The Last Paradise

ONE

Murmurs drifted slow and easy. Ceiling fans whispered, swirling warm air in the Galveston courtroom. Judge Hammer had dispensed sentences in the last two cases. The first sent a drunk and disorderly Negro to the county jail for ninety days. In the other, an Irish Catholic was fined two dollars for putting his wife into the hospital, her face smashed like a melon. Hammer’s courtroom gleamed in ornate, austere mahogany. Three flags stood tall in a corner, honoring the Confederacy, Texas, and the Nation. Hazy light filtered through a series of windows high on the outside wall. The usual spectators of spinsters and retired Civil War veterans sat in the gallery. The spinsters cooled themselves with small oriental fans. Many of the Confederates were amputees; an arm, a shoulder, a leg.

Judge Hammer smacked his gavel. Next case, he said with a dour voice. His upper body was like a dark mushroom in the judgment seat. He had thick eyebrows, a worn face, and stern eyes.

Jake Slocum, the portly white court officer, motioned for the lawyer to come forward. The lawyer, dressed in shabby gray, was followed by two tall and thin white men—laborers—dressed respectfully for the occasion.

Maxwell Hayes and Newt Haskins, the court officer announced. A public disturbance. He handed papers to Judge Hammer. The two defendants stood in obedience. Hats in their hands, clean shaven for the first time in weeks, and their hair neatly trimmed.

Howard Dean, their lawyer, began to speak, Your Honor, the disturbance was less than–

Sit down, Howard, the judge interrupted.

Your Honor?

Have you suddenly gained deaf ears, Howard? I said sit down. The lawyer went to a chair behind the defendant’s table.

Judge Hammer held his wire glasses in one hand and paged through the papers. Mmmm. A knife fight. He looked up. Nice to see you again, Mr. Haskins. Glad you’re still alive.

Good to be alive, Your Honor. Newt smiled wide, showing a mouthful of dull, yellow teeth. How’ve you been?

Shut up.

Yes, sir.

Newt was thinner than Maxwell but just as tall.

And you must be Maxwell Hayes? the judge asked.

Yes, sir, and you must be Judge Hammer? Maxwell smiled as heartily as Newt had. His hair was thinning. Both defendants were handsome in a dirty way.

And a genius, too, I see, added the judge.

You’re a man of perception.

The judged looked down at his papers and said, Mr. Hayes—

Yes, sir?

Looking up, I haven’t slept with my wife for three weeks. Don’t annoy me.

Guilty, they thought. We’re going to jail.

Their lawyer stood up. Your Honor, these men have nothin’ to do with your wife.

That’s good, Howard, ’cause then I’d have to hang ’em.

Your Honor?

Sit down, Howard.

But—

Sit down.

Their lawyer sat down.

Judge Hammer placed his glasses on the papers. Mr. Haskins, how many times have I seen you in my courtroom this past year?

Your courtroom?

Yes, my kingdom, this litter box—the outhouse of your life. How many times?

Twice.

How many?

Thrice, I mean three.

How many?

Maybe four.

Four.

Four?

Yes, four. That’s before five and after three.

Very good, Judge.

Three weeks. I haven’t slept with her for three weeks and four days.

That’s three-and-a-half-weeks, Your Honor, Newt volunteered.

Maxwell shook his head, but Newt didn’t get it.

Yes, it is. That’s a long time.

Yes, sir.

Do you know what a long time is?

Three-and-a-half weeks?

In the right jail.

Yes, sir.

Drunk and disorderly four times, and now a knife fight. Drunk, too, it says here.

I suppose.

You passed out.

I don’t remember.

That’s because you passed out.

Yes, sir.

Mr. Hayes—

Yes, sir.

I’ve not forgotten about you.

No, sir.

It says here you spent time—

That was a long time ago, Your Honor, Maxwell interrupted. A man changes.

Sometimes, some men. And you?

Self-defense, Maxwell interrupted again.

We all live in a dream, don’t we Mr. Hayes?

Your Honor?

The knife fight. What the hell were you two fighting about?

Burly Horse, Newt replied.

What?

It wasn’t much of a knife fight, Your Honor, Maxwell answered.

And why’s that?

He pulled out one of those Boy Scout pen knives. The kind with utensils.

It’s a sharp knife, Newt bragged.

And that’s what he threatened you with?

Yes, sir, like I said—

And what did you do? Hammer asked.

Nothin’ much. I knocked him down a couple of times. He kept gettin’ up and fallin’ down. I could have cut him good with my hunter’s blade. But I like Newt. I didn’t want to gut ’im like a deer.

Good thing, the judge said. That’s called murder. Hunter’s blade?

Yes, sir. Maxwell reached down into his boot and pulled out a ten-inch blade, shining silver on a white ivory handle.

The spectators murmured with apprehension.

For Christ sakes! What the hell’s he doing with a knife in my court?

Their lawyer stood up.

The embarrassed court officer hustled after Maxwell. I didn’t think he’d bring a knife to court, Your Honor!

Forget it, Jake. Go back to you nap. Come here, Hayes. Let me see that thing.

Their lawyer sat down. Maxwell approached the judge, and the judge took the knife. He balanced it in his hand. Sturdy, he said, grasping the handle. Good fit. Smooth, tight. This is an expensive piece of hardware, Mr. Hayes.

A gift, Your Honor.

Razor sharp. A gift?

From a lover.

Lover? Who the hell do you sleep with? Jack the Ripper?

A good woman from long ago. A sharp knife and a good woman. A man can’t have both.

Apparently I can’t have either. Three weeks, Mr. Hayes. Quit reminding me.

Three weeks and four days, Your Honor, Newt corrected, as if he were in primary school.

Yes, growled the judge. He returned the knife to Maxwell. Back to your perch.

Maxwell slipped the blade into his boot and went back to where Newt stood. Newt shook his head as if to say, You’re a real bonehead.

What were you two village idiots fighting over?

Burly Horse, Newt replied. Tall, thin, and lanky; light, straight hair framed Newt’s oval face. He had blue eyes, a kind voice, and a polite expression that attracted unscrupulous women.

What’s a Burly Horse? the judge asked.

His girlfriend, Maxwell said.

Not anymore, Newt argued. "She’s not my gal anymore. Was is the proper word."

No way, Newt! a voice yelled from the gallery.

The judge smacked his gavel. Quiet! No one uttered a peep.

He thought I was tryin’ to—

Screw her! Newt said.

Court her, Maxwell corrected. He thought I was tryin’ to court her.

And how do I know you weren’t on the prowl? asked the judge.

She’s not called Burly Horse ’cause she looks and smells like a rose, Your Honor.

A large, square box of a homely woman stood up in the back. Kill ’im, Newt! Kill ’im! Don’t let ’im say that about your gal!

The spectators buzzed.

You’re not my woman! Not anymore!

The judge smacked his gavel twice. What the hell is that?

Kill ’im, Newt! Kill ’im!

Newt turned toward the large woman. We’re through, Burly. You get me into too much trouble.

Kill ’im, Newt!

The judge smacked his gavel three more times. Shut up, you two! This is my corral! And that’s just where she belongs! Get that mule out of my courtroom!

The officer went to eject Burly Horse.

You should do me good, Newt, Burly Horse said, resisting but moving with the officer. You should hit ’im hard!

Hopefully, she doesn’t have a knife, the judge added.

She has a powerful kick, Your Honor, Newt said. And she’s very quick.

Hammer smacked his gavel. I don’t care. Their lawyer stood up. Sit down, Howard.

Their lawyer sat down.

The judge smacked his gavel. Mr. Haskins, I don’t care what kind of animals you want to sleep with. That thing—I can’t believe any man with eyes would try to steal her, drunk or sober, and especially from a drunk like you. I don’t want to see you in my court anymore. This is Galveston, not New Orleans.

Yes, Your Honor.

I’m going to fine you three dollars, with the stipulation that you don’t have a drink for one year.

I can do that, Your Honor, Newt said.

Like hell you can! That’s three-hundred-and sixty-five days without a drink. Not one single drop.

Yes, sir.

Of alcohol.

Beer, too?

No alcohol of any kind!

That doesn’t seem to be hardly fair. Newt whined.

Judge Hammer stared at Newt with the eyes of a hawk. Yes, Your Honor. That’s fair enough.

And for this one year, you’ll do community service, three times a week, at St. Mary’s Orphanage.

No way, Your Honor! I hate kids!

Would you prefer one year in the state prison?

But I really don’t like kids. They howl and cry and beg and whine! Newt groused.

Then it’s one year in the big house, and the judge held up his gavel as a threat to whack in the sentence.

OK, your Honor. I’ll do it.

Three times a week at St. Mary’s Orphanage. You will report to Sister Mary Hart within seven days.

Heart?

Hart. H-a-r-t.

What am I supposed to do? Newt whined.

Whatever she requests.

She’s a woman, your Honor. You wouldn’t want me to—

She’s a nun, you idiot, and the judge whacked his gavel. No alcohol of any kind and three days of community service every week for one year.

Yes, sir.

Mr. Hayes.

Yes, sir?

I’m still thinking about you.

I hope good thoughts, Your Honor.

Both you and Mr. Haskins are working?

Yes, sir, they both chimed.

You’re new to Galveston?

That’s correct, Your Honor. Maxwell said. Less than six months on the island, but I like it here. Easy to find work. If you’re not workin’ in Galveston in 1900, you’re stupid or lazy.

Some of the coloreds are just that, the judge added.

I haven’t met a man or woman yet, Your Honor, who’s not workin’ and workin’ hard.

It says here you’re from Michigan.

And other places, Your Honor. I’ve drifted around for a while lookin’ for a good fit.

You’re a Yankee? the judge asked.

No, sir. My Pappy died at Shiloh. Fightin’ for the Rebs. I worked in Michigan, fell in love in Michigan, but left when there were no more trees to cut down. I go where the work is, like any good man.

The judge eyed Maxwell with curious appeal. Your father died at Shiloh?

Yes, sir, I have his pistol right here. Maxwell reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a Civil War revolver.

Jesus Christ! What the hell’s he doing with a gun in my courtroom?

The spectators buzzed. Their lawyer stood up.

Don’t we pay you, Jake?

Yes, sir, the court officer responded. He again rushed toward Maxwell. I checked ’im. I really did.

The judge held up a hand directing the court officer to stop. Then he took a deep breath. Sit down, Howard. Let me see that thing, Hayes.

Maxwell brought the revolver up to Judge Hammer. It was clean and well kept. The judge balanced the gun in his hand and then looked at the barrel. Thirty-eight caliber, seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. Good balance. The barrel was marked with C.S.A., indicating its Confederate authenticity. These were made in Memphis, Columbus, Greensboro, and Augusta.

I wouldn’t know, Your Honor. Maxwell said. My Pappy died usin’ that gun.

I’m a collector, the judge bragged. There’s only one bullet in the cylinder?

Yes, sir.

It’s a gold bullet?

Yes, sir.

Judge Hammer gave the gun back to Maxwell. Maxwell stuffed the revolver into his waist, beneath his shirt, and went back to where Newt was waiting.

Why a gold bullet? the judge asked.

That’s personal, Your Honor. A gift from a friend.

Why only one bullet?

I can’t get into too much trouble with a single shot, Maxwell answered. I can only shoot one man. With six bullets I can kill six.

Unfortunately, there’s logic in that, the judge said. Do you plan on staying in Galveston for some time?

I like it here.

That’s not what I asked.

So long as the work holds out.

Are you going to keep getting into knife fights?

Only with Boy Scout pocket knives, Maxwell smiled. The spectators chuckled, and the judge smiled. I don’t look for trouble, Your Honor. Never do.

Yea, but I’ll bet you finish it, don’t you, Mr. Hayes?

Just to stay alive, Your Honor. This is a grand place with good people. I like it here. I saw two signs when I entered the island. Those signs told me everything I needed to know about Galveston.

And what were they? the judge asked in a proud way.

I got off the ferry, Maxwell said, "and there it was, gleamin’ like gold—

Welcome to Paradise

Galveston, Texas

Wall Street of the Southwest

Third Richest City in the Nation."

We’re proud of that, the judge smiled.

"Your streets are a fine place. Trolleys an’ no horse manure to stink up the air. Everyone rides bicycles. Businessmen with their derbies. Women dressed tight with parasols an’ fancy hats; they add glamour to Broadway. All fine models, good citizens, Godly, I’m sure. I hear there are two automobiles in Galveston. I saw one: a Riker Electric Brougham, rollin’ without a horse. E-lectric. The future, I bet. Banks, Museums, an op’ra house. Edwin Booth, Sara Bernhardt, Buffalo Bill—they’ve been here, an’ they’re comin’ back. Plenty of newspapers, two dailies. ’Lectricity everywhere. Movie theaters. Ships comin’ in, goin’ out. Beaches. Railroads. Sail boats. Bathhouses. Gas lights. Telephones. You have the number one cotton port in the nation. Anyone—me, you—can take a steamship right straight to Europe."

Fourteen lines, the judge added proudly. Three more to Cuba, two to Japan. We’re the envy of New York. Chicago can have its pigs and filthy stocks. Sears and Roebuck’s coming here.

An’ why not? Each tide brings in a million bucks!

And the other sign? the judge asked.

That one, too, took my eyes away, Your Honor. A real piece of work. I was headin’ for my boardin’ house on the east side of the island. And there he was, hangin’ noose high from a tall oak, a colored boy, dead as Jesus, an’ around his neck was this sign, screamin’ like an angel: This Nigger Voted."

TWO

S o how’d I do? smiled Howard Dean, having a good idea what their answer would be.

Maxwell and Newt bickered with their lawyer on the courthouse steps. The commerce of Galveston bustled below—trolleys clanged, horse drawn wagons scrambled by, bicycles swerved. Coconut palms towered along wide, silver streets, golden domes, and tall church spires.

Just great, mocked Newt. You stood up without a cue and sat down when Hammer said down. A real pedigree, you are. I’m sentenced to Sister Mary and the orphans! What a deal!

Well, you’re not in jail—not this time.

Hell, my fine was six bucks! fired Maxwell.

You didn’t have to mention that colored boy’s hangin’, now did you?

I couldn’t help myself.

That’s why Hammer doubled your fine. A lesson learned, I hope. That incident hasn’t been solved yet.

"It’s called murder," Maxwell reminded.

Have a conversation with the Klan, Newt said. If you’re not one of ’em.

Now don’t add paranoia to your mental deficiencies. The Yankee press is havin’ a field day, Dean said. If we’re goin’ to attract Sears and the like, we have to keep a calm head. Besides, the Klan’s not in Galveston.

The Klan’s in every town on the planet, Maxwell said.

Both defendants squared their worn and weary hats that shaded their eyes from the hot, tropical sun.

How much do we owe ya? Maxwell asked.

A buck a piece will do.

Pay ’im, Maxwell ordered Newt.

Me? Why me?

"It was your Boy Scout knife, your drink, and your hallucination. Newt gave Dean two silver dollars. Dean tipped his derby. You two keep low."

Get a new suit, replied Newt.

You two should talk, he said. Then he turned and descended the steps quickly before jaunting across the busy street.

Seagulls argued with pigeons. Horses pulled wagons. Ladies strolled beneath parasols.

Now what? asked Maxwell, as both men sauntered down the long, courthouse steps.

Let’s get a drink.

You can’t have a drink, not a single sip. You can’t even lick the glass.

I think he meant after today, Newt reasoned.

No. He meant now, today, tomorrow, three-hundred-sixty-five days, remember?

Christ.

You, not me, Maxwell smiled. His hazel eyes twinkled with mischief. He had a face everyone trusted, and he made friends easily. He usually wore a dark stubble, which gave him a formidable appearance when needed. His hands were calloused from hard work. His face was worn from a tough life, sunburned and oily. He had drifted in and out of lifetimes, seeking a destination. Wrinkles added to his handsome appeal. He was at an age when his habits attracted one type of woman and repulsed others. Maxwell Hayes lived outside the law—because he was an honest man.

You never told me your pa died at Shiloh? Newt mused.

"Well, he died somewhere." Both men smiled. Ranch hands without a ranch. They talked about nothing that mattered as they waited for their ride, each enjoying the sound of the other’s voice. They were good friends and could have been mistaken for brothers, such was the ease with which their smiles resembled each other. Newt was the harder drinker with an intellectual flare, having attended an Ivy League school for a year. Maxwell was better at holding his liquor; he was a peaceful drunk. On the other hand, Newt, when drunk, would often find himself throwing punches at a shadow—with the shadow eventually winning. Sober, Newt could think his way into and out of trouble. He didn’t carry a gun, or even own a gun, and was clumsy in the knowledge of using one. He carried his Boy Scout knife, but he was not a physical match for hired bullies. Maxwell was a reactionary, a quiet man who carried a gun—that was enough warning to leave him alone. He didn’t have Newt’s sagacity, what little remained after all those years with the bottle, but he had the wisdom of experience.

Galveston loomed and shone east and west, up and down streets and wide avenues named after God and money. Austere architecture from the eyes of Nicholas J. Clayton and Eugene T. Heiner. Renaissance Revival, Greek Revival, Romanesque, Gothic, Italianate, Victorian—styles standing tall, ominous, ornate. Archways and castles, and round verandas with carved lions, iron railings, pillars, domes, towers, spires—red sandstone and blue marble. Vernacular businesses lined with windows and wired with telegraphs, telephones, lights. Elite homes peering high above pecans, peaches, magnolias, and towering palms. Millionaire homes—Moody, Gresham, Lasker, Willis, Ashton—villas and mansions, bragging with cool colors and bold geometry. Perfect lawns and beautiful flowers—green, leafy robust gardens. Trolleys and tourists. Derby hats and French fashions. Ladies in high collars and long thimble dresses, shaded beneath parasols—shopping, gossiping, showing off flowering feathered hats from Paris, Rome, New York.

The North Strand held stocks and bonds; loans and mortgages—Wall Street of the Southwest. Bridges to the mainland carried wagons and trains and commerce. Wharves to the north loaded and unloaded ships, steamers from Scandinavia, the Orient, Spain. Silos and warehouses were filled with corn and wheat and cotton—and more cotton. Cattle. Flour. Warm waters; gold beaches; long-shore currents. Bathers came from New England, Europe, Russia. The roll of bikes and buzz of busy. Drays, cabbies, and carriages were pulled by brown and black horses and driven by brown and black men. Ice wagons, milk floats, laundry vans: pickups and deliveries. Large, gleaming windows and brass doors. Theaters and operas. Museums. Libraries. Gas lights. Pavilions. Birds, sea birds—pelicans, egrets, cranes, herons, terns—migratory flocks. Salt marshes. Sea winds, bays, inlets, artesian water. Waves and white caps and tides. Fresh fish, swordfish, and plenty of sharks. Blue skies and boundless futures. Sand. A long pile of deep sand. A million years of sand. A paradise built on sand.

They spotted Jake Bishop maneuvering an empty lumber wagon along Broadway. A long buckboard with a single horse. Bishop was the son of a slave, born into slavery—raised as a slave when a child. He pulled the wagon up to the courthouse steps. Miss Connor sent me to pick up a couple of horse thieves, he said with a smile.

That’d be us, Newt said.

So you’re not doing time?

Bishop laughed hard when he heard their story. He especially enjoyed the part about Newt and his community service. Like most laborers, Bishop was thin from long days of working hard, but he showed upper body strength with thick arms and shoulders. He had a short crop of curly hair, but a clean-shaven face. A face his wife made him shave each and every day. His brown eyes were watery and weary. His golden-brown skin was smooth and beautiful. He had wide hands, a stiff nose, and thin cheeks. His first name was Jacob, but he went by his last—everyone called him Bishop. Let me get this straight, he said to Newt. You can’t have a drink for a year?

Not in front of witnesses.

We should start a pool, Bishop said to Maxwell. I’ll give ’im a day.

A fool’s bet, Maxwell replied.

Miss Connor said I get the day off after delivering you two somewhere safe. What d’ya think of that? I get paid for this.

Not a bad day’s work, Maxwell smiled.

Newt nudged Maxwell as if to say watch this, Bishop, if I were a Negro, I’d like that.

"Why … Jesus Christ! What the hell do you mean, ‘If I were a Negro’? What the hell! What the hell! You’re the reason the war was fought, you dumb piece of white trash. Both of you, stop laughing. Jump in, or I’ll leave you to a long walk back to court. Come on, get in. Let’s go. Get in. I gotta a day off thanks to your reckless wisdom, and I don’t wanna waste it."

They were about to jump into the back of the wagon when Officer Brood Hale came swaggering down the walk. Hale’s reputation was legendary. He was known to bully poor whites and humiliate blacks for nothing more than their color and economic status. Everyone knew he was in the Klan or an organization that worshipped the Klan. He was a snitch on the Galveston police force—snitching to Boss Connor—keeping the Boss informed.

Bishop did his best to hold a low profile in front of Hale. Bishop was on the WUC (Wharf Union Committee), a black union negotiating with Connor’s team, but who were considered greedy niggers by the white elite landlords. Negotiations were not going well. Connor was new money in a city that bragged about its old millionaires, but he was old tyranny. He came from a Southern plantation after the War, detested coloreds, and was painfully sick of talking to niggers" about wages.

Hale was teamed with a young officer who had been trained to listen and not interfere in Brood’s hostile way of solving or starting a conflict. The young cop carried himself with naive authority.

Look what’s coming, Newt warned.

Trouble, Bishop said.

Big time, added Newt.

Maxwell said nothing. The moment would take care of itself.

What are you two and that greedy nigger doin’ here? Brood asked in a threatening way as he approached. He had a round face, a thick upper body, and bloodshot eyes that glared. His long sideburns turned up into a mustache dark and thick.

Goin’ home, Maxwell replied.

Then get goin’; you’re dirtyin’ up the street.

We were waitin’ for Moses, Newt said.

What?

Don’t you read the Bible? Maxwell asked.

No smart ass stuff! I’m not in the mood for it. Let’s go! He hit the wagon with his police stick.

"Are you ever?" asked Newt.

What?

Ever in a good mood?

Get goin’. You’re in the wrong part of town. Let’s go.

Don’t you have a hangin’ to go to? Maxwell said. A cross burnin’ somewhere?

Hale tipped back his police cap and moved up to Maxwell. How many times do I have to knock you loopy before you wise up?

Six, Maxwell answered.

What?

Six times.

And you’ve only kicked his butt two times, Newt informed.

What?

It’s been my problem since childhood. It takes six beatin’s before I wise up.

He needs four more, Newt said. You know, three comes after two.

What?

Three comes after two, Newt continued. Didn’t you know that?

Yes, I knew that, jackass!

He needs four more.

You’ve only done two, Maxwell added. It takes six. I can’t help it.

Three, then four, five, Newt counted.

Then six. Then I wise up.

You can count, can’t ya? Newt asked.

I’ll do three, here and now, if you two don’t shut up!

That’d only be five. I need six.

Use your fingers. Four, five, six—it’s easy, Newt showed.

Listen, you two! Ya wanna end up like squirrels? Keep talkin’!

I can’t help it. I’ll keep talkin’ ’til six.

And it’s only two, Newt informed, pointing to the town clock on the courthouse facade

What?

It’s two o‘clock.

Six is around supper time, Maxwell added.

What?

Two is lunch time, Newt smiled.

What?

A late lunch, Maxwell chimed.

For sure.

But we gotta eat, Maxwell added.

I oughta cut your guts out now!

That’s not like you, Brood, Maxwell said. You’re more of a dark alley, locked door, no witness, gutless, scoundrel type.

Son of a— Hale moved toward Maxwell with a glare, gripping his stick tight.

‘Afternoon, Captain, Bishop said, tipping his derby to Captain Kyle Burns—a no-nonsense, proud-looking man. He put up with officers like Brood Hale because he had no choice.

Afternoon boys, Hale, Officer …

Berry, sir, the young officer responded.

We’re cleaning up the streets, Hale said to Captain Burns.

Then do so. Dooley’s Bar could use your appearance.

On our way, Hale said. Then he turned to Bishop. Your boy’s not flirtin’ with white girls down at the library, now is he? I’ve warned you about that.

My boy’s getting ready for college. He’s not bothering with any white girls.

"Can you imagine that, Captain? Niggers goin’ to college. Ya can’t take the dumb outta niggers. They can’t spell the word book, much less read one. Country is really stinkin’ to hell."

Goin’ to hell, Maxwell said. Captain, did you know Brood here can’t count?

What? asked the Captain.

I can count! Hale hammered out.

Not to six, Newt added.

I can count to six!

How about seven?

Shut up!

Get going, Burns ordered Hale. People are staring.

Hale glared at Maxwell with a warning, and the two officers moved down Broadway.

Nice boy, Newt said, referring to the young officer.

The other guy’s a psychopath, Maxwell said.

I hear you’re doing community service? Burns said to Newt with a knowing smile.

Bishop chuckled. Maxwell smiled. The clip-clop of horses pulled delivery wagons up and down Broadway.

Bad news travels fast, Newt said, tipping his hat.

Lucky day for the both of you, the Captain hinted.

We’re on our way, Maxwell said.

He and Newt jumped into the back of the long wagon with their legs stretched out. The sky was blue and the summer hot.

Afternoon, Captain, Bishop said as he tipped his derby.

Have a good day boys. Captain Burns was a good man. He believed in and respected the law.

Bishop clicked his cheeks and flipped the reins. The horse pulled in a lazy way, and the lumber wagon rolled down Broadway, moving slowly in an easterly direction. They passed delivery and social wagons, and electric trolleys delivering a diversity of Galvestonians and tourists. The Sacred Heart Church, Lasker Home, and Willis Palace lined Broadway Boulevard with opulence and dreamlike qualities. The Moody Mansion and Ashton Villa followed. These homes towered and glared like royal visages. They were served by African Americans, in the house and in the garden. Galveston flaunted its wealth in an extravagant way. These homes provided evidence and encouraged mouths to gape and eyes to stare.

As they passed Boss Connor’s house, Bishop teased, There’s your sweetie’s home, Max.

Shut up. Maxwell replied. Newt smiled. This drew a smile from Maxwell.

The horse trotted like Sisyphus pushing the boulder. Bishop saw a friend and pulled up to a short cart with a canvas cover. Each horse on each set of wheels hardly noticed the other. Hey Willis, how’s the horse crap business?

Willis Ames took a shovel full of horse manure from the street and tossed the clump into the back of the cart. Flies buzzed and stink seeped into the hot, sticky air.

Howdy Bishop, what d’ya got in the back?

Interns for your service if they don’t luck up.

Hey Willis, Maxwell and Newt said with their hats over their eyes.

Maxwell, Newt, Willis tipped his hat. How’d the law treat ya?

Could be worse, Maxwell replied.

Like hell! Newt sputtered.

They laughed at the community service Newt had to endure, and they laughed harder at the thought of Newt sobering up for a year. Willis Ames was one of two black Galvestonians who had retired from the U.S. Calvary. Both had fought in the famous brigade known as Buffalo Soldiers—the U.S. 10th Calvary composed of African Americans. The nickname came from Cheyenne and Comanche Indians in their Great Plains’ battles with the black outfit. From 1866 to 1890, Buffalo Soldiers earned a distinguished record in military campaigns against Native Americans. They also engaged the Apaches in the Southwest and fought heroically in the Spanish-American War. Twenty-three Buffalo Soldiers received the Medal of Honor for their courage and valor. No other U.S. military unit achieved more.

Willis kept a groomed head of curly gray hair that matched his gray beard. He and Bishop joked and traded gossip about their wives and children. Willis’s woman was his age, and his two boys were old enough to work on the wharves. Bishop’s wife was a proud black woman who expected her husband to look and act proper at all times—to be a witness to his race. A problem—if he insisted on hanging out with Maxwell and Newt, and the puckish boys at Bleach’s, which he did, and which she tolerated—so long as she remained the family beekeeper. Bishop floated to her buzz and avoided her sting. They had two young girls going to the colored grade school and a young teenager working at the Galveston Library. Their young son, Jacob, was preparing himself for a college career, a dream both Jacob and Elma Bishop cultivated