Soul Catcher (3 page)

"Is that so?" Cain said, but he realized he had already lost. At least when he was sober, he knew when to fold, cut his losses, and wait for the next hand. "Let's just say for a moment that I was interested. My debt will be completely canceled?"

"Yes."

"And the bill of sale for my horse?" Cain asked.

"I'll give it back to you once they are returned."

"I'll need a horse to travel."

"I can provide you with a horse."

"No. I want my horse. Or I won't go."

"Very well," Eberly said offhandedly, the victor enjoying his magnanimity. He glanced down at the floor, and with the toe of his boot he nudged a jagged piece of ceramic. He moved it cautiously, the way someone might move a chess piece. Then he squatted and picked up Cain's holster and gun.

"I suppose you'll need this, too," he said, handing it to Cain.

"How much of a reward?" Cain asked, figuring now to make the most of the situation.

"I am offering one hundred dollars for the boy and four hundred for the girl."

Four hundred! Cain thought, catching himself from raising an eyebrow. It was, he knew, an extremely generous sum all by itself. But with the cancellation of the three hundred that he owed Eberly, it was a staggering amount for the capture and return of a slave. Seven hundred for a woman! In his experience, owners would pay such a sum to get a female back for one of two reasons. She could have been a very capable house servant, perhaps a valuable cook or seamstress or wet nurse, someone who was worth a good deal because of her skills. Or she could have meant something beyond dollars and cents to her owner. On more than one occasion Cain had been called upon to hunt down a female runaway whose owner had had a more personal reason for wanting her back.

"Five hundred and you have a deal," Cain said, sensing his advantage and pressing the issue.

"Very well. Five hundred."

With the ease with which Eberly conceded, Cain kicked himself that he hadn't bargained for more.

"And I'll need some money for expenses."

Eberly reached into his inside coat pocket and brought out a billfold. He removed several bills and tossed them indifferently on the unmade bed. It was as if he didn't want to come into physical contact with Cain.

Then Cain asked the usual questions, things he would need to know to track down and capture a runaway: How long had the slave been gone? Did he leave behind any clues, such as comments made to other slaves, about where he seemed to be headed? What was he wearing at the time of his flight? How much food and extra clothing and money did he have? Had he any weapons in his possession? Could he read and write, and perhaps therefore forge a pass he could show to patrollers? Had anyone heard from him since? What was his marital status? Did he have kin up north he could flee to? Had he run away before, and if so, which way had he gone? And especially if it was a woman runaway, did she have any children she was trying to be reunited with?

"Did your nigger wench have any young'uns?" Cain asked.

"No," Eberly replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I see. How long did you say they've been gone?"

"They ran off January seventh," Eberly explained to him. "Recently, a letter came into my possession. It was written by the runaway boy, Henry, to his mother on a neighboring plantation. The overseer intercepted it and brought it to me. It was written from a place called Timbucto, in North Elba, New York. Have you heard of it?"

Cain nodded. It was, he recalled, a place for freed and runaway slaves.

"Here," said the old man, handing him the letter. "It is my belief that they are there together."

"Are the two involved?" Cain asked.

"What?" said Eberly.

"Is the buck fucking the girl?"

"Hell, no," he said. "If that nigger so much as laid a finger on her I will personally cowhide his black ass."

"What does the woman look like?" Cain asked.

Eberly paused for a moment.

"A high yellow octoroon. Tall, perhaps five nine. Her features are refined for those of a Negro."

"Any distinguishing marks on her? Scars. Brands. Birthmarks?"

The old man shook his head.

"She been flogged? " asked Cain.

"No," Eberly said. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he added, "She has blue eyes."

"Blue eyes?" Cain said. "Those shouldn't be hard to follow."

Eberly then told him he'd be working with three other men.

"I work alone," Cain said.

"Since I'm paying your fees, you will work with the devil himself if I so decide. Is that clear, Cain?"

He stared at the man and shrugged. "It's your show."

"You will be responsible for her welfare. For seeing that nothing happens to her. My overseer, Strofe," Eberly said, indicating with his thumb the man below in the street, "and his brother will accompany you. Strofe will be in charge of the other two men. He knows what both runaways look like. Their habits. The Strofes are not very bright but they are dependable in their way. The third is a man called Preacher."

"Does he have any experience tracking?"

"I'm not sure. He has worked for me before, though. He is good, shall we say, at disciplining slaves."

Cain knew the type of man that Eberly was talking about, the kind that made a living dishing out torture, scaring slaves to keep them from running. "I don't want that sort around."

"I want him there," Eberly said sternly. Cain suspected even then, and his suspicions would only later be confirmed, that this Preacher's role wouldn't so much be in tracking slaves as in making sure that Cain did what he had been paid to do. The three hundred dollars that the horse represented was a lot of money. Normally a slave catcher wasn't paid until he brought back the goods. This fellow was Eberly's insurance that Cain would return with his investment.

"Then their payment comes out of your pocket, not mine," Cain said.

The man nodded. "You let me worry about them."

"When do you wish me to start?"

"Immediately. The others are waiting for you over at Spivey's Saloon. Do you know of the place?"

"Yes," Cain said. "Were you so certain I would agree?"

Eberly reached into his waistcoat pocket again and pulled out a gold eagle and flicked it dismissively toward Cain, who snatched it out of the air the way a man might an annoying fly. "Get yourself a new pair of boots," he said, a final indignity.

"She must be valuable property," Cain said.

"That's not your business. I will pay you what we agreed when the job is done."

"You didn't tell me her name?"

"Rosetta. And mind you, Cain, I don't want so much as a hair on her head to be harmed. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"One more thing, Cain."

"What's that?"

"Do I have your word?" Eberly said, extending his hand. It was an odd gesture for a man used to making commands, not entreaties.

Cain hesitated, then said, "You have my word."

Eberly's grip was surprisingly strong, and as he shook his hand he searched Cain's face for another moment, as if trying to read there whether or not he was the sort of man he could depend upon. Then he turned and headed briskly for the door. He opened it and was about to step out, but he stopped and turned.

"Bring her back," he said. For a moment Eberly's hawklike features softened ever so slightly, his frozen bluish gray eyes warmed by something. Anger, fear, desperation? Cain couldn't say.

"I gave you my word," he offered.

Eberly paused for a moment, then said, "Cross me, Cain, and you'll wish you'd never been born."

Then he turned and strode out of the room.

Cain stood there on one boot, canted to his right, the gold coin warming in his hand, listening as Eberly's footsteps receded down the hall. He told himself he would make this one last hunt. But that was it. Never again. He was shut of this business. And then, though it wasn't as if he had much choice, he wondered if he'd come to regret it.

Chapter 2.

They started out that same day, having first provisioned themselves at Valentine's dry goods for the long journey north. They brought with them foodstuffs and medical supplies, ammo and knives and hatchets, extra clothing and blankets, oilcloth and needles and thread, boxes of locofoco and cans of coal oil for the lanterns, liquor and quids of tobacco, as well as various other supplies, including, of course, the shackles and rope that Cain always brought with him when hunting runaways. As soon as they left Richmond, the order of their riding seemed to fall naturally into a pattern which, once established, remained most days. Cain, the best tracker and the most experienced, usually rode lead on Hermes. He was followed by Strofe's brother, whom they referred to as Little Strofe because he was both younger and smaller, on a bad-tempered, one-eyed mule who had a tendency to nip, especially when approached on his blind side, and he was followed by the pack mule, which carried their supplies. Little Strofe's pair of hunting dogs, Louella and Skunk, ran alongside, occasionally flushing up a rabbit or squirrel and bolting into the woods after it. Next came Strofe on a hulking but skittish Percheron, a clumsy beast who gingerly picked its way across streams with the trepidation of a nearsighted old lady. Bringing up the rear was the one named Preacher, who sat astride a Cracker horse, a silver-blue roan with a single-footed gait Cain had heard the mountain folks refer to as a coon rack.

They passed first through lowlands and salt marsh, bog and tidal flats. Occasionally, they spied in the distance harbors filled with ships, their holds being loaded with tobacco and corn and wheat bound for northern or European ports. They rode by unplowed spring fields and pasturelands with cattle and horses grazing, and through small towns and villages, sometimes stopping at an inn or general store to reprovision, though they skirted the larger cities like Washington and Baltimore and Philadelphia because of the problems such places posed with their abolitionists and vigilance committees. They crossed spring-swollen rivers by bridge and ferry and flat-bottomed boats, occasionally having to ford them, dismounting and holding on to the horse's mane as the animal carried them across the surging waters.

Cain found out that the older Strofe, whose full name was William Lee, had been in the employ of Eberly since he was a boy, first cutting lumber for him, then running his tannery, and now as overseer. He learned this from his garrulous brother, as Strofe himself was a taciturn man who used words as if they cost hard cash. He was wamble-cropped in the bowels, complaining of stomach pains and cramps, followed by bouts of uncontrollable diarrhea. He often had to stop and jump off his horse and dash frantically into the woods, where he was barely able to pull down his trousers before a brown stream erupted from his backside.

"Got him a case of the flux," the one named Preacher said. "My pappy had a bad case a that. Near died from it."

Little Strofe wore a floppy farmer's hat and a wool coat patched so many times with multiple colors that he resembled a harlequin. His face was soft and fleshy, the no-color of lard, with small eyes like his brother's shoved into it like nails. Not actually feebleminded, he nonetheless looked upon the world with a child's eye, and usually had a dull half smile pasted on his face. Short but stocky, he was a smaller version of his brother. Though unlike his brother he was friendly and gregarious, especially to Cain. He had taken to prefacing Cain's name with a "mister" and Cain responded in kind, saying things like, "Mr. Strofe, the rabbit stew you made tonight was especially good." The