh and bone whilst keeping others from
doing the same back to me. Not much that's ‘fine and delicate' about that.”

“Which one of you had the notion of hanging your ‘fighter bag' up in the loft rather than down here below it?”

“That was me,” Ollie admitted.

Jedd grinned and winked at Rollie. “That calls into question what you said about Ollie having the family brains. Old building like this, it's no surprise that beam gave way. Wood weakens with age, and that's a heavy bag.”

“I know, I know,” Ollie said, rising to his feet and pacing about edgily in a tight circle. “I just figured Rollie needed to be able to do his practicing without folks watching him through the windows. He don't like being watched.”

“That's true,” Rollie said. “I don't mind folks watching me fight. Kind of like it, in fact. I don't like being watched whilst I'm doing my muscle work, though.”

Ollie said, “I reckon I should have looked closer at that beam we hung it from, Rollie.”

“What's did is did. It fell, I fell, and that's the end of it. Nobody hurt and the bag didn't bust.”

“It must have took a lot of leather to make that bag, Ollie,” Jedd observed.

“Lawd, yes…. No telling how many boots and shoes I could have made from that leather. But a man helps out his brother, you know.”

“Of course.”

“We look out for each other. And for our mammy. She's still living here in town. Pap, God rest him, he's been gone and buried seven year now.”

“I'm sorry. About your pap, I mean. It's good you take care of your mother.”

“I'd go to Californy if not for Mammy,” said Rollie. “I figure I might be one of the lucky ones and hit pay dirt, and if not, I could always fight there just like I do here. There'll be entertainment wanted by them miners, and I've took note that nothing entertains white folk like watching one black fellow pound another.”

Jedd didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“I've thought about going to the gold fields my own self,” Ollie threw in. “But same as Rollie, I'd not want to leave Mammy…and besides, I figure there's going to be a lot of changing going on in Californy, and it might not pay any but a white man to go there till it all settles out as to how Negro folk are going to fit into the picture, you know.”

Jedd couldn't argue. The white American majority had a propensity for keeping the best of everything for themselves. He knew little of politics and legislative wranglings, but the moment he had learned that gold was found in California, Jedd had felt certain that the course of events would wind its way around to the prospect of California statehood, and in the America of the 1840s, any discussion of statehood had to include the questions surrounding slavery.

“I understand your thinking,” Jedd said. “There's not a very happy history in this nation for a man of color to look back upon if he's seeking evidence to give him hope of good things for his future.”

“There are them who say all that truck will come round to war one of these days,” said Ollie.

“I've heard the same,” Jedd replied.

“I hope it don't go that far,” said Rollie. “I wish they'd just make all the slaves freemen and move on from there.”

“Nothing's likely to happen that easy, Rollie,” said Jedd.

Ollie changed the subject. “When will you commence your new journey?” he asked Jedd.

“Plumb ain't said. Got to get off soon enough to miss the early snows, that much I can tell you. They time it too late for that, and they'll lose Jedd Colter as pilot.”

“Ollie, I need you to help me hang my bag back up,” Rollie said. “Not nowhere in a loft this time, either. I don't aim to fall through no more floors.”

“Hang it down here, and you'll have folk watching you through the window,” Ollie replied.

“I'll hang a cloth over the windows. Should have done that before.”

Jedd lent a hand, and soon the tall leather bag was hanging on the ground-floor level. Rollie put his gloves back on and began to punch at it, and Jedd was impressed with the amount of power the man's thick arms could generate.

“I hear…,” Rollie said between punches, “…that you fight…too, Mr. Jedd.”

Jedd nodded. “Got into it by accident…. Had some trouble with a big fellow in a tavern in Carolina, and it came to blows. I dropped him and a fight-for-pay man happened to see it. Had a talk with me and made me a good offer if I'd fight for him. I was needing work at the time and took the bargain.” Jedd held up his right hand and displayed a slightly crooked ring finger. “There's the price I've paid for it. Broke that finger on a man's jaw. I swear his jawbone was hard as granite. Never did heal back up like it should, and that finger's been crooked ever since. Hurts before it rains, too.”

“Did that put you off fighting?”

“Only for a little while. Went back to it after I healed up again. I needed the money. I still fight every now and then. I got no good place to train myself like you have here, though.”

Rollie noticed Jedd's eyes were on the gloves he wore. He held one of them up. “Want to give these a try?” he asked.

“I doubt they'd fit me,” Jedd said. “Being made for your hands and all.”

“If you want, you can try.”

They fit. In moments Jedd was pounding away at the newly rehung bag with all his vigor. His blows didn't thump as loudly against the leather as Rollie's did, but came faster, like lightning. Rollie was awed by Jedd's speed and said so.

A mounting pain in the bent finger he'd already displayed cut short Jedd's work with Rollie's fighter bag and padded gloves. He thanked Rollie for the use of his
equipment and passed the gloves back to the bigger man. Minutes later, as Jedd took his leave and walked away in his fine new footwear, he could hear the hard smack of Rollie's gloves against the leather bag even after he'd left the building and closed the door behind him.

L
ater, walking to his hotel, Jedd passed an alleyway between two buildings fronted by a tall boardwalk that passed the alley opening. Jedd paused on the boardwalk to look into the window of a dry goods store that had not existed when last he was in Knoxville, and wondered who owned the place. As he peered through the dusty and rippled glass, he heard a muffled cough…from below his feet, oddly enough. Surprised, he looked down between his boots through a gap between the slats of the boardwalk and saw movement. Then another cough and a sneeze, and from beneath the boardwalk and into the nearby alley emerged a very grimy, heavily bearded man with tangled hair that hung like sodden Spanish moss on both sides of his head. It was like watching an ancient ogre clambering out of a forest cave. The man had no hat, but his hair was so thick and matted he appeared to be wearing a helmet.

“Hello, Robert,” Jedd said to the man, who reeked of flesh too infrequently washed and liquor too frequently imbibed. “Been a lot of years since I seen you.”

The man, who had been looking blankly at one of the alley walls, turned clumsily toward Jedd, squinted, and mumbled, then brightened a little in comprehension. “Jedd Colter? Is that you?”

“It's me, Robert. How are you?”

“Drunk. Like always. Drunk and poor.” Robert Bertram's voice was so slurred Jedd could barely make out what he said.

“Well, I'm sorry for it,” Jedd said. “I was hoping things might have taken a better turn for you from the old days.”

“Ain't no better turns for Bob Bertram. Never have been.” He paused, thick brows moving along with the laborious efforts of a besotted mind. “But I heard that ain't been the case for you, Jedd Colter.”

“What did you hear? That I made myself rich in California?”

Bertram beamed, showing teeth like gray rocks overgrown with lichen. “Yes, sir, just that. Just that very thing! Proud of you, sir! Proud you done so good!”

Jedd shook his head. “Thank you for that, but what you heard is wrong. I've not even looked for gold in California, much less found it.”

Bertram didn't lose his grin, just put on a slier version of it. “Don't you josh me, Jedd Colter! It's just me, old Bob! You got secrets, you can trust me to keep 'em. But you got to know that
that
secret is one that's done got out.”

“Believe what you want, Bob. But the fact is I've been a poor man all my days, and nothing about that has changed. I wish it had. But it hasn't.”

Bertram's look became regretful. “Jedd, I hope that ain't true. 'Cause I need help. I'm nigh starved to death, and I was hoping you might be able to lend me a little so I could get some food. I lost my work, y'see? Old man Pullam had me cleaning out his barn lot for him, shoveling the stables clean and such, but he died and his son wouldn't keep me on. I'm in a bad way, Jedd. Money gone, no way to make more. I don't want to turn thief, but I may have to.” He suddenly coughed again, and sneezed profoundly and wetly. “And I'm coming down sick, too. I'm a sad and poor man, Jedd. I need help mighty bad. Mighty bad.”

“You're drunk, Bob. You had money for drinking.”

Bertram's already-red eyes reddened further and grew moist. His slurred voice quavered with rising emotion. “I know, Jedd. I know. But that was the last of my money, and I needed that bottle. God, how I needed it! It's my medicine in times like these…. Without it I couldn't get through. I'd put a gun to my head, swear I would. Bang and dead. Bang.” Then he sneezed again.

From beneath the boardwalk a second man emerged into the alley, surprising Jedd. The newcomer was a lean, black-haired fellow, as coarsely dressed as Bertram, but younger. His hat, relatively new, made him appear neater and cleaner than Bertram, though his face was just as grimy and his hair nearly as matted, but closer cropped. Jedd knew this man, too: Ben Scarlett, another Knoxville drunkard and street vagrant, but one who seemed to Jedd to possess more depth than most of his ilk.

Ben Scarlett pulled a tattered rag from the waistband of his dirty trousers and shoved it at Bertram. “Blow your nozzle into that, Bob, 'stead of flinging snot everywhere,” he said. “That rag's fresh. Warshed it not two weeks back and ain't used it much since.”

“You're a good friend, Ben Scarlett,” Bertram said. “Only truly good friend I got.” He blew his nose loudly and sloppily into the rag, then handed it back toward Scarlett. “You keep it now, Bob,” the latter said, and Bertram pocketed the fouled cloth.