Never Too Late (21 page)

He drew in a deep breath.

“I got involved in a ruckus with two or three men who were trying to rustle claims where I was working. They figured no one would stand up to them because several of us were working alone on the Yuba River north of Nevada City. They came one night and were going to run out an old man whose claim was next to mine. The gunshots woke me up. I grabbed my rifle and hurried outside. I snuck to the man's little cabin just in time to see them shoot him in the head as he was pleading for his life. All for a claim probably worth less than five hundred dollars. I went berserk and starting firing through the window, and when I came to myself, one of the men was dead and the others riding away yelling that they'd get me no matter how long it took. I'd run them off before they found my neighbor's gold.

“I could hardly believe what I'd done. I was in shock as I stood with my rifle in my hand in his cabin over two dead bodies. I'd learned to be a crack shot and now I regretted it. I knew they'd be back. One of them was a man named Bilsby, who already had a reputation as a killer. He wasn't much older than a kid back then, but he was a bad one.”

“Bilsby!” said Katie. The very word still sent a chill up her spine.

“I threw the rifle from my hands,” Ward went on, “vowing I'd never pick up a gun again as long as I lived. I knew Bilsby'd come after me. So that same night I cleared out. I buried Mac—an old Irishman—gathered up his gold and took it with me, along with some letters I found in his place, hoping I'd be able to find an address and send the money to whatever kin he had. Then I cleared out all my
own belongings, and my gold, and by morning I was miles away.

“I never looked back. I made my way back east and that's when I went to your mama, Kathleen, and gave her the gold. After that it was just a matter of staying ahead of Bilsby and his gang. It wasn't as if I had that much gold to make it worth following me all those years. I think he was more bent on revenge than anything.”

“I think he thought you had more than you did,” said Templeton. “I can't imagine he'd have kept on our trail for a few hundred dollars. But I don't suppose we'll ever know now.”

“Not likely,” sighed Ward.

There was a long silence.

“What about you, Uncle Templeton?” asked Katie. “Didn't you come back from California sooner than Uncle Ward?”

“Yeah, I did. I won enough money to book passage back east on a steamer. It was a lot easier than riding two thousand miles on the back of a horse.”

“What did you do then?”

“After discovering that I was pretty good with cards, that's mostly what I did. I moved around, played from city to city, most of the big hotels, spent some time up and down the Mississippi. I suppose I thought it was a good life, but looking back now it seems pretty empty. I don't know what I was thinking.”

M
RS
. H
AMMOND

29

T
he work on the remodeling of the cabin had been going on now for several months. Henry still went into town to the livery three, four, sometimes five days a week. He didn't seem to relish going to town like he used to, except that most of the time he and Jeremiah rode in together, which they both liked
.

Things were different in Greens Crossing by that time. It wasn't comfortable being black, and I know both Henry and Jeremiah felt it. I reckon it had never been comfortable being black in a white man's world. But it was worse now. The looks that came our way were mean and frightening. Josepha hardly ever went to town, and I only went when I was with Katie or Papa or Uncle Ward. Jeremiah had to watch himself especially close because it seemed that young white no-goods wanted nothing more than to beat up a strong young black man. Jeremiah never went anywhere with me or Katie, knowing that would rile anyone who saw him. Any trouble he got
into with Deke Steeves or any other of the rowdy white boys could bring danger to us all, and he knew it
.

But someone had to go into town at least once a week to get our mail and a few supplies. And Papa and Uncle Ward liked to keep up on what was going on and so we always got a newspaper too
.

Katie and I went into the store one day while Papa was talking to Mr. Watson at the mill about something. Mrs. Hammond was alone behind her counter. She glanced up as we walked in and a strange look came over her face. A brief little smile crossed her lips. It was the first thing like that I'd ever seen from her. Maybe she smiled when Katie came into the store alone, but never when I was around
.

“Hello, young ladies,” she said. Her voice was quieter than usual, like she wasn't feeling well
.

“Hi, Mrs. Hammond,” said Katie. “We're here for our mail and a newspaper and a few things.”

Mrs. Hammond pulled out our mail from underneath and set it on the counter
.

“Looks like you have a letter from up north . . . Pennsylvania,” she said
.

Katie picked up the letter and glanced at it
.

“It's from my aunt Nelda—my mother's sister,” she said. “My uncles' sister too.”

“Ah . . . your aunt—you're Northerners, then?”

“My mother and uncles came from Pennsylvania,” said Katie. “I suppose the only reason we're down here in North Carolina is because my mother married my father and moved down here with him.”

“Your mother was a fine woman—strong and a hard worker, and was always nice to folks.”

Mrs. Hammond paused, and again that strange expression came over her face
.

“I remember the day she first came into the store,” she said. “She couldn't have been much older than you are now, Kathleen. Her voice sounded so strange to me—so Northern. But I got used to it. She had that darkie girl of hers with her—”

She glanced momentarily at me
.

“They always came in together,” she went on to Katie, “—just like the two of you. I don't even think I ever knew the girl's name.”

“Lemuela,” I said
.

“Ah . . . hmm . . .” She nodded. “They were always together, just like you. When you walked in just now I was reminded of them, especially of your mama, Kathleen. You look more like her every day.”

Again she glanced at me with an inquisitive expression
.

Just then Mrs. Hammond's hand went to her face and she turned pale. She groped for the stool behind the counter and sat down
.

“Mrs. Hammond, what is it?” asked Katie in alarm. “Are you ill?”

Mrs. Hammond tried to force a smile
.

“I haven't been feeling too well,” she said
.

“Have you seen the doctor?”

“No, I don't have time. I have to keep the store open.”

“But if you are sick—”

“I will be all right. I can't . . . you know, close the store. If people—”

She paused and looked away. Her voice sounded different than it ever had before
.

“What is it, Mrs. Hammond?” asked Katie
.

“If people . . . you know, if I was closed they would start going to the store in Oakwood—”

“They would understand. Everybody gets sick once in a while.”

“I can't take any chances. No one in town likes me, you know that, Kathleen. No one would care . . . and I can't say I would blame them.—No,” she added, drawing in a deep breath of resolve and standing up again, “I must keep the store open. I will be fine. Now, what else was it you needed, Kathleen?”

Katie and I exchanged brief looks, but said nothing. Within moments Mrs. Hammond was her same usual gruff self. When another customer came in a minute later, no one would have been able to tell she was the least bit different
.

All the way home Katie and I couldn't stop thinking about her. To feel sorry for Mrs. Hammond was the last thing I'd ever expected to feel. But I did. I know Katie did too. It wasn't just that she seemed sick, she seemed sad too, in a way neither of us had ever noticed before
.

But even then I didn't know what Katie was thinking
.

As soon as we got home we walked into the
house. Josepha and Henry were sitting at the table talking together
.

“Josepha,” said Katie, “would you cook up a batch of your chicken broth this afternoon?”

“Sure, Miz Katie,” replied Josepha. “You got a hankering for chicken soup?”

“No, but Mrs. Hammond in town isn't feeling well. I thought it would be a neighborly thing to do to take her some. She's having a hard enough time keeping the store open without having to worry about cooking for herself.”

“You want to take my broth to Mrs. Hammond?”

“Why not?”

“Cuz she'd likely throw it out!”

“Well, I want to try anyway. I'm going into town again tomorrow morning. Nobody has to go with me if they don't want to, but I'm going regardless and I want to take her some soup.”

“Well, I'll make you da broff,” said Josepha, “as a favor to you. But I still ain't gonna be doing dat lady no favors. Not after da way I seen her treat colored folk.”

Katie and I glanced at each other, but Katie said nothing more
.

The next morning bright and early Katie and I set off again for Greens Crossing
.

We got to town well after the time when Mrs. Hammond's store should have been open—it was probably eight-thirty or nine o'clock. But the front door of the shop was locked and there was no sign of life inside
.

“We'll go around back,” said Katie
.

The back door into where Mrs. Hammond lived up the stairs above the shop was unlocked
.

Katie knocked, then opened it a crack and called inside
.

“Mrs. Hammond . . . Mrs. Hammond, it's me—Kathleen Clairborne.”

But there was no sign of life here either
.

“Mrs. Hammond,” Katie called again. “Mrs. Hammond . . . it's Katie Clairborne.”

Still there was no reply. Katie opened the door wider and crept inside. Timidly I followed. I wouldn't have dared to do anything like this without Katie. She was a lot braver than me. And she was white, which made a difference too
.

Neither of us had ever been inside Mrs. Hammond's house before, but Katie went straight for the stairs and tiptoed up them. It was so quiet, I couldn't help being a little afraid. But I followed, carrying the pot of soup
.

We reached the top. The door was ajar
.

“Mrs. Hammond,” said Katie, walking into her sitting room. “Mrs. Hammond, it's Kathleen Clairborne.”

Still there was no sign of her
.

“Mrs. Hammond . . .”

A faint moan sounded from a room to our right
.

Katie hurried toward it. I waited
.

Katie disappeared inside the bedroom. I heard another moan, then sounds of recognition
.

“Mayme!” Katie called out, “she's on the floor.—
Oh, Mrs. Hammond, what is the matter!”

“I'm not well . . . I couldn't get up.”

“We're here now, Mrs. Hammond. We'll take care of you. We brought you some chicken broth, didn't we, Mayme.—Mayme, come in and help me get her into bed!”

Mrs. Hammond glanced up at me from where she lay, and I thought I saw the hint of a smile
.

We got on both sides of her and were able to get her back into bed
.

“That's so good of you girls,” she said. “I don't deserve such kindness. I'm just a grumpy old—”

“Don't talk like that, Mrs. Hammond,” interrupted Katie. “This is what friends and neighbors are for. Mayme, why don't you see if you can get a fire started in the cook stove and then get that soup warming.—Mrs. Hammond, what else can we do for you?”

“The store . . . what time is it?”

“I think it's close to nine o'clock.”

“Oh, my goodness . . . I have to open the shop.”

She struggled to sit up in bed, but her face was pale and she was obviously weak
.

“You just lie still and rest, Mrs. Hammond,” said Katie. “You tell me what to do and I'll go downstairs and open the store. Mayme will heat up the soup. I'll come up if I have any questions.”